Post by Jack of Blades on Apr 3, 2006 11:20:17 GMT -5
(Everything remains the same as previous 'Origins'.)
Jack of Blades: And so we come to the final instalment of the first act. A play? Yes, this is indeed a play: we are characters reading from a script. A poorly written one with me playing the 'Iago' role, the malcontent, and others performing as the idiotic moors. What sort of play? Why, it is undoubtedly tragedy.
And yet, whether this will be a revenge tragedy or an Aristotelian one (enveloped in catharsis) will be revealed in future encounters. But for now, take comfort in this retelling of events as well as taking an epistemic appreciation for when our conflict surfaces once more.
After my leaving, I became a resident and trainee at the ‘Y.’ My day would involve waking up in a sleeping back at the gym before consuming a breakfast that came from a vending machine. I would then ponder the precedent events that had got me to this point before attending ‘Professional Wrestling Training – Beginners Welcome’ each Monday, Tuesday and Friday. The ring was unused and left erect outside of the schedule and thus we could have some extra-curricular practice.
I found out that I was not naturally talented at wrestling as I was at my studies. That was not to say that I was bad, well, I was in fact abhorrent but I was determined to change this. Although I lacked athleticism, I would weight train until my muscles liquefied and always go through moves I failed to perform.
I was told that I was a great innovator. I devised a range of fresh and effective moves but was very usually stunted by my physical inability to use them. One such occasion was the practicing of moonsaults. Everyone managed one on his or her first attempt except for your storyteller. I fell flat on my head and knocked myself unconscious. This gave me a moments respite from the embarrassment that would entail.
And yet, I got back up and continued to fall flat on my head. That was until I performed a perfect moonsaults. Excellent rotation and brilliant landing. I continued to do so until I became the best at moonsaulting as well as the best at powerbombing, piledriving and any other move you wanna insert in this space.
After about four months, I was called into the offices of the trainers. The two of them were indie stalwarts who had failed to make an impression in bigger federations. They had both been offered contracts but through to carelessness and arrogance lost them. They told me that they felt I was good enough to move on to the next stop and handed me a leaflet for ‘Western Southern Wrestling’ or in its abbreviated form, ‘WSW.’
They told me to go down on the night of the show and talk to the chairperson, Danny Brown about joining their roster. The security was surprisingly loose and I went into the office/toilets of Danny Brown with minimum effort. He was not the archetypal businessman but he could be described as a chairperson simply because he owned a dilapidated soiled office chair from Ikea.
“What’s your name?”
“Jack Blaine Nolan
“How long you been in the business?”
“I’ve had a few months training down at the ‘Y.’ They sent me here.”
“How tall are you?”
“5’8, 5’9, but my family have a history of being late develo—”
“You got all your fingers?”
“Yes”, I replied showing my complete set to him.
“What’s your wrestling name?”
“Well, I was thinking ‘Magneto X.’ He’s the villain from the X-Men and he was based on Malcolm X so I thought it would be a nice tribute for me to combine the—”
“Eczema? What are they?”
“The X-Men, sir.”
“Ah, those comic book guys. My daughter’s boyfriend reads them. Fucking Hippy – ain’t they lactates or something?”
“Mutates, and no that’s people like Spider-Man who gain their powers through accident. The X-Men are mutants which mean they gain their powers through natu—”
“That’s it. I got it. You are Johnny Mutation!”
I did not argue. I took my moniker and waited in the back being told that I have a match later on tonight. My opponent’s name was David Miller and he was a martial artist of some kind that was combining that sport with professional wrestling. Nobody was particularly sociable to me on my first night. They gave me a few glances before going back to discussing their plans after the show. All but one. Dizzy Dreamer. He was the only one out of them who had a chance to go anywhere. His shooting star presses were crisp. His piledrivers exact. He was willing to learn from anybody with advice. And to make him more detestable, he was nicer than Jesus on Valium.
Over the year my tattoo had begun to degenerate more so than the atypical piece of body art. It was not simply a case of fading. It was flaking and its lines were blurring together. It was as if I had asked for a facsimile of a saturated ‘Jack’ that had passed through each stomach of a cow.
Everyone remembers their first match. I remember exerts from it. And they were mostly kicks to the head. I remember sliding into the ring, very eager. Warming up the audience by applauding them. And then trying to tie up with Miller that was until he put his foot through my stomach and gave me a roundhouse kick that would have made Chuck Norris proud. My next recollection was of me hearing Miller’s music playing while he paraded around the ring having his arm raised by the underpaid referee.
Despite the failure of my introductory work with the WSW, I was given steady work with them. Unfortunately, my first match was indicative of future events, as I soon became the resident jobber. Danny Brown was fully aware of my losing streak and thus if he had any hot prospects that he wanted to push into the throats of the fans he would use me and my pain intolerance to do so. I was living the dream. And yet I had no knowledge that the dream included being barraged with popcorn from 500-pound land whales on my way to the ring.
