You'd Better Run (2,924 words)
Dec 3, 2021 3:50:05 GMT -5
CJ Phoenix and šššš”šš«š¢š§š ššš¬šš¢š§š š¬ like this
Post by K2 on Dec 3, 2021 3:50:05 GMT -5
Once upon a time there was a young man who lived in Raleigh, North Carolina. From the relatively unremarkable state amongst the 50 that exist in the United States, there come an unduly high number of great professional wrestlers in history. Perhaps that is why he decided to try his hand. But very few of them did what he did, which was to begin in the hardest training environment in the world: Japan. Home of the vicious and demanding dojo life, where he learned to ply his trade while living in a world whose language he did not speak and whose customs were alien to him. Why did he venture there? Because it was the way to be the best. The most direct path. The single most obvious way to go from green-as-grass to seasoned pro. An ambition lay deep in Robbie Benedict when he boarded that plane. An ambition that still burns in him today, albeit at more of a smolder lately given the events of the last few weeks.
It galls him that he didnāt win the tag titles. It eats at him night and day. He hasnāt been the same since what he experienced, hearing the bell ring and understanding that the match was over. His partner unconscious, he was barely able to get his arms up. If his sensei had seen him in that state heād have slapped him unconscious as well.
He came up in that world, a world of zero compromise and zero tolerance for weakness. And in that crucible he forged himself into the weapon he always wanted to be. A weapon that could destroy everything in his way, never dull, never tire, never stop until it grew brittle and broke. He rushed after an ideal that he knew he could hold in his hand one day when he sacrificed enough.
Perfection.
Hector Crowley came up in a very different world. One of maneuver, both physical and political. He had a keen mind, a keen tongue and more than enough wit to float through potential pitfall after pitfall. But he also pursued the very thing that a young man he would meet by chance chased after with everything he had. While he made his way through the complex life of a career wrestler, he did very much the same that his future partner would do. His craft was his life. He thought of little except wrestling. He grew up with it, watching the greatest British wrestler ever, Paul āMr. Brilliantā Baptiste, ply his trade on an old black and white TV he had when he was small. He never, ever had any dream except to be on that level. To have every British wrestling fan from the far north to the far south (and parts of Wales) know who he was. His goal was only and ever would be becoming the best British wrestler who ever lived. His technique flawless. His submission holds like steel traps. His mind honed to a razorās edge. Ever-plotting, always on the lookout for the next move and the next payday. Seeking that which everyone strives for.
Perfection.
There exist in life only a handful of moments that one can call perfect. The pitfall that many fall into is the ideal that perfection exists as a state of being. Perfection itself is unattainable outside of fleeting, ephemeral moments that one can only begin to grasp are perfection before they are over. While one may strive ever closer to it, perfection is beyond the ability of any one person to force into being. Circumstances must be right at the correct time, in the correct place, for the correct person and none can simply set such things into motion. There is no amount of preparation, no amount of training, no amount of desire or tenacity or ambition that can bring about the level of change to oneself and the world at large one simple moment of perfection can bring.
Professional wrestlers participate in hundreds of matches a year, on average. It is a lonely life of travel and spectacle, brotherhood and rivalry, feast and famine where each and every one of the men and women in the ring seek that elusive word. Perfection. Wrestling forums salivate at the idea of it. Wrestling podcasts speak of the very notion on reverent tones. It has only happened and handful of times in the entire history of the sport, moments that echo immortal in the halls of the greats.
They participate in hundreds of matches for the chance to create something that will live forever.
Moreso than the pay, moreso than the reputation, every pro wrestler begins wrestling with the dream to be one of them. Nobody longs to work bingo halls in front of a hundred people as a career. They want their names in lights. They want people to put them in their top five lists. They want wrestlers of future generations to look up to them and what they accomplished when they cut their own teeth in the industry. They want that fleeting, nigh-unattainable moment that they can call theirs forever.
Both Robert and Hector have been going about that in their own way. Every wrestler will say they have a ritual before the match. Some wrestlers have rituals that last a day or more. For their part the both of them have their own pre-match activities they do in order to look and feel their best. Itās easily the biggest match of both of their careers, and thereās no question. They have been given another chance at the tag team titles and thatās not something theyāre going to get again so soon after the time limit decision that came the last time they got to step into the ring with the Vanguard. It was a long, long half hour between those ropes seeking that one flawless moment that never came.
