Post by Stuart Slane on Jan 10, 2021 23:50:00 GMT -5
Circe at the Loom Part Two
From the Pen of Circe Cicero
To: Dr. Reginald Royce
From: Circe Cicero
Subject: Shop Talk
Wrestling is a strange business.
It can ruin its participants physically, emotionally, and morally. In fact in most cases that’s the norm. The sport has taken people of astounding strength and will and broken them through its merciless grind. Even in my short time as an observer of Action Wrestling I’ve witnessed marvels being turned to martyrs.
Howard Black
Elizabeth Hope.
Nathaniel Gust.
Yet, you and I seek to use wrestling as a palliative for our respective clients, and yes, I use the term deliberately and in its most clinical sense. Wrestling can ease their pain but not cure them. I won’t hazard a guess as to Der Metzger’s pathology; obviously if he’s holed up in some Stephen King inspired mental institution it must be serious.
I do know what ails Stuart, though. He’s diagnosed as suffering from Paranoid Personality Disorder and reactive aggression- conditions that affect his ability to socialize successfully in the real world but, if curated correctly, make him into an ideal wrestler.
That’s my analysis, doctor, and my plan of care involves allowing Stuart to be the best bully he can possibly be. Your patient will discover that at Clash when he gets absolutely destroyed by him. “The Butcher” has done alright for himself so far in Action but he has never faced anyone like Stuart Slane ever. Pore through Metzger’s case history looking for prior ‘victims’ to compare him with, and you will come up with goose eggs, for Stuart Slane is singular in his significance. He is beyond your client’s ability to cope with; especially with the stakes of this match being what they are. One win puts Stuart back where he belongs: in contention for the soon to be rebranded People’s Championship and, if the Wrestling Gods are kind, in the ring with the one he must beat.
Der Metzger stands in the way of this, and yes, he is fearsome. He is unpredictable. He is a monster.
But every legend of monsters ends with them dying at the hands of an exceptional man.
That tradition will continue at Clash, when Stuart halts Der Metzger’s rampage with brutal efficiency.
Beowulf rent Grendel’s arm from its socket
Perseus removed Medusa’s head at the neck.
What Stuart will take from your masked freak is his aura; a wound while not fatal, is still crippling.
Good luck overseeing his recovery.
Sincerely,
Circe Cicero
President, People for the Ethical Treatment of Swine
Founder, The Friends of Stuart Slane Committee
"There would be no work on this day. A day no pigs would die."
-Robert Newton Peck
*******
Meanwhile, back in the past and down on the farm, Circe and Stuart are sitting cross-legged across from one another within his wrestling ring:
“No more half measures, Stuart. You can’t afford them. You are failing as a wrestler, and we need you to succeed. We need the money that comes with it, and the confidence that it would give you to make you better.”
“I’m aware of all this Circe,” he objected.
“Then why are you unwilling to make the necessary adjustments to perform at the level you’re capable?”
Stuart’s bemusement was turning to frustration, “It’s not that easy.”
“No, it won’t be, but we can do it. We just need to get you in the right frame of mind.”
“Which is what?”
“I’m aware of all this Circe,” he objected.
“Then why are you unwilling to make the necessary adjustments to perform at the level you’re capable?”
Stuart’s bemusement was turning to frustration, “It’s not that easy.”
“No, it won’t be, but we can do it. We just need to get you in the right frame of mind.”
“Which is what?”
“First we need to make some cosmetic changes to your persona.”
“Circe, please don’t tell me this is all a ploy to make me be Hog Wilder again.”
The founder of the People for the Ethical Treatment of Swine scoffed, “Of course not. I want you to be you, Stuart: the version you’ve denied for so long and cannot keep hidden any more.”
Slane was smart enough to predict where this conversation was headed, but refrained from preemptively putting a halt to it for now, “Then what are you suggesting?”
“You do need new gear. Right now you wear the same outfit to wrestle as you do to do yard work. Maybe it’s convenient when you're planning your ensemble for the week, but it smacks of unprofessionalism.”
“Fine. I’ll invest in a new uniform.”
“And a new theme!” Circe continued, “‘Conquistador’ is wholly inappropriate. It sets the wrong tone.”
Despite having earned a Merit Badge in Music and being proficient in the performing of several instruments, including guitar, piano, and recorder, Slane himself had little understanding of the medium, “What’s wrong with ‘Conquistador’?” he inquired, genuinely curious.
“Do you know what that song is about, Stuart? A sad old lothario. A swordsman past his prime who is struggling with his own impotence. Is that the message you wish to convey? That you can’t get it up when it counts?”
Stuart went through the lyrics of the Prog Rock standard in his head. He supposed that they could be interpreted as Circe described. They certainly weren't worth arguing over, “Fine. What should we replace it with?”