My value to the WSW further decreased when I was given my first opportunity to shine rather than rust. About half a year or so after my debut, I was placed in an encounter with Dizzy Diamond. Both the competitors knew the expected outcome and both shared a degree of humility in discussing it. Diamond approached me before the match and asked that we put on the best show capable. I was satisfied by this request and we went with this deep in our minds.
It was not about winning or losing. Just entertaining. That, however, did not stop him beating me as if I were Tina to his Ike. He smashed me with a springboard elbow and picked me up into a front face lock signalling his trademark brainbuster. And then it happened.
The images, obsessions, compulsions they came back. At the move’s summit, I got the idea that if this match did not end by powerbomb I would somehow die. It was quite prophetic. At this point though the opportune moment had gone. I mustered all my strength and did the only thing I was capable of doing. Wiggling. Now any other WSW ‘superstar’ would have just dropped me where I stood and let me deal with the consequences. Not Dreamer. He wanted to knock me out, not kill me. So he fell backwards trying to rein me in. I feel directly onto his neck systematically paralysing him and ending his career.
Surprisingly, he did not hold any sort of vendetta and told me it was all part of the business. The crowd and the rest of the WSW locker-room were not so understanding. I had effectively killed the fan favourite. My new position involved me facing retired jobbers and cleaning the toilets previous to a show.
About a year or so after my leaving, a news conference was called to denote the heir receiving the full amount of his parental wealth. I was in the audience of the contract signing. It was made public as a way of funding the heir’s air-brained ventures for the future. The media derived great pleasure from the event partly due to the heir’s seeming incompetence in dealing with his heritage. The others recognised it as such an inability, I knew and regarded it as apathy.
The media’s enjoyment came out of the heir saying that the country of Ubokeystan was where his family made their billions through oil collection. This statement was humorous for two reasons. Firstly, it is not called Ubokeystan and secondly it was not a country. It was a micro-nation made up whose populous was a collection of rejects from other republics.
Soon after, another press conference was called. This was to say that through backwater plots and foolish sponsoring the heir’s wealth was almost depleted. He still had his trust fund and other amounts of cash and this would allow him a comfortable life (even if it was not situated in his mansion.) He had enough to restart but after about a decade or so, he would have to get a job.
Even though I found new residence in a Hotel de la Maison (so incorrect and such a bastardisation of French culture and language that those wearing berets would vomit outside its doors) I would often make appearances at the ‘Y.’ One such was on Christmas Eve. They had put on Sergio Leone’s ‘The Good, The Bad and The Ugly’ as a treat (although I am confident they would have preferred hard liquor.) I was not nor am I fan of the western genre. Its pseudo-misogynistic ambience made and makes me angry enough to want to bite off my testicles in protest. And yet, there I was watching it. That was when I heard it. It was an orchestral track by Ennio Morricone that played whenever the villain was on screen. It was a combination of whistling and violins going against each other for the most screeching tune. And yet it was fantastic in its presentation. A haunting beauty. The ultimate paradox. I asked for it to be my theme music but it was denied saying that the audience would consider me too seriously.
At the age of 20, I was given another chance after the ‘Dreamer’ incident. I was booked in a match against Sim Burton – a rugby league reject who was trying to break into the business out of desperation. I was backstage waiting for my entrance with Danny Brown when Jeff Izzard, Brown’s personal eunuch came and gave us some news. News from our main rival, Orangeville Wrestling Federation or OWF. It was essentially an underground federation that was named after the venue which it took place within.
Orangeville Stock had been an electronics shipping company that had a factory situated in our hometown. The business had eventually shut down leaving the factory available for street fighters and ultra-violent wrestlers to do business within its darkened halls. Anyway, that night the OWF had crowned a new champion
Jeff told us that the OWF ‘World’ belt had just been won by a 19 year old male. He was their youngest ever champion and apparently their most brutal. He would beat his opponents senseless as if he were looking for something in the flurry of punches. What made it more interesting was that the new champion used to be some sort of ‘posh prick who lost his parents cash’ and he was so good at what he does that a new American federation known as WCF was looking to bring him in.
I knew who it was. The bastard had managed to take the only passion that was exclusive to myself and beat me at it. That fuckwit who had spent his life suckling off interest capitals had invaded the only love that was mine. And the real kick in the bollocks was the fact he was better than me.
Mr. Brown hit me around the head with his newspaper, told me that could be me if I wanted it and pushed me through the curtain. I did not feel it. I was entranced in a desperate calculation trying to summarise how the heir had come to be the OWF champion. I was completely oblivious to the front row taunts and the hideous glare of my entrance’s lighting.
