Woe

“Arright now, LISTEN UP…”

Class is in session.

Professor Puffenpass is giving the lecture.

“THIS is yer BRAIN…”

The blackened tip of Erik Black’s finger touches the white tile wall and smears out a small circle.

“An’ THIS is yer BRAIN on DRUGS!”

He draws out a second, larger circle around the first.

“Any questions?”

I have a few, actually.

Principal among them, why was I not in Boston?

Based on my mental clock, Eighty-Five should be wrapping up right about now.

I could be kicking back with the others in V-V-I-P, sipping off a dram of Kakubin and quietly rooting on my “turtle-in-arms” through his first proper defense of the Five Star.

Yet, with tensions still high after the Super Bowl, Ami stressed that the safety of my “stupid, tight Seattle ass” couldn’t be guaranteed within the city.

So instead I’m here, trapped with this fucking lunatic inside the men’s room stall of a Waffle House outside of Everett, trying not to breath in an ungoldy chimera of egg and hashbrown and shit odors while he explains drug physics to me.

Only place we could meet on short notice where “they” wouldn’t be able to listen in, he said.

I guess it beats doing the Indiana Jones bit with a bunch of underground cannibal stoners.

“So my brain on drugs… is a donut?”

There’s a flash of aggravation in the Goat Bastard’s bloodshot eyes.

I’m slightly proud of that.

“DAMBIT, SURRY, GET KURRIOUS here!”

Instinct demands I correct his spoonerism, but I let it go.

“Whut I’m trynna ILLUSTRATE to ya here is the concept of the STONERSPHERE!”

…

You can imagine the prolonged, deadpan stare I’m giving him right now.

“...stonersphere?”

I echo the word in a voice that is flatter than a plate of piss.

Then he plants his feet and sets his hands on his hips, and I hate that I know this pose well enough to know what’s coming.

There’s nowhere for me to run. Inside this stall, a mere foot of space and an open toilet is all that separates us.

Mentally, I strap myself in and pray to Ami’s thighs that I survive the ride.

“Whut if I were to tell ya, KURRY, ol’ buddy, that through certain an’ vurry specific chemical combinations, one can EXPAND their consciousness inna way that BREAKS DOWN the vurry BOUNDARY ‘tween our DREAMS and the PHYSICAL WORLD!?”

I’d say he was high off his tits, but that’s pretty obvious.

Nevertheless, he taps the annulus between circles on the wall

“Within the SCHOLARLY PSYCHOMIMETIC COMMUNITY, we refer to this space as the STONERSPHERE! A place where ALL MATTER within our INFINITE COSMOS becomes ONE with the ETHER of DREAMS! Only the most EXPERIENCED an’ CURRAGEOUS of NARCOMANCERS an’ HYPNONAUTS have dared to venture 'cross the PSYCHEDELIC PLANE of QUASI-EXISTENCE! An’ YOU, my smaragdine friend, have seemin’ly stumbled upon it COMPLETE ACCIDENT!”

“...hm.”

Feels like the only appropriate response to what is currently being exposited upon me.

“Now check this…”

He turns back to the wall, and to the right of his first concentric diagram he draws another set of circles out of the sticky black shit that almost always coats his hands.

“This here’s MY BRAIN on DRUGS!”

The small inner one symbolizing his “brain” is a bit larger than I would think appropriate. However, the outer circle is expectedly sweeping and huge.

“And LOOK here!”

He points to the space where the two circles cross over in his newly made Venn diagram.

“Under certain RARE CONDITIONS, KURRY, a set of STONERSPHERES can spread past the BOUNDARIES of TIME an’ SPACE an’ OVERLAP, in what is known as a PIKE-CISNEROS CASCADE EVENT! An’ when THAT happens, KURRY, two conscious minds can occupy the SAME DREAM SPACE… just like what happened with US! And when THAT happens, KURRY... the REALLY INNERESTIN' SHIT starts goin’ down!”

Eyes widen. A grin forms.

He is positively jazzed to be talking about this.

“STRANGE THINGS borne of the darkest recesses of our MINDS can literally be PULLED outta our DREAMS! Then they get STUCK here, in the REAL WORLD!! BEHOLD, THE MAGIC OF DRUGS, KURRY!!”

This is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard in my life.

“Erik, this is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard in my life,” I reasonably explain to him. “If it weren’t for that belt, I’d drown you in this toilet between us.”

“...belt?”

He looks down.

The fist-plated championship belt from The Company That Shall Not Be Named -- his belt, amazingly enough -- floats there in the middle of the bowl.

“D’AAH!!”

He quickly plucks it out and gives it a shakedown to dry it off.

