It's a Cold and it's a Broken

Amica Mutual Pavillion Providence, RI March 1, 2024 The Revelator, caked in blood and sweat, struggled down a corridor while Coral Avalon and Jared Sykes supported his weight. Moments earlier they had come to his rescue at ReVival 44, stopping a vicious assault perpetrated by Rob Williams and Anna Daniels that saw Winters crucified to a makeshift cross while his sins were aired to the world. He had no idea where he was and repeatedly tried to apologize for bleeding on both men, but the words wouldn’t come out fully formed.

Winters’ breathing was ragged and ponderous as the pair led him backstage, eventually finding the right locker room. Avalon pushed the door open and as they got him inside, he stumbled against the wall, smearing blood across the concrete. Sykes tried to steady Winters, but the larger man still had some fight in him, insisting he was fine.

He was not.

The wounds Williams and Daniels gleefully opened across his body hadn’t entirely closed. From the sources crimson tributaries twisted and branched their way across Donovan Winters’ bruised body. His vision doubled, crossed, uncrossed, and focused ever-so-slightly before blurring again. They allowed Winters to sink into a folding chair and he looked up at the pair and squinted. He could feel the darkness closing in and knew he would succumb.

“Samuel? Joseph? Is that you?”

Avalon and Sykes looked at each other confused. The reply from Avalon was muffled by the overwhelming pressure building in Don’s ears. They rushed to catch Winters as he fully collapsed from the chair to the floor. His eyes fluttered and lost the fight to focus. A small smile parted his bloody and cracked lips and as he lost consciousness he whispered the… 🕆🕇🕆🕇🕆 the Asylum Los Angeles, California Sometime between 2005-2008 A sleek black Jaguar S-type purrs along the highway on a cold, wet evening. Winters is slumped in the rear passenger side seat, forehead pressed to the window, mournfully watching buildings, lights, and slower traffic zip by. The insatiable hole inside his brain demanding to be filled is at odds with his current predicament. There’s not much left he can process outside a need instilled forcefully by others, but his eyes lolled and flitted from the window to the driver.

Tamura.

From there to the passenger seat.

Kinkade.

Without lifting his head, he knows Campbell is seated to his left, gruesome gas mask adorning his face. Winters knew better than to look at the man unless asked. He also knew where he was being taken, and that there would only be one way to earn what he craved. Donovan’s fists curled and balled, he winced as they did. They hadn’t healed from the last time. The sepia rain-streaked landscape continued by as he tried to remember the good old days.

“Maybe these are the good old days.” Winters thought to himself, as the Jag disembarked smoothly from the cloverleaf, pulling into the lot of a dilapidated warehouse consisting of rusted steel cladding. Pigeons swooped in through broken windows as the quartet stepped out of the vehicle and headed for an access door.

A raucous crowd surrounded the makeshift 20-foot square steel cage, clung and clinging to all sides of it, some tried to steady themselves on the top. Their betting interests were only supplanted by their bloodlust. The sound of the onlookers climaxed as the door swung open and the triumvirate of Campbell, Kinkade, and Tamura stepped through. Three men are lauded as heroes by a warehouse full of degenerates and loathed by every person forced into their fighting prison.

Tamura grabbed Winters strongly by the elbow and strode purposely toward the enclosure. He produced a key from a ring at his hip and unlocked the entrance. Winters nodded and sheepishly entered the arena, gawking at the sheer number of bodies outside and along the cage. The smell of stale blood and sweat filled the air, and the taste of salty rust sat staunchly on Winters’ tongue.

Donovan Winters stood six-foot-one inches tall, but the muscle mass he had acquired as a wrestler had vanished, his ribs protruding like a pair of xylophones. He was sallow and gaunt, a body resembling geometric equations in its angularness. Despite slowly wasting away, he had three distinct advantages over his opponent. He was hungrier, far more desperate, and he’d long ago learned to separate them from their humanity. The man standing fifteen feet from him was a nameless, faceless lump of clay waiting to be shaped into something beautiful.

The door closed and was locked behind him. Winters turned around to find the oni face of Koji Tamura grinning mischievously. The twinkle in his dark eyes caused Winters to shiver. A bell sounded and silence rapidly fell over the onlookers.

