“My lonely prison walls… I heard a young girl cal---ling… Michael, they have taken you away, for you stole true---“
The legendary melody floats through the air, riding on the crisply golden tone of ‘The Dubliners.’
Cyren sits there, sipping gently on his Jameson & Coke. A bead of sweat gathers at his brow but pays it no heed. Instead, he watches the bubbles rise to the surface in the amber liquid. The cold glass in his hand itself perspires and he feels his hand dampen around it. The small bar isn’t packed and the air is filled with the soft background music as no one has punched any tunes into the jukebox in a while.
Knuckles are busted, mind is cracked, body sore…
“… low… lie… the fields… of Athenry….”
The Irishman sits there, continuing to stew in his own thoughts. Patrons of the bar continue to hail the barman and the young man, probably no older then half the XWF roster, does his best to tend to their every concern. Hand gets colder as time goes by, the drink in his hand slowly melting into nothing as the beverage does it’s best to numb his chaotic disposition.
A tender falsetto disrupts him.
Slowly peeling his eyes off of his drink, he gives only a brief glance at the woman whom materialized next to him.
She flutters her eyes, leans on the bar next to him just a bit more then is necessary, giving him ample view of her ‘offerings.’ Again, it’s just a glance. He doesn’t give her any attention.
He scoffs.
She seems to bristle at his coldness but she pushes off of the bar, fading back into the background of the dive. The legend simply orders another round, awaiting the burning swill that will deliver him into salvation.
Only for a night, though. That’s the price, you see. He gets to sip slow, let it build inside of him as if it were a symphony. As soon as he hits that wonderful crescendo though, hits that highest peak, he thirsts for more. There’s no ‘gentle letting go.’ So he keeps the ‘band’ going, unrelenting in his quest to demolish his mind and tear down the walls he knows are there.
Shamed myself, lost my touch, grown too old…
His raw eyes peer up at the clock on the yonder side of the establishment.
It’s late.
The bruises mar his face but the ‘cougars’, ‘sweet young things’ and ‘ladies of the night’, aren’t discriminating. He’s a big hit at the bar, receiving much unwanted attention. It’s not his regular place but being a ‘roving spirit’, constantly on tour, one supposes he doesn’t have one. Where he lays his hat is home. Tonight it’s a bar, a cold drink in his hand and sweet melodies of home that offer him comfort.
Something sorely needed.
There’s something deep, right at the bottom, it’s trying to get out…
“… and his money he was counting… there’s whiskey in the jar…”
The sweet songs start to come in clips and phrases as the world slows and dims around him. His eyes go from the drink to the clock in rythymn, becoming something sacred as the night wears on. A private affair to be sure. Almost as if it were a prayer and the whiskey, his God.
Not far off the mark.
As another body crosses his peripheral, he goes to shake them off and ‘steer them away’ but before he can turn, a cold voice pins him to his stool.
“You can hide. You can shrink away and drown your miseries as deep as you’d like. You can retreat and regroup. You can muster up all the best of yourself and reinforce your mind. What you can’t do though, is ‘retreat’ and surrender to your demons.” The stern voice calls to the barman over, slipping a $100 in his hand and asking for the bottle of Jamesons.
In older days, better days, it would be Edward Lujan in front of him.
It’s not.
He has been graced with a new savior, one most surprising.
Blair Sully.
“Go ‘way…” Is all a the response he can mount, his words slow and tripping.
They haven’t spoken in ages, ever since he spiraled into obscurity following the ‘Tristan Slater’ incident.
The young woman, hair having been freshly dyed blonde and cropped, leans forward and unscrews the top of the Jamesons, taking a generous pull of her own.
Setting it back down, she scoots closer to Cyren, seated closely to him at the bar.
“I damn sure won’t. You rescued me from madness, Cy. It’s time for me to return the favor, darling. I’ve let you stew in your own depths and hobble about making a fool of yourself for long enough. I’d hoped you would right yourself, given time…” As she pauses for a moment to refill the legend’s glass, she meets his bleary eyes.
His beard is scraggly.
“… that’s not going to happen though, is it?” It’s a rhetorical question, as she shrugs her shoulders obnoxiously. “So, here’s the game plan, Cy.”
At this, she puts an arm around the legend’s shoulder, squeezing him gently.
“First course of action? Lujan is already at your house, removing all of your firearms.”Her tone hitches.
