Confessionals

[John Rabid]

1. A Confessor’s Tale

Corpus, Christi: Church of the Hallowed Saints. Now.

The confessional box door opened with a wheezing creek. The Confessor that entered was hunched and troubled. The weight of the week’s events hung heavy on the man’s shoulders. Waiting for him inside was a young Hispanic priest, mid twenties; his deep brown eyes and gentle expression changed to concern under an air of cheap whiskey and the bitter hint of cocaine that greeted him. The Confessor coughed; a rasping soliloquy of phlegm rising though the man’s throat as he attempted to form words. The priest could tell instantly that this penance would be an uphill struggle for his “guest”.

The Confessor: Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I don’t remember doing this before. I don’t think I’ve confessed in my life time. Odd isn’t it? Having to announce a confession in a confessional box; you’d think it was obvious. Why else would I sit here?

The man coughed and wheezed.

Priest: Take you time, my son. Are you troubled?

The Confessor: Y--yes.

Priest: What is it that troubles you? Perhaps an addiction?

The Confessor began a gurgled attempt at laughter.

The Confessor: If only my troubles were that simple, Father.

The Priest lent forward; attentive.

Priest: You should have no fear here. Please, begin your confession. God hears and forgives. We will find the answers together.

The Confessor: I have the answers, Father. That’s what terrifies me. They follow me now; haunt me. Scurry in the dark and spy upon my every movement. They burrow their way inside my mind and torment me upon every turn. They--

The confessor coughed, a rasping cry for oxygen.

Priest: Are you okay, do you require assistance?

The Confessor: Not the kind you can provide. Only one other can save me now; now that I have the answers.

Priest: To what? What is it that you know?

A moments hesitation. Dare he begin?

The Confessor: I work for a company based out of Pennsylvania.

Priest: You’re far from home.

The Confessor: We travel; that’s our trade. We travel to your town; winter, summer, it’s makes no difference. We bring chaos and madness in our wake; and when we’re done? You’re all left to shift through the wreckage for pockets of humanity. We’re like this storm, Father. This unstoppable, insane storm, that thunders through and breaks worlds. For fifteen years I’ve worked for this storm. I rode it’s chaos and savored it’s taste. I never questioned why; I only wanted what was owed to me. That’s all. I hid behind my ignorance and wore a coward’s smile. Every year the smile became easier; until now.

Priest: This, “storm”, that you speak. Does it have a name?

The Confessor cleared his throat. The hardest part was now. But there was no going back.

The Confessor: The WCF...I mean the WseaF. I’m not quite sure which way is up anymore. Sometimes its difficult to tell; I live in a world where wolves dress as lambs. Heroes can be cowards in my line of work. Once upon a time, there used to be those that held the line; that kept the balance, but they’re just as petty and as arrogant as those I fear now. There was one though, a good man. But, he fell. Then there was a champion; but he became corrupted. Father, may I ask a question?

Priest: Yes, of course.

The Confessor: Does heaven ever send a devil to do it’s work? Because devils are all we have.

The Priest scowls; not with anger, but confusion.

Priest: Heaven is goodness. It is forgiveness. We don’t--

The Confessor: Then I’m fucked. We’re all fucked. I’m ready to confess now. My sins Father are greed and ignorance; they’re ambition and ambivalence. I cashed the checks and made excuses for evil. Because I still craved the notion of being on the inside. Of having those precious answers others sought with kickbacks and freebies. Because I thought It made me important. Because I know deep down inside that I’m not. I’m Just a little man; who wants to have the last laugh. So when the phone call arrives I jump. Because when a Seth Lerch speaks, you listen. That was the day one boss sought me to uncover the dirt on another. Should’ve known then to back away. But there was no exit from this. If nothing else, there’s that.

Priest: From what?

The Confessor: I was tasked to uncover the truth; to find out about a man named Johnny Rabid. Have you ever heard of this man?

Priest: I don’t watch you’re “sport”. I box. I mean, I used to before my calling.

