Elizabeth was my first wife. We were young, broke, and eager. There’s something romantic about being poor when you’re young. Liz was a student at NYU, struggling to make rent despite having two roommates sharing an apartment with her. I was an independent wrestler. My brother and I would drive from town to town, competing in New York and anywhere beyond that would take us. Liz would study and work a shitty part-time job. A couple of starving artists, Liz and I. It just felt right.
Our honeymoon was extravagant, at least by our standards. We rented out a hotel room in the city and stayed there for a few days. Room service and TV. Not much more we could ask for at the time. As time went on, I guess she wanted more.
My second wife came in the mail. Elizaveta. My Russian mail-order bride. No honeymoon with that one. It was far from a typical marriage, but it was probably my most honest marriage. She was there to look after a crippled man rotting away in the mountains. There was nothing more to it. No honeymoon, no romance, no love, no unrealistic dreams of “happily ever after.”
Despite all of that, I still think about her often. She couldn’t speak more than a handful of words of English, but what does that really mean to a guy like me? I’m not debating anyone about philosophy, spirituality, or anything deeper in life. The deepest question I share with anyone is probably, “What are we watching tonight?”
Elizaveta and I had a way of communicating that went beyond linguistics. I can yap into a microphone until it cuts out, but conversing with someone is dreadful. Elizaveta took that out of the equation. We didn’t need words. We didn’t need signs. We just were. It’s possible she was a Russian telepath.
All that said, I was hopeful that my third marriage would be the one that stuck. Maybe a culmination of the previous two. A young and fierce kind of love, but with the maturity of true companionship where you could just exist together and that’s enough.
This third time, however, was not the charm.
I’d never actually been in the room with someone as they died. Not even a pet. When they put my cat Bugs down way back when, they asked me if I wanted to be there when it happened.
Why would they ask that? To hold his little paw until it went lifeless, to watch the life drain from his innocent eyes, to watch his fur stop rising after his final breath—these were images that would’ve haunted me up to my deathbed.
Still, when I walked out of the vet and looked back, I felt compelled to go back in and watch it happen. To be there for the final moments of the extravagant life of Bugs would have been fitting considering I’d been there for his birth. Maybe it was beautiful. Maybe it was what I should have done.
I didn’t go back. I got in my car, turned it on, cranked the radio, sobbed as hard as I could over whatever shitty song was polluting the airwaves, and peeled out of there. Part of me always felt guilty for not going back. For a long time, it felt like yet another regret in my life.
Not anymore. Not since I experienced Carl Hart’s final hours.
It was unpleasant. Like, what do you even do after someone dies? As it turns out, you just stand there over their corpse and cry a little. Considering I’d known the man for five minutes, I couldn’t really bring myself to cry over him, but I didn’t want to look like a sociopath in that room, being the only person not crying. That’s just bad optics.
Luckily, I was depressed enough about everything else to squirt out a tear or two and fit in amongst my fellow humans—my family, I guess. The doctors did a good job of flushing the pills out of my system. I felt everything around me, for better or worse. Mostly worse.
Anyway, we did that for a while. Then it was time to go. The doctor told Candi and her mother that they would “take care of the body,” which horrified me since I thought it meant they were going to trash it right then and there. Turns out it just means they’ll keep it safe and sound and free of maggots while the Hart family arranges the funeral.
Honestly, the whole experience made me hate hospitals less. I mean, they gave me a charcoal shake and promised to keep the buzzards away from Carl’s fat carcass. At that point, I was hoping for a piece of hard candy. A reward for our hard day.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t that kind of joint, so I was left to have a bitter talk with Candi without the sweetness of candy.
It wasn’t going to be the perfect marriage. I wasn’t going to bring her back to the compound and carry her through the front door. We weren’t going to get on a plane and go on our honeymoon—not yet, at least. We’d been booked for a spell in Italy. The City of Love. Or was that France? I’d say it’s wherever Candi and I found ourselves, but I’d just be lying.
Anyway, first thing was first: I had to go to work. Before Carl Hart’s body even went cold, I had a flight to Georgia, just a day after our wedding. In Georgia, I’d enter a terrifying and colossal cage that stretched across two rings and I would finally put down my former best friend. Death in the family or not, this was going to happen. It needed to happen—and not just because I was advertised, though I did use that as an excuse.