Like any hypnotic trance, though, the ringing of a bell broke it. The match started and I snapped. I got the better of Sim Burton. Piledrivers, suplexes, uppercuts. They all connected and looked impressive. He bounced off the ropes; I caught him with a spinebuster. He tried to place his boot in my torso; I gave him a windmill kick. I caught him with a DDT and climbed the turnbuckle for my trademark ‘Flying Headbutt.’ No one but myself knew it was my trademark move as all previous attempts had failed. This one would be no different.
I flew in the air only to catch Sim Burton roll out of my radius and leave me to bounce off the canvas. I winded myself and gave him the advantage. He knocked me to the outside and proceeded to smash my skull into the turnbuckle repeatedly as if he was waiting for the turnbuckle to submit to his effort.
He forced me back into the ring and prepared for his finisher, a fall away driver of sorts. He hit it with expert precision leaving me to stare upwards. Rather than covering my whimpering body and earning his first victory, he proceeded to taunt the crowd about their inability to ‘see him.’
Meanwhile, I was completely focused on the arena lights waiting for some sort of cosmic entity to emerge from them and save me from another loss. God, Buddha, Ganesh, L. Ron Hubbard, Mr. T. Any of the omnipotent deities.
A stinging pain in my stomach broke my mythical contemplations. I felt like I was re-enacting John Hurt’s role in Alien. It was as if it was a latent pain, one that was ever present but just now making itself obvious. It was coming closer to my gullet. The breathlessness had returned.
An image flashed in my head. Myself clenching a bouquet of roses while my two best friends proceeded to swallow one another. No, I was not obsessive compulsive anymore. I had full control over my mind’s eye. I tried to reaffirm my control but was confused whether to focus on my psychosomatic physical illness or resentful mental imagery.
The pain was at the bottom of my throat now preparing to meet the outside world. More resonations of the past began to dance in my cranium. I tried to remember where I was but all that was present was a slide show detailing the shitty existence of one Jack Blaine Nolan.
It was all there.
Maria’s tie careering over her right breast…
The drowning…
My first wrestling show clenching my father’s hand…
My enrolment in Mensa…
Maria and my fumbling in the car…
The meeting with the headmaster…
The loud cheers of the congregation as an engagement was announced…
My father’s daily supplication of lies…
The faux roses…
My hand crushing them…
The pain was forcing its way through my mouth at this point. It barged its way through revealing a stream of claret. It spewed forth as if it was great falsification coming from a lawyer. And yet, this was not the cause of the pain. There was something else forcing it out. A cough.
A splutter or so every other second that grew larger in volume and duration with each individual choke. It was gradually transforming. A reluctant chuckle broke through the coughs, corrupting and assimilating the pain into laughter. I laughed. I laughed at the insane experiences of Jack Blaine Nolan and the generic shittyness that God seemed to supply everyone of his creatures with.
My opponent, Sim Burton, turned to me and asked me ‘what was so funny freak?’ before adding another flurry of kicks to the chest and covering my body for the pin. I kicked out all the while laughing. He slammed me downwards. I laughed. He tried everything and yet I still laughed. Piledrivers, suplexes, and uppercuts. I laughed, I laughed, I laughed.
He powerbombed me and I laughed while I bounced off the mat. He flew onto me from the turnbuckle and laughed as he sandwiched me. He choked me and I laughed, as I turned blue.
I was so hysterical with ecstasy that I barely heard the bell ring. The 60-minute time limit had expired and I had spent 44 minutes of it pissing myself at the absurdity of existence.
Sim Burton did not share my sense of humour, it seemed. He charged at me after the match causing my expression to change. I caught his head in a front face lock and spun both his body and mine around and released him mid-way causing him to land in such a manner that his nose was broken.
Mr. Burton it seems never realised the killing joke, the realisation that he is a stain on the carpet of God’s omniscience. He never truly realised that the Joker is wild.
I walked to the back somewhat angered at my opponent’s inability to understand the humour behind this heterogeneous existence we all share. Behind the carpet, Danny Brown berated me about my actions. “That guy was gonna be a big star and you spent the match crying yourself to sleep, you fuck!”
I turned around to face him, my smile returning. It would seem to onlookers as if I meant to strangle my employer. I raised my arms in a motion towards his neck and moved closer to his shivering person. I lowered my head to his and brought him into an embrace placing my lips directly to his. I then proceeded to lower my hands to his groin to check he was not deriving any sort of perverse pleasure from my actions and then shoved him backwards demanding Ennio Morricone’s whistling overture to greet me to the ring from this point on.
I took what money I was owed (the match had been high-profile and thus so had the ‘winnings’) and left the building. Still shirtless. Still wearing the crimson mask. And still smiling.
It is a deeply enriching experience to walk into ‘Crackton’ in such a state and see the vagrants go out of their way to avoid you. I approached one of them with a £20 bill and asked that he direct me to the most competent tattoo parlour.
