Post by Benjamin Atreyu on Jan 31, 2016 3:31:38 GMT -5
"I'm not sure if you've ever noticed this, Benjyboy, but there are times in literature where the artist loses control of the effects his work has on others. Specifically, I'm referring to when the audience finds a dramatic book funny, and a comedic book horrifying.
"Now, by no means is it because the author is bad. This effect is common with some of the world's best writers. Instead, it has to do with people finding absurdity in the truth, and an unfortunate truth in absurdity. People laugh reading David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest, and then cower while reading Don DeLillo's White Noise. Nothing wrong with it, it just reveals an interesting dynamic about truth; most people don't have it.
"See, the reaction of laughter or horror is one of a jarring nature, usually expressed in response to surprise. For example, the idea of cigarettes causing cancer is so well known that no one reacts to it anymore, hell people shrug and act like there isn't any helping it before they light another up. Now, tell those people the fat-free milk they've been drinking will give them warts on their ass cheeks, watch the sales of milk go down like a mother fucker.
"This is where it gets really funny. These writer's aren't unveiling the dirty world of milk ass warts. They are talking about people; their actions, dreams, thought processes, their ticks, habits, flaws, instincts, and it either makes people laugh, scream, or resort to acts of extremism. Authors get death threats all the time. What does that say about the reader? It says that people understand so little about themselves that looking at words that reflect day-to-day habits is damn near dangerous.
"What I'm trying to say is people are clueless of even the most intimate of aspects in life. People are essentially blind for the majority of their existence, unaware of who they are, and then they die. Gone. Dead. No more. One singular person is already a solitary fragment in a fraction of a picture, but taking into consideration the person's view of themselves, they aren't even that."
This is how he seemed to talk most of the time. In a stream of consciousness. I'm not even sure he remembered that the point he started with was how people laughed at what was supposed to be dramatic, and vice versa. He kept talking. None of it was wrong, but it unnerved me how his view of the world had his mind on the run.
It kept going, never staying in one spot for too long, in constant pursuit of something. Maybe he wanted to talk himself into an answer, one that he had been looking for. He gave that sort of impression; that, despite acting as if he had all the answers, he was still missing something. If he found it, maybe his rambling would have a theme, a sort of center that connected all of it.
I would hate to give the wrong impression of him. He isn't insane. Its not like he just started rambling unprompted. There were no conspiracies to conquer, no empire to beat, it was all observations. It was only about people.
It was like he was a sniper, sitting in a high tower of sorts, ready to pick off moving specs without hesitation. Then something happened; he peered through his scope and instead of finding a passive victim to his catharsis, he found a subject of fascination, something to study and understand, and in his fascination, the trigger was forgotten all together. Even then, as he talked to me, he was examining. Somehow, people had become a sort of Hunter S. Thompson-esque caricature; a drooling mess of an open book waiting to be written about.
This. This conversation (or rant as its one-sidedness would suggest) was just a sliver in the manifesto. A long unfocused avalanche of thoughts, notes, and theories. This would be less of an entry and more of a foot note in the encyclopedic drama that was his other-worldly perception.
Michael Easton was a strange man.
-.-.-
RIIIIIIIING sang the phone, RIIIIIIING.
-.-.-
The whipping of the Minnesota wind.
-.-.-
"Ever been in a bar fight, Benjyboy?"
-.-.-
Blue Ford Pick-up pulls into the parking lot.
-.-.-
Drinking coffee as they talked about Merzbow.
-.-.-
Focus in, Benjamin. I try to recall it all, get the events straight in my head. It all started with that phone call, didn't it? That ring was the cry of the rock slide. I press on over the snow inundated road. Anxiety is stretched tight over my chest as I can feel my heartstrings whirl in wild waves of violent hysterics. The world is raging white noise as my breath seems to keep stealing itself away from me. Its not hard, inhale. In. Hold it. Out. In. Hold it. Out. There. I'm aware of my teeth clenching, grinding. Once I relax my jaw, then I see my knuckles turning white as I grip the wheel with an unconscious intensity. My body seems to be a mess of unaccounted for actions and with every diffusion, another muscle tightens else where. I give up the fight as I feel my jaw tighten again. Blood in the water. You smell it and you keep swimming.
Its all bits and pieces colliding in my head, my senses trying to take it in in what grasp I can manage. Just have to pull it all in and push out in increments, gain a base and build everything else on it. The windshield wipers. Start there. Left, right, left, right, left right. Pull back, the dashboard. This becomes the entire front of the car, working its way over the entirety of the car until I can perceive myself moving down the road in a singular image. The raging roar is the wind crashing against the flat plains of the vehicle, the shakes and jumps are the bumps in the road. This is all one singular motion, not a diced series of images stabbing forthwith into my skull and eyes.
Then there is the corpse. No, not a corpse yet. A soon-to-be-corpse. He's out cold for now, half-naked, laying in the backseat. He brings all of this to life. Until the corpse (no, soon to be corpses not dead yet that's the point of this) is inserted into the picture, this is just any other day. The (not) corpse is a time bomb. It is the suitcase in any spy film. It is the singularity threatening the collapse the world. Threatening absolute deconstruction of Benjamin's, my, world, it is god and devil, the the gun and shield. It, above anything else, is an ultimatum.
Enough about that. Your nerves are getting frayed, buddy. Make this any other day, remove the corpse (its easier to think of him as already dead, isn't it) and make this any other day. Think of a joke. Any joke. A dumb joke. You don't have to laugh at it, it just has to be there, taking up space that would otherwise be left idle, vulnerable to other thoughts. Just a joke.
When is a door not a door? When? When its ajar! No laugh. To be expected. That joke wasn't funny even when I first heard it, whenever that was.
When is a man not a man? Stop. When he's a corpse. That's the trouble with the inner voice of the brain. Lacking the ability to filter it, it turns into a mess of unwarranted (often times unwanted) thoughts that turn into viruses, plaguing the ball of meat, electricity, and fat until its rotted itself out. When it's a corpse, it no longer has a concept of personality, idea, thought, soul. It is no longer a person, but an object with a former owner. It isn't Ron. It's Ron's corpse. He left it like an apartment. All of his stuff is there, but there is no sign of him, no light as it were. The shell is just a fading reminder of Jeff's residence and eventual eviction. You, or I as it were, can say its not a corpse, but in the end his death has already come, guaranteed as it were. He died in that parking lot when he stepped out of his car. It won't be when you hang him upside in that tree. It won't be as you walk away. Its already happened. He IS a corpse. He is dead. Nothing can be done. Keep driving.
This is not a matter of voices. I haven't taken on the properties of one of WCF's craziest. This is a battling of thoughts, and the farther I drive on this empty road, the messier the two juxtaposed points become.
It, above anything else, is an ultimatum. I'm not sure if its possible to make anyone understand my position, but this is a matter of he dies in the middle of the Minnesota cold or I do in the middle of the public eye. I would like to think his would be far easier, for me at the very least.
Thinking about all of it highlights how we (him and I, the corpse and I, the ultimatum and I) have left proper society in the background. Not that I've found a piece of land unclaimed where all acts are legal. No, if found, I'm dead, but this is one of the cracks in the wall where communication and public sight become non-existent. Nothing said here is recorded, nothing done - unless confessed do - is noted.
I look off to my left and see a thick regiment of trees. This is as good a spot as any. Going to have to walk the rest of the way. Emerging from the car I'm hit with a rush of cold air. I should have never come back to this state. That's all I can think as I embrace everyone's favorite defining characteristic of this shit stain on the United State's map. Burn it all down, leave it as a pile of ash. No one should live here anyways.
I stare through the trees and see how deep I can see into it, but it isn't far before it becomes just a composition of wood on wood on wood. Perfect. I rub my hands together for warmth as I move to the other side of the car. The walk was going to be a bitch with his...
The door is not a door. I race to it and throw it open. Nothing inside. It, above anything else, is an ultimatum. Well, now its a loaded gun. I look down and see footprints in the snow. Its heading to the forest.
In one way this became a bit easier. I grab my bag filled with the rope and tools before I take off after him. In another way its become that much harder. He is conscious and running for his life. He won't be able to get far in bare feet, but this will end with a fight. He will struggle but he has to die.
The anxiety is back, its sinking its nails into my ribs as it clings for dear life. I race for my salvation like my heart races for oxygen.
The snow crunches under my feet as I dart past trees, the sound of my own breathing over powering everything.
-.-.-
A few weeks ago I was sitting at a upscale cafe in Time Square. I won't pretend to remember all the details, such as what I was wearing or what I was sipping, but I recall sitting adjacent to a table of hipsters discussing their favorite musical artists, trying to convince the various people around them that they were somehow superior in taste without saying it outright (I do have to give credit to the hipster's ever vigilant search for new ways to subconsciously let people know how 'cool' they were, because it appear to take more effort to be direct by talking down from their pedestal). Merzbow, Fuji Grid TV (Macintosh Plus was apparently 'too mainstream' now), Stars of the Lid, B L A C K I E, Cities Aviv, Dälek. This was their world, their trophies of experience. They tossed their names into the air to get lost in the wind, and we, those around them, got to taste the splash damage.
I don't know why, of all the things I recall about that day, those silly little puppet's of the 'pay attention to me' game stuck out crisp and clear. Maybe it was the absurdity of their 'accomplishments'. They, much like Michael Easton had said, knew so little about themselves, because they never had to test themselves, and thus this was the height of their euphoria. This, against my current position, seemed to have a certain calm and irony to it that my mind clings to like a buoy in the middle of a shit storm in the ocean.
I was separate now, out of that bubble, beyond the shell, in a forest chasing after a half naked man I planned to kill. The world was back with those hipsters, moving to a inertia that never ceased. My movements didn't so much as send a ripple through it. I am too far away, but that is far from the point.
Cafe. New York. Hipsters, Merzbow, and all. I held the latest issue of TIME magazine in one hand as I sipped my drink with a technicians movements, minute and slight. My gaze didn't hit the words on the page, they burned right through them. Nothing they wrote interested me, I needed it to avoid eye contact with the people around me. At times like this I just wanted to zone out and think, feel free to dive deep into thought.
Riiiiiiiiiiing, the phone sang, riiiiiiing. My brain jumped, one foot back in reality, my thoughts struggling to keep assembled.
There was nothing I hated more than being bothered while I am thinking, even for small questions and inconsequential interactions. To have someone engage me in this state would be like placing a wall mid stream. It could be moved around and usurped, but it was there, getting in the way, backing up my fluid process.
I ignored it, letting my accursed cell phone continue to sing its heart out, begging for my attention. I tried to salvage my zoned out state by putting pins in the points racing through my head. If he/she were important enough, they would leave a message or call later.
This was my first mistake.
If I had answered. If I had not chosen to indulge my impulse to ignore the world. I could have intercepted the beginning of this transaction and crushed it there. The power would have been mine to hang up and send a message that I was not interested. I didn't though, and thus I left a door wide open, because they did indeed end up leaving a message for me.
I sat there, in that innocuous little space of peace and white noise, unaware of the time bomb (the loaded gun) that sat in my pocket. I went back to thinking, ironically digging into ignorance in my attempt to dig out.
Nothing else interrupted me. The hipsters dispersed after a while, and the background score of city-animation continued as I'm most sure it does so right now. There were no omens, no warnings, signs, or divine intervention. All I got was a riiiiiing before life began to collapse on me. Hitchcockian is how some would describe this scene, I guess.
Left the cafe. Message unchecked. Got home. Message unchecked. Went to bed. Message unchecked. Woke up. Message Unchecked. If you look at it, you might be surprised how often you don't do something. It may seem like activities occur at regular intervals, and by all means that's true, but the activities vary, creating a sort of feeling of constant occupation. Some point in that occupation, I got around to checking my messages.
"Hello there, Benjyboy. Michael Easton here. Not sure if you recognize the name at all, but we share a common bond in the unfortunate brotherhood of WCF," he laughed all friendly-like, his voice portraying the utmost sense of homeliness, the bastard, "See, I was there for a fairly short time before dipping out, but since then I've been keeping tabs on the place. Paying attention to its comings and goings, and I couldn't help noticing that you were one of its comings.
"Let me start by saying I'm definitely a fan. Have been for a while now. I love the little touches you put out there. Above most things, I appreciate details in a performers presentation, and it is obvious you've worked out yours. For instance, calling your new finisher 'A Seraphim's Call'. It seems only us atheists can appreciate the nuanced aesthetic of christian imagery.
"Either way, to get to the point of why I called; I have an offer I want to make to you. The thing is I don't want to bother doing it over the phone, because I feel I can make the pitch far more effectively in person. So, if you would be interested in setting up a meeting between the two of us, I'm sure I can make it worth your time. The one request I make is that the meeting takes place in Minnesota since my work allows less pliability for travel than yours does, unfortunately.
"Now, I understand if you might be a tad hesitant, but I'm sure you can appreciate the act of one intellectual reaching out to another amidst the smoke and fog of ignorance. It is not an occurrence that comes along with any regularity, and I would be quite disappointed if you missed out on a chance to take advantage.
"Either way, I'll be waiting anxiously for your reply, my friend. Get back to me at your own leisure."
