John Weyland versus Zachery Sears

Sun set on me now.
God please tell me what to do.
Looking straight ahead.

I remember a time when everything seemed certain. I was a sure thing--I’d go in the first or second round of the draft and I’d be in the League. The entirety of my existence was staked upon that plan. Everything I did was aimed towards that outcome. I never considered what I’d do if it caved in. There was no plan B.

While the rest of the team was getting their dicks up, I was keeping my grades up. While they were up all night living it up, I was in bed, ready for the next day. Looking back, maybe I should have fucked around. Maybe doing the right thing was always the wrong thing. Maybe I should have had a little bit of fun.

‘Maybe’ quickly became a word I got tired of hearing - tired of using.

Which would have been worse? If I lost the respect of my team or lost my future? Looking back, it is so clear, yet, at the time, it was impossible to see.

I looked towards the stars and wondered if somewhere far off, even in another dimension, if there was a version of John Weyland who made the right decision. That John Weyland turned on his team and pointed the finger. He told all the right people just how bad it was. He moved on from that controversy and he got that big contract with the right team. Hell, maybe he even got the job backing up Brees in New Orleans.

Still the statement stuck out in my head. ‘He turned on his team. Turned on his team.’

That John Weyland graduated with honors--so even if he didn’t have football, he had a degree. He could have shopped that degree out and he could have done more with his life. He would have a proud family who backed him up. He would have had pride. Pride and accomplishment.

He certainly wouldn’t have offered his face up as a punching bag in so many illegal fights.

Turn the lens around and you would see a John Weyland who bought in fully. He saw his opportunity to excel and ignored all of the warning signs.

As much as I wanted to claim my innocence, I was just as guilty as the rest of them. I might as well have taken the money, taken the life, and gotten that juice.

I would have felt something beyond my fake assed sense of achievement. I thought I was answering the call of the League. I thought I was doing what needed to be done to get out onto the field and become that superstar I believed I was since I was knee fucking high.

All I did was end up lost. Lost and fucked up. Moments after that…

Somewhere outside of Crystal Springs, Mississippi, my mind began to unravel.

Moon rise up above.
Kiss me darkness, suck me off.
Fuck it all, fuck it.

I’m pushing it as hard as I can. I wanna see that needle buried. I’m on I-55 and I’m competing to set the record for the lowest gas milage in the history of travel. I’m pushing it as hard as I can.

I left West Monroe late and my route into New Orleans has me cutting through Mississippi as I roll south, avoiding the highway patrol. My sister packed me a ziplock bag full of joints and I just couldn’t turn it down. I’m high as fuck and I just don’t care.

I don’t have to pass drug tests anymore, or at least I’m assuming I don’t. Really, who gives a fuck if I do? Yet another mistake to add to the list of many--growing with each passing minute.

The scenery blurs on either side of the car as I fuck right off from my past and tear into my future. It’s this illusion of leaving it all behind I clutch in my hands. I wish to seperate, but I know that as soon as I stop, it will all catch up with me.

I crank up the music. The music--the music is so loud I can’t even think.

I don’t want to think. Done enough of that.

Pay me to give a fuck right now and you’ll get your money back.

I remember that Mad Max joint.

I yell, “I am the Nightrider. I'm a fuel injected suicide machine! I am the rocker, I am the roller, I am the out-of-controller!”

I grab a gear and push the beast into the triple digits. I’d stop if it meant anything, but I feel a kind of vacant freedom I’ve never really felt before. I know, for the first time, that absolutely nothing matters. I could have popped pills, dropped out of school, knocked some girls up, and I would be in the exact same spot I am right now.

The exact same spot. Every accomplishment--a waste of time.

“Cept you would have sold the car to make child support payments,” I laugh.

I keep pushing it, I want to see the needle buried. I crank up the White Zombie.

I scream out in a duet of madness, “Breakneck speed, get a violent spinal cracking! Back down to the chrome and feel the death wish! Attacking!”

Nothing matters.
Nothing matters.
Nothing matters.

Up ahead in my blurred headlights I watch as oncoming traffic zips past me. Headlights come at me light flashbulbs and for a moment I feel like I’m that fucking Zachary Spears.

“Or is it Sears?” I ask, no one in particular.

Who gives a fuck?

The headlights come at me like flashbulbs and I’m in a photo shoot. Yeah, I’ve got my shirt unbuttoned and a breeze in my hair and I’m pursing my lips and I’m being sexy.

I laugh out loud at the thought of it.

This nose has been broken several times. These eyebrows have been cut more often than an emo kid on a bad day. Fuck me. When I really think about what I’ve put my body through since I jumped out of Football, I think: Fuck, football was easy on me. I’ve got an ACL which is only marginal at best and every morning I crack my back thinking about so many linebackers and defensive tackles putting my ass into the turf.

You’re nothing without your offensive line, remember that.

My offensive line? They’re in orange jumpsuits on the side of a road picking up trash. Me? I’m the star. I avoided community service.

Instead?

I choke, “Destroying myself.”

Manipulation.
Past deciding the future.
Obliteration.

