Up to his waist now…

The sea’s tide has slowly, intentionally crawled…

From the tips of his toes…

Up to his middle.

Numbing his legs…

Like someone supplying a merciful dose of anesthetic.

Before putting a sick dog out of its misery.

“...Please! Get up, Papa!”

Sitting atop Flynn’s chest… Microscopically small.

The Child’s voice pleaded… Begged… Besought…

Urgently and fervently…

The water ebbed an inch backward… Then, an inch and a half forward…

As it had done for days… Maybe, weeks…

Slowly but surely submerging this Flynn…

Back into the ocean of his own subconscious.

To be dismissed.

Extinguished.

Like he’d never existed.

Which, for the record, he hadn’t.

This Flynn was as temporary as every other one.

Like the idea of trying to incorporate a hat into your outfit.

Or implementing a new question into your conversation method when meeting new people.

This Flynn was not a wholly unique individual.

He was a choice. And a small one at that.

And like the thousands of microdecisions a person makes every day.

He would soon be.

Not just unmemorable.

But wholly and completely Un-rememberable.

“...Papa, plea…. You …et up!”

The voice sounded smaller now.

Almost… hollow?

Like the voice’s source was on the other side of a glass wall.

Like the sound of a voice inside your head.

Imperceptibly quiet.

As quiet as silence.

Like you might be imagining it exists all.

“...Pap… …up!”

Flynn would squint if his facial muscles could still move.

“Kid.” Flynn’s hoarse voice slips out the underside of his bottom lip. His mouth barely moves, just barely enough to mumble. “I’m not your ‘papa’.”

“You’re not my son.”

“My son is… Almost Four months old now.”

“You’re a figment of a dream I had. Once.”

“An illusion of some, brighter tomorrow.”

…

“...ap… …t…!” The voice grows fainter and fainter… Like an ancient recording… Or a distant echo.

“You’re a tri*COUGH*... A tr*KEROUGH*” Flynn coughs, the salty air stiffening his lungs….

“...You’re a trick I played on myself.”

…

“Just… Get away from here. Please.”

“I know what happens when you’re swallowed by that tide.”

…Flynn snorts.

“And… I know you’re not real, but…” Flynn dry-swallows…

The saltwater stings his eyes, welling down his cheeks.

“I… I don’t want to forget you.”

…

“...Before I go.”

…

“Y’know?”

…

“Kid?”

Whatever presence this Flynn had sitting on his chest?

Has lifted.

A spirit exorcised.

…

And with that.

This Flynn was alone.

Just him.

And the slowly-encroaching abyss.

Soon to be forgotten.

An absence.

Unobserved.

Like he was never here to begin with.

---

A blur of bitter bereavement.

A simmering soup of solipsistic self-pity.

The unmistakable undulations of unhappiness.

Irwin had grown very accustomed to this sensation…

Through time and space, Mark Flynn’s Number One Fan had developed a miraculous bond with the object of his affection-slash-worship.

He called it a blessing.

Miss Tote/Wilson preferred to call it “a paradoxical relationship that had developed into complete psychosis.”

To-may-to, to-mah-to.

But, for the first time in months… Irwin felt that presence… Waning.

Fading.

A vein in Irwin’s head pulsates… As if he could THINK the bond stronger.

If he could reach out and connect with Mark Flynn.

“-rwin, are you listening?”

“Hmm?” Irwin’s eyes flutter, as if waking from a dream. His brow furrows apologetically, “No, I wasn't. I’m very sorry, Miss Tote-slash-Wilson.”

Miss Tote-slash-Wilson sighs. “You can just call me one or the other, Irwin. They’re both as correct as the other.”

Irwin scratches his head. “I’m sorry. What were you saying, Miss…”

…

“…?” Irwin’s mouth hangs agape, paralyzed in his polite desire to use someone’s preferred name.

Wilson/Tote exhales. “Mister Kain here was simply going over the bullet points of your defensive strategy in court tomorrow.”

