Youth stared up at the ceiling, aware of the stars that were dancing around his field of vision. He eased himself up into a seated position on the bed, putting his head between his legs to stave off the nausea that had accompanied him ever since WICKED#5. The cameras had seen him get up after the match, stumbling around like a man who was still selling a premium finisher. After making his way to the back, they even watched him disappear into his dressing room, only to emerge later wearing street clothes, his hair still wet from the shower he had taken. What they didn’t see, however, nor did his tag partner, was how he almost collapsed out by the car. How he had shortness of breath, a bout of nausea, and a fluttering feeling in his skull.
He had had concussions before. It wasn’t anything new in this line of business. He just hadn’t expected to walk away with one from WICKED#5. It was bad enough, after all, that his team had lost the #1 Contender’s spot to CJ O’Donnell and Trixie, but to possibly be sidelined with an injury. That, he just couldn’t allow. There was too much at stake in the weeks to come. PAW was having their first ever Super Show on St. Patrick’s Day, Press was going to be going at it with Stevie Harris for the PAW Championship, and he had his own duties to perform in the opening bout.
That in its own right was enough to bother him. It was bad enough to have to carry the burden of two losses in the past two shows, but now he was being downgraded all the way to the bottom spot on the card. Sure, he knew that the opening bout was meant to be a valued position. Whoever was put there would set the pace for the rest of the show, and so it had to be someone good, but it didn’t change the fact that he had hoped to be where Johnny Raike was.
He didn’t know how the lucky son of a bitch had taken his own two losses and turned it into a championship match, but it was a skill that he wanted to learn as soon as possible. Maybe this was Lady Munin’s way of saying ‘sorry’ after the Stevie Harris debacle. Either way, it pushed everyone else up the card ahead of him, which only reinforced some of the insecurities that had recently surfaced.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy for his friend, Press, but more that things had become a little too defined in their relationship with the industry. Press was a powerhouse, plain and simple. He had about as much finesse as Nada when she was getting ready to take a shit. That was where he came in, and had always been his forte, inside and outside the ring. He was the guy that rounded things out, brought the technical side to the big man’s dominance. He could be funny, flashy, and a little cocky. After all, look at the beast that stood behind him.
But that wasn’t so much the case anymore. After his loss to Alex Cross at WICKED#4, he had taken it pretty hard. Made him question his place on the team, what role he was supposed to play at this point. Yet, the show must go on, so he got over it, and prepared for WICKED#5, only to be defeated again. Sure, it wasn’t his shoulders that had been pinned to the mat. That was Tyler Keenan, who after acting like a complete asshat, was no longer with the company.
Somehow, that didn’t make him feel any better. He had went back and watched the footage again. Trixie had suckered him into that position, plain and simple, and CJ O’Donnell did what any good partner would do. He took advantage of it. If anyone wanted to say that O’Donnell’s Irish Knowledge running knee was a hokey finisher, he could attest to its effectiveness in a match. The move had damn near knocked him silly, and was probably what contributed to his current state of disillusionment.
Youth took in a few deep breaths before sitting back up. The stars were gone, for now, so he pushed up off the bed and made his way for the kitchen. When he got there, Press was already brewing some coffee, and was leaning against the counter with the New Orleans Advocate held out in front of him. When he heard his partner shuffling over to the fridge, he lowered the paper just a bit to peer over it.
“You alright, dude?” He asked casually, not wanting to give away that he knew more than he let on.
Youth grunted, paused in his perusing of the fruit drawer long enough to look over his shoulder and give a halfhearted smile. Press nodded, before lifting the paper back up to eye level.
Through the paper he said,
“Going to the park later. Want to tag along?”
The idea of the park didn’t appeal to him at all. Not after his last run in with Abigail. The thought of the beautiful creole woman brought up two opposing feelings in his chest. The first being frustration, and the other being longing. He wasn’t sure which one of those would win out in the end, but a visit to the park today was out of the question.
“No, that’s cool. I think I’m just going to take it easy today.” He replied, finally selecting a banana and some strawberries, and closing the fridge door.
He stepped over to the blender and began peeling and dropping fruit into the machine when Press came back with his next question.
“Any particular reason why?”
Youth could feel the big man’s eyes on him despite his back being turned, and the paper that he still held out in front of him. This was a probing question. Press’ way of asking if he wanted to talk about anything, wrestling or otherwise.
Youth shook his head, a little irritated, but did his best to curb it before he made any reply.
“Not really. I just don’t feel like going to the park today. I want to chill on the couch and catch up on ‘The Walking Dead’. You go on ahead, though. That Main Event isn’t going to promote itself, and besides, if I decide that I want to talk to Rufio, we’ve still got the old camcorder. I can upload it from the comfort of my own living room.”
Press closed the paper, folded it, and sat it on the counter, casting his partner a knowing glance. He thought about doing his usual pep talk spiel, but knew that it wouldn’t do any good, so he just shrugged instead.
“Alright, but if you do decide to do a promo, for God’s sake take a shower. You look like shit.”
Youth snorted, and then flashed a smirk.
“Sure thing, asshole.”
Press rolled his eyes at the comment, and strode for the door, grabbing his keys off the counter as he went. When he had gone, Youth let out a sigh of relief, gathered his stuff, and moved into the living room to the couch.
He knew that Press meant well, but sometimes there just wasn’t anything left to say. Anything that he did say, the big man would refute or try to dance around, and he just didn’t feel like dealing with it today. Hopefully he’d be over it by tomorrow, but for now, he really was content to sit back and enjoy Netflix.
About three hours had went by when his phone chimed with a text. He grabbed for his phone down in the couch cushions, and didn’t even get a chance to swipe the surface of the screen before another chime sounded off. When he did so, there were two texts awaiting him from Rufio, one half of the Lost Boyz.