The needle is buried. I can’t see it anymore. I’m about to crack open a beer. Who cares, who cares, nobody. Nobody? I’m nobody. I’m no fucking body. I’m this guy who exists now that the legendary football career of John Weyland will never happen. I’m this different dimension guy, just without that fucking goatee.

Who am I?

Good question.

I’m this kid who’s going to drive into a puddle in Louisiana and drown. No one will show up. Obama, Trump, and Hillary will fucking ignore the tragedy. I won’t be able to push the blame onto politics, pop culture, or a fucking conspiracy theory. I’m dead. Dead in the water. Maybe I’ll come up out of that puddle and go on to get punked out by some fucking jerkoff with a shotgun in his name.

Maybe I’ll grab up that shotgun and do myself like Ernest Hemingway.

Boom. (Grey matter all over the wall.) Bye bye world.

Should have done it outside so there wasn’t so much to clean up. Think about that the next time you’re ready to cap one or two through your existence. Do the cleaning lady a favor.

Go outside.

“Oh, but you’d be way too selfish to think about shit like that, at the time,” I clarify.

There’s that handgun in the glove box and I know it’s got one or two in the cylinder. It would be mighty easy to just put an end to all man’s suffering.

I hear it speaking to me. It asks:

“Would it matter?”

“Would it matter?”

“WOULD IT FUCKING MATTER?”

The needle is buried. I can’t see it anymore. I’m half way into that beer I mentioned before.

Just for fun I force myself to get biblical. I pretend that God is still listening. I joke to myself that God and Jesus are both watching me and they’re probably not pleased with what I’m doing. Remember back in the day when we use to go to church and really believe it? For me it was back when I still believed in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. Then came that dark day when I found out that Santa was just Mom and Dad and the Easter Bunny was my older sisters using baby powder and facial puffs to put bunny footprints all around the house.

“Shit was magical,” I sigh.

I knock back the rest of the beer and send the empty can out the window.

“I can’t remember if they recycle in Mississippi,” I belch.

Jesus probably didn’t like me littering. Or does he? Does he care about the planet? Does anyone?

“This is entirely too wide scoped an issue to dwell on.”

The answer is, if I drove the car off a cliff, if I put a hole in my head, if I drowned in a Baton Rouge floodplain, it wouldn’t fucking matter. That’s the answer.

I hear Nightrider in my head.

I yell, “I am the chosen one! The mighty hand of vengeance, sent down to strike the unroadworthy! I'm hotter than a rollin' dice! Step right up, chum, and watch the kid lay down the rubber road, ride to freedom!”

Ride.
To.
Freedom.

Up ahead in my blurred headlights I see a magnificent looking buck standing in the middle of the highway. It looks on at me like it’s all meant to be and i’m not going to lie, I greet him with a smile.

I sigh, “The mighty hand of vengeance.”

The moment I am to collide with the deer, it strikes me--this is not the way it should end. I lock up my breaks and I swerve. It’s tight, but I slip right past the deer, as my car careens off of the highway, my eyes meet the deer’s eyes for a moment.

I screech to a stop in a cloud of dust on the side of the highway. I breathe out.

“Holy fuck.”

I watch the deer hop the guard rail on the opposite side of the road and run off into the night. I have no choice but to let out a chuckle.

“Ride to freedom…”

To be continued...





Strive to truly understand your opponent. Understand your opponent by putting yourself into their same position. Empathize with them. Understand. Become your opponent. Feel their lungs rise and fall with each breath. Feel their heart throb with each beat. Understand them. Feel compassion for their situation--their existence.

Travel beyond yourself.

Believe what they believe. Know what they know. Enter their mind’s eye. See their history clearer than your own. See the world through their eyes.

Become Zachary Sears.

Become beautiful. Become the subject of the next great photo spread. Become that two dimensional face upon the billboard. Sell the want. Sell the obsession. Become the representation of commercial need.

Then the camera flash.
Give me empathy.

Zachary Sears, purse your lips for the camera. Give them the far off visionary look. Sell what you wear. Sell the look. Sell the addiction.

I drop back outside of myself and suddenly I’m living a life free from the lonely anthem I know all too well. I slide into the expensive suit, I feel my hair, with revolving color, become perfect. I look into the eyes of the makeup artist. I look into the lights. I see everything.

Not a single hair atop my head is out of place. I’m perfect. I’m ready for adoration.

I adjust to my surroundings and soon I’m enjoying the thrill of the lights. I’m enjoying watching the camera’s shutter open and close. For that moment, I’m burned into history. I feel good. I feel memorable. I flash a smile that will knock them dead.

Flash.
Give me compassion.

Mere feet away, over the shoulder of the camera man, I see Tristan. My beautiful Tristan. Our love will never die. I know this because I would be willing to live forever just to be by his side. He breathes beauty into a terrible world and I lie awake at night just considering what more I can do for him. I love him.

I have his heart.

I am his demon knight. His hero. The ecstasy I feel when I look into his loving eyes. It’s...indescribable.

I am so lucky.

Tristan gives me that smile which stole my heart to begin with. I catch that glint of freedom in his eyes. I can’t help but give that real smile. That smile I reserved for Tristan and Tristan alone.