“Dambit, I GOTTA start takin’ better care of this thing…” he mutters to himself before turning his glare back onto me. “LOOK, ya WANNA KNOW how I KNOW ‘bout yer BEAST, RIGHT?? Well THIS is whut I got! Unless mebbe YOU gotta BUTTER IDEA?!”

He’s got me there.

I don’t.

Outside of, you know, brain damage.

Need to remind myself to schedule a CAT scan when I’m back in town.

Fuck it, I’ll bite…

“Problem is, Erik, the hardest I’ve ever gone is twenty milligram gummy.”

“Don't forget the whisky!”

“Right, that too…”

I’m happy he doesn’t draw attention to me being a lightweight.

Ami gives me shit for it all the time.

“My point is, unlike you, I don’t feel I get fucked up enough to justify having this ‘stonersphere’ thing.”

“Then thurr’s gotta be a MISSIN’ INGREDIENT somewhere!” he insists. “All it takes is a PERFECT COCKTAIL to get yer brain chemistry set to the right FREQUENCY! I MYSELF got there that night by free-basin’ ORANGE PEELS, SHAMPOO, an’ a WAD of BUBBLEGUM I scraped offa the bottom of a table!”

I’m about to tell him to step aside so that I can vomit into the toilet.

But before I can do that…

“Here’s what’ up, Kay-Bay…”

He casually sets a joint into his mouth and lights the tip.

“We find us this here missin’ ingredient… do some experimentin’... find the EXACT coordinates where that ‘beast’ is holed up in that noggin’ of yers, then we confront it and figger out what it wants. Sound like a PLAN?”

No, it sounds like a nightmare.

An absolutely dreadful notion, the idea of “experimenting” with this dipshit.

Sounds about as appealing as making out with an empty light socket.

As for actually confronting the mysterious hitchhiker in my head?

I am thinking -- hoping, rather -- that it won’t be necessary.

It’s been thankfully quiet since Culture Shock, even though I can still feel it -- him -- lurking around in there. Waiting for something to happen.

But then, all the more reason to act.

You don’t stake Dracula when he’s out and about; you get him while he’s in the coffin.

“So how do we fix the problem?”

Rezin’s face scrunches up in confusion.

“Huh??”

“How do we get rid of this ‘beast’ thing?”

He blinks.

We’re both realizing that we’ve been approaching this deal from different angles.

“Ya think this is a PROBLEM?” he asks shaking his head. “Kurry, what ya have up there is a GIFT! I’m jus’ trynna help ya USE IT!”

He leans in and winks.

Naturally, I lean away.

“Where yer goin’, pal, somethin’ tells me yer gonna NEED IT…”

Light trails of smoke slowly pour from his flared nostrils.

No point in disagreeing with him. Where I’m going, he’s already been.

Now I feel the phone vibrate in my pocket.

Has to be Ami. She’s been bombing me with texts over the course of the day.

Selfies around Boston. Snapshots from the show. Screengrabs of Russell Wilson at Super Bowl 49, crouched behind the line of scrimmage with one yard to the goal and thirty seconds left on the clock. Endearing little reminders of everything I was missing out on.

But I freeze when I pull it out and see the latest single, all-caps text she’s sent me.

[OMG BB BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD!!!!!!!!]

Shit just got real.

🐉

This was inevitable.

Always a matter of when, not if. 

The Face has always known the day would come.

Knew it the moment he put ink to the contract. Knew even back then what he was agreeing to.

An unspoken agreement. 

A covenant.

Because it was never in doubt that the Pinnacle was then -- and very much still is -- his Endgame. 

But the road there only went one way. 

Through the Tower itself. 

Youngblood.

The self-presumed standard-bearer of their flashy and quaint capitalist bloodsport. The last of a dying breed of warriors fighting for something more than more participation in a game of violence.

Something perceived to be pure.

The Face sees it that way.

All I see is a porterhouse steak with anger issues.

But the Face doesn’t yet realize how much he needs it right now. 

The arm and ribs still ache from that last row. His blood still boils whenever he thinks of the walking, talking smirk with the big shiny belt.

Tapped out. Forced into submission. Made the fool.

Again…

A score begging to settled.

But for two and a half years, the Face has waited for THIS day to come. 

And for once, he's not concerned about how this will make him look.

This is everything he wanted. Everything he asked for.

He learns to love that pain.

He EMBRACES it. 

And all that matters now is the behemoth himself. The unbreakable Diamond.

Unbreakable, but breathing. 

For now.

Make no mistake, he knows that nothing less than a fucking war is going to ensue.

It’s inevitable.

But he’s already accepted this. 

And he’s had plenty of time to prepare.

🐉

My priorities have suddenly changed, to say the least.

