"You’re never going to kill storytelling, because it’s built in the human plan. We come with it.” - Margaret Atwood

“Many stories matter. Stories have been used to dispossess and to malign. But stories can also be used to empower, and to humanize. Stories can break the dignity of a people. But stories can also repair that broken dignity.” - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Tell me a story….

Rich carried with him a private pain. He spends a lot of time in his room now, much to his father’s annoyance. It’s hard to look people in the eye when you got secrets though. It underpins everything. “Son, how was your day?” “Oh, I got a B on the science test. Damian and Brooke got back together. Mr. Cheedle says ‘hi’. “

You have a gay son.

So Rich stayed in his room, with his secret for a companion. A secret that was dogged and wouldn’t rest no matter how much cognitive dissonance Rich tried to throw its way.

But there were escapes. Rich could, on occasion, pass through the threshold of these mighty fears and insecurities into worlds with young men like him who were out and proud.

His room was dark, save the glow by the light of his cellphone. On it, Corey Smith and his boyfriend Christian shared an intimate moment. Corey’s head was on Christian’s, and the words, well, the words weren’t as important. It was this singular snapshot in time, the very rightness of this moment that appealed to Rich.

His head resting over a boy’s beating heart. One ear to that nigh cosmic sound of a heart, a natural miracle, beating within a chest that evolved over hundreds of thousands of years to protect it. That was power. That was truth greater than any story.

Rich wiped a tear away from his eye.

Tell me a story…

Liv walked through the parking lot, shopping cart before her as she neared her car. Popping the back of the hatchback open with her key fob, she set about picking up the first bag of groceries to place when….

**BANG**

Heart pounding. Pores secreting sweat. Pupils dilating. Liv felt the urge to run, just as she had that time…that one time…

A wrestling show an ex dragged her to. But it was wrong. It was so wrong. Some young punk calling himself The Engineer said he had strapped weapons underneath people’s seats. Told them their bitterest enemies were also in the arena. Told them to track them down and have fun.

The gun shots. The screaming. Liv’s face trampled into the cement stairs as panicked fans bartered for their own safety at the expense of hers. Liv felt her teeth break all over again, the hot blood in her mouth, the agonized pitch that she would soon realize was her own.

Liv sat down in the rear of the hatchback, upended grocery bag on the ground and leaking its contents. The cranberry juice, it almost looked like blood.

A car backfiring. That’s all it was. She sought out her therapist’s guidance in this moment. The breathing exercises. She tried it, but the hammering, hammering, incessant hammering in her chest, well…

…that would take a while to abate.

Tell me a story….

We all have stories, they’re ubiquitous. But often, we tend to grossly underestimate the power of the stories we tell. Their capacity to heal. Or to hurt. The collateral damage of the tales we tell, be it a child frightened of the boogeyman, or an unfortunate woman with a top row of false teeth…

…or a young man, afraid, who steps into that story world every so often to remind himself happiness is possible.

Tell me a story.

Four meager words. But the power they hold.

Tell me a story.

Ah, but what of the stories we tell ourselves? What power do they hold, for good or for ill?

Tell me a story.

Somewhere

The figure swam at him out of a blackened ether. His face was flush against a cheap stripped mattress that smelled of fresh plastic. He squinted to try to suss out the figure's features, and as he focused he realized it wasn’t the figure emerging, but him.

The features of the bare room filled in like a developing Polaroid. There was nothing. Just bare walls and a dresser with its empty drawers ajar. And this bed that was most certainly not his own.

His head was a fog, a dull headache interspersed with the lazing opacity of one just rising from a nap. But he was aware enough to know fear. Pushing himself up and fighting the swim in his head, he addressed the woman standing before him.

Where am I? Who are you? Spoken with the barest hint of accusation.

You’re in the hospital. You feel funny because we had to sedate you.

The details filled in, puzzle pieces from on high interlocking in his mind’s eye. His name was Corey Smith. And he was in grave danger.

No, no, no… He moved to get up, and a motion out of the corner of his eye stirred. A large figure in white scrubs that he hadn’t noticed standing in the doorway approached, his mere presence carrying a connotation of threat.

Please sit down. Don’t be afraid. You’re safe here.

Corey acquiesced, shriveling up and leaning his back against the wall. Why am I here? What happened?!

You’re at Florida State Hospital in Chatahoochee, Florida. My name is Dr. Burke. The police brought you in because you were having a psychiatric episode and they thought you were unsafe.