Sometimes it simply doesnāt.
And it didnāt.
And for Robert Benedict the time between then and now has been a long slow slog through the mud of self-doubt to scratch and claw his way back to a final showdown with the man who he has likened to his arch-nemesis. So his pre-match ritual has been a little more intense lately. At one point he did some yoga and stretches before matches, but during the latest number one contender match he paced at Gorilla Position like a caged tiger. He had no desire to make nice, to take it easyā¦ He simply wanted to win to get his hands on Downfall again. No depth to his motivations, no desires behind them. He simply wants to win. He wants the belts. And to that end heās been training a few hours a day whenever possible.
Hector Crowleyās pre-match ritual has been the same since before he had proper ring gear, back in the PE halls of the UK. He has a cup of Earl Grey tea with a bit of lemon, no milk or sugar, and he listens to The Wall in its entirety by Pink Floyd before his match. Itās a good hour and a half of music, and heās probably listened to the album in its entirety more times than anyone alive. He knows all the words by heart. He usually gets his stretches in during The Show Must Go On. But today heās only gotten up to about halfway through the third part of Another Brick in the Wall when he can hear through his fancy headphones a clattering crash from the other side of the wall. Itās only about an hour until the match is set to begin and he really canāt be having someone screw up his big break. Well. His second big break. He grumbles, earphones still on, and clambers up to his feet to steal into the door leading to the small provisional gym attached to the locker room. Itās where wrestlers can do some light calisthenics, work out to get ready for TV. And right now itās in a state of chaos with weights scattered all over. In the middle of them stands Robert with tired eyes and a slouch to his usually immaculate posture. He stands with a dumbbell in one hand and eyes locked onto himself in the full-length mirrors.
Hector watches him for a long few seconds, pulling one earphone up to give him at least a little of his attention.
Hector Crowley: So uhā¦ Yāalright then, squire?
[There must be some mistake, I didn't mean to let them
Take away my soul, am I too old, is it too late?
Where has the feeling gone?
Will I remember the song? The show must go on]
A long pause. Benedict doesnāt look directly at him, instead using the reflection of the mirror.
Robert Benedict: Do I look alright?
Another long pause. The music carries on into the bluesy symphonic heights of In the Flesh.
Hector Crowley: Nah, you look like you aināt slept. Not what Iād recommend going into this match.
Without much in the way of warning Robert turns and flings the weight right at Hector. He yelps and ducks behind the door, the loud thud of the weight against it rattling his arm. He ventures to peek back inside to see if he grabs another one, the chorus in his ear making the whole scene kind of weird and surreal. But then itās Pink Floyd. Admittedly the lyrics to this song are a bit iffy outside of the context of the album.
Hector Crowley: Oi oi! Hold on that now, sonny-jim! I aināt your enemy, am I? Iām your best friend in this locker room. I better be, anyway!
He stalks into the room and picks his way over the detritus to where his tag team partner stands staring himself in the eye. He grabs him by the shoulder and whirls him around to face him, headphones falling off to settle around his neck on his shoulders. The fires of anger that well up in Benedictās eyes soon get smothered under a malaise that can only be self-doubt. Hectorās seen it a thousand thousand times in his life. Itās the British way, after all. He stares him dead in the eye, the two of them sharing a terse moment before Crowley claps him on the shoulder and slouches slightly to stare at him from a downward angle.
Hector Crowley: What, did Downfall get in your head, then? Made you think youāre my young boy? I donāt subscribe to that Japanese bullshit, my boy. If I did I wouldnāt be lugging me own suitcase out of the taxi, Iāll tell you that.
Robert Benedict: Itās not really that, no.
[With your empty smile and your hungry heart
Feel the bile rising from your guilty past
With your nerves in tatters as the cockleshell shatters
And the hammers batter down your door
You better run!]
