The Deductive

"I don't belong in this moment."


A scarce and sputtering glow from a television set envelops my surroundings, pulling a black shadow from the bust of my seated body and projecting it on the wall behind my couch. Outside of the glow, the room is pitched in darkness. It’s heavy and unalterable, like an unseen barrier blocking one's blinded reach into the outside world. The television flickers. The static white-noise of the speakers pop into a scratchy high-pitch that balances to normal. An image settles onto the screen like a slowing rewind of a video tape.

(04-10-2019, 05:03 PM)SBW-SmokingBobWilliams Said:

WEDNESDAY - 10TH APRIL 2019 THE XWF CONTINUES IT'S AUSTRALASIAN TOUR. THIS IS... WEDNESDAY NIGHT WARFARE!!!! From !!! FORSYTH BARR ARENA, DUNEDIN, NEW ZEALAND

---

MATCH #2: R.L Edgar - vs - Peter FN Gilmour

This footage prompts a flustered eye-roll. I slouch into the cushions as I wrap my arms tightly around my sternum. What I’m watching is so embarrassing it brings me to the point of nausea. It makes me question my purpose, or better yet, the lack thereof. The skin on my forehead tightens as I try and answer my own question:

”Why am I even watching this garbage?”

I know where this rehash is going, a matter of fact, I know it all too well. It was the second installment to my fledgling trilogy of a wrestling career. My 2019 “run” was one that was somehow even less inspiring than when I broke into the XWF two years prior. But I was aiming for a do-over. Another chance to prove that I too could light a fire of promise and prominence from obscurity.

(04-10-2019, 05:03 PM)SBW-SmokingBobWilliams Said: "SUCK MY DICK!!!"

GILMOUR CUTTER!

Gilmour hooks the leg and the official slides into position!



ONE!







TWO!








THREE!






NO!


Gilmour broke the pin!

Gilly keeps hold of a fistful of Edgars hair as he pulls him back to his feet. Gilly smiles the wickedest of wicked smiles as he wags his finger to the crowd.

"I'M NOT DONE WITH HIM YET!"

Gilly tucks Edgar's head between his thighs and taunts the crowd before following through with a package piledriver that he likes to call...


DEATHSTRIKE!!!


Gilly hooks the leg and slaps his hand on the mat in unison as the referee counts it.




ONE!














TWO!











THREE!

WINNER - PETER F'N GILMOUR!

---

And I jobbed to Peter fucking Gilmoure.

So much for my promise, right? That’s a career killer.

And though Vinnie Lane still considered me a talent worthy of stepping up and challenging the bonafide, multi-generational star Sarah Lacklan in her first match in the XWF a few weeks later...

I jobbed to Sarah fucking Lacklan.

The future Universal Champion cleaned my clock on the inaugural episode of Anarchy. Leaving that stale, bloody taste of failure as an unwelcome remedy anytime I would begin to develop the dreamer’s disease. I cured myself of it, sweating out the fevers, collecting my paycheck, and bidding an unnoticed farewell to the XWF. R.L. Edgar wasn’t a hero, he wasn’t a man who could fight back and inspire the world. He wasn’t even a flash in the pan, more like a dry skillet on a hot stove.

So many times, growing up a fan of wrestling, I rooted for the underdog. As few and far between winners as they were. Their stories of struggle and triumph captivated the mind and heart of this “little guy”. They brought me to hope in a pale world. I wanted to be a hero too. The person who against all odds, could find a way to cement themselves as a beacon for the regular people. But it’s probably said that heroes dig a lot of graves. The conclusions to the battles I’ve found myself in recently have been anything but heroic.

What I wanted to be, versus what I could be were a far cry from one another.

Has anything changed? My climb to this moment, facing the loaded gun that is Chris Page for the Universal Championship, has it been anything more than dumb luck and happenstance? Don’t the examples of my failures far outweigh the few feathers I’ve stuck in my cap in 2021? Who am I to challenge him, let alone assist in waging a war against his ilk?

Doubt swells. Defeat wraps its boney fingers around my throat. Again I wonder:

“Why am I doing this to myself?”

Because you need to solidify the argument for your conclusion.

An answer to my question, albeit abrupt and vague and…

Unbelieveable?

A warm feminine voice surrounds me. Its motherly tone soothes an old adolescent longing for delicate comfort. I try pulling up from the couch to look around for the source of the voice, but I’m stuck. My head forced forward, my eyes torn open and glued to the television. A chilly, skin-whitening horror suddenly takes my wheel and swerves the vehicle of my consciousness into a field off the beaten path.