The Confessor: I’m glad your calling arrived, Father. It probably saved you from us. We’ve had boxers through our doors before; shoulders all hunched and snarling. Seen many of them carted out the exit the same day. Destroyed. Beaten. We eat other sports for breakfast, Father. We dine on their so called “sacred” history and spit out their busted bones after we’re done. We feast on their hubris and call it sweet. But none has done so like the man I fear; like the men he rides with. They’re in charge now. Last week they brought my soul. Sixty five thousand dollars deposited into my bank account. I can afford a real hotel room now. I can buy as much wild turkey as my livers dare take. I should have just closed my eyes and be done with it. After all, that was the deal for all those in attendance on the roof made last week. They where all smart enough to make that deal. I should've just followed...fuck it. Too late now. I was never smart, Father. I never had the brains to look away. I had to keep pushing. To discover the answers. So I dug. Made contact with his partner; Kyle Kemp. I could tell right from the off, from that first moment I saw him on the roof of WCF towers that he knew. Kemp has a stake in the company until late December; I stupidly thought this would protect me. That it would be one monster curious about another. And there was so much to be curious about. This Rabid; he has strength, too much for a man of his size and speed. So I studied his performances; watched as he rag dolled a former champion in Jeff Purse around the ring like he was nothing. The look in Jeff’s eyes; the shock as his back cracked upon the mat! One Suplex after another; over and over again. Four suplex’s...without breaking a sweat. Fifteen years, fifteen and I’ve never seen anything like it.

The recollection brings on a coughing fit. It subsides after a few moments.

The Confessor: Them then there was what happened with Dune; a man of Rabid’s size should never be able to stand toe to toe with that kind of force. But that wasn’t what scares me. It was the look in Dune’s eyes; the thing that infests him, IT knew fear too. Perhaps for the first time, it knew fear.

Priest: Are you okay, do you need?

The Confessor: No, no. I can continue.

Priest: I’ve seen men demolished in matches by opponents with such technique, it appears impossible, but its not outside the realms of possibility--

The Confessor: You don’t understand, the world I live in? When you see something “impossible”; you believe in it. This Dune? What lives inside of him? It’s impossible. In my line of work? Nothing is off the table. Monsters are real to me, Father. Gods and Monsters and worse. This Johnny Rabid? He’s worse. He’s what you prey against at night and hope to your God it never manifests. Father?

Priest: Yes?

The Confessor: Will you say a prayer tonight for two lost souls?

Priest: Will it help your confession?

The Confessor: I believe so. I have to believe it will. Because I can’t save them. I don’t think anyone can.

Priest: Yes, I can do that. Do you have their names?

The Confessor: Get ready for a dash of horrible irony, Father. One is called “Preecha” Kamon, the other considers himself a lost soul; name’s Patrilli.

Priest: Wait. Excuse me, one of them is a Preacher?

The Confessor: Names, not professions, Father. In our business we work with broad brush strokes. It hides our intentions...for the most part. You have to prey for them; Father. Their match up this week with Rabid and Kemp; it’s not what I truly fear. No, Preecha and Patrilli will simply lose this confrontation and move on. No, it’s if Rabid takes...an interest in them. Last time they fought #Beachkrew they where simply made a laughing stock, their punishment will be more severe if Rabid decides to dissect them from the inside out. Rabid, knows how to reach inside a man’s soul and tear it apart. Everything he does, it’s like he uses a scalpel when he speaks. I guess that’s why I’m here. I carry his scares. He’ll do the same to them too; he’ll do it easily. They both have that same boxer’s hubris, those fools that considered themselves invincible, until their shattered teeth clattered upon the floor and their hearts crumbled. This Preecha Kamon; he’s a bouncer of little repute, a third rate hired hand for a pimp scumbag named Armand De La Fontaine. This Fontaine, he’s got a hat full of sins; none of which he’ll ever repent for; he’s an arrogant man to a fault this bastard; and it’s this flaw that he infests deep inside his charge, Kamon, he injects it though cruel punishments straight to back of Kamon’s neck with an upturned ring. Armand’s discipline is his mantra, he believes in masters and servants at his club, The Masters and Margarita; he treats people like cattle; treats Kamon in the same manner, brainwashes Kamon into blindly running into danger for him at every turn like an over eager attack dog. Last week, Kamon barley escaped alive from our champion, Wade Moor. Armand will, of course, tell it differently, just to keep up the pretence that he actually understands this business; but you don’t poke a lion with a stick. That’s what Kamon is doing week after week after week with little in the way of results; while his whelp of a puppet master hides in the shadows and types up meaningless insults on twitter. They’re nothing but threats made from paper; the world knows their true steel now; it snaps the moment a real obstacle approaches. Someone like Dune for example, or Oblivion; who Kamon sulked and sobbed and scurried away from, he could have defied the orders from the ref, but he’s been trained to obey. A slave, not a man. So, instead of standing his ground and fighting the good fight three weeks ago on Slam, he bowed his head and left, leaving a desperate Bonnie Blue to fend for herself against #Beachkrew all alone on Slam, or #Beachslam as it’s now known. That’s our weekly storm by the way; and somewhere, at the bottom of the wreckage this week will be Preecha, demolished by his masters curse. His inability to stand on his own two feet and make his own choices will be his partner’s undoing too; he’ll blindly leave Patrilli high and dry if the order comes; just because a ref in #Beachkrew’s pocket says so. Just because Armand says so. No backbone; this is the deaf man’s true disability; Preecha Kamon, a dog as docile as the prostitutes Armand runs; broken in the same way I suppose.