Click. Dead. Quiet. The time bomb. The loaded gun. The ultimatum. How did he get my number? He was right, I was hesitant to contact him back. However, maybe because he appealed to the sympathetic intellectual in me, his sort of 'teaser pitch' had caught my interest and I made my second mistake; I consulted my caller ID and contacted him back.
-.-.-
The neighborhood resembled something from a hacky Bret Easton Ellis novel; cracked concrete, decaying brick, disenfranchisement and all. I was worried about turning a corner and finding a dead hooker or a snuff film taking place.
Not sure if any of you are aware of this, but one point in our wonderful country's history, St Paul was the murder capital, known across the nation as 'Murderopolis'. Now, St Paul isn't quite as intense anymore, but the remnants of such a persona remain, and I, walking down that sidewalk, refusing getting caught in a car more expensive than the tin cans that had driving around here, couldn't help but feel I was being led into a trap.
Was I to be jumped? What if Michael had managed to play to my sensibilities just so he could leave me dead in the middle of this city, strip me of my immediate wealth, and get off scott-free.
Now, I was a bit familiar with Michael Easton prior to his message and subsequent communications. He was a up-and-coming type that had made a name for himself for his tendency to poke bears and fires. He seemed to enjoy making things difficult for himself so he could pull out on top. After a string of matches where he went undefeated, apparently he blew a fuse, lost his last match, and disappeared off the face of the Earth. Something I was not completely unfamiliar with.
Now that wouldn't normally get my attention, but I did a bit of research and made myself familiar with his personal philosophy; a lot of thoughts on chaos and objective observations of the universe. I found we had a couple ideas in common. From what I could tell, he had a good head on his shoulders, able to at least hold his own if need be, something I found to be quite rare in my list of contacts. Maybe it would be worth checking out his offer?
I had to wonder what his game plan was (if it wasn't to kill me in the middle of my home state). Was he planning a come back? Did he want to piggyback off of my fame? Did he want money? What could I gain from a man who couldn't last two months in WCF? Did it matter? Despite whatever doubts I had, I was waiting for him outside of a shady apartment building anyways...and waiting. and waiting. and waiting...
The faint idea of a trap slowly faded and was replaced with the inkling of an idea that I was being led on as a joke. How typical would that be of the world? Make me travel half way across the country, spending money out of my pocket, forcing me to stand like an idiot outside in the middle of shitcity, just to look like an idiot. It had been a half-an-hour already and I wasn't about to be somebody's fool. Just as I began to walk away, I heard a call from over head.
"Hey, Benjyboy!" Michael yelled down from his window, "Don't go away mad, mang."
I looked up and gave him a sneer.
"Oh, c'mon," he laughed, "I just wanted to see how long you would stand there waiting for me. Was surprised you waited as long as you did, shows a sense of determination, or, dare I say, a sense of desperation."
"I came out of curiosity," I replied in a cold tone to show my lack of amusement, "nothing more. I didn't come to have my time wasted, but if that is all you are going to do, I can catch the next plane back to where I came from and this can be the last time we ever talk."
"Oh, don't be that way," it was obvious that he took next to none of this seriously, "I wasn't lying. I do have an offer for you. If you'll entertain me for a moment, I think you'll see why we should continue to talk."
"I don't see how, but fine, I'll entertain your request."
"Good," he exclaimed as he clapped his hands together, "one moment, Benjyboy, I'll be right down to let you in."
I'm not sure if I've gone over this before, but I despise the nickname 'Benjy'. I'm not sure who started saying it first, Blake Updegraff, Waylon Cash, or John Gable, but it has since become a repeating constant in my career, one of the few I can't seem to shake. At no point did I give ANYONE the okay to call me Benjy, not as a friendly gesture or otherwise, but its spread across the entire locker room like a plague designed specifically for me.
Ben would work fine enough. That is a dignified and fitting shortening of my name. Plenty of people on this planet get to walk around by the moniker of Ben, but not me. They give me the childish name of Benjy, as if I were some kind of adolescent character from a half-assed sitcom from the fifties. It's something you name a dog, not a competitive fighter/business mogul/public figure.
I've even had fans (of WCF, since it seems I have none of my own) stop and call me by that god-awful nickname, as if somehow we had worked up some basic level of acquaintanceship in the half-a-second between our eyes meeting and their big-dumb-fat-faces opening up to spit half-slurred words at me.
No. My name is not Benjy. Its Benjamin Atreyu - Mister Atreyu - God Given Greatness - Benjamin - Sir - NOT FUCKING BENJY!
But thats quite besides the point, isn't it?
Walking through his apartment, I got the feeling that I probably should have been wearing a protective suit of some sort...or maybe armor. It was a shithole in the simplest sense. I couldn't tell if this displayed a sense of desperation of Mister Easton's part, or if it showed a complete disregard as was per usual in his public persona? I couldn't pick out quite yet, but thankfully we reached his domicile and exited the horrifying painting of disrepair that was the rest of the apartment building.
Much to my surprise. His apartment was quite nice. It was partly refurbished with a hardwood floor, the walls freshly painted, and the wiring didn't stick out from the walls, sparking alarmingly. Flat screen 50 inch. A sizable book collection. Leather furniture. Modern granite table. If I were living slightly below my current class, I definitely wouldn't feel bad in a spot like this.
"What exactly is it you do for a living again?" I asked, peering around the room.
"We'll get to that soon enough," he replied, waving it away," for now, find a seat and make yourself comfortable."
Gesturing over to the living room, I casually strolled through the apartment and found a seat as he stepped into the barely separate kitchen. Walking out, two drinks in hand, he took a seat across from me and laid one of the drinks before me, sipping on his own.
"Now, I promise we will get to the business that brings you here," he started, keeping his eye on his drink, "but I want to work towards it. I got some things on my mind right now, and since I very rarely have anyone in the apartment, I feel you are as good as any to discuss them with."
"Mmhmm," I replied with a cocked eyebrow.
"For instance, this whole Tila Tequila deal. What are your thoughts on it?"
For those of you lucky enough to not know, or not remember, what he is referring to. Around that time, there was a news (I call it that begrudgingly) story going around about 'famous-for-being-dumb-and-hot' Tila Tequila and how she was posting on Facebook and twitter that she thought that the world was flat. Before the B.o.B. song, before the Tyson response song. Needless to say, it caused quite a stir.
I was so taken back by his question that I hadn't noticed how his gaze had switched from his drink to me, as if observing me, looking to see how I would answer. Trying to dig some particular detail out of me that would reveal something about me. Much out of instinct, I restrained my impulse reaction of shock, keeping it under the skin as I raised my drink to my lips with the same precision as I did in the cafe when he had called me, keeping a calm and seemingly thoughtful demeanor.
"Not sure what thoughts I can offer," I replied, chuckling a bit, "you've got a person famous through social media blasting non-sense into the ether. Just another case of stupidity with a constantly open mouth."
"I'm disappointed, Benjyboy," Easton frowned, "I thought you were smarter than that."
My eyes widen, there was no hiding my shock. Don't tell me someone like him believed in such nonsense. For a moment, I felt exposed sitting in that closed off room with someone who I then thought believed in the unlikely theory of a flat world. That was a level of stupid I was not ready to battle with on the spot.
"Don't tell me-" I began.
"Hmm? Oh. OH!" he laughed, "Of course not. No. Far from it. That's not what I meant."
"Then enlighten me, if for no other reason than to put my thoughts at ease."
"See, what you have to realize is that even with how things immediately appear, there is an alternate possible truth. Consider this. What is more likely? That a public figure is willing to disregard centuries of firm science, oooor, that some stupid celebrity bitch suddenly realized she wasn't as relevant as she used to be, and thus had to say something incredibly outlandish to get all that attention back."
"Definitely possible."
"More than possible, my friend. Its likely," he grinned, distorting his smile into a devilish appearance, "In this culture, we have built an addiction to attention. Now, its always been there, since there have been inventors, artists, and a need to get laid. People have fought for attention, but the difference now is that our culture has designed itself to absorb and reflect sensationalism almost instantaneously. News outlets, social networking, sharing, trending topics, mass connection in communication. Even beyond the technology; we, in the world of media, have found that insanity and stupidity sells, we've processed, tagged, and priced freak outs.
"You take someone like Ms. Tequila, who has made her living through the world of viral marketing, and it seems natural that she would be attuned to such workings in the world. She needs to get traffic, sell her pictures, and put herself in the spotlight.
"And then, like a Grinch with tits. She got an idea. An awful idea. A wonderfully awful idea. Now, let this be a lesson, don't ever trust anyone with a PR team. After a few creative meetings, she walks out of an office with her new plan 'post stuff so ridiculous that people won't be able to ignore it'. And she did, and it worked.
"Wanna know why it worked? Because the result is two-fold, and from there it spawns in many directions, but lets stick with the two; those who agree and those who don't agree. She says the world is flat, someone responds 'yes it is. thanks for speaking the truth' and then buys her pictures. Or, she says the world is flat, someone responds 'NO IT ISN'T YOU FUCKING IDIOT! I HATE YOU' and then buys her pictures. They both inevitably share her posts. Now the one who disagrees wants to reveal her stupidity, so he ends up getting more traffic to her facebook page, and then more people disagree and yell at her.
"Why? Because they WANT to believe she is that stupid. They hated her far before they ever heard about her comments, but now they have more ammunition. They will ignore everything else just to believe she is dumb. Its the same thing that keeps people thinking Jesse James was a hero, that DB Cooper survived, that celebrities are immortal. We want to believe in the myth.
"People set up barriers in their mind. The things in the barriers are true, and everything else is false. Now the things aren't in the barrier because they are true, they are true because they are in the barrier."
This is just as I mentioned before. Michael Easton goes on these long thesis statements, sounding as if they've been compiled after years of observations, but they seem to just go on and on, as if he desperately was looking for an ending sentence to sum it all up. Also, if any of you find this speech about barriers familiar, congrats, you're one of the few who saw my promo against Tiffany, thanks for having a morbid sense of curiosity.
However, this one rant wasn't completely without an end. Unfortunate really, since it set up a false sense of hope that all such rants would end this way.
"My point is that they perpetuate their own image of her. People run on what they can see and they fill in the spots in between. More than facts, logic, and ideas, people pay attention to images. Its a mythology, and people are designed to follow mythologies of all sorts. Its the reason you call yourself 'God Given Greatness' and use a finisher called 'A Seraphim's Call'. Tell me Benjamin, do you LIVE in Minnesota?"
"I live in several states to be honest. I was born in Minnesota, but I have homes in several parts of the country, and even one in Europe."
"Good," he replied, "Now, never EVER tell the media that."
"Hmm?"
"Do you wanna know what I do for a living?"
"Sure," I felt like I was being thrown around. His thought process was all over the place.
"I work in News. More to the point, I'm a nightcrawler. I travel around and capture footage of horrific events. I literally put tragedy in a frame to shock the world. For a job like that you have to understand how the mind works. You have to juxtapose images against each other."
"Yeah?"
"Well, think about it this way? If you travel all over the place, what do you own?"
"Land?"
"Parts of places. In the world's eye, if they know you have houses in several states, you seem like an invader, a tourist. You own jack shit in their eyes except escapism. Now, as far as the world knows now, you are from Minnesota, you live in Minnesota, and in that train of thought, you are a Minnesotan. You can't be a Minnesotan if you play in New York. You can't be a warrior for your home state if you are caught fucking other cities."
"I'm not sure I'm following you."
"You have to make the world think you not only live in Minnesota, but that you ARE Minnesota. Make Minnesota yours. Own that fucking state. Everyone else is just occupying your space. The sooner you have people believing that, the more you'll be able to use that to your advantage."
"So, what you called me here to offer me is...Minnesota?"
"GODDAMN IT, ATREYU," he smashed his glass against the table, "Are you not fucking listening? I'm telling you to focus your image! The difference between you and Tila Tequila is that people are fucking talking about that dumb whore! Atreyu who? That dip shit with the dumb nickname who can't wrestle his way out of a paper bag? Who gives a shit about you? When was the last time someone picked you to win? When was the last time someone mentioned you without you being directly involved in the interaction?
"You've come back, but no one fucking cares. No one cared about Head of Talent Relations until Henson took it from you. You didn't beat Vengeance, Vengeance lost that match. You are a second note in WCF's score. Wanna know why? Because your ego is keeping you from doing what you need to do. LIE. DECEIVE. CREATE. MANIPULATE! And we're going to start by making you look like you fucking run Minnesota!"
"I can't do this on my own?"
"You're smart, Atreyu," he seemed to be calming down after his outburst, but I still felt tense, even if I was hiding it, "but you're dumb where it counts."
I stood up, "Look, I'm a fighter, not an actor."
"Oh my god, you can't still believe this sport is about fighting, do you?"
"What else would it be about?"
"EVERYTHING! This sport is everything but fighting! Mediocre competitors have gotten the World Title before you have, because you won't play the real game! People shit on you! Image is everything!"