I immediately bustled into the parlour looking quite pleased with the night’s efforts. I sat down in the ‘leather’ chair and was passed a towel. They refused to even converse with me until I cleaned the blood from my visage. I blew my nose with it and threw it back at them. I placed a high proportion of my wage on their table and pointed out my previous attempt at body art.
I was asked whether I wanted the hearts to be restored. I asked that they be turned into knives or if you will blades. Jack of Blades seemed a fitting title for the revenant of Jack Blaine Nolan, a self-proclaimed journeyman. A jack-of-all-trades.
With my markings completed, I hiked up to a reputable tailor who was just closing. Out of fear, he allowed my service and I purchased as many high quality suits as I could off the tradesman. I then left satisfied at my change in aesthetics, symbolism and persona.
My career approach was also adapted. Although my abilities were ever present they became more prominent from this time on. If an opponent was stronger than myself, I would choke them and laugh in their faces until they joined in. Too fast? I would catch their leg and pull it from their socket.
I used to arrive at the arena hours before I should have. All I remember of the spare time was just doing press-ups. I would begin and then the next thing I can remember is being told my match is next. A sort of odd and distanced focus. Either way its effects were noticeable. Within four months I had gained 20 pounds of muscle and grown an inch for each month.
I was given numerous title shots as Jack of Blades but they would always end the same: disqualification. Either I would get too carried away and lose my title shot or they, in fear of ‘Pennywise’ would commit some sort of forbidden action so that their status remained safe. It did not stop the onslaught however.
At three years old, or if you include the existence of Jack Blaine Nolan to be an extension of my own, at twenty-three years old, I was told that I was to partake in an inter-federation tag match. It would be allying myself with their champion to take on the team of Cajun Carl (WSW) and Omega Beta (OSF).
Upon arriving for the match, I learnt that my partner was none other than a previous acquaintance of mine so being as hospitable as I am I went to greet the impoverished heir.
“Well look whose nostril is still present. Why, I wouldn’t have known it was you. Where’s the army of vampiric sycophants chained to your ankles? Money troubles?”
I laughed and placed my arm around his shoulder. No response.
“Where’s Maria? Did the repo depot take her back when they came a knocking? I mean you treated her as an object so why shouldn’t they?”
Still nothing.
“Well, it is nice to see that you still have some gold. I thought they would have taken it all away. Is it like a drug rehabilitation programme? You start with Fort Knox, get reduced to a twenty-pound belt and then go cold turkey?”
Every comedian has a back-up joke for when their routine is failing and the audience is dismissing the comedy. The heir was one such audience. It was time for me to reveal my contingency joke.
“Listen, your mother and father are still alive. They staged the boat accident so they would never have to see you again. I was satisfying Maria every night after she had come home and sucked the blood from your empire. Why? Because she fucking hated you. God, Maria, your mother, your father, my mother, myself and your little dog, Toto fucking hate you.”
Still nothing.
This inertia was soon broke once the match started. Our efforts were asynchronous, it was as if we halves of the same being. Our dropkicks connected together. We even used the same kink of the leg in our moonsaults. There was even one odd occasion when we both used Osaka Street Cutters on our opponents. And yet, the strangest coincidence would come during the match’s final moments.
The match’s end came when Omega bounced off the ropes and I caught him with an overhead belly to belly. Meanwhile, Cajun had tried to charge the heir into the turnbuckle but my partner had reversed it and was now proceeding to beat him with salvo-like punches. A clenched fist was obvious and the tape around it was getting ever redder with each punch.
Omega was supine so I crossed his legs and turned him over into the Jack of Blades’ Judgment Day Jolt. I burst into laughter and reclined in an attempt to harmonize his screams with my manic cackles. His hand scraped the blue bottom rope but I did not stop. Just kept laughing.
The heir continued to imprint his fist on Carl’s head as if he wanted his opponent to reveal something. The meaning of life? The treasure of the Sierra Madre? Only the heir knows. The bell was rung and we were declared the losers through inconsiderate disqualification.
We both relinquished our attacks and in unison turned around to face one another in the centre of the ring. Me laughing, he just staring. Myself demonstrating the hypocritical comedy of existence. The heir exuding stoicism. All that could be heard in the entire arena was my insane laughter and his slow, methodical breathing.
It was as if we were looking into a mirror. We had become fragments of each other as if our personalities were symbiotic and swapped between the two of us. The conscientious student was now the psychotic ‘Gwynplaine’, the charming inheritor now the static tactician. A perfect role reversal.
After that, I remained in the WSW for another year still dismissing every opponent I was sent. That was until I met an ambassador for another federation. His name was Luscious Davis and this was his first address to me:
“Hey brother. I’m from the WCF and we’re looking to open up an international wing to our roster. So what do you say? It would be you and another guy, the champ from uh…Orangeville Stock Wrestling.”