Robert Benedict: The last time that we did this you ended up knocked out and I was nearly dead, and those two walked back up the ramp without losing their titles. We didnāt lose, but we didnāt win. So we lost. Nobody cares about ties. They care about winners. They care about titles. I didnāt move here from California, and I didnāt move there from Japan, and I didnāt move THERE from Raleigh to become some random tag team on a B show doing it for the money. If I canāt beat the tag champs there doesnāt need to be a tag team. Thatās why you called me here, and thatās the goal. And if we canāt beat them what do we do? We wait until they get tired of having them and just hand them over? Downfallās wrestling twice and one of them is to be named the best wrestler of the year, Iām just an afterthought to him. Heās got his sights set square on Regan and even if we do beat him, what then? He goes on to win a title that I canāt get from him. And if he wins it proves his head wasnāt in this tag title match. And if he LOSES then itās because he spent too much energy on beating me! Itās a lose-lose-lose situation, Hector.
A low sigh escapes the more British of the two of them, he stands back to settle his hands on his hips and consider those words.
Then he simply gives his tag partner a good stiff slap in the face.
Thereās a brief moment of stunned silence before Robbie turns back around with that fire in his eyes, and Hector practically dances away to avoid being grabbed before he points a finger at him.
Hector Crowley: Aha! See? Right there. Thatās that fire that I need, without you smothering it in the shite of your woulda-coulda-shoulda stupidity. I didnāt bring Store-Brand Downfall here, I brought you. I didnāt figure I would need someone to take him out, I didnāt hand-pick you because you were Japanese-trained, I picked you because you were the best guy for the job. Fuck, I didnāt even know who the champs were. Like anyone does. You said it yourself, half of that team is competing in a much more important match later on! What does that say about the tag straps, huh? You think those fuckinā pricks out there are gonna give us 100% of their attention? No! They got bigger fish to fry, but us? Theyāre PLENTY big fish for us. You sit around trashing weight rooms feeling sorry for yourself that you are gonna mop the fuckinā FLOOR with this underprepared, distracted, OLD FUCKINā GEEZER while he rambles on about fuckinā havinā a butchers at his wife or some shit! He aināt gonna make it to that match under his own power, and do you know why? Because you--
He even walks over and stabs a finger right into Robertās collarbone with every other syllable like itās iambic pentameter.
Hector Crowley: You are Robert Fuckinā Benedict.
Another, smaller kind of slap. More of an endearing one really. Not like Robbieās not gonna get slapped a whole lot more by the time the night is done if their last bout with the champs tells them anything about the state of them once the bell rings and someoneās music starts playing.
Hector Crowley: So what if we didnāt win the tag belts last time? We took the AW tag team champs to the limit and we lit up that arena. Did you get pinned by him? Huh? Did he get in your head? You know why he did that? Because he knows youāre better than he was at your age. And that means by the time youāre a fuckinā geezer youāll have been world champ three times, my lad. What, did you think I brought you in because I needed someone to stand next to and look proper? No, I needed someone who had the tools I donāt. Thatās what a tag team has. Iāve got the brains, youāve got the brawn. Iāve got the experience, youāve got the talent. Thatās a slice of fried gold, squire, thatās perfection. Thatās what you keep trying to grab when you already have it. It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness; that is life.
It takes a few seconds for the angry young man to calm down from the stinging strike that was laid on him, but he crosses his arms and eyes his companion with the barest vestiges of humor returning to his sullen expression.
Robert Benedict: You get that from the inside of a Snapple lid or something?
Hector Crowley: Look, youāre angry so Iām gonna let that one slide. No self-respecting Brit drinks that American sugar water. Nah, Captain Picard, Star Trek: The Next Generation. Thought it was proper motivational. Plus he drinks tea the same way I do. Plus heās a Brit too, so itās two to one over that swill. Deal with that.
[I wanna go home
Take off this uniform and leave the show
But I'm waiting in this cell, because I have to know
Have to know, have to know...
Have I been guilty all this time?]
Hector glances down and realizes he still has his headphones playing The Wall. He turns the track off on his phone and tucks it into his pocket.
Hector Crowley: You keep working yourself up trying to find this unattainable thing that will put you over him. Them. Yourself. Someone. Youāre barely out of high school and you wanna be the next world champ. Hey, if you can beat the man, right? But for now you have your older doppelganger to deal with and weāre gonna make sure and capitalize on him being distracted by this other match to go out there and beat him so bad his own mother wonāt recognize her darling son. Thatās all I need out of you, innit? You walk out there up to the nines, you stare him in the eye just like last time, and you headbutt him right between the fuckinā eyes for me. Just once, anyway. Maybe twice if you feel like it.
