Corey and Christian step through a door and into a spartan hallway with a guard station at the end of it. A stenciled logo on the wall helpfully informs us that they have finally reached their destination: Prevent Child Abuse Florida. The logo is a pleasant pastel, with the outline of the state of Florida slowly molding into a comforting, cradling arm. Christian quickly imbides the string of licorice hanging out of his mouth as they approach the guard station, where a mountain of a man seems poured into a creaking office chair.



They both seem to wither under an expression from the guard that silently proclaims “I shall broach no bullshit”. Corey smiles awkwardly and lifts a hand in a slight wave.

How can I help you gentlemen? He speaks, his voice a deep rumble with a touch of a wheeze.

Hi! My name is Corey, and this is my friend Christian.

S’up.

And I’m here to make a donation.

The guard looks at them in silence a bit, as though waiting for them to continue. Finally, he gives up and intones, Is it goods or money?

It takes Corey a bit to process the query. Oh! It’s, uh, money.

Did you call in advance?

Corey and Christian meet each other’s glance before Corey answers. No. Why, was I supposed to?

All financial donations go through our Public Relations person Dana.

Well, can I talk to Dana?

She on vacation. I can give you her number and you can call her when she gets back.

Corey frowns, clearly this isn’t going as he intended. Well, it’s just that we drove all this way and….

You shoulda called first.

We shoulda called first. Christian repeats, looking at Corey imploringly. Corey doesn’t heed it.

Look, Mr…..?

Seamus.

Mr…...Seamus? Wow, that was….unexpected actually…. Christian gently elbows Corey. Mr. Seamus…

Just Seamus.

Sorry, Seamus, is there somebody else I can talk to? I understand the CEO’s name is Makayla Simmons? Is she in? Could I talk to her?

A deep rumbling sigh bubbles up from the depths of the massive man. Do you know Ms. Simmons?

Well….no….

Then you gotta have an appointment.

Corey scratches the back of his head, a frustrated tic. He glances down at his shoes before returning his attention to Sheamus. Look man, it’s like this. I am prepared to donate ONE MILLION dollars to you guys. And I was really excited about doing it today.

Maybe it can just wait, Corey. Christian prods again, a little more insistence working it’s way into his tone.

However, Seamus’ eyes popped when Corey dropped the figure. That’s a lotta money.

Yeah! So, could I talk to Ms. Simmons?

Seamus casts an assessing glance at both Corey and Christian, and he seems to have an internal dialogue with himself before ending on a stony acquiescence. I guess I can give her a call.

Yes! Thank you so much!

Not taking his eyes off of either of them, he grabs for the phone on his undersized (compared to him) desk, punches in an extension, and after a couple rings someone on the other end seems to pick up.

Hi, Ms. Simmons this is Seamus down at the front desk. I got a guy named Corey down here who says he wants to talk to you about a donation.

A really big donation! He pipes up, before a withering glance from the security guard silences him.

….

Yeah, he says he wants to donate a million dollars.

….!

I know, right? Then, to Corey. What’s your last name?

Smith! Corey Smith. He looks to Christian excitedly, rubbing his hands together in an anticipatory fashion.

…..

She say she don’t know you, though. You never talked to them before?

No. I just drove over three hours to get here. I got checks right here with me!

Uh huh. Another appaising look from the big man. He says he just drove here, wants to cut a check.

…..

She wants to know what organization you from?

Oh, the XWF! He answers, without consideration. Christian’s body language says it all, he rubs his forehead and turns away from Corey.

The hell is that?

Corey chuckles. It’s a wrestling company. I’m a pro wrestler.

A clipped wheeze escapes from the guard, and it takes Corey a moment to realize it’s laughter. Yeah, Ms. Simmons, he says he’s a wrestler from the XXX….

XWF, actually.

……

Another wheezing chuckle. No, he don’t look like a wrestler. Oh, you remember the Mickey Mouse Club? Yeah, he look like one a those kids!

Christian takes a few steps away as he claps a hand across his mouth to smother some laughter of his own.

Corey takes a half step back, the umbridge evident immediately. Mickey Mouse Club?! Sir, that is pretty insulting and….

…..

He look like he 15.

Corey’s jaw hangs open increduously, before he can sputter out an indignant, I am not 15! His face sets into a rictus of determination, and he reaches into his pocket to pull out the book of checks. He slams the checks on Seamus’ desk. Will you please tell Ms. Simmons I just want to make a donation!

This kid got kittens on his checks!

THEY’RE ADORABLE!

…..

No ma’am, I don’t think this is legit. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. With that, he places the phone back in it’s cradle and looks pointedly at Corey. You made a damn fool outta us!