Dude, we’re facing each other in the opening bout on PAW’s Super Show.
How awesome is that!?!
Rufio (Jim) 2:28 PM
Youth stared at the texts, but couldn’t stop himself from smiling at the rookie’s exuberance. He had been where he was once. Running the roads of the indy’s, trying to make a name for himself. Youth was sitting here all pissy about being the opening bout on a huge card for a fast rising promotion, and this kid was tickled pink that he was just getting an opportunity to be there. Somehow, this knowledge managed to lift Youth’s spirits. He held the phone out in front of him, and quickly thumbed a reply.
Yeah, man, congratulations. Looking forward to working with you again.
You. 2:34 PM
Hell yeah! That’s great to hear.
Frank (Pan) was hoping to get to come, but they said they only needed one of us, and felt I was the best fit.
I told him it was because they knew I was the better wrestler. lol
Rufio (Jim) 2:38 PM
lol
That’s great. You guy’s been doing pretty good for yourselves?
You. 2:39 PM
Yeah, dude.
After that first show, our ticket blew up. We even went as far as North Carolina for a gig.
Rufio (Jim) 2:41 PM
Cool, cool.
Well, I’ll see you at the show, man. Good luck.
You. 2:43 PM
Yeah, man. You too. Whatever you want to do, I’m up for it.
Rufio (Jim) 2:44 PM
Youth closed the text window out, and sank back into the couch. Maybe that was exactly what he had needed, he thought to himself. He had done more than enough to earn his spot on this card and in this promotion. He had paid his dues, just like the Lost Boyz were doing right now. There was no reason to worry about where he was to be placed on the card as long as he was on it, and he figured he would do what he did best, and that was go out there and put on the performance of a lifetime.
With a sudden burst of inspiration, Youth hopped off the couch and made his way towards his room to retrieve the camcorder. Maybe he had something to say to the PAW Universe after all. He brought the equipment back into the living room, threw it on the couch, and then went to the bathroom to fix himself up.
When he looked into the mirror he realized that Press had been right. He did look like shit. His left eye was bruised from where O’Donnell’s knee had come across that whole side of his face, and he looked disheveled from not having shaved in the past few days. He broke out his razor and shaving cream, and set to work. By the time he was done he was looking more like his old self, minus the bruising, and sauntered back into the living room ready to shoot.
After setting up the camera, and looking for the usual blinking red light, he took in a deep breath, and flashed the lens his typical grin.
“So here it is, PAW Universe. Flaming Youth, one half of The BombTrax, coming at you live from my sofa. I know a lot of you out there are probably wondering about the latest booking snafu on the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day Super Show. How is it, that Flaming Youth is bumped all the way down to the bottom of the card, while people like Calvin Harris, Johnny Raike, hell, even Alex Cross, are all pushed to the forefront of a championship after suffering their own losses this past show? I’ll tell you why. Politics.”
Youth stares into the camera conspiratorially.
“It’s no state secret that Lady Munin and The BombTrax are pretty tight, just like it’s pretty well documented that her and Alex Cross have a history. A history, that by all accounts, could be rekindling, but that’s neither here, nor there. The reason I say politics, is because with the absence of Sam Xayachack, The Lady has become the numero uno in charge. That’s number one for the bilingually challenged.”
Youth gives a wink.
“By that token, she has to set some ground rules for how things are going to be done under her regime. If all three of her wards were placed in top spots on the card, then that would make the rest of the roster a little anxious. That’s all we need is a bunch of bitching and complaining with claims that she’s showing favoritism, and since I already botched the past two shows, I was the one put on the chopping block. But hey, I’m not complaining. I understand. I get it. It is what it is.”
Youth pauses, a slight smile in the corner of his lips.
“The only thing that’s got me upset is the fact that Johnny Raike and I are never going to get to finish that conversation we started in the gym a few days ago. The one about us advancing to the #1 Contenders match and finding out, once and for all, who the better man really was. Unfortunately, things sort of took a detour in our match at WICKED#5, and it looks like our paths are going in two separate directions once again. Never fear, Johnny, we’ll just put a rain check on that one for the time being. I’m sure it will happen eventually.”
Youth grins.
“So now to the whole point. The full enchilada. The real deal. The reason we’re here. The only thing that matters. And that is me, one on one with Rufio, in a throwback match from WICKED#1. You know, I can’t really even be mad about that. Not only do I get to open the show, but I’m going to be facing a guy with a Peter Pan complex, oh no, wait, that’s your partner.”Youth lifts his hand to his chin, and taps his lips.
“No, I guess you’re the one who’s obsessed with the kid that died at the end, eh? Damn, dude. Of all the people to idolize it’s the guy who gets run through by Captain Hook, not to mention, that hair. Jesus, it looks like you stuck your finger in an electrical socket and then shoved your head up a bitch’s snatch while on her period. That isn’t quite the look to go for when trying to strike fear into the heart of your opponent, but I guess it’s a cheap pop from a dated movie. I mean, c’mon? Is your target audience people in their mid-thirties to early forties? If so, well, then kudos.”
Youth smirks, shaking his head.
“I know, I know. I’m probably not the guy to come to for gimmick advice. After all, I still wear baggy pants and have “Flaming” in my title. Not exactly the poster boy for the modern age, but I still got enough in the tank where it counts to get the job done. So at the St. Patrick’s Day Super Show, I’m going to do you a real solid. I’m going to show you how to fly without pixie dust, and after that, I’ll even let you order off the adult menu at the concession stand. See, Rufio, I can be a real team player. Catch you at the matches.”
With that, Youth tips his imaginary hat, and reaches over to turn off the camera. The scene fades to black.