But the truth was that I needed to show everyone that I was still capable. Holly, Gio, Sammy, Cookie—even Asher and his band of outcasts. Capable of showing up in the ring and helping the team win, of course, but more showing my capability of actually solving an issue. Asher was my problem. It needed to be solved, once and for all. I was sick of all these “works in progress,” like Cookie or my mental problems. Tactical Warfare was the final solution.
It was also a good excuse to get away from my grieving wife. I know I’m supposed to be a beacon of mental health, but it’s different when it’s your wife, you know? You’re too close to the situation. Conflict of interest probably isn’t the term I’m looking for, but it’ll do for now. She’ll be all right.
Holly-Wood of the South went well. I shot Candi some encouraging and heartfelt texts before my match. Then I went out and snuffed out Asher’s comeback. We got STD his first pinfall victory in probably about twenty years. Holly stood tall to end the event that was named after her. I had successfully helped bury my best friend and the truth of his arrest went with him to the grave. It was the darkest form of catharsis I’d ever experienced.
Nevertheless, it was catharsis. There was a sense of finality as the show went off the air. While Beard’s racist outburst would follow us for a bit, at least everything with Asher was left behind us. We’d beaten him so many times that his cries of truth just slipped into the void and turned into nothing. He just looked crazy and jealous now.
So, sitting in the airport boarding area just shy of midnight, I was feeling pretty decent. I wasn’t even overly medicated! Just regularly. I think I could even feel a smile coming on.
One person who wasn’t smiling was Cookie. I’d noticed it the whole night. I figured she was just worried that her mentor was one move away from being confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life, but the thoughtful expression on her face hadn’t really faded. We were on our way back to the compound after not only surviving but winning a massive match. These were smiley times, damn it.
I guess we hadn’t really had a chance to talk ever since I entered a near-fugue state before passing out right in front of her. Plus, we were only a couple of days removed from our lives nearly being lost in the wake of an atomic N-bomb.
These were certainly strange times. Strange times sometimes make us think. My biggest worry was that she’d think too hard and realize that I’m a bigger mess than she is.
“Big win, huh?” I said.
She turned to me and smiled. It was pretty convincing. When I force a smile, I can tell that my dead eyes just give away the insincerity. That’s the tell. Cookie, though, has such expressive eyes. There’s a reason why she fooled so many people for so long. People couldn’t see underneath her bubbly surface, into the deep.
“I can’t believe Sammy actually pinned someone,” she chirped gleefully. Okay, she was genuinely giddy about that. I think we all were. What a trip. “Gives me hope, y’know?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, nodding. “I definitely think it’s inspiring. Sammy’s win shows us that anyone can get through anything if they beat their head against the wall enough, so, yeah, I think we’ll beat this whole N-word thing.”
“Oh, uh…yeah! Really, it’s not a big deal. It was just a soft-A, he didn’t even—”
“Let’s not defend rampant racists, Cook,” I suggested. I mean, she was a ditzy white girl in her 30s. She’d probably jammed out to rap music a few times with her friends. Jordan definitely seems the type to belt out some soft N-words. I appreciated Cookie’s empathy here, but now wasn’t the time. “GiGi’s handling Beard, apparently. He’ll sort the kid out.”
“Okay…that’s not really what I meant by ‘hope’ anyhow,” Cookie said. Her smile got less and less convincing. “I just meant, like, maybe I’ll get there again!”
“Oh. Um…sure. Someday.”
“Someday,” she echoed.
She looked away, into the distance, not looking at anything particular. Her smile faded once again, making way for that pensive look that she’d worn before. She just stared blankly ahead.
Or maybe she was looking down the hall of the boarding area. I took a look myself. It seemed infinite. It felt like I couldn’t even see the other end, like it just went on forever. I wondered how long it would take to get to the other side.
“Hey, what’d you mean about messing things up with Jordan?” she asked.
I looked at her. She wasn’t looking at me. Just staring at the long way ahead.
I messed things up with Jordan.