No. No! I don’t remember any of that! That’s not true! Corey barked, his mind struggling in vain to recall the moments before his arrival here and failing.

Sir, you need to calm down. The large orderly interjected, his face firm with expectant action.

Corey tamped down his urge to fight. Whatever happened, getting into it with a hospital full of staff wasn’t going to help. Whatever happened… How did I get here?

The police brought you here, remember what I…?

No. Before that. Before the police. You said I was having an episode. Where was I? Who was I with?

The doctor looked concerned. She had patient eyes, soothing eyes despite the circumstances. You were trying to board a flight to Las Vegas, but you didn’t have a ticket.

That’s impossible. The XWF prepays for my tickets. I’ve never had a problem before.

You told them your name was Corey Smith.

Because that IS my name.

The doctor looked askance at the orderly before proceeding. The man tensed visibly. We’re here to help you, okay?

This doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense!

It seems as though you’re suffering from some altered perceptions. We want to…

“Altered perceptions”? What the hell does that mean?

It means, again, another brief look to the orderly. She’s expecting trouble. It means you’re not Corey Smith.

Anger percolated to the surface. This was mad. Utterly mad. Of course I’m Corey Smith! Who else would I be?!

Please, sir, you need to relax.

No, I don’t need to relax! I need to get the hell out of here! There’s been some mistake!

We don’t know who you are yet, you weren’t carrying any ID.

Corey scooted to the edge of the bed, and the orderly stepped up just in front of the doctor. Please sit back. Corey again appraised his options, scanning the room and seeing that another orderly had appeared in the doorway, this one with a syringe at the ready. He was reasonably certain he could take the two men, but could he do it without getting stabbed with the needle and injected with sedatives? No…no, it won’t do you any good…. Corey again relented, pushing himself back on the greenish plastic mattress. I’m fine. I’m alright.

The doctor relaxed and took a seat on the second bed across the way. Thank you for calming down. Like I said, we want to help you. But if you get violent that will complicate matters considerably.

You said I’m not Corey Smith.

That’s correct.

But I am, Corey Smith.

I know you believe you are.

This isn’t some psychotic break, some mental health thing. I’m not crazy, I know who I am! And then, it hit him. A rising storm of anxiety and realization. Oh, I know what’s happening here. Corey leaned forward, taking a careful appraisal of the doctor. D’Ville? Is that you?

I’m not sure who that is. My name is…

This is your M.O. Driving people to the brink. Toying with their perceptions, with reality. It’s you, isn’t it?

I’m not this D’Ville. I’m afraid this might be part of your illness. She paused. I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere until we can have a more reality based conversation. Would you be willing to take some medications to help you see things more clearly?

No. Don’t take anything. What kind of medications?

An antipsychotic. It’s an injection medication. Do you have any known medication allergies?

I…no. No, I don’t.

Are you willing to take it? I think it would help you feel better. I hope you can trust me on this.

No, absolutely not! Let me think about it, okay? I'm tired. I’m really tired. I just want to get some rest.

The doctor considered him for some pregnant moments, trying to ascertain his motives. Finally, she relented. Okay. Get some sleep. We’ll talk more later. But please, the more you cooperate the easier this will be. We’re here to treat you, to help you. That’s all we want.

Yeah. Sure. I get it.

The doctor stood up. There will be someone posted outside your door if you need anything.

Sure. If I need anything. Yeah. Okay.

With a final parting glance, the doctor took her leave, with the two orderlies in tow. Corey could see one of them taking up position in a chair just outside the door, turned to face the interior of his room. Shit.

Corey laid prostrate on the bed, staring at the ceiling. What do I do? At first, he simply focused on the immediate predicament, but the lower he submerged into the depths of his true situation, the more frightened he became. What’s happening? Is Madison Dyson doing this? Have I finally, truly, lost it? Pulling his legs against his chest, the permutations threatened to overwhelm him. Someone’s trying to drive me insane.

Corey…

A voice drifted through the air, settling in his ear. He would have presumed this was further proof of some sort of psychosis if I didn’t know the voice so well. Trying not to let this recognition dawn on his features, he got up out of the bed. The orderly considered him, just past the door. Corey pointed to the bathroom. I just gotta go. The orderly nodded and Corey slipped inside.

Pan, is that you?

Corey noticed then that the basin in the sink seemed to have filled of its own accord. He peered into the waters, and Pan looked back at him. Pan!

Corey, what happened? Where did you go?!