Tote/Wilson tilted her neck towards Simon Kain, XWF’s on-staff counsel. The bald man in a gold-trimmed Armani suit a size too large. A suit he clearly bought to exude status, without considering that it made him look like a chihuahua trapped in an elegantly-stitched, ten thousand-dollar Snuggie.

“Irwin.” Kain nods, raising the packet of paper he’d been reading off of in his hands. “I’m more than happy to start over.” Kain’s fingers clumsily twiddle to the front page of his packet. “Who am I? And what makes me qualified to represent you? First, I primarily handle contract drafting for new XWF superstars…”

Irwin squeezes his temples. “This isn’t right.”

Miss Wilson/Tote sighs. “Agreed, Mister Kain. Perhaps we should skip ahead to the substance of your presentation?”

Kain’s lip whiskers bristle. “I prepared this presentation with extensive thought into topic order. Each topic naturally stands on the shoulders of the previous topic. Like a skyscraper of logic and reason. In fact…” Kain’s fingers nervously sift through the packet. “Briefly turning to page four, titled ‘Skyscraper analogy’…”

“It’s Mister Flynn.” Irwin cuts in, pressing his fingertips against his temple… Like he’s trying to tune his brain frequency of Flynn’s signal. “I sense… he’s in the throes of an identity crisis.”

Miss Wilson/Tote rolls her eyes. “Wow. Must be a day that ends in ‘Y’.”

“I feel him…” Irwin frowns, focusing with every fiber of his entire being. “Fading. Like a… distant radio transmission. He’s getting further and further away. And I don’t know where he’s going…”

…

Tote/Wilson reaches across the table. Pressing a hand compassionately on Irwin’s shoulder.

“Irwin. Please take a momentary break from trying to be Professor Xavier… and speak with me on Planet Earth.”

…Irwin’s clenched eyes soften as he looks across the table to Miss Tote/Wilson.

“Now, Irwin…” T/W puts on her sternest, most serious face (which is very serious, indeed). “You’re less than 24 hours from the first day of your MURDER trial. Where you’re facing MURDER charges. Probably the MOST serious charge you can be accused of.” Miss Tote/Wilson glances at Kain… “Right, Mister Kain…?”

“Uh…”

Mister Kain dry-swallows skittishly, as he rapidly flips to page 17 of his presentation. He checks it… And double-checks it.

Before breathing a sigh of relief.

“Yes.” Mister Kain nods. “It is.”

…Kain flips back to the page to triple-check it.

He nods again.

Miss Tote/Wilson sighs exasperatedly. “…Your freedom... Your LIFE! Is on the line! You can’t worry about Mark Flynn right now.”

Irwin’s head shakes back and forth. “But I do, Miss Tote…-slash-Wilson! I need to know he’s okay! That he’s on his way to climbing back to the top of the wrestling world! After all, I’m his number one fan!”

“That caring is *not* mutual, Irwin!” T/W shakes her head impatiently. “Flynn has dodged your pleas to come defend you. He’s not here. He’s not coming. All you have is me.”

…

A cough.

“Oh… uh… and Mister Kain. Of course.”

Irwin’s brow furrows perplexedly. “Who?”

…Kain purses his lips, before turning his packet back to page one. “First, who am I? And why a-”

T/W smacks the packet out of Kain’s hands. It flops on the table. “YOUR ATTORNEY!”

…Irwin squints at Kain, up-and-down. Kain’s hands pinch at the air… Like he doesn’t know how to hold them without a pre-printed sheet of paper telling him how.

“…Aren’t you a little short for an attorney?”

…Kain scoops the packet off the table, frantically flips through his packet. “…I… I don’t have a page on height…”

“REGARDLESS!” T/W dismisses this with a wave. “Focus on THIS. And stop thinking about Mark Flynn.”

“But I can’t stop!” Irwin shakes his head. ”I miss Mister Flynn! His unpredictable manic energy! His alternating waves of controlling abuse, followed by scraps of affection! The way he calls me Ir-Winner, Irmano and Ir-dawg!”