The crackling of a microphone broke the silence and a second quiver traveled the byway of Winters’ back. Koji Tamura’s cigarette and whisky-soaked voice rasped out through the warehouse. “WELCOME TO THE ASYLUM!” A ravenous din erupted behind this just as a guttural scream pierced the air. Gazes turned from Tamura back to the ramshackle cage, where Winters had already set upon his opponent. The wiry ex-wrestler knew to attack before Tamura called for the start, there were no rules in the Asylum except for survival.

From the guard position, the emaciated and frenzied Winters bellowed as his fists rained down onto his hapless opponent. He could slowly feel the man’s face being tenderized beneath the onslaught. He felt an orbital bone crack and give way, followed by the man’s jaw, but he wouldn’t stop. All he could see was a field of red and that next hit of sustenance. Donovan wouldn’t stop until they pulled him away. He screeched again and began digging his thumbs into the man’s eyes, but the body had already gone limp.

Soon enough, Tamura’s granite hands tugged at Winters, and pulled him off his, in Donovan’s mind, unconscious opponent. He clawed to get back at the dead man and protested against Tamura dragging him back toward the door. Winters desperately started searching for Campbell and Kinkade, to find their proud and reassuring smiles looking down on him like doting fathers. When he eventually found them, their stares only seemed to cast a shadow and the shiver of uneasiness resumed coursing the length of his spine.

Before he knew it, Winters was ferried back out of the warehouse, into the Jag, and was driven back ‘home.’ After a half-hour drive in complete silence, Tamura led him back to his quarters. As soon as they got inside the rotting flat, Winters obediently sat in a rickety wooden chair and rested his arm on the table it was paired with. He waited patiently as Tamura restrained Winters’ ankle to a chain that was attached to a steel eye hook on the floor.

The glassy and eager gaze from Winters followed Tamura left and right as he worked. First came the band, tightened to his arm. Donovan could feel the tiny pin holes at the crook of his elbows singing to him. Their voices were sweet but urgent. Tamura followed with the syringe and injected the murky liquid into Donovan’s arm.

Donovan Winters felt warm, as if a heavy blanket cocooned him, his mind slowly began to unravel into the void. Tamura watched him for a moment, the addict’s head bobbing rhythmically back and forth to some unknown beat in his head. The Japanese man shook his head and left the tiny apartment. Winters, completely unaware, blissfully allowed the heroin free reign as it quested through his bloodstream.

As he sat there, rocking back and forth, chained to the floor, his mouth began to move. Dry and cracked lips parted slowly at first and whispered the... 🕆🕇🕆🕇🕆 Kalamazoo Psychiatric Hospital Kalamazoo, Michigan Sometime between 2011-2016 Ever since he was a child, the thing that bothered Donovan Winters most was bare walls. He had told countless therapists it had nothing to do with his mother killing his father. He’d peeked through his fingers, as any curious child would, when a detective explicitly told him not to, as they led him out of his bedroom on that 1985 night. He saw the blood splattered across the wall, a Lee Krasner in its own right, framed, photographed, and on display in an investigation room in a dirty Detroit precinct.

“So tell me Donovan, why haven’t you ever liked empty walls?” Dr. Greenbaum smiled her pleasant, disarming smile and Winters subconsciously returned it.

“Well,” he began. These sessions were difficult, but she knew forcing Winters to confront his past was necessary. He knew it too. “When I see empty walls, I’ve got nothing to look at, nothing to think about. My mind gets to wandering and that’s when I start wanting again.”

“Wanting?” She asked leading questions with purpose. She found that for most of her patients, these questions acted like keys, unlocking memories and new thought patterns.

Winters looked down at his feet, embarrassed to have to say it out loud. “Heroin. To hurt people. I found a lot of joy and purpose in those things, doctor.”

“Yet you knew they were bad?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know any other way to live, to survive. You know how I grew up, you’ve seen the files. They always told me I wouldn’t amount to anything in school. Now, here I am in my thirties and I’m in KPH again. I know how this ends, doc.”

“How does this end, Donovan?”

“Too many sleeping pills,” he started. “Or a fight I can’t win, or a bad mix. I wind up homeless share some bad needles, and end up with a disease I can’t get treated. I find a gun, put it down my throat, and…”

Winters mimics clicking a trigger, but a stern glare from Dr. Greenbaum kept him from vocalizing it.