I need your help, Pan. Shooting a quick glance at the door, he refocused on the reflection in the waters. Somebody’s locked me up in a mental hospital. They’re trying to convince me I’m not….well, me.

Pan scrunched his face up, the clarity of the still water allowing for such microexpressions to be seen clearly. What?!

I know, I know. I think Madison Dyson or Doc D’Ville has something to do with it. They’re the only ones capable of arranging something like this.

You can’t just leave?

I think they have me on an involuntary hold. There’s an orderly posted right outside my door.

Hmmm. Hold on. Pan’s face retreated from the reflection, returning moments later. He held up a small purple sack. I think this will help. Blow it in the orderly’s face and it will put him to sleep. Then, you can make a break for it.

Easier said than done. How are you going to….?

Pan’s hand passed through the water, until it was just a limb incongruously set within the sink. About his finger, he had twirled the tie of the small bag. Oh. Of course. Corey took the bag. Thank you.

Pan’s handed retreated back beneath the water, leaving only some scant ripples in it’s wake. You’re welcome. If you can provide me a bigger pool I can probably come to you.

No, they’d probably just take you for an intruder and have you arrested. I think I can make it. Corey smirked. So the sink and not the toilet, eh?

Pfft. Seriously? Pan smirked right back. Maybe you don’t need my help that bad after all. Then, his features evened out again. Be safe. I love you.

Momentarily taken aback by the declaration, Corey paused a moment before replying. I love you too.

And with that, Pan was gone. The small bag the only tangible evidence of his presence. Corey looked in the bag and saw that it contained a smimmery dust. Then, taking a deep breath, he opened the door. Hey man, can you help me?

With what? The orderly called out.

I think there’s something wrong with the toilet.

Corey overheard the strained sigh followed by the sound of a metal seat being pushed back. The orderly turned the corner and arrived at the bathroom door. Let me see. Corey opened the door the rest of the way to allow him entry. The orderly perused the toilet and looked annoyed. There’s nothing wrong with…



The dust was really quite beautiful as it left Corey’s palm and dispersed into the air, like a mini golden cosmos. Corey could actually see as the orderly reflexively breathed it in, the shining particles sucking up into his nose and mouth. The orderly blinked a few times, stunned, before his eyes started to roll back up. Corey lunged for him, grabbing the front of his shirt and shifting his balance so he could guide the man safely and quietly to the floor. He shut the bathroom door and then set about removing the hang tag key card from his pocket. Thanks again, Pan. He breathed, as he cracked the door and peered out. Allowing for 30 seconds to pass to make sure no one had noticed the disappearance of the orderly, Corey slipped out and peered around the edge of the door into the hall. It was late, and the hospital was operating on a skeleton crew. Corey could hear another orderly in a room two doors down, and a night nurse was in the nurse’s station looking thoroughly distracted. Palming the key card, Corey slipped stealthily into the hallway, stooping low and just beneath the view of the nurse. Corey went to the far door and noted the key bad with the swipe card mechanism. Stealing one final look, he swiped the key card and hastily passed through the security doors as they opened.

Words.

So before we start talking about the lady of the hour, a profuse apology. March Madness was a botched abortion of a match. None of what went down was my fault, and yet I still feel an abundance of shame and anger by proxy anyway. I’m angry FOR you. For everyone that paid good hard money to see Angie Vaughn versus Corey Smith and maybe some other stuff…etc…etc…

Kidding Of course.

Anyhoo….PISSED. That should never have happened. And as far as I’m concerned it should be a black mark on Angie’s career here forevermore. And hopefully some of that stink rubs off on her sissy too. Eyes on Vaughnimous my pert twink ass.

Of course…of COURSE, I don’t want that to be my last match. It was supposed to be, sure. But I’m not goin’ out that way. Not like that. So I threw myself at the mercy of the powers that be (read: shot Vinny a mildly complimentary text message) and requested ONE…MORE…MATCH. As they say.

Wish. Granted. And oh what a grant it is.

Vita mutha frickin’ Valenteen.

Now this is a contest with fire. With HISTORY. This is worthy of going out on. Ya see, it’s history lesson time folks. Let’s head alllll the way back to 2019. Yours truly was freshly minted with a brand spankin’ new assassin living in my brain and a new lease on life. Me and Lux entered the XWF to use it as a cover to travel the world and hunt down some of the assholes who would bring about the end of the world as we know it. Of course, we also had some monumental life altering experiences within the confines of the XWF as well.

