Post by Stuart Slane on May 21, 2021 22:26:07 GMT -5
Flashback: January 31, 2021 During Action Wrestling’s Revolution Event in Washington DC
Stuart Slane hunched over the wastebasket between his knees and dry heaved. After he leaned back in his folding chair and wiped at his mouth. His face was florid from the reflexive attempt to evacuate an empty stomach, and his eyes were glassy. Circe Cicero, standing opposite him in the make-shift dressing room, watched dourly.
“Something I ate,” he told her.
In response, the President of the People for the Ethical Treatment of Swine and founder of the Friends of Stuart Slane Committee produced a penlight from her blazer.
Click.
“Put that away, Circe,” Slane cast his gaze downward to inhibit her attempt to check the dilation of his pupils, “It’s a stomach bug.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The big man smirked, “I’m the Last Honest Man in Professional Wrestling. It isn’t in me to lie.”
“Oh? Let’s test the Last Honest Man’s faculties then with some math: TWO Mollywhops plus THREE Seventh Seals equals what?”
“A three count.”
“Equals what?”
Slane’s shoulders tensed, “Circe-”
“Concussion Number FIVE,” she answered for him, her voice rising out of impatience and desperation, “You need to be tested.”
He didn’t respond.
“Stuart, concussions happen. No one is going to think any less of you for suffering one.”
The ex-Scoutmaster rested his head in his hands, palms pushing hard against his temples in hopes the pressure would steady his equilibrium and order his fragmented thoughts, “Howard and his martyr complex,” he grumbled, then chuckled, “He thought breaking the Kimura was showing me mercy. Sanctimonious dwarf took pity on me, and he still managed to do this.”
Stuart lifted his head. His features were pale and clammy. He was sweating profusely even though the grudge match against his nemesis had finished nearly an hour earlier. Trying to focus on Circe was folly; all he could see was a pink blur.
“I’ll get examined,” he acquiesced, “But not here.”
Circe, relieved, watched as her friend stood; his rise knocked-kneed and listing. Reaching out, she took the trash bin the big man still held and set it down.
“We’ll go to a clinic; say it’s for your shoulder.”
Stuart blinked in dull recognition. He had forgotten he had dislocated it tumbling out of the ring and had popped it back into place to finish the match. Windmilling his left arm experimentally, he winced. “Yes. One more tally on Howard’s butcher bill. Aheh heh.”
Cicero shut down her friend’s melancholic attempt at scab picking, “Fuck Howard Black,” she spat, “Fuck him and forget him. You’re moving on to bigger things.”
“Of course,” Stu agreed as he delicately eased his unsteady frame around Crice to move toward the exit, “Once I’m better.”
*********
The Present: Sometime in late May, 2021 From an Undisclosed Location
Stuart Slane sits atop a slightly sloping concrete mound with a closed lid set in at its apex. He’s dressed for the spring weather, in a green compression tee, blue dungarees, and his hiking boots. A long ax handle, it’s head wrapped tightly in chain, rests across his lap.
“Hello, Howard.”
The greeting is friendly and genuine, though the Scoutmaster turns solemn as he broaches a delicate topic.
“Before discussing unfinished business I want to express my support for your upcoming match with James Nightingale. As pleasurable as it was watching Elizabeth go over you at Timebomb, I must side with you now. There should be rules that we all follow, and the nurse gets away with flaunting them again and again. He must be stopped, and as such I will be rooting for you when you commit company sanctioned murder Sunday at Havoc.”
“It’s the perfect ‘crime’. That messianic narcissist gave you an airtight alibi by requesting your fight be an “I Quit” Match. His ego will never allow him to say those words. You’ll beat him to death and then invoke the Frank Lowe Defense, yes? Don’t worry; as you are the only person I am sharing this with, your secret is safe with me.”
“My hope is you afford me the same courtesy as I reveal how I’m finally beating you, Howard.”
“By accomplishing what you couldn’t; winning the Havoc Rumble as an unannounced entrant.”