So, after concluding our discrete and very productive think session, I obligingly stuff Rezin back into his trashcan, roll him downhill to send him on his merry dipshit way, and begin the drive back into the city.

Back to the Dojo.

Rocko should still be there, closing up. I’m hoping to get to him before he leaves for the night.

I can’t wait to tell him the news.

It’s half an hour past closing when the Charger pulls into the parking lout out front. I’m thankful to see the lights are still on.

As I pull into a space, the phone vibrates.

Ami again, I’m thinking.

Probably just calling to remind me that I’m a nerd, and that I’ll always be a nerd, and that even though I’m cute it doesn’t outweigh the embarrassment and cringiness of my infinite nerdom, and that suplex zaddy Youngblood was going to rip me from limb to limb for the crime of being an absolute nerd, oh also, the Seahawks still fucking suck, anyway see you Monday, hearts, kisses, byyeeeee, or something to that equivalent.

As I step out of the car, I hit the green receive button without bothering to look.

“Hit me with it, babe.”

I smile, and brace for the worst.

Then I get hit with worse.

“Konbanwa, Kerry.”

That sure as shit isn’t Ami’s voice.

And when it hits me where I had heard it before, my blood suddenly runs cold.

The saliva goes down like a rock as I swallow before speaking.

“Evening, Uncle Anzu,” I say back. “Or should I be saying good morning?”

I try to keep my voice sounding polite and controlled. It takes quite a bit of effort.

The text about Youngblood was something I've been expecting for some time.

Getting called out of the blue by my yakuza boss uncle -- who still very much has an axe to grind -- is not.

“It has been a while since we last spoke, nephew.”

It has.

We’ve quietly maintained an uneasy truce since the unfortunate business during the Japan tour, staying on our respective sides of the ocean with nothing in common but the family name.

I know he wouldn’t be breaking that silence now unless he had reason to do so.

“Happy you finally found the time to pull yourself away from your ‘work’ to check in on the extended family.”

I put a little extra salt on it.

We both know we’re putting on an act. Hiding our mutual hatred for each other.

Waiting to see who blinks first, and drops the mask.

“I am calling you in good faith, nephew,” he says. “To inform you that I will soon be expanding a part of my business. Into Seattle, specifically.”

I click my tongue.

“I dunno, unc… Seattle doesn’t really fit the whole ‘yakuza’ vibe.”

I say this even though I’m painfully aware that for half of my career I’ve basically been cosplaying that fucking game.

“Sorry to let you down. Maybe check out Portland? I feel that’s more up your alley.”

On the other end of the line, the reaction is a mirthless chuckle.

I can see he has no intentions of blinking.

“I am afraid the matter is not up for debate.”

His voice is as quiet as a distant stormcloud, and heavy as a coming avalanche.

“...is this because I stole that whisky?”

Another chuckle.

“I trust my message will make my insistence clear.”

Message?

Now I’m confused.

And so distracted by this call that as I come upon the front doors to the school, I barely notice they’re still unlocked.

“Hey unc, tell me if this is clear enough for you: ‘Anzu Kuroyama is a PUSHER. A sad, old, salty, bitch-ass DRUG PUSHER.’ That’s going in our Burn Book.”

No need to keep up this act, I figure. I want to let this bitter asshole know exactly how I feel.

Yet, there’s something off about the place as I walk in.

And in the back of my skull, I feel something screaming for me to pay attention.

But before I can listen to it, a voice hardened by years of whisky, cigar smoke, and yelling at his subordinates fills my ear.

“You’ll be hearing from my associate soon.”

I barely have time to process this when I hear the crunch beneath my feet.

I stop and look.

Suddenly, the world sharpens.

I notice the shattered glass. Busted windows to the display cases. Overturned resistance machines and weight racks.

And the blood stains on the floor, trailing off around the other side of the practice ring.

“Sleep well, Kerry.”

With that, the line goes dead.

I don’t feel the run. I just seem to rise up, and the world blurs beneath my feet, carrying me along the trail of red splatters.

At the end, I find his mangled body on the floor.

“ROCK!!”

He’s face down in a spreading pool of crimson, blood still gushing from a wound on the back of his head.

From the back of my head, another familiar voice claws its way forth.

“This is what you wanted, Face.”

Pain shoots through my knees as I hit the ground beside him.

“ROCK!!”

Some people see colors in periods of high stress. “Seeing red” seems prevalent.

For me, it’s white.

And right now, I’m trapped in an A-ha music video. Walls smooth steel. Corners sharp as glass. Everything too cold.

“This is what you asked for.”

In my arms, Rocko Daymon is a man made of china, bleeding out liquid paper.

“ROCK!!”

I can’t lose this man.

I can’t go through this again.