No,no,no! This IS legit, I swear! Corey, panting and flushed, suddenly leaps across Seamus and plucks a pen out of a cup. Corey then heads for the wall and starts writing out a check, using the wall as a slate.

That’s my goddamn pen!

Dude, let’s go! Christian drops even more bass into his voice as he looks worryingly at Seamus.

No! They are getting this money!

Seamus slams a meaty hand down on the desk, and it sounds like thunder. You gonna make me get up out this chair, aren’t you?

Don’t make him get out of the chair, Corey!

But, Corey is too busy signing his name with a flourish to pay heed to what’s going on behind him. With a prideful mein, he folds the check neatly in half, bends over towards Seamus, and places it in his front pocket. Seamus simply watches him do it, perhaps shocked into inaction, or maybe just allowing the fires of his underpaid rage to stoke a bit further.

One million dollars, broski. Right there. Now can I please go talk to….

Like ten seconds later….

The door leading into the parking lot bursts open, slapping against the brick wall. Seamus is dragging a struggling Corey along with him, with one hand tucked into his collar and the other hand at his belt.

Please….you’re making a big miiiiiiaaahhhhhhh!

With a minimum of effort, Seamus shotputs Corey like 8 feet deep into the parking lot. His side eats most of the blow, and he “ooompfs!” in pain as he meets the ground. Seamus then turns around just as Christian, hands in the air, starts to slip past Seamus’ prodigious frame.

We good, we good! Christian begs off, holding his hands up higher to emphasize his state of submissiveness. Seamus’ nostrils flare, but he doesn’t lay a hand on Christian and allows him to pass.

Instead, he directs his parting blow at Corey. Reaching into his pocket, he plucks out the check, crumples it into a ball, and tosses it at Corey. It’s a great shot really, adding insult to injury as it plunks off his head. This is a charity for abused children, ya’all should be ashamed! Then, grabbing the door handle, he brings it closed with a mighty pull! But the door hits the frame and just pops back open, clearly busted. Aw hell! We hear from the hall.

Ohhhhh! Maybe you could have used that money to fix the door you just broke! Corey bites back petulantly. Christian offers him a hand and Corey takes it, stopping only to pluck the wadded up check off the ground. Corey dusts himself off and inspects himself for visible injury, noting some scrapes on his forearm but little else.

Corey! Finally garnering the other’s full attention, Christian lets a touch of ire bleed through. Are you finally ready to knock this shit off?! He pats his chest. Because getting thrown out of buildings is NOT a good look for a guy on probation!

Corey mellows, as it finally hits home that he wasn’t the only one jeopardized by his actions. He takes a moment to look down at the crumbled check in his hands before replying softly. Yeah, let’s go.

Shortly Thereafter…..

Christian and Corey are back in the GranTurismo, enjoying an uncomfortably quiet pizza dinner. The only sound in the cab is gentle mastication, intercut with a wet plopping sound as Christian pulls excess cheese off his pizza and dumps it onto the side of his plate. Corey scrunches his nope up at the sight of it. Why do you do that?

Too much dairy. Ain’t good for ya. He replies simply, maybe even a tad icily. Corey takes note, and like a “seal” broken after a night of drinking, it all starts starts streaming forth.

You couldla had my back in there more.

He doesn’t even look up. You were acting crazy, no wonder they didn’t want nothin’ to do with you.

Crazy?! He scoffs. Okay, maybe I was being a little passionate....he drops his pizza onto his plate. Why did you even come?

Christian dabs at a bit of sauce on the corner of his lip, but already the irritation is bare. Why did I come…? His eyes go wide with increduility and he shakes his head. I risked going back to JAIL over this shit….

That doesn’t answer my question.

Something pops off. Christian levels a baleful gaze at Corey. Well maybe I just wanted to get to know the guy who was helping me out a bit, huh?! Maybe I just wanted to be friendly with the first person in YEARS who’s given a SHIT about me while expecting NOTHING in return. Maybe that.

Corey’s posture straightens, he’s taken aback. He takes to chewing his bottom lip, worrying it as he considers Christian’s statement. Okay. I’m sorry. I’m an asshole.

No! He picks up a hand, forefinger up, for emphasis. No, you are NOT using this as another excuse to feel bad for yourself.

….what?

When you gonna admit that none a this was actually about Arkin Blackwater?

What are you talkin’ about?

Well, that’s what this was supposedly about, right? You feelin’ bad because you’re fighting a kid.

I do feel bad about that!