Slane’s smile is back.
“Now, confession: the ‘element of surprise’ wrinkle was not originally intended. I had hoped to make a big to-do of my return to Action Wrestling at Havoc. Circumstances would not allow it, however. My contract with the company expired in April, and it’s shown no interest in renewal. No matter: I’m more than capable of adapting. As the Scouts taught us we must always Be Prepared. Ah heheh. And, truthfully, it works out better this way.”
“There’s a symmetry to it. Your debut at Havoc surprised nearly everyone. Management worked with you to protect your identity- how did it feel hiding behind that sheet, Howard? Silly, I’d wager- until your music hit. It was perfectly choreographed and the pop that came after your reveal was one of the loudest of the night.”
“I know I will not get a similar welcome. On the plus side, there will be no need for facades- no sheets, no disguises like the ones I would wear in my many, many failed attempts to return to WCF. Instead I will be straightforward and direct. I will march down to the ring and do whatever it takes-”
Stu pats the ax handle.
“- to make sure I am the last man to leave it, as I planned at Clash 100; only this time, you won’t be able to stop me.”
“I will shock the world not just by showing up, but by succeeding where you failed. I will win Action Wrestling’s most storied match as an uninvited guest, and after I will find those in power and dare them to say I do not deserve what I’ve earned:”
“The Main Event at Evolution 4.”
“A match against Ash Blake.”
“The opportunity to become Action Wrestling’s World Champion.”
“Those things matter to me, Howard. This isn’t just about turmping you. I’m not like that single-minded sociopath Jason O’Neal, whose obsessions with Joseph Malignaggi and David Sanchez reduced him to a punchline. Havoc, Evolution, the World Title; these are means to an end beyond humbling you or even preserving my legacy as a wrestler.”
“I do this for My People, Howard.”
*********
Flashback: Sometime earlier in late May, in Grant, Iowa
Exit right off Highway 71 to 5th Street and then left onto U Avenue puts one on the outskirts of Grant Township. Not that there is much to see in Grant itself. The only businesses there to cater to it’s ninety something residents are Swartz Implement (a farm supply store) and the Hayloft (a bar and grille). Driving north, U Avenue becomes Old Highway 71, and what few homes are visible disappear, replaced by fields of soybeans. On the left there’s a break in the agriculture in the form of a dirt road that ends at a fenced-in compound.
Stuart put the car in park and got out. He examined the locked gate. Circe watched from the front passenger seat as he produced a small can of WD-40 from a belt pouch. After spraying the lubricant into the keyhole, he set to work opening it with his Leatherman multi-tool.
One wouldn’t think “Lockpicking and Safe Cracking” were skills you could earn a Merit Badge for; but they were, and Stu had.
The padlock snapped open after a minute of finessing, and with effort the big man pulled the gate open. Circe scooched over to the driver’s side and took the wheel. She drove through the gate, which Slane shut.
“Follow the road up to the house, please? I want to stretch my legs a bit.”
Circe obliged, allowing Stuart to take in the lay of the land at a leisurely pace. The stockade fencing appeared sturdy and intact. The stations that once bore the closed circuit surveillance cameras had been stripped of their tech, but that could be replaced. The corrugated kennels and generator shed were salvageable. The well still stood, though the canopy was gone. The apiary was in ruins. The barn and tractor garage were securely locked..
Stuart plodded up the gravel trail to a two story colonial with wrap around porch. Circe was already there, leaning against the hood of the car, watching him approach curiously; trying to gauge his mood after his tour of the spread.
“Needs work,” she nodded to the house.
Indeed. It’s paint was faded and the roof in need of reshingling, but even so it was an improvement of their current accommodations.
It was what laid beneath the house that was most valuable to Stuart. The cellar was part of a system of subterranean bunkers, built to, theoretically, ride out a nuclear winter and the collapse of society that would follow. Those, the house above them, and the surrounding grounds met their needs perfectly.