“I don’t know yet. Something that conveys what you are and what you are capable of if you wished. It should present you as a threat, not a lament. That is the music that should be accompanying you when you approach the ring. And on that note: you need to spruce up your entrance.”
“I’m not one for theatrics, Circe. You know that.”
“This isn’t theatrics: this is ritual. This is ceremony. And there is power in those things. What were most of the trappings of the Boy Scouts if not observance of customs? They mattered in your old profession and they should matter in your new one. That slow, smug walk down the ramp is a sign of disdain to the Wrestling Gods; and if you believe in them, you must honor them. If you truly feel this sport saved you, Stuart, you need to pay fealty to its traditions.”
“I show that honor between the bells.”
The woman snorted in derision, “Between the bells. I’m so tired of that phrase. That’s what’s truly holding you back Stuart. A stupid obession with following the rules. This idea you pay respect to wrestling by playing fair is bunk. You pay respect by winning, Stuart, and your run in Action has been nothing but failure after failure. You are what the true acolytes of wrestling sacrifice to its Gods: a fatted calf. You’ve been a damn jobber for most of your time here,and you need to find religion.”
Stuart said nothing in response to Circe’s broadside. He merely glowered. She kept at it though; he needed to hear this.
“You became a ‘good guy’ in this business not because you wanted to, but because you had to. Seth Lerch ordered it to try and balance the alignment of his roster. Seth Fucking Lerch! And whose advice did you take to achieve this? The long since retired Jeff Purse, who fed you a line he probably didn’t even believe because Seth likely told him to.”
“That’s not fair to Jeff or myself. I was miserable as the Scoutmaster. My victories meant nothing to me. He was trying to help me. He did help me.”
“And how do you feel now, Stuart? Hm? How do you feel as these losses mount and you fail yourself, and us? We need you to win, Stuart. You are a good man out of that ring, better than anyone who dares to criticize your life’s choices. These people you keep rolling over and showing your belly to whenever they pay you a modicum of attention are not your moral equals. Still, you kowtow to them and their values. It’s pathetic.”
“What do you mean?” Slane demanded, his voice rising dangerously.
“You talk about collecting the scalps of those who’ve wronged you, and that’s all it is. Talk. You don’t want revenge, you want affirmation.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Circe shook her head vigorously, “It is, but not for the reasons you think. Ainsworth, Wesley, Black: you want them to understand you. And what does one hope for from being understood but being forgiven? You showed that again and again. Your weird erotic fixation with Adelaide-”
“Circe.”
“Oh, don’t object, Stuart. I know a mid-life crisis when I see it. For my father it was a fifty four foot cigarette boat he named ‘My Deathwish’. I don’t know if it or your ‘antipodean minx’ will prove more dangerous-”
“Circe!”
“-and frankly I don’t care. She’s just part of the problem. Wesley’s another. You tried commiserating with him before the Turmoil Tournament, wanted to share sob stories about the pupils you both failed, while he aimed straight for where you’re most vulnerable. Wesley dragged up the past as though it's relevant to the man you are now, and you stood there and took it. And don’t think Wesley did that to try and help you, Stuart. No matter what he said his motives were. He did it to hurt you. To embarrass you. He’s not interested in you acknowledging what you’ve done wrong, or congratulating you for finding your redemption. He’ll never forgive you. None of them will.”
The anger left Stuart’s face. His shoulders slumped. He looked down into his lap, “I have to try though, Circe.”
“Stuart,” Circe uncrossed her legs. She crawled on her hands and knees towards Her Friend. She cupped his chin and raised it, “Listen to me. These wrestlers, you owe them nothing. You are doing your penance right here and now, at this place you and I built. You’re saving these children. They are the only people who matter. All you need to demonstrate to Action is that you can beat their talent. No rules. No mercy. Be the bully you were bred to be between the bells, so you can be the good man on either side of them. It’s what we all deserve.”
“That just proves Howard right,” he protested weakly, "That I have no honor."
Circe did not mince words when it came to discussing who she saw as the worst of Stu's many bad influences, “Fuck. Howard. Black. You’re going to let that bitter pygmy pass judgment on you, and lecture you about your moral compass? Why, because you share the same corn pone background? Because there was a time you saw him as a fellow earnest warrior poet? Because you think he’s smart? Maybe smarter than you? You’re right about that one, Stuart, which is why you should listen to him when he says he doesn't respect you. No one in this sport will respect you until you start stacking bodies for real. Carnivore doesn’t count. Cormack MacNeill certainly doesn’t count. You need to make Action Wrestling regret allowing you in their ranks. Punish them, Stuart. Hurt them the way six foot six, two hundred and seventy pounds of focused rage can. Force them to take back that stupid Congeniality award that bears the name of another one of their victims. Make Action Wrestling envy the Raging Dead. You can do it. I believe in you, the way none of them do, and will help you any way I can.”
For a moment neither spoke. Stuart slowly leaned back so that Circe no longer held his chin. He smiled wryly, “Oh? You plan on taking a more active role in my affairs?”