But it’s not JUST that! Christian’s voice bears echoes of a strangely pleading quality. As though, for a moment, he was talking not to Corey but THROUGH him. A message meant, in part, for someone else as well. This is about ALL that guilt. All of it. For the drugs, for what you did to your family, for screwing over Lux, for The Engineer….ALL OF IT!

Corey’s expression flutters with each point, as though stricken a spiritual blow with each skeleton drug from his closet and cast out into the world. How did you even know about all that? His voice barely raises above a whisper.

You think I don’t pay attention? Heh. You think I didn’t look into you? Your life is a stage, man. Fit for public consumption. It’s all out there for anyone who wants it.

Don’t remind me.

Fine. But my point is this. You still got a lot of guilt. Earned guilt. But….he searches for the words….flailing around like a nut case every time you feel bad about yourself isn’t going to help you any in the long run.

Oh really? He shifts his weight, expression once again fixed for combat. Because if it hadn’t been for my “flailings” you wouldn’t have a place to stay right now.

True. He concedes with a sigh. Look, I ain’t saying you haven’t done some good. But you’re letting your guilt eat you alive. It’s pulling at your strings, making you dance for it.

How could you possibly KNOW. His voice is suddenly weighted down with meaning, the word “know” encompassing so much complexity and sorrow its four simple letters are an insufficient dam in the way of a torrential flood.

This gives Christian pause. He too sees the threatened dam and understands all too well that the crux of the matter has been found. Finally, his voice softens too, as he offers, I can’t possibly know what exactly you’ve been through. Everyone’s pain is unique. And for me to say “I know” would be damn near the most insulting thing I could conceive of. He pauses. But I can say this much. I do understand guilt. I really do. He puts his plate on the dash, embracing a moment of silence that Corey respects. Christian then rubs his hands on his thighs nervously, his cheek tics as something hidden and terrible rises to the surface. I told you I was in a bad car accident. But there’s more to it.

Corey had known this intuitively, but doesn’t crow about his insight. Instead, he replies simply. Ok.

We were both 18. He begins solemnly. His name was Gael. We were...friends. Good friends. We bonded over a mutual love of dance. He laces his fingers together, and turns his eyes away from Corey, glancing out at the briliant evening sun. We both got accepted into Julliard! Our lives were set, man. Broadway, bright lights, big city….all a that shit! We were so excited, just looking outwards at that horizon and seeing all that possibility. He shifts in his seat and clears his throat. We went to a house party after graduation. To celebrate, you know? We both had too much to drink though, but we didn’t care. Heh, when the world’s your goddamn oyster you don’t got time to consider yourself touchable. He sniffs, and quickly blots out a tear with his sleeve. I let him drive. He shakes his head, as though agreeing with something internal. I let him drive.

I’m sorry….

I woke up a couple times after. The car had flipped. My chest was on fire, and it was real hard to take a breath. The second time I came to it was long enough for me to see Gael. His eyes were open. I thought that meant he was alive. I tried calling out to him, but each attempt was like a branding iron stuck in my chest. Right before I passed out again, I saw the red and blue lights reflecting off all of that broken class. It’s weird, I don’t remember hearing anything though. I knew I was gonna go under again, and I wanted to comfort him before I did. It was then that I realized Gael’s face had never moved. He had never even blinked. Blood was running out his nose and his neck was pressed up against the roof of the car, bent in a way it couldn’t be. That’s when I passed out again.

I woke up later in a hospital, my body barely pulled together. He indicated the massive scar on his side. With one reinflated lung, a rib cage put back together with metal, and minus one kidney. I was in a total haze, could barely remember my own name, my mama’s name….I…..He stammers. But I knew Gael was gone. That much I could remember.

I was in there for a month. But I was terrified of going home. Terrified of facing that reality. The pain meds they had me on started to develop a dual purpose. Taking away both kinds of pain. It was real, real easy to pop a pill, drift back and forget. That was fine for a while. But then I got the brilliant idea to visit Gael’s mom, Vivian. Tell her how sorry I was for her loss. Maybe have a good cry with her. That’s how it spun out in my head. Instead she told me that Gael had lied about getting into Julliard, but didn’t want to tell me right away because he was happy for me. He didn’t want me to feel guilty. Heh….fuck man….He coughs out an embittered laugh at the irony. That whole night he put on a show just for me. For my happiness. And I couldn’t even be fucking bothered to call a cab for us.

Vivian spat in my face and told me to burn in hell.

Corey mouth opens to speak, but there’s really nothing to say.