That was the seed 'image is everything'. He really sunk that one deep in my head. The conversation went on for hours, but it basically boiled down to this; winning meant nothing if it didn't send a message. I could win a million matches, but if it was only a victory, it was as good as non-existent. For my wins to matter, for me to dig my fingers and make myself look like a monster, I needed to start by building myself, the mythology of Atreyu so-to-speak. I needed to be Tila Tequila without the stupidity, I needed people to care.
Why did I need Michael? He assured me he had connections that I needed and he had a mind that could think outside the box I set for myself. Remember, he made a living out of getting reactions out of people, and then made a career of finding shots that would do the same.
I remember upon parting, I lamented the need to go through all this trouble. Michael just smirked and replied with a small piece of wisdom.
"It'll be worth it. Its a sure thing. People love their mythology. Place God at one end of the spectrum and watch the world begin to shift itself to revolve around what was once an edge, dangling itself over oblivion to keep shape and form, the only kind it has ever known. One could imagine the result of taking the aforementioned God and throwing him over the cliff, what a tragedy that would become as the world would cease to dangle, but instead crash against the rocks."
Again, if you recognize that little excerpt, congrats, I guess more people saw my shoot on Tiffany than I thought. Yes, Michael supplied those cameramen, yes he supplied the idea for where and when we shot it, and yes, I was stupid enough to lower my guard because of it.
-.-.-
Being seen in Minnesota is not the same thing as being SEEN IN Minnesota, catch my drift? I could shoot all the footage I wanted of me along side monuments, but Michael convinced me that it I needed to make my presence felt internally as well. Which leads us to the toppling structure of this story. This is when things go to shit. Last week, before the last Slam before Fifteen, I found myself immersed in the night life of the Twin Cities, a scene I hadn't been a part of in quite sometime. It was a bit refreshing, but I wasn't there to enjoy myself.
I was to assert my appearance in the fray. To become a known entity of consequence. Which I guess was easier for me than making some ridiculous accusations like 'lizard people exist' or 'jews run the world' or 'children aren't awful balls of stupid'. As far as I knew, it would just be walk in, puff my chest out, and then leave.
This was not the case.
I walked down the street. People noticed. I heard calls and cries from various directions. People telling me I suck, telling their friends who they just saw, screaming about what they hoped would happen to me at Fifteen (hint: none of it good). I smirked and soaked it all in. The whirlwind had finally centered around me, and despite every nerve in my body wishing that I wouldn't enjoy it, there is a kind of joy that comes from being the person everyone talks about. My confidence rose to a new high.
Too high, I can see in hindsight.
I made my way through the streets, as if piercing a fog, and eventually found myself sitting pretty on a stool in some third rate bar (if I were smart, it could have been a second rate bar like The Triple Rock Social Club, but alas, I'm not smart, as pointed out BY THIS ENTIRE FUCKING STORY). There was a tap on my shoulder and I decided to face it, smug smile and all.
"You're that Mistah Atreyu fellah, arnchya?" I'm not sure why I'm portraying him to have a southern accent, he didn't. I guess I just always picture ignorant drunks to be southern. Blame the movies. Either way, I nodded and raised my drink to him.
"That would be me," All calm, no shake. Like. A. Boss.
"Well, ain't that a shame," he replied, "You could have walked into any bar, but you walked into this one. You HAD to walk into this one."
Uh oh, overzealous fan with a penchant for melodramatic hacky movie dialogue. This sounds like a job for 'SITUATION DIFFUSER' MAN. HE-...He isn't available? My will is going to take a mind of its own and force me to retort in a spiteful way? Oh, well carry on then.
"Talk out of your ass much?" That's it Benjamin, start the train wreck that will eventually lead you to chasing down half-naked men in the middle of a freezing fucking forest! Ever just wish you could time travel so you could choke your past-self out? Oh, how little I knew.
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, I didn't know you kept your ears in your ass too," the immaturity of my comments didn't escape me at the time, but boy was I proud of that line.
"You wanna fucking go, boy?"
"Anywhere with you dar-" that's when his fist collided with my face, which was quickly followed by my body colliding with the floor. I got to my feet with a smooth single movement, but while warning sirens were going off in my brain, I failed to notice the other man from the meathead's posse standing behind me. He wrapped his arms around me to restrict my movements. A moment of panic, but I brought my head back and I felt it connect with cartilage, creating an audible snapping sound.
I was fully aware now. Aware and scared. I could see more people approaching. Somewhere in the noise I recalled Michael talking about how he use to get into bar fights all the time, but he was a scrapper use to the bullshit tactics that plagued unregulated fighting. I was a gentleman in a sport, occupied for years by rules of various sorts. No rules here, and all the weapons you could carry.
In fear, that age old emotion, I lashed out, swinging wildly. Oh, missed, and hit in the side with a solid body punch. I felt a bottle beside me, without thinking I grabbed hold of it and brought it down on the head of the man who had his fist in my side. The bottle shattered and the man screamed as he reeled backwards, giving me enough room to try and dart through. If I were lucky that would have been enough, but as I'm sure you've gather by now (between needing to kill a guy in the middle of a forest, losing said guy in said forest, meeting Michael Easton, or even signing up to wrestling in WCF AGAIN) I'm not lucky. I felt a kick in the back of my leg and I came down on my knees without a moment to think. I felt a pool cue go around my neck and I grasped wildly to keep it from cutting off the airflow in my windpipe.
"Sonuva bitch," the first man from before muttered, "I was just gonna give ya shit and fuck wit' you a bit, but then you hadta go and start spewing that nonsense, didn'tya?" Bam, another shot to the face, knocking me right in the orbital. Nothing broken, but it would bruise for a few days. "Let him up!"
I felt the pool cue relieve pressure from my throat. Fear kicked in again and they had just made a huge mistake. I kept my grasp on the cue and gave it a good yank, prying it from the hands of one of my assailants. One foot on the floor, I turned as I got up, nailing the man behind me with the thick end of the stick, breaking the weapon and sending the man to the ground. I spun back and hit the first attacker with a roaring elbow. If I hadn't been in so much danger, a part of me would've imagined one of the commentators from Slam calling it out like the final blow in a match up, "THE BLACK EYE SONATA!"
Fear can make you do a lot of things, including dart out of a shady bar at max speeds, avoiding the grabbing hands of the toothless masses. It can help you keep that pace for four or five city blocks, regardless of whether or not anyone is chasing you. It can keep you on edge for hours, keeping you ready to attack any sudden movements.
In wrestling the match is over whenever you chose for it to be over. Tired of fighting? Tap, lay down for the pin, eliminate yourself. Then the bell rings and the ref calls it. In a street fight, there is no bell to ring. They fight you, you lose, they string your entrails along the lighting for decoration. They will end you no matter how many times you tap. So I was justified in my attack right?
I asked Michael this. He didn't seem to care. He thought it was great that I got into a fight and came out of it alright. Those people would remember that. It didn't matter that I ran away, I fought them off. They would be sitting in that bar later that week, watching me beat the crap out of some other dude, and they will realize what it was like to fight with a man of my caliber and how that poor man in the ring with me must feel.
I didn't share his feelings on the subject. I kept a close watch on the news about it. There was a report on the brawl, but it seemed that no one would name who it was in the bar. There was a sense of relief...until...
A report came in that one of the men (the one I had smashed a beer bottle over the head of) was most likely going to lose his eye due to the damaged sustained from the broken shards of glass that got lodged in there. My heart sank. This is something they killed men over. If it had been found out I was there before this news was released to the public, it would have been shitty, but I would have survive. Now, I had caused permanent damage to someone. People don't tend to take kindly to that. It would make me look like a piece of shit, and if any of you were paying attention to Michael's rambling, that wouldn't go well for me, image wise.
See how Michael's talking had effected my mind. My view of the world became tunneled to this idea of his, but I didn't think about it then. It didn't matter then. I just had to keep from being found out. If I could just stay out of tr-
-.-.-
Knock knock SON OF A BITCH!...ahem. A few days after the last Slam, I was woken by the sound of knocking at my front door. Knock knock.
At this point in the story, I had been so focused on the Final Destination match coming up that my mind had drowned out any memory of the bar fight. Not that I had forgotten, but it had sunk so deep into my subconscious to the degree of not immediately recalling it as I was being questioned by that pompous mustache having fuck, who was standing at my door when I opened it.
I stared down at him, one eye open, the other shut as if trying to continue to sleep. Behind him sat a Blue Ford Pick-up Truck that I didn't take much notice of at the time. I asked what he wanted and he said he was asking around about a fight that had occurred in a bar a few days prior, of course referencing the one I had been in. Of course I demanded to know who was asking.
"Ron Howitzer," he replied, "reporter for a Eye Witness Fourteen, a local news channel."
I grunted.
"Sir," he continued, "if I could just have a moment of your time."
That's when he started asking his questions. His pain in the ass questions. His 'this-shit-will-end-me' questions. On the inside, I panicked as he claimed several eye-witnesses stated seeing me enter and flee the bar during the time of the fight. Curse Michael a million times over for convincing me to stay in Minnesota between events. That move was endangering me without him knowing it.
I denied everything of course. Told him I had no clue. I had been in the city that night, but I only stopped at the most important and exclusive of clubs (I could call some contacts later and have them corroborate on my story) that night. He smirked. That shitty smirk. That 'I've-got-you-now' smirk and made with the pictures. Ones of me running from the bar. Pretty damning evidence if I do say so myself.
I slammed the door and called Michael.
-.-.-
The plan was quite simple really. The journalist was no man of the law. No reason to believe he had some higher set of values. He saw a big story, a big pay-day. All we had to do was pay him enough to keep him happy and then we'd be in the clear (I say we, because it makes me feel comfortable to group myself with Michael, considering it was his fault to begin with).
We arranged a meeting. Some shady shit honestly. Taking place in a Parking Ramp like this was some goddamn movie. Everything flows too much like some cheap noir pulp bullshit, but you don't think that at the time. You just think about your world crumbling. How you are slowly slipping from the pace of the rest of the world, struggling to keep riding the inertia of life as it constantly unfolds. It begins to trip you up, forcing you to stumble and crash. I guess, in all honesty, life written down as is, without flair, does seem a bit cheap.
Didn't matter though, it was all going to be done with. We got together, talked out the details. We agreed on a lump sum to be paid at the beginning of every other month. As long as I kept up my side of the bargain, he would keep up with his.
We all left happy. It was a sum I could afford to pay. Not exactly nothing to me, but I had the resources and it was worth it if it kept it all out of my hair. It was done with.
-.-.-
So the question is. Why didn't it work?
I got a call from Michael a day later saying that the little piece of shit, with his stupid mustache, stupid truck, and bullshit everything else, had changed his mind and wanted triple what we had originally agreed upon.
"I can't fucking pay that!" I yelled into the phone.
"If you can't, I definitely can't" Michael didn't yell, but I could tell that he wanted to, "and he said if we didn't pay up, there was nothing that would stop him from bringing in what he found to the station."
"That piece of shit! What am I supposed to do?"
"..."
"Michael."
"...hmm..."
"Easton!"
"There is a suggestion I wanna make," he paused, "but I won't."
"Why not?"
"Because only an idiot would make it over the phone."
Red flag. Warning. Warning. Back up and get out, Atreyu. You'll find another way to deal with this shit.
"What is it?" Fuck you, past me.
"Well, let me put it this way," another pause, "I had this friend from a ways back. We were shooting the shit, talking about how cold it was getting, and out of the blue he says this, 'ya know, in this state, it wouldn't take much to kill a guy. I mean, you could shoot him, stab him, strangle him, but all that shit is messy. Here, it would be real easy. Just drive them to the middle of nowhere...and fucking leave them there. Let nature do the rest'."
The line went silent. Neither of us said anything. I didn't to say anything, and I don't think he wanted me to either. If I had said "I'll do it", he'd had talked me out of it, and by no means did he want to talk me out of it. We just remained silent until I hung up the phone.
-.-.-
I called the piece of shit. Told him I would meet his demands, and even wanted to make the payment that very day. Same place as the last meeting. Made it sound all nice and friendly like. If he had any suspicions towards my motives, he gave no sign of it.
For various reasons, I didn't want Michael involved, so I went alone, reaching the designated spot about a half an hour before Ron Howitzer and I had agreed to meet.
It didn't hit me until I was hiding behind someone else's car that I didn't have the plan fully worked out in my head, but by then it was too late to back out now, because I didn't have the money he was asking for, and if I didn't show up, that would be the end of me.
When I saw his blue Ford Pick up pull into the parking lot, that's when I felt the first ping of anxiety hit me, and the act became real. It was no longer an idea straining under the category of 'potentially', but instead it was a force moving with a severe kinetic energy. That fucking time bomb. That Ultimatum. It all came home in that moment.
Deep breath you dumb son-of-a-bitch. Ron looked around, checking his watch to make sure it was the right time. Each step closer to him felt like a closer step to sure failure. There was no way this was going to work. He would turn around, he would catch me and run off. My plan would crumble and I would end up on the late night news.
Ten feet away, he'd turn around any second now.
Nine feet away, just do it, ruin my plan.
Eight feet away, make the decision for me, don't give me the chance.