T/W shakes her head. “…If it’ll make you focus, I can call you Ir-dawg.”

Irwin looks up curiously... Like it might help!

…

Deep breath. “IR-d…”

…

“IR-dawwwwwww…”

…

“Nope, can’t do it.” T/W exhales. “But, my point remains! Mark Flynn isn’t here! An-”

BZZZZZZZZZT!

Irwin’s phone rings!

Caller ID?

MARK FLYNN!!!

Irwin gasps so hard, he almost passes out.

“Wait, Irwin! Let’s th-“

Irwin scoops the phone to his ear, quick as a moth to a bugzapper. “Mister Flynn! I knew you’d call!”

T/W squeezes her temples anguishedly, as Kain sifts through his packet, looking for a pre-written technique to handle this scenario.

“HEY HEY!” A voice chirps back. “If it isn’t my favorite client!”

Irwin squints, perplexedly by this… unfamiliar friendliness. It’s Flynn’s voice but it sounds vaguely like a used car salesman.

“...Mister Flynn? Is that you?”

“Please. Call me Christopher K. Clinton. Esquire. You can ALSO call me your Knight-in-Shining-Armor because I’m riding upon my mighty steed… (Ay-Kay-Ay, this Cherry-Red Honda Fit)... to free you from the dragon-guarded castle that is the criminal justice system!”

“Oh! Right!” Irwin smiles ear-to-ear. “Christopher K. Clinton, of course!”

Irwin presses the phone to his chest, nodding at Miss Tote/Wilson. “It’s Mister Flynn’s attorney character. The one he likes to put on when he’s waging war against structures of corruption and complacency.” Irwin giddily shakes his fists delightedly. “It sounds like he’s coming to take my case!” Irwin’s fists wiggle excitedly.

“Irwin. Dear.” …Tote/Wilson takes a deep breath, trying to invoke the otherworldly powers of Patentia, the Goddess of Patience. “You HAVE an attorney, remember?” Tote/Wilson tilts her head towards Simon Kain.

…Irwin’s gaze zips to follow Tote’s head-tilt… His eyes widen like he just realized Kain exists.

“...Oh, right… Him.”

…

“Uh… You can go now.” Irwin banishes Kain with a wave of his hand, before spinning his chair around…

…Kain looks at T/W. Pointing at the door, like… I go now?

T/W shakes her head, pointing at Irwin… Like, CONVINCE HIM.

…Kain clears his throat. “Mister Irwin… You’re facing murder charges. It’d be in your best interest to work with a REAL lawyer, instead of a wrestler who cosplays as one.” Kain lifts his packet once more to his face. “If you’d let me go through my presentation, I think you’d se-“

Irwin raises up a finger, without turning to face Kain…

“Sorry, Mister Fl-...er, Clinton. Could you repeat that? Mister Pryce's attorney was saying… something.” Irwin shrugs, spinning the chair around.

…

“What’s that?”

…

Suddenly, Irwin spins the chair back around!

His eyes scan Simon Kain from the top of his toupee to the bottom of his Prada Jet Black footwear.

…

Irwin nods.

“Five-foot-four…”

Irwin gives the attorney one last squint.

“And-a-quarter.”

…

Irwin smiles, before spinning the chair back around.

“I know, right? Too short!!”

…Kain drops his packet in his briefcase.

“No… Wait!”

Snaps it shut!

“Hold on just a second!”

And storms out!

…T/W sighs, speed-walking after Mister Kain.

“Shameful! They’ll give out law licenses to ANYONE these days!” Clinton tsk-tsks, weaving through four lanes of traffic, a Bluetooth headset wrapped around his skull. “Well, fear not! Because CHRISTOPHER K. CLINTON will be defending you! And I plan on showing the judge, the jury, the bailiffs, the gallery, governor, even the GODDAMNED STENOGRAPHER! I AM THE BEST.”

“LAWYER.”

“IN THE WORLD.”

…

“Since day one.”

Irwin grits his teeth. “Mister Clinton… It sounds like you want to use my upcoming murder trial primarily as a platform to make yourself look great...”

