Showered with your Golden God's Gift

[Stephen Singh]

Thursday, October 5, 2017.

Blue Bottle Coffee. New York City.

I’m sorry.

He was. Well, that’s not entirely fair. He was and he wasn’t. An adult shouldn’t be able to simply utter, “I’m sorry” after something they intentionally do, a decision they made when they were angry though fully aware of its consequences; that’s not fair to the word “sorry.” The apology--though perhaps sincere in that moment--isn’t true. He wasn’t sorry when he signed her up for the Final Girl Battle Royale knowing she didn’t have the physical tools to compete in that arena. He wasn’t sorry when he thought about someone--another woman specifically--punching, kicking, inflicting whatever bodily harm they can on the woman he loves. Loved? He wasn’t sure. As she stood there in front him, aghast at the news that she had less than a week before she’d enter the ring with God knows how many women much more practiced in the art of violence, as she stood there wide-eyed and pale, in need of him and his guidance, he loved her. The fear reminded him of the first time he’d known that and he’s there for a moment.

“He quickly gives up any struggle and watches as two of the besuited goons snatch the comforter away from Erica, leaving her as naked as Singh. They exchange a brief smirk with each other before grabbing an ankle and dangling her naked body upside down off of the balcony. The young, naked college student howls for a moment before clutching both hands to her mouth remember she’d been warned to stay quiet…

The Romano Family capo, Frank, signals and Erica is brought back up to the balcony. They hand her the comforter back but she’s too hysterical to take it. She slumps onto the concrete, nude and sobbing. She’s terrified and traumatized and it tears at Singh. He knows it’s his fault.”

Singh was too damaged, too self-centered or stubborn or maybe even--if we’re feeling exceptionally generous--naive to know he’d fallen in love with her before that moment. It wasn’t until she was physically and emotionally naked, battered, nearly mentally broken that he could admit to himself that she’d stirred something inside him few ever had and--unknown to him--few ever will. He was there again, watching helplessly with a barrel pressed against the base of his brain stem, furious with the clear knowledge that none of his training, none of his intelligence, his way with words, no skill that he possessed could turn the tables in that moment. Singh had made this bed weeks ago and now she was being forced to to be dangled from it. That look of pure fear was the ancestor of this one now, but today it swirled also with anger. She didn’t blame him for the actions of those men that day even though she should have but this? Signing her up for competitive violence was the vindictive, dangerous act of only Stephen. And she knew that. In less than a moment the anger in her eyes pushed out the fear and Singh’s warm nostalgia is replaced by the cold calculation of her most attractive feature: her brain.

Erica: I’m not doing that. You signed me up for that, I’m under no obligation.

Singh: You’re welcome to do that but that creates another problem.

Erica: Oh now, will Corey be mad at you? Like I give two shits.

Singh: No. You’d be in breach of your contract with me.

Erica: Good, I’m done with this anyway.

Singh: I signed you up before our contract expired and there’s a clause about having to compete in a maximum of 4 matches per year if so requested by me lest you be found in breach of contract.

She snatches her latte off the table, readying to exit the coffee shop and hopefully Singh’s life.

Erica: I told you, I don’t give a sh--

Singh: Our contract states that if you breach it, you have to pay back everything you’ve made so far.

As he the sentence completes, he sips his coffee, wondering whether or not his attempt at “sounding guilty” worked. It didn’t because he doesn’t feel guilty, he feels thankful that he still had this ace up his sleeve, he’s happy to leverage his position of power as her employer to keep her in his life as whatever else he can convince her to be. She’s less than enamored with the revelation.

Erica: You won’t do it.

Singh: I won’t?

He wouldn’t and she was fairly sure of it. But he firmed his voice, striking from it any waver or hint of dishonesty. Instead, he fills it with the hurt and rage he felt the night before Ultimate Showdown when he learned she’d aborted their unborn child. Another long, slow sip of his coffee, a long sigh, and then he too takes to his feet. He steps close to her, leans over her and speaks slowly, words measured, restrained.