Seven feet away, I recalled the suicide jumper from a few weeks ago, right before my first match back. How he set himself up in that window oh-so-high off of the ground. Six feet away. He wanted gravity to make the decision for him. He was clutching for dear life despite his want to end it. Five feet away. He wanted to slip, to have it all taken away from him. He fought to survive momentarily, and if I had intervened, and if he had somehow survived, something tells me he would have never forgiven himself. Four feet away. That was me now. Don't let survive. Don't give me the chance to do something awful to save my hide, because when it comes to facing fear, I'll do just about anything. Stop me from doing 'just about anything'. Three feet away. It felt like the last few seconds was stretched across several years, distorted to an unrecognizable state.
Two.
Feet.
Away.
My arms went around his throat. One cutting off circulation as the other hooked my hand and held it back. Ron struggled. Boy did he put up a fight. For a second I thought that he might break free, that he might make it into the distance, leaving me to my own personal collapse. No. He lost consciousness like a damn quitter and left me to my devices.
I dragged him over to a hidden corner and tied up his hands, stripping him of most of his clothes. Not his feet, I would need to wake him up and force him to walk the distance between my car and his final resting place, because like hell if I was going to carry him through a forest.
Laying in the back seat of my car, he almost looked peaceful, as if he shouldn't be disturbed. So, for most of the ride, he was left as such. He just laid there, quiet and unconscious as I pierced through the shields of my conscience, one mile at a time.
I tried the radio to distract me, but that was no good. Murder is pretty serious, classic rock wasn't going to really sing my cares away. I ended up turning it off, leaving the car in silence as we exited the city, society, the watchful eye, and entered the world beyond the limits, where not even screaming echoes could reach distant ears.
-.-.-
I can hear him up ahead. The poor bastard must be freezing (granted, kind of the point) trying to step through knee deep snow with nothing to keep him warm. I dart around a tree and he is in sight. He looks back and sees me. His hands still tied together. Even while carrying the supplies, I gain on him, over taking him foot by foot. Five feet. I throw down my tools for momentum. Four feet behind him. I brace myself for impact. Three feet behind him. My hands in the air, heaving breath as I resent the trouble this man has put me through.
Two.
Feet.
Away.
I lunge forward, my arms wrapping around his waist. He feet slip out from under him as we both fall the ground, snow shooting into the air as our bodies displace it. He hits the hard ground first, me right on top of him, forcing his face deeper into the cold-as-fuck Earth.
"You fucking son-of-a-bitch," I yell as I turn him over. My fist reels back and comes down as if propelled by pistons, colliding with his nose. I hear it snap. Blood begins to pour from both nostrils, but I pay it no mind as I reel back a few more times, landing stiff blows along the cranium and orbital bones.
He gives up the fight, his body goes limp, but I can tell by his howls of pain that he is still conscious. Pulling him to his feet, I sneer, jerking him along beside me, forcing him to stumble a few times, landing on his knees in the snow. I pull him back up, practically dragging him along until we reach where I dropped my bag. I hoist it over my shoulder and we continue to walk, but this time deeper into the forest, until I can't hear my car idling in the distance.
-.-.-
It takes a good deal of effort to hoist his body into the air.
He dangles upside-down in front of me, swinging a tad-bit to and fro. I had tied him by the ankles and thrown the rope over a sturdy branch, pulling on the rope until Ron was quite a decent distance from the ground. Then I tied said rope to a tree as tightly as I could manage to ensure that he would not be able to jostle himself free.
The blood from his broken nose pools in his nostrils, forcing him to snort it out, sending it either through the air or up his face. I watch it for a moment as it collects below (above?) him. What the fuck am I doing? Nothing. I'm killing this poor bastard. No, just tying him up. Sure, he ain't the Hugh-Glass-Revenant type, but he isn't dying by our (my) hand.
Rationalization is a hell of a drug.
Swinging to the breeze of the bitter wind, I look up at him. Oh, how I must look to him, like an angel of death. He knows whats happening. He knows that I planned nothing pleasant for him, and that his failure to get away meant certain doom.
He was panicking and he let it show. As a wrestler, I could never do that. I had to be a stone pillar. Weakness kills. I had to be on guard twenty-four-seven, no chill. It was stressful, but staring up at that pathetic dangling piece of fat and bone, I know why it had to be that way. Up there, howling, crying, and bleeding, he looks weak. Everyone is weak to some degree, but to show it was like signaling the hyenas that you were ready to be picked off.
There will always be matches that wrestlers are scared of, that they wish they could back out of, but they can't. They would just as soon get picked to the bone. If he shakes, take him out first. No one trusts anyone, so we all sit in our corner, our eye on everyone else, picking out strategy, waiting for any sign, any signal, any siren, any inkling of the possibility of an idea that the maybe, could be, EVEN A REMOTE CHANCE that the other person was just a little more scared than us. Its relentless.
Life doesn't seem to be much different outside of the ring. Ron is a vulture, he swooped down on me, then I did the same to him. We, as humans, trust no one either. We are waiting to overcome and trample our enemies.
"Wanna know why I have you out here, Mister Howitzer?" I ask, putting my hands behind my back, addressing him with the tone of a seasoned professor.
"To..." he snorts, more blood sprinkles the snow, "To fucking kill me."
I cringe, "That's part of it, but more directly, I mean the motivation to kill you," I reply, keeping my outer appearance as calm as I could muster.
"W-" snort, blood, red juxtaposed against white, "why, then?"
"Fear," I speak knowingly, nodding to myself, "not just my fear; a deeper fear. A common fear. A fear born in a lack of trust, in a lack of surety."
No reply. His gaze was burning into my body. He looks confused. As if to say What the fuck are you talking about?
"See, its not that humans are sneaky by nature, though we can never rule that out," I continue, beginning to walk around to keep myself from appearing antsy. Even to him, a man condemned to death, I'm not showing anything but an image, one I want him to it, "its more that we have no way of knowing anything's true intention. We slink through life with a feeling that we should get the drop on everyone else before they can do the same to us. Take their land before they get ours, make them bleed before they can draw blood from us. Do onto them so they will know not to do it to us.
"We are born into a society with the disease of suspicion and a need for victory. We play this game and now here we are, ending a phase of sorts in the game. This is how things are handled when its kill or be killed.
"I would like to believe otherwise, but I'm something of an expert in this field, and I'm far too honest with myself, unlike most of my colleagues, to think that its anything other than this.
"See, I live in a world where this behavior is common. Maybe not tying people up in trees, but act of getting one up on top of the other. The thing is, in wrestler, its more upfront about it than in real life. Fear drives us.
"Fear of being beaten. Fear of being forgotten. Fear of being broken. Fear of being cheated. Fear of being used. Fear of being made a fool of. Most of life sits stagnantly through it, but we kick and punch our way through it. In regular society, those fears become nothing, just dead energy.
"Unfortunately you chose to swoop down on someone who doesn't participate in regular society. You picked a wrestler, a man who acts on his fear in a way that I'm sure is very clear to you now.
"In the hands of an average man. Fear is more or less harmless, acted out upon in petty squabbles, but us wrestlers are trained, NAY, I would even say DESIGNED to turn it into a weapon, because it will kill us otherwise.
"Its hard to believe, I know. We come off as tough most of the time, talking to each other like our dicks are hanging out, making it seem like superman can't even touch us, but its all an act. Have you ever seen the men who fall for such an act try to make it in my business? They disappear, fade into nothingness, because they relied on their tough hide to get them through, unprepared for the kind of fear that plagues every man that has seen what a ring mat can do to a human body.
"Fear wins championships. Fear gets men to the tops of ladders and companies. Fear pulls one through a chair shot to keep fighting. When blood gets into the eyes, when joints ache, and muscles can barely pull you along, fear will take you where you need to go.
"It takes time and training, but it is possible to retool it into a new sort of energy. Its like a drug that can defy all the natural limitations of the human body to perform an act that could save your career, or your life altogether. Too many people underestimate it. It will cause you to make mistakes, sure, but then it will drag you out of them just as well.
"Do you see, now, why you're here? Because of fear. In the face of certain destruction, that same instinct that can force me to kick out of a pin is what will force me to drive half-way across this state to make sure my future is back in my control.
"Its funny, lately I've put this and my upcoming match at Fifteen together, and no matter what I do, I can't separate the two. It may seem a bit cheesy, but its because of that linking feeling of fear. I'm scared to death that at one point I will feel my body go into free fall only moments before crashing against the mat. I'm scared of the kind of pain that will keep me from getting up. I'm scared that I'll be laying on the ground, looking up as I watch someone else take my future away from me, hold it above their head, and walk away with what should have been MY hope.
"I worked for it, and if I'm not going to go through all the trouble of dealing with you just to end up on the arena floor while someone walks right on top of me. That shiver in my step, that shake in my movement is what, ironically, will be keeping me going.
"Its all the same, all one act of survival. Not little fragments of desperation all piled into a single stack of moments, but one attempt to keep my head above water. What brought my fist down upon your skull, and then down upon the rope that holds you up there will be the same thing that brings my fist down upon Johnny Rabid, Spencer Adams, Logan, Gravedigger, Steve Orbit, Bonnie Blue, at my coming match up and for years down the line."
For a moment, nothing. Then a scream for help. It bounces off the trees, growing quieter until he repeats it, refreshing the reverberations. HELP! HELP! HELP! I knock him good in the mouth to shut him up and he goes swinging back and forth, writhing in pain. I steady him, pulling him to a full stop before backing up.
"Now, besides a desperate plea for forgiveness, or any more cries for a hero who won't be coming, any last words? I mean, by no means would I be stupid enough to share them. The best I could do is put them in a box and leave them at city limits, but I feel I should at least offer you your last chance to communicate with another human being before your untimely end."
He shakes in the cold as he stares at me. No words to share and fearful of crying out again.
"So be it," I sigh, turning away, glad to be over with the interaction. I begin my long walk before to the car, and as I see it peering through the trees, I can hear Ron trying to scream for help once more. It comes through the forest sounding hallow, as if it were the scream of a ghost, an already dead figure. Chills go down my spine. Forgive me, father, for I have survived.
-.-.-
Midweek, Wednesday, Fifteen coming up and I'm sitting across from Michael Easton, this time in my house. We are both sipping tea in silence. I enjoy it, I'm deep in thought, mauling over the details of my upcoming match, somewhere between strategizing and day-dreaming.
"So," Easton interrupts my thoughts, I'm suddenly on edge. Again, I hate being jarringly pulled back into the real world, but I shake it off as I look up at him.
"Yes?"
"I assume my friend's advice proved quite helpful?"
"Quite." I smile and look back at my drink.
"Good."
"Yeah, I feel a good deal of weight being lifted off my shoulders."
"So, nothing to worry about?" Michael's gaze peers, much like those couple of weeks ago. Again, I don't notice it as I look at my drink. He observes me, but I fail to see it.
"Aside from the match? No. Not quite nothing, but definitely less. This black mailing business is good and other with, thankfully."
"Well, I wouldn't say that," my heart skips a beat. Did he say that? What the hell does that mean? I look up and see he is reaching into his bag next to him, pulling out a envelope of sorts, its full of something, bulging as if ready to burst. He slides it over to me. I hesitate, I try to hold in my dread, but it slips out, as if leaking through my eyes and ears. My hand trembles as I reach over to it and pull it closer to me.
I open the envelope. Photos. I shuffle through them. The parking lot. Distant shots of me sneaking up on Ron and dragging him away. Shots of my car idling to the side of the road. Distant shots of my emerging from the forest. How come I didn't see him? How far away was he? Was I so overcome with emotion and guilt that I failed to notice something so important. The photos turned into shots of trees. In one of them, in the distance was a figure. I know who. Hanging upside down. Each shot getting closer until it was up front and personal with the subject of Ron Howitzer.
Something was wrong.
The blood wasn't coming from his nose anymore.
It was coming from his neck. There was a gash along his throat. No, I didn't do that. I look up and see a bloody knife sitting in the middle of the table. Michael Easton smiles at me, that distorted devilish grin of his. I want to scream, yell, say something, but my mouth refuses to budge. Just silence, almost a squeak.
"Benjyboy," Michael says, "there is so little you know, and so much you know, but don't remember. Lets start with what you know. I work for the News, I make my living by finding images that'll horrify and effect my audience in indescribable ways. I know how the mind works. I, using my awareness of the situation, like to find the worst possible image and go from there. At heart, I'm a manipulator.
"Now, for what you don't know. I kept you here for a reason. I fed you ideas for a reason. When you went out on the town, I called Ron. I've sold footage to his station a number of times. I told him to tail you, that something might happen. Then I encouraged him to get the better of you with blackmail, even told him to triple the original number. See, getting you for assault was bad, but not inescapable, I needed an image far worse. Something beyond your ability to repair. Something that would destroy what I had you building. Put those against each other, then feed you one last idea, the result was inevitable."
Suddenly, he laughed. In my tragic story, he found comedy, "Now, I wasn't sure, in the beginning whether or not you could do it, and I definitely wasn't sure whether or not I could do it. I thought maybe I would pull back at some point, but nope, everything happened according to plan."
His laugh was strangling my lungs, robbing them of air. He rises from his seat and looks down at me, "The price remains the same. Every other months." He gathers the pictures up, uses a napkin to put the bloody knife in a bag. Chuckling to himself, he turns away from me and walks out of my house, taking my pillar with him. His laughs echoing through the house.
