What It Takes

It is impossible to describe in words what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. Horror. Horror has a face and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not then, they are enemies to be feared. They’re…truly enemies. – Colonel Kurtz, “Apocalypse Now”

***

2-21-10

A gentle ringing, and the gas station doors slide open. AWOL and Maya step through, entering without a word. They barely look at each other, AWOL snatching his pair of sunglasses from his face and walking towards the bathroom. Maya turns down an aisle in the convenience store, walking slowly towards the refrigerators at the back, opening them and releasing the billowing cloud of smoke from inside. She reaches in, pulling out two bottles of water. She clutches them in one hand as she closes the glass door. A loud “Thwunk” signals the closing and reestablishing of the airtight seal. The white cloud stops almost immediately.

She does not remove her sunglasses.

She walks to the front of the store, quietly, head hung low. Without a word she drops the bottles down on the check-out counter, fumbling in her purse.

“You have gas?” the attendant says, not even bothering to look up at the customer. A moment passes, stretched out just a few seconds too long, and the old woman behind the register looks up, seeing the silent curses on Maya’s lips as she fumbles for her wallet inside the gold leather confines of her purse.

“Gas?” the old lady repeats, an inquisitive look on her face.

“What? Oh, um, yeah, pump three,” Maya mumbles, finally finding the wallet she’s looking for.

The old lady peaks an eyebrow at the delayed response. As she reaches over and starts wiping the barcodes of the bottled water past the laser reader, her eyes pass silently from the gray, cloudy day outside and the still covered eyes of the woman before her. She sees Maya’s hands, shaking slightly as she digs for cash. She spies one of the fingernails, broken off and jagged, standing out in stark contrast to the nine intact, perfectly manicured ones surrounding it.

“Everything alright, honey?” she finally asks.

“Huh?” Maya looks up, her train of thought clearly derailed. “I’m sorry?”

“Is everything alright?”

Maya looks confused for a moment until she follows the old woman’s eyes and notices her trying to peer around the edge of the sunglasses. She starts in realization but fails to respond.

“Look,” the attendant says, reaching with a nobby fingered right hand towards the phone. “The sheriff’s office is just down the road. If you want, I can call, have a squad car here in a few minutes.” Temptation clearly rages for a moment behind Maya’s eyes. She opens her mouth to respond but pauses, suddenly snapping her mouth shut.

AWOL is standing near the door to the gas station, arms crossed, a deep scowl across his face.

“No,” she finally answers, “No everything’s fine. Here.” Maya flips a fifty out of her wallet, snapping it shut and tossing it back into her purse. She snatches the bottles of water off of the counter and turns, hurrying towards the door.

“You forgot your change!” the attendant shouts out, the price on the register clearly indicating “$32.57”.

“Keep it,” Maya says, hustling out through the door. The bell rings again as AWOL holds it open for her, watching her movements with unblinking eyes. Finally, that grim gaze turns towards the gas station attendant, fixing the old woman in place with its intensity. There is a threat there, a promise, but just as quickly he turns and follows Maya out to the car.

***

So.

How long ago did you decide you were tired of life, Josh Hudson?

It’s a bit of a dramatic question, I suppose, but I can’t really think of many other reasons for you to be foolish enough to interfere in my match on the last iteration of Riot! besides just being tired of your existence and looking for an easy way out. I suppose, ultimately, your motivation could come from a number of sources. You might be trying to set yourself up with some easy publicity for the match at 2 for 1. You might be a stooge for Savior, hoping to pick up some scraps from his cast offs. You might have one of a million other reasons to try and fuck with me, but ultimately your motivations are irrelevant. The outcome is going to be the same, you are going to walk into the ring at the next show and I am going to put you through hell until I eventually tire of pummeling you.

If you did this for the publicity, then I suppose this is a victory for you. Congratulations, you’ve rescued yourself from the 10 on 10 clusterfucks they’ve filled the rest of the card with. I suppose I should thank you as well, frankly, because this ridiculous feud with the Five Star Society has left me in nothing besides those type of horrible matches for months now. However, unfortunately, the result of your interference is that Christian Savior is now in a position to win not just one but his choice of two world titles on this show. Despite all the work I’ve gone through to try and drive that piece of shit out of this company and back to the SCW shithole the two of you crawled out of, now the son-of-a-bitch may end up being king of the hill in both companies.

