Monsters

Once you realize what a joke everything is, being the comedian is the only thing that makes sense. – Watchmen

***

2-13-10

The bat arcs through the air, seeming to slow down with the violence of the motion, before embedding itself…

…in the drywall behind Maya’s head. A softball sized hole immediately crumbles in the white surface, a spiderweb of cracks spreading in all directions. AWOL lets go of the handle and the bat actually hangs in place, the end sticking far enough into the wall to support its weight. He leans forward, eyes glaring steel from out of his ice-cold expression. Maya doesn’t flinch.

Silence hangs for a moment, split only by the quiet patter of dust falling out of the wall from the impact.

“You’re sick,” he finally growls, his nose an inch away from hers. “I don’t know what the fuck you thought you were going to accomplish here tonight, by all you’ve done is make me see what a mistake you were. Pack up your shit and get out of here. We’re done.” Turning away in disgust, he stalks over to a side table, scooping up a highball glass. He tosses a pair of ice cubes in, quickly followed by a pour of bourbon. He drops the drink down his throat in one gulp, quickly replacing it with another, twice as tall this time.

In the background, one well-manicured hand reaches up, pulling the bat free from the wall…

***

So many people in this world do things in the same, old, predictable ways. So many of them are content to walk through their day spouting out the same old garbage in a new form, without thought or care to how exactly the minutia that defines them is spilled out onto the public stage by the drivel they blather forth on a constant basis. They stumble through their lives in a stupor, staring straight on into the camera or into the faces of their friends, the soft gelatin of their sad, cow eyes locked in the same dead, comatose glare that is the only refuge of those trapped in cubicles and fast food joints and every other variety of dead end jobs. These masses, these people without a future, they are content to do things in the same way, day in and day out. They exist through their routines, defining themselves by their reliability, their mastery of the mundane. Because they are so ordinary and fit in so well with their hum-drum, repetitive, every day existences, they hold this up as some kind of victory. Emplyee of the month. Humanitarian of the year. They think these minor accomplishments makes them excel. They think that they can elevate themselves to king of the ant hill if they just keep staying the course and doing everything they can to stay one step ahead of the Jones’s.

But you, Josh Hudson, were supposed to be different. That was what I was told to expect. When I asked around, trying to find out who you were, I was told that you weren’t like the others. I was told you held yourself to a different level. There were people who even said that you were a lot like me, a fact that you should take as a compliment, though I am certain you won’t.

So I had high hopes for this match, Hudson, and the build-up leading to it. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve had to listen to weeks upon weeks of Christian Savior’s drivel, but I thought, perhaps, this time around things would be different. I was truly anticipating seeing what your promos had to offer, especially as they were supposed to be so very similar to my own. I thought “Finally, for the first time in as long as I can remember, maybe I will see someone who actually has something novel to say, something worth listening to.”

I was wrong.

Oh, on the surface you are indeed a true horror to behold. A violent criminal mind backed up with the heart of a true sociopath is what you possess, and clearly you have gone to great lengths to demonstrate this fact to us. Most of the wrestlers in this business, at some point, have taken the opportunity to show up at a house show and squash some sort of local talent to demonstrate how tough they are, how far above their opponent they truly have risen. It is a rare individual, however, that picks up a helpless hooker off of the street and proceeds to beat and rape her to prove the same point. However, the objective remains the same mundane, predictable drivel in both cases. The fact that your pretty was not even as capable of protecting herself as the average local yokel does not inspire awe, I’m afraid. To put it bluntly, I am not impressed, Josh Hudson.

I am, in fact, disappointed.

This of course was followed up with the same nonsense I hear on a week to week basis. “AWOL’s a stupid name.” Well I was AWOL before I put on my first pair of wrestling boots, son, and I’m not likely to change a nickname my platoon mates gave me because some wrestling up-and-comer makes fun of it to try and build a reputation for him or herself. If you have a problem with it, feel free to use Anthony. Everyone else does, after all, when they’re trying to sound patronizing. I see no reason why you should be any different. As a word of advice, though, I suggest you move on to a different topic. Insulting my name or my gimmick has never worked and succeeds ultimately in only making me angry.