Was this a tragedy he found funny. Or a comedy I couldn't help but cry over?
"Now, by no means is it because the author is bad. This effect is common with some of the world's best writers. Instead, it has to do with people finding absurdity in the truth, and an unfortunate truth in absurdity. People laugh reading David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest, and then cower while reading Don DeLillo's White Noise. Nothing wrong with it, it just reveals an interesting dynamic about truth; most people don't have it.
"See, the reaction of laughter or horror is one of a jarring nature, usually expressed in response to surprise. For example, the idea of cigarettes causing cancer is so well known that no one reacts to it anymore, hell people shrug and act like there isn't any helping it before they light another up. Now, tell those people the fat-free milk they've been drinking will give them warts on their ass cheeks, watch the sales of milk go down like a mother fucker.
"This is where it gets really funny. These writer's aren't unveiling the dirty world of milk ass warts. They are talking about people; their actions, dreams, thought processes, their ticks, habits, flaws, instincts, and it either makes people laugh, scream, or resort to acts of extremism. Authors get death threats all the time. What does that say about the reader? It says that people understand so little about themselves that looking at words that reflect day-to-day habits is damn near dangerous.
"What I'm trying to say is people are clueless of even the most intimate of aspects in life. People are essentially blind for the majority of their existence, unaware of who they are, and then they die. Gone. Dead. No more. One singular person is already a solitary fragment in a fraction of a picture, but taking into consideration the person's view of themselves, they aren't even that."
This is how he seemed to talk most of the time. In a stream of consciousness. I'm not even sure he remembered that the point he started with was how people laughed at what was supposed to be dramatic, and vice versa. He kept talking. None of it was wrong, but it unnerved me how his view of the world had his mind on the run.
It kept going, never staying in one spot for too long, in constant pursuit of something. Maybe he wanted to talk himself into an answer, one that he had been looking for. He gave that sort of impression; that, despite acting as if he had all the answers, he was still missing something. If he found it, maybe his rambling would have a theme, a sort of center that connected all of it.
I would hate to give the wrong impression of him. He isn't insane. Its not like he just started rambling unprompted. There were no conspiracies to conquer, no empire to beat, it was all observations. It was only about people.
It was like he was a sniper, sitting in a high tower of sorts, ready to pick off moving specs without hesitation. Then something happened; he peered through his scope and instead of finding a passive victim to his catharsis, he found a subject of fascination, something to study and understand, and in his fascination, the trigger was forgotten all together. Even then, as he talked to me, he was examining. Somehow, people had become a sort of Hunter S. Thompson-esque caricature; a drooling mess of an open book waiting to be written about.
This. This conversation (or rant as its one-sidedness would suggest) was just a sliver in the manifesto. A long unfocused avalanche of thoughts, notes, and theories. This would be less of an entry and more of a foot note in the encyclopedic drama that was his other-worldly perception.
Michael Easton was a strange man.
-.-.-
RIIIIIIIING sang the phone, RIIIIIIING.
-.-.-
The whipping of the Minnesota wind.
-.-.-
"Ever been in a bar fight, Benjyboy?"
-.-.-
Blue Ford Pick-up pulls into the parking lot.
-.-.-
Drinking coffee as they talked about Merzbow.
-.-.-
Focus in, Benjamin. I try to recall it all, get the events straight in my head. It all started with that phone call, didn't it? That ring was the cry of the rock slide. I press on over the snow inundated road. Anxiety is stretched tight over my chest as I can feel my heartstrings whirl in wild waves of violent hysterics. The world is raging white noise as my breath seems to keep stealing itself away from me. Its not hard, inhale. In. Hold it. Out. In. Hold it. Out. There. I'm aware of my teeth clenching, grinding. Once I relax my jaw, then I see my knuckles turning white as I grip the wheel with an unconscious intensity. My body seems to be a mess of unaccounted for actions and with every diffusion, another muscle tightens else where. I give up the fight as I feel my jaw tighten again. Blood in the water. You smell it and you keep swimming.
Its all bits and pieces colliding in my head, my senses trying to take it in in what grasp I can manage. Just have to pull it all in and push out in increments, gain a base and build everything else on it. The windshield wipers. Start there. Left, right, left, right, left right. Pull back, the dashboard. This becomes the entire front of the car, working its way over the entirety of the car until I can perceive myself moving down the road in a singular image. The raging roar is the wind crashing against the flat plains of the vehicle, the shakes and jumps are the bumps in the road. This is all one singular motion, not a diced series of images stabbing forthwith into my skull and eyes.
Then there is the corpse. No, not a corpse yet. A soon-to-be-corpse. He's out cold for now, half-naked, laying in the backseat. He brings all of this to life. Until the corpse (no, soon to be corpses not dead yet that's the point of this) is inserted into the picture, this is just any other day. The (not) corpse is a time bomb. It is the suitcase in any spy film. It is the singularity threatening the collapse the world. Threatening absolute deconstruction of Benjamin's, my, world, it is god and devil, the the gun and shield. It, above anything else, is an ultimatum.
Enough about that. Your nerves are getting frayed, buddy. Make this any other day, remove the corpse (its easier to think of him as already dead, isn't it) and make this any other day. Think of a joke. Any joke. A dumb joke. You don't have to laugh at it, it just has to be there, taking up space that would otherwise be left idle, vulnerable to other thoughts. Just a joke.
When is a door not a door? When? When its ajar! No laugh. To be expected. That joke wasn't funny even when I first heard it, whenever that was.
When is a man not a man? Stop. When he's a corpse. That's the trouble with the inner voice of the brain. Lacking the ability to filter it, it turns into a mess of unwarranted (often times unwanted) thoughts that turn into viruses, plaguing the ball of meat, electricity, and fat until its rotted itself out. When it's a corpse, it no longer has a concept of personality, idea, thought, soul. It is no longer a person, but an object with a former owner. It isn't Ron. It's Ron's corpse. He left it like an apartment. All of his stuff is there, but there is no sign of him, no light as it were. The shell is just a fading reminder of Jeff's residence and eventual eviction. You, or I as it were, can say its not a corpse, but in the end his death has already come, guaranteed as it were. He died in that parking lot when he stepped out of his car. It won't be when you hang him upside in that tree. It won't be as you walk away. Its already happened. He IS a corpse. He is dead. Nothing can be done. Keep driving.
This is not a matter of voices. I haven't taken on the properties of one of WCF's craziest. This is a battling of thoughts, and the farther I drive on this empty road, the messier the two juxtaposed points become.
It, above anything else, is an ultimatum. I'm not sure if its possible to make anyone understand my position, but this is a matter of he dies in the middle of the Minnesota cold or I do in the middle of the public eye. I would like to think his would be far easier, for me at the very least.
Thinking about all of it highlights how we (him and I, the corpse and I, the ultimatum and I) have left proper society in the background. Not that I've found a piece of land unclaimed where all acts are legal. No, if found, I'm dead, but this is one of the cracks in the wall where communication and public sight become non-existent. Nothing said here is recorded, nothing done - unless confessed do - is noted.
I look off to my left and see a thick regiment of trees. This is as good a spot as any. Going to have to walk the rest of the way. Emerging from the car I'm hit with a rush of cold air. I should have never come back to this state. That's all I can think as I embrace everyone's favorite defining characteristic of this shit stain on the United State's map. Burn it all down, leave it as a pile of ash. No one should live here anyways.
I stare through the trees and see how deep I can see into it, but it isn't far before it becomes just a composition of wood on wood on wood. Perfect. I rub my hands together for warmth as I move to the other side of the car. The walk was going to be a bitch with his...
The door is not a door. I race to it and throw it open. Nothing inside. It, above anything else, is an ultimatum. Well, now its a loaded gun. I look down and see footprints in the snow. Its heading to the forest.
In one way this became a bit easier. I grab my bag filled with the rope and tools before I take off after him. In another way its become that much harder. He is conscious and running for his life. He won't be able to get far in bare feet, but this will end with a fight. He will struggle but he has to die.
The anxiety is back, its sinking its nails into my ribs as it clings for dear life. I race for my salvation like my heart races for oxygen.
The snow crunches under my feet as I dart past trees, the sound of my own breathing over powering everything.
-.-.-
A few weeks ago I was sitting at a upscale cafe in Time Square. I won't pretend to remember all the details, such as what I was wearing or what I was sipping, but I recall sitting adjacent to a table of hipsters discussing their favorite musical artists, trying to convince the various people around them that they were somehow superior in taste without saying it outright (I do have to give credit to the hipster's ever vigilant search for new ways to subconsciously let people know how 'cool' they were, because it appear to take more effort to be direct by talking down from their pedestal). Merzbow, Fuji Grid TV (Macintosh Plus was apparently 'too mainstream' now), Stars of the Lid, B L A C K I E, Cities Aviv, Dälek. This was their world, their trophies of experience. They tossed their names into the air to get lost in the wind, and we, those around them, got to taste the splash damage.
I don't know why, of all the things I recall about that day, those silly little puppet's of the 'pay attention to me' game stuck out crisp and clear. Maybe it was the absurdity of their 'accomplishments'. They, much like Michael Easton had said, knew so little about themselves, because they never had to test themselves, and thus this was the height of their euphoria. This, against my current position, seemed to have a certain calm and irony to it that my mind clings to like a buoy in the middle of a shit storm in the ocean.
I was separate now, out of that bubble, beyond the shell, in a forest chasing after a half naked man I planned to kill. The world was back with those hipsters, moving to a inertia that never ceased. My movements didn't so much as send a ripple through it. I am too far away, but that is far from the point.
Cafe. New York. Hipsters, Merzbow, and all. I held the latest issue of TIME magazine in one hand as I sipped my drink with a technicians movements, minute and slight. My gaze didn't hit the words on the page, they burned right through them. Nothing they wrote interested me, I needed it to avoid eye contact with the people around me. At times like this I just wanted to zone out and think, feel free to dive deep into thought.
Riiiiiiiiiiing, the phone sang, riiiiiiing. My brain jumped, one foot back in reality, my thoughts struggling to keep assembled.
There was nothing I hated more than being bothered while I am thinking, even for small questions and inconsequential interactions. To have someone engage me in this state would be like placing a wall mid stream. It could be moved around and usurped, but it was there, getting in the way, backing up my fluid process.
I ignored it, letting my accursed cell phone continue to sing its heart out, begging for my attention. I tried to salvage my zoned out state by putting pins in the points racing through my head. If he/she were important enough, they would leave a message or call later.
This was my first mistake.
If I had answered. If I had not chosen to indulge my impulse to ignore the world. I could have intercepted the beginning of this transaction and crushed it there. The power would have been mine to hang up and send a message that I was not interested. I didn't though, and thus I left a door wide open, because they did indeed end up leaving a message for me.
I sat there, in that innocuous little space of peace and white noise, unaware of the time bomb (the loaded gun) that sat in my pocket. I went back to thinking, ironically digging into ignorance in my attempt to dig out.
Nothing else interrupted me. The hipsters dispersed after a while, and the background score of city-animation continued as I'm most sure it does so right now. There were no omens, no warnings, signs, or divine intervention. All I got was a riiiiiing before life began to collapse on me. Hitchcockian is how some would describe this scene, I guess.
Left the cafe. Message unchecked. Got home. Message unchecked. Went to bed. Message unchecked. Woke up. Message Unchecked. If you look at it, you might be surprised how often you don't do something. It may seem like activities occur at regular intervals, and by all means that's true, but the activities vary, creating a sort of feeling of constant occupation. Some point in that occupation, I got around to checking my messages.
"Hello there, Benjyboy. Michael Easton here. Not sure if you recognize the name at all, but we share a common bond in the unfortunate brotherhood of WCF," he laughed all friendly-like, his voice portraying the utmost sense of homeliness, the bastard, "See, I was there for a fairly short time before dipping out, but since then I've been keeping tabs on the place. Paying attention to its comings and goings, and I couldn't help noticing that you were one of its comings.
"Let me start by saying I'm definitely a fan. Have been for a while now. I love the little touches you put out there. Above most things, I appreciate details in a performers presentation, and it is obvious you've worked out yours. For instance, calling your new finisher 'A Seraphim's Call'. It seems only us atheists can appreciate the nuanced aesthetic of christian imagery.
"Either way, to get to the point of why I called; I have an offer I want to make to you. The thing is I don't want to bother doing it over the phone, because I feel I can make the pitch far more effectively in person. So, if you would be interested in setting up a meeting between the two of us, I'm sure I can make it worth your time. The one request I make is that the meeting takes place in Minnesota since my work allows less pliability for travel than yours does, unfortunately.
"Now, I understand if you might be a tad hesitant, but I'm sure you can appreciate the act of one intellectual reaching out to another amidst the smoke and fog of ignorance. It is not an occurrence that comes along with any regularity, and I would be quite disappointed if you missed out on a chance to take advantage.
"Either way, I'll be waiting anxiously for your reply, my friend. Get back to me at your own leisure."
