Worst Christmas Ever

December 25, 2021 Lafayette, LA “Dad! Daddy! Open your eyes! Santa came!”

Paxton Ray tried to roll over on his side, but Nora jumped up on the bed and pulled at his shoulder. “Come on! Let’s see what Santa brought us!”

He groaned and rubbed his face. “Santa didn’t bring me nothin’, baby.”

“Why, were you bad?”

Paxton looked at the clock and groaned again. 5:13. “I musta been t’deserve this.”

His daughter persisted, fruitlessly trying to tug her father out of bed. “Let’s go! Mommy is ready with the camera!”

Paxton finally stood and put on his jeans, then left the guest room to descend the creaky stairs. His eyes remained slits as he sat down in the first available seat near the stairs.

“Good morning, Paxton,” Melissa Ray said cheerily, a cup of coffee in hand.

“Well ain’t ya jus’ a cup’a sunshine,” Paxton grumbled.

“I’m used to it because I’m here all the time.” She smiled sarcastically at her ex-husband, then flawlessly transitioned into a scowl. “Nora Robertson Ray, put that present down!”

“Come on, mom!” Nora said, her fingers peeling back wrapping paper. “I’ve waited for years!”

“It’s been five minutes. Wait for me to get my phone out.”

Paxton slumped in his chair, keeping his eyes mostly closed in the vain hope that he would be able to go back to sleep after the ordeal was over. But as the time progressed and the wrapping paper piled up, Paxton felt his grogginess slip away.

“I ain’t seen this much energy since the diagnosis,” Paxton whispered.

“Who needs chemo when you have a fat man with a gift sack?” Melissa answered, staring at their daughter with a smile.

Paxton continued to watch her open presents – the ones from Santa, the ones from Melissa, from grandparents, and the doll that Paxton got two days before in a rush at the mall that almost resulted in a fight with someone trying to buy the same toy. Then, after what felt like hours, the presents were all unwrapped. Paxton stood up. “Great show, baby. Well, I think I got t’get t’New Orleans.”

Both Nora and Melissa gaped at him. “On Christmas day?” Melissa asked. “Your new trainer wants you training on Christmas?”

“Melissa,” Paxton muttered, eyeing Nora. Then he smiled at his daughter. “Mommy and daddy got to go talk in the other room, okay baby?”

The two adults went to the kitchen, Paxton shaking his head. “Ya almos’ blabbed about my new job, Mel. Whatcha gonna do next, tell ‘er Santa ain’t–”

“Don’t finish that sentence, and don’t you dare walk out on us on Christmas day! I don’t care how much money you say you can make, this is a family holiday.”

Paxton balled his fists. “Well ya made it pretty fuckin’ clear that we ain’t a family, so…”

Melissa stepped up to him and put a finger in his chest. “No matter what happened between us, Nora will always make us a family. And the least you could do is stay here and watch her play with all the presents I got her because you’re too much of a deadbeat to contribute anything!” She looked down at his fists and shook her head. “Oh, you want to hit me? Is that your present for me? Go ahead, do it. Do it with our daughter in the next room.”

Paxton closed his eyes and tried to relax his fists, but every time his fingers began to relax they’d clench again. Finally, after a deep breath, he opened his eyes. “Nah. I ain’t gonna give ya the satisfaction.” He flexed his fingers and walked out of the room. “I’m sorry baby, but I gotta run. But I hope ya had a great Christmas. I’ll see ya in a few weeks, okay?”

Nora looked down at the floor. “Okay daddy.”

Paxton frowned, then walked up to her and lifted her chin with his finger so she was looking at him. “Listen baby. Jus’ know that where I’m goin’ right now…it’s gonna lead t’ya beatin’ this cancer thing. You’re gonna be fine, and we’re gonna all be together after, okay?”

His daughter stared at him for a few seconds before smiling. “Okay. I love you.”

“Love you too, baby.” Paxton walked out of the house and slammed the door behind him, then shook his head. “Worst fuckin’ Christmas ever.”

_______

December 25, 2023 New Orleans, LA Paxton slowly stirred in his bed, wincing as he rolled onto his bruised shoulder. “Fuckin’ Patterson,” he muttered, then reached for his phone and looked at the time.

10:37.

He stood up and walked out of his bedroom to the living room, where a small fake Christmas tree stood on his kitchen countertop. “Where the fuck did that come from?” he asked aloud as he approached it.

Next to the tree was a small plate with cookie crumbs on and around it. Paxton blinked a few times, then looked under the tree where a small present sat wrapped in green and silver wrapping paper.