Singh: You think I won’t take my Assistant to court for failing me? For not reading through the contract? For refusing to do what she’s paid for?

She swallowed hard but was confident he wouldn’t take her to court over this. She looked up at him.

Erica: I think you won’t take ME to court for it, no. The money means nothing to you.

The corners of his mouth shiver their way toward his ears in the most frightening smile she’d ever seen on his face. He pulls her close with a hand on the small of her back, now looking almost directly down at her he speaks through the quivering smile.

Singh: You always know what means something to me, don’t you Erica? You know me so well, don’t you Erica? You’re so sure that I won’t bring the woman who KILLED my child to court? That I won’t bankrupt her and piss on her future the way she did to mine? Without permission or discussion or even the fucking decency of a notice? At least when I’m going to trash your life, you’ll get a summons in the mail and it won’t be in front of everyone you know. You know me, Erica. What WON’T I do now that I’m pushed?

Visibly frightened now, she removed his hand from her back. Her vulnerability laid bare again, his affection swelled but he buried it deep with the memories of his brother and the few others things he’s loved. She broke eye contact and relented, knowing when to cut her losses and slightly afraid of what would come next if she kept fighting.

Erica: I guess there’s no choice then. I’ll be at Thirteen.

Singh: Well, I’ll see you before then.

She began making her way toward the door, purposely putting physical distance between them until she felt safe to speak freely again.

Erica: The hell you will.

Singh: Who are you going to train with?

Erica: Literally anyone else. Maybe I don’t even train. Maybe I go in there, get my ass beat like you want to see so badly, spend one night in the hospital and then I can never see you again. At least I can take solace in that.

She walked out. He started after her but suddenly he felt the eyes on him. Everyone at Blue Bottle had the temperature of the situation; a man of Singh’s size with his hand forcefully pulling a woman half his size toward him with anger in his eyes and a smile on his face had a number of the patrons with the 9 and the 1 already dialed. He decided not to follow her. He did hope she’d train though; he was nauseated by the thought of her being hurt, injured, hospitalized. Now he was at least. But now he was too late to be human. Once you’ve given into the baser desires, once you’ve been a monster for a moment in time, all your apologies and guilt and tears after the fact mean nothing. They fall from the face of someone who has dipped into the pool of remorselessness, of inexcusable action, of a world fueled only by hate and they are forever changed. Singh has been infected with the poison of his own misery and briefly indulged its need to spread, unwittingly feeding it, watering the seed of hate that will soon overrun his mind and soul.

**************************************

Tuesday October 10, 2017.

Some Godforsaken Bingo Hall,Minneapolis, MN.

You’d be hard pressed to find a sadder scene. Literally nobody wanted to be here, another second-rate, knock-off “Sci-fi Convention” that books just about anybody into an appearance, makes misleading flyers with fine print absolving themselves of any responsibility to produce any REAL science fiction celebrities, and then herds in the nerd hordes, pockets bursting with money saved by living in their parents basement. The WonderCons and ComicCons of the world had become such cash cows that budding capitalist shitheads realized that a nerd and his money could parted as quickly as a fool and his and began popping up these off-brand shindigs. At this particular gathering of virgins, everyone was particularly unsatisfied. Any “celebrity” in a booth either didn’t know what they were signing up for or were so insignificant in the scope of their career that none the mouth breathers even lined up for a five dollar photo or a ten dollar head shot. A head shot is exactly what Stephen Singh was dreaming of now, something to end this misery as quickly as possible. He sits, elbow on the table in front of him, head resting on his palm, cheek pushed up to his bloodshot eye. His ever-present stainless steel coffee mug sits in front of him full of single-sourced Columbian dark roast today. The darker roast is to better hide the inferior beans and also the cheap whiskey he’s using to get through this event. She’d booked him for this “media appearance” even before she knew he’d signed her up for Final Girl. He was worried what she’d sign him up for after the fight. Regardless, he was here now, watching time move slower than he knew it could. One more hour and his weekly quota for WCF press had been met. A pudgy fourteen year old boy with long hair in loose ringlets appeared suddenly before Singh.