…

“YES!” Irwin pumps his fist excitedly. “If there’s one thing you take seriously, it’s chances to make yourself look good! I’m home free!”

“Damn straight! I am giving this case one-hundred percent of my attention! Actually, strike that, one-THOUSAND PERCENT! ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND PERCENT! I promise you, NOTHING WILL DISTRACT ME FR-“

*bzzzzt*

“Oop, text message. Un momento.”

Irwin smiles. “Oh! Is it an important piece of evidence? About my case?”

“...No, it’s from… Thaddy Warbucks…”

…

“Oh. My... Oh... My.”

“…Mister Clinton?”

…

“Uh.”

“I’ll call you back, Irwin.”

*click*

…

Irwin’s brow furrows in confusion…

Just as Miss T/W walks back in, her head cradled in her arms. “Well, Irwin. Your LICENSED attorney just walked out…” T/W scans Irwin up and down… tsk-tsking.

“And by the look on your face… I imagine Flynn just got distracted and *immediately* dropped you as a client? Well, I told y-”

CLATTER.

The phone drops out of Irwin’s hand, clattering to the floor.

…

Cold beads of sweat drizzle atop Irwin’s forehead.

…T/W taps her nose with her finger. Seeing an opportunity.

“Hey, hey…” She bends down at Irwin's eye level. “It’s okay. I’m still here. I’ll get you out of this jam.”

“Miss…”

…



“…Mister Flynn…

“Just called me…”

“Irwin?”

---

---

The offer of a lifetime.

The chance to finally assert control.

The opportunity to take the wrestling world by the THROAT.

And force it to submit to my whims.

It’s a dream come true.

Kieran King can shit on me all he wants for eyeing a management role.

But, let’s be honest about our line of work.

We wrestlers?

Aren’t even employees.

We’re the product.

To be used.

DEPLETED.

And disposed of.

…

You notice that The Brand… Mister Undefeated… 42-0? Disappeared off the face of the Earth.

Lee Stone? A distant memory too far gone for anyone to still fear.

Steve Jason? …Literally so erased from our collective subconscious that I don’t even know what his deal was.

These men are considered XWF Legends.

…

For a long time. I dreamt of etching my name into the Hall of Legends.

Of beating so many of these golden idols…

That the industry would be FORCED to reckon with me as a legitimate claim to its throne.

The KING OF ALL WRESTLING.

…

Thirteen years later.

A record-breaking Universal title reign.

Three straight WarGames wins.

…And… Despite my LEGENDARY career…

I feel somehow further from the Hall than I’ve ever been before.

…

But.

One text from lil’ Thaddy Duke.

And the world hath become my oyster.

I will attain what I have dreamt of since DAY.

FUCKING.

ONE.

…

Control.

Control of my narrative.

Control over my destiny.

Control over the destiny of the PISSANTS and PART-TIMERS that have been handed opportunity after opportunity over me FOR MY ENTIRE CAREER.

…

Once.

And for all.

MARK FLYNN. The bane of wrestling’s power players.

WILL BECOME THE ULTIMATE POWER PLAYER.

…

But, before I do that.

I do have… ONE SCORE.

That I’d like to correct.

One loss.

That I simply must reclaim.

…

Dionysus.

You lucky son of a bitch.

…

Three short Warfares ago.

I got careless.

I got cocky.

I got sloppy.

And I let my guard down.

…

I took a win over this fledgling little nobody for granted.

I talked OVER you. Not about you.

…

But. I’ve had time to lick my wounds over your FLUKE victory.

I’ve had your words pounding in my skull night-after-night-after-night, listening on fucking repeat for the last MONTH-AND-A-HALF.

Quote:I am Dionysus.

I know you.

Quote:Hopefully you have heard of me by now.

…Yeah, I’d heard of you.

I'd heard some asshole was walking down the ramp with a shield and spear.

Looking like an extra from 300 who’d been to the craft services table one too many times.

