SHINIF TEH TROYS

February 16, 2024 The Metropolitan Transportation Authority, New York City Subway. The means to travel fast, cheap and easy, around the most expensive and luxurious city. Over three million people use the underground system on a daily basis across 472 stations. Spend a weekend in the Big Apple, you’re almost guaranteed to leave with a couple of stories. Parties weave in and out in a hurry on this specific southbound Line 2 train, making all stops to Flatbush. One man in particular attempts to stand out from the crowd. Dressed in black flannel PJs, he slowly picks at a scab upon the right side of his nose, as he wobbles into the very last car.

“Hi I was released from prison looking to make ends meet if anyone has change or food available praying to get back on my feet.”

Kind of rhymes, too, if he wasn’t mumbling. No pauses between words or space for his comments to breathe. Ah, it honestly doesn’t matter how he’s conveyed, it’s New York City. Acknowledgement is nearly impossible to find. You’d have to really stand out.

The “former inmate” shuffles down the car, completely empty handed.

“Hi I was released from prison looking to make ends meet if anyone has change or food available praying to get back on my feet.”

With no success, the homeless man moves across the floor, arriving at the other end of the car. He reaches for the door handle and puts his life in danger - switching cars across the tracks. An MTA no-no.

Nobody cares.

“Hi I was released from prison looking to make ends meet if anyone has-”

The door closes behind him.

But this is New York City, and the next “presentation” is just around the corner.

“Pelham Parkway,” the motorman announces, as the train comes to a wind down and picks up a couple of passengers. “The next stop is Bronx Park East.”

The doors shut. Life moves on. Here we go again.

“Hello, my name is Jonathan-Christopher,” a young, fresh-faced man pipes up, situating himself at the heel of the car. “This is my Amazing Life Partner, Vickie.”

She curtsies.

“I am part of PRIME Wrestling, you may be familiar? We’re over at the Barclays Center later tonight, hoping to see you all there-” she nudges him while sporting an over the top smile. They aren’t here to promote the show. “My spouse should’ve won Manager of the Year but the ballots were rigged. We were hoping to start a new CONVOY and wanted to spread the word. If you’d like to take a leaflet, I’ll be walking by. Thank you.”

He carefully navigates through the moving train without holding the handrail. Apparently the average speed of these lines hits 17 miles per hour but JCH would swear it feels more like 1700.

Halfway through the car, the number one contender glances back at Vickie. She keeps that stuck-on smile plastered to her face, although her covert facial expressions suggest she demands progress.

The pressure mounts. Earlier this morning JC was pulled away from reading scouting reports, a specific passage Vickie had put together on Jared Sykes and FLAMBERGE. So much for the head start on Culture Shock.

The young man arrives at the end of the car.

“Please, sir,” Hall quietly begs the guy on the last seat, nearly pushing a pamphlet into his chest. “Take a leaflet?”

“Bronx Park East,” the PA system chimes in, “next stop, West Farms Square.”

The doors open, a small boy enters with his mother.

The stranger, however, finally acknowledges Jonathan-Christopher. He calmly takes the leaflet, mercilessly putting to rest the anxiety scrunched upon the wrestler’s face-

He crumples the sheet of paper and tosses it out the doors.

“Go fuck yourself,” he replies, lowering his head and paying no further attention.

This rush of nervousness returns. It smacks Jonathan-Christopher square in the pits of his stomach!

Vickie is going to be pissed.

One look back.

Oh wait, she already is. — — — — — SHINIF TEH TROYS (Universal Championship) A true love story An honest friendship Gonna be hard to fill these next few pages when the story has already climaxed — — — — — THEN April 13, 2003 What more can be explained about a boy who lost his parents at such a young age? Father vanished from sight before he had realistic memories. Mother overdosed on prescription medication. Even before the traumatic event, child protection services was working on relocating Jonathan-Christopher due to his mother’s lack of care. However, in many ways the help the kid received was only half the battle. Unfortunately, life with his formerly estranged grandfather wasn’t that different. JC moved ten minutes south to a new farmland outside of Folsom. It’s a larger space than before. The house is cleaner. Pizza boxes, beer bottles and cigarettes are nowhere to be seen. The lawn is mowed. The boy has a bigger bedroom. Nonetheless, other important circumstances remained eerily similar. He often spends time in his room, he never has anyone to interact with and when he isn’t in school, he does the same thing day in and out.

Nothing.