From there, it was a hop, skip, and a jump into a full blown opiod addiction. Gael died for me. Because of me. So I repaid him for that by flushing my life down the shitter. Christian finally looks at Corey, holding his hands up as if to say “that’s all folks” with misty eyes and a false smile. You don’t have to say anything, Smith. Just listen. Guilt devoured me. Destroyed my life. And the real pisser of it was that yeah, I DID have something real to feel guilty about! Just like you do. That was earned guilt. But even so….even with it being EARNED, you have to eventually find a way to make peace with it. You have to.

...how? Corey whispers.

I can’t tell you how. But one thing I can tell you is that….people depend on you. There is a pregnant pause there, something else had wanted to emerge but Christian pulled it back. They need you. Again, something unspoken and plaintive just below the surface. So if you do it for anyone, do it for them. Draw strength from that. From us.

Corey looks down and one of Christian’s hands is atop his. He hadn’t even realized it was there. It felt forward, perhaps even a bit intrusive. But at the same time, necessary. Corey just nodded his head numbly, unsure how to follow up Christian’s heartfelt declaration.

You wanna head back?

Yeah.

You good to drive?

Yeah, I think so.

That’s good, because I’m still not allowed to have a damn license.

A relief valve is lifted, and a respite of gentle laughter colors the stolid air between them. Christian looks down at his hand atop Corey’s, and his expression turns sheepish. He pulls it off, placing it on his own lap. They trade small, knowing smiles, as Corey turns the car back on and they start their trek back home.


-------------------------------------

What’s this? A promo, floating free and untethered?! Blasphemy most foul!

Yeah, not how I usually like to do things. And no offense to you Arkin, but when you’re staring down the barrel of two matches in as many weeks, with one you don’t wanna do and one you REALLY don’t wanna do...well, suffice it to say time is of the essence. I need all the time I can get to put myself in the place I need to be. That being said….

Boy, you are awfully quiet for a Blackwater.

Now, I could toss some guesses out into the ether as to why you’ve been quiet. Some cheeky. Some snarky. Some empathetic. But mostly I’m just hoping YOU’LL tell me why you’ve been so quiet.

I’d love to hear from you. Truly.

My hope is that the reason for your silence isn’t that you feel disrespected. Though I’ve never known a member of your family to clam up in the face of a slight. Because I need to emphasize that none of this has been steeped in disrespect. At least, not intentionally.

Unfortunately, what I have done, in fearing for you, and in treating you like some China Doll I’m loathe to break, is infantalize you. Without intentionally setting out to do so, I’ve made it seem as though you’re some meek guileless creature, ignorantly lurching towards the thresher that is the XWF. I now see that that was dumb of me. You know what you’re getting into. The XWF runs through your family’s veins like life blood. You understand the dangers. And you knew full well what you signed up for. So, in a sense, the way I’ve been treating you is inexcusable.

Now, I will never feel great about the prospect of doing this match. But I also acknowledge that for me to “go easy on you” or, God forbid, throw the match altogether, would be a profoundly shitty thing to do to you. So, I’m not gonna relish it, but I’m not gonna avoid it either.

Arkin, you’re getting a fight.

But it’s gonna be a good clean fight. My intention is going to be to incapacitate, not maim. Because if I win, I want there to be something left of you to pick up off the mat and impart some words of “brotherly” wisdom to.

Or you might just tell me to fuck off! Teenagers, man. Heh.

Either way, from this point forward, I consider you an equal. Which I should have done from the very beginning.

And Donovan, if you’re there listening, I hope you’re doing right by the kid. He’s gonna need a compass. And at the risk of listing back towards seeming patronizing, I am a-ok with being that compass. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been on this colossal “Mother Theresa” bender lately, and, well, if the kid wants some advice on his technique, or how to avoid getting caught up in the trappings of backstage politics, or even to know which of the XWF’s lovely lassies are safe to date (NONE OF THEM)...I’m here. Seriously.

Okay, I’m done mother henning, I swear.

*Vague grumbling and hem hawing*

Maybe a bit more mother henning.

Arkin, if somebody tells you to raise your left hand...do it! But only so you can cuff them in the mouth. Trust me, it’ll be SUPER satisfying.

If anybody ever tells you you can’t be weird, or that it’s impossible for you to have super powers, kindly remind them to fuck off.

If Chris Page asks you to check out one of his promos, my God….don’t! Unless you are really jonesing for some shut eye, that is.

If some form or function of Michael Graves invites you into a van….RUN! He may even come to you in the guise of a pretty lady. Doesn’t matter. That stench is intergender. RUN.

And finally, if you ever do something you feel bad about. If you ever fall short of your own expectations for yourself...even if you did something truly terrible...

…..

A course correction is always possible. Okay?

Welcome to the XWF, kid. You can be as great as you wanna be.