I saw that goon Hawaiian Hardhead knock himself unconscious running headfirst into your shield.

Your props may be real.

But your abs are drawn on in Sharpie.

Quote:I certainly know of you. As it turns out, we actually have much in common with each other.

Really?

Did we both get a 24/7 briefcase?

…Oh. No. That’s just ME.

Oh! Were we both the ONLY guy to ever get pinned by A Literal Gorilla?

…Oh. No. That’s just you.

Quote:We are both workhorses.

Kid. There’s a GULF of difference.

A FUCKING OCEAN OF DISPARITY.

Between being the company workhorse.

And just having a perfect attendance record.

You’ve simply shown up.

I’ve etched my very being, the essence of MY FUCKING SOUL, into that ring.

You’ve simply competed.

I’ve DOMINATED.

Your name is on the card.

My name is on the lips of tens of thousands of fans, screaming their lungs hoarse.

My name is the EPITOME of what the XWF is.

Your name is synonymous with “bathroom break”.

Dion? Wanna know what we have in common?

We both work at the same company.

But, we’re at very different positions in the XWF Army.

I’m the RING GENERAL.

And you’re a wet-behind-the-ears GRUNT.

Quote:We are both proverbial standard bearers, being the gatekeepers to greater glory.

Gatekeeper? Go fuck yourself.

I’ve run through the Hall of Legends like I’ve got a lifetime hall pass.

I’ve checked off names in the XWF Top 50 like it’s a goddamned grocery list, and I’m a FUCKING CostCo Rewards Member.

I’ve stacked belts in BULK.

I’ve scored wins across THIRTEEN YEARS.

…You, on the other hand, just keep slipping ass backwards into title matches.

Your biggest accomplishment to date?

Is beating me.

We’re not the fucking same.

Case in Point.

Look at how I talk.

With energy.

With ZEAL.

Like I have a POINT to make and a PURPOSE in making it.

I am DRIVEN.

I am CLEAR.

I am CONCISE.

…

Now.

Look at yourself.

Look at what a goddamned slobbering buffoon you are on the microphone.

How goddamned slow you are.

It’s like a fucking tortoise stuck in molasses…. Watching your feeble little mind try to connect two points into an argument.

Example incoming…

Quote:And for you, Mark Flynn?

Why, it is this incessant need to contradict yourself.

This right here? Is the trash-talk version of a layup.

Easy points on the scoreboard.

Mark Flynn’s mouth writes checks his skill level can’t cash.

Love it. Bring it home.

Quote:Now I'm sure you would like examples of this, and I am more than prepared.

…Jesus Christ, are you paid by the syllable?

You’re talking to tell me you’re about to talk.

It’s the LEAST EFFICIENT word-to-idea ratio I’ve ever seen in action.

It’s… FIFTEEN WORDS spent on NOTHING!

Were you worried I wouldn’t connect your thesis to the following sentence? Like I’m a goddamned rhetorical goldfish with a ten second attention span.

GET TO THE POINT.

Quote:In one breath, you proudly proclaim how insignificant you see yourself in the architecture of XWF. And yet, your resume speaks for itself. A World championship. Multiple runs with the Xtreme title and the tag titles with various partners. Sure, you may have felt like you needed to fight tooth and nail to attain these goals…

…

Dion.

I hate to be pedantic.

…

HAHAHAHA.

Okay, who am I kidding?

I LOVE being pedantic.

What the fuck are you even talking about?

Mark Flynn considers himself insignificant? Where the fuck do you get that idea, D?

First off, you’re talking to the motherfucker who calls himself THE.

BEST.

WRESTLER.

IN THE WORLD.

…

Since Day One.

I am  the goddamned SUN OF THE GALAXY THAT IS WRESTLING.

The center of the universe.

THE LIGHT THAT GIVES LIFE.

…That sound fucking insignificant to you?

Quote:But I should also be quick to remind you that you yourself are a relic of the past.

OKAY! HERE WE GO! FINALLY THE FUCKING KID TAKES A SWING!