Losing another father.

This fucking world.

This fucking existence…

What more can it take from me?

None of this is fair.

None of this is right.

“EMBRACE IT.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!!”

A choked cough.

A labored gurgle.

He’s still breathing.

The color comes back.

And now I realize that time is of the essence.

“Hang on, Rock, hang on…”

I have to wipe his blood off the screen to unlock my phone and punch the number for emergency services.

🐉

The longer I wait, the more I observe.

The more I observe, the more I learn.

I admit I thought less of these connections -- these ANCHORS. These sad sacks of meat, and the emotions the Face has invested into them.

An unnecessary weakness, so I believed.

Yet, I find myself more receptive to their usefulness.

The FEAR of losing those connections -- and, by extension, losing that soft world of comfort and dependency they embody -- is a greater source of motivation than I ever accounted for.

All that beautiful, bubbling, white hot RAGE… coming up like a fountain of wrath and conquest…

Everything I exist for.

Everything he’s lived for.

The moment he’s waited for has come, and he embraces it.

He embraces this anger. These feelings of pain and punishment and hatred for the human race. This inhuman lust to obliterate everyone and everything that threatens our right to CONQUER.

The Face no longer sees the beast they branded ‘Youngblood’ as standing in his way to the pinnacle.

He sees the monster coming AT him.

Coming to take away another part of his life.

In this case, a dream. A cause. An opportunity that he’s busted his ass to earn for the better part of these past two and half years.

The Pinnacle.

He won’t be denied this. Too much has been lost for him to die halfway up the mountain.

And too much time has passed for me to be denied my helping of MEAT.

Let the blood god be denied from his offering of blood, because it belongs in our chalice.

Let the skull throne be denied of yet another skull, because some people need to learn that real motherfuckers stay on their feet.

Let the Tower fall. Let the Diamond shatter.

Let PRIME burn, until only WE are left.

As the Face says...

Woe to the vanquished.

Woe, indeed...

🐉

“I don’t know you, Brandon.”

Weathered the storm, but not out of the woods.

Or so the doctors tell me.

The next ten days will be critical, they say.

“I’ve spent countless hours studying what you are in the ring.” 

It’s hard seeing him like this.

Laid up in a white bed, tubes sticking out of him.

Reminds me too much of the last days with Dad.

What was it Erik said again?

About pulling our worst fears into reality?

“I’ve listened to all fire and brimstone and caveman verbage of your promos.”

When Dad left us, Rocko was there.

Filling a void left in the life of a dumb kid with aspirations of “legacy”.

A role that was unfairly thrust upon him, and he wasn’t equipped to handle.

“But I don’t know… you.”

I never considered him weak-willed.

Sure, there were those few years where he… suffered.

Years I wasted feeding an unnecessary and parasitic feeling of contempt.

A time when I should have been helping him.

“I’ve been in PRIME for the better part of two and a half years now.”

My head dips.

I resist the urge to nod off.

Been here at the Harborview Medical Center all night, talking with doctors and sending countless texts to everyone involved with the Dojo.

Now twilight creeps across the eastern horizon.

“Through all that time, can you believe we’ve never once had a conversation? Never even shook hands and introduced ourselves.”

Been trying to reach Zack all night. To let him know what’s happened to his father.

But I swear, the motherfucker has thrown his phone into the ocean.

Finally called his hotel in Maui, only to learn he checked out two nights before.

Fucking hell.

“Sometimes we cross paths backstage. Eyes lock. Nods are exchanged. We both move on. These are our only real interactions.”

Rocko’s dried blood is still on my hands.

I’m afraid to wash them.

“The invisible wall between us can’t be ignored. But I can’t say it’s unreasonable.”

It doesn’t feel right. Like denying a truth.

This is my fault, after all.

“We just happen to be two lions occupying opposite faces of the same mountain.”

Something my uncle said still worries me. Keeps me on edge as I sit there, waiting for updates.

You’ll be hearing from my associate soon, he said.

Hinting that this could just be the beginning of things to come.

“We have eyes for the same goal, and the both of us know there’s only room at the top for one.”

Leo arrives by sun-up to relieve me of watch duty, and tells me the cops have questions.

Great.

Ami gets there soon after.

Booked a red-eye and flew across the whole damn country as soon as she found out.

The first thing she does is glomp onto my chest and give me a sorely needed hug.

And I fall apart.

“I don’t promise victory.”

I feel so damn powerless.

“But every defeat has only served to make me stronger.”

Never again, I tell myself, as I drift into sleep.

“However this goes, I’m not going away.”

Never again will I allow this world to TAKE something from me.

“I’m not giving up on the APEX.”

I will die before I let that happen.

“This is inevitable.”