Boy: Ste...Stephen Singh?

Singh: Sure.

Boy: Really? What the hell are you doing here?!

Singh: Ya know, that’s a great fuckin question, Hurley.

Boy: Holy shit! You’re as smart as you say you are! You knew my nickname!

Singh: You’re wearing a LOST shirt.

Hurley: Yeah, I’m here to see Vincent.

Singh racks his brain for a moment.

Singh: The dog?

Hurley: Yeah! Have you seen him?! Is he as cool as he is on the show? Gawd, I hope he’s cool.

The former World Champ pulls from his coffee mug, the heat burns the roof of his mouth and the whiskey burns the throat. He considers burning the whole place down in silence. Hurley interrupts him.

Hurley: So dude...like...what are you doing here?

Singh: Media.

Hurley: Are you gonna….whaddya call it….are you gonna shoot?

Singh: Maybe myself.

Hurley: But isn’t it “always be shooting?”

A “hmph” uncontrollably escapes from Singh’s nostrils as he looks at the kid.

Singh: You watch?

Hurley: I did. But once Joey Flash and Jared Holmes disappeared it got kinda boring so I stopped. What’s happened since then? Who’s champ now?

An involuntary lip curl and the name comes through gritted teeth.

Singh: John Rabid.

Hurley: HIM?! Well at least I didn’t miss much. Anything else important happen since those other dudes quit?

Just my fucking title reign you sweaty, pimple-ridden fuckin poster boy for abortions.

Singh: No, nothing important.

Hurley: Cool, have a good day.

The boys turns to leave, exposing a Pikachu backpack strapped around his soft shoulders and bursting lovehandles. Indignant, Singh stops him.

Singh: The fuck, Hurley?! You don’t even want an autograph?

Hurley: Nah, not really.

The former World Champ stands up from his chair quickly, slightly unsteady. There was more whiskey than he thought in that Irish Coffee.

Singh: How about some shoot then kid?

The kid pulls his shoulders to his portly cheeks with a “Sure, why not?” shrug. Before the gesture was even made, Singh had placed one foot on the steel folding chair he’d just vacated and is mounting the folding table he’d been assigned to sit at for a few hours. A few people stop and take notice, a few of them recognizing him as a WCF star but most of them just staring at the obviously hungover, athletic specimen now shouting from atop a table.

Singh: FAITHFUL STEPHENITES! Gather round and heed the word! I know you have no forsaken me after such a small bump in the road, such an insignificant blip on the radar.

Hurley steps closer and some of the crowd follows. Half a dozen or so people are filming Singh as he surveys the tiny crowd he’s gathered. It’s barely over a dozen people; some of them might not even know who he is. His ego recoils but he reinflates it with the rest of his Irish Coffee; the whiskey helping fuel his self-pity, his anger, his diatribe.

Singh: It doesn’t get better you fat fucking nerds.

The crowd bristles and Singh smiles.

Singh: It doesn’t just “get better;” you have to make it better. You have to BE better. Don’t wallow in your own pathetic daydreams, don’t give five bucks to some loser who had a two episode stint and Star Trek D-Generation X or whatever. You lean too hard into this slop and you might just end up like the saddest bunch of dweebs I’ve ever seen in a sport that seems to breed them: The Guardians.

There’s a small pop for the The Guardians; whatever crossover there IS between SciFi and Pro Wrestling fans, ALL of them obviously love The Guardians.

Of course you blindly cheer these intergalactic idiots. Of course you think that they’re worth more than the twenty five cent 1970s comic books they lift all their best ideas from. Of course you’re all blind to the fact that on Thursday, Ethan and I are going to drag FPV to the victory circle after we stomp their heads until our boots are covered in brains. It could be worse, I could have to put up with Jay Omega undeservingly arrogant bullshit but this current concoction...it’s nearly as bad.