The photographer loves it.

Flash.
Give me honesty.

Wrestling might be a step too far for me. I have a career in modelling and I have found the love of my life. We’re a mere four words away from a marriage and a life together far away from the violence and ugliness of this world. I, however, keep thinking I have something left to do. Something more to prove.

But do I?

Wrestling is so hard on my body and one day I worry it may break me. Even now, looking into his eyes, I can’t help but wonder if he would be there for me if…

The photographer cringes in response to my sudden worried expression.

It’s impossible though, isn’t it? He would never leave me. This is meant. This is forever.

Tristan will be there for me no matter what happens. No matter what I do--he will be there. He will be there to pick me up, dust me off, and push me forward. That’s what this love is-isn’t it?

I feel the fan blowing cool air through my gorgeous brunette locks. I feel it again. I pity myself for questioning Tristan’s willingness to care for me. I show the photographer just how proud I am--of myself.

Flash.
Give me reality.

I am not my opponent, yet, I feel comfortable in his shoes. Why? His problems are not my own. I can pull away from all things troubling me when I sink into his reality. I see Tristan with his over embellished eyebrows looking on at me with a smile on his face. His teeth are so white. So bright. Brighter than the flash. I could exist here. Easily.

It strikes me that his relationship is not any easy one. For eons men and men like him have suffered unfairly for being true to themselves. Loving who they truly love. It is no secret to me.

That’s not what this is about.

Though, what I loved has been taken from me. Taken from me permanently. I cannot have it back. Feeling Zachary Sears enviable life gives me a feeling I lost back.

Love.

Flash.
Give me a lifestyle obsession.

What if this life is not as it seems? Perhaps this love is no love at all. I speculate: What if this life he leads is simply one built upon lust? What if this life he cherishes has been carefully structured around a fixation on superficial things?

Blame it on the fact that all structure has been removed from my own life, if you must, but I find it easy to see through this veneer. This thin veneer which paints the picture of a seemingly idyllic life.

Suddenly the fact that Zachary Sears still needs more out of this life grasps me by the throat. The photographer is no longer looking for happiness. He’s looking for pain and anguish. I’m once again face to face with loneliness. I see Tristan pull away, donning his regalia, off to seek the adoration and approval of his many fans. I see the photographer looking for a grimace. I see the photographer looking for pain.

I give it to him.

I hold out my hands, calling after Tristan, but he cannot hear me. Zachary’s voice is my own, yet, it sounds withered and pained.

Tears roll down my cheeks.

Flash.
Give me attention.

I don’t want this. I want myself back. This life, this manufactured existence. It’s as superficial as the makeup on my face. This reality is skewed. I look down at the once magnificent sport coat and see it has become threadbare. I look for Tristan. I look for the photographer. They’re gone. They’re lost. I’m alone.

I see my own breath fog as I breathe out. I’m cold.

Where have they all gone? What have I done? Why did I follow this path? I slip between realities. I see the lights. I see the flash. It’s not a camera. It’s the lights above the ring. I’m struck by them. I’m seized by them. I can’t move.

What works in life, in my industry, it does not work in this world. A handsome face with perfect features and flawless hair becomes meaningless.

I see myself--or at least a version of myself. I see John Weyland across from me. I see a man who has nothing left to lose. I see his broken nose. I see his scarred face. I see a man whose last want is to exact the pain he feels inside upon the world around him. I see him stepping towards me.

I wanted Tristan’s attention. I wanted the shutter to open and close. I wanted the fans to adore me.

He steps in with a right hook and it connects.

Flash.
Give me adoration.

I stagger backwards and now I see my sister in the crowd. I see her cheering me on. I call out to her--I call for her to save me. I turn and I see John Weyland. I see him stepping towards me. His face is like stone. He hates me. He sees himself. He wants to destroy his own reality.

He wants to destroy me.

I turn back to my sister in the crowd and I see her in a hospital bed. I see the doctors hovering over her. I see them stepping backwards. I see them threatened. I scream without words. I call out for her. She is motionless.

I feel true fear.

I hear the heart monitor. I hear the steady beep. I hear the pulse. I stay away from John Weyland. I hear the steady beep flatten to a piercing squeal. I try to scream, but I’m muffled. I’m drowning. I look up and see the lights. I look back to Weyland and I see him leaping forward. I see his elbow driving towards my face.

Flash.
Give me a break.

Zachary Sears is a figment of an impossible imagination. He is the two dimensional expression of lust, greed, and the degradation of our culture. He drives young men towards impossible ideals. He drives young girls towards impossible desires. Zachary is a demon indeed, yet, he will never be a knight. He is the jester, selling obsession to those who cannot afford it.

He is disgusting.

Look upon him and see a sculpted chin and botox injections. Look upon him and see something you will never be. Perfection bought and sold; impossibility. Look upon him and see a man who has been made better by careful makeup, airbrushing, and commercialism.

He is the walking-talking representation of the fundamental end of humanity.

Flesh is less important than plastic. Money transcends the need for morality. Greed turns the world into models selling out in front of the camera.

Flash.
Give me decency.