Post by Howard Black on Apr 14, 2015 20:03:19 GMT -5
With a resounding thud, Howard Black landed on the mat back first. The bell rang, and in the ring, Zione Redington stood victorious. Howard pushed himself up, his mind reeling and his heart racing, the sound in the arena dull in his ears as he processed the end of the match: he lost. He climbed to his feet, the adrenaline keeping him in a dissociated daze as he stumbled towards his sweatshirt and crucifix. Behind him, he could still faintly make out jeering, the product of the PR nightmare he’d inadvertently created. He closed his eyes for a moment, his body shaking in the mixture of nerves and anger, before he walked back up the ramp towards the back stage area.
As he made his way to the locker room, the hallways contained nothing but stares and frowns for him. It was clear that the comments had finished making their rounds, and coupled with the close loss of his match, he had little to fall back on to merit any respect. He reached the locker room, gathered his things without changing, and left the building, completely disinterested to stick around for the rest of the show.
As soon as he exited the metal backdoor, he fished his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. It was a long, cold walk to the car; the sun was starting to set, and the Alaskan air had begun to cool. He stopped for a moment, putting down his gear bag, and pulled on the sweatshirt he carried. After trekking through the parking lot, silently thanking God that no fans lingered to see him, he came to the silver Honda Accord rental car he’d picked up at the airport.
He fumbled through his bag for the car keys and unlocked the vehicle, throwing the bag into the back over the driver’s seat and sat down inside. He closed the door and put the key in the ignition, turning on the battery and engaging the stereo. “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy” by Kanye West, the only album he took with him on his trips, began to play on the song “Gorgeous”, which had been just at the beginning of Kanye’s second verse when he turned off the car on arrival. He leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes to listen to the lyrics.
“A euphemism for a new religion.” That line always hit him. Everyone found their catharsis in some form; for Kanye is was hip-hop, and for Howard it was in the ring. His mind raced through the week and events of the evening, torn and wracked over what he would say to Sarah and little Joey when he Skype’d them later this week. Beneath the sound of mournful guitar of the song, Howard’s ears picked up the familiar, generic ring tone of his phone. He opened his eyes and reached out to turn down the volume of the stereo before twisting himself around to fish the back for his bag and the phone enclosed in it. Retrieving the battered old Nokia, he checked the caller ID to see the name of David Rogers, his agent. He hit the answer button and raised the phone to his ear.
Howard Black: “Hello?”
David Rogers: “Hey Howie, just finished watching your match. Good effort out there.”
Howard frowned. “Good effort.” That phrase felt like lye rubbed on road burn; there was never any trying or giving effort. There was doing it or not doing it; tonight Howard had not done it. He’d failed. He didn’t want a pat on the back or a hand out, and the thought of consolation made the blood in his bruised body boil.
Howard Black: “Thanks, Dave.”
He said it through gritted teeth, doing his best to sound accepting and humble.
David Rogers: “Of course, bud. So I hear you’ve been having some trouble. Little PR mishap and whatnot, yeah?”
Howard gave a deep sigh. This was unavoidable. He was exhausted, in pain, and emotionally drained, but he knew that the elephant in the room was threatening to start a stampede at any moment.
Howard Black: “Yeah. Guess you could say that.”
David Rogers: “No fear, my man. I gotcha an interview to give your side. Get you some brownie points, what-have-you. Site called WrestleSmarks.com or something; they were pretty high on you during your time in the Indies and I think they’ll be real nice with you.”
Howard Black: “Great. Thanks, Dave. So is this via email? Skype?”
David Rogers: “Nah. We’re flying you to meet the head editor in Chicago. The flight leaves tomorrow; you weren’t hoping to stick around Anchorage, were you?”
Howard shook his head, not that the agent on the other end could see the gesture.
Howard Black: “No. Hell no. I’ll be there bright and early. Thanks, Dave.”
A certain sound of relief and gratitude had taken Howard’s voice. David Rogers had been Howard’s agent from the beginning of his career. Beyond Coach Halliday and a handful of friends, he was one of the men Howard truly trusted to stick in his corner. The agent’s resourcefulness had proven itself once again with this opportunity.
David Rogers: “Don’t mention it, Howie. Get a good night’s sleep and skip the sauce tonight. Don’t want to show up to this hungover.”
Howard Black: “Promise. Have a good night, Dave.”
David Rogers: “You too, Howie. I’m proud of you, kid.”
Howard hung up and tossed the phone into the back seat. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. How could Dave be proud of me, he thought, when I’m not even proud of me? It was the same song-and-dance as always: he showed up fresh, shot off his mouth, rumbled feathers, and found himself on the wrong side of an “X versus the World” scenario. He reached for his cigarettes, popping one into his mouth and lighting the end. He took a deep drag and exhaled forcefully, filling the enclosed vehicle with a cloud of smoke.
His hand went to the key in the ignition, and he turned it to engage the engine. “Power”, the next track on the album, had begun to play. He reached to roll down the window and disengaged the parking break before shifting the car into reverse. As he pulled out, he idled for a moment to stare at the arena, the home that didn’t want him. He shook the thought out of his mind and shifted the car into drive, peeling out of the parking lot towards his hotel.
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Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Chicago, Illinois
1:00 pm
Howard pushed open the door to the meeting room in which he was to meet Rob Kessler, the editor of WrestleSmarks.com. The website’s office was in a crummy little building on the west side of Chicago, the dying shell of the hyper-corporate optimism of 1970 which had never fulfilled its potential. The building now held a dentist office, a law firm, a few empty floors, and the office of the self-proclaimed “Internet’s Nerdiest Wrestling Site.” Kessler was already in the room, sitting in a stuffed polyester armchair of considerable wear. The room had beige painted walls covered in framed posters of past events from wrestling promotions. Howard recognized a few: XWF, IWC, and the independent circuit he began in: AWF. Outside of the wall hangings, the room only contained two chairs, one of which was occupied by Kessler, and a coffee table. A metal carafe and two mugs sat on the table, one of which sat in front of Kessler and already filled with coffee. A second set of clear glasses sat on the table next to a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 bourbon. Alongside the drinks, Rob kept a tape recorder, a yellow pad of paper, and a pencil.
Rob Kessler was a portly man with a full, round face covered in a thick red beard. A pair of thick glasses sat across the bridge of his freckled nose, and his eyes were small and black. He wore a big smile to match his big frame, and his clothing consisted of sandals over socks, a pair of anchor-print blue shorts, and a black T-shirt bearing the phrase “FEAR THE FOX.” Howard smiled when he saw the shirt, recognizing it immediately as a shirt from his days under an old moniker in the AWF. Rob rose as Howard entered the room, thrusting a hand forward for a handshake.
Rob Kessler: “Mr. Black! It’s a real pleasure to have you.”
Howard clasped his hand and gave the man a firm shake. Rob’s smile remained full, and the gleam of admiration in his eyes eased Howard’s anxiety over the interview.
Howard Black: “Thank you, Mr. Kessler, the pleasure it mine. Call me Howie.”
Rob Kessler: “And call me Rob. I’ll admit, I was shocked when your agent called me. You’re notorious for staying away from the media.”
Howard Black: “Yeah, well, I guess it’s for fear of being in situations like this.”
Howard forced a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. Rob reciprocated the laugh, but the smile on his face darkened for a moment and those tiny eyes of his briefly reflected that same look of stifled pity Howard knew all too well from Sarah. There was a brief, uncomfortable pause before Rob regained his air of confidence. He motioned to the chair.
Rob Kessler: “Well, shall we begin? I have coffee and whiskey, as per request of your agent.”
Howard Black: “Definitely. Thanks, Rob.”
Howard took a seat and reached for the Wild Turkey 101, cracking the seal and pouring himself a finger of the bourbon. He leaned back in the chair as Rob reached down to the tape recorder, clicking it on and picking up his pad of paper and pencil.