Jonathan-Christopher’s grandfather isn’t rude or off putting but he works at a farmland an hour away. He’s hard of hearing, frail and doesn’t have much interest in building a longstanding relationship.

From a caregiver’s lens, as long as there are no drugs, alcohol and random sex present…

Case closed.

This morning, in particular, Jonathan-Christopher sits at the edge of his bed, staring out the window. Three months ago, he was going to run away.

He wonders to himself, as he looks into the distant trees afar, why doesn’t he do this now?

Still lonely, isolated and crying to sleep every night, the man in the suit told him he was in a better place.

But it’s not better.

It’s almost just as bad!

What is Jonathan-Christopher doing that’s so consistently wrong? Why does he not deserve to be happy? — — — — — NOW December 15, 2023 COLOSSUS He wasn’t sure when Nixon’s hand hit the mat for the third time because he was being fed boot after boot after boot, straight into his mouth. He thought he had the three count, it didn’t feel like Cecilworth kicked out. Nevertheless, the match continues.

DING DING DING

The crowd. What a gasp. What a shock!

They said he couldn’t do it. Hall was literally bounced from the inaugural tournament a year and a half ago on the very first night of ReVival. No critics, reporters or fans chose JC to win its second incarnation. Mock brackets had him bounced by round three AT BEST.

She dives into his arms. Her Little Girl Dream has come to fruition! PRETTY PINK© confetti dances off the rafters.

“THE WINNER OF THE 2023 SEYMOUR ALMASY INVITATIONAL TOURNAMENT…”

He can barely maintain focus. Boy with no father. Nearly twenty-one years to the day his mother OD’ed. In the stadium where he first met the love of his life, as a high school dropout ticket usher.

From green wrestler to golden champion.

Hallmark Journey written!

Tears roll down his face. He looks into her eyes, and she, into his. The pain and torture of previous losses, vanquished from his soul.

“I love you,” he says in the most humble of comments. She makes him want to be a better man and now he has the first true taste that positive changes can happen. Perhaps, one day, he could influence others throughout their struggles. Give hope. Become a beacon of light!

“I love you so, so fucking much,” he declares. “Thank you for enriching my life.”

She dangles her hair backwards and jitters at the thought.

“No. No celebration yet. Don’t lose focus, baby,” she exclaims. “One. Step. Left.” — — — — — Can you hear me, Jared? It’s me, Jonathan-Christopher.

Last week was a shitshow. I really didn’t mean for it to get out of hand. I guess that’s what happens when everyone is given an opportunity at the same time. WarGames has overshadowed what we have worked for, hasn’t it? You and I, we earned this stage. Alone. Together. Against one another.

Congratulations on the pregnancy by the way.

I can understand if you’re tentative by my actions. I would be. I haven’t been good. I waterboarded you. Said hurtful, spiteful things about your career. I am not the perfect person, Vickie reminds me of this every day. But I can grow, Jared. I never interrupted your triumphant speech because I didn’t deserve to. I wanted to listen and learn. I closed my eyes and put myself in your shoes, as you told of a tale from long ago, a young version of Jared Sykes, who dreamt of scoring the Stanley Cup winning goal for his hometown crowd.

Ah, dreams. Can’t say I ever had fun fantasies as a child. Mine revolved around wondering if mom would wake up or dad would come back. Notwithstanding, I followed along, right there with you, as you spilled it on national television.

It had to be magical to reach the apex, Jared.

I had a taste. A small, tiny little sip after pinning Cecilworth. Vickie, bless her wonderful heart, was there to remind me it wasn’t the top of the mountain. Can’t cheer yet, more story to finish.

Vickie still wakes up in the middle of the night you know, screaming your name in terror. She is thoroughly frightened by you, Jared. I am trying to ease her pain. You are not a monster.

I was the monster.

Regardless, I meant what I said. At Culture Shock, I will wrestle the most desperate match possible. My first Universal Championship. Perhaps my only opportunity.

I am so close!

I will fight like the boy who dreamt of scoring a game winning goal. I will brawl like a man who has knowledge of his pregnant wife tucked away at home. I will wrestle like the teenager who was rescued from hell.

This is what will drive me. Not the thought of reaching the top of the mountain…

But the fall from grace, the absolute crash and burn, if I wind up one count too short.

Godspeed, dear Jared. We’ve come a long way together.

