Denial

[Kyle]

"Your denial is beneath you, and thanks to the use of hallucinogenic drugs, I see through you."
~Bill Hicks

The scene opens in a darkened locker room, the only light visible coming from the plasma screen television on the wall. Any viewer who had paid for the Timebomb PPV recognizes the scene; Orbit's ascension to the top of the company once more. To be exact, viewers find themselves watching the final minutes of the match. The television flashes white once, allowing viewers to see a head in the bottom right corner of the screen, watching the match from a seated position. Black hair, cut short, revealing little scars across the scalp; viewers know exactly who the man is without ever seeing his face. The scene is silent, which is a shame because viewers don't get to hear the impact of Orbit's hand as he pimp slaps Fly on the screen.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around, does it make a sound?

These words flow across the bottom of the screen in text-form, like subtitles to a silent film. On screen, Orbit connects with the Honey Dip.

Of course it does. No one denies this. Yet why can't this same logic be applied to the voices in a man's head?

Dillinger starts moving towards the camera on his knees, as if begging the television. Orbit climbs the top rope, a prone Fly beneath him.

Labels are given to those that hear voices others don't. Insane. Crazy. Freak. But really, these select few are something entirely different.

Dillinger has clasped his hands together, waving them as if saying "please don't." Orbit takes flight. Orbit connects.

They're enlightened.

Dillinger shakes his head in despair as the referee's hand falls the first time.

These select few were chosen as vessels for the mighty voices of nature. Jesus, Mohammed, Mark . . . all were chosen by their masters

Dillinger presses his head to the floor as the referee's hand falls the second time.

Society tells them all to accept their gifts as fabrications of the mind. Really, though, society itself must quit with the denial.

Dillinger covers his head with both arms as the referee's hand falls the third time

The voices are here. The voices are real. And the voices remember, even if the vessel does not.

Suddenly, a roar of the crowd is heard over the video. The camera moves away from the television, zooming in on the side of Dillinger's face. His eyes are shut, his face clenched as if in pain.

"WE HAVE A NEW WORLD CHAMPION!"

Dillinger hasn't a clue to his origins. He sees me only as a nuisance. He seeks Micayle for relief.

"Tonight, at Timebomb... Steve Orbit has won the WCF World Heavyweight Championship for the second time in his career. Simply unbelievable."

Instead of relief, though, Micayle will give him a release. A release of the ignorance I have cast over him, just as I have cast on him in the past.

"He beat not only Jonny Fly, but all the other active former Champions on our roster, Erin."

An ignorance that seems to be cast on all of the WCF. They consider themselves safe. The vessel forgets who he is and suddenly they all forget all he's done.

"What does this mean for the future of WCF, Zach? Jonny Fly has been dethroned!"

The beauty of ignorance, though, is it is easily erased. All it takes is a little information and a persuasive voice.

"I have no idea, Erin. No idea at all."

"Yes you do."

Those words had come from Dillinger himself. His eyes are open, his face relaxed. He turns to the camera. The first thing viewers notice is, for the first time since Mark's return, confusion was absent from his eyes.

"The answer is staring you straight in the face, society. The future is nothing more than the application of the past under a new name."

The second thing viewers notice is the Russian accent.

"You all know the answer, so quit fucking denying it."

The third and final thing viewers notice before the scene closes is the absence of blood anywhere on the body.

---

When the scene reopens, viewers find themselves in a lightly wooded area with an open field further ahead in the distance. A group of people are visible, moving about in a line in the distance, with a single individual standing by yelling at them. Bits of the conversation are carried over to the camera such as "March" and "Halt," making these people either a military unit drilling in the field or a marching band without a single instrument. The camera pans to the right, providing the viewers a glimpse of a leg sticking out from behind the trunk of a wide oak tree. As the camera moves closer, viewers hear a familiar voice singing to himself.

"I'm a young abstainer, and I'm glad to say, Friends of truth and temperance soon shall win the day. . ."

As the camera moves closer, it has to made a wide circle around a growing puddle of brown liquid forming beside the leg of Dillinger. This may confuse viewers, but the answer is soon made clear as Dillinger fills the entire frame. The man is seated with his back against the tree, decked in full fatigues, with a can of Bud Light in his one good hand. He isn't drinking it, though; instead, he's pouring the liquid out onto the ground, thus explaining the puzzle. Dillinger watches the scene his hand is making, speaking all the while.

