Post by Lex Collins on Sept 23, 2019 2:32:49 GMT -5
Las Vegas || September 17, 2019 (off camera)
Binge and purge. Everything was always cyclic. He hated the fact that he expected that ebb and flow as much as the paranoia had him inwardly flinching every time someone breathed in his direction, worried he'd have to deal with another shoe dropping. By now, they'd probably aired his bullshit video package – the worst sort of cop-out imaginable. He knew he'd only get the one, he'd only have a few more days before the next phase kicked in and he became the favorite target. He'd have to be there, day in and out – fighting champion wasn't a foreign concept, after all. He hated himself for the cowardice, for the abject loathing he felt every time he sat down in front of that microphone. The words were there. He never had to dig too deep for them. The whole process was just starting to wear out its welcome and he knew he was letting too much slide on social media. Samantha Tolson was exponentially doubling his output and he could barely keep track of all the bullshit she'd been spewing in the last couple weeks. He'd tuned out after the beer bottle and balcony nonsense.
Deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before they caught on, before his well-rehearsed act fell flat and insincere.
The bottom fell out of the box as he straightened up, all sorts of crap raining down over his bare feet as the tape gave way. Grumbling to himself, he tossed the cardboard aside and knelt down in the mess, feeling that twinge in his back as he rolled his shoulders. Fate had apparently decided that he was going to finally unpack this one first – the boxes had been tucked into the crawlspace under the kitchen since they'd moved in over a year ago. They'd been in storage in New York before then, never carted off to that huge farmhouse in the country he'd bought with the hopes that he'd grow old with Claire there. Idly, he wondered if the new owners were still planting corn in the west field. He wondered if the yard was still full of fireflies the moment the sun went down.
A shiver crawled down his back as he sifted through the junk, finding old bank statements and contracts – he sorted those off into a pile to be shredded later. That bank account had been closed for years. The companies were ones that nobody really remembered, including the one that had taken place at that crazy amusement part in Louisiana.
Once those were cleared, he saw a yellowed manila envelope, the block printing on the address faded but still visible when he flipped it over.
Vic Donimari
1408 Evans RD
New Orleans, LA 70113
"Fuck," he muttered, remembering how he'd carried the damned thing around in his gear bag for more than eight months before he'd even bothered to open it. It had taken another four months to gather up the courage to go clear out the storage locker that the letter had contained the key for. He remembered arguing with Hannah in the back yard in Chicago – on Father's Day, no less – about his refusal to open the letter. It had been addressed to him, delivered almost a year after the passing of the man Hannah had believed to be her father for the majority of her life. He could still see the faded ink of the post office stamps, all the times it had been rerouted before finally arriving and he wondered what would have happened if it had ended up lost in some unclaimed mail bin for eternity. Would he have left Hannah back in 2015, turning into a longstanding 'Deadbeat Dad' trope? Too many variables to even process, he pulled the page out before he fell down that particular rabbit hole. It was like that Billy Ray song – he knew the words by heart. He knew every line.
"Take care of my girl." He said softly, closing his eyes against that involuntary wince. Even after all this time, it still could slip past his defenses and draw blood. "Take care of yourself. If I don't see either of you again, I love you both an' wish you nothin'..." he trailed off, voice breaking but he couldn't bring himself to complete the thought with, "but the best."
Gently, gingerly, he refolded the letter and for a few seconds, contemplated adding it to the shred pile. He didn't need the evidence of Vic's confession, didn't need to know who his father was. He'd always seen himself as a rebel against nurture, over any sort of genetic predisposition of nature. Vic's DNA had passed on the hollows under his eyes, the curly hair that got more unruly the longer it got – hallmarks of Greek heritage – surface shit and body tics, only. Clay had torn apart his self-esteem, had beaten pride from him for fear of reprisal.
This is why we can't have nice things. We're not allowed to. Still not allowed to because the universe always finds a way to beat it out.
He couldn't help the track his mind was going down, how he'd been no better than Vic with his bullshit apologies and the story about not knowing until it was too late – he'd willingly walked out of Hannah's life, had spent three years as a stranger to his own daughter. The reasons had made sense at the time. He couldn't remember them now and that was disturbing because the memory for the past, for the bad things was always the strongest. Had always been until this year.
Now the darkness kept sloughing off, like layers of dead skin.
He didn't care anymore. He didn't feel that crushing guilt at the thought of defending gold soon like he'd thought he would. It was different and strange and he didn't really have words to explain the feelings inside. He didn't realize he was crying until the first drop fell from his nose to stain the paper and then he was swiping guiltily at his eyes when he heard Hannah's voice come down the stairs.