“Oh, the hell you ar—“Cyren’s Irish lilt is more exaggerated as his temper flares.
Blair holds up a hand, halting him from speaking further.
“No, it’s not up for debate. We got word from the police that there had been a visit made to your place upon hearing gunshots. They called Lujan, as he’s listed as a partial property owner, asking him if they should break the door down…”Cyren’s eyes widen. “I guess, for some insane reason, he decided to give you the benefit of the doubt and respect your privacy. So they didn’t barge on in, thanks to Lujan. However, he was concerned and you haven’t been answering your phone, so he…”
She slows her words, as the meaning of them begin to sink in.
Cyren flinches.
“Listen, Blair…” His voice comes in tight, sweat pouring off of his alcoholic-infused body. “There’s some things about me, that you’re entitled to know and there’s certain things that you—“
“Stop.”
He’s cut off again.
“He went in. I guess you were gone by then, probably already here and you’ve probably been here all day… but he went in.” Her own voice is fraught with tension, as if she’s trying to maneuver her way through a minefield. “He told me about the pills… the booze… the… the shotgun…” At this, her own eyes dip downward, the sadness in them obvious.
The legend doesn’t offer any retort, simply continuing to sip on his drink.
Blair takes a moment to adjust herself and speak in a hushed tone of voice.
“If you want to off yourself, you mad fucking Irishman, you go right on ahead and do it… just…” Her lips quivers. Cyren’s eyes retreat downward at the sheer emotion in her voice. “…. Just… don’t fuck it up. Don’t drag it out… don’t drag US along with it… you just make it quick and clean. You want to be dead? That’s your own fucking business, just don’t expect picnics and roses if you fuck up again.”
He’s shocked at the words.
“Look, it’s not like that. I was simply… considering all options…it was a night of ‘rumination’, not peril I assure you…”Oh my, how the Devil does lie…
Her eyebrow raises.
“Oh great, well your ‘rumination’ put a barrel-sized hole in your ceiling and yourcoffee table was coated in blood from when you collapsed on it. Don’t worry though, Lujan called in the ‘cleaners’, once again picking up your mess. I’m not going to coddle you like he does, though. He’s done this fifty times already. It’s been suicide and mental illness and drug addiction and… you’ve run him through the gauntlet… and he’s showered you with gold and praise like a sycophant. That’s not how I see your ‘road to recovery.’” She pauses and pours herself a shot of the whiskey.
“Oh, and I’m so ‘lost’ and feeble, that I can’t figure myself out? I’m naked and shivering in the wintery woods, am I?” At this, his ‘ire’ starts to brim to the surface, threatening to escape through his cracking patience.
With a plea for him to quiet down at the bar, Blair leans in close.
“Yes, you are, you petulant fool child!” She leans in close. “You have gone from Main Eventing the XWF, to being a ‘warm up’ match for a rookie at the TOP of the card. 75% of that roster has no idea who you were and no reason to think ANYTHING of you and the other 25% only have an inkling… you have MURDERED your own legacy. I’m here as a mercy to it. To grip your hand and pull it back from delivering a final blow in this masochistic display. I’m not going to let you destroy yourself.” The last bit is a whisper.
Wiping his nose with a napkin, Cyren peers into her eyes, clasping her shoulder. “Blair, you don’t know who I am. You don’t know the things I’ve done, the places I’ve been… there’s no one left whose been here for the ‘whole ride’, ya know…” He pauses for a moment. “There’s a reason for that. You get close to my ‘Sickness’ and you know what will happen? It will ll infect you. It’ll sink down deep, past marrow and bone and latch right onto your heart.”
His whiskey breath is sweet and pungent, flames in his eyes. Blair shrings back a bit as his words are laced with venom.
“What comes next, pray tell? Once it has you in it’s grip, when it’s clutching your cockles and it’s made a place in your chest… it’ll squeeze, lassie. Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. It’ll render you breathless and apply a little more pressure. Ba-bump… ba-bump….” Each time he speaks the words, he places his hands on Blair’s sternum. “While you wither - the ‘Sickness’ thrives. As you weaken and can find no more reasons to fight, it will close in on you a little further. Ba-bump…. Ba--- ba… ba-bump. Feel it?”
Her eyes peer downward as Cyren presses her deeper.
“Now what does it want when it’s got you where it wants you? It wants you to swear fealty to it. To merge with the malady and surrender more of yourself then it deigns to return to you. Oh sure, you lose lots of little things like a conscience or an identity… hell, you might even say it forces you… to lose your very ‘soul’ … but all things being equal… that’s not so bad, right?”