“Yes, doc, I’ve thought about this a little bit. I’ve got nothing but time in here after all. But let’s get back to your original question, huh? The walls. I don’t like bare walls, because I don’t like having nothing to think about. I miss wrestling, that gave me purpose, you know? But there’s nobody out there willing to give a guy like me another chance. Too many problems. Can’t be trusted. Can’t be relied upon to be the guy I was ten or twelve years ago. Just a crazy fucking bastard holed up in a mental hospital.”

Dr. Greenbaum looked up from her notebook. “Tell me about the Asylum.”

The previously talkative Winters immediately pursed his lips and looked away. “It’s how you originally started using heroin, right?” He nodded. “How did that happen?”

Winters swallowed hard. “Needed something for the pain, you know? It was hard, going out there night after night, beating the shit out of absolute nobodies because someone told you to. They had to pacify us somehow. Get us back after a fight, shoot us full of dope, or a combination of cocaine and gunpowder, rinse and repeat. Might do four, five fights in a day if they’re feeling real fuckin’ good about your chances, get you high to numb it all out between fights, and bring you back in. A real goddamn meat grinder, you know?”

“How long did you do this?”

“I dunno, two, maybe three years?” Winters mused. “I can’t really remember. I had wasted away down to nothing but skin and bones. I was surviving off heroin and day-old deli sandwiches. There was nothing else, maybe a little water, maybe a little sake if Koji was feeling any sort of way, but that was rare enough.”

“How did you get dragged into the Asylum mess?”

“I was friends with Kinkade,” Winters reminisced. “Good friends. Partners. We had plans for a big stable in fWo before things fell apart that first time. He got in with Campbell, and they made plans for an underground fighting promotion. Sounded promising enough, you know? Kinkade made it sound like it was all gonna be legal, big TV deals, that sort of thing. Make a few bucks, get to keep in shape. Turns out it was more like running a cock or dog fighting ring. We were prisoners against our own will fighting for the entertainment of others. Figured that was no way for me to die, but I sure saw plenty of others never come outta that cage.”

“And how did you get out?”

“Not sure, really.” Winters answered. “One day Tamura came and got me, Mother Superior said it was time for me to go. He shoved a bag over my head, things went dark for a while and I woke up here. That was years ago, but the days, minutes, and hours all kind of melt together in places like the Asylum, places like this.”

“Mother Superior,” Dr. Greenbaum's voice trailed off, the words hung ominously in the air, enough for Winters to cock his head in bewilderment. After a moment she snapped back and came to, almost as if she had been in a trance. She smiled at Winters, who subconsciously returned the smile.

“She’s a wonderful woman, isn’t she? She spent several years here herself. She taught us all so much about the way of the world. We all thought she had come to us because she needed our help when it was that needed her. She told me something about you once, Donovan. Would you like to know what that is?”

He nodded.

“You are His Word. You are His Light. You are His Holy Weapon of Absolution and you will save us all.”

Donovan continued smiling. The tone had changed, both in the room and inside his body. He had only heard these words spoken to him once before, but as they rang in his ears, he had the urge to sing a reply. His cracked and dry lips parted and the word sang out. 🕆🕇🕆🕇🕆 St. Joseph’s Hospital Providence, RI March 4, 2024 Donovan Winters had been asleep for nearly three days. A phantasmagoria of histories past and present flashed through his mind in rhythm to the steady beep of a machine monitoring his vitals. He was never in any real danger and the videotape, followed by the crucifixion defiled his pride. That hurt more than the physical pain, the gashes, lacerations, and contusions didn’t compare. These injuries weren’t uncommon for any wrestler on a given night, but Mother Superior wanted her greatest asset, her son, protected.

During his forced slumber, the voices of the original members of His Word and Light came back to him, conversing together as if they’d never left him after losing to Daytona Diamonds at Colossus. It felt like the nascent days of the chapel in Michigan, new beginnings and the bright hope of all the things that could be. In this happy stasis, only the happiest memories of Donovan Winters bubbled to the subsurface.

On a playground as an innocent child. Before Mother Superior had ever spoken the mantra to him.

Leaving Eli Flair in a crimson pulp to claim the fWo Hardcore Championship.

Wrestling with Jon Crisp as a tag team, the only man he had ever truly considered a friend in the business.

Wrestling with Kellen Kinkade, a man he had considered a friend until he lured Winters to the Asylum.

Joe Campbell.

The Gas Mask.

Pain.

Torture.

Addiction.

Want.

Need.

Insatiable.