I smiled.
Jack of Blades: And so we come to the final instalment of the first act. A play? Yes, this is indeed a play: we are characters reading from a script. A poorly written one with me playing the 'Iago' role, the malcontent, and others performing as the idiotic moors. What sort of play? Why, it is undoubtedly tragedy.
And yet, whether this will be a revenge tragedy or an Aristotelian one (enveloped in catharsis) will be revealed in future encounters. But for now, take comfort in this retelling of events as well as taking an epistemic appreciation for when our conflict surfaces once more.
After my leaving, I became a resident and trainee at the ‘Y.’ My day would involve waking up in a sleeping back at the gym before consuming a breakfast that came from a vending machine. I would then ponder the precedent events that had got me to this point before attending ‘Professional Wrestling Training – Beginners Welcome’ each Monday, Tuesday and Friday. The ring was unused and left erect outside of the schedule and thus we could have some extra-curricular practice.
I found out that I was not naturally talented at wrestling as I was at my studies. That was not to say that I was bad, well, I was in fact abhorrent but I was determined to change this. Although I lacked athleticism, I would weight train until my muscles liquefied and always go through moves I failed to perform.
I was told that I was a great innovator. I devised a range of fresh and effective moves but was very usually stunted by my physical inability to use them. One such occasion was the practicing of moonsaults. Everyone managed one on his or her first attempt except for your storyteller. I fell flat on my head and knocked myself unconscious. This gave me a moments respite from the embarrassment that would entail.
And yet, I got back up and continued to fall flat on my head. That was until I performed a perfect moonsaults. Excellent rotation and brilliant landing. I continued to do so until I became the best at moonsaulting as well as the best at powerbombing, piledriving and any other move you wanna insert in this space.
After about four months, I was called into the offices of the trainers. The two of them were indie stalwarts who had failed to make an impression in bigger federations. They had both been offered contracts but through to carelessness and arrogance lost them. They told me that they felt I was good enough to move on to the next stop and handed me a leaflet for ‘Western Southern Wrestling’ or in its abbreviated form, ‘WSW.’
They told me to go down on the night of the show and talk to the chairperson, Danny Brown about joining their roster. The security was surprisingly loose and I went into the office/toilets of Danny Brown with minimum effort. He was not the archetypal businessman but he could be described as a chairperson simply because he owned a dilapidated soiled office chair from Ikea.
“What’s your name?”
“Jack Blaine Nolan
“How long you been in the business?”
“I’ve had a few months training down at the ‘Y.’ They sent me here.”
“How tall are you?”
“5’8, 5’9, but my family have a history of being late develo—”
“You got all your fingers?”
“Yes”, I replied showing my complete set to him.
“What’s your wrestling name?”
“Well, I was thinking ‘Magneto X.’ He’s the villain from the X-Men and he was based on Malcolm X so I thought it would be a nice tribute for me to combine the—”
“Eczema? What are they?”
“The X-Men, sir.”
“Ah, those comic book guys. My daughter’s boyfriend reads them. Fucking Hippy – ain’t they lactates or something?”
“Mutates, and no that’s people like Spider-Man who gain their powers through accident. The X-Men are mutants which mean they gain their powers through natu—”
“That’s it. I got it. You are Johnny Mutation!”
I did not argue. I took my moniker and waited in the back being told that I have a match later on tonight. My opponent’s name was David Miller and he was a martial artist of some kind that was combining that sport with professional wrestling. Nobody was particularly sociable to me on my first night. They gave me a few glances before going back to discussing their plans after the show. All but one. Dizzy Dreamer. He was the only one out of them who had a chance to go anywhere. His shooting star presses were crisp. His piledrivers exact. He was willing to learn from anybody with advice. And to make him more detestable, he was nicer than Jesus on Valium.
Over the year my tattoo had begun to degenerate more so than the atypical piece of body art. It was not simply a case of fading. It was flaking and its lines were blurring together. It was as if I had asked for a facsimile of a saturated ‘Jack’ that had passed through each stomach of a cow.
Everyone remembers their first match. I remember exerts from it. And they were mostly kicks to the head. I remember sliding into the ring, very eager. Warming up the audience by applauding them. And then trying to tie up with Miller that was until he put his foot through my stomach and gave me a roundhouse kick that would have made Chuck Norris proud. My next recollection was of me hearing Miller’s music playing while he paraded around the ring having his arm raised by the underpaid referee.
Despite the failure of my introductory work with the WSW, I was given steady work with them. Unfortunately, my first match was indicative of future events, as I soon became the resident jobber. Danny Brown was fully aware of my losing streak and thus if he had any hot prospects that he wanted to push into the throats of the fans he would use me and my pain intolerance to do so. I was living the dream. And yet I had no knowledge that the dream included being barraged with popcorn from 500-pound land whales on my way to the ring.