I didn’t turn on this television. It’s not even my television, it’s an old floor model Zenith. This place, while comfortable, isn’t my home.

Are you sure about that? You seem confident in what you believe is true about yourself here.

”Who are you? How are you in my head!?”

I spatter out in terror,

Reginald-Lewis…

Her voice while terrifying and intrusive has a nurturing reassurance that reverberates just beneath her pitch,

...you’re in your own head, honey.

”Oh for fucks sake! What are you? Some split personality of mine?”

The voice cachinnates. The echoes, they sound…

Beautiful! I know!

She says, finishing my thoughts again through the seams of her laughter,

Oh, that’s rich, truly rich!

”What? What’s so goddamn funny, lady?”

Uh! Language! Tisk, tisk! Though I should be used to it by now…

”Would you just tell me what you were-”

You are NOT that ill-equipped at following a thread, honey. If so, this would just be an exercise in futility.

I try to speak, but her voice overpowers even my most basic thought process,

Would you just give me a moment? Sheesh! For someone so unsure of themselves you do have a rather confident impatience. I was laughing at the silly notion of me being some split personality, some darker side of your consciousness that you dig-out arbitrarily when things have run stale. For as boring as you may be, honey, you’re not exactly trite.

Her words were-

Your words, dear. YOUR words.

”Wait a second, what do you mean: MY words? YOU keep interrupting ME!”

She lets out a friendly sigh,

No, you keep interrupting you. You sat on that couch. You turned on that television. You’re the one choosing to remain here. Brooding over why you can’t do something instead of remembering why you can.

”...who are you?”

The snap of a finger.

Light.

I’m standing now in a room without any definitive angles or walls. The television and couch are gone. There’s only a shine of fleshy pink colors and beyond those, a splotchy white scribbling that looks like an unending sprawl of tree branches embedded into the pink. My feet dig into a soft, cushiony surface that matches my surroundings.

I see the woman. Its...

”Misty Waters?”


That’s mean! she laughs, I’m…

Sarah Tonin

”Seratonin?”

She laughs again, her eyes glowing with comfort as she steps towards me wearing a long white dress covered in sunflower blooms. A Mona Lisa smile painted upon her face.

It’s funny! I’m actually a manifestation of your left frontal lobe, but you couldn’t make a cool name out of that, so you opted with naming me Sarah Tonin. A big bravo for that, honey!

”You look just like her.”

Who? Misty?

I nod,

I wouldn’t know, I’ve never actually seen myself. I stay too busy ciphering through your logic. It’s quite the mess.

”You’re telling me that my rationality and my logical faculties are a woman’s?”

You say that like it’s a bad thing, women are smarter than men, honey…

She steps within breathing distance and takes my arm,

...but no, as I said, I’m just a voice you manifested when you were young to talk you through your challenges.

Her touch eased my tension. She looked on at me, her face angelic and relaxed as she tilted her head and drifted through my eyes. Sarah’s ambiance was one of reassurance and a confident love of one’s creation. A mother adorning her child.

It made sense now…

I remembered...

Come on, let’s get this over with.

She led me by my arm in what seemed like an aimless direction into the all-encompassing pink void. But as we walked, Sarah waves her hand, and a portion of the void became defined by two wall-like angles that opened into a hallway.

”Where are we going?”

We’re going to put that conclusion of yours to the test. We literally do this all of the time.

”But I hadn’t made any conclusions.

Pfft. Sure you hadn’t. I wouldn’t be here right now if that were the case. While I know that replaying random old wrestling matches that have nothing to do with the challenge facing you are all the rage these days, you revisited that match with Gilmour because you already came to a conclusion.

”What conclusion was tha-”

You already know what it was, then you laid it all out, point by point. You’re no Ceaser in Cataline’s War, but you sure do have an uncanny way of convincing yourself of impending doom and failure.

I follow Sarah Tonin into the left side of my brain, where at the end of the hallway a black, rectangular opening appears.

”Where does that lead?”

Sarah steps into the blackness and vanishes, but still, I hear her,

Into a hero’s journey.

I follow Sarah Tonin into the opening.

Her Champion

I was scrambling that morning to get myself ready for school. It usually wasn’t such a struggle. The pallet of tattered afghans on the dusty, cold concrete floor. The suffocating pungence of kerosene permeating from the noisy space-heater. My father’s strident drunken snoring. The trembling ache of an empty stomach. All of these made it impossible for one to get too comfortable in the toolshed. Yes, my father and I lived in an actual toolshed. It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times.