You may recall that I’ve said Lux was damn near unstoppable. Throughout her entire tenure she was only ever bested by two people. One was Sarah Lacklan. The other? Vita Valenteen.*

Did you see the asterisk I put next to Vita’s name? Of course not you silly gooses I’m talking. But there was one. And here’s why. Vita DID beat Lux. I can’t take that away from her. But it was very early on in Lux’s tenure and she was still adapting to being in my scrawny body. She was far from at her best. And I wasn’t helping matters much either, being a screwed up kid having to suddenly share headspace with a whole other person after basically being dead for years. That tends to put a psychic damper on a guy in my defense.

So, Vita beat a Lux that was at a fraction of a fraction of her true capability. Of course, the record books don’t mention all that. And rightly so! But I know Vita’s going to bring it up so I figured I’d add some context.

And you know what? There was something else too…something pretty damn relevant that I just can’t….can’t…

Oh yeah. We dated.

Yes that’s right kids and dogs, Vita and Corey were an item. That was on my off time from being Lux, of course. Otherwise things would have been, ya know, weird.

….

….

Ok, fine. Who am I kidding? Things were weird anyway. And I think that was a pretty major part of why she cruelly dumped me the way she did. It was just too weird. And ya know what, Vita?

You were right.

It may shock you to learn that I don’t hate you. Now, I certainly don’t agree with all your life choices since then. And forget the vampire stuff and the heelin’ it up, I mean, NOAH JACKSON?! Seriously?! Yucko, bucko!

Ann-e-ways, no, I’m not mad at you. In fact, my boyfriend Christian just left me for essentially the same reason. I’m a hard guy to love, I guess….

So it would be pretty hypocritical for me to accept him leaving me because he couldn’t handle the science fiction roller coaster that is my life and not accept you doing the same. Vita, I KNOW it was hard. And quite frankly, I’m shocked you gave me as much time as you did. And yeah, I was pretty upset about it back then. Not gonna lie. But time is both a salve for old wounds and has a tendency to put what’s come and gone into perspective. I get it. I really do.

Now, the brass tacks.

While I won’t be going into this fight with anger in my heart, I will be going into it to win. As far as I’m concerned Lux’s loss went unanswered because you and I avoided each other for three years after everything that went down. But at Warfare, that loss gets an answer. And that three years of forgotten history gets an exclamation point at the end of its footnote.

Now, you and some others may wonder why I’m even bothering with this. I’ve been very public about the fact that my time is up. But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to go out on a loss. Turns out Corey’s gotten pretty competitive over the years. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, this championship matters. Hell, all championships matter. Except the Anarchy championship.

Kidding, of course!

But this is a special win for me, Vita. Not just because it’s you. Though that’s a big part. But because of what this match represents. Three years ago, Lux vacated her Television championship undefeated and went on to win the Universal Championship. My how history repeats itself. And while there won’t be a Universal Championship in my immediate future, I plan to cap off an epic championship run on my terms, just like she did. And I kinda like to think I’ll be going on to bigger and better things too. They just won’t be found in a wrestling ring.

I know you’re not going to make it easy for me Vita. Nor would I want you to. You’ve been a house of fire lately, win after win after win. You may have just hit your peak. But that doesn’t deter me. And as we all know, peaks are fleeting things that have a tendency to drop off rather abruptly. And I have a path to walk Vita. Lux’s path. And how fitting it is that here, in my final hour, I will mirror one of her finest triumphs. And I have no problem admitting that I’m aping her. In fact, I think it’s going to be an honor.

Vita, don’t get too cocky about that win. Because make no mistake, this will take every bit of Anne Rician chutzpah you have. You better bring your “taking Sarah Lacklan to the limit” game. Because nothing, literally NOTHING, less will be adequate.

And on the off chance that you win? I could think of worse people to pass the torch to. Because for everything that’s come between us, and everything you were after we parted, I think there’s a fundamentally good person there. A good person who went astray. And again, it would be more than a tad hypocritical for me to pile on you about that.

I look forward to hearing from you. Truly. I hope you’re okay.

….


….

By the way, that was a FANTASTIC picture of me you used. Seriously, my skin was soft as a baby’s ass and those locks were poppin’! Was that from when we went to Cabo? It was Cabo, wasn’t it?

The shot pulls back to reveal that Corey is in some kind of backstage area. He waves to the camera man, who nods back and puts the camera down. Pan approaches Corey.

I thought you handled that very tactfully.