They exchange a pair of smiles. One easygoing, one less so. It really comes to their methods. Hector has always been one to observe and react, Robert has been one to effect change himself by taking action. And when it comes to the match, perhaps what the two of them have yet to achieve can finally be within their grasp.
Perfection.
It galls him that he didnāt win the tag titles. It eats at him night and day. He hasnāt been the same since what he experienced, hearing the bell ring and understanding that the match was over. His partner unconscious, he was barely able to get his arms up. If his sensei had seen him in that state heād have slapped him unconscious as well.
He came up in that world, a world of zero compromise and zero tolerance for weakness. And in that crucible he forged himself into the weapon he always wanted to be. A weapon that could destroy everything in his way, never dull, never tire, never stop until it grew brittle and broke. He rushed after an ideal that he knew he could hold in his hand one day when he sacrificed enough.
Perfection.
Hector Crowley came up in a very different world. One of maneuver, both physical and political. He had a keen mind, a keen tongue and more than enough wit to float through potential pitfall after pitfall. But he also pursued the very thing that a young man he would meet by chance chased after with everything he had. While he made his way through the complex life of a career wrestler, he did very much the same that his future partner would do. His craft was his life. He thought of little except wrestling. He grew up with it, watching the greatest British wrestler ever, Paul āMr. Brilliantā Baptiste, ply his trade on an old black and white TV he had when he was small. He never, ever had any dream except to be on that level. To have every British wrestling fan from the far north to the far south (and parts of Wales) know who he was. His goal was only and ever would be becoming the best British wrestler who ever lived. His technique flawless. His submission holds like steel traps. His mind honed to a razorās edge. Ever-plotting, always on the lookout for the next move and the next payday. Seeking that which everyone strives for.
Perfection.
There exist in life only a handful of moments that one can call perfect. The pitfall that many fall into is the ideal that perfection exists as a state of being. Perfection itself is unattainable outside of fleeting, ephemeral moments that one can only begin to grasp are perfection before they are over. While one may strive ever closer to it, perfection is beyond the ability of any one person to force into being. Circumstances must be right at the correct time, in the correct place, for the correct person and none can simply set such things into motion. There is no amount of preparation, no amount of training, no amount of desire or tenacity or ambition that can bring about the level of change to oneself and the world at large one simple moment of perfection can bring.
Professional wrestlers participate in hundreds of matches a year, on average. It is a lonely life of travel and spectacle, brotherhood and rivalry, feast and famine where each and every one of the men and women in the ring seek that elusive word. Perfection. Wrestling forums salivate at the idea of it. Wrestling podcasts speak of the very notion on reverent tones. It has only happened and handful of times in the entire history of the sport, moments that echo immortal in the halls of the greats.
They participate in hundreds of matches for the chance to create something that will live forever.
Moreso than the pay, moreso than the reputation, every pro wrestler begins wrestling with the dream to be one of them. Nobody longs to work bingo halls in front of a hundred people as a career. They want their names in lights. They want people to put them in their top five lists. They want wrestlers of future generations to look up to them and what they accomplished when they cut their own teeth in the industry. They want that fleeting, nigh-unattainable moment that they can call theirs forever.
Both Robert and Hector have been going about that in their own way. Every wrestler will say they have a ritual before the match. Some wrestlers have rituals that last a day or more. For their part the both of them have their own pre-match activities they do in order to look and feel their best. Itās easily the biggest match of both of their careers, and thereās no question. They have been given another chance at the tag team titles and thatās not something theyāre going to get again so soon after the time limit decision that came the last time they got to step into the ring with the Vanguard. It was a long, long half hour between those ropes seeking that one flawless moment that never came.
Sometimes it simply doesnāt.
And it didnāt.