Rob Kessler: “Alright! We’re here with Howard Black! Howard, before the WCF, you wrestled in an independent promotion called the AWF under the name Andrew Foxgate.”
Howard Black: “Yeah, that promotion got me started.”
Rob Kessler: “That it did. You were two-time AWF champion, and you had a three-year career before recently getting signed by the WCF. What’s it like moving up? How’s it different to be in the proverbial ‘Big Leagues’.”
Howard Black: “Well, there’s one big difference between the indies and the big leagues, and it’s show business. I’m not just a wrestler now; I’m a character. I’m a public figure. In the Indies, it’s all word of mouth. A great wrestler can fly under the radar for a long time, or he can be the toast of the town who no one really knows. The Indies give you the freedom of relative anonymity, where you’re known for your ring work almost exclusively. Indie fans are different than televised wrestling fans.”
Rob Kessler: “‘Public figure’ is an interesting word. Could you elaborate what sort of ways the WCF makes you be a, quote, ‘public figure’?”
Howard Black: “A great example is that we’re encouraged to use social media. Twitter and whatnot. Before you began this interview, you made a joke about how media shy I was in the Indies; can’t do that now. Much like how the NFL makes Marshawn Lynch talk to reporters, I have to publically engage.”
Rob Kessler: “On the subject of Twitter, I suppose we should address the elephant in the room: you received major backlash for your public criticism of WCF’s policy of intergender competition. Needless to say, the backlash has been incredible.”
Howard Black: “You can say that again.”
Rob Kessler: “Some people, including your fellow wrestlers in the WCF, have criticized this position as sexist and archaic. What’s your response to these charges?”
Howard leaned back in his chair and took a long drink of whiskey, draining the glass to its halfway mark. He looked down for a moment, his mind sorting the thoughts running through his head. He had to make these answers perfect. He spoke slowly, his word choice deliberate.
Howard Black: “First, the idea that I’m a sexist or a misogynist is simply untrue. I don’t think any lesser of any woman who gets into the ring and wrestles. Unlike many organizations, the WCF does not reduce its female talent to breasts and ass; this is a good thing, I think it’s progressive, and I support it. I think some of the female wrestlers, such as Katherine Phoenix who has been one of the most vocal critics of my comments, is an incredible wrestler and athlete. In general, I think the idea of co-ed athletic competition is positive and should be pushed.”
Rob Kessler: “In general?”
Howard Black: “In general. That doesn’t mean that it’s perfect; realities and greater cultural conversations need to be addressed. You can’t have a blanket solution. The fact is that this country has an incredible problem with domestic and sexual violence against women. Man, I’m married; I have a wife. I have a sister and a mother. What the hell are they supposed to think if I go out into the ring and nearly break some woman’s arm? What about that little kid watching at home who doesn’t know better yet and thinks it’s okay to put his little sister in a Kimura Lock? Remember the Lionel Tate case?”
Rob Kessler: “Right.”
Howard Black: “This was during a time that wrestling promoters were playing fast and loose with the actions of their stars on TV. Controversy was the key. You saw women getting power bombed through tables, getting beaten up or kidnapped. Then what happens? Some 13-year-old boy puts a six-year-old girl in a headlock and slams her head on a table until she dies. This is when wrestling didn’t tell people not to try things at home. This is when it was shown as a good thing that the ass-kicking redneck would drop the Boss’s daughter with a stunner because she was being mouthy. We taught kids that if a woman was being a ‘bitch’ or saying something you didn’t like, the proper response was violence.”
Rob Kessler: “And you think the WCF contributes to that?”
Howard’s voice quickened and raised. His speech became emotive and pronounced, in a complete antithesis of his previous comments and a rare burst of intensity.
Howard Black: “Not intentionally, but absolutely. The fact is that there’s a historical divide between the power of men and women. Bing Crosby, America’s favorite man in the 50’s, invented the ‘soap bar in a sock’ method of beating your wife. When you see a man dominate a woman in the ring, it’s fucking creepy. There will always be a subtext of sexual violence in these matches. This has been actively exploited by major wrestling promotions to draw cheap heat to the designated bad guy. It’s the real elephant in the room that because of truly sexist and misogynistic ‘meninists’ want an excuse to punch women due to mommy not loving them enough, they’d rather point fingers and demonize anyone who acknowledges the real problem. Sex is so pervasive in this culture that it’s become impossible to separate sexuality from any interaction between men and women. This is society’s fault as a whole. When Isaiah Chavez tweets at a woman saying he wants to ‘taste her blood’, are you going to argue that’s not weird? That it isn’t creepy or rape-y? It cheapens the very real violence women face every day. No. I won’t contribute to the propagation of that poisonous, damaging cultural norm.”
Following the end of his tirade, Howard threw the rest of the bourbon back. Rob stared at him with a curious look, one that Howard couldn’t quite place the meaning. He took a long sip of his coffee and jotted something down on his pad of paper.
Rob Kessler: “It seems you’re deceptively passionate about this topic.”
Howard took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the room. He reached for the Wild Turkey and poured himself another glass. His voice lower, taking on a tone of melancholic nostalgia.
Howard Black: “I played football when I was in high school. Safety and Wide Receiver. In my sophomore year, a girl tried out for the team. She was an absolute football whiz; she’d been studying the game since she was a kid and been training all her life to challenge the boys on the gridiron. She played Strong Safety to my Free Safety on the first team; beat out this big motherfucker for it. Every day, that girl was given hell by her own team. When she was on offense as a Running Back, she’d get groped in the pile. When she missed a tackle, she got called ‘cunt’, ‘bitch’, and was told to go ‘back to the kitchen.’ This girl ignored the abuse, the sexual harassment, the molestation, and the torment as long as possible until she couldn’t handle it and quit. The coaches didn’t help; they said she knew what she signed up for and should’ve toughened up. Hell, I got picked on by my own team for my height and stuck it out…”
Howard paused for a moment, looking down. His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening. His mouth twisted into a sneer of contempt and rage.
Howard Black: “It was fucking bullshit. There was no comparison between what she dealt with and I dealt with. I wasn’t threatened to be ‘held down and fucked in the ass’ on the way to my car. I didn’t get my dick grabbed in the pile or told I’d make a ‘good bitch’. It’s not about the fucking women competing; it’s about the men who take advantage of it and defend it for their own fucked needs. Jay Omega wants to call me a sexist or a misogynist? Bet he gets a raging hard-on when he takes the ring against a woman. I won’t do it. It crosses a moral line for me. It has nothing to do with the female wrestlers; I’m not contributing to something toxic. Period. Let them book me against these women, and I’ll lay down and let them pin me. Throw me in a hardcore match, and I’ll let them hit me with chair after chair. I’m not taking part. Count me out. And I will stand up and call it out. It’s not progressive; it’s regressive torture-domination porn.”
You could hear a pin drop in the room, the silence was so thick. Howard’s breathing had regressed to shallow heaves. His body trembled slightly. Rob said nothing, the smile long gone from his face. He wore a stone expression, simply peering at the wrestler across the table. Howard took another long slug of the bourbon.
Rob Kessler: “The girl you played football with… did you stay in touch with her?”
Howard gave an exhausted, bitter laugh. He looked up, a thin smile stretched across his lips.
Howard Black: “I fucking married her.”
Rob couldn’t help but laugh at this. His chuckle was nervous but perhaps sincere.
Rob Kessler: “You’re quite the one for controversy, backstage. If I recall correctly you had problems in AWF as you refused to have a female manager due to your marriage. Now, on top of this Twitter controversy, you’ve been catching controversy for what many of claimed is gimmick infringement. The ‘Black’ moniker has been used by Corey Black prior to your arrival, and the ‘Honey Badger’ moniker belonged to Zombie McMorris. Do you have a response to these accusations?”