"Lex? Are you still down there?"
He waited a second, clearing his throat. "Yeah. Box blew up on me," he called back, surprised when his voice came out level and only a little bit raspy. "Almost done cleanin' up the mess."
———♦———
YouTube posting (video, publicly listed)
"Only seems right. Gotta do it by the book, y'know? Tick all the boxes."
There's a pause before the grainy darkness resolves, revealing Lex Collins sitting on an ugly brown tile floor with his back against the wall. A pair of black Chucks are on his feet, the knee ripped out of his jeans as he tugs at the frayed threads. There's tape residue visible across the backs of his hands, sticking to the dark hairs that still remain on his wrists. His knuckles are torn up; a few of the cuts are still oozing clear plasma – no real shocker here. We've seen him like this before, as if this is the thing he likes to do after spending an hour hitting the bag. He reaches off camera and picks up the championship belt, slowly folding in the straps before resting it on his knee.
"I dunno how that message came across – didn't hear boo about it from any of you. Did I ruffle any feathers? Wasn't my intention. Promise you that. I just needed a little time to rest, to press the reset button on all this bullshit angst I've been carrying 'round for months. An' maybe it's a little unwarranted. Maybe all these slights I see, all these glaring wrongs I find in all my peers – maybe they're on me. In my head. Maybe they were always there an' I just chose not to see the forest for all the trees? Either way, my eyes are open. I'm woke, as the kids're sayin' these days. I didn't ask for this clarity. Didn't ask for this fuckin' burden. Like Snowman said, I fell ass backwards into this opportunity. I didn't do anything impressive in that battle royal. I didn't rack up a ton of eliminations. Didn't go hard for more'n a few minutes. I'm grossly undeserving of any and all accolades."
The sarcasm is thick enough that even a deaf man would be able to pick up the context. He snorts, turning his head to spit off camera before letting out a rueful chuckle. A wan smile curves his lips, there and gone in a second before one hand lifts up to rub across his lips. "Reminds me of 2015. I fought a guy in Philly, this edgelord motherfucker who got the best of me – point is, I didn't win the match. I didn't have my hand raised an' I walked out of that arena bleedin' from a thousand little holes – thumbtacks – netted myself fifty-grand for losin'. Know what I did with it? I invested it. I called it a fuckin' windfall, threw it in my account and immediately forgot all about it 'cause I'm not used to a world where second place, where the loser gets anything other than the walk of shame."
That wry quirk of his lips is back, bitterness telegraphed as he shakes his head.
"I mention it 'cause I found the paperwork. My winnings've tripled since then. When left alone, the spoils seem to flourish – the spoiled, not so much. I know what you're thinking. I do. This is a huge stepping stone for this new guy, this fuckin' wannabe hair rocker from Baton Rouge. Guy can snatch some glory, have that shine rub off, y'know? 'Cept I've never been shiny. Prob'ly never will be, if we're bein' honest here. There's too much baggage. Too much junk," he lifts his hand and gestures vaguely beside his ear.
"My head's full of ghosts tonight. All these whispers in my ears, all these things I thought I'd left behind. Forget that make-believe title shot I got 'cause Matt Ford's fuckin' insane... forget how I earned my way up the ranks in PCW an' beat the shit outta that Sato punk... forget how I beat Dex Jacobs an' Brytain Rollins an' Syn in the middle of a fuckin' desert in July of 2014. Forget how I bested V an' Tabula Rasa in Vegas.There's still that voice whisperin' how I don't belong here at the top; I ain't paid my dues yet. Never gonna happen. Never gonna be good enough to have that respect others seem to garner just by breathing. I say the wrong thing. I do what shouldn't be done – I don't do what's expected 'cause I can't read social cues."
He shrugs.
"Fear is the mind killer. It creeps in with its doubts first, it tries to get that foothold with a reasonable objection, with that plausible line of thinking. Feeds my paranoia. I know the world doesn't owe me shit any more'n it's out to get me. I shouldn't expect special treatment after a big win – someone needed to wrestle the new guy, even if he comes off like a drop back from the summit to the gutter. No offense, man. You're not a proven commodity. I couldn't dig up shit on you. I tried, too. So maybe this is a test. For you? For me? Who the fuck knows?"
His dark eyes are bloodshot, half-closed and it's not clear if he's drowsy or looking down at the belt on his lap. The light isn't clear enough to make that distinction.