My value to the WSW further decreased when I was given my first opportunity to shine rather than rust. About half a year or so after my debut, I was placed in an encounter with Dizzy Diamond. Both the competitors knew the expected outcome and both shared a degree of humility in discussing it. Diamond approached me before the match and asked that we put on the best show capable. I was satisfied by this request and we went with this deep in our minds.
It was not about winning or losing. Just entertaining. That, however, did not stop him beating me as if I were Tina to his Ike. He smashed me with a springboard elbow and picked me up into a front face lock signalling his trademark brainbuster. And then it happened.
The images, obsessions, compulsions they came back. At the move’s summit, I got the idea that if this match did not end by powerbomb I would somehow die. It was quite prophetic. At this point though the opportune moment had gone. I mustered all my strength and did the only thing I was capable of doing. Wiggling. Now any other WSW ‘superstar’ would have just dropped me where I stood and let me deal with the consequences. Not Dreamer. He wanted to knock me out, not kill me. So he fell backwards trying to rein me in. I feel directly onto his neck systematically paralysing him and ending his career.
Surprisingly, he did not hold any sort of vendetta and told me it was all part of the business. The crowd and the rest of the WSW locker-room were not so understanding. I had effectively killed the fan favourite. My new position involved me facing retired jobbers and cleaning the toilets previous to a show.
About a year or so after my leaving, a news conference was called to denote the heir receiving the full amount of his parental wealth. I was in the audience of the contract signing. It was made public as a way of funding the heir’s air-brained ventures for the future. The media derived great pleasure from the event partly due to the heir’s seeming incompetence in dealing with his heritage. The others recognised it as such an inability, I knew and regarded it as apathy.
The media’s enjoyment came out of the heir saying that the country of Ubokeystan was where his family made their billions through oil collection. This statement was humorous for two reasons. Firstly, it is not called Ubokeystan and secondly it was not a country. It was a micro-nation made up whose populous was a collection of rejects from other republics.
Soon after, another press conference was called. This was to say that through backwater plots and foolish sponsoring the heir’s wealth was almost depleted. He still had his trust fund and other amounts of cash and this would allow him a comfortable life (even if it was not situated in his mansion.) He had enough to restart but after about a decade or so, he would have to get a job.
Even though I found new residence in a Hotel de la Maison (so incorrect and such a bastardisation of French culture and language that those wearing berets would vomit outside its doors) I would often make appearances at the ‘Y.’ One such was on Christmas Eve. They had put on Sergio Leone’s ‘The Good, The Bad and The Ugly’ as a treat (although I am confident they would have preferred hard liquor.) I was not nor am I fan of the western genre. Its pseudo-misogynistic ambience made and makes me angry enough to want to bite off my testicles in protest. And yet, there I was watching it. That was when I heard it. It was an orchestral track by Ennio Morricone that played whenever the villain was on screen. It was a combination of whistling and violins going against each other for the most screeching tune. And yet it was fantastic in its presentation. A haunting beauty. The ultimate paradox. I asked for it to be my theme music but it was denied saying that the audience would consider me too seriously.
At the age of 20, I was given another chance after the ‘Dreamer’ incident. I was booked in a match against Sim Burton – a rugby league reject who was trying to break into the business out of desperation. I was backstage waiting for my entrance with Danny Brown when Jeff Izzard, Brown’s personal eunuch came and gave us some news. News from our main rival, Orangeville Wrestling Federation or OWF. It was essentially an underground federation that was named after the venue which it took place within.
Orangeville Stock had been an electronics shipping company that had a factory situated in our hometown. The business had eventually shut down leaving the factory available for street fighters and ultra-violent wrestlers to do business within its darkened halls. Anyway, that night the OWF had crowned a new champion
Jeff told us that the OWF ‘World’ belt had just been won by a 19 year old male. He was their youngest ever champion and apparently their most brutal. He would beat his opponents senseless as if he were looking for something in the flurry of punches. What made it more interesting was that the new champion used to be some sort of ‘posh prick who lost his parents cash’ and he was so good at what he does that a new American federation known as WCF was looking to bring him in.
I knew who it was. The bastard had managed to take the only passion that was exclusive to myself and beat me at it. That fuckwit who had spent his life suckling off interest capitals had invaded the only love that was mine. And the real kick in the bollocks was the fact he was better than me.
Mr. Brown hit me around the head with his newspaper, told me that could be me if I wanted it and pushed me through the curtain. I did not feel it. I was entranced in a desperate calculation trying to summarise how the heir had come to be the OWF champion. I was completely oblivious to the front row taunts and the hideous glare of my entrance’s lighting.