Priest: I don’t understand. How are these people still in employment when you know they’re involved in the sex trade?

The Confessor: I used to ask that same question myself; but I guess when you fall under the spell of a man like Steve Orbit, when a man like him offers you the keys to a kingdom you never believed you’d ever set foot in; then you become complacent. We’re like the French foreign legion, Father. We even have a man named Legion in our ranks. There’s one golden rule: we don’t ask questions; I guess I forgot that rule. Another reason why I’m here. We have a whole army for whom questions are dangerous avenues to pry into. Especally for our monsters, killer’s like Oblivion. But you have to understand, this Oblivion? Even IT lives in the shadow of Rabid now. I guess we all do. I guess I do.

Priest: And this lost soul you speak?

The Confessor: Patrilli is his name: If Kamon lives in Armand’s shadow then Patrilli is just pleased to occasionally visit. A five eleven lacky in the truest sense; the man has nothing to anchor his life to, so he wanders our halls searching for answers for his lack of history. He’s the latest in a long line of soldiers with mysterious pasts; Legion...Wolf...Jackson White...their fate is always the same; the past. their undoing; because there’s no focus on the present; so they suffocate their careers in mazes of clues and half truths. When the only truth that realy matters is this Sunday on Slam. Preecha and Patrill, two pawns n Armands game, you should prey for them, Priest; for they’re the worst combination; they have no win in them; only a crumbling edifice of promise; that deadman’s swagger; just before walking out into traffic. With a man like Patrili, all you have this xeroxed ghost of Preecha; a cosplayer that pretends to have purpose; but just like his tag partner, no willpower to see the fight through. A man, conveniantly found by Armand just when he needed him. You’d think Patrilli would be suspiicious of Fontaine by now, but no, he’s a loyal soldier eager to please. Just your average cypher for another man’s plans who hasn’t had anything useful to say in months. Look at it this way, from waking up to discover he has no memory to becoming Fontaine’s driver it takes roughtly two weeks. You’d think perhaps he’d check to see if he was a cabbie in a previous life? Seems a natural move in that regard. Losers, scumbags; a deaf mute from thailand with buddist dreams of a lost utopia; while his partner is simply lost; unless he has the sat nav on, then he can drive you anywhere.

Priest: And you want me to say a prayer for these men? Yet why not you?

The confessor takes a moment to answer. The past weeks events unfolding in his mind.

2. The Eyes Of The King.

Backstage at Slam 11/22/15: Then.

Seth Lerch was in a foul mood as the world skipped past him. His steaming cup of coffee lacked the usual poitency required to left his leaden spirits; but he gulped down the latte anyway just to be sure. Backstge at Slam was just as he left it; the company was running like a somewhat well oiled machine, or at least as well as could be expected considering the personal at hand; a gaggle of mostly unemployable roadies with at least three convictions to their names. That crazy edge though was what kept WCF interesting. You never know with a carnival such as Seth’s; ran by mad men and meglomaniacs, which direction it would take. Case in point; the reason why Seth was here tonight. To announce that Jospeh Malignaggi would not be cleared to wrestle Dune at the upcomng ONE event. That was a mayor blow to Seth’s plans; the stabizers where off the ride. And Seth, he needed that stability suddently; he needed things to work more like clockwork then he had first surmised. The idea of his departure was to cause a ripple of chaos so that he would return the conquering hero; but these current events where spiraling out of control. Now was the time to imprint his infulance again; even if he had to do so surreptitiously. And at the centre of this?

The tag team titles.

Seth always considered them the anchor of the company. Rabid had promised he would do what no one had given him the slightest chance of; winning those titles. But that’s exactly what Rabid and kemp accomplished. They proved tanacious; and Rabid proved elusive to pin down. A slippery eel in the ring. Time and again he would come perilously close to losing, and time and again he would find a solution and wriggle out. Like a cockroach, crawling from the aftermath of a nuclear conflict; with gold around his waste and a smug grin for the burnt corpses to behold.

