Sunday, March 14th

The sunroom was a blissful radiance on a mellow Sunday afternoon. Corey stepped past the threshold, body still feeling the brunt of his match with Jayzon Williamz’ prodigy Andre Dixon. The pain had subsided to a dull throb, becoming the bodily ache foretelling a storm rather than the lightning itself. That was a good sign. A fruitful sign. Because now, less than two weeks out from March Madness, he was staring down the barrel of yet another tag title defense with Thad Duke, his opponents yet undetermined. But he had a strong suspicion of who it would be. Hello, Bobby, my old friend… His voice was a singsong in his head as he pictured B.O.B.’s beast.

Hey man.

Revelry broken, he turned to see Christian prostrate on a wicker couch with floral cushions. The sunlight bathed him as he turned his head upside down over the arm rest to proffer his greeting. His curls fell over half his face, and he smiled. It was warm, reassuring, an emotional port in a storm. So why was it so damn frightening at the same time?

You know.

Corey pulled up a seat across from him, scooting it a little closer. The act conjured another dull ache in his lower back, but he tamped it down. Christian had a sketch pad in his lap, on the page was a half completed pencil sketch of a young man’s face. One half full and vibrant, the other half devolving into coarse geometric lines and shapes waiting for life to be filled in. Corey instinctively knew who Christian was drawing.

Is that Gael?

Christian smiled wanly. It’s trying to be. He took a breath and put the drawing pencil down, giving Corey his full attention. I’m not completely happy with it.

It looks good to me. Corey gestures at it. Better than I could do.

Christian stays silent for a moment. Then, he traces his finger tip over the image’s eyes. His eyes were rounder. His finger moves up to the hairline. And up here, he had a slight widow’s peak that I forgot about. He brings a knee up, resting an elbow on his knee cap and worrying away at his thumb nail between his front teeth. He then removes the thumb, splashing his hand towards the page in a dismissive fashion. The shading’s shit too. I got it all wrong.

Christian’s words were more than just simple criticism. It was an act of self-abasement.

You’re being really hard on yourself.

Once more, Christian allows for a robust bout of silence before formulating a reply. Do you wanna know why I do this?

Yeah. He was sincere.

I haven’t been able to LOOK at an actual picture of Gael since he passed. I just...can’t make myself do it. I figure that I should be able to keep him alive….up here. He taps his head. That the memory should be strong enough. That the love should be strong enough.

Corey sat back, concealing his surprise. It was the first time Christian had professed actual love for Gael. Not just friendship. Of course, Corey had always suspected the relationship was more profound than that. In a way he felt almost perverse getting this confirmation, because it bolstered something hopeful in him. Something…

You know.

And it scares me. I feel like every time I try to commit him to paper, I’m getting some detail wrong. Every time I picture his face, this fog that had been creeping at the border is…infiltrating. The word is tinged with disgust. I’m forgetting him, Corey. And I’m scared shitless of the day that I sit down to draw him and there’s just nothing. Nothing at all.

Why don’t you just look at a picture then?

I shouldn’t have to! He blurts the words out, riding on a current of anger. Then, immediately regretful, he sputters, I’m sorry.

Corey nods. No...no, I get it. But you’re torturing yourself, man. He looks up, meeting his gaze. You still love him very much.

Yeah.

It hurts. You know it hurts.

Christian slaps the sketchbook shut and forces on a smile for Corey’s benefit. Guess I just gotta keep at it. How you been?

Corey swallowed. No lies. Confused. Achy. Little scared.

Work or personal?

He throws his hands up in a conciliatory way. I gave up on trying to separate the two.

Let me guess, Dolly and Thad? It wasn’t just a simple question. It had a probing connotation for sure. Not the first time from Christian either.

You know why.

Corey watched his hands fumble with each other in his lap. Yeahhhh….

So, are you with Dolly?

Corey looks out through the window into the expansive yard. A trio are tossing a frisbee around. Further back, a couple others are working in a garden.

I don’t think so. The end of the statement lilts upwards like a question.

Christian smooths a lock of hair back. That didn’t sound too confident. He pauses. What about Thad?

I think I just need to stop messing up my friendships by complicating them with sexual tension. He meant it as a joke, but by the time he had made it to the end of the declaration it wasn’t that funny anymore.

Christian glances back down at the closed sketchbook. You need to start being more honest about what you want. With yourself and others.

More honest.

The word “honest” resounded like a church bell inside of him. He found he couldn’t even formulate a reply. Thankfully, Christian pressed on.

You’re a good person, Corey. You have a kind soul. And even though I’ve been through some shit, I still can’t even FATHOM what you’ve had to deal with. You’ve been so strong through all of this. He meets his gaze again. It’s steady and unyielding. Except when it comes to matters of the heart.

Oh, please don’t… he started.