You try it. Try being a motherless nine-year-old, living in abhorrent conditions with a father so drunk he can barely change his own underwear. We didn’t have a shower. The outfits I rotated had never been washed. School, the place where I go to be sneered at daily by my peers was an escape. I looked forward to school. I was able to eat there. I was able to be warm there without a poisoning head change. When I was there I could be anyone.

But for once I had actually overslept. My father had an episode the night before, putting his arm through one of the windows of his favorite dive bar after he was kicked out for not paying his tab. I had to tend to his wounds with old oil rags and a bottle of vodka. He passed out on his cot sometime just as the sun was peaking through cracks between the door. I nodded off imagining her lullaby, but only long enough to hear her tell me:

You’re going to be late, honey.

Still pulling on one of my worn sneakers, I swung open the door to the toolshed. Tripping my way up the gravel driveway I could see the school bus inside the clouds of my freezing breath. It was loading up the kids at the bus stop. The old church just across the four-lane highway. The bus was getting ready to leave. It terrified me.

”Stop! PLEASE WAIT!”

I screamed out with frozen tears in my eyes and snot on my lip, trailing just behind the bus. Sprinting through a cloud of exhaust I wave my arms screaming louder. Literally running out of my shoes. Barefooted I catch the bus and pound on the side of the metal. Jumping and waving and flailing my arms. The air breaks hiss and it finally comes to a halt.

The look of contempt I received when the door folded open was wrenching. The bus driver scowled as I drug my way up the steps, exhausted and panting. Barefoot, wearing jeans too short for my legs, and tucking my scrawny arms into my dirty t-shirt, I walked up the aisle. The only empty seat being just two seats from the back, I had everyone’s attention for what felt like an eternity. I could feel the rubbernecking and hear the snides about my stench. I wanted to vanish… but I wanted to eat breakfast a lot worse.

I got seated and right on cue, everyone turned back around. Back to their bullshit like a thoughtless herd of cattle. The bus headed for school.

“Stop, Chad!”

Little Marie on the school bus shouted from two seats up,

A frail little girl, a second-grader, wearing thick-framed glasses and a retainer, Marie was a daily target of Chad Percy. A tall, freckle-faced, loud-mouthed, fat-fuck who smelled like Cheetos and sweat. A punk. You could see his sense of deep inferiority written all over his face. He was overfed and gluttonous, slow, and wrote backward. He took his differences out on only the people he knew he could squash. Chad and I were in the fourth grade together, but he’d been held back a few years. He was at least eleven.

“STOP!”

She shrieked again,

“Oh, what’s wrong with little four-eyes? Is she too blind to see that she keeps bumping into my hand?” Chad hollered out to the bus. Nobody paid attention. He kept smacking the back of Marie’s head around with his fat hands. “YOU’RE HURTING ME!” she sobbed out, her glasses hitting the floor and simultaneously getting smashed by her feet as she shifted around. “Hurting you!? Here…” he said standing up to hover over Marie’s seat as she cried in her hands, knowing that a broken pair of glasses from the trailer park meant an ass beating when she got home., “...if you kiss this it’ll make you feel better.” Chad said, implying something revolting.

”That’s enough, Chad.”

I said standing from in seat and pulling my arms out of my t-shirt.

Chad let out a scoffing laugh and started down the aisle towards me, “Oh! Look who it is! Pigpen Edgar!” I clenched my fists as he stopped just in front of my seat. “Why you stink so bad, boy? You ain’t got no one to wash your coochie since your Momma’ died?” I dove over the seat landing on his head, I growled and clawed and slung and pulled. But Chad swatted me away like a pissant. I toppled into the seat, my head thrashing against the metal lining beneath the window. Chad laughs like a hyena, pinning me down in the seat with one hand and punching me in the nose with the other.

My face goes warm from the tears, and my vision goes white. I can hear Chad laughing. “Oh, four-eyes! Your hero forgot to wear his big girl panties! Maybe you can share yours!” My vision returns just as Chad has reached into the seat in front of us and grabbed Marie by the hair, she wails out, pleading for Chad to stop. He begins to lift her from her seat by her hair.

Everything slows down…

Marie contorts, dangling by her hair in Chad’s grip. She turns to face me. We lock eyes. I knew that look of calamity on her face. I knew what it felt like wearing it… That realization of your tragedy. I experienced it over and over. I was going to save her from that hell. Our eyes widen together as Chad lifts Marie even higher, you can see fright overcome her face in slow motion. I looked down and Chad’s hand lifted from my chest just enough.

I pushed up from under his arm and reared back my fist. Chad dropped Marie trying to react, but it was too late. I swung my boney right arm with every grain of might I could muster. My fist buried into his chin, sending Chad collapsing into the seats across the aisle. I fell forward with him from the punch, catching myself between another seat and the floor. Panting, and in shock at what I’d just done, I turned my face back towards the aisle. Marie was right there still down on the floor, gazing at me with a look I’ll never forget. Like she was looking at a true hero.