Speaking of burning; this Pantheon giveaway troubled Seth; not because he could elicit a claim on the money himself; but for other reasons; ones he would have to discuss with Rabid in person. But first:

Seth Lerch: Where’s Hank?

Kyle Steel was gargling a thimble of cold mint tea; it was a trick he’d picked up from Andrea Bocelli; or at least his latest E book. Steel shrugged and checked his mobile phone.

Kyle Steel: On his way, sir. Just finishing up an interview.

Hank Brown pushed through a mass of confusion; his tattered corduroy coat had been mended; his hair had suffered a self induced case of re-styling; while his shoes, for the first time in over a year, now managed to keep the rain water from his curling toes. All the above made Seth tut; this would not do. Hank always worked best on the fringes of destitution. What was this Rabid doing?

Seth Lerch: Hank! Get over here!

Hank Brown: Seth, good to see you.

Seth Lerch: Hank, it should NEVER be a good day to see me. The day I walk back into your life is the day you need to worry. Remember what I taught you. “You can do whatever you like....”

Hank finished the sentence

Hank Brown: “...As long as it’s what I want.”

Seth Lerch: I want answers, Hank. Where are they?

Hank had a manila folder under his arm; stuffed with paper clippings. Lines drawn from one incident to another. Hank had, for the briefest of moments, felt like a proper reporter again; his due diligence over the past few weeks restoring some element of the human condition back into his nicotine stained bones. Hank glanced around; this new WseaF was enemy territory now. The atom bomb under Hank’s arm held danger to the touch; a smoking gun ever since Rabid had brought loyalty from the crew with that massive pay out. Suddenly this was his world; while Seth and Hank appeared supicious to the eye. They both had to be cautious now, actually scrap that, only Hank did. The hint of repercussions glinted out of the corner of the ring crew’s leering faces; with all sights trained squarely on Brown. That rag tag crew of misfits and reprobates were onto a good thing now. The stooge better not fuck that up.

Hank Brown: We should talk, in private.

Seth Lerch: Fine. I want to know everything.

Hank nodded.

Hank Brown: You will, Seth. I got it all.

Sometime later; Seth and Hank sat high above the world. The skybox observed the first successful title defense for Rabid and Kemp; their dominance assured for weeks to come as Hank unspooled his findings. Seth never allowed emotion to ruin his scowl; but it did waver here and there. Slight increments of humanity. Seth was never shocked, but his cold heart still understood surprise on occasion. The unusual event observed by time coded eyes that looked upon Seth with telephoto curiosity; the blip in his jaded shell observed, recorded and logged for dreaded prosperity.

The camera zoomed in on Hank; as he tightened the noose around his neck.

3. An Interview With The Devil.

Thursday, WseaF Offices: Then.

Hank sat in Rabid’s glass and steel office overlooking the cold, November skyline of a Penslyvanian dusk. Hank was contemplating the day. This was kind of exciting in a way. Knowing what he knew. Knowing Rabid couldn’t possibly. Secrets used to be his stock and trade before he became a relic of a bygone era. The man no one wanted. A stamp of desperation on a smarter, more savvy generation. To be interviewed by Hank meant you couldn’t do it on your own.You were lazy, unambitious. That sigma stuck with Hank; a mark of Cain upon his career. He hated it, he was here to enhance careers; not devalue his own. What had happened over the past few years? When did Hank Brown become a curse?

“Snap out of it! You’re back!”, thought Hank. This investigation would hold him in good stead going forward. He’d make his mark standing for something again. Hank Brown shouldn't be ignored. His father had taught him well; he’d taught him--

“Good day, Hank. Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Hank heard the chill in Rabid’s voice, as cold and as crisp as the first day of winter. Rabid circled Hank before sitting in his desk chair; that faint wiff of menace placed an icy hand on Hank’s shoulder and squeezed. Suddenly, nothing about the past few weeks seemed like a good idea.

Johnny was dressed as imaculatly as per usual; his charcaol and black suit cutting a looming humanoid shape against the pale cream and white of the office; like somekind of all consuming black hole that no light could escape from. Hank felt himself drawn to it as the world closed in.

Johnny Rabid: We haven’t had a chance to talk, you and I. I’d like to rectify that today, set some things right. You understand?

Hank’s throat felt parched; as if his saliva was evaporating under a desert sky.