Let’s start at the bottom of the barrel, shall we? One L. Verez. Get it? Like Alvarez? GET IT?! Shoot me already. No wait, I’m shooting. What’s that other thing you call yourself? The “Femalien?” God I hate this. I must’ve really pissed off Corey and Seth to be stuck in this match. Was She-T taken you uncreative, nob? I know, I know, I’m just a silly “milk” tossing my words around while you’re an advanced creature with such enhanced senses, intelligence and blah blah blah. How do you justify it then when we lowly humans beat the ever-loving shit out of you like I’m going to do it Thursday? That’s what I never understand about all these fuckchops that blather on and on about their incredibly increased skills and strengths; then how do you lose? How does Corey Black fight you to a stand still? You’re a DIFFERENT SPECIES right? Yet here you are on Earth, on your back every so often, looking up at The Bright Lights (the ones inside on the ceiling, not the ones where you should go the fuck back to.)

While we’re on topic of your absurd lineage and extra terrestrial roots help me understand something: you’re a transgender female alien. Right? Did I say that right? Can Sidney double check for me that I’ve got all the pronouns right so far? Anyways, here’s where I get confused. Does your species also present as the binary gender options of male or female? I mean, there could a DOZEN genders for your species for all we know. What are the odds that your species, from all the way across the galaxy ALSO happens to have a “male” and “female” presentation instead of blipbop, schmadorpadorp and boudletoodles. Or maybe no genders at all? That’s certainly a thing that could exist. But no, your unprecedented and totally unique species is male and female. Thank God it happened that way lest our tiny little human brains not be able to understand how interesting you are. You’re not a transgender female, you’re transient wet fart. You’re a low-rung hanger-on, you’re nobody. You’re probably the gal that has to clean out Damian Kaine’s space shitter. That guy’s higher on the rung over than you and you know what we did to him in WCF? We beat the shit out of him so many he finally just gave up and left. The Brotherhood? It’s buried at the foot of a mountain of success that I helped build. And now the Guardians are clamoring for their own plot in the graveyard of stable that thought they could. Don’t worry, I’ll make room.

Who’s next? Oh that’s right, that sentient infected whitehead, Alex Richards. This knuckle-dragging half wit has grunted his way into enough to success to at least warrant a moment of seriousness from me.

As intoxication begins setting in, Singh grits his teeth and growls for a moment.

There. That was enough. This man is no threat to me, no threat to Ethan, not even a threat to FPV. This man’s greatest accomplishment is likely beating that pocket-sized, no-talent ass-clown Howard Black. Uncle Fester, I wish you’d shove a flashlight in your mouth so you’d at least be useful around here. Regardless, let me illuminate the situation for you: you’re out of your depth. You all are. I briefly interacted with you on the dregs of the internet and it was all I really needed to know that you’re indeed the mental midget you appear. Let’s recap that interaction: I insulted you, insinuating you were a pedophile. You said you didn’t understand what I was talking about then said you always give in to your temptations. In between fits of riotous laughter, I reiterated my first statement but with smaller words and more explanation. You then said “Duh I knew that I was making fun of YOU!” Ah, the rapier wit! Ah, the endless tete-a-tete of two great minds! Ah, the sad state of affairs of what you get away with as a wrestler nowadays. I’m going to wrestle circles around you on Thursday because I can THINK circles around you. That’s where matches are won. Call me the Zim-Killa because I’m putting you out of all our miseries.

Oh and by the way, you know who self medicates?

You do, Stephen. Caffeine, gambling, now alcohol.

Losers. Men who can’t embrace the truth of their nature. Maybe they can’t fully face their own shortcomings or failures

That’s you again, Stephen.