She smirked back, “To a point. You’re on your own with that Ainsworth woman. But as for your wrestling, yes. I will even accompany you to the ring, to be your very own inverse Jiminy Cricket: your lack of conscience.”
“You are assuming I plan to follow the course of action you’ve presented.”
“I am prepared to offer rebuttals for any counter-arguments you might have, Stuart. Do your worst.”
Stuart offered no counter to Circe’s words. What could he say? She was right. He had tried to follow Jeff Purse’s words, and for a while it worked. But that was over four years and one promotion ago. He was older, and against fiercer competition. And he was failing. Who was he worried about disappointing? Jeff was long gone, he did not even know if he had attended the Last One. Who was left? Himself, Circe, and His People, and none of them cared how he honored the sport.
His beliefs had become a restraint, and when he had tried bending them as far as his tortuous sense of logic would allow, he had become something he always claimed to hate. A Tweener. A literal half measure.
It was time for Stuart to pick a side.
With a chuckle Stuart rose from the canvass, “I plan to,” he announced, reaching down with his hard callused hand to his still seated Friend to help her to her own feet, “With you right there with me.”
*******
“You’re no monster to me, Der Metzger.”
Stuart Slane makes his declaration back in the now but from whin the usual confines of his personal wrestling ring.
“Not even in the traditional wrestling sense. Yes, to some you tick the required boxes. They see you as physically imposing. They note your other-wordly aura; your strangeness. And, perhaps most importantly, they cite your dominant record in Action Wrestling. It’s your undefeated streak that earned you a shot at the unrecognized People’s Championship, after all. It’s what affords you the opportunity to square off against me.”
“You’re going to come to regret your record’s seeming largesse, Metzger, because it will cost you your monster bonafides.”
“Not that you ever had them with me. Let’s break things down and reveal the truth behind the myth. First, there’s the matter of your size. America’s ignorance of metrics might obfuscate how pedestrian your dimensions are until they get to see you up close, but I don’t even need to do that to realize that at barely six feet two hundred thirty you lack the magnitude of a monster. You may be able to cast a shadow over the common folk but when you stand across from a man six inches and forty pounds bigger than yourself you are exposed. And Butcher, I can assure you not one ounce of my extra weight is flab. I am forest hewn and mountain forged, and in peak condition. Meanwhile the fat sloughs out from the confines of your leather casing like the filling of a poorly processed sausage. My size guarantees me the advantage of power and reach. My superior stamina will allow me to weather any offense you can muster. You are no physical threat to me at all.”
“Just as your stature falls short with me, so does your alien nature. You’re brutal in ring only when your psychosis allows it; see the match with Claire Hawkins where you played the part of a lovestruck paramour for an example of your unpredictability. Your rants in German are more grating than foreboding. The effort I spent translating them fills me with pique, not dread. I want to punish you for wasting my time deciphering your generic ramblings. You hide your banality behind a gimp mask and your native tongue. I see you not as a monster, but a poser; a fat fraud whose act will be exposed by a wrestler far more powerful and frightening than he will ever be.”
“Now we come to the last criterion for wrestling monsterdom; the hardest one to achieve; the one that separates the NATEs from the WALTERs; the one where on paper you have me beat. You have dominated in Action Wrestling. You’ve defeated every foe that has been put in front of you, including, impressively, the AW World Cup Winner Fortune. Nice work exposing the master of illusions as an illusion himself. You’ve shown up and done what’s needed to achieve victory, but that ends Monday. There, Metzger, you will be facing someone who has been enduring the Action Wrestling Crucible since his first day here. I have been pitted against the best in this company week in and week out. The results have been shameful to me, but there are few competitors in the world who would have done any better. You could not have done any better. I’ll prove that at Clash. I will lay such a beating on you you’ll have just cause to file a malpractice suit against that charlatan Royce for believing you competing in Action would be therapeutic. You are not facing some dilettante who cannot decide whether she is coming or going in the Metal Witch, or an untested, unreliable commodity in Fortune. You are facing Stuart Slane, who has been tested like no one else in this company. And that struggle, that grind, makes me more than capable of putting a stop to your reign of tepid terror.”
“I will do whatever it takes to win our match, Butcher. I want that shot at the United States Title. I hope to be the one who rips it from Howard Black’s grasp. But even if I’m not, even if Odin Balfore is Champion, the idea of taking that belt and doing to it what I vowed to do back at Clash 100 brings me great pleasure. I still seek to destroy it and force this company to create for me a new title that represents My People. If the Wrestling Gods are kind that venue will be at Revolution. Can you think of no greater statement than then annihilating the championship that represents this undeserving country at the literal seat of its governance? No greater affront to the Powers that Be? I can’t.”
A broad, unnerving grin from Stu.
“It’s an atrocity a real monster would commit.”