Looking around the room cautiously, Paxton grabbed the package and sat down on his recliner – the only piece of furniture in his apartment – and slowly unwrapped the package. He let the paper fall to the floor as he inspected his present.

He scoffed at the black shirt with the words MESSIAH WRESTLING ACADEMY in green, then noticed a piece of paper had fluttered to the floor with the wrapping. He set the shirt down and grabbed the paper, then read it aloud.

“My dearest Paxton, we figured ya should look the part for your new role. We have opened the gym today for the wrestlers who unfortunately have no family or friends t’celebrate with on this most special’a holidays. As ya are similarly unen…unencumbered by these things, we hope that ya will don this shirt and be at the gym by 11 o’clock t’run through some workouts with our students. Yours, Bertrand Ward.”

Paxton looked from the note to the shirt, then at the clock on the wall. He stood, then sniffed himself, eliciting a scowl. Then, he shrugged and put the shirt on. “Fuck it.”

_______

The door to the open gym slammed behind Paxton, and he immediately noticed the difference in sound when he walked in. The place was nearly empty, and the noise bounced off of all of the walls before floating up in the air.

“Anybody here?” Paxton asked as he slowly walked in, setting his duffel bag down. He stopped and listened for a moment, then began to walk towards the only sound he heard: a steady thump against a punching bag. He walked towards the corner slowly, watching the bag pop out towards him every few seconds. He grabbed the bag and pulled it aside, then had to dodge as a taped hand nearly hit his face.

“Jesus,” he muttered, releasing the bag and staring down at Petra Brandt, whose surprise melted into a smug smile as she looked down at his torso.

“Nice shirt, lapdog.”

In spite of himself, Paxton grinned. “Ya the only one they forced here today?”

“Yes. I guess we are the only lonely people in this organization of criminals and miscreants.” She laughed. “You did not get me a Christmas present?”

“Uh...” Paxton stared at Petra for a second, then shrugged. “Well listen. I ain’t gonna keep ya here on Christmas day if it’s jus’ me an’ you. I’m on break from PRIME so I ain’t gotta train for anythin’, an’ I’m sure ya got…”

“I don’t,” Petra interrupted, putting a fist against the punching bag. “I am here for a reason, and so are you. You are lazy. What, you think because you don’t have match until January that you can just eat cinnamon rolls and get fat?”

Paxton raised his eyebrows. “Cinnamon rolls?”

Petra looked down at her feet. “Yes. We eat them on Christmas morning back home.” Then she stared up at Paxton again. “We cannot stop getting better. So let’s spar, unless you are worried about a woman beating you.”

Paxton grinned. “Oh, lady, you know how to push all the right buttons. Let’s fuckin’ go.”

_______

Paxton fell to the ground as a roundhouse kick connected with his chin. “How’s that for button pushing?” Petra chirped as she danced around him.

“Not bad, but not good enough either.” Paxton muttered and got to his feet. “So, what’s your background? Ya wrestle in Germany?”

“Why you want to know?” Petra swung at him, then waited for him to duck under before lifting a knee into his gut. “You trying to know my whole life story?”

“Jus’ the parts ‘bout your fightin’, Jesus,” Paxton said as he grabbed Petra and tossed her into the turnbuckle. “I’m trainin’ ya so I may as well know what you’re all ‘bout.”

“This is what I’m all about,” she said, leaping up and wrapping her legs around his neck. She leaned backwards, flipping him to the ground and tightening the head scissors. “No back story. No moment of vulnerability you can use against me. Just fighting. It’s all I know.”

“Then ya should know not t’get distracted,” Paxton said, grabbing her ankle and twisting out. He held onto the ankle and delivered a kick into her thigh. “How hard is it t’open up? Ya already know ‘bout me. My job, my daughter, my shitty past. Mind meetin’ me halfway?”

She rolled up to her feet, but as he moved forward she jabbed a finger in his direction, causing him to stop. “Yes I mind. These things I know about you? That is your choice. You choose to be open. And guess what? MESSIAH uses it against you.”

“Huh? Whatcha mean?”

“You have hyper focus on one thing. You love your daughter. They know this and they hold you hostage. You come on Christmas day to train me. You do whatever they tell you to do. And why? Because they know your weakness.”

Paxton rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, but they know yours too, or else ya wouldn’t be here.”