Now let’s go the distance. — — — — — Vickie Hall’s iPhone 15 Pro BAE iMessage 03/21/24 07:28am -Baby! Baby I feel so good! Here’s what I accomplished already! -Two hours at the gym! Dan says he’s never seen someone lift so well before! -He’s massively impressed with my progress! -I read over ALL your scouting reports on Jared. You can quiz me later, I know his every move! -I watched film. Oh boy, did I ever! -I love you so much and I can’t wait to give it my best shot. I want you to see all the work and love and care and commitment you’ve put into me. -It’s going to pay off! We will totally FINISH THE STORY! -I’ve got a couple errands and I’ll be home in a jiffy, before you wake up! 7:55am i ain’t readin all that- i’m happy for u tho- or sorry that happened- — — — — — FROM THE DESK OF VICKIE HALL (and likely edited for legibility) Dear Jonathan-Christopher, can YOU hear ME?

I see your effort and I feel triggered by it. I’ve been struggling to understand why so I’m just going to let it flow.

I look at you and I’m overwhelmed by breaking down, in writing, what those feelings are like. I feel frustrated by your approach. I feel angry at the suggestion that somehow you’re going to help me through this. I will try to do it because I know you and I have faith that you have a lot of wisdom and insight but this still makes me really, really angry. I also feel infuriated half the solutions you’ve recently proposed are not viable. They are awful and wasteful attempts at my time.

I can’t see how you’re going to help me unravel the trauma and guardedness I’m carrying around from the violence, assaults and just generally being victimized by Jared. I look at you and I feel detached and removed from reality.

I feel triggered by the interventions you’ve tried. Partly because they make me overwhelmed and partly because I can’t see any connections to them. It’s like someone started a conversation with me that makes no sense and then walked away without letting me ask any questions. I feel ill because I’m not being heard or understood.

This is how I react to most communications that have ANY amount of emotional content between us. I realize you may not see this letter as having emotions. For me EVERYTHING is emotional. Everything is personal.

I don’t think I can do Culture Shock as it’s intended. I am panicky. I hope what I’ve written here is useful.

I need help and support to unravel the pain I’m carrying around from being violently and ruthlessly assaulted by chocolate syrup. I need help to deal with the trauma of a covert narcissist and his consistent, purposeful ways to harm me. Most importantly, I need to feel loved, cherished and desired and that my man is capable of making sure I am in a safe and secure environment.

I don’t know if that’s you.

In fact, I do know.

It’s not you.

I wish this was tough to say, but it isn’t.

I’m going to leave you, Jonathan-Christopher.

I’m sorry it’s come to this. It’s not what I wanted but I really can’t do this anymore. I can’t face Jared again. I can’t understand how he became the Universal Champion before you and I don’t appreciate why you would accept this match with him and not ask Lindsay Troy for a reprieve. I can’t go through more pain. I asked you to advocate a recount for the Manager of the Year Award and you couldn’t. I asked you to prioritize WarGames and you struggled. I’m vulnerable, innocent and I don’t like what’s going on. Seeing you speak positive words towards Jared proved it. Knocking me off the edge of the apron and injuring my ankle cemented it.

You most certainly can’t protect me. So now I have to protect myself because I can’t be near Jared ever again.

Goodbye, Jonathan-Christopher.

And thank you.

-Vickie — — — — — Meth Rehabilitation Outpatient Check-In Program Folsom, LA March 22, 2024 09:33 “My name is Jonathan… Christopher. And I am… addicted to meth.”

“Hello, Jonathan-Christopher.”

His eyes steadily shift around the room but something is different this morning. In December, he offered everyone Colossus tickets. In February, he openly wept in front of them, extremely grateful for their support. But as his eyes cautiously dance around the room, it’s almost like Jonathan-Christopher has relapsed. He’s nervous. Tentative. Back to square one.

In these walls, they don’t use the term relapse. Relapse is often confused with failure but Check-In Program Leadership will argue there are many different reasons for perceived setbacks…

“Meth.”

Jonathan-Christopher exhales.

“All I do is give and give to meth. I come here once a month and I promote my love. Meth helps me. Meth guides me. Meth saved a boy with nothing and nowhere to go. It’s all I know, it’s all I WANT to know.”

His heart starts racing. He’d like to sit down; he motions for his chair.

His legs do not budge. They are locked at the knees.

“It’s true. Meth has given me tons.”

His boyish face with rosy red cheeks slowly flushes out to a weakened, pale complexion.