Howard Black: “Yes. First of all, Howard Black is my God-given birth name. I couldn’t carry over the ‘Andrew Foxgate’ moniker as AWF holds the trademark. If Corey Black, if that’s even his real name, wants to throw a temper tantrum, he can complain to Momma Black for marrying Poppa Black. As for the whole ‘Honey Badger’ thing, Creative never had a problem with it when I signed my contract. No one has pulled me aside and asked me to change it. No one told me it was a conflict that should be fixed. So take that up with the big-wigs at WCF corporate. As for Zombie McMorris, I have no problem with him. I didn’t have problems with anyone until it became this circle jerk to fuck with me. No one’s wanted to have a conversation. No one’s wanted to hash this out without being a child. Come talk to me. You want me to drop the Honey Badger name; fine, you know where my locker is. Don’t go around like a high school kid talking crap. Not my problem.”
Rob leaned back in his chair and took a long sip of his coffee. At this point, he reached out to the bourbon and poured a splash into the coffee, stirring it with a red haired finger.
Rob Kessler: “You’re so…”
He paused, as if weighing the tact of what he wants to say.
Rob Kessler: “Mr. Black, I’m a big fan of your work in the Indies. I’m pretty sympathetic to your plight and know you’re not a bad guy. But your whole demeanor is so… combative. You’re clearly an aggressive guy who feels like he’s cornered. You’ve always struck me as this wounded animal of a man, battling off anyone who comes near out of this fear that they’re going to inflict further harm to you. Don’t you think it may be better to cut your losses, apologize, and wipe the slate clean? Start over? It’s a brand new debut. No one may notice.”
Howard shook his head. Lifting the glass to his lips, he took a long pull off of the bourbon before returning it to the table.
Howard Black: “I’m not going to apologize for being right.”
Rob simply nodded his head. He looked down at the pad of paper in his lap and attempted to resume the smile he had at the beginning of the interview.
Rob Kessler: “So, you’re a man married with a child. What’s it like spending so much time on the road and away from your family?”
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Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Montreal, Quebec, Canada
12:30 pm
David Rogers, the a bespectacled man of modest stature and build, sat across from Howard Black at one of the small outdoor tables of the Café Myriade in downtown Montreal. It was a sunny Wednesday, the weather a crisp 50 degrees at noon. David’s attire could not have clashed more with what Howard wore: the gray tweed suit carefully tailored to a perfect fit with black cowboy boots, a white button-up shirt with a bright red tie, and a bearded face to complement the long brown hair he pulled back into a ponytail. Howard, on the other hand, wore a baggy black hoody unzipped enough to reveal a white v-neck undershirt, black jeans, and a pair of black sandals. Before both men sat porcelain latte cups filled with piping hot coffee.
David leaned back far, rocking on the back legs of the metal chair and heels of his boots, before rocking forward. He gave Howard a pleasant enough look to counteract his client’s dour look.
David Rogers: “So. How was the interview?”
Howard Black: “Fine, I guess. Dunno. Think I may have done more harm.”
Howard’s voice was tinged with exasperation and frustration. Nonetheless, David kept his voice upbeat and encouraging.
David Rogers: “Nonsense, it’ll be great! You seen the card this week?”
Howard groaned audibly, reaching up to rub his brow with one hand. He left the hand on his face, leaning down on it to support his upper body weight, and kept his eyes down on the cooling latte before him.
Howard Black: “Yeah. Joey Flash and Katherine Phoenix. They’re putting me in a mixed-tag match to punish me. I know it.”
David Rogers: “Punish you? Nah, don’t be silly. Courting controversy? Sure, that’s business. But punish you?”
Howard curled the hand on his face into a fist and slammed it down on the table, causing the cups to rattle in their saucers. His voice raised in frustration.
Howard Black: “No, bullshit, David, they’re fucking punishing me! They’re pissed off I won’t be a good little Yes-Man and keep my mouth shut! They’re pissed I’m going to a third party to explain myself rather than release an apology I don’t mean through their channels and filters! They’re forcing me into a situation I’ve said I want no part of because it handicaps me! They want me to bend over! They want me to lose!”
David’s eyes darted around, taking note of the other patrons now taking notice of the conversation. He looked back at Howard and took a tone of sympathy.
David Rogers: “Hey, hey, Howard, take it easy. You’re blowing this up.”
Howard Black: “No! No, I’m not! It’s fucking bullshit! If they wanted this to blow over, they’d let me focus on something else. Instead, they’re booking me into a match against one of the company’s top female talents and one of the most well known wrestlers on the roster! With another rookie in my corner! A rookie who wasn’t even a factor in the battle royale! I’m. Being. Screwed. They’re betting on me failing. They want to see me get my ass kicked! It’s going to be a show in which I get skewered all night, I get painted into a corner, I’m put into a match I can’t win, I get my ass kicked, and I’m ridiculed out of the building.”
David’s toned shifted once more, dropping low with a tinge of force.
David Rogers: “Howard. Let’s go somewhere else to talk about this.”
Howard refused to relent.
Howard Black: “No, Dave. I have a right to be angry about this! They’re putting me, a rookie already on the wrong side of the locker room, against a guy who’s on buddy-buddy terms with half the locker room! It’s me against the world! Then you factor Katherine into this and every weirdo who wants to protect his ability to get wood while giving her a suplex, and I have everyone salivating at the chance to take a stab at me! Flash is an idiotic, sophomoric juvenile whose every promo gives me douche chills, but everyone seems to want to have a beer with him! You put someone two guys who the audience hates against each other, and they’ll boo the one they don’t know over the one they know!”
He paused, his body shaking in rage. Dave got up and pushed his chair in, walking over to Howard to gently clasp him under the arm and pull him up. Howard relented to this, slowly rising to his feet, only reaching down to throw the rest of his latte back.
David Rogers: “C’mon, Howie. Let’s take a walk. Talk about this without making a scene.”
Howard nodded, his voice quieting as he regained composure.
Howard Black: “Yeah. Okay.”
The two made their way from the enclosed patio and began to stroll down Rue Mackay. David released Howard’s arm and shoved his hands into the pocket of his gray slacks, fishing out his plain silver cigarette case. He popped it open and produced one of the several white cigarettes to place in his mouth, offering the case to Howard.
David Rogers: “Rollie?”
Howard reached out to accept the hand-rolled cigarette, popping it into the corner of his mouth. He reached into his own pocket to get his lighter, cupping his hand around the end of the cigarette to block the wind as he lit it.
Howard Black: “Amsterdam Shag?”
David laughed.
David Rogers: “C’mon, Howie, do I smoke anything else?”
David replaced the case in his pant pocket and returned with his own lighter, a vintage Zippo branded with the weather-worn picture of a painting of wood ducks in flight. He flicked it open and lit his own cigarette, taking a few puffs before returning the Zippo to his pocket.
David Rogers: “Have you talked with Sarah about all of this?”
Howard took a drag and shook his head as he exhaled.
Howard Black: “No. Lord knows what she’d say. I’m sure she’s heard all about it. I don’t even want to have to explain to little Joey why everyone’s booing his old man.”
David Rogers: “Understandable. You thought about getting a PR man if this gets worse?”
Howard shrugged, shoving one hand into this sweatshirt pocket as he held the cigarette with the other.
Howard Black: “No. You’re my agent; what do you think?”
David Rogers: “Couldn’t hurt. May know a guy or two. Say the word, and I’ll make some calls.”
Howard Black: “Thanks, Dave.”
David Rogers: “Don’t mention it. And don’t let this match get to your head; you’ve got the contender match at that pay-per-view coming up. Aftermath, yeah?”
Howard Black: “Yeah, Aftermath.”
David Rogers: “And that guy you eliminated, Florian Stark? He’s in a handicapped match this week against Jimmy Wicked and BioWalker. Hate to be in his shoes.”
Howard took another drag and shook his head in disagreement.
