Taste of Paradise

[Kyle]

1400 Hours / August 8, 2015
Paradise Fairgrounds / Paradise, MS

To the quaint town of Paradise, Mississippi, population 436, the annual county fair was the grandest stage of them all for the talents and hobbies of its residents. Garnering a larger fanfare than Christmas or Easter, something unheard of in the bible belt, the brightly colored tents and the finest overalls were broken out to help bring the summer to the close, ushering in the Fall and the change that came with it. Like a miniature maze, the fairgrounds had become, a sea of red, orange, and yellow tents that sheltered anything from fresh produce to woven baskets, carved walking sticks to locally blacksmithed skillets. "A Small Taste of Paradise," the saying went, showing that one didn't have to go to some big city or a different country to enjoy life; it could be found right there, in one's back yard.

Yet Patrick Ignatius Gardner felt empty, without purpose, as he sat in a folding chair beside his Prized Pig at the Fair's greatest attraction, the Animal Show. Over five hundred pounds, the sow was, a rotund mass of pink and brown skin, chomping happily away at the apple cores and slop he had brought from home. The other pigs around him didn't even come close to matching the beauty that was his Abigail, and not from lack of trying from the other farmers either. They spent all year desperately vying for the blue ribbon that always seemed to find itself pinned on Patrick's board by the end of the afternoon. And it was just so easy for him. It always had been.

Patrick leaned forward, resting his forearms across his knees as he spit out the wad of Skoal that had been tucked away for the past twenty minutes, wiping the juices off of his lips so it wouldn't dry in his beard. He eyes wandered, settling on the other show of the evening, another stab at traditionalism by the residents of Paradise: the carnival-style wrestling show. Over a century ago, Paradise had hosted such events when the sport was still nothing but a carnival attraction, though the evolution of the spectacle had not quite found itself to this neck of the woods. Indeed, the fans were still called from the crowd to challenge the champion, some city-boy greenhorn from Jackson who enjoyed showing these Rednecks some badly executed techniques while his manager touted it as "main event" talent the whole while. How he wished he was there, but he knew it could never be.

"Dreaming of being the champ, again, Paddy?" a voice came from his left, the deep drawl of Obadiah, a fellow pig farmer of Paradise. He too had some snuff tucked away as he spoke, not caring just where his own juices dripped to. Patrick didn't even acknowledge the man, instead using his boot to grind the dip at his feet into the dirt. Obadiah didn't seem to mind the silence; it only gave him more room to continue talking. "A big man like you could do just fine in that ring, I suppose. But what would you do being away from your pigs for so long? A damn travesty, that would be." The old hick almost sounded intelligent with that last sentence, if not for the fact that he gave the word "travesty" two unneeded syllables in the middle. Not that it made a lick of difference for Patrick, one way or another.

Obadiah was itching to say more, but before he could, the county mayor came strutting by in his fanciest suit, blue ribbon in hand. With a handful of theatrics, he proceeded to pin it on the display post behind Patrick, patting the big man on the shoulder with a free hand with a beam of a smile. "Best pig for the third year in a row, Patrick. Truly impressive!" And like that, the mayor was off again, ready to shake more hands and kiss more babies, leaving an envious Obadiah and a bemused Patrick. "I win too often for it to be a dream," he said casually, never taking his eyes off the ring across the yard, where the carnival champ had a poor teenager into a pitiful excuse for a surfboard submission.

For once, Obadiah didn't say anything, instead resorting to one final hock of the dip before stalking off to wallow in his inadequacy; Patrick did hear the words "fucking prick," muttered under the man's breath, but it only deepened the man's smile along with his slouch in the chair. He wasn't going to do anything about Obadiah or the "professional" wrestler before him. He just didn't see the point, never had.

"He wasn't wrong, you know," a new voice said beside him, "about doing well in that ring." Patrick broke eye contact from the spectacle to look at the newcomer, a man he had never seen before. He definitely was not a local of Paradise, not with the shaved scalp and the black woolen robes he wore to his ankles; it was over ninety out, with the humidity in the high percentile, yet this man didn't seem to mind it at all. He rested his arms atop the chair that Obadiah had been sitting at, his hands hidden away in his over sized sleeves. His bright blue eyes, like Patrick's dull brown a second before, was focused on the fight before him. "I'm thinking you'd be a natural at it, honestly."