She goes to reply but he doesn’t her allow to speak.
“Now, that’s what happens when you stray too close to the surface of all that is Cyren. Oh, abandon all hope ye who meet his fictitious and superfluous entity that I painstakingly crafted. This nightmare that resides in my head, moves my limbs and thrashes me about. You think the ‘Sickness’ was an XWF Legend? No, it was the ‘man behind the curtain.’ The master and puppeteer. I was slave and servant to it. True, it may have been I that molded each and every aspect of it but even I was not ‘immune.’ The others I talked about? The people I’ve met along this road, the ones that have beat their retreat and shrank away back to their homes, fearful of the disease that is me? They realized that this dementia flows outward from me, wrapping everyone I meet up in it’s wake, destroying people without ever having to even know their name…”
As the barman comes over, puzzled at the empty bottle, Blair urges him to bring another.
She’s given up hope of offering any conversation – it’s apparent that Cyren needs to get this off of his chest.
He takes another long gulp, finishing the drink in a pull.
“I marvel at my own craftsmanship, lassie. I was a true artisan, inventing my own brand in this type of ‘hellish handiwork.’ Oh, I would heap glory onto my name if it but meant a damn. I haven’t a name and no ‘self’ along with it. I’ve grown old and time hasn’t softened any edges - it’s cut more jagged and sharply into me then I could have ever known. I attribute that to the burden of forementioned moniker. I have blundgeoned and beaten my way into the history books but no amount of fists could save me from that activity’s consequence. No, lassie… you should doddle off now. Run away before a ‘tendril’ of this Sickness snaps forward and wretches….” He chokes on a particularly ‘warm’ pull of whiskey. “:… wretches…. ‘round your pretty neck.”
As he finishes, his voicehaving grown sluggish, he slumps forward.
“Was it worth it?” she asks, concern in her eyes.
He grins out of instinct, sipping his whiskey.
“Was ‘what’ worth it?”
Plastic smile on her face.
“The migraine you’ll have tomorrow. I ‘spose it’s the only way you’d give me a straight answer.”
He is confused.
“An answer.. to what?”
As she begins to stand, she looks down on him and rests her hand on the nape of his neck.
“To the question we both know I was asking. A particularly ‘saucy’ query of… ‘Do you need help?’ Your Irish Eyes have betrayed you all night long, Cy. I’m so very glad of that.”
At this, she disappears from his side for a moment, allowing him to stew.
As the barman wipes the counter, Cyren notices his eyes stray behind him and widen.
Even as the ‘Sickness’ begins to turn, he knows what is there.
“Hello, Andrew.”
A hand is before him.
One belonging to a particularly known quantity.
It’s Dr. Corven Dravi---
“It’s not THAT guy, Cy…” She claps him on the side.
“Oh, then this must be---“ Cyren is at a loss, trying to recall a memory.
The man gently lays his cane onto the bar, leaning next to Cyren.
“Dr. Gideon Cross, my friend. Glad to make company with a man of such repute.“
Cyren shakes the man’s hand.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that recently the XWF rolled out a new ‘psychiatrist’ to everyone, talking about mental faculties an—“
Bad omens are in store for him, he thinks, as Gideon’s eyes stray anywhere but his face as he talks of the new XWF ‘official’ Doctor…
“Oh, you see… about that… ironically enough, I’m a Psychiatrist as well…” He seems meek and laments the coincidence.
As the Doctor grins, Cyren can only shake his head as he stares at Blair. “Son of a b*tch…”
He slams what remains of his drink.
I’ve been told to revisit my habit of elaborating on my thoughts and documenting them in a journal and when appropriate, make such thoughts openly known so that I might ‘reestablish a functional role in society.’ I believe he’s either trying to raise my ‘profile’ so that he might bill me more if I sell more merchandise… or he’s secretly on the XWF payroll – a not ‘as far-fetched’ possibility as you might think.
Regardless, I’ve decided to make available to the appropriate channels my views for publication and will do so in an indeterminate capacity at this time. For an indefinite amount of time as well, at that. So with out further bellyaching about the simple practice, I guess I should probably refocus my thoughts on things that might purtain towards the XWF. Oh, I could go on and on, continuing to prattle about my own socio-political and psychological opinions(no doubt they’ll find a way to snake their way in anyways), though I’ll endeavor to keep it to a minimum.