It had been twenty years since Stuart Slane had been home. The purpose of that visit was to hand his parents a check reimbursing them for his tuition to taxidermy school and to tell them they were ‘done’.
Now he, the son who had gotten away, had returned, because those he was responsible for could thrive here.
“There’s a sign for a security company,” Circe gestured in the direction of the dust streaked windows that flanked the front door, “Do you have an Alarm Disabling Merit Badge?”
“No. We’ll have to get with my brothers if we want a tour.”
“Will they do that?”
“I reckon I can persuade them,” he smirked before turning serious, “There is something I do want to show you.”
Stuart led Circe around the back. In a bare patch of ground squatted a raised cement structure with a hinged door set at its top. He considered it with an expression that was oddly poignant.
“This is the Pit.”
**********
The Present:
Stuart still rests atop the raised portion of the Pit.
“Tawdry to bring up money, isn’t it? So much of the business is about elevating ourselves above the common fan. Most of them cannot perform the acts we are capable of- though that wan fellow carrying the Pure Championship has done a good job testing that assertion- it trivializes our calling to reference the bottom line. Yet in this case I must admit: I’m in this for a payday. The winner’s purse for Evolution’s Main Event would provide for those who need me.”
“There’s a third reason as well, Howard. While you were always the Action wrestler that most angered me, there’s others. As the Book of Mathew said, we are only obligated to turn the other cheek seventy times seven before doling out receipts, and for me that milestone was reached feuding with the Swallowing for the Tag Titles.”
Slane grins.
“Remember those days? When I was still trying to live up to my reputation, struggling to keep the peace among those three hellcats? I think about that time a lot, Howard. It was a grind, yes, but it felt worthwhile. Being part of a tag team, seeking to win a championship and represent a division I disgraced in WCF. Trying to show a lost soul the nobility of our sport while simultaneously protecting it from them. One more thing we had in common, Howard: our arrogant, rejected altruism.”
“My efforts were pointless. Adelaide Ainsworth demonstrated that to me at Uprising when she spit in my face. The part that truly galls me though, Howard, is that I should have known better. There is no place for idealism in this sport. The Wrestling Gods reward selfishness and savagery. The wicked prosper. There is no higher calling beyond winning. And to be reminded of this, to be smartened up by a wrestler half my age who still hasn’t lost her baby fat, well, it bruised the ego. It’s why I’m thrilled that Adelaide is back in Action Wrestling, and happier still that she’s entered Havoc, because now I get to enlighten her. Sunday Adelaide will get to meet the true Scoutmaster, the man who put the boots the best WCF had to offer, who proved himself worthy in three different eras of that company and will do the same here in its linear descendent.”
“I haven’t finished with Sam Kidsgrove yet either, Howard. Just as you must be reveling in the opportunity to put down the monster that preening plaster saint helped create, I look forward to snapping Dr. Frankenstein over my knee and tossing his remains over the top rope. How appropriate is it that Kidsgrove’s latest attempt to prove himself a noble fighter is putting up as stakes his Golden Globe: an award so toxic television no longer wants to broadcast the ceremony. Sums up Sham nicely, doesn’t it? I honestly don’t think you’ll make it to the Havoc Rumble, Howard; you’ll either be strapped to a gurney or in the back of a squad car as a consequence of your match, but were you to it would be cathartic to do what my desire to break your arm at Turmoil denied us: work together and f-fuck that fraud up.”