Like any hypnotic trance, though, the ringing of a bell broke it. The match started and I snapped. I got the better of Sim Burton. Piledrivers, suplexes, uppercuts. They all connected and looked impressive. He bounced off the ropes; I caught him with a spinebuster. He tried to place his boot in my torso; I gave him a windmill kick. I caught him with a DDT and climbed the turnbuckle for my trademark ‘Flying Headbutt.’ No one but myself knew it was my trademark move as all previous attempts had failed. This one would be no different.
I flew in the air only to catch Sim Burton roll out of my radius and leave me to bounce off the canvas. I winded myself and gave him the advantage. He knocked me to the outside and proceeded to smash my skull into the turnbuckle repeatedly as if he was waiting for the turnbuckle to submit to his effort.
He forced me back into the ring and prepared for his finisher, a fall away driver of sorts. He hit it with expert precision leaving me to stare upwards. Rather than covering my whimpering body and earning his first victory, he proceeded to taunt the crowd about their inability to ‘see him.’
Meanwhile, I was completely focused on the arena lights waiting for some sort of cosmic entity to emerge from them and save me from another loss. God, Buddha, Ganesh, L. Ron Hubbard, Mr. T. Any of the omnipotent deities.
A stinging pain in my stomach broke my mythical contemplations. I felt like I was re-enacting John Hurt’s role in Alien. It was as if it was a latent pain, one that was ever present but just now making itself obvious. It was coming closer to my gullet. The breathlessness had returned.
An image flashed in my head. Myself clenching a bouquet of roses while my two best friends proceeded to swallow one another. No, I was not obsessive compulsive anymore. I had full control over my mind’s eye. I tried to reaffirm my control but was confused whether to focus on my psychosomatic physical illness or resentful mental imagery.
The pain was at the bottom of my throat now preparing to meet the outside world. More resonations of the past began to dance in my cranium. I tried to remember where I was but all that was present was a slide show detailing the shitty existence of one Jack Blaine Nolan.
It was all there.
Maria’s tie careering over her right breast…
The drowning…
My first wrestling show clenching my father’s hand…
My enrolment in Mensa…
Maria and my fumbling in the car…
The meeting with the headmaster…
The loud cheers of the congregation as an engagement was announced…
My father’s daily supplication of lies…
The faux roses…
My hand crushing them…
The pain was forcing its way through my mouth at this point. It barged its way through revealing a stream of claret. It spewed forth as if it was great falsification coming from a lawyer. And yet, this was not the cause of the pain. There was something else forcing it out. A cough.
A splutter or so every other second that grew larger in volume and duration with each individual choke. It was gradually transforming. A reluctant chuckle broke through the coughs, corrupting and assimilating the pain into laughter. I laughed. I laughed at the insane experiences of Jack Blaine Nolan and the generic shittyness that God seemed to supply everyone of his creatures with.
My opponent, Sim Burton, turned to me and asked me ‘what was so funny freak?’ before adding another flurry of kicks to the chest and covering my body for the pin. I kicked out all the while laughing. He slammed me downwards. I laughed. He tried everything and yet I still laughed. Piledrivers, suplexes, and uppercuts. I laughed, I laughed, I laughed.
He powerbombed me and I laughed while I bounced off the mat. He flew onto me from the turnbuckle and laughed as he sandwiched me. He choked me and I laughed, as I turned blue.
I was so hysterical with ecstasy that I barely heard the bell ring. The 60-minute time limit had expired and I had spent 44 minutes of it pissing myself at the absurdity of existence.
Sim Burton did not share my sense of humour, it seemed. He charged at me after the match causing my expression to change. I caught his head in a front face lock and spun both his body and mine around and released him mid-way causing him to land in such a manner that his nose was broken.
Mr. Burton it seems never realised the killing joke, the realisation that he is a stain on the carpet of God’s omniscience. He never truly realised that the Joker is wild.
I walked to the back somewhat angered at my opponent’s inability to understand the humour behind this heterogeneous existence we all share. Behind the carpet, Danny Brown berated me about my actions. “That guy was gonna be a big star and you spent the match crying yourself to sleep, you fuck!”
I turned around to face him, my smile returning. It would seem to onlookers as if I meant to strangle my employer. I raised my arms in a motion towards his neck and moved closer to his shivering person. I lowered my head to his and brought him into an embrace placing my lips directly to his. I then proceeded to lower my hands to his groin to check he was not deriving any sort of perverse pleasure from my actions and then shoved him backwards demanding Ennio Morricone’s whistling overture to greet me to the ring from this point on.
I took what money I was owed (the match had been high-profile and thus so had the ‘winnings’) and left the building. Still shirtless. Still wearing the crimson mask. And still smiling.
It is a deeply enriching experience to walk into ‘Crackton’ in such a state and see the vagrants go out of their way to avoid you. I approached one of them with a £20 bill and asked that he direct me to the most competent tattoo parlour.