And for Robert Benedict the time between then and now has been a long slow slog through the mud of self-doubt to scratch and claw his way back to a final showdown with the man who he has likened to his arch-nemesis. So his pre-match ritual has been a little more intense lately. At one point he did some yoga and stretches before matches, but during the latest number one contender match he paced at Gorilla Position like a caged tiger. He had no desire to make nice, to take it easyā¦ He simply wanted to win to get his hands on Downfall again. No depth to his motivations, no desires behind them. He simply wants to win. He wants the belts. And to that end heās been training a few hours a day whenever possible.
Hector Crowleyās pre-match ritual has been the same since before he had proper ring gear, back in the PE halls of the UK. He has a cup of Earl Grey tea with a bit of lemon, no milk or sugar, and he listens to The Wall in its entirety by Pink Floyd before his match. Itās a good hour and a half of music, and heās probably listened to the album in its entirety more times than anyone alive. He knows all the words by heart. He usually gets his stretches in during The Show Must Go On. But today heās only gotten up to about halfway through the third part of Another Brick in the Wall when he can hear through his fancy headphones a clattering crash from the other side of the wall. Itās only about an hour until the match is set to begin and he really canāt be having someone screw up his big break. Well. His second big break. He grumbles, earphones still on, and clambers up to his feet to steal into the door leading to the small provisional gym attached to the locker room. Itās where wrestlers can do some light calisthenics, work out to get ready for TV. And right now itās in a state of chaos with weights scattered all over. In the middle of them stands Robert with tired eyes and a slouch to his usually immaculate posture. He stands with a dumbbell in one hand and eyes locked onto himself in the full-length mirrors.
Hector watches him for a long few seconds, pulling one earphone up to give him at least a little of his attention.
Hector Crowley: So uhā¦ Yāalright then, squire?
[There must be some mistake, I didn't mean to let them
Take away my soul, am I too old, is it too late?
Where has the feeling gone?
Will I remember the song? The show must go on]
A long pause. Benedict doesnāt look directly at him, instead using the reflection of the mirror.
Robert Benedict: Do I look alright?
Another long pause. The music carries on into the bluesy symphonic heights of In the Flesh.
Hector Crowley: Nah, you look like you aināt slept. Not what Iād recommend going into this match.
Without much in the way of warning Robert turns and flings the weight right at Hector. He yelps and ducks behind the door, the loud thud of the weight against it rattling his arm. He ventures to peek back inside to see if he grabs another one, the chorus in his ear making the whole scene kind of weird and surreal. But then itās Pink Floyd. Admittedly the lyrics to this song are a bit iffy outside of the context of the album.
Hector Crowley: Oi oi! Hold on that now, sonny-jim! I aināt your enemy, am I? Iām your best friend in this locker room. I better be, anyway!
He stalks into the room and picks his way over the detritus to where his tag team partner stands staring himself in the eye. He grabs him by the shoulder and whirls him around to face him, headphones falling off to settle around his neck on his shoulders. The fires of anger that well up in Benedictās eyes soon get smothered under a malaise that can only be self-doubt. Hectorās seen it a thousand thousand times in his life. Itās the British way, after all. He stares him dead in the eye, the two of them sharing a terse moment before Crowley claps him on the shoulder and slouches slightly to stare at him from a downward angle.
Hector Crowley: What, did Downfall get in your head, then? Made you think youāre my young boy? I donāt subscribe to that Japanese bullshit, my boy. If I did I wouldnāt be lugging me own suitcase out of the taxi, Iāll tell you that.
Robert Benedict: Itās not really that, no.
[With your empty smile and your hungry heart
Feel the bile rising from your guilty past
With your nerves in tatters as the cockleshell shatters
And the hammers batter down your door
You better run!]
Robert Benedict: The last time that we did this you ended up knocked out and I was nearly dead, and those two walked back up the ramp without losing their titles. We didnāt lose, but we didnāt win. So we lost. Nobody cares about ties. They care about winners. They care about titles. I didnāt move here from California, and I didnāt move there from Japan, and I didnāt move THERE from Raleigh to become some random tag team on a B show doing it for the money. If I canāt beat the tag champs there doesnāt need to be a tag team. Thatās why you called me here, and thatās the goal. And if we canāt beat them what do we do? We wait until they get tired of having them and just hand them over? Downfallās wrestling twice and one of them is to be named the best wrestler of the year, Iām just an afterthought to him. Heās got his sights set square on Regan and even if we do beat him, what then? He goes on to win a title that I canāt get from him. And if he wins it proves his head wasnāt in this tag title match. And if he LOSES then itās because he spent too much energy on beating me! Itās a lose-lose-lose situation, Hector.