“Philidor are in my sights as well, though not for the reasons others have. Are they a threat to AW? Probably. It’s not my problem though. The promotion’s primary buzzword is Evolution, and as they expect their talent to be able to survive the obstacles put before them it seems only fair that Torture, Gravedigger and the rest lead by example or be consumed by the changing landscape Philidor Holdings exemplifies. No, this is about wanting Miss Blake to watch as I dismantle two of her company’s investments before my attention turns to her. It’s simply business. Though Carter Shaw is easy to hate, isn’t he? He’s got that stink of Kidsgrove to him; always explaining, always justifying himself; when life would be so much easier if he owned up to what he is: a craven opportunist. Actions speak louder than words, and twice when Carter Shaw had the chance to act and cash in his All-In briefcase on Corey Black and truly make a statement, he begged off, citing reasons I’m still struggling to figure out. Mind games? From the supposed straight shooting street fighter? The young man should pick a lane and stay in it. Those supposedly in the know will talk about ‘layers’ to this game but the only ones that matter in Shaw’s case is that he’s a second strata talent unwilling to use that stepping stone he carries to move up in the world. He sees himself as Philidor’s insurance policy but it’s really the other way. As long as Ash Blake holds that Title he doesn’t have to run the risk of betting on himself. Pity that excuse will evaporate in June, and then we’ll see how All-In Mr. Shaw truly is.”
“Then there’s Elizabeth.”
“I believe in Lissie Hope. Have done so since Day One. I suppose In truth, it’s less about her and what she represents: a refutation of an argument that happened backstage in WCF which never sat right with me. I don’t know if you had signed on yet with the ‘Dub when it all went down, Howard; but there was an infamous discussion among several prominent personalities concerning how a champion should compose themselves. Winners had to be strong, unyielding, always on the attack, and above all confident. There could not admit any weakness in their game. One iconoclast argued the point, and while that individual never was able to prove their case, I sympathized. I wanted them to be right and hoped to someday witness it.”
“You can see where I’m going with this.”
“Elizabeth broke the mold. She is everything the greybeards back in WCF felt you couldn’t be if you wanted to succeed. She flaunts her scars and demands attention for them. And while this feeding of her own self-destructive tendencies put her at risk for an ending she does not deserve, seeing her function despite them- even now- is to me admirable.”
“I believe in Lissie Hope.”
“I just don’t believe her.”
“And that’s the nature of her duality, right, Howard? You’re aware of this as much as anyone. For while you can root for Elizabeth at a distance for her flaws, dealing with her up close and personal is. a. chore. She’s needy and petty. Her entire ethos about supporting women wrestlers always devolves into self-aggrandizement. That’s why she must be inwardly seething that her Philidor compatriot Miss Blake has lapped her previous two World Title reigns, and has made the case it is she who is the greatest women’s wrestler Action has ever had. When Dandy Divito said no one was in a greater position to take down Philidor Holdings than Philidor Holdings’ own Lissie Hope, he was spot on. We all know it’s coming, just as it did with the, uhm, Swappening and The Royal Family. Despite their current comity Elizabeth and Miss Blake will have their falling out, and I believe the blow back will take all of Philidor down as well.”.
“I’m not sure who will come out on top between the two, which is a testament to both, but what I do know is that the World Title won’t be part of the stakes. Post Evolution, it will be in my possession.”
“There’s one more whose path I definitely hope crosses with mine at Havoc; one given the stipulations of the match seems inevitable: Spencer Adams. On paper he has to be the favorite, given his ability and placement in the Havoc rota. Entering the Battle Royal last should be a huge schematic advantage.”
“And yet, my instincts say no. You can take any one of Adams’s accomplishments and justifiably mark an asterisk next to it. He has two tag title reigns and a win at Battlefield, but who helped him achieve those goals? Only the greatest unliving wrestler to walk the Earth- Crow- a future Action Hall of Famer-Lockhart- and you. Yes, he played his part, but there are fault lines in the foundation of the monument to his accomplishments he would like to stay buried along with his failures in Slab City. Even his Hardcore Championship reign was accomplished at the expense of floundering opposition until it met its end at the hands of a wrestler who couldn’t hack it amongst the lightweights of CruiserClash.”
“I’m no lightweight, Howard. And while I will admit that your old friend has beaten me twice in the past, something he would not do if the position were reversed- the greybeards would approve-at Havoc I know I can beat him. My physical strength, and the strength of my motivation, are greater than anyone else’s. Add in the true element of surprise- no one except you will see me coming- and my victory is inevitable.”