I’m almost more upset about that than I am at having my own shot at the world strap taken away.

More importantly, however, this will be yet another ridiculous fucking screw-job victory that he’s going to hold up in front of my face and taunt me with. I really, really can’t tell you how much this annoys me, Hudson. I’m not sure if you’ve faced him before or not, but the man is, in a word, insufferable. To put it concisely, I would like nothing more than to slam his head repeatedly into the ring post until he has to spend the rest of his life being fed through a fucking tube, and now, because of you, that’s another win that the prick will be hanging over my head for years. This is your fault, Hudson. You did this to me.

So, consequently, I have a problem with you, sir. There is a debt owed between the two of us. We are going to settle that debt on the next pay-per-view, and you will learn firsthand just exactly what the consequences are going to be. This is the part where your typical wrestling performer would go into great detail about what exactly they’re going to do to you, but I don’t need to get into those sorts of details. My career speaks for itself. If you want to know what you’re in for, just rewind to some of my old matches. Watch what I did to Andre Bates in the first ULW Weapons Lair. Go back and check on how well it worked out for Shawn Hall after he slammed my head repeatedly in an ambulance door. I think that piece of shit Hunter is in your company, so why don’t you go find him and ask him how things went after he decided to insert himself into my business.

Or don’t bother. You clearly didn’t strain yourself thinking this through before getting involved in my life. If you had, you would have attacked Johnny Kingdom or someone else more likely to just beat you rather than cause you permanent bodily harm.

I am so fucking sick of this bullshit. Months upon months of interference, run-ins, and every other goddamn thing that people have pulled on me since I came back to this company. I don’t think I’ve been in a match with a clean ending since I returned, and you’re just the most recent one to come along and add to the pile. Unfortunately, for you, I am just done with it now.

You’re going to be the message I send to the roster. You will be the sign to everyone who crosses my path in the future of what exactly the consequences are for fucking with me.

***

2-13-10

Maya is sitting on the couch of an IWC dressing room, a white fleece robe wrapped around her lithe frame. The television is replaying the segment from late on Riot! with AWOL chasing Josh Hudson out of the arena. She chews thoughtfully on a fingernail, the gears clearly turning in her mind, until she is startled by the sound of the dressing room door being kicked open.

AWOL storms in, the baseball bat still clutched in his left hand. He throws the dressing room door shut behind him. Maya stands up, quickly shutting the TV off with the remote, as the Big Crazy Bastard stands motionless, eyes closed, veins straining in his forehead and throat. He breathes deeply, exhalations coming as long snorts from his nostrils, before finally turning and, with a primal scream of rage, throwing the bat into the floor to ceiling mirror on the wall behind him. The glass shatters and he drops to his knees, hands clamped angrily over his eyes. Maya walks forward, timidly, a hand resting onto his shoulders.

Maya-Are you alright?

AWOL gives a bitter laugh.

AWOL-Am I alright? No, Maya, no. I’m not fucking alright. I’m not ok. That son-of-a-bitch Hudson just cost me…

He stops, shaking his head angrily.

AWOL-I’m going to murder him. I’m going to FUCKING murder him.

Maya-So…you don’t get a shot at the title now?

He looks up, staring her in the face.

AWOL-No, I don’t get a shot at the title now. More importantly, Savior does. That bastard gets to prove everything I said for weeks wrong. He gets to walk into Two for One and, hell, let’s be honest here. He’ll probably win. He’ll have the whole goddamned arsenal set up and ready to find some way to screw Zero out of the belt, and all we’ll hear about for weeks is how this was some kind of master plan on his part that has finally come to fruition. I can’t stand it. I can’t…fucking…stand it. I would rather walk away now than have to watch him strutting around with the belt and acting like somehow he earned it.

Maya squats down next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Maya-Well, I don’t get it. They cheated, didn’t they? It’s right there on the camera that you were handcuffed to the rail. Why don’t they just disqualify him and give you the shot?