I immediately bustled into the parlour looking quite pleased with the night’s efforts. I sat down in the ‘leather’ chair and was passed a towel. They refused to even converse with me until I cleaned the blood from my visage. I blew my nose with it and threw it back at them. I placed a high proportion of my wage on their table and pointed out my previous attempt at body art.
I was asked whether I wanted the hearts to be restored. I asked that they be turned into knives or if you will blades. Jack of Blades seemed a fitting title for the revenant of Jack Blaine Nolan, a self-proclaimed journeyman. A jack-of-all-trades.
With my markings completed, I hiked up to a reputable tailor who was just closing. Out of fear, he allowed my service and I purchased as many high quality suits as I could off the tradesman. I then left satisfied at my change in aesthetics, symbolism and persona.
My career approach was also adapted. Although my abilities were ever present they became more prominent from this time on. If an opponent was stronger than myself, I would choke them and laugh in their faces until they joined in. Too fast? I would catch their leg and pull it from their socket.
I used to arrive at the arena hours before I should have. All I remember of the spare time was just doing press-ups. I would begin and then the next thing I can remember is being told my match is next. A sort of odd and distanced focus. Either way its effects were noticeable. Within four months I had gained 20 pounds of muscle and grown an inch for each month.
I was given numerous title shots as Jack of Blades but they would always end the same: disqualification. Either I would get too carried away and lose my title shot or they, in fear of ‘Pennywise’ would commit some sort of forbidden action so that their status remained safe. It did not stop the onslaught however.
At three years old, or if you include the existence of Jack Blaine Nolan to be an extension of my own, at twenty-three years old, I was told that I was to partake in an inter-federation tag match. It would be allying myself with their champion to take on the team of Cajun Carl (WSW) and Omega Beta (OSF).
Upon arriving for the match, I learnt that my partner was none other than a previous acquaintance of mine so being as hospitable as I am I went to greet the impoverished heir.
“Well look whose nostril is still present. Why, I wouldn’t have known it was you. Where’s the army of vampiric sycophants chained to your ankles? Money troubles?”
I laughed and placed my arm around his shoulder. No response.
“Where’s Maria? Did the repo depot take her back when they came a knocking? I mean you treated her as an object so why shouldn’t they?”
Still nothing.
“Well, it is nice to see that you still have some gold. I thought they would have taken it all away. Is it like a drug rehabilitation programme? You start with Fort Knox, get reduced to a twenty-pound belt and then go cold turkey?”
Every comedian has a back-up joke for when their routine is failing and the audience is dismissing the comedy. The heir was one such audience. It was time for me to reveal my contingency joke.
“Listen, your mother and father are still alive. They staged the boat accident so they would never have to see you again. I was satisfying Maria every night after she had come home and sucked the blood from your empire. Why? Because she fucking hated you. God, Maria, your mother, your father, my mother, myself and your little dog, Toto fucking hate you.”
Still nothing.
This inertia was soon broke once the match started. Our efforts were asynchronous, it was as if we halves of the same being. Our dropkicks connected together. We even used the same kink of the leg in our moonsaults. There was even one odd occasion when we both used Osaka Street Cutters on our opponents. And yet, the strangest coincidence would come during the match’s final moments.
The match’s end came when Omega bounced off the ropes and I caught him with an overhead belly to belly. Meanwhile, Cajun had tried to charge the heir into the turnbuckle but my partner had reversed it and was now proceeding to beat him with salvo-like punches. A clenched fist was obvious and the tape around it was getting ever redder with each punch.
Omega was supine so I crossed his legs and turned him over into the Jack of Blades’ Judgment Day Jolt. I burst into laughter and reclined in an attempt to harmonize his screams with my manic cackles. His hand scraped the blue bottom rope but I did not stop. Just kept laughing.
The heir continued to imprint his fist on Carl’s head as if he wanted his opponent to reveal something. The meaning of life? The treasure of the Sierra Madre? Only the heir knows. The bell was rung and we were declared the losers through inconsiderate disqualification.
We both relinquished our attacks and in unison turned around to face one another in the centre of the ring. Me laughing, he just staring. Myself demonstrating the hypocritical comedy of existence. The heir exuding stoicism. All that could be heard in the entire arena was my insane laughter and his slow, methodical breathing.
It was as if we were looking into a mirror. We had become fragments of each other as if our personalities were symbiotic and swapped between the two of us. The conscientious student was now the psychotic ‘Gwynplaine’, the charming inheritor now the static tactician. A perfect role reversal.
After that, I remained in the WSW for another year still dismissing every opponent I was sent. That was until I met an ambassador for another federation. His name was Luscious Davis and this was his first address to me:
“Hey brother. I’m from the WCF and we’re looking to open up an international wing to our roster. So what do you say? It would be you and another guy, the champ from uh…Orangeville Stock Wrestling.”
I smiled.