And, of course, there’s the old chestnut about how you’ve gotten “in my head,” that I’ll be so angry when we step into the ring together that I’ll just walk into whatever cunning ploy you have prepared for me and will ultimately be unable to defend myself because of my blind, all-consuming rage. Well yes, Hudson, yes, you have succeeded in making me mad. As you pointed out, my company’s main event scene is currently dominated by the people who managed to graduate from your shithole of a company. I was in the process of doing something about it, and then you came along and locked me to a goddamn guard rail in mid-match. You let Christian Savior eliminate the only IWC competitor with a chance to make it into the main-event, and you did it, why, because it amused you? Or because you wanted to make a name for yourself?

I was a bit unclear on that point, actually. I asked for an explanation, and all I got was a rambling rant about “the spirit of competition” as a means of saying why. Spirit of competition? What competition would that be? Biggest asshole? Because, to my mind, ruining an in progress match and allowing an inferior talent like Savior to make it to the main event of a pay-per-view he doesn’t deserve to be in sort of runs opposite to the spirit of competition. I don’t accept your explanation, in short, and I demand a better one. I’ll be looking forward to it, but if you don’t feel the need to explain yourself on the airways, perhaps I’ll simply beat it out of you in the ring. Your call…

So yes, I’m angry. I’m furious. But if you think for even one second that somehow this gives you an advantage, you are sorely mistaken. I love when people get the idea that somehow I’m a bumbling hulk, that one spark sets me off and drops me into a red-haze. The “Me Smash” phrase is particularly amusing, as you can well imagine. I think, however, that you’ve missed the joke. Anger doesn’t blind me, it brings everything into very sharp focus.

People who make me angry don’t just win or lose matches, Hudson. People who make me angry lose their careers. They get their ankles snapped between chairs. They get thrown from very tall places or get their skulls crushed in by very blunt objects, and they never recover. Making me angry doesn’t make me sloppy or reckless, it makes me focused. It gives me motivation to come up with new and exciting ways to hurt you, Josh Hudson, and it ultimately is only going to result in your becoming a permanent addition to my highlight reel.

So I guess, in a way, that will help you make a name for yourself after all.

You aren’t special, Hudson. You aren’t different. How many people do you think I’ve met that have promised to not just beat me, but hurt me in the ring? How many times do you suppose I’ve been promised that I was going to be picked apart, slowly, by an opponent? Do you think that saying those things makes you novel, Hudson? Or hey, how about the old gem where I apparently am a lumbering clod that can’t wrestle his way out of a paper bag, despite being one of the longest holders of the submissions championship in my company’s history? I’ve certainly never heard that one before. What a clear way to differentiate yourself from the pack.

Frankly, if I didn’t have a score to settle, I wouldn’t waste my time on you. You’ve overplayed your hand and revealed yourself as nothing but a brutal, violent thug that ultimately has nothing meaningful to contribute. You’re cheap tricks and shock value covering up an internal layer with no substance. It doesn’t make you a strong man to show that you can rape a woman. It shows that you’re pathetic. To be honest, I’m embarrassed that they compared me to you, and at the Two for One Special I’m going to see to it that people see that this comparison is never made again. It is an insult to me that we are lumped together. This Sunday I settle the score, and then I send you crawling back to your miserable hole of a company.

With any luck, Savior and Zero won’t be too far behind you.