AWOL-That’s not the way things work here, and they never will. You don’t get ahead by working hard or putting out a quality product. You get ahead with cheap tricks, stupid gimmicks, and every other ridiculous thing that bastard does.

Maya-It isn’t fair. You should be getting that shot, not him. You’d be a much better champion.

AWOL-I don’t even really care. I’m just tired of seeing Savior win. He’s pissing in the faces of everyone in the IWC every week and they fucking reward him for it. I just can’t believe it.

Now a confused expression appears on her face.

Maya-What? How can you not care? It’s the world title, and you deserve to have a shot at it.

He turns and gives her the same confused glance.

AWOL-I don’t need it. It’s not why I’m here. I’ve seen what it takes to win the belt. I’ve sold my soul for it before. I don’t want to do that again. I don’t want to be that person anymore.

Maya-But you deserve it! You’re the best competitor in this company, and you have every right to that belt. I don’t understand why you’re fighting so hard to keep Savior away from it if you don’t care to win it for yourself.

AWOL-I…I just can’t stand that son-of-a-bitch getting ahead by resorting to…to…

The fury is building behind his eyes, before Maya reaches forward and grabs his chin, turning it to face her.

Maya-To the same sort of things you used to do?

The fury is replaced quickly with incredulity.

Maya-Oh, come on, don’t give me that look. I’ve watched your old matches. Who are you kidding? You’re no saint. You sliced off a man’s face with razor blades to get ahead in this company before. You twisted Shawn Hall’s wife and turned her against him. You ended Andre Bates’ career and nearly ended Johnny Kingdom’s as well. You know what it takes to succeed, and you know that you’re capable of it.

AWOL looks like he’s going to argue, but she cuts him off with a disgusted shake of the head.

Maya-Or maybe they’re right. Maybe you’re not the monster anymore. Maybe you actually can’t hack it.

AWOL-What the fuck is your problem, now?

She stands up, adjusting the robe and walking away from him. She stops at a receptions table, picking up a bottle of water and unscrewing the cap.

Maya-You were a monster, once. You were AWOL, the Biggest, Craziest Bastard in this industry. Now I’m not sure. I mean, a guy handcuffs you to the rails in your title match, and you, what, chase him out of the building on a four wheeler? Oooh, scary.

AWOL stands, picking up the bat in his free hand with the same motion. Maya continues to talk to the wall, taking a sip from the bottle.

Maya-I mean, it’s been how many weeks now and you have how many people in your face between the Society, the Motherfuckers, and the Generation, and you’ve done what to stop them? These people understand one thing, AWOL, terror. If you want them to stop, you show them what the consequences of attacking you really are. But no, no, you can’t do it anymore. You’re too busy being a nice-guy and ranting about fair play.

AWOL stands right behind her, face turning an ugly shade of crimson. She turns around to look him in the face.

Maya-I mean, I’m standing right here, insulting you to your face, and you’re going to just stand there and take it? Maybe you have gotten soft like they say.

AWOL lifts the bat up.

AWOL-Would you rather I hit you with this?

Maya-At least then you would be acting like somebody who actually has some balls. Then you’d be acting like somebody that can actually beat Christian Savior, rather than just talk about it.

The bat actually creaks from how hard he’s gripping it.

Maya-Swing. You know you want to. Swing the fucking bat. Silence me. Show me that the monster is still in there, somewhere, ready to come out and take this company over.

His face twists into a snarl, and for a moment, he hefts the bat into the air, looking to bring it down onto her skull. However, he stops, holding it, shaking, in mid-motion, before finally dipping it back to the ground.

Maya-That’s what I thought. Fucking pathetic.

With a snap of her arm, she tosses a stream of water out of the bottle into his face. In an instant his eyes alight with rage and he pulls his arm back into the air, bringing the bat crashing down in one smooth motion towards her face.

***

You have to have men who are moral, and at the same time who are able to utilize their primordial instincts to kill without feeling, without passion…without judgment, without judgment…because it’s judgment that defeats us. – Colonel Kurtz, “Apocalypse Now”