I stood and lifted Marie by the hand. We both looked to Chad who was beginning to stir, tears welling up in his eyes. “You don’t ever touch her again, punk!” I decreed as Chad scrambled to the back of the bus. I sat with Marie the rest of the way to school. Still shaken and without looking at me, she grabbed my hand. I recognized the wounds she wore. Mine were matching. I hummed out an old sweet lullaby I remembered...

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away”

That’s the one you would always make me sing you.

Sarah Tonin and I both materialize into a black void as the memory collapses away.

”I know... I still don’t remember where I heard it...“

Yes you do. Just like you know that your conclusion from earlier is unreachable.

”I am a hero… and I do belong in this moment.”

Becasue?

”I’ve been fighting against the odds all of my life, and protecting those I love…”

And you’re still fighting. Do you think Chris Page would fight for people the way you have? Especially alone, and up against bad odds? Of course not. He’s egomaniacal and cowardly. A person who betrays. A bully just like Chad, just like your mother, Misty Waters.

”I don’t have to worry about Misty Waters anymore.”

You’re sure about that?

”Demos blew up her house while she was inside of it… She’s toast.”

You watched her die?

”Not exactly…”

That’s not sound logic, honey. You better wake up...

My eyelids raise as my taxi driver pulls in front of my home.

Marie needs her champion again.



It’s amazing how quickly time can shift the narrative of perception.

Just months ago, in the minds of people like Chris Page, R.L. Edgar, if not a total afterthought, was nothing more than a filler product on XWF shows packed to the brim with incredible talent.

Time had already spoken its piece on me, I was just an unreliable jobber who pops in and out of the ring every couple of years to collect a paycheck. I was the guy who gets squashed by Peter Gilmour. The guy who gets picked against on the podcasts and television shows in spite of winning and defending a championship.

But on March 29th something changed.

In just a few months since returning to the XWF, I caught the eye of the Universal Champion, which is stunning given his lack of focus on anything other than himself, and fucking people over. He’s decided to make R.L. Edgar a chapter in his quest to become the worst human being on earth. Let me oblige him.

Chris Page challenged ME to a match for the Universal Championship.

Things really have changed for R.L. Edgar, now haven’t they, Chris? Until recently, you and I have never crossed paths before. Sure, I know who you are, you’re a legend, you've rocked this industry from one end of the spectrum to the next for decades, a resume comparable to the Ravens of the world. So what's got R.L. Edgar clicking around in your mind, Chris?

According to you, you want your Universal Title reign to be seen as legitimate, as in better than Robert Main's, better than FuZz's, better than even The Engineer's. And you do that by laying down the challenge to the likes of me and Demos. I ask YOU, Chris Page, what does that say about me?

Does it mean that you're just a liar? And a coward? And that in your mind R.L. Edgar would be just an easy defense in route to your dream orgasm with Robert Main? I mean you have a way of calling all of these people you've faced "trash", or "insignificant", it's like you know that beating up a seasick, Popeye Drew Archyle looked pretty weak. Especially calling in a swarm of your new babysitters to help, when it was clear as the sky is blue that Drew wasn't himself.

Even when winning the championship itself you called Duke unworthy and you still do it, even though you had to bring "The Beast" out to beat him. Where has your ol'Beastie been anyway? Is he only needed when you're facing "paper champs" like Thad? A win against a fake champion, then against "insignificant" Big D, then the con job you pulled against Archyle, I think I can understand why you're worried about measuring up against other champions.

After all, you did decide to challenge me right after I got cheated out of the Hart Championship. Is that because I looked like the "insignificant trash" you'll be sure to call me? Or is there something more? I mean you said I "warranted" this opportunity, but I could expect no less than you trying to doody on your own words eventually.

So what else?

You could say it was because of the double singles-title rule, and with Betsy Granger retaining -as usual- that she would have "warranted" your graces more. But then why not Corey Smith? Why not your boy Dixon? Why not Fuzz? They don't have championship gold either. You've got the keys to the car, Page. You're the one in the driver's seat. You're the one picking who you want to fight, issuing challenges, driving your own destiny, no one else.

So does that mean that in your mind that I'm more worthy of a challenge than those folks? Worthy enough that if you defeat me, your title reign will be greater than one and a half of those two people you could've challenged by that logic? If it's anything other than true then you are just cutting your own dick off. You're admitting that you have no desire to earnestly topple those title reigns that you lament. And, boy oh boy, what a baaaad look that would be. Being the egomaniacal prick that you are, that would crush you wouldn't it? For anyone to think less of Chris Page or place an asterisk by your run would cripple you.