***

AWOL takes another sip from the drink, staring at his reflection in the glass countertop, when he hears the first blow land behind him. He spins around at the sound of a sickening thud, watching in shock as Maya pulls the bat away from a clearly shattered eye socket. She lifts it back up, smashing it crosswise against her nose. Blood starts to trickle immediately after the snap of the cartilage breaking fills the room. The pain makes her gasp and stagger, but she raises the bat back into the air, preparing for another strike. He crosses the room in an instant, snatching it out of her hands, but the damage is done. Her right eye is already turning black.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he shouts, tossing the bat behind his back.

“My problem?” she says, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the carpet. “I don’t have a problem. What I have is a solution for your problems.”

“What…” he stops, running a hand over his head, clearly flabbergasted. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She reaches up with her left hand, grabbing the bridge of her nose and, with a sharp twist, popping it back into place. Tears well at the corners of her eyes, but she barely seems to notice them. “Look, babe, I get it. You were the big scary monster guy before, and you don’t want to go back to that again. Maybe you don’t want to, or maybe you just don’t have it in you anymore. Either way, I understand. We all do things we’re not proud of to get ahead, and I know that better than anybody.”

She walks forward, stepping right in front of him, eyes locked with his. “But the bottom line is, the fans don’t want to see soft, caring Anthony. They want AWOL. They want the monster, not the man. So, if you can’t give them what they want, I’ll do it for you. I’ll go out in public with heavy makeup and sunglasses. I’ll play the victim. It’ll be so easy, babe. You’ll see. I won’t have to say a thing, just walk in front of the TMZ cameras and let the court of public opinion make its own ruling.”

“Jesus Christ,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re out of your goddamned mind.”

“I’m not-“

“YOU’RE OUT OF YOUR GODDAMNED MIND!” he shouts, snarling into her face. “I’ve heard enough of this. I told you once already. Get your shit and get out of here.”

He starts to turn away but she grabs hold of his arm, holding him in place. Her eyes well up with tears. For a moment, her lower lip trembles. “I just wanted to help you. I just wanted to try and show that I could help you get the title back. And this is how you thank me?”

He looks incredulously at her as, almost as rapidly as it appeared, the crying is replaced with a cruel smirk.

“Or at least that’s what I’ll tell them at the police station if you throw me out, anyways.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?”

“They’d never belie-“

She laughs. “Never believe what? That an angry man with a history of violence would take his frustrations out on his girlfriend? The world just watched you chase Josh Hudson out of the arena with the same baseball bat. The same baseball bat, I might add, that just did all the damage to me. It’s an open and shut case, and nobody is going to believe your word over mine.”

He blinks, trying hard to recover from the sheer madness of the situation. “Why would you do this?” he finally asks. A look of honest sympathy appears on Maya’s face, and she drifts forward, draping a hand onto his shoulder.

“Look big guy, I didn’t get with you to watch you piss away your career and then retire back to poverty with you. I got with you because you’re a winner, a champion. This isn’t about me, it’s about helping you, like I said I was going to do. It’s time to face reality: no one in the IWC is afraid of you anymore. You’re not the Big Crazy Bastard that commanded immediate respect anymore, but with my help you can be again. We start out small, see, a little trip down to a gas station or something. We start the rumors up quietly, and then we let them grow from there that you’re starting to slip, starting to lose control. Eventually we’ll have to escalate things, of course, maybe start doing some Steve Austin stuff around the arenas at the shows, but we’ve got time before then. For now, I think we just play it up quietly. Let people wonder what you’re doing to me. Make people try and guess how long it will be before you snap completely. Trust me, babe, the hype machine is going to jump off the tracks once they see some of the things I have in mind for you.” She leans forward, planting a kiss on the side of his unresponsive cheek. The blood leaves a mark in the shape of her lips there as she slips past him, walking over to the sink.

“If the fans want AWOL back,” she says, “That’s what we’re going to give them. Whether you’ll admit it or not, this is the best thing for both of us.” She starts to dab at her nose with a white towel before turning, flashing a blood-soaked smile his direction. “You just hit the jackpot.”

And for maybe the first time in his career, AWOL is left speechless.

***

The horror, the horror…