Howard Black: “Nah, he’s lucky. Those guys are scrubs, and he’s a helluva fighter. He’s getting handed a nice fluff by the front office. I’m the one getting thrown to the sharks. Katherine wants blood, and Joey Flash and Eve Vega are just distractions to veil the real point of this book. Sleight of hands, Dave. Hell, if Eve’s as pissed over the comments as the other females on the roster, she may just sabotage me. Either way, when I get into that contender match at Aftermath, I’ll have to deal with her. Somehow. Let that dickhead Zione take the title of ‘woman-beater’, maybe and kick his ass. Cocky sonuvabitch.”
David and Howard walked in silence for a moment. Occasionally, David peered over at his client, but Howard kept his eyes forward and down as the gears of his mind whirled over the implications of the future of his career.
Howard Black: “I’m going to need to hit church soon. I need to pray over this or something. Ask the Lord for guidance. How do I reconcile what I need to do with a hard moral line I have? Shit, the Lord doesn’t appreciate lawyer-ese when making him a deal. I’m just trying to stand up for something. Dammit, isn’t the most important time to stand when everyone’s against you? When everyone’s telling you to sit down? Isn’t that when you know you’re doing something right?”
David took the cigarette from his mouth, dropping it on the pavement and stopping to grind it under the toe of his cowboy boot.
David Rogers: “Don’t know, Howard. Guess it all depends why they’re telling you to sit.”
Howard stopped and stared at his agent for a moment, lowering his eyes to study the cracks running through the pavement beneath his feet. His eyes fixed on a single dandelion springing up from a fracture in the concrete. He didn’t return his gaze to the agent.
Howard Black: “Yeah. I guess it does.”
The two continued to walk in silence until they came to an old wooden bench covered in graffiti next to a freshly leaved fichus tree. David sat down on the bench, patting a rather unfortunate epithet carved into the wood with what looked to be a knife.
David Rogers: “C’mon, kid, have a seat. It’s even got your name on it.”
Howard chuckled, his mood lightening for a brief moment. He sat down and tossed the remainder of his cigarette out into the street, shortly crushed out by a passing car. Howard reached into his pocket for his own pack, Camel Turkish Royals, and popped one of the cigarettes into his mouth. After lighting it, he took a long drag and tilted his head back, exhaling into the air and letting the familiar taste of his favorite brand calm his fraying nerves. He reached back with his left hand, scratching his left shoulder, before dropping it onto the back of the wooden bench.
Howard Black: “Christ, Dave, I don’t even know what to say. The jackals they got in this promotion. You got Chelsea screaming about how I’m somehow this bad guy while she screams profanity at children, and then you have Joey Flash spending his off days snorting coke and acting like a drunken frat boy. And I’m the bad guy for protesting something I find culturally revolting. It’s fucking Wonderland, man. We’re all mad. It’s all backwards.”
Dave reached over and patted the shoulder of Howard in a comforting manner.
David Rogers: “I wouldn’t think too hard on it, kid. You have a nasty habit of fixating on something and letting it drive you crazy. They’re trying to get under your skin. They want you thrown off. Messing with your head. I heard Schwarzenegger used to pull stunts when he was a professional body builder; he’d take the competition to a party and spend all night insulting them. Get into their head and make them start doubting themselves. Next day, in the competition, they’d be all sorts of worried and blow it. My advice to you? Take a few days to clear yourself. Keep your head down, and stay away from the press. Not everyone wants your head on a platter. Some people may even be in your corner, even if it’s not the fans or the locker room. If they want you to talk to a camera, say you’re sick. If they want an interview, you’ve got calls to take. If they want an email, your hotel Wi-Fi sucks.”
Howard exhaled another lungful of smoke, taking a moment to think in silence before nodding his head in affirmation. His voice was low and tired, but he was clearly being sincere.
Howard Black: “Yeah. Stay low. Keep my nose clean. Don’t let this throw off my game.”
David slapped him on the back supportively.
David Rogers: “Exactly. And call your damn wife. If anyone’s in your corner, it’s her and little Joey. You don’t have to worry about their commitment or allegiance, Howie.”
Howard nodded again, clasping his hands together and resting his forehead on them, careful to keep the lit end of his cigarette away from it or his hair.
Howard Black: “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
David Rogers: “Just a rough start. You’ll get over this.”
Howard Black: “Yeah. A rough start.”
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Howard Black sat outside the arena, just like he did last show before his match. It was different this time; it wasn’t just him being unsociable or trying to get into a zone. When he walked through the building earlier, he kept his head down and his gaze averted. There were eyes all over with glittering hungry mouths frothing eagerly to pounce. He had made his mark, alright, but as the cigarette burned between his fingers, he couldn’t help ponder if this was the mark he’d wanted to make.
Perhaps it’s just a phase, he thought to himself, temporary slip-up in the plan. But even at the thought of this, he couldn’t help but shake his head. No, this may be different. This wasn’t some little spat backstage whispered about on /r/SquaredCircle or other message boards. He’d made a public incident. It didn’t matter what he said or did, the Huns were all around him and closing in. They wanted him to fail; he knew it. Deep in the darker corners of the mind of Howard Black, he knew they’d always wanted him to fail. Failure had been the only constant in his life but himself.
He took a drag off of the cigarette, letting the smoke seep down into his lungs and fill his veins with the chemicals he craved most. It was the one addiction he knew he’d never give up: nicotine. One day his liver could be shot, and his back could be broken. Yet, even if he laid in an iron lung, he’d never let this be taken from him. Addiction. It was a word Howard Black knew just about as intimately as failure. It had been that friend who stuck by him through his days of training. It was both the woman he married and the best man at his wedding. It was the patches he wore over his wounds and the liquor he drank to dull the electric hum which surged through his veins on a night like this. But it was also that hum and it was those wounds.
They want me to fail. The phrase ricocheted about his head, dancing through his ears and twisting itself around his stomach in knots. He looked down at the hand which held his cigarette, studying the bruising of his knuckles from the hours he had spent at the gym this week. The other hand mirrored these wounds and cut, and he reached back to slowly drag his damaged hand against the concrete wall behind him. He closed his eyes and listened to the dull scrape his skin made as if it were a symphony. That reminder of being alive; that is what he lived for, and pain was a prescription for it.
He opened his eyes and took a final drag off of his cigarette, ground it ember first into the pavement, and casually tossed it out in front of his feet. He proceeded to reach over and open his gym bag, reaching in to retrieve the athletic tape which he wrapped his hands in for his fights. They were never matches to Howard, always fights. He always saw himself the warrior, squared off in the Coliseum against his foe, sword and shield ready. As he wrapped his eyes wandered while he slipped into that sort of day dreaming trance he had before every match, where the audience would cheer louder than any other as he stepped out onto the stage and cheer even louder when the bell rang and he stood victorious.
This time, he could not imagine the cheers. Instead, he could only remember the ferocity of the boos and jeers as he made his way out, the image of Zione Redington standing triumphant in the ring, and the shame which filled his heart with sulfur and granite as he limped through the back. And then suddenly he saw himself coming down to jeers and cackles, the audience filled with grotesque hell spawn and the ring swarmed by three jabbering abominations with eyes like alabaster and twisted grinning mouths like starved lions. But he also saw himself different: he stood on the stage dressed in the pelt of a great badger, draped around his shoulders like a cloak, and he clutched in his hands the sword and shield of those gladiators he dreamed of being. His vision was shattered only an outside sound.
Stagehand: “Mister Black? You’re on soon.”
The young, scrawny stagehand stood to his side, looking down at him. Howard slowly looked up and made eye contact with the young man.
Howard Black: “Yeah. Give me a few minutes. Be right out.”
The stagehand left, and Howard Black pushed himself up, picking up his bag to bring inside. As he walked through the back towards the stage, his head pulsed with a new sense of clarity, and his vision tunneled until he could only see the entrance to the stage. It didn’t matter that no one expected him to win. It didn’t matter that Joey Flash was more loved by the rest of the locker room than he may ever be. It didn’t matter that Katherine Phoenix was out for his head, and it didn’t matter whether or not Eve helped him in the match or forced him to carry it. He’d fight the world at once if necessary. They could make him bend, but he’d never let them break him.