So it can't be that you were just lying. You may be a pile of shit incarnate as a human, but there is one thing you actually do care about in this world, and it's that Universal Championship. It amazes me still how something that Peter Gilmour wore around his waist can turn an already throbbing-cunt into a total megalomaniac. But it's not unusual. Frankly, it's fucking overplayed. Like a twenty-four-episode-long origin story.

Modus Ponens, Chris. I'm willing to grant you the deductive, and believe your words but will you accept it? Or will you try and add another premise to your argument, the only other possible premise being one that makes you look like a total jackass?

You were wrong about R.L. Edgar and he really doesn't deserve to challenge for your clunky ass belt. The first loss to Ned was okay for Chris Page. But then the second screw-job and that fluky inside cradle loss to Lycana changed everything? Two losses from a man who got buried by Gilly changed your mind? Man, that perception and time thing sure is a bitch. That would mean that Chris Page essentially lined up another Big D for his Universal tour, and that sure doesn't help his case for ruling in the mountains of the greats.

You would admit to being short-sighted, and stupid, practically buying and loading the guns of your opponents with ammunition for years to come. After all, I do have to remind you, in this premise you've gone out on a limb to challenge shit mid-card jobber, by either not doing your research or just by being you, Page. The man who only stops blathering about himself long enough to suck his own cock. The type of disgusting, self-absorbed prick who manufactures a narrative to co-opt a group and then shits on its own members. Making it as clear as possible that he's on a different, "elite" rung of the ladder from everyone else.

Chris Page challenged R.L. Edgar to the Universal Championship, but he didn't realize Edgar was a flavor of shit beneath Peter Gilmour. Because Chris Page is too incompetent to realize the difference between a Corey Smith and a R.L. Edgar. That is since he isn't lying, and isn't a coward, and actually is trying to rack up "good" wins in this resurgence during his twilight. So old age is catching up with you? Starting to get a little hard to spot what actual competition looks like? You don't look like you've lost a step in the ring, so are you really Ghost Tank level dumb then? Perhaps y'all two have a little more in common than you realize.

But it could mean one other thing I suppose, but it still leads to you being a jackass. It could mean that you were only pretending to flex your nuts when you challenged me. It would mean that you're only a make-believe shot-caller, and that management let you know in advance who you're facing. It would mean that R.L. Edgar actually DID earn his shot and not just in your eyes either. If that's the case then you really must have been going out of your way to fix the insecurities about your title run before you faced Demos.

You said that Demos was "warranted" a shot too, he was a part of you wanting to make your title-run matter, and then like cowards, you and Bobby coerced him into never being able to challenge you for a title again. Sorry Boba-Louie, nothing about that looked brave or befitting of a champion who wants to be seen as the best ever. Then you said Demos was an embarrassment for losing to you. So it's embarrassing to take a loss from the guy trying to be the best champion of all time?

You better take that original deductive, Chris!

Any other argument you make other than knowing that R.L. Edgar is a man worthy of facing you will lead to the toilet. You know I've earned my chance to earn my spot among you. You know that beating me, if I give you everything I got, is a win worthy of a great champion. It took you how many years, Chris? How many attempts at that Uni before you finally put all of that hard work together and brought it home?

I think we all start out as underdogs. We're all so delicate fragile in the beginning, like a newborn child. Crawling before we walk, learning from our mistakes. In four months I've parlayed a loss to Peter fucking Gilmour into an opportunity to win a Universal Championship. In four months Chris Page has realized his dream, even if he had to take in a hook-faced lunatic and all of her bastard children to do it... that's commitment.

Well, you know what, Page? I'm going to prove you right. I'm going to show you and everyone else that I do belong in this moment. Do I know that I'm going to win? No. I'm not going to make that claim, but do I know that I can win? You're damn right. And so does Chris Page, that's exactly why he challenged me, because he's a REAL champion, and faces REAL competition, right Chris? He lives in the past enough to know that petty losses to whomever, whenever doesn't matter. He knows that when it comes to the XWF there are some people you just know have that ability to punch hard, and those you can easily point out that don't.

I'm going to fight you with everything that I have because nothing would satisfy me more than playing spoiler to your attempt at ruling the world. Chris Page? You wanted a real challenge for the belt?

Well, buckle the fuck-up, brother.

Let's go to war.

Former:
1x Hart Champion
1x Federweight Champion
April 2021 RP Of The Month Still Waters Run Deep