Click. Dead. Quiet. The time bomb. The loaded gun. The ultimatum. How did he get my number? He was right, I was hesitant to contact him back. However, maybe because he appealed to the sympathetic intellectual in me, his sort of 'teaser pitch' had caught my interest and I made my second mistake; I consulted my caller ID and contacted him back.
-.-.-
The neighborhood resembled something from a hacky Bret Easton Ellis novel; cracked concrete, decaying brick, disenfranchisement and all. I was worried about turning a corner and finding a dead hooker or a snuff film taking place.
Not sure if any of you are aware of this, but one point in our wonderful country's history, St Paul was the murder capital, known across the nation as 'Murderopolis'. Now, St Paul isn't quite as intense anymore, but the remnants of such a persona remain, and I, walking down that sidewalk, refusing getting caught in a car more expensive than the tin cans that had driving around here, couldn't help but feel I was being led into a trap.
Was I to be jumped? What if Michael had managed to play to my sensibilities just so he could leave me dead in the middle of this city, strip me of my immediate wealth, and get off scott-free.
Now, I was a bit familiar with Michael Easton prior to his message and subsequent communications. He was a up-and-coming type that had made a name for himself for his tendency to poke bears and fires. He seemed to enjoy making things difficult for himself so he could pull out on top. After a string of matches where he went undefeated, apparently he blew a fuse, lost his last match, and disappeared off the face of the Earth. Something I was not completely unfamiliar with.
Now that wouldn't normally get my attention, but I did a bit of research and made myself familiar with his personal philosophy; a lot of thoughts on chaos and objective observations of the universe. I found we had a couple ideas in common. From what I could tell, he had a good head on his shoulders, able to at least hold his own if need be, something I found to be quite rare in my list of contacts. Maybe it would be worth checking out his offer?
I had to wonder what his game plan was (if it wasn't to kill me in the middle of my home state). Was he planning a come back? Did he want to piggyback off of my fame? Did he want money? What could I gain from a man who couldn't last two months in WCF? Did it matter? Despite whatever doubts I had, I was waiting for him outside of a shady apartment building anyways...and waiting. and waiting. and waiting...
The faint idea of a trap slowly faded and was replaced with the inkling of an idea that I was being led on as a joke. How typical would that be of the world? Make me travel half way across the country, spending money out of my pocket, forcing me to stand like an idiot outside in the middle of shitcity, just to look like an idiot. It had been a half-an-hour already and I wasn't about to be somebody's fool. Just as I began to walk away, I heard a call from over head.
"Hey, Benjyboy!" Michael yelled down from his window, "Don't go away mad, mang."
I looked up and gave him a sneer.
"Oh, c'mon," he laughed, "I just wanted to see how long you would stand there waiting for me. Was surprised you waited as long as you did, shows a sense of determination, or, dare I say, a sense of desperation."
"I came out of curiosity," I replied in a cold tone to show my lack of amusement, "nothing more. I didn't come to have my time wasted, but if that is all you are going to do, I can catch the next plane back to where I came from and this can be the last time we ever talk."
"Oh, don't be that way," it was obvious that he took next to none of this seriously, "I wasn't lying. I do have an offer for you. If you'll entertain me for a moment, I think you'll see why we should continue to talk."
"I don't see how, but fine, I'll entertain your request."
"Good," he exclaimed as he clapped his hands together, "one moment, Benjyboy, I'll be right down to let you in."
I'm not sure if I've gone over this before, but I despise the nickname 'Benjy'. I'm not sure who started saying it first, Blake Updegraff, Waylon Cash, or John Gable, but it has since become a repeating constant in my career, one of the few I can't seem to shake. At no point did I give ANYONE the okay to call me Benjy, not as a friendly gesture or otherwise, but its spread across the entire locker room like a plague designed specifically for me.
Ben would work fine enough. That is a dignified and fitting shortening of my name. Plenty of people on this planet get to walk around by the moniker of Ben, but not me. They give me the childish name of Benjy, as if I were some kind of adolescent character from a half-assed sitcom from the fifties. It's something you name a dog, not a competitive fighter/business mogul/public figure.
I've even had fans (of WCF, since it seems I have none of my own) stop and call me by that god-awful nickname, as if somehow we had worked up some basic level of acquaintanceship in the half-a-second between our eyes meeting and their big-dumb-fat-faces opening up to spit half-slurred words at me.
No. My name is not Benjy. Its Benjamin Atreyu - Mister Atreyu - God Given Greatness - Benjamin - Sir - NOT FUCKING BENJY!
But thats quite besides the point, isn't it?
Walking through his apartment, I got the feeling that I probably should have been wearing a protective suit of some sort...or maybe armor. It was a shithole in the simplest sense. I couldn't tell if this displayed a sense of desperation of Mister Easton's part, or if it showed a complete disregard as was per usual in his public persona? I couldn't pick out quite yet, but thankfully we reached his domicile and exited the horrifying painting of disrepair that was the rest of the apartment building.
Much to my surprise. His apartment was quite nice. It was partly refurbished with a hardwood floor, the walls freshly painted, and the wiring didn't stick out from the walls, sparking alarmingly. Flat screen 50 inch. A sizable book collection. Leather furniture. Modern granite table. If I were living slightly below my current class, I definitely wouldn't feel bad in a spot like this.
"What exactly is it you do for a living again?" I asked, peering around the room.
"We'll get to that soon enough," he replied, waving it away," for now, find a seat and make yourself comfortable."
Gesturing over to the living room, I casually strolled through the apartment and found a seat as he stepped into the barely separate kitchen. Walking out, two drinks in hand, he took a seat across from me and laid one of the drinks before me, sipping on his own.
"Now, I promise we will get to the business that brings you here," he started, keeping his eye on his drink, "but I want to work towards it. I got some things on my mind right now, and since I very rarely have anyone in the apartment, I feel you are as good as any to discuss them with."
"Mmhmm," I replied with a cocked eyebrow.
"For instance, this whole Tila Tequila deal. What are your thoughts on it?"
For those of you lucky enough to not know, or not remember, what he is referring to. Around that time, there was a news (I call it that begrudgingly) story going around about 'famous-for-being-dumb-and-hot' Tila Tequila and how she was posting on Facebook and twitter that she thought that the world was flat. Before the B.o.B. song, before the Tyson response song. Needless to say, it caused quite a stir.
I was so taken back by his question that I hadn't noticed how his gaze had switched from his drink to me, as if observing me, looking to see how I would answer. Trying to dig some particular detail out of me that would reveal something about me. Much out of instinct, I restrained my impulse reaction of shock, keeping it under the skin as I raised my drink to my lips with the same precision as I did in the cafe when he had called me, keeping a calm and seemingly thoughtful demeanor.
"Not sure what thoughts I can offer," I replied, chuckling a bit, "you've got a person famous through social media blasting non-sense into the ether. Just another case of stupidity with a constantly open mouth."
"I'm disappointed, Benjyboy," Easton frowned, "I thought you were smarter than that."
My eyes widen, there was no hiding my shock. Don't tell me someone like him believed in such nonsense. For a moment, I felt exposed sitting in that closed off room with someone who I then thought believed in the unlikely theory of a flat world. That was a level of stupid I was not ready to battle with on the spot.
"Don't tell me-" I began.
"Hmm? Oh. OH!" he laughed, "Of course not. No. Far from it. That's not what I meant."
"Then enlighten me, if for no other reason than to put my thoughts at ease."
"See, what you have to realize is that even with how things immediately appear, there is an alternate possible truth. Consider this. What is more likely? That a public figure is willing to disregard centuries of firm science, oooor, that some stupid celebrity bitch suddenly realized she wasn't as relevant as she used to be, and thus had to say something incredibly outlandish to get all that attention back."
"Definitely possible."
"More than possible, my friend. Its likely," he grinned, distorting his smile into a devilish appearance, "In this culture, we have built an addiction to attention. Now, its always been there, since there have been inventors, artists, and a need to get laid. People have fought for attention, but the difference now is that our culture has designed itself to absorb and reflect sensationalism almost instantaneously. News outlets, social networking, sharing, trending topics, mass connection in communication. Even beyond the technology; we, in the world of media, have found that insanity and stupidity sells, we've processed, tagged, and priced freak outs.
"You take someone like Ms. Tequila, who has made her living through the world of viral marketing, and it seems natural that she would be attuned to such workings in the world. She needs to get traffic, sell her pictures, and put herself in the spotlight.
"And then, like a Grinch with tits. She got an idea. An awful idea. A wonderfully awful idea. Now, let this be a lesson, don't ever trust anyone with a PR team. After a few creative meetings, she walks out of an office with her new plan 'post stuff so ridiculous that people won't be able to ignore it'. And she did, and it worked.
"Wanna know why it worked? Because the result is two-fold, and from there it spawns in many directions, but lets stick with the two; those who agree and those who don't agree. She says the world is flat, someone responds 'yes it is. thanks for speaking the truth' and then buys her pictures. Or, she says the world is flat, someone responds 'NO IT ISN'T YOU FUCKING IDIOT! I HATE YOU' and then buys her pictures. They both inevitably share her posts. Now the one who disagrees wants to reveal her stupidity, so he ends up getting more traffic to her facebook page, and then more people disagree and yell at her.
"Why? Because they WANT to believe she is that stupid. They hated her far before they ever heard about her comments, but now they have more ammunition. They will ignore everything else just to believe she is dumb. Its the same thing that keeps people thinking Jesse James was a hero, that DB Cooper survived, that celebrities are immortal. We want to believe in the myth.
"People set up barriers in their mind. The things in the barriers are true, and everything else is false. Now the things aren't in the barrier because they are true, they are true because they are in the barrier."
This is just as I mentioned before. Michael Easton goes on these long thesis statements, sounding as if they've been compiled after years of observations, but they seem to just go on and on, as if he desperately was looking for an ending sentence to sum it all up. Also, if any of you find this speech about barriers familiar, congrats, you're one of the few who saw my promo against Tiffany, thanks for having a morbid sense of curiosity.
However, this one rant wasn't completely without an end. Unfortunate really, since it set up a false sense of hope that all such rants would end this way.
"My point is that they perpetuate their own image of her. People run on what they can see and they fill in the spots in between. More than facts, logic, and ideas, people pay attention to images. Its a mythology, and people are designed to follow mythologies of all sorts. Its the reason you call yourself 'God Given Greatness' and use a finisher called 'A Seraphim's Call'. Tell me Benjamin, do you LIVE in Minnesota?"
"I live in several states to be honest. I was born in Minnesota, but I have homes in several parts of the country, and even one in Europe."
"Good," he replied, "Now, never EVER tell the media that."
"Hmm?"
"Do you wanna know what I do for a living?"
"Sure," I felt like I was being thrown around. His thought process was all over the place.
"I work in News. More to the point, I'm a nightcrawler. I travel around and capture footage of horrific events. I literally put tragedy in a frame to shock the world. For a job like that you have to understand how the mind works. You have to juxtapose images against each other."
"Yeah?"
"Well, think about it this way? If you travel all over the place, what do you own?"
"Land?"
"Parts of places. In the world's eye, if they know you have houses in several states, you seem like an invader, a tourist. You own jack shit in their eyes except escapism. Now, as far as the world knows now, you are from Minnesota, you live in Minnesota, and in that train of thought, you are a Minnesotan. You can't be a Minnesotan if you play in New York. You can't be a warrior for your home state if you are caught fucking other cities."
"I'm not sure I'm following you."
"You have to make the world think you not only live in Minnesota, but that you ARE Minnesota. Make Minnesota yours. Own that fucking state. Everyone else is just occupying your space. The sooner you have people believing that, the more you'll be able to use that to your advantage."
"So, what you called me here to offer me is...Minnesota?"
"GODDAMN IT, ATREYU," he smashed his glass against the table, "Are you not fucking listening? I'm telling you to focus your image! The difference between you and Tila Tequila is that people are fucking talking about that dumb whore! Atreyu who? That dip shit with the dumb nickname who can't wrestle his way out of a paper bag? Who gives a shit about you? When was the last time someone picked you to win? When was the last time someone mentioned you without you being directly involved in the interaction?
"You've come back, but no one fucking cares. No one cared about Head of Talent Relations until Henson took it from you. You didn't beat Vengeance, Vengeance lost that match. You are a second note in WCF's score. Wanna know why? Because your ego is keeping you from doing what you need to do. LIE. DECEIVE. CREATE. MANIPULATE! And we're going to start by making you look like you fucking run Minnesota!"
"I can't do this on my own?"
"You're smart, Atreyu," he seemed to be calming down after his outburst, but I still felt tense, even if I was hiding it, "but you're dumb where it counts."
I stood up, "Look, I'm a fighter, not an actor."
"Oh my god, you can't still believe this sport is about fighting, do you?"
"What else would it be about?"
"EVERYTHING! This sport is everything but fighting! Mediocre competitors have gotten the World Title before you have, because you won't play the real game! People shit on you! Image is everything!"
That was the seed 'image is everything'. He really sunk that one deep in my head. The conversation went on for hours, but it basically boiled down to this; winning meant nothing if it didn't send a message. I could win a million matches, but if it was only a victory, it was as good as non-existent. For my wins to matter, for me to dig my fingers and make myself look like a monster, I needed to start by building myself, the mythology of Atreyu so-to-speak. I needed to be Tila Tequila without the stupidity, I needed people to care.