The last few months have been such a myopic blur, I’m not even going to attempt to try and explain my thought processes or actions. In fact, I’m going to do something ‘despicable’ and completely ignore them and chalk up recent events to bad digestion. It’s a new day, there’s a new dawn, C’est la vie., etc.
I am facing a newcomer to the XWF, not an entirely irregular event these days though I suppose the placement of myself amongst the card, is a head-scratcher. Not too much onf one because as I’ve been appraised by Blair, she seems to think and I quote, ‘an Ostrich on crack cocaine with it’s head in the sand and a midget up it’s ass’ would be fierce enough a competitor to slay me, in present form. She’s colorful, ladies and gentlemen.
In lieu of my own cognition, I won’t dispute the assessment. That being said, I dispute it’s accuracy as of now. The ‘Cyren’, that this place has seen as of late, might have been able to have been beaten by a wet paper sack – not quite so anymore, now that I’m clutching a bit more of my ‘sanity’ in hand. I’m feeling much more myself in the last couple of days and I’ve realized that if I don’t turn this train back on it’s tracks, I’ll derail my own legacy and languish in obscurity. So, bearing that in mind, I think it’s about time I started thinking and talking, a lot more like the ‘Icon’ we all know I truly am.
So, I think we should make an introduction.
[i]Hello, XWF – I’m Cyren, a ‘Legend’. I am the ‘Sickness’, the ‘BloodKnight Rogu---
Wait, that’s not the right way to do this, is it?
You’re right, we should be more ‘open’ and share our feelings.We should just let our ‘feelings’ dangle before us and rub up against one another, creating such a friction that warmth floods into them and we feel all kinds of ‘feelings’ start to dribble out of our--- you get the metaphor, right? I’m not gonna jerk anyone around anymore.
I’m the fucking Antichrist.
I am the ‘Destroyer of Worlds.’
The guy they’ll write parables about, craft campfire tales about, the beast beneath your bed? That’s me, this guy, the one with the big dick and the cheesy grin.
That ‘Mad Irish Fuck’, if you will.
A man who walks down to that ring with a swagger in his step that lets you know you’re not worth a damn and you don’t even remotely register as a threat. A cocky and obnoxious villain who will exploit every loophole and drag everything to such a limit, as if to blur the lines of ‘what is real’ and what is ‘acceptable.’ Hell, it’s almost as if I’m extreme enough, the ‘XTREME WRESTLING FEDERATION’ had to create an entirely new show for the likes of I to compete on.
Oh, wait…
Pause.
I’ve been standing here for long enough, dangling in the wind, with no purpose and no direction. I understand I helped reform the Black Circle with Shane – but that’s not my motivation anymore. I’ve got a motivation to simply DOMINATE. To reassert my own definition of what is a ‘Legend.’
I might as well be the author of that entitlement because I don’t exactly see the XWF crawling with Hall of Famers. Everyone else has left for greener pastures, or been put to pasture or… fuck it, clutch close any euphemism you’d like to, to explain why every other XWF Original has fucked off and left. I’m the last of an age.
I’m the Old Guard.
Strange day and we find ourselves in even stranger roles, don’t we?
Be circumstances what they may, I’m happy to oblige. I can be a scary judge of character and I’m not at a loss with that scrutiny even when it comes to myself.
I can still f*ck with the best of the Valentinos. I can drink with the reddest of the Micks.
I can go toe to toe with anyone left breathing in this industry.
I’m facing a rookie? Kinwrathi?
Man who believes himself the leader of an ‘alien race?’
While we have men in ‘Jason Masks’, Human-Android symbiotes and a ‘Cult Leader’ in Donovan it seems, reigning at the top of the crop here in XWF, I’m not even gonna pause and question it. I’ll just accept it and move on because if I try to break down my opponent’s psyche this week, blood will flow out of my ears and my head will explode.
I will give this guy a ‘royal beating.’ Almost like a gang initation. It’ll be therapeutic, I’m sure. Nice to transgress a little, ya know? Work out some of the kinks that have invaded my step? I imagine that is what I’ll be doing in the immediate future – having fallen to the bottom run once again, I face one mountainous voyage back to the top.
That’s okay, I’ve got all the time in the world.
Time is indeed, on my side.
‘Cuz Legend’s don’t die and this one sure as hell ain’t fading away…[/i]
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