Petra nodded. “Yes. They know. Not you. You have no reason to know, and so you won’t know. But you are such an open book that everyone can read it from space. You are easily manipulated. You are a dumb man who is giving your enemies your address and the keys to your house, but you still act surprised when they steal everything you own.”

“Wait a minute,” Paxton growled, forming fists.

“If you maybe tried to focus on something else, like your career…your 2023 was so mediocre. A weapons championship, a short reign, a disappointing rumble, a first round exit in a tournament. Because you don’t care enough to try and get better. If you became unstoppable in PRIME, a man who they could not deny, maybe you have more power, more leverage. But no. You grumble about coming into the gym, you give the bare minimum, and you think because you win more than you lose that it’s enough. You are lazy, you are stupid, your anger can be used against you, and you will never get your daughter back if…”

Paxton lunged forward, tackling Petra and holding her down, screaming in her face. “Stop talkin’ bout my fuckin’ daughter!” He put his forearm on her head and started to drive her head against the canvas. “Ya don’t fuckin’ know anythin’! Ya can’t…”

He stopped because he heard a sound. It was low, but it was strong enough that it caused him to relax his hands. It was a gurgle, a very quiet gasping for breath. He looked down at Petra’s face, red starting to form where his arm had been, a small bit of spittle hanging off of her lips.

“I…”

The Bayou Butcher stood, then looked left and right before exiting the ring.

“Sorry,” he said over his shoulder before rushing out of the gym and slamming the door behind him. “Worst fuckin’ Christmas ever.”

_______

January 8, 2024 The next time Paxton entered MESSIAH’s gym two weeks later, the cacophony of sound had returned: squeaking boots, yelling, flesh on canvas. And yet Paxton’s ears were tuned to that steady beat of fist on punching bag.

He looked in the corner where Petra stood, throwing overhand punches at the bag. She looked up briefly and their eyes met before she quickly looked away. Paxton readjusted his duffel bag and started to walk towards her, but he was grabbed by Chet Fleetwood.

“Meal ticket!” Chet said, clapping Paxton on the back.

“At least Foster was subtle about it,” Paxton grumbled.

“Yeah well subtlety is for cowards. Let’s talk.” Chet guided Paxton towards the offices. Paxton let himself be dragged, sending one look in Petra’s direction before following his new manager.

“So, clearly PRIME is impressed with me.”

Paxton blinked. “With ya?”

“Yeah. One match with me in your corner and you’re getting an Intense Title shot.” Chet mockingly brushed his shoulder with his hand and sang. “If you feeling like a pimp Fleetwood, go on and brush your shoulders off.”

“I don’t think it…” Paxton furrowed his brow. “Wait a second. Did ya just put Fleetwood in a song lyric?”

“I always do that. Two syllables, flows well, plus it’s the best name ever. Fits like a glove.” Chet shook his head. “But that’s not important right now. What’s important is you can’t mess this up for me.”

“For ya.”

“Yes, you fucking echo, pay attention. This Max Kael guy has lost once since coming to PRIME. He looks like a fucking psycho, but clearly he’s dangerous enough to win this title. And you need to stop him, to show everyone that you’re the most hardcore person in PRIME, and also to show everyone I’m the best manager who’s ever lived.”

Paxton shook his head. “You’re pretty fired up ‘bout this managin’ gig, huh?”

“Once I found out you could win awards for it? You bet your ass.”

Paxton stared at Chet for a moment, then nodded and sat down in a nearby chair. “All right, best manager who’s ever lived. Give me advice. Help me beat Max Kael.”

Chet frowned. “I guess I need to do that if I want to be a good manager, huh?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well okay. So first off, barbed wire ropes. Kinda scary.”

“Yeah, but…”

Chet held up a hand. “But you’ve already won the title in a barbed wire ropes match, I know. Plus, Max’s finishing move requires momentum, which he gets by running off the ropes. If he isn’t able to do that without becoming a Human Psycho Shish Kebab, he won’t be able to get the strength to knock you out with the lariat.”

“I…” Paxton stared up at Chet, his mouth slightly open. “That was surprisin’ly good advice.”

“Just getting started, redneck. Max came in like a house on fire, and at first he was confused and new and had a question mark on his name. But now he’s confident and strong and you probably think that’s an advantage for him, right?”

“Didn’t really think ‘bout it, t’be honest.”