Patrick eyed the man, his thick eyebrow rising along his weathered brow as he studied him; had he angered some monastery by taking home the blue ribbon again, or something. "Not that ring," Patrick said softly as he looked back at the ring; the teenager had finally tapped, leaving the city slicker without an opponent to roughhouse. "It wouldn't even be a real fight, that kid."

"No, not that ring," the man replied, his tone agreeable. "But others like it, yes. One in particular, actually."

"You a scout or something, attending county fairs, hoping to find that proverbial needle in a haystack?"

The man smiled. "Do I look like a scout, Legion?"

The silence lingered in the air for the briefest of moments, before it completely registered with Patrick. Suddenly, he wasn't slouching as much, and all satisfaction from before was gone. "Who are you, then, if you know to use that name?"

"A friend, at least the friend of a friend. He's says its time you begin to farm on new soil."

"Hard to till canvas."

Another smile, one that seemed almost genuine this time. "I'm sure you'll find different uses for it."

Patrick reached into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, grabbing a handkerchief to wipe away the sweat on his brow, sweat that wasn't from the heat. "How did he know where to find me?"

"You never left his sight. Not that it wouldn't have been hard to find you, anyway, the Pig Whisperer of Paradise." A pause, "He needs you now, Patrick, which is why you've been sought out."

"For what"

"A weapon, Patrick. He needs a weapon."

"What makes y'all think I can be that?"

"We're not the ones that need convincing." The man points ahead and Patrick doesn't even need to follow the line to know the direction he had settled on. "And there is the test."

Patrick wanted to refuse, wanted to escape what he had been told long ago would be his destiny, but the words had triggered something with him. The itch, the whispers, the burning desire from long ago. He looked at the man. He looked at the ring. Finally, he looked at Abigail, who had torn her attention away from her meal to look back at him, knowing. This wasn't just about him, but of them, for he was many.

Patrick rose to his feet.

With each step to the ring, the whispers increased, a thousand voices urging him one. He didn't even hear himself answer the wrestler's call for the opponent for the voices, all clamoring for his attention. He did notice the mysterious man, though, tailing him to the ring, his own manager of sorts. Patrick had two inches and sixty pounds on the city boy, but that didn't seem to bother him. He hyped the crowd up the only way that the traditional training school had taught him, with hand waving and clapping.

Legion just waited for him to attack.

Indy came at him with a running clothesline, bouncing off of Patrick to laughter from the crowd; Legion didn't move. He came at him with again with a shoulder thrust, colliding with a brick wall of flesh; Legion tensed, ready to strike. Annoyed, the Indy resorted to a simple haymaker aimed for the face, no weight pulled; Legion caught it, bending the wrist back to the point of breaking. Then they struck. A haymaker stunned the man, a heavy boot to the gut doubled him over, and a gutwrench piledriver ended the carnival show for the day and the man's career for the rest of his life. "Like I said, wasn't even a real fight," Patrick said to the robed man as he stepped out of the way for the EMTs to help the Indy.

But the robed man was gone, leaving only a plane ticket to Pennsylvania and the address to an office to coordinate this new transition in his life; To the WCF, he came.

---

0630 Hours / August 18, 2015
P.I.G. Farm / Paradise, Mississippi

The scene opens to a bombardment of squealing and grunting from the mouths of swine, a hundred in number, clamoring around Patrick Ignatius Gardner as he walked among them, a Messianic figure among the poor and helpless. He truly looked a giant among the creatures, where even the largest only reached his knee on all fours. His size was emphasized only more by the small piglet in his hands, the runt of a litter who to even the untrained eye looked like it was dying. Patrick held it close to heart, gently, so that his large hands didn't crush the babe's frail body; it breathed weakly, unaware of the gentle care it was receiving, unaware that its life was slowly fading away. The odd pair reached the door to the complex, stepping out quickly and shutting the door so the pigs wouldn't follow them out.

The heavens were a blanket of orange as the sun was just beginning its climb into the sky; it made for a picturesque scene with the vibrant sky hanging over the antique barn, dull browns and reds, with its hard-working farmer in his flannels and jeans standing out front. True southern roots, so to speak. But none of that registers to Patrick, though, who had eyes only for his little pig. He was looking down at it in his hands we he began speaking, a soft drawl with the weight of an acute intelligence hanging on the words.

"In the ancient city-state of Sparta infants who were born with defects, deemed unfit to reach adulthood, were thrown into a chasm on Mount Taygetos known as Apothetae. The Spartans, they were a society focused on perfection, strove for it, because anything less would be dangerous, even deadly. They were a people bred for violence, bred for War. It was a hard rule, a cruel one even, but one that was needed. When you found yourself in the phalanx, with the Persians or the Athenians bearing down on you, who would you prefer as the man to your right? The man pure like yourself, bred and trained for this very day, or the one who didn't even bother to wipe the drool off of their chin?"