Or maybe they claim it’s for the best like you do. But that’s a lie, Richards. What is BEST for you is what is most deeply and truly you. Those nasty proclivities, those vicious instincts, that utter disregard for other human life? THAT is what would serve you best, especially in our business. Instead, you self-medicate to bring out the “more good natured, albeit reckless” side of yourself. Pathetic. You’re going to want that other side this Thursday Alex. When The Thief in The Night is at your neck and you didn’t even hear him move near, you’ll wish that there was that truest deepest self to tap into, to save you from what’s coming. But you’ve dulled its noise to the point of near silence. And a reckless side? That’s what has lead you to more success in the world of professional wrestling? Maybe success in the watered down piss bucket called UTI. But the larger World of Professional Wrestling? Recklessness gets you pinned. Recklessness gets you injured. Recklessness in the ring with the Watson of Wrestling? You’re lucky if that doesn’t get your career ended. Beg your Golden God for mercy, Uncle Fester. You won’t find any but beg anyways, I find it amusing. Be prepared to have another “highly traumatic” night in your life that you’ll do anything in your miniscule power to forget about.

And finally, queen of UTI and WCF’s collective cum dumpster: Bonnie Blue. Know what the most impressive thing you’ve done is BB? It’s certainly not anything in the WCF because when one checks those records and its the ole “Ctrl+F” for “Bonnie” there isn’t a goddamn match in all of the history books. And it’s certainly not anything that’s purely in UCI because....I mean, c’mon Bonnie this is UCI we’re talking about. You second-rate reprobates let a coked up vagrant snatch your World Title. At least Rabid can keep it together long enough to have some appearance of decency. Oh and it’s definitely not helping to found the guardians when you were getting eiffel towered by those insufferable imbeciles Polar and Jay. No, no, no. The most impressive thing you’ve done is neuter Wade Moor. Broseidon himself now appears in various Guardians promos as a dickless, beta cuck shell of the GOD he once was. Just listen to him

The last thing I want is to be a god of destruction.

WHAT?! Who is this weak-minded mook and what have you done with the former WCF Heavyweight Champion? I really hope after you cut them off you ate his balls to absorb some fraction of the power the man once ruthlessly wielded. But I know you didn’t, Bonnie. I know you think you’re doing what’s best for him. I know you think you’ve HELPED that man. You’ve helped that man to an earlier grave. You’ve helped that man to the lowest point his career. You’ve helped that man become the man behind the woman behind The Guardians. He’s basically the third person in the space-a-riffic human-centipede experiment gone wrong that IS UCI. And you think that’s best for him? You think that’s best for all of you don’t you? Instead of doing what you CAN, you do what you think you SHOULD. Should is relative. Should is subjective. Your beloved morality, the “good,” the “justice” you think you fight for? It doesn’t fucking exist. It’s defined and created by our perceptions, by the limitations of our own eyes and ears and hearts. And minds. Some of which are extremely limited, ask your present company. Me? I fight for glory. I fight for fame, for success, I fight FOR ME. That’s why I will win on Thursday; that’s why men like me will always beat children like you Bonnie. We do whatever it takes because while you parse the black and white of your justice-based world, I see it all for the gray it is and paint it red with my opponent’s blood instead.

I can’t wait to see how you spin the loss after the fact this week, Bonnie. That’s always my favorite part of people like you. They say shit like, “I didn’t win but that’s okay because I didn’t come to win!” Then what in all the fucks did you come for? Me? I lost. John Rabid beat me. Again. And I loathe him for it. I loathe ME for it. I loathe the whole goddamn universe for it! And it drives me! It pushes me harder, drives me deeper into myself than I thought I could go so I can pull up something I never knew I had and use it to snap the pretty little neck of UTI’s Time Bitch. If you’re not showing up to win at XIII, Bonnie, do yourself a favor and don’t show up at all.

Singh ends his rant, ready to get down off the table but is interrupted by Hurley.

Hurley: Is that it?

Singh: Yeah, that’s it. What the fuck else do you want?

Hurley: I dunno. I just thought there’d be….some big finish, ya know?

With a curl of his lip and a whiskey-soaked burp Stephen Singh unbuttons his jeans, lowers his Johnny, and unleashes his Golden Rod. From aforementioned Rod comes a beautiful Golden Shower down the head and back of neck of his portly non-fan.

Singh: THE BIG FUCKIN’ FINISH!

As Singh triumphantly thrusts both arms in the air, he loses his balance, falling backward off the folding table likely peeing all over himself. The mighty have fallen. And has still further to go.