Honey badgers and gladiators fought lions.
From behind the curtain, he could see the lights of the arena go back and hear the throbbing of the PA as the distortion which opened “Lost Boys” began to play. It was time to fight lions.
As he made his way to the locker room, the hallways contained nothing but stares and frowns for him. It was clear that the comments had finished making their rounds, and coupled with the close loss of his match, he had little to fall back on to merit any respect. He reached the locker room, gathered his things without changing, and left the building, completely disinterested to stick around for the rest of the show.
As soon as he exited the metal backdoor, he fished his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. It was a long, cold walk to the car; the sun was starting to set, and the Alaskan air had begun to cool. He stopped for a moment, putting down his gear bag, and pulled on the sweatshirt he carried. After trekking through the parking lot, silently thanking God that no fans lingered to see him, he came to the silver Honda Accord rental car he’d picked up at the airport.
He fumbled through his bag for the car keys and unlocked the vehicle, throwing the bag into the back over the driver’s seat and sat down inside. He closed the door and put the key in the ignition, turning on the battery and engaging the stereo. “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy” by Kanye West, the only album he took with him on his trips, began to play on the song “Gorgeous”, which had been just at the beginning of Kanye’s second verse when he turned off the car on arrival. He leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes to listen to the lyrics.
“A euphemism for a new religion.” That line always hit him. Everyone found their catharsis in some form; for Kanye is was hip-hop, and for Howard it was in the ring. His mind raced through the week and events of the evening, torn and wracked over what he would say to Sarah and little Joey when he Skype’d them later this week. Beneath the sound of mournful guitar of the song, Howard’s ears picked up the familiar, generic ring tone of his phone. He opened his eyes and reached out to turn down the volume of the stereo before twisting himself around to fish the back for his bag and the phone enclosed in it. Retrieving the battered old Nokia, he checked the caller ID to see the name of David Rogers, his agent. He hit the answer button and raised the phone to his ear.
Howard Black: “Hello?”
David Rogers: “Hey Howie, just finished watching your match. Good effort out there.”
Howard frowned. “Good effort.” That phrase felt like lye rubbed on road burn; there was never any trying or giving effort. There was doing it or not doing it; tonight Howard had not done it. He’d failed. He didn’t want a pat on the back or a hand out, and the thought of consolation made the blood in his bruised body boil.
Howard Black: “Thanks, Dave.”
He said it through gritted teeth, doing his best to sound accepting and humble.
David Rogers: “Of course, bud. So I hear you’ve been having some trouble. Little PR mishap and whatnot, yeah?”
Howard gave a deep sigh. This was unavoidable. He was exhausted, in pain, and emotionally drained, but he knew that the elephant in the room was threatening to start a stampede at any moment.
Howard Black: “Yeah. Guess you could say that.”
David Rogers: “No fear, my man. I gotcha an interview to give your side. Get you some brownie points, what-have-you. Site called WrestleSmarks.com or something; they were pretty high on you during your time in the Indies and I think they’ll be real nice with you.”
Howard Black: “Great. Thanks, Dave. So is this via email? Skype?”
David Rogers: “Nah. We’re flying you to meet the head editor in Chicago. The flight leaves tomorrow; you weren’t hoping to stick around Anchorage, were you?”
Howard shook his head, not that the agent on the other end could see the gesture.
Howard Black: “No. Hell no. I’ll be there bright and early. Thanks, Dave.”
A certain sound of relief and gratitude had taken Howard’s voice. David Rogers had been Howard’s agent from the beginning of his career. Beyond Coach Halliday and a handful of friends, he was one of the men Howard truly trusted to stick in his corner. The agent’s resourcefulness had proven itself once again with this opportunity.
David Rogers: “Don’t mention it, Howie. Get a good night’s sleep and skip the sauce tonight. Don’t want to show up to this hungover.”
Howard Black: “Promise. Have a good night, Dave.”
David Rogers: “You too, Howie. I’m proud of you, kid.”
Howard hung up and tossed the phone into the back seat. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. How could Dave be proud of me, he thought, when I’m not even proud of me? It was the same song-and-dance as always: he showed up fresh, shot off his mouth, rumbled feathers, and found himself on the wrong side of an “X versus the World” scenario. He reached for his cigarettes, popping one into his mouth and lighting the end. He took a deep drag and exhaled forcefully, filling the enclosed vehicle with a cloud of smoke.
His hand went to the key in the ignition, and he turned it to engage the engine. “Power”, the next track on the album, had begun to play. He reached to roll down the window and disengaged the parking break before shifting the car into reverse. As he pulled out, he idled for a moment to stare at the arena, the home that didn’t want him. He shook the thought out of his mind and shifted the car into drive, peeling out of the parking lot towards his hotel.
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Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Chicago, Illinois
1:00 pm
Howard pushed open the door to the meeting room in which he was to meet Rob Kessler, the editor of WrestleSmarks.com. The website’s office was in a crummy little building on the west side of Chicago, the dying shell of the hyper-corporate optimism of 1970 which had never fulfilled its potential. The building now held a dentist office, a law firm, a few empty floors, and the office of the self-proclaimed “Internet’s Nerdiest Wrestling Site.” Kessler was already in the room, sitting in a stuffed polyester armchair of considerable wear. The room had beige painted walls covered in framed posters of past events from wrestling promotions. Howard recognized a few: XWF, IWC, and the independent circuit he began in: AWF. Outside of the wall hangings, the room only contained two chairs, one of which was occupied by Kessler, and a coffee table. A metal carafe and two mugs sat on the table, one of which sat in front of Kessler and already filled with coffee. A second set of clear glasses sat on the table next to a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 bourbon. Alongside the drinks, Rob kept a tape recorder, a yellow pad of paper, and a pencil.
Rob Kessler was a portly man with a full, round face covered in a thick red beard. A pair of thick glasses sat across the bridge of his freckled nose, and his eyes were small and black. He wore a big smile to match his big frame, and his clothing consisted of sandals over socks, a pair of anchor-print blue shorts, and a black T-shirt bearing the phrase “FEAR THE FOX.” Howard smiled when he saw the shirt, recognizing it immediately as a shirt from his days under an old moniker in the AWF. Rob rose as Howard entered the room, thrusting a hand forward for a handshake.
Rob Kessler: “Mr. Black! It’s a real pleasure to have you.”
Howard clasped his hand and gave the man a firm shake. Rob’s smile remained full, and the gleam of admiration in his eyes eased Howard’s anxiety over the interview.
Howard Black: “Thank you, Mr. Kessler, the pleasure it mine. Call me Howie.”
Rob Kessler: “And call me Rob. I’ll admit, I was shocked when your agent called me. You’re notorious for staying away from the media.”
Howard Black: “Yeah, well, I guess it’s for fear of being in situations like this.”
Howard forced a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. Rob reciprocated the laugh, but the smile on his face darkened for a moment and those tiny eyes of his briefly reflected that same look of stifled pity Howard knew all too well from Sarah. There was a brief, uncomfortable pause before Rob regained his air of confidence. He motioned to the chair.
Rob Kessler: “Well, shall we begin? I have coffee and whiskey, as per request of your agent.”
Howard Black: “Definitely. Thanks, Rob.”
Howard took a seat and reached for the Wild Turkey 101, cracking the seal and pouring himself a finger of the bourbon. He leaned back in the chair as Rob reached down to the tape recorder, clicking it on and picking up his pad of paper and pencil.
Rob Kessler: “Alright! We’re here with Howard Black! Howard, before the WCF, you wrestled in an independent promotion called the AWF under the name Andrew Foxgate.”
Howard Black: “Yeah, that promotion got me started.”
Rob Kessler: “That it did. You were two-time AWF champion, and you had a three-year career before recently getting signed by the WCF. What’s it like moving up? How’s it different to be in the proverbial ‘Big Leagues’.”