Hank Brown: Actually I don’t. Not really. What needs to be set right?

Rabid leaned back in his chair, linked his fingers together and contemplated.

Johnny Rabid: I’m here to help, Hank. That’s always been my goal. I know #Beachkrew can seem...a little cantankerous at times. But we’re impaitent to get things done. That can sometimes manifest itself as arrogance or even aggression when pushed. That’s regrettable. I’m trying to change that perception, Hank. Last week was the genesis of that. This week I’m giving Preecha and Patrilla a shot at making a name for themselves. Right now they’ve proven to be completely ineffectual. A blank firing threat. But maybe, give the propper motivation, they can prove uselful for the company; after all, we’ll always need midcard talent. Just as long as they know their place. Like others should do.

Hank Brown: Others?

Johnny attempted that practiced smile of his. He was still no better at it.

Johnny Rabid: This Armand De La Fontaine. He’s a user; a manipulator. That doesn’t particularly upset me. What does concern me is that he has this delusional idea that he can make a difference here. A man that runs a sex trade operation considers himself an equal. When I find bugs Hank, I have a tendency to squash them. When I see a Armand De La Fontaine walking these halls as if he has the right to stand upright? It aggravates me. So, what to do?

Hank Brown: I...Look. Do you want me to interview you over this match? I can set something up; get a team together. We can discuss locations if you’d like; perhaps--

Johnny Rabid: Hank?

Hank Brown: Yes?

Rabid un-linked his fingers and leaned forward.

Johnny Rabid: I never demand respect; I believe it has to be earned. Something tells me, I have to earn it from you. Something tells me; that you’re not entirely on board with me. Would that be correct?

Hank’s throat felt as if it was on fire. He picked up a pitcher of water and poured out a glass, but he stopped before placing it to his mouth; his senses catching something out of the corner of his eye; a dark mist descending; clouding his periphery with strange ideas of discomfort. Those ideas taking root; snagging Hank’s mind with imagery he couldn’t shake.

Johnny Rabid: Hank? Secrets can be useful things. But arrogance, like the arrogance of a Armand De La Fontaine? Well, it carries penalties. And no matter how far we run sometimes, we have to suffer those penalties before we can understand respect. Even if those lessons cut deep.

On the last phase Hank bit down deep on the lip of the glass; it cracked, slicing into his mouth’s tender flesh. Hank wanted to react, to put the glass down and scream, but he couldn’t; frozen in some kind of paralyzing haze that controlled his every movement.

Johnny Rabid: Hank? Hank? Are you okay?

Hank Brown: Help...help me...please...

Hank brown chewed the glass as it ripped open his tongue. Leaving two long red streaks of blood oozing down his mouth to his jaw as he fell to the ground; his face had taken up a horrific visage; as if he had bitten into a rich vein with a set of cruel, sharp fangs.

Johnny Rabid tilted his head to one side and observed the message as he stood up. For a moment he forgot himself and savored the spectacle below him. But the illusion slipped for only for a few seconds before he called the desk and asked for a car to be called; Hank would be taken to the infirmary. Eight stitches stapled into his mouth; an operation that underlined a very important edict.

Secrets stay secrets.

4. The Endless Prison of Hank Brown.

Hank stood up and opened the door of the confessional box. Nothing more would be said today as his throat seized up. He heard the Hispanic man ask him more quetions ; but his voice was already a distent echo as the doors to the church opened and sunlight burnt into Hank’s sleep deprived pupils. In that moment he wondered if this was what the man with the dogs had gone though. The waitress. All those suicides that remained unquestioned. His phone buzzed in his pocket with Kyle Kemp’s number. As he had done all week, Hank Brown hung up. He would speak of this no more. Sometimes the monsters win.

While across town; Kyle Kemp looked at his phone with an impatient distain as he sat opposite Johnny Rabid; all the while Wade Moor spoke a rousing speech for the troops in attendance inside the WINO-bago...

Wade Moor: Listen to me. Listen to Rabid. Listen to your very own instincts. This is how we stick together...

Kyle Kemp: Damn it, Hank. I thought you could be trusted.

Johnny Rabid knew the answer to that question.

Yes, yes Hank could be trusted. Now and forever more.

Johnny Rabid: Problems?

Kyle shook his head.

Kyle Kemp: No, nothing that can be resolved.

Johnny Rabid looked at those tag belts and contemplated the future.

Johnny Rabid: True: there’s nothing that can’t be resolved. Given time.

FIN.