“WRONG!” Chet said, pointing a finger in the air before frowning. “Oh, I expected you to say right. Anyway, he probably thinks he’s finally arrived. But he hasn’t had time enough to get comfortable in his new weirdo villain skin. Whereas you? The Bayou Butcher? The man who slayed Jonathan Rhine? You’re about as comfortable in your skin as it gets. You know who you are, and you’ve known for a while. So as long as you stay true to yourself, the same bastard who won the title in this same match, you’ll be a repeat champion in no time, and his weirdo skin will be torn by barbed wire.”

Paxton stood up and walked to the door, looking through the window. He found Petra, still at the punching bags, and sighed as he heard Chet behind him say, “And another thing…”

_______

Paxton waited for the day to pass. He endured more lectures and advice from Chet, two training sessions, and another set of sparring matches where Petra would not look him in the eye. Finally, Pax came out of the shower and listened for it.

thump, thump, thump

He looked around to make sure no one else was there, then slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked towards the punching bags. She felt his presence but didn't look up.

“Your favorite part of the gym, huh?” he asked. She didn’t answer, and he reached out to grab the bag before she finally spoke.

“Sometimes you just need to hit something.”

Paxton smiled. “Know that all too well. Listen, Petra.” Paxton set his duffel bag on the ground and unzipped in, then reached inside and grabbed a plate wrapped in aluminum foil. He held it up for her, and she eventually stopped punching to look at it. “I’m sorry ‘bout Christmas. I was…well, I was angry. I get that way sometimes. Too often.”

Petra slowly grabbed the package from Paxton and unwrapped it, revealing a cinnamon roll on the plate. “I know it ain’t Christmas no more,” Paxton said, “but I figured a little taste a’home never hurt anybody. An’ maybe it’ll give ya a head start on a good Christmas this year.”

Petra inspected the roll. “You made this yourself?”

“Yeah, and with no help from that little Pillsbury fuck neither.” Paxton’s smile vanished. “What, ya think a guy like me can’t make a fuckin’ cinnamon roll?”

Petra finally smiled, a sight that Paxton couldn’t remember seeing – at least a smile that appeared genuine. “Thank you Paxton. I appreciate the gesture.” She walked over to her own duffel bag. “I actually got you a sort of present as well.”

“Really?”

“Don’t feel flattered, this is self-serving.” She walked over and dropped a notebook in his hand. He fluttered through the pages and saw they were all empty.

“A notebook?”

“It’s an anger journal. I have one too. Sometimes you need to get your thoughts out on paper. It will help you focus on things that matter, like your match in PRIME…or getting your daughter back.” She looked up and saw he was staring at her, which caused her to look down suddenly. “I think it will help you, and maybe you won’t try to drive your students through the canvas.”

“Well, uh…thanks, Petra.” He looked around the gym, then nodded towards the door. “I’m actually gonna use it now.”

“Later, lapdog,” she said, resuming her bag routine. Paxton walked towards the doors of the gym, shot one more look Petra’s way, and left towards his car.

_______

1/11/24

Another barbed wire rope match, huh?

The last one was pretty crazy, Max. You weren’t here. If we believe your story, you weren’t alive then. So you missed what was a hell of a way to start 2023, both for PRIME and for me.

I lost so much blood they had to throw that canvas out. I’m sure they had to comp some tickets because of how much blood got out into the crowd. It was disgusting, it was dangerous, and I loved every second of it.

See, up to that point, I had just been reborn too, Max. I went from a tag team wrestler with a sick daughter to a monster, and the barbed wires were a perfect cage to contain that monster. But with every prick, with every cut, I felt so alive. 

My reign was short, but it taught me something. The world of barbed wire, of chair shots, of falls count anywhere? That’s my world. It’s where I belong. And I continued to march through 2023. Coming up short sometimes, but winning when it mattered. And even as I continue this quest to win my daughter back and try and break free from my past, I still enjoy this part. The part that made me so valuable to MESSIAH.

The part where I get to hurt people.

There’s a lot of stuff I can’t even pretend to understand about you, Max, but from what I can tell, you’re no stranger to carnage too. And like my manager said, you’re on a heater. Title win would be a nice cherry on top, wouldn’t it?

For me it’s more than that. It’s once again opening the door to a part of me that has been sleeping, that is desperate to wake up and run the show again. The Butcher. Fightin Rich Patterson was satisfying, but it was just a few punches and a pinfall. I want something more. 

And you, Max? You’re gonna give it to me. And I’m gonna beat you so bad that there’s gonna be a new Max Kael. I’ll leave it up to you what you can name him. 

Right now I’m puttin these words on a page because it’s the only way to get my anger out. But at Rev41, there will be nowhere for my anger to go except for directly at you. 

I hope you’re ready.