Howard Black: “Well, there’s one big difference between the indies and the big leagues, and it’s show business. I’m not just a wrestler now; I’m a character. I’m a public figure. In the Indies, it’s all word of mouth. A great wrestler can fly under the radar for a long time, or he can be the toast of the town who no one really knows. The Indies give you the freedom of relative anonymity, where you’re known for your ring work almost exclusively. Indie fans are different than televised wrestling fans.”
Rob Kessler: “‘Public figure’ is an interesting word. Could you elaborate what sort of ways the WCF makes you be a, quote, ‘public figure’?”
Howard Black: “A great example is that we’re encouraged to use social media. Twitter and whatnot. Before you began this interview, you made a joke about how media shy I was in the Indies; can’t do that now. Much like how the NFL makes Marshawn Lynch talk to reporters, I have to publically engage.”
Rob Kessler: “On the subject of Twitter, I suppose we should address the elephant in the room: you received major backlash for your public criticism of WCF’s policy of intergender competition. Needless to say, the backlash has been incredible.”
Howard Black: “You can say that again.”
Rob Kessler: “Some people, including your fellow wrestlers in the WCF, have criticized this position as sexist and archaic. What’s your response to these charges?”
Howard leaned back in his chair and took a long drink of whiskey, draining the glass to its halfway mark. He looked down for a moment, his mind sorting the thoughts running through his head. He had to make these answers perfect. He spoke slowly, his word choice deliberate.
Howard Black: “First, the idea that I’m a sexist or a misogynist is simply untrue. I don’t think any lesser of any woman who gets into the ring and wrestles. Unlike many organizations, the WCF does not reduce its female talent to breasts and ass; this is a good thing, I think it’s progressive, and I support it. I think some of the female wrestlers, such as Katherine Phoenix who has been one of the most vocal critics of my comments, is an incredible wrestler and athlete. In general, I think the idea of co-ed athletic competition is positive and should be pushed.”
Rob Kessler: “In general?”
Howard Black: “In general. That doesn’t mean that it’s perfect; realities and greater cultural conversations need to be addressed. You can’t have a blanket solution. The fact is that this country has an incredible problem with domestic and sexual violence against women. Man, I’m married; I have a wife. I have a sister and a mother. What the hell are they supposed to think if I go out into the ring and nearly break some woman’s arm? What about that little kid watching at home who doesn’t know better yet and thinks it’s okay to put his little sister in a Kimura Lock? Remember the Lionel Tate case?”
Rob Kessler: “Right.”
Howard Black: “This was during a time that wrestling promoters were playing fast and loose with the actions of their stars on TV. Controversy was the key. You saw women getting power bombed through tables, getting beaten up or kidnapped. Then what happens? Some 13-year-old boy puts a six-year-old girl in a headlock and slams her head on a table until she dies. This is when wrestling didn’t tell people not to try things at home. This is when it was shown as a good thing that the ass-kicking redneck would drop the Boss’s daughter with a stunner because she was being mouthy. We taught kids that if a woman was being a ‘bitch’ or saying something you didn’t like, the proper response was violence.”
Rob Kessler: “And you think the WCF contributes to that?”
Howard’s voice quickened and raised. His speech became emotive and pronounced, in a complete antithesis of his previous comments and a rare burst of intensity.
Howard Black: “Not intentionally, but absolutely. The fact is that there’s a historical divide between the power of men and women. Bing Crosby, America’s favorite man in the 50’s, invented the ‘soap bar in a sock’ method of beating your wife. When you see a man dominate a woman in the ring, it’s fucking creepy. There will always be a subtext of sexual violence in these matches. This has been actively exploited by major wrestling promotions to draw cheap heat to the designated bad guy. It’s the real elephant in the room that because of truly sexist and misogynistic ‘meninists’ want an excuse to punch women due to mommy not loving them enough, they’d rather point fingers and demonize anyone who acknowledges the real problem. Sex is so pervasive in this culture that it’s become impossible to separate sexuality from any interaction between men and women. This is society’s fault as a whole. When Isaiah Chavez tweets at a woman saying he wants to ‘taste her blood’, are you going to argue that’s not weird? That it isn’t creepy or rape-y? It cheapens the very real violence women face every day. No. I won’t contribute to the propagation of that poisonous, damaging cultural norm.”
Following the end of his tirade, Howard threw the rest of the bourbon back. Rob stared at him with a curious look, one that Howard couldn’t quite place the meaning. He took a long sip of his coffee and jotted something down on his pad of paper.
Rob Kessler: “It seems you’re deceptively passionate about this topic.”
Howard took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the room. He reached for the Wild Turkey and poured himself another glass. His voice lower, taking on a tone of melancholic nostalgia.
Howard Black: “I played football when I was in high school. Safety and Wide Receiver. In my sophomore year, a girl tried out for the team. She was an absolute football whiz; she’d been studying the game since she was a kid and been training all her life to challenge the boys on the gridiron. She played Strong Safety to my Free Safety on the first team; beat out this big motherfucker for it. Every day, that girl was given hell by her own team. When she was on offense as a Running Back, she’d get groped in the pile. When she missed a tackle, she got called ‘cunt’, ‘bitch’, and was told to go ‘back to the kitchen.’ This girl ignored the abuse, the sexual harassment, the molestation, and the torment as long as possible until she couldn’t handle it and quit. The coaches didn’t help; they said she knew what she signed up for and should’ve toughened up. Hell, I got picked on by my own team for my height and stuck it out…”
Howard paused for a moment, looking down. His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening. His mouth twisted into a sneer of contempt and rage.
Howard Black: “It was fucking bullshit. There was no comparison between what she dealt with and I dealt with. I wasn’t threatened to be ‘held down and fucked in the ass’ on the way to my car. I didn’t get my dick grabbed in the pile or told I’d make a ‘good bitch’. It’s not about the fucking women competing; it’s about the men who take advantage of it and defend it for their own fucked needs. Jay Omega wants to call me a sexist or a misogynist? Bet he gets a raging hard-on when he takes the ring against a woman. I won’t do it. It crosses a moral line for me. It has nothing to do with the female wrestlers; I’m not contributing to something toxic. Period. Let them book me against these women, and I’ll lay down and let them pin me. Throw me in a hardcore match, and I’ll let them hit me with chair after chair. I’m not taking part. Count me out. And I will stand up and call it out. It’s not progressive; it’s regressive torture-domination porn.”
You could hear a pin drop in the room, the silence was so thick. Howard’s breathing had regressed to shallow heaves. His body trembled slightly. Rob said nothing, the smile long gone from his face. He wore a stone expression, simply peering at the wrestler across the table. Howard took another long slug of the bourbon.
Rob Kessler: “The girl you played football with… did you stay in touch with her?”
Howard gave an exhausted, bitter laugh. He looked up, a thin smile stretched across his lips.
Howard Black: “I fucking married her.”
Rob couldn’t help but laugh at this. His chuckle was nervous but perhaps sincere.
Rob Kessler: “You’re quite the one for controversy, backstage. If I recall correctly you had problems in AWF as you refused to have a female manager due to your marriage. Now, on top of this Twitter controversy, you’ve been catching controversy for what many of claimed is gimmick infringement. The ‘Black’ moniker has been used by Corey Black prior to your arrival, and the ‘Honey Badger’ moniker belonged to Zombie McMorris. Do you have a response to these accusations?”
Howard Black: “Yes. First of all, Howard Black is my God-given birth name. I couldn’t carry over the ‘Andrew Foxgate’ moniker as AWF holds the trademark. If Corey Black, if that’s even his real name, wants to throw a temper tantrum, he can complain to Momma Black for marrying Poppa Black. As for the whole ‘Honey Badger’ thing, Creative never had a problem with it when I signed my contract. No one has pulled me aside and asked me to change it. No one told me it was a conflict that should be fixed. So take that up with the big-wigs at WCF corporate. As for Zombie McMorris, I have no problem with him. I didn’t have problems with anyone until it became this circle jerk to fuck with me. No one’s wanted to have a conversation. No one’s wanted to hash this out without being a child. Come talk to me. You want me to drop the Honey Badger name; fine, you know where my locker is. Don’t go around like a high school kid talking crap. Not my problem.”