Thank you. I tried.

Pan puts an arm around Corey’s shoulder. Should I be jealous you handled your ex with kid gloves though?

Hey, I’m not the boss of you. I can't tell you how to feel. He picks up Pan’s hand off his shoulder and gives it a little kiss. But, my public awaits!

Pan withdraws and walks with Corey side by side as he approaches a large curtain. This match does have a hell of a story though, I’ll give it that.

Tell me about it. It should have been on paid television, man.

Corey passes through the curtain and is instantly met with cheers and shouts. Corey steps up to a table around laid out with 8x10 glossy’s and multi colored markers. He waves to his fans. Ahoy ahoy! Thanks for coming everyone! Now ya’all know the drill, nice orderly lines and everybody gets one. Or two. Or ten!

A member of the XWF security team slowly shakes his head “no” at Corey.

Okay, just one! But it’ll be a good one, I promise! Corey has a seat down next to Pan as the fans eagerly set in on him.

Somewhere

It was oppressively crowded, to the point that Corey could practically feel the heat emanating from the clusters of excited bodies. The others’ thoughts provided a mental static counterpoint to his own, as if he could hear them. A fuzzy out of sync television channel made up of hundreds of disembodied voices raining hell down on Corey’s psyche. He grimaced, pulling hid hood down lower over his face as he jostled his way through.

Eventually, he jostled a larger young man too hard. He wheeled around on Corey, animosity written in his eyes. Hey man, fuck off!

Sorry. Corey muttered. It wouldn’t do to cause a scene. Not yet. Not yet.

Corey reflected on what had brought him to this point. The absurdity of being denied his very identity. He knew the police were looking for him, and while he had found a relatively safe haven here, he couldn’t be too careful. One false move and it would be back in the pit. With the drugs and the hard faces.

He wondered where Pan went. He hadn’t heard anything from him since the hospital, which was unusual. Surely Pan hadn’t abandoned him, right?

A searing pain in the chest.

An agony like lightning caused Corey to sway, restricting the urge to catch on to a passerby for balance. He clutched the front of his hoodie over his heart, gasping as the pain slowly subsided. It had to have been the fourth or fifth time since the hospital he’d felt it. But there was no sign of a fresh wound, just a mended scar over his breast bone. But even that was of unknown origin. Surely he hadn’t had it before. Someone had done something to him. Thinking about it caused him to experience a subcutaneous itch, as though something were implanted there. Perhaps a tracking device deposited by Madison Dyson or one of her adherents. It was impossible to tell. But it did mean his enemies could be monitoring him. Tribulations on top of tribulations.

Corey could tell he was nearing his destination, and unfortunately the closer he got the denser the throngs became. He hadn’t managed to garner anymore attention. He just needed to hold out for a matter of minutes and he’d be there. He’d be right there. His fingers squeezed the fabric over his heart so hard his knuckles paled.

Almost there.

The Signing

Do you ever feel like you’re going to miss this? Pan mused aloud as Corey finished off a signature with a flourish of purple marker. Corey brought the marker up to his nose and sniffed it. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to do that?

I specifically request the smelly markers Pan. It’s in my contract.

God, you’re so freakin’ weird.

Coming from you that’s…well….that’s something. Then, turning to the next fan in line. Who’s it going to, kiddo?

An excitable young boy seems to be practically bouncing out of his Nikes. My name is Cameron! Thank you, Corey!

No prob, dude. Corey polishes off that signature as well before quickly turning his attention to Pan. To answer your question, of course I will. But you and I both know I’ve got a calling.

Yeah. Madison. Although I’d consider that more a curse than a calling.

Touche. Corey turned to greet the next fan. Pan scanned the line of fans and he experienced a strange twinge of…something. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the crowd more thoroughly, but seeing nothing unusual, he shrugged and sat back in his seat.

Somewhere

So close. So close.

And then things would be square.

I’ll be me again. I’ll be me again and no one else.

His heart thudded against the scar tissue on his breast.

Some//Here

So who do I make it out to? Corey grabbed a glossy and poised the marker over his face before looking up.

Make it out to Corey Smith.

Huh?

He looked up, and his face dropped. Shock rolled through him like thunder across a desolate plain. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t possible.



Joachim?! Oh my God…how…how….

Gun, he’s got a gun!

Corey didn’t even know who said it. But there was a gun, trained on him. And then there was a flash of movement.

And then…

What of the stories we tell ourselves? What power do they have?