"I usedta read a lot more when I was a kid... anythin' I could get my hands on an' I always stashed the books up in the treehouse in Han's backyard. For a while, I had this fixation on comics, y'know? Batman. Zorro. Frank Castle. Superman. Spiderman. All them guys had these tragic backstories – all this death an' violence an' they turned it on its head. Like they coulda gone all Harvey Dent an' had this giant hate-on for the world. 'Stead they went out an' tried to make it a better place an' I always found myself in awe of that. I did, 'cause that's a goddamned noble aspiration an' it takes drive to overcome rather'n accept one's lot in life. Heroes are borne of adversity – I read that somewhere. They all had that in common, those origins, like it wasn't enough to just survive. You know how fuckin' hard it is to keep getting back up? Do you?"
He sighs.
"I never really had no aspirations like that. Just wanted to stick it an' survive an' it wasn't about no big picture stuff then – shit, I was just a dumb kid. I just wanted t'be good at somethin', really. I thought I could fix stuff, use my hands."
He chuckles softly, closing his eyes for a second as he flexes his fingers. He breathes slowly and evenly, just a little flicker around his mouth serving as a tell of how much pain he's in.
"You an' me, we ain't so different in that regard. You wanted to be somethin' more'n what you figured life had set out for ya, didn't ya? Tragedy... I know— an' I ain't gonna spell that out any more'n I got to— you know what I mean. I know I ain't nothin' special in that regard— I know 'cause I ain't never been the guy with the earth-shakin' ideas. My sister... she was creative. When he was workin' nights, I'd tell her stories an' she'd always interrupt. She'd start addin' details 'til there were fairies an' unicorns an' all sorts of fantastical stuff. She'd end up spinnin' some tall tale 'til she dropped off to sleep. She kept herself sane that way – believin' in things we couldn't see. I never asked her if she still thinks ghosts an' leprechauns an' all those things are real. A huge part of me prefers the way she looks through that mind's eye lens – hope in her eyes an' a smile on her face that can't be ripped away. Oh, but he tried... he tried so damn hard."
He shakes his head, falling silent again as his hands squeeze into fists.
"He tried to break us. I spent years after tryin' like hell to understand why – was it somethin' I did? Everyone tells you that it ain't your fault an' they're just like salt in the wounds— like that fuckin' scene in Good Will Huntin' where Matt Damon has that meltdown. People tell you that you're just a victim. You were innocent – what's that really sayin'? You're lookin' me in the eyes after convincing me it was okay to go to bed 'cause there was nothin' hungry waitin' under it. The closet was empty an' this whole time that's another fuckin' fantasy. Monsters are real. Some are just lucky enough to never encounter one."
His eyes are dark and unreadable as he leans back, letting out a soft sigh. "So you resolve to go out there an' live 'cause cowerin' in fear for the rest of your days ain't really an option. You arm yourself to the teeth with whatever you got at your disposal. Drop bombs when you can. Spin lies t'keep 'em away. Stay one step ahead an' maybe one day you'll come out on top – I got good at that. I got so damn good at it, nobody knew how bad it really was 'til the night I ended up halfway dead on the front lawn."
He bows his head, chewing on his lower lip. "I made it outta there an' a huge part of my brain keeps up with that mental pinchin' – gotta make sure it's real."
He lifts his hand, rubbing the back of it under his nose, sniffing. "So, y'know... that's why I was a little thrown. That's why I had to take a little time – like Snow said, I knew it shouldn't have gone to me. There were others. There were those who lasted longer in that clusterfuck'n I did. That's not false humility, neither. Somehow, some way... I kept reachin' an' I actually caught hold of that tiger by the tail – pulled that dream right outta the air an' now I'm Pony Boy, looking for that moment to stay golden. It's here. It's right in my damn face. Maybe this is the redo I've been lookin' for all this time. We're a new company. I'm here from the beginning, bustin' ass. This gold'll be the one that means more'n all the others that've ever been in my grasp – that's on me. I know. It's on me to do better. To elevate it to the highest heights."
He sighs, shaking his head.
"So we go out there, we tell a story about how the strong survive. We tell the one about the invisible, nothing of a boy who finally got what he always wanted – he finally got to be loved for who he was, for what he could do and how he could make them feel. It's not about the time wasted. It's not about the blood money in the bank – all those damned spoils. It's not about fame or all the trappings. It's about living a life that you don't feel ashamed of. I finally… sometimes you gotta take a step back an' remember who you usedta be 'fore you can really be who you're 'posed to. Guess what I'm sayin' is the truth in all this' pretty much unassailable. Monsters're out there, sure. But then, so'm I. Your hero. Golden Boy. Monster killer..." his voice drops to a rough whisper, filled with emotion that shines in his dark eyes, "goddamned survivor."
The feed cuts off abruptly into static.