Rob leaned back in his chair and took a long sip of his coffee. At this point, he reached out to the bourbon and poured a splash into the coffee, stirring it with a red haired finger.
Rob Kessler: “You’re so…”
He paused, as if weighing the tact of what he wants to say.
Rob Kessler: “Mr. Black, I’m a big fan of your work in the Indies. I’m pretty sympathetic to your plight and know you’re not a bad guy. But your whole demeanor is so… combative. You’re clearly an aggressive guy who feels like he’s cornered. You’ve always struck me as this wounded animal of a man, battling off anyone who comes near out of this fear that they’re going to inflict further harm to you. Don’t you think it may be better to cut your losses, apologize, and wipe the slate clean? Start over? It’s a brand new debut. No one may notice.”
Howard shook his head. Lifting the glass to his lips, he took a long pull off of the bourbon before returning it to the table.
Howard Black: “I’m not going to apologize for being right.”
Rob simply nodded his head. He looked down at the pad of paper in his lap and attempted to resume the smile he had at the beginning of the interview.
Rob Kessler: “So, you’re a man married with a child. What’s it like spending so much time on the road and away from your family?”
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Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Montreal, Quebec, Canada
12:30 pm
David Rogers, the a bespectacled man of modest stature and build, sat across from Howard Black at one of the small outdoor tables of the Café Myriade in downtown Montreal. It was a sunny Wednesday, the weather a crisp 50 degrees at noon. David’s attire could not have clashed more with what Howard wore: the gray tweed suit carefully tailored to a perfect fit with black cowboy boots, a white button-up shirt with a bright red tie, and a bearded face to complement the long brown hair he pulled back into a ponytail. Howard, on the other hand, wore a baggy black hoody unzipped enough to reveal a white v-neck undershirt, black jeans, and a pair of black sandals. Before both men sat porcelain latte cups filled with piping hot coffee.
David leaned back far, rocking on the back legs of the metal chair and heels of his boots, before rocking forward. He gave Howard a pleasant enough look to counteract his client’s dour look.
David Rogers: “So. How was the interview?”
Howard Black: “Fine, I guess. Dunno. Think I may have done more harm.”
Howard’s voice was tinged with exasperation and frustration. Nonetheless, David kept his voice upbeat and encouraging.
David Rogers: “Nonsense, it’ll be great! You seen the card this week?”
Howard groaned audibly, reaching up to rub his brow with one hand. He left the hand on his face, leaning down on it to support his upper body weight, and kept his eyes down on the cooling latte before him.
Howard Black: “Yeah. Joey Flash and Katherine Phoenix. They’re putting me in a mixed-tag match to punish me. I know it.”
David Rogers: “Punish you? Nah, don’t be silly. Courting controversy? Sure, that’s business. But punish you?”
Howard curled the hand on his face into a fist and slammed it down on the table, causing the cups to rattle in their saucers. His voice raised in frustration.
Howard Black: “No, bullshit, David, they’re fucking punishing me! They’re pissed off I won’t be a good little Yes-Man and keep my mouth shut! They’re pissed I’m going to a third party to explain myself rather than release an apology I don’t mean through their channels and filters! They’re forcing me into a situation I’ve said I want no part of because it handicaps me! They want me to bend over! They want me to lose!”
David’s eyes darted around, taking note of the other patrons now taking notice of the conversation. He looked back at Howard and took a tone of sympathy.
David Rogers: “Hey, hey, Howard, take it easy. You’re blowing this up.”
Howard Black: “No! No, I’m not! It’s fucking bullshit! If they wanted this to blow over, they’d let me focus on something else. Instead, they’re booking me into a match against one of the company’s top female talents and one of the most well known wrestlers on the roster! With another rookie in my corner! A rookie who wasn’t even a factor in the battle royale! I’m. Being. Screwed. They’re betting on me failing. They want to see me get my ass kicked! It’s going to be a show in which I get skewered all night, I get painted into a corner, I’m put into a match I can’t win, I get my ass kicked, and I’m ridiculed out of the building.”
David’s toned shifted once more, dropping low with a tinge of force.
David Rogers: “Howard. Let’s go somewhere else to talk about this.”
Howard refused to relent.
Howard Black: “No, Dave. I have a right to be angry about this! They’re putting me, a rookie already on the wrong side of the locker room, against a guy who’s on buddy-buddy terms with half the locker room! It’s me against the world! Then you factor Katherine into this and every weirdo who wants to protect his ability to get wood while giving her a suplex, and I have everyone salivating at the chance to take a stab at me! Flash is an idiotic, sophomoric juvenile whose every promo gives me douche chills, but everyone seems to want to have a beer with him! You put someone two guys who the audience hates against each other, and they’ll boo the one they don’t know over the one they know!”
He paused, his body shaking in rage. Dave got up and pushed his chair in, walking over to Howard to gently clasp him under the arm and pull him up. Howard relented to this, slowly rising to his feet, only reaching down to throw the rest of his latte back.
David Rogers: “C’mon, Howie. Let’s take a walk. Talk about this without making a scene.”
Howard nodded, his voice quieting as he regained composure.
Howard Black: “Yeah. Okay.”
The two made their way from the enclosed patio and began to stroll down Rue Mackay. David released Howard’s arm and shoved his hands into the pocket of his gray slacks, fishing out his plain silver cigarette case. He popped it open and produced one of the several white cigarettes to place in his mouth, offering the case to Howard.
David Rogers: “Rollie?”
Howard reached out to accept the hand-rolled cigarette, popping it into the corner of his mouth. He reached into his own pocket to get his lighter, cupping his hand around the end of the cigarette to block the wind as he lit it.
Howard Black: “Amsterdam Shag?”
David laughed.
David Rogers: “C’mon, Howie, do I smoke anything else?”
David replaced the case in his pant pocket and returned with his own lighter, a vintage Zippo branded with the weather-worn picture of a painting of wood ducks in flight. He flicked it open and lit his own cigarette, taking a few puffs before returning the Zippo to his pocket.
David Rogers: “Have you talked with Sarah about all of this?”
Howard took a drag and shook his head as he exhaled.
Howard Black: “No. Lord knows what she’d say. I’m sure she’s heard all about it. I don’t even want to have to explain to little Joey why everyone’s booing his old man.”
David Rogers: “Understandable. You thought about getting a PR man if this gets worse?”
Howard shrugged, shoving one hand into this sweatshirt pocket as he held the cigarette with the other.
Howard Black: “No. You’re my agent; what do you think?”
David Rogers: “Couldn’t hurt. May know a guy or two. Say the word, and I’ll make some calls.”
Howard Black: “Thanks, Dave.”
David Rogers: “Don’t mention it. And don’t let this match get to your head; you’ve got the contender match at that pay-per-view coming up. Aftermath, yeah?”
Howard Black: “Yeah, Aftermath.”
David Rogers: “And that guy you eliminated, Florian Stark? He’s in a handicapped match this week against Jimmy Wicked and BioWalker. Hate to be in his shoes.”
Howard took another drag and shook his head in disagreement.
Howard Black: “Nah, he’s lucky. Those guys are scrubs, and he’s a helluva fighter. He’s getting handed a nice fluff by the front office. I’m the one getting thrown to the sharks. Katherine wants blood, and Joey Flash and Eve Vega are just distractions to veil the real point of this book. Sleight of hands, Dave. Hell, if Eve’s as pissed over the comments as the other females on the roster, she may just sabotage me. Either way, when I get into that contender match at Aftermath, I’ll have to deal with her. Somehow. Let that dickhead Zione take the title of ‘woman-beater’, maybe and kick his ass. Cocky sonuvabitch.”