A low sigh escapes the more British of the two of them, he stands back to settle his hands on his hips and consider those words.
Then he simply gives his tag partner a good stiff slap in the face.
Thereās a brief moment of stunned silence before Robbie turns back around with that fire in his eyes, and Hector practically dances away to avoid being grabbed before he points a finger at him.
Hector Crowley: Aha! See? Right there. Thatās that fire that I need, without you smothering it in the shite of your woulda-coulda-shoulda stupidity. I didnāt bring Store-Brand Downfall here, I brought you. I didnāt figure I would need someone to take him out, I didnāt hand-pick you because you were Japanese-trained, I picked you because you were the best guy for the job. Fuck, I didnāt even know who the champs were. Like anyone does. You said it yourself, half of that team is competing in a much more important match later on! What does that say about the tag straps, huh? You think those fuckinā pricks out there are gonna give us 100% of their attention? No! They got bigger fish to fry, but us? Theyāre PLENTY big fish for us. You sit around trashing weight rooms feeling sorry for yourself that you are gonna mop the fuckinā FLOOR with this underprepared, distracted, OLD FUCKINā GEEZER while he rambles on about fuckinā havinā a butchers at his wife or some shit! He aināt gonna make it to that match under his own power, and do you know why? Because you--
He even walks over and stabs a finger right into Robertās collarbone with every other syllable like itās iambic pentameter.
Hector Crowley: You are Robert Fuckinā Benedict.
Another, smaller kind of slap. More of an endearing one really. Not like Robbieās not gonna get slapped a whole lot more by the time the night is done if their last bout with the champs tells them anything about the state of them once the bell rings and someoneās music starts playing.
Hector Crowley: So what if we didnāt win the tag belts last time? We took the AW tag team champs to the limit and we lit up that arena. Did you get pinned by him? Huh? Did he get in your head? You know why he did that? Because he knows youāre better than he was at your age. And that means by the time youāre a fuckinā geezer youāll have been world champ three times, my lad. What, did you think I brought you in because I needed someone to stand next to and look proper? No, I needed someone who had the tools I donāt. Thatās what a tag team has. Iāve got the brains, youāve got the brawn. Iāve got the experience, youāve got the talent. Thatās a slice of fried gold, squire, thatās perfection. Thatās what you keep trying to grab when you already have it. It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness; that is life.
It takes a few seconds for the angry young man to calm down from the stinging strike that was laid on him, but he crosses his arms and eyes his companion with the barest vestiges of humor returning to his sullen expression.
Robert Benedict: You get that from the inside of a Snapple lid or something?
Hector Crowley: Look, youāre angry so Iām gonna let that one slide. No self-respecting Brit drinks that American sugar water. Nah, Captain Picard, Star Trek: The Next Generation. Thought it was proper motivational. Plus he drinks tea the same way I do. Plus heās a Brit too, so itās two to one over that swill. Deal with that.
[I wanna go home
Take off this uniform and leave the show
But I'm waiting in this cell, because I have to know
Have to know, have to know...
Have I been guilty all this time?]
Hector glances down and realizes he still has his headphones playing The Wall. He turns the track off on his phone and tucks it into his pocket.
Hector Crowley: You keep working yourself up trying to find this unattainable thing that will put you over him. Them. Yourself. Someone. Youāre barely out of high school and you wanna be the next world champ. Hey, if you can beat the man, right? But for now you have your older doppelganger to deal with and weāre gonna make sure and capitalize on him being distracted by this other match to go out there and beat him so bad his own mother wonāt recognize her darling son. Thatās all I need out of you, innit? You walk out there up to the nines, you stare him in the eye just like last time, and you headbutt him right between the fuckinā eyes for me. Just once, anyway. Maybe twice if you feel like it.
They exchange a pair of smiles. One easygoing, one less so. It really comes to their methods. Hector has always been one to observe and react, Robert has been one to effect change himself by taking action. And when it comes to the match, perhaps what the two of them have yet to achieve can finally be within their grasp.
Perfection.