I could have told her about my overdose. Thanks to Elijah, no one knew, but I could have told her right there. Clearly, I wasn’t in my right mind when I said that about Jordan. I was high, ascending closer to a comatose state. I might as well have been speaking a different language!
That would be a half-truth, though. Sure, it’s the last thing I remember before passing out. It could probably be passed off as the blabbering of a man about to slip into a coma, but it wasn’t.
Truthfully, I fucked up.
I tried to help Cookie—I am trying to help Cookie, but I tried to use Jordan as a tool in Cookie’s recovery, only to break her beyond repair. I actually thought my form of tough love would help Jordan. I thought I could help both her and Cookie. Now I find myself questioning if I’m even helping Cookie.
“Hm?” I hummed curiously, as if I didn’t understand. “What’s up?”
“Before you fainted—” Fainted doesn’t sound nearly as masculine as overdosing. “—you said something about messing up with Jordan.”
“Did I?” She nodded, still looking ahead. I shrugged. “I don’t remember. Between the stress of the wedding, the fires, and Beard’s racist diatribe, my brain must’ve been fried. I mean, you saw it: I passed out!”
“Yeah…”
“I do wish the best for her, though,” I said. Not a lie. “Hopefully she’s getting the help she needs.”
Cookie just nodded softly.
It was these moments that made me blurt out shit like “I messed things up with Jordan,” which might as well have been “I messed things up with Cookie.” These were moments of pure honesty from Cookie. She trusted me with that part of herself. She continued to show me the real her, which wasn’t the rainbows and butterflies everyone else saw.
Problem is, that was my mission: to bring out authentic rainbows and butterflies. It wasn’t working. She had a lot on her mind. Too much, frankly. There was something more than just me blabbing about Jordan. Something was bothering her. The girl deserved better.
And so, I did something that was maybe stupid.
“Hey, Cook,” I said, “do you wanna come to Italy with me?”
I invited her to my honeymoon.
You really get an honest look at someone’s character when they’re under pressure. With their back against the wall, that’s when you see the best—or worst, in some cases—of someone. It can make or break us.
Take me, for example. Not long ago, I was an unknown quantity in this new generation of SCW. Almost ten years went by and I somehow found my way back here with a lot more hair and even more to prove, but everyone else just had questions.
What’s he doing here? Why does he look like that? Has he showered recently?
Does he still have what it takes?
Fair enough, too. I was a quivering mess. That’s the thing, though. You see people like Autumn Valentine, Christy Matthews, or Datura…and you think, “Wow, those girls have fire!” They were clearly passionate about getting back at Holly and everyone else in The Brand. On the outside, they appeared to have everything it took to go into Tactical Warfare and emerge as the victors.
But then the pressure was on. Ooh, we were all feelin’ it, weren’t we?
And see, we were similar in that way. We proved that appearances can be deceiving. When those bright lights shine down on us, there’s no hiding the truth. The pressure shows everyone who we really are.
Me, I silenced critics by going on the run of a lifetime at 40-years-old. I became a champion several times over and am now using my status to reach out to the community and help people write their own stories inspired by mine.
You guys—well…you couldn’t even hold it together for more than a few weeks.
What’s going on? Jesus, Datura’s running into Autumn’s matches, getting up in our business, then Christy’s trying to beat Datura, nearly taking another block from her swaying Jenga tower of a life, then Autumn’s crashing my recruitment process by just walloping Datura!
You knocked the girl so hard that she couldn’t even pledge herself to The Positive State, Autumn. I was on the verge of leading her to a better life, just like I’m doing with Cookie, but then you went and rattled her brain. Now she’s back to being all mopey and confused!
The pressure just got to you all, huh? This is what happens, man. We see the truth, and in this case, your truth is damn ugly. You’re a mess.
Meanwhile, The Brand has yet to be defeated as a unit. We’re getting events named after us, snatching up championships, bettering the lives of the unfortunate—and with all that responsibility, we’re still managing to stick together to get these crucial jobs done.
On Breakdown, our record stays flawless and—because we’re a thoughtful enterprise—we guide some lost souls onto the right path. Hell, if you’re lucky, you might even draw ever closer to the elusive positive state.
Because, Autumn, you need to realize that there’s this divide between us. You think you’re ready to get back on that horse after falling short of your goal of becoming World Champion, but there’s a reason you got thrown off, girl.