David and Howard walked in silence for a moment. Occasionally, David peered over at his client, but Howard kept his eyes forward and down as the gears of his mind whirled over the implications of the future of his career.
Howard Black: “I’m going to need to hit church soon. I need to pray over this or something. Ask the Lord for guidance. How do I reconcile what I need to do with a hard moral line I have? Shit, the Lord doesn’t appreciate lawyer-ese when making him a deal. I’m just trying to stand up for something. Dammit, isn’t the most important time to stand when everyone’s against you? When everyone’s telling you to sit down? Isn’t that when you know you’re doing something right?”
David took the cigarette from his mouth, dropping it on the pavement and stopping to grind it under the toe of his cowboy boot.
David Rogers: “Don’t know, Howard. Guess it all depends why they’re telling you to sit.”
Howard stopped and stared at his agent for a moment, lowering his eyes to study the cracks running through the pavement beneath his feet. His eyes fixed on a single dandelion springing up from a fracture in the concrete. He didn’t return his gaze to the agent.
Howard Black: “Yeah. I guess it does.”
The two continued to walk in silence until they came to an old wooden bench covered in graffiti next to a freshly leaved fichus tree. David sat down on the bench, patting a rather unfortunate epithet carved into the wood with what looked to be a knife.
David Rogers: “C’mon, kid, have a seat. It’s even got your name on it.”
Howard chuckled, his mood lightening for a brief moment. He sat down and tossed the remainder of his cigarette out into the street, shortly crushed out by a passing car. Howard reached into his pocket for his own pack, Camel Turkish Royals, and popped one of the cigarettes into his mouth. After lighting it, he took a long drag and tilted his head back, exhaling into the air and letting the familiar taste of his favorite brand calm his fraying nerves. He reached back with his left hand, scratching his left shoulder, before dropping it onto the back of the wooden bench.
Howard Black: “Christ, Dave, I don’t even know what to say. The jackals they got in this promotion. You got Chelsea screaming about how I’m somehow this bad guy while she screams profanity at children, and then you have Joey Flash spending his off days snorting coke and acting like a drunken frat boy. And I’m the bad guy for protesting something I find culturally revolting. It’s fucking Wonderland, man. We’re all mad. It’s all backwards.”
Dave reached over and patted the shoulder of Howard in a comforting manner.
David Rogers: “I wouldn’t think too hard on it, kid. You have a nasty habit of fixating on something and letting it drive you crazy. They’re trying to get under your skin. They want you thrown off. Messing with your head. I heard Schwarzenegger used to pull stunts when he was a professional body builder; he’d take the competition to a party and spend all night insulting them. Get into their head and make them start doubting themselves. Next day, in the competition, they’d be all sorts of worried and blow it. My advice to you? Take a few days to clear yourself. Keep your head down, and stay away from the press. Not everyone wants your head on a platter. Some people may even be in your corner, even if it’s not the fans or the locker room. If they want you to talk to a camera, say you’re sick. If they want an interview, you’ve got calls to take. If they want an email, your hotel Wi-Fi sucks.”
Howard exhaled another lungful of smoke, taking a moment to think in silence before nodding his head in affirmation. His voice was low and tired, but he was clearly being sincere.
Howard Black: “Yeah. Stay low. Keep my nose clean. Don’t let this throw off my game.”
David slapped him on the back supportively.
David Rogers: “Exactly. And call your damn wife. If anyone’s in your corner, it’s her and little Joey. You don’t have to worry about their commitment or allegiance, Howie.”
Howard nodded again, clasping his hands together and resting his forehead on them, careful to keep the lit end of his cigarette away from it or his hair.
Howard Black: “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
David Rogers: “Just a rough start. You’ll get over this.”
Howard Black: “Yeah. A rough start.”
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Howard Black sat outside the arena, just like he did last show before his match. It was different this time; it wasn’t just him being unsociable or trying to get into a zone. When he walked through the building earlier, he kept his head down and his gaze averted. There were eyes all over with glittering hungry mouths frothing eagerly to pounce. He had made his mark, alright, but as the cigarette burned between his fingers, he couldn’t help ponder if this was the mark he’d wanted to make.
Perhaps it’s just a phase, he thought to himself, temporary slip-up in the plan. But even at the thought of this, he couldn’t help but shake his head. No, this may be different. This wasn’t some little spat backstage whispered about on /r/SquaredCircle or other message boards. He’d made a public incident. It didn’t matter what he said or did, the Huns were all around him and closing in. They wanted him to fail; he knew it. Deep in the darker corners of the mind of Howard Black, he knew they’d always wanted him to fail. Failure had been the only constant in his life but himself.
He took a drag off of the cigarette, letting the smoke seep down into his lungs and fill his veins with the chemicals he craved most. It was the one addiction he knew he’d never give up: nicotine. One day his liver could be shot, and his back could be broken. Yet, even if he laid in an iron lung, he’d never let this be taken from him. Addiction. It was a word Howard Black knew just about as intimately as failure. It had been that friend who stuck by him through his days of training. It was both the woman he married and the best man at his wedding. It was the patches he wore over his wounds and the liquor he drank to dull the electric hum which surged through his veins on a night like this. But it was also that hum and it was those wounds.
They want me to fail. The phrase ricocheted about his head, dancing through his ears and twisting itself around his stomach in knots. He looked down at the hand which held his cigarette, studying the bruising of his knuckles from the hours he had spent at the gym this week. The other hand mirrored these wounds and cut, and he reached back to slowly drag his damaged hand against the concrete wall behind him. He closed his eyes and listened to the dull scrape his skin made as if it were a symphony. That reminder of being alive; that is what he lived for, and pain was a prescription for it.
He opened his eyes and took a final drag off of his cigarette, ground it ember first into the pavement, and casually tossed it out in front of his feet. He proceeded to reach over and open his gym bag, reaching in to retrieve the athletic tape which he wrapped his hands in for his fights. They were never matches to Howard, always fights. He always saw himself the warrior, squared off in the Coliseum against his foe, sword and shield ready. As he wrapped his eyes wandered while he slipped into that sort of day dreaming trance he had before every match, where the audience would cheer louder than any other as he stepped out onto the stage and cheer even louder when the bell rang and he stood victorious.
This time, he could not imagine the cheers. Instead, he could only remember the ferocity of the boos and jeers as he made his way out, the image of Zione Redington standing triumphant in the ring, and the shame which filled his heart with sulfur and granite as he limped through the back. And then suddenly he saw himself coming down to jeers and cackles, the audience filled with grotesque hell spawn and the ring swarmed by three jabbering abominations with eyes like alabaster and twisted grinning mouths like starved lions. But he also saw himself different: he stood on the stage dressed in the pelt of a great badger, draped around his shoulders like a cloak, and he clutched in his hands the sword and shield of those gladiators he dreamed of being. His vision was shattered only an outside sound.
Stagehand: “Mister Black? You’re on soon.”
The young, scrawny stagehand stood to his side, looking down at him. Howard slowly looked up and made eye contact with the young man.
Howard Black: “Yeah. Give me a few minutes. Be right out.”
The stagehand left, and Howard Black pushed himself up, picking up his bag to bring inside. As he walked through the back towards the stage, his head pulsed with a new sense of clarity, and his vision tunneled until he could only see the entrance to the stage. It didn’t matter that no one expected him to win. It didn’t matter that Joey Flash was more loved by the rest of the locker room than he may ever be. It didn’t matter that Katherine Phoenix was out for his head, and it didn’t matter whether or not Eve helped him in the match or forced him to carry it. He’d fight the world at once if necessary. They could make him bend, but he’d never let them break him.
Honey badgers and gladiators fought lions.
From behind the curtain, he could see the lights of the arena go back and hear the throbbing of the PA as the distortion which opened “Lost Boys” began to play. It was time to fight lions.