Why did I need Michael? He assured me he had connections that I needed and he had a mind that could think outside the box I set for myself. Remember, he made a living out of getting reactions out of people, and then made a career of finding shots that would do the same.
I remember upon parting, I lamented the need to go through all this trouble. Michael just smirked and replied with a small piece of wisdom.
"It'll be worth it. Its a sure thing. People love their mythology. Place God at one end of the spectrum and watch the world begin to shift itself to revolve around what was once an edge, dangling itself over oblivion to keep shape and form, the only kind it has ever known. One could imagine the result of taking the aforementioned God and throwing him over the cliff, what a tragedy that would become as the world would cease to dangle, but instead crash against the rocks."
Again, if you recognize that little excerpt, congrats, I guess more people saw my shoot on Tiffany than I thought. Yes, Michael supplied those cameramen, yes he supplied the idea for where and when we shot it, and yes, I was stupid enough to lower my guard because of it.
-.-.-
Being seen in Minnesota is not the same thing as being SEEN IN Minnesota, catch my drift? I could shoot all the footage I wanted of me along side monuments, but Michael convinced me that it I needed to make my presence felt internally as well. Which leads us to the toppling structure of this story. This is when things go to shit. Last week, before the last Slam before Fifteen, I found myself immersed in the night life of the Twin Cities, a scene I hadn't been a part of in quite sometime. It was a bit refreshing, but I wasn't there to enjoy myself.
I was to assert my appearance in the fray. To become a known entity of consequence. Which I guess was easier for me than making some ridiculous accusations like 'lizard people exist' or 'jews run the world' or 'children aren't awful balls of stupid'. As far as I knew, it would just be walk in, puff my chest out, and then leave.
This was not the case.
I walked down the street. People noticed. I heard calls and cries from various directions. People telling me I suck, telling their friends who they just saw, screaming about what they hoped would happen to me at Fifteen (hint: none of it good). I smirked and soaked it all in. The whirlwind had finally centered around me, and despite every nerve in my body wishing that I wouldn't enjoy it, there is a kind of joy that comes from being the person everyone talks about. My confidence rose to a new high.
Too high, I can see in hindsight.
I made my way through the streets, as if piercing a fog, and eventually found myself sitting pretty on a stool in some third rate bar (if I were smart, it could have been a second rate bar like The Triple Rock Social Club, but alas, I'm not smart, as pointed out BY THIS ENTIRE FUCKING STORY). There was a tap on my shoulder and I decided to face it, smug smile and all.
"You're that Mistah Atreyu fellah, arnchya?" I'm not sure why I'm portraying him to have a southern accent, he didn't. I guess I just always picture ignorant drunks to be southern. Blame the movies. Either way, I nodded and raised my drink to him.
"That would be me," All calm, no shake. Like. A. Boss.
"Well, ain't that a shame," he replied, "You could have walked into any bar, but you walked into this one. You HAD to walk into this one."
Uh oh, overzealous fan with a penchant for melodramatic hacky movie dialogue. This sounds like a job for 'SITUATION DIFFUSER' MAN. HE-...He isn't available? My will is going to take a mind of its own and force me to retort in a spiteful way? Oh, well carry on then.
"Talk out of your ass much?" That's it Benjamin, start the train wreck that will eventually lead you to chasing down half-naked men in the middle of a freezing fucking forest! Ever just wish you could time travel so you could choke your past-self out? Oh, how little I knew.
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, I didn't know you kept your ears in your ass too," the immaturity of my comments didn't escape me at the time, but boy was I proud of that line.
"You wanna fucking go, boy?"
"Anywhere with you dar-" that's when his fist collided with my face, which was quickly followed by my body colliding with the floor. I got to my feet with a smooth single movement, but while warning sirens were going off in my brain, I failed to notice the other man from the meathead's posse standing behind me. He wrapped his arms around me to restrict my movements. A moment of panic, but I brought my head back and I felt it connect with cartilage, creating an audible snapping sound.
I was fully aware now. Aware and scared. I could see more people approaching. Somewhere in the noise I recalled Michael talking about how he use to get into bar fights all the time, but he was a scrapper use to the bullshit tactics that plagued unregulated fighting. I was a gentleman in a sport, occupied for years by rules of various sorts. No rules here, and all the weapons you could carry.
In fear, that age old emotion, I lashed out, swinging wildly. Oh, missed, and hit in the side with a solid body punch. I felt a bottle beside me, without thinking I grabbed hold of it and brought it down on the head of the man who had his fist in my side. The bottle shattered and the man screamed as he reeled backwards, giving me enough room to try and dart through. If I were lucky that would have been enough, but as I'm sure you've gather by now (between needing to kill a guy in the middle of a forest, losing said guy in said forest, meeting Michael Easton, or even signing up to wrestling in WCF AGAIN) I'm not lucky. I felt a kick in the back of my leg and I came down on my knees without a moment to think. I felt a pool cue go around my neck and I grasped wildly to keep it from cutting off the airflow in my windpipe.
"Sonuva bitch," the first man from before muttered, "I was just gonna give ya shit and fuck wit' you a bit, but then you hadta go and start spewing that nonsense, didn'tya?" Bam, another shot to the face, knocking me right in the orbital. Nothing broken, but it would bruise for a few days. "Let him up!"
I felt the pool cue relieve pressure from my throat. Fear kicked in again and they had just made a huge mistake. I kept my grasp on the cue and gave it a good yank, prying it from the hands of one of my assailants. One foot on the floor, I turned as I got up, nailing the man behind me with the thick end of the stick, breaking the weapon and sending the man to the ground. I spun back and hit the first attacker with a roaring elbow. If I hadn't been in so much danger, a part of me would've imagined one of the commentators from Slam calling it out like the final blow in a match up, "THE BLACK EYE SONATA!"
Fear can make you do a lot of things, including dart out of a shady bar at max speeds, avoiding the grabbing hands of the toothless masses. It can help you keep that pace for four or five city blocks, regardless of whether or not anyone is chasing you. It can keep you on edge for hours, keeping you ready to attack any sudden movements.
In wrestling the match is over whenever you chose for it to be over. Tired of fighting? Tap, lay down for the pin, eliminate yourself. Then the bell rings and the ref calls it. In a street fight, there is no bell to ring. They fight you, you lose, they string your entrails along the lighting for decoration. They will end you no matter how many times you tap. So I was justified in my attack right?
I asked Michael this. He didn't seem to care. He thought it was great that I got into a fight and came out of it alright. Those people would remember that. It didn't matter that I ran away, I fought them off. They would be sitting in that bar later that week, watching me beat the crap out of some other dude, and they will realize what it was like to fight with a man of my caliber and how that poor man in the ring with me must feel.
I didn't share his feelings on the subject. I kept a close watch on the news about it. There was a report on the brawl, but it seemed that no one would name who it was in the bar. There was a sense of relief...until...
A report came in that one of the men (the one I had smashed a beer bottle over the head of) was most likely going to lose his eye due to the damaged sustained from the broken shards of glass that got lodged in there. My heart sank. This is something they killed men over. If it had been found out I was there before this news was released to the public, it would have been shitty, but I would have survive. Now, I had caused permanent damage to someone. People don't tend to take kindly to that. It would make me look like a piece of shit, and if any of you were paying attention to Michael's rambling, that wouldn't go well for me, image wise.
See how Michael's talking had effected my mind. My view of the world became tunneled to this idea of his, but I didn't think about it then. It didn't matter then. I just had to keep from being found out. If I could just stay out of tr-
-.-.-
Knock knock SON OF A BITCH!...ahem. A few days after the last Slam, I was woken by the sound of knocking at my front door. Knock knock.
At this point in the story, I had been so focused on the Final Destination match coming up that my mind had drowned out any memory of the bar fight. Not that I had forgotten, but it had sunk so deep into my subconscious to the degree of not immediately recalling it as I was being questioned by that pompous mustache having fuck, who was standing at my door when I opened it.
I stared down at him, one eye open, the other shut as if trying to continue to sleep. Behind him sat a Blue Ford Pick-up Truck that I didn't take much notice of at the time. I asked what he wanted and he said he was asking around about a fight that had occurred in a bar a few days prior, of course referencing the one I had been in. Of course I demanded to know who was asking.
"Ron Howitzer," he replied, "reporter for a Eye Witness Fourteen, a local news channel."
I grunted.
"Sir," he continued, "if I could just have a moment of your time."
That's when he started asking his questions. His pain in the ass questions. His 'this-shit-will-end-me' questions. On the inside, I panicked as he claimed several eye-witnesses stated seeing me enter and flee the bar during the time of the fight. Curse Michael a million times over for convincing me to stay in Minnesota between events. That move was endangering me without him knowing it.
I denied everything of course. Told him I had no clue. I had been in the city that night, but I only stopped at the most important and exclusive of clubs (I could call some contacts later and have them corroborate on my story) that night. He smirked. That shitty smirk. That 'I've-got-you-now' smirk and made with the pictures. Ones of me running from the bar. Pretty damning evidence if I do say so myself.
I slammed the door and called Michael.
-.-.-
The plan was quite simple really. The journalist was no man of the law. No reason to believe he had some higher set of values. He saw a big story, a big pay-day. All we had to do was pay him enough to keep him happy and then we'd be in the clear (I say we, because it makes me feel comfortable to group myself with Michael, considering it was his fault to begin with).
We arranged a meeting. Some shady shit honestly. Taking place in a Parking Ramp like this was some goddamn movie. Everything flows too much like some cheap noir pulp bullshit, but you don't think that at the time. You just think about your world crumbling. How you are slowly slipping from the pace of the rest of the world, struggling to keep riding the inertia of life as it constantly unfolds. It begins to trip you up, forcing you to stumble and crash. I guess, in all honesty, life written down as is, without flair, does seem a bit cheap.
Didn't matter though, it was all going to be done with. We got together, talked out the details. We agreed on a lump sum to be paid at the beginning of every other month. As long as I kept up my side of the bargain, he would keep up with his.
We all left happy. It was a sum I could afford to pay. Not exactly nothing to me, but I had the resources and it was worth it if it kept it all out of my hair. It was done with.
-.-.-
So the question is. Why didn't it work?
I got a call from Michael a day later saying that the little piece of shit, with his stupid mustache, stupid truck, and bullshit everything else, had changed his mind and wanted triple what we had originally agreed upon.
"I can't fucking pay that!" I yelled into the phone.
"If you can't, I definitely can't" Michael didn't yell, but I could tell that he wanted to, "and he said if we didn't pay up, there was nothing that would stop him from bringing in what he found to the station."
"That piece of shit! What am I supposed to do?"
"..."
"Michael."
"...hmm..."
"Easton!"
"There is a suggestion I wanna make," he paused, "but I won't."
"Why not?"
"Because only an idiot would make it over the phone."
Red flag. Warning. Warning. Back up and get out, Atreyu. You'll find another way to deal with this shit.
"What is it?" Fuck you, past me.
"Well, let me put it this way," another pause, "I had this friend from a ways back. We were shooting the shit, talking about how cold it was getting, and out of the blue he says this, 'ya know, in this state, it wouldn't take much to kill a guy. I mean, you could shoot him, stab him, strangle him, but all that shit is messy. Here, it would be real easy. Just drive them to the middle of nowhere...and fucking leave them there. Let nature do the rest'."
The line went silent. Neither of us said anything. I didn't to say anything, and I don't think he wanted me to either. If I had said "I'll do it", he'd had talked me out of it, and by no means did he want to talk me out of it. We just remained silent until I hung up the phone.
-.-.-
I called the piece of shit. Told him I would meet his demands, and even wanted to make the payment that very day. Same place as the last meeting. Made it sound all nice and friendly like. If he had any suspicions towards my motives, he gave no sign of it.
For various reasons, I didn't want Michael involved, so I went alone, reaching the designated spot about a half an hour before Ron Howitzer and I had agreed to meet.
It didn't hit me until I was hiding behind someone else's car that I didn't have the plan fully worked out in my head, but by then it was too late to back out now, because I didn't have the money he was asking for, and if I didn't show up, that would be the end of me.
When I saw his blue Ford Pick up pull into the parking lot, that's when I felt the first ping of anxiety hit me, and the act became real. It was no longer an idea straining under the category of 'potentially', but instead it was a force moving with a severe kinetic energy. That fucking time bomb. That Ultimatum. It all came home in that moment.
Deep breath you dumb son-of-a-bitch. Ron looked around, checking his watch to make sure it was the right time. Each step closer to him felt like a closer step to sure failure. There was no way this was going to work. He would turn around, he would catch me and run off. My plan would crumble and I would end up on the late night news.
Ten feet away, he'd turn around any second now.
Nine feet away, just do it, ruin my plan.
Eight feet away, make the decision for me, don't give me the chance.
Seven feet away, I recalled the suicide jumper from a few weeks ago, right before my first match back. How he set himself up in that window oh-so-high off of the ground. Six feet away. He wanted gravity to make the decision for him. He was clutching for dear life despite his want to end it. Five feet away. He wanted to slip, to have it all taken away from him. He fought to survive momentarily, and if I had intervened, and if he had somehow survived, something tells me he would have never forgiven himself. Four feet away. That was me now. Don't let survive. Don't give me the chance to do something awful to save my hide, because when it comes to facing fear, I'll do just about anything. Stop me from doing 'just about anything'. Three feet away. It felt like the last few seconds was stretched across several years, distorted to an unrecognizable state.