I mean, easy-ass joke calling me a relic, but SHOTS HAVE BEEN FIRED!

Quote:That is not to be taken with offense.

…Ex-squeeze me?

Quote:After all, relics are desirable and highly valuable in the right circles. Many gather to look upon them in awe, admiring the craftsmanship and wondering just how they came to be.

…Jesus Christ, Dionysus… What the FUCK was that?

Thank GAWD you clarified that you didn’t mean to hurt my widdle fee-wings with your TRASH TALK.

…

Okay. Let’s… Let’s go back to basics.

Trash Talk 101.

An insult? Is most devastating at its apex.

The punchline as it were.

Here’s an easy one.

“Mark Flynn is so old, his early matches couldn’t end by pinfall…”

“Since no one had invented numbers!”

DONE!

SAY NO MORE!

STICK.THE LANDING.

Don’t soften the blow.

Don’t turn around and say. “No offense meant, it’s of course so impressive to have a wrestling career that preceded the Arabian invention of numbers! It speaks to your longevity in the industry and perhaps there was an alternative methodology to track pinning rather than counting to three.”

JUST.

FUCKING.

HIT ME.

Quote:A relic, however, is a delicate thing; the preservation of its own history becomes paramount. And it is only a matter of time before that relic is secured permanently, never to see the light of day again.

…Uh.

Sorry. Quick timeout.

Is… is the implication that Dion is gonna lock me in a museum? That I’ll be ‘secured permanently’... ‘NEVER to see the light of day again’?

Like what’s the second meaning there? What ELSE could that mean?

Like, okay, suppose he said “Relics are delicate. And if you’re not careful, they break easily.”

Then, like… cracked his knuckles. I get that. That’s simple and effective.

Point 1: I’m old. Point 2: He’ll break me. Easy.

What the FUCK is he talking about ‘secured permanently’?

Dion’s use of metaphor is stilted, imprecise and more confusing than devastating.

It’s almost like an AI came up with this shit.

…Actually, we’ve had an AI wrestle before. And he actually made BETTER POINTS than DION!

…

Ugh… Let’s try to find a silver lining here.

At least Dion didn’t immediately defang the punchline like he did last time.

Quote:Now, I'm not intending to put you on that shelf. Just something to consider:

OH. FOR FUCK’S SAKE.

…


See, now, Dion.

You might be asking yourself…

“So what if my brain don’t think words so good?”

“So what if I’m too stupid to construct IKEA furniture, let alone a cogent argument?”

“So what if it takes me three paragraphs of nonsense filler to tell my opponent they suck…”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with sucking! Sucking is a necessary skill to many vacuum cleaners! And it’s the best way to get Gogurt out of the tube it comes in!”

“Why does any of that matter, Mark?”

“We’re not going to debate on Warfare.”

“We’re going to WRESTLE.”

…

See.

If you and I were actually anything alike, Dion?

You’d know my cardinal rule.

My CORE BELIEF.

The one I’ve kept through thirteen years of wrestling in the XWF.

WORDS MATTER.

How you speak?

Is how you think.

And how you think?

Is how you wrestle.

This sport of kings isn’t a test of strength.

This is a goddamned battle of wits.

Of superior mental intellect.

…

And when I see a poor speaker stand across the ring from me?

Microphone wasted in his shivering, nervous little hands.

I start salivating.

Cuz it’s time to eat.

When I see Dionysus spend fifty words when five would do?

I see a man whose game in the ring has exploitable inefficiencies.

When I see Dionysus who can’t launch a verbal attack without immediately retracting?

I see a man who hesitates at critical moments. Who sees an opening and… freezes.

When I see Dionysus waste ten minutes of the XWF’s screen time with the most toothless, pointless trash talk ever dedicated to celluloid…

Talking about how we’re the same?

I see a man who doesn’t know his weaknesses.

That can’t see his throat is exposed.

The fatted calf.

Ready for slaughter.

At the hands of the XWF’s number one contender slayer.

Mark.

FUCKING.

Flynn.