“Sunday, you will watch as I do what I was raised for: wreak Havoc.”
************
Stuart and Circe stared down the grated hatch into The Pit.
“It was meant to be another entrance to the bunker, but my father sunk so the cesspool was between the two points. His surveying abilities were poor. Iinstead the Pit was used as punishment for my brothers and I.”
Slane examined the lock on the lid. It was severely rusted. He abruptly began kicking at it with the heel of his foot. He then squatted down and grabbed it, twisting and pulling with all his power. Circe watched in growing apprehension. Stu kept wrenching until he tore the hasp off.
“There. Aheheh,”
He flipped the door open and peered inside.
“This is where we’d be put if we didn’t follow the rules. Depending on the nature of our transgression, it could last a couple of hours to an entire day.”
“A day? Stuart, that’s horrible.”
“It was the boredom that made it a punishment, really. We were wild boys, with all that pent up energy. Sometimes, it was better when they put two of us down there to settle things. It gave us something to do.”
Circe had a good idea what he meant by that, and that understanding made her skin crawl, “Your parents forced you to fight?”
“Didn’t take much coercion. Like I said, we were high spirited.”
Stu leveled his gaze at the horrified Circe.
“Don’t pity me.”
“I’m not.”
“It toughened us up.”
“It was still abuse.”
“I know. For someone so concerned with discipline, my parents were very undisciplined themselves. It fell to my brothers and I to maintain order down in The Pit. Establish a hierarchy. It was Paul on top mostly. He was the oldest, so he had the size advantage. Plus he always made sure he was the first one put in, so he’d be waiting to ambush us in the darkness. He thought he was smart. I finally beat him though. Hid a length of bike chain in my pants leg and used it as a make-shift knuckle duster, then a garrotte. Choked him and smashed his head against the side of The Pit until he said ‘Uncle’. After that, I was the one on top.”
Slane arched an eyebrow, “Have I overshared?”
“No,” Circe chose her next words carefully, “You had told me your childhood was difficult. But hearing the details, it makes me worry about your plan to resume wrestling.”
“You’ve admitted before my nature makes me an ideal wrestler. You’re only having second thoughts because you’re more aware of the circumstances.”
This was all true, “Fine. You’re right. But, Stuart, I never wanted you to return to wrestling. I agreed to it, and helped you, for your own peace of mind. Now I don’t think wrestling brings you any peace at all.”
“It will at Havoc.”
Circe glared. Of course he was planning on going back. She wanted to scream at him; demand he give her the colloquially accepted definition of ‘crazy’. But she kept her composure, while still speaking her mind, “Stuart, if you do go back to Action Wrestling, you’re going alone. I’m sorry.”
Stuart Slane looked deeply hurt.
“I’m sorry too; you were the only other person I wanted there.”
***********
“You’ll note, Howard, I haven’t talked about eliminating you. I don’t think you’ll even enter the Havoc Rumble after your ‘I Quit’ Match. It’s brutal nature would seem to forbid it, and then there’s, ah, extracurriculars involved I’ve already discussed.”
“You do have a knack for defying expectations, so it’s possible you’ll find your way to Havoc’s Main Event. I’ll be sad if you do. You’d be a shell of yourself; easy prey for someone with no qualms for taking out Nightingale’s leftovers.”
”And I’m above that.”
“No, Howard, the last time we share a ring should be Evolution 4. I know you have your last opponent chosen. I’m guessing you’ll either ‘‘pass the torch’ to Daniel Fiehl or get your one on one with WALTER. Both are fantastic matches, and I hope you win.”
“You’re not worth the Main, though.”
“That’s for me: the man Action Wrestling didn’t see fit to book for Evolution 3, who had to crash the gate to become Champion at Evolution 4.”
“Mines the true underdog story, Howard, and when I pull it off I want you there. I challenge you to come out at the end of the night amidst the pyro and ballyhoo, find a box to stand on, and raise my hand.”
“I want your final act in Action Wrestling doing what you should have at the start-”
“Honoring me.”