Out of no where, Patrick's hand finds the young piglet's neck. With a slight twist, a crack that was barely audible, the piglet wasn't struggling for breath any longer.

"A hard rule, yes, but to tolerate the weakness of the few only jeopardizes the stability of the entire community. To do so allows death."

Patrick pulls his eyes away from the dead piglet in his hands, staring directly ahead now.

"Does it come to a surprise, then, when I say the WCF is dying? Because it should be obvious. Its very presence stares me dead in the face as I prepare for my debut in the company, in what one of my only opponents would describe as a 'clusterfuck.' Eight men pitted against one another in what is being deemed a preview of war. I can only shake my head at this pitiful excuse for a match. I'm not going to War this Sunday; I'm jumping into the chasm to kick around the skeletons of babes who never had a chance to live."

Patrick gently sets the corpse of the piglet at his feet so it was now out of the camera shot, giving his words a chance to sink in with the viewers. Returning to a standing position, he continues as if there's nothing amiss, as if there wasn't a dead creature resting beside his boot.

"I should've expected it, really. The WCF has done this for years, toting itself as the Sparta of the wrestling world, before turning right around and giving the lame and the cripple the chance to prove themselves. That contradiction has become the manta of this prestigious company, where the likes of Jonny Fly and Cletus T. Clyde share the fan's attentions. They've grown used to it, too, accepted it as the norm. They see names like Danny Beaver and CJ Sharpe, names that will be there one day and gone the next, like its the way it should be. Then there are men like the Ultimate Destroyer and Adam Young, who somehow survived the first charge of the cavalry, but were still unable to detach themselves from the front line fighting. They too, despite whatever experience they'll claim to have, will succumb to the weight that is obscurity. Sin Rostro Jr, Clusterfunk . . . all names not worth remembering, because it won't be long before there isn't much to remember about them."

Patrick raises a single, fat finger, waving it in the air back and forth a few times.

"And that isn't one of those psychotic, 'look at me, I'm crazy as shit' kinda threats; it was just an observation, a statement really. I mean, who am I to come in, making bold claims and calling big names? To the average Joe, I'll be just another Cletus or a Bubba in that ring, a hick who thinks a heavy frame and a heavy fist will make the difference in this business. Throw on a Confederate flag patch on and BOOM, I'm Adam to boot. Throw on a mask and I'm Sin Rostro, hand me a mic and I'm Dustin Beaver. These people, my opponents if they even deserve to be called that, have done little to distinguish themselves in this company. Some of them are new, just as I, but they all share a collective shortcoming that I myself have already conquered: I can win."

Patrick nods, dropping his hand back to side.

"I'm not talking about pig shows, either. Its the mindset that I've overcome, that slight hesitation that prevents so many from achieving greatness. Because you see, in War, a soldier crosses paths with many men. Some are like himself, veterans, officers, leaders who strive for the perfection inside of them. More often than not, though, a soldier crosses paths with a babe, the new recruit or the recently drafted, whose fighting a War that was not his own. He fights because, in a way, he was forced to do so. These men are weak, mere stepping stones for these soldiers who seek advancement. If these soldiers want to get anywhere, they have to learn to pull the trigger, thrust the sword, snap the neck. To do otherwise is not War; its death."

A pause.

"This Sunday, I enter a ring with seven men who think they are the soldiers, fighting by choice. In reality, though, they are the conscripted men, forced into this situation by destiny one way or another. And they face not a fellow babe like themselves, but a Spartan who is not afraid to create a mound of infants to lift him to the higher ground. I didn't win Best Pig at the county fair three years in a row because I allowed the sickly runts to grow, and I won't become the best in the WCF if I'm not willing to step over the bodies of some of the worst."

Patrick holds up eight fingers to the camera, before dropping them slowly, until there was only a single standing, stoic and unmoving, in front of his face.

"Eight men enter on their own accord, seven exit tossed over the rope. I for one took a dive off the deep end, long ago, and have no intention of doing it again this Sunday. As to the rest of you in the WCF. . ."

A smile, cut in half by the looming finger.

"Consider this a mere taste of what I'm capable of."

And with that, the scene fades out; like the Cheshire Cat, the white grin was the last to fade away.