"The temperance movement began in the United States in the early 19th century, but it wasn't until a century later did the movement finally capture the minds of the Americans. World War I was nearly upon us, and with it came a hatred for anything German. At the time, most of the brews we Americans loved so much bore names with Germanic origins, a key detail that voices of temperance took note of. They believed the Germans were plotting to defeat the American army with alcoholism instead of ammunition. People wanted fighters, not drunkards, in those trenches across the pond."

The stream of beer disappeared, the contents of the can completely expended on the ground. Moving the can over to his right side, he sets it on the ground.

"It was a belief that I share, really. You can have a fighter and you can have a drunkard. But you can't have both."

Dillinger slams his stump onto the can like a hammer, crushing it beneath him.

"Not everyone shares my opinion on this, of course. In fact, my opponent this week at Slam would also stand opposite of me at a debate podium on this topic. Well, maybe not stand, but he'll sit there in his drunken haze and tell me all the benefits of alcohol. I would stand there, listing off all the logical arguments that Science has provided us about the negative qualities of the filth. The degradation of your brain cells, the decimation of your liver, the destruction of your life . . . I would say it all. And Beck will just nod his head and say 'who cares, it still makes me feel amazing.' And those watching will nod their heard in agreement. I will only shake mine in disgust. And Ice's? Well, the only place his head goes is down, forward as he passes out from the amazing feeling.

And then, after all this, he'll wake up in the morning and not remember anything; thus, the cycle will repeat."

Mark reaches into a plastic bag that had been concealed behind the man's back, pulling out a second can of beer.

"'Tis one of the faculties of the mind, really. Your brain is the control center of your body, the power behind everything. Yet all it takes is a slight interference for an outside source to ruin everything. A little pressure and suddenly it doesn't function properly. It slows down, it fails, it forgets. Some people like that aspect of alcohol. They drink it to forget something in their lives. And more often than not, it works.

But what the mind forgets the body remembers. Always remember that, Beckman."

Dillinger holds his stump up to emphasize this point.

"Marks are left on one's body to remind them of the things they did, even when their mind cannot tell them what exactly it was. So come Monday morning, Ice, your body will be giving you signs of the beatdown I gave you the night before. The bruises all over your body? Me. The shoulder out of socket because of my armbar? Me. Your jaws inability to close properly after I hit you with the Dishonorable Discharge? Fucking me, Ice.

You implore me to accept my own problems, Ice, yet you won't do the same. You aren't fighting some chump this week. I am the disciple of Team Science who is on a mission to prove myself to my master. Last week revealed my weakness to finish what I started. I couldn't put away Biohazard on my own, so the good Doctor had to step in. But he's given me a chance to prove myself once more. I've been given a test. I've been given you, Ice.

And I'm going to pass this Sunday, no matter how much you deny it."

Dillinger opens the beer can with his one good hand. He slowly begins to pour the drink onto the ground.

"Is it going to be difficult? Most definitely. I cannot deny that you'll be bringing your best this week, Ice, fueled on by your alcohol. You'll be swinging hard, swinging fast, and swinging early. In the beginning, defense will be my best option, maybe even running around the ring. People will boo me for running away, but really I'll just be biding my time, waiting for your fuel to run out."

The beer is halfway gone.

"Because you'll see, Ice, you'll be doing my job for me. I wondered why I failed to finish what I started last week, and the answer was soon clear: you can have starters and you can have finishers, but you can't have both."

The beer is nearly depleted.

"So you're going to start your downfall for me this week, Ice, without even realizing it. We're going to dance this week until the alcohol is burned off. And when you're stumbling, your brain in that phase where it isn't hindered but still isn't working . . . when all your strengths are depleted, leaving me only Beckman."

The beer is gone. Dillinger sets the can up on the ground.

"I'll crush you."

The stump comes down atop the can as the scene fades out, leaving only a quote at the bottom of the screen.

"The saying goes that Temperance won the battle in 1918, but Alcoholics the war. To the alcoholics who perished in the beginning, though, was it truly a victory?"
~Unknown