You’re not ready.
You weren’t ready for the World Championship, you weren’t ready for Tactical Warfare, you weren’t ready for our Adrenaline Championship match a couple of weeks back…and what’s changed since then besides the fact that every partnership you’ve had in the last month is crumbling? The worst part is, some of it’s actually your fault.
Is it self-sabotage? Sometimes we don’t even realize we’re doing it. You could be that far into a negative state that you absently blow everything up. I won’t say that you were out of line for being frustrated at our match ending before its natural conclusion, but you drilled your own teammate!
Failure, self-sabotage, lashing out—these are all signs of being in a negative state.
You’ve got the wrong mentors, man. You really do. I mean, congrats to Lexy for picking up an award at the end of the year. I picked up a couple of ‘em. They’re great. She totally deserved it…but, y’know, lately it seems she’s too busy trying to keep everything from burning down with her actual star client going on a rampage.
So you’ve drifted to Christy Matthews, who I guess you have history with. She’s kind of become this motherly figure in SCW as of late, taking after her last partner—Lucas Knight—who often stuck his nose in the business of others. Look where that got him. His first project never recovered from losing the World Championship to me, the OOC reunion tour was cut short, and a vengeful family member clipped him and left Christy all alone to try and pick up the pieces.
I’m honestly worried for you, Christy. Y’know, you’ve done decent enough. You’ve helped a bit. With Syren and with Autumn, you’re trying your best. That’s honorable. Unfortunately, Lucas taught us that sometimes honor gets you a knife in the back, and I think you might be following in his footsteps, right up until that point where they stop dead.
Look at the company you’re keeping. I’m living proof that you can’t trust Syren. I bared my soul to her and she used it to buddy up with Selena Frost and assault me in a restaurant. Then there’s Autumn, who just showed us how quickly she can change her mind about a teammate when she drove her knee into Datura’s skull. How long until her violent temper tantrums find their way towards you?
It’s okay, though. You don’t need to do this anymore. This company has three remarkable teachers that can show people like Autumn and Datura—or, hell, even you—the right way to live life. Just cut this whole “protector” act. It’s no longer needed. As long as The Brand is here, SCW is in good hands, something you’ll see clearly on Breakdown.
But, as we know, our match isn’t in the safe hands of The Brand this week. Instead, some sick bastard decided to give Datura the responsibility of calling Thursday’s contest, which is just baffling. I feel like I’m the only person who really understands Datura, because if the higher-ups knew her like I did, then the last thing they would do is heap yet another burden onto her.
Nevertheless, this is where we’re at. Our match is gonna be decided by someone who’s so shaken by her own potential that she can’t even show up to work half the time to even attempt to fulfill it, so…that’s great. I mean, there’s a real possibility that we don’t even have a referee in this damn match. Datura could wake up Thursday morning and question her ability to count up to three and we’d be left standing in the ring waiting for a bell that’s never gonna ring.
Let’s just consider this a teachable moment. Luckily for everyone, I’m non-profit, so here you go.
Datura, you are worthy. You’ve been part of this business for a long time, and in that time, you’ve had your shoulders pinned down to the mat a lot. Now, for me, just picture all of those moments. Don’t listen to the crowd. Don’t focus on the lights in your eyes. Don’t think about the heavy weight of yet another failure. Just think of that familiar rhythm smacking right up next to your head.
One…two…three.
Ya see, this is the kind of stuff that I have to offer you. While Autumn tries to maim you and Christy tries to intimidate you, I’m here imparting wisdom. I know you see it, too, ever since our match a year ago. You know I see you better than anyone else here, which is why you have to be considering joining The Positive State.
Now’s the time to prove yourself, Datura. People are questioning your involvement here. “Can she really handle the responsibility of calling a match? Will she crumble under the pressure like before?”
Think of how your former teammates reacted when the moment got to them. They hurt you. They told you to stay away.
But me, I’m still here for you. You’ve already seen how I react under pressure—the whole world has. Now, it’s your turn to prove everyone wrong, just like I did.
To start your way towards a positive state, all you have to do is the right thing. All you have to do is count to three.
THE RISE OF THE FALLEN KING 