The memories began to get murky, but the light had started to return. His senses whetted and he began to tingle. The lids of his eyes hung enormous but he willed them open. Reality slowly set itself back into focus, the final feelings from his dream clawing at his insides. Don stared blankly ahead at the white wall and felt the unmistakable itch. No matter how long he had been clean, the trigger remained.

“Goddamn Rob Williams,” Winters said aloud. There wasn’t anybody around to hear this particular transgression. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had openly blasphemed. His head hurt probably just as much as it did now, he reckoned. Daytona Diamonds pierced his skin and lodged himself just underneath like a tick, engorging himself on Winters’ hangups and annoyances. Williams was different. He cut through to the heart. Found what made the Revelator tick and threw a spanner into the works.

His concentration was fortunately broken by a nurse entering the room nonplussed that he had awakened. She looked at him rather sharply and said, “We’ll get you up and going. You’re being discharged immediately.”

Don nodded. Still in a groggy state, he went along with the nurse and let her remove the IV. He swung his hips around to the side of the bed and felt warm as his feet connected with the frigid tile. He had started to feel alive again.

Behind him, another figure entered the room. He turned slowly to see Mother Superior smiling at her baby boy. Winters went to her and hugged her quickly in an embrace that was not returned. He gingerly fell prostrate to his knees and pulled her hands into his own, kissing her ring finger. Don was parched, and as he looked up at Mother Superior his dry, cracked lips parted in a smile and his voice drew the… 🕆🕇🕆🕇🕆 The Chapel of His Word and Light Somewhere in Michigan Sunday, March 17, 2024 Home. Father Don Winters looked around the small church and felt content. He scanned the pew and accounted for all twelve original members of his group. He had regained all of his strength, and by his measure, then some. Winters rigidly gripped the sermon and found his voice.

“Forgiveness.” The baritone echoed through the tiny chapel.

“We must always forgive.”

“Yes, Father.” Their reply was in unison.

“ReVival 45.” Winters continued. “I found it in my heart to absolve Rob Williams of the sins he committed at ReVival 44. That forgiveness, ladies and gentlemen, that forgiveness sustains me. It gives me life. I have been buoyed by this one simple action and I have already seen how much it has done for you as well.”

Winters paused and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

“We all know that Rob Williams has been led astray,” the congregation nodded along. “We tried to bring him in under our wing and show him the love of His Word and Light, but he refused! He let his mind get poisoned by a false prophet, an ersatz father. He and the Father want to remove us from existence! They think they can prove that our cause is not righteous, that we are not true.”

They had gotten into the sermon, whooping and hollering at the appropriate beats. Winters had them eating out of the palm of his hand.

“We will not let that happen!” Winters roared. “He follows his shepherd to what ends? He doesn’t know. He simply does as he’s told and gets patted on the head when he succeeds. An overexcited dog being pointed in the direction of a bone And why wouldn’t he be? It’s taken him to the 5-Star Title, after all”

Winters sighed and continued.

“I know it’s wrong to covet, but I do want that title. You don’t respect the art of professional wrestling the way I do. The way Farthington does. The 5-Star Title should be held by a competitor who honors and respects wrestling. Someone who treats it like the religion it is. That ring is our altar and we are sacrificing ourselves on it every night and they deserve a champion they can be proud of again. If I have to strap you to a cross to take it from you, I’ll do it.”

Winters took a moment to clear his throat.

“Do you know what it’s like to fight to survive, Rob? To beg and scrap to see another day? To bleed for nothing? Do you know what it’s like to bleed for your God? To sacrifice? I do, and I will teach you to too.”

Winters smiled.

“Because I’ve already forgiven you,” he repeated.

His head drops, a hand brushed through perfectly coiffed auburn hair.

“Romans 12:9.”

He chuckled.

“Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.”

He shook his head and the smile widened. The congregation was on their feet, hanging on to every last word.

“This isn’t about revenge. I turned the other cheek.”

“You said there is no Word. There is no Light.”

“You poor misguided naif.”

Winters’ hands released from the pulpit, his arms shot into the crucifix position.

“I am the Word and I cannot be unspoken.”

“I am the Light and I cannot be extinguished.”

“At Culture Shock, divine retribution will be mine.”

His sermon finished, the members of the church cheered loudly and passed around the sacrament. As the wine flowed and they began feeling closer to His Word and Light, the immutable bond with Father Don returned, they parted their well-wetted lips and drew the…

“Hallelujah!” 🕆🕇🕆🕇🕆