“Has it? Because every time I use meth now, I feel worse and worse and worse. Meth tells me I’m not good enough. I think I am and then I’m not. So I make the changes meth wants to see. I REALLY work on myself. Do exactly what meth says. But no, I was wrong. Should’ve done it a different way. Meth won’t leave me alone, it tells me what to think. I go to the gym, I’m trying to work out and better myself and meth won’t stop texting. Meth needs me RIGHT THIS SECOND, IT’S URGENT! But I told meth I was going to the gym because I have to work on my skills. Meth tells me I should’ve gone to the gym earlier, but the gym wasn’t open at that time. Plus I was up all night because meth wouldn’t stop crying another drug’s name until three in the morning. I apologize to meth and ask what I can do. Meth tells me there’s nothing I can do.”

He rambles quick and fast, shaking from head to toe. The members grow concerned. Jonathan-Christopher sees their intensity rise but he can’t stop himself.

“I do THIS for meth, I do THAT for meth. I was a terrible wrestler a year ago but hey, guess what!? I worked at it since it was vital FOR meth! Now I have this new team meth put together even though I was supposed to be the captain. Meth wants the team to win because meth feels slighted meth didn’t win the DRUG OF THE YEAR AWARD. I voted for meth. Who wouldn’t vote for meth!? I tried playing peacemaker. I made pacts with others to ensure an EASY TIME, particularly for meth. But meth says I fucked it up.”

By now, he’s on autopilot.

“And TODAY meth can’t be there WHEN I REALLY NEED METH THE MOST!? Why!? Ask meth, I don’t know. Out of the blue, meth writes me a letter and says meth doesn’t trust me anymore. I can’t keep meth safe.”

He starts pulling on the strands of his hair.

“I’VE BEEN TRYING TO KEEP METH FUCKING SAFE SINCE THE DAY I MET METH! Every thing I say and do is built around making sure meth is happy! I promote meth to EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU. Meth gave my life meaning! I am working sooooo hard for meth! Why doesn’t meth see this!? Why does everything have to be MY FAULT!? I don’t blame meth! I am there for meth THROUGH SICKNESS AND HEALTH, TIL DEATH DO US PART!”

He collapses to his knees. He slams his hands against the ground. The entire room is quiet as he slowly lifts his head. Subdued, exhausted, he talks in monotone.

“The most frustrating thing… I have this title match right here in front of my face and it’s everything meth has ever wanted. Instead, I hand out CONVOY leaflets, or go to Target and buy another pillow for meth’s ankle…”

He holds his hands in front of his eyes. It’s as if he can picture a title belt within his grasp but it’s slowly vanishing…

“Fading away. I’ll never get another chance.”

He dry heaves. Completely consumed by every singular event that’s happened to him over the past couple of years, he closes his eyes, tilts his head back and screams into the rafters of the local gymnasium.

“I HATE METH!!!!”

He doubles over in fear like he witnessed a murder. In many ways, he has.

He starts vomiting.

Dora… bless her heart. The small girl with the quiet eyes and the gentle touch. She removes herself from her chair, falls to her knees and carefully places her right hand against Jonathan-Christopher’s back.

Hall raises his eyes and reveals himself to Dora, glassy-eyed, red in the face, with potential self-harm marks across the sides of his cheek.

“Jonathan-Christopher,” she says softly, “why are you speaking about Vickie?”

The Folsom native suggests he is slowly coming down to earth, except he doesn’t understand the question.

“You said ‘I hate Vickie’,” she explains. “You’ve been talking about Vickie this entire time…”

He looks to his right. He looks to his left. Troubled expressions scatter across the room.

And suddenly, he sprints out the front doors, as fast as he can go. — — — — — Epilogue He didn’t know where to turn.

He rings the doorbell. Christ, he could barely strike the key.

It takes a moment but he hears commotion down the stairs. Soon after, the deadbolt unlocks and the wide oak entrance swings open.

Jonathan-Christopher stands in front of him, falling to his knees and lowering his head.

“I- I- I- I am sorry,” Hall squeaks, “I didn’t know what to do.”

The man offers his hand but Jonathan-Christopher’s too consumed to see it. Openly weeping, and now puking on the doorstep, the past twenty four hours have been the greatest whirlwind he could have ever known.

He’s canceled his flight. He doesn’t believe he’s going to make it to Cardiff. Honestly, he doesn’t know if he wants to.

“I can’t go back to who I was,” Hall openly sobs. “I will not relive my childhood.”

“It’s okay, my son,” the man kneels down beside him, patting Hall on the back and slowly lifting the kid to his feet. “I have you now.”

The number one contender lets out another cry of sorrow as he falls forward…

And right into the waiting arms of Reed Young.