Two.
Feet.
Away.
My arms went around his throat. One cutting off circulation as the other hooked my hand and held it back. Ron struggled. Boy did he put up a fight. For a second I thought that he might break free, that he might make it into the distance, leaving me to my own personal collapse. No. He lost consciousness like a damn quitter and left me to my devices.
I dragged him over to a hidden corner and tied up his hands, stripping him of most of his clothes. Not his feet, I would need to wake him up and force him to walk the distance between my car and his final resting place, because like hell if I was going to carry him through a forest.
Laying in the back seat of my car, he almost looked peaceful, as if he shouldn't be disturbed. So, for most of the ride, he was left as such. He just laid there, quiet and unconscious as I pierced through the shields of my conscience, one mile at a time.
I tried the radio to distract me, but that was no good. Murder is pretty serious, classic rock wasn't going to really sing my cares away. I ended up turning it off, leaving the car in silence as we exited the city, society, the watchful eye, and entered the world beyond the limits, where not even screaming echoes could reach distant ears.
-.-.-
I can hear him up ahead. The poor bastard must be freezing (granted, kind of the point) trying to step through knee deep snow with nothing to keep him warm. I dart around a tree and he is in sight. He looks back and sees me. His hands still tied together. Even while carrying the supplies, I gain on him, over taking him foot by foot. Five feet. I throw down my tools for momentum. Four feet behind him. I brace myself for impact. Three feet behind him. My hands in the air, heaving breath as I resent the trouble this man has put me through.
Two.
Feet.
Away.
I lunge forward, my arms wrapping around his waist. He feet slip out from under him as we both fall the ground, snow shooting into the air as our bodies displace it. He hits the hard ground first, me right on top of him, forcing his face deeper into the cold-as-fuck Earth.
"You fucking son-of-a-bitch," I yell as I turn him over. My fist reels back and comes down as if propelled by pistons, colliding with his nose. I hear it snap. Blood begins to pour from both nostrils, but I pay it no mind as I reel back a few more times, landing stiff blows along the cranium and orbital bones.
He gives up the fight, his body goes limp, but I can tell by his howls of pain that he is still conscious. Pulling him to his feet, I sneer, jerking him along beside me, forcing him to stumble a few times, landing on his knees in the snow. I pull him back up, practically dragging him along until we reach where I dropped my bag. I hoist it over my shoulder and we continue to walk, but this time deeper into the forest, until I can't hear my car idling in the distance.
-.-.-
It takes a good deal of effort to hoist his body into the air.
He dangles upside-down in front of me, swinging a tad-bit to and fro. I had tied him by the ankles and thrown the rope over a sturdy branch, pulling on the rope until Ron was quite a decent distance from the ground. Then I tied said rope to a tree as tightly as I could manage to ensure that he would not be able to jostle himself free.
The blood from his broken nose pools in his nostrils, forcing him to snort it out, sending it either through the air or up his face. I watch it for a moment as it collects below (above?) him. What the fuck am I doing? Nothing. I'm killing this poor bastard. No, just tying him up. Sure, he ain't the Hugh-Glass-Revenant type, but he isn't dying by our (my) hand.
Rationalization is a hell of a drug.
Swinging to the breeze of the bitter wind, I look up at him. Oh, how I must look to him, like an angel of death. He knows whats happening. He knows that I planned nothing pleasant for him, and that his failure to get away meant certain doom.
He was panicking and he let it show. As a wrestler, I could never do that. I had to be a stone pillar. Weakness kills. I had to be on guard twenty-four-seven, no chill. It was stressful, but staring up at that pathetic dangling piece of fat and bone, I know why it had to be that way. Up there, howling, crying, and bleeding, he looks weak. Everyone is weak to some degree, but to show it was like signaling the hyenas that you were ready to be picked off.
There will always be matches that wrestlers are scared of, that they wish they could back out of, but they can't. They would just as soon get picked to the bone. If he shakes, take him out first. No one trusts anyone, so we all sit in our corner, our eye on everyone else, picking out strategy, waiting for any sign, any signal, any siren, any inkling of the possibility of an idea that the maybe, could be, EVEN A REMOTE CHANCE that the other person was just a little more scared than us. Its relentless.
Life doesn't seem to be much different outside of the ring. Ron is a vulture, he swooped down on me, then I did the same to him. We, as humans, trust no one either. We are waiting to overcome and trample our enemies.
"Wanna know why I have you out here, Mister Howitzer?" I ask, putting my hands behind my back, addressing him with the tone of a seasoned professor.
"To..." he snorts, more blood sprinkles the snow, "To fucking kill me."
I cringe, "That's part of it, but more directly, I mean the motivation to kill you," I reply, keeping my outer appearance as calm as I could muster.
"W-" snort, blood, red juxtaposed against white, "why, then?"
"Fear," I speak knowingly, nodding to myself, "not just my fear; a deeper fear. A common fear. A fear born in a lack of trust, in a lack of surety."
No reply. His gaze was burning into my body. He looks confused. As if to say What the fuck are you talking about?
"See, its not that humans are sneaky by nature, though we can never rule that out," I continue, beginning to walk around to keep myself from appearing antsy. Even to him, a man condemned to death, I'm not showing anything but an image, one I want him to it, "its more that we have no way of knowing anything's true intention. We slink through life with a feeling that we should get the drop on everyone else before they can do the same to us. Take their land before they get ours, make them bleed before they can draw blood from us. Do onto them so they will know not to do it to us.
"We are born into a society with the disease of suspicion and a need for victory. We play this game and now here we are, ending a phase of sorts in the game. This is how things are handled when its kill or be killed.
"I would like to believe otherwise, but I'm something of an expert in this field, and I'm far too honest with myself, unlike most of my colleagues, to think that its anything other than this.
"See, I live in a world where this behavior is common. Maybe not tying people up in trees, but act of getting one up on top of the other. The thing is, in wrestler, its more upfront about it than in real life. Fear drives us.
"Fear of being beaten. Fear of being forgotten. Fear of being broken. Fear of being cheated. Fear of being used. Fear of being made a fool of. Most of life sits stagnantly through it, but we kick and punch our way through it. In regular society, those fears become nothing, just dead energy.
"Unfortunately you chose to swoop down on someone who doesn't participate in regular society. You picked a wrestler, a man who acts on his fear in a way that I'm sure is very clear to you now.
"In the hands of an average man. Fear is more or less harmless, acted out upon in petty squabbles, but us wrestlers are trained, NAY, I would even say DESIGNED to turn it into a weapon, because it will kill us otherwise.
"Its hard to believe, I know. We come off as tough most of the time, talking to each other like our dicks are hanging out, making it seem like superman can't even touch us, but its all an act. Have you ever seen the men who fall for such an act try to make it in my business? They disappear, fade into nothingness, because they relied on their tough hide to get them through, unprepared for the kind of fear that plagues every man that has seen what a ring mat can do to a human body.
"Fear wins championships. Fear gets men to the tops of ladders and companies. Fear pulls one through a chair shot to keep fighting. When blood gets into the eyes, when joints ache, and muscles can barely pull you along, fear will take you where you need to go.
"It takes time and training, but it is possible to retool it into a new sort of energy. Its like a drug that can defy all the natural limitations of the human body to perform an act that could save your career, or your life altogether. Too many people underestimate it. It will cause you to make mistakes, sure, but then it will drag you out of them just as well.
"Do you see, now, why you're here? Because of fear. In the face of certain destruction, that same instinct that can force me to kick out of a pin is what will force me to drive half-way across this state to make sure my future is back in my control.
"Its funny, lately I've put this and my upcoming match at Fifteen together, and no matter what I do, I can't separate the two. It may seem a bit cheesy, but its because of that linking feeling of fear. I'm scared to death that at one point I will feel my body go into free fall only moments before crashing against the mat. I'm scared of the kind of pain that will keep me from getting up. I'm scared that I'll be laying on the ground, looking up as I watch someone else take my future away from me, hold it above their head, and walk away with what should have been MY hope.
"I worked for it, and if I'm not going to go through all the trouble of dealing with you just to end up on the arena floor while someone walks right on top of me. That shiver in my step, that shake in my movement is what, ironically, will be keeping me going.
"Its all the same, all one act of survival. Not little fragments of desperation all piled into a single stack of moments, but one attempt to keep my head above water. What brought my fist down upon your skull, and then down upon the rope that holds you up there will be the same thing that brings my fist down upon Johnny Rabid, Spencer Adams, Logan, Gravedigger, Steve Orbit, Bonnie Blue, at my coming match up and for years down the line."
For a moment, nothing. Then a scream for help. It bounces off the trees, growing quieter until he repeats it, refreshing the reverberations. HELP! HELP! HELP! I knock him good in the mouth to shut him up and he goes swinging back and forth, writhing in pain. I steady him, pulling him to a full stop before backing up.
"Now, besides a desperate plea for forgiveness, or any more cries for a hero who won't be coming, any last words? I mean, by no means would I be stupid enough to share them. The best I could do is put them in a box and leave them at city limits, but I feel I should at least offer you your last chance to communicate with another human being before your untimely end."
He shakes in the cold as he stares at me. No words to share and fearful of crying out again.
"So be it," I sigh, turning away, glad to be over with the interaction. I begin my long walk before to the car, and as I see it peering through the trees, I can hear Ron trying to scream for help once more. It comes through the forest sounding hallow, as if it were the scream of a ghost, an already dead figure. Chills go down my spine. Forgive me, father, for I have survived.
-.-.-
Midweek, Wednesday, Fifteen coming up and I'm sitting across from Michael Easton, this time in my house. We are both sipping tea in silence. I enjoy it, I'm deep in thought, mauling over the details of my upcoming match, somewhere between strategizing and day-dreaming.
"So," Easton interrupts my thoughts, I'm suddenly on edge. Again, I hate being jarringly pulled back into the real world, but I shake it off as I look up at him.
"Yes?"
"I assume my friend's advice proved quite helpful?"
"Quite." I smile and look back at my drink.
"Good."
"Yeah, I feel a good deal of weight being lifted off my shoulders."
"So, nothing to worry about?" Michael's gaze peers, much like those couple of weeks ago. Again, I don't notice it as I look at my drink. He observes me, but I fail to see it.
"Aside from the match? No. Not quite nothing, but definitely less. This black mailing business is good and other with, thankfully."
"Well, I wouldn't say that," my heart skips a beat. Did he say that? What the hell does that mean? I look up and see he is reaching into his bag next to him, pulling out a envelope of sorts, its full of something, bulging as if ready to burst. He slides it over to me. I hesitate, I try to hold in my dread, but it slips out, as if leaking through my eyes and ears. My hand trembles as I reach over to it and pull it closer to me.
I open the envelope. Photos. I shuffle through them. The parking lot. Distant shots of me sneaking up on Ron and dragging him away. Shots of my car idling to the side of the road. Distant shots of my emerging from the forest. How come I didn't see him? How far away was he? Was I so overcome with emotion and guilt that I failed to notice something so important. The photos turned into shots of trees. In one of them, in the distance was a figure. I know who. Hanging upside down. Each shot getting closer until it was up front and personal with the subject of Ron Howitzer.
Something was wrong.
The blood wasn't coming from his nose anymore.
It was coming from his neck. There was a gash along his throat. No, I didn't do that. I look up and see a bloody knife sitting in the middle of the table. Michael Easton smiles at me, that distorted devilish grin of his. I want to scream, yell, say something, but my mouth refuses to budge. Just silence, almost a squeak.
"Benjyboy," Michael says, "there is so little you know, and so much you know, but don't remember. Lets start with what you know. I work for the News, I make my living by finding images that'll horrify and effect my audience in indescribable ways. I know how the mind works. I, using my awareness of the situation, like to find the worst possible image and go from there. At heart, I'm a manipulator.
"Now, for what you don't know. I kept you here for a reason. I fed you ideas for a reason. When you went out on the town, I called Ron. I've sold footage to his station a number of times. I told him to tail you, that something might happen. Then I encouraged him to get the better of you with blackmail, even told him to triple the original number. See, getting you for assault was bad, but not inescapable, I needed an image far worse. Something beyond your ability to repair. Something that would destroy what I had you building. Put those against each other, then feed you one last idea, the result was inevitable."
Suddenly, he laughed. In my tragic story, he found comedy, "Now, I wasn't sure, in the beginning whether or not you could do it, and I definitely wasn't sure whether or not I could do it. I thought maybe I would pull back at some point, but nope, everything happened according to plan."
His laugh was strangling my lungs, robbing them of air. He rises from his seat and looks down at me, "The price remains the same. Every other months." He gathers the pictures up, uses a napkin to put the bloody knife in a bag. Chuckling to himself, he turns away from me and walks out of my house, taking my pillar with him. His laughs echoing through the house.
Was this a tragedy he found funny. Or a comedy I couldn't help but cry over?