Just listen. You’ve spent almost two years forced to be other people. I think it’s made you deeply uncertain of who YOU are. But those other people? They’re gone.

Iggy?

Mostly gone. But you catch my drift. For all intents and purposes, aside from Baby Engy, it’s just you man. It’s just you. His gaze stayed steady. Corey wanted to wilt under it. What do you want? Christian’s voice croaked a bit. Corey looked up in surprise to see his left eye start to water. Christian’s Adam’s Apple rose and plummeted in his throat.

You know.

Corey’s eyes settled on Christian’s hand. It was slim, delicate, yet weathered. One nail was half broken off. A small scar just above the thumb. The eyes may have it but the hands tell it. So much struggle written in the flesh. Corey could envision the serpentine scar that raced up his torso through his shirt. It almost seemed to pulse beneath the cloth. Or perhaps that was just his overactive imagination. Corey’s thoughts start to drift around the scar, over it, under it….STOP.

Yes.

I think I have feelings for Thad. I think they’re real.

The silence was a roar, a tangible thing that cut. Christian blinked a few times, clearing the errant unspent tears from his eye. He looked numb. Corey’s heart ached to the point of burning.

I’m sorry if you wanted me to say something else. I’m….

Lying.

It’s okay. He nodded, but his shoulders sagged with a tremendous invisible weight.

Coward.

Christian looked at Corey again. I hope you can find happiness with him. Then, before Corey could respond, Christian slid out of his seat and moved to go back inside. Corey wanted to say something, felt like he SHOULD say something, but his voice caught in his throat, rendered inert by the power of his guilt. So he just watched him go. He let his eyes linger then on where Christian had been sitting, imagining an echo of him still there. Imagining the myriad other ways the conversation could have gone.

Imagining a possibility where he was strong.

He curled his hands up into white hot balls in his lap, biting deep into the inside of his cheek as a form of self flagellation. It was about 15 minutes before he could will himself to rise. He sought to bury himself in something mundane, so he stepped outside and started making his way down the long and winding path to the front gate. He surprised himself when he found himself in front of it, wondering where the journey had gone. Fumbling for the key card in his pocket, he swiped it at the sensor beside the gate. The black bars still bearing the initials “M.D.” yawned open and he trekked to the mailbox. Pulling the door open, he reached in and withdrew a considerable bundle of mail. A largesse that was the result of 30 odd people now using his home as a mailing address.

Corey almost missed the black envelope amidst the rest. He replaced the remainder of the mail and turned the strange envelope over in his hands. There was no return address, and it bore his name on the front. Intrigued, he ripped it open and withdrew the contents. It seemed to be some kind of notice printed on expensive paper.

Dear lucky Sir or Madam, It is my privilege to welcome you to the Brotherhood of Baddies!

Oh I can’t fucking EVEN right now…. Corey scowled.

Rest assured the selection process was rigorous! The fact that you made it is a testament to your guile and ruthlessness! Which is why you have been assigned to the D-Team!

Fucking D Team?! He really didn’t want to be, but he was kind of insulted. The words “D-Team” looked like it had been printed after the fact to add insult to injury.

Your official B.O.B. membership card is forthcoming. Please allow 6-8 weeks for its delivery. But, you can start taking advantage of everything B.O.B. has to offer immediately! Perks from our participating partners (in crime!) include: A free baby sized milkshake from White Castle every third Sunday between the hours of 2 AM and 3 AM. A Bobby Bourbon Funko Pop (while supplies last) A Money Oswald Funko Pop (we still got a ton!) An autographed picture of actor Tom Skerritt A “Full Service Massage” from the Ladies of Siam Spa and Massage Parlor Free carpet swatches from Lowes (random colors only) A full size flowchart trying (and failing) to explain Miss Fury’s origins Your choice of a free taxidermied possum or woodchuck Broken glass

...the hell….?

And that’s just for starters! We are formulating new business partnerships every day as our influence grows worldwide! But remember, while we are a global wrestling crime syndicate, that doesn’t mean we don’t have time for you! If you have any questions or concerns about your B.O.B. membership, don’t hesitate to call us at 1-800-328-7448! Yours Truly, Your Region 38-C Subaltern John Doh

I do not have the emotional capacity for this shitfuck right now. He pulls out his cell phone and starts dialing. As his finger punches the buttons, he scowls even deeper. Oh, 1-800-EAT-SHIT, awesome...really awesome…. He growls as he brings the phone up to his ear.

A chipper voice sounds after a couple rings. Hello, and welcome to B.O.B.’s member services call center! “Join Us!” We are working very hard to process all of your inquiries, so there may be a brief wait time. We’re sorry for the inconvenience. But, if you know your party’s extension, you may dial it now. Otherwise, please hold for the next available B.O.B. representative!

An audible click is heard, followed by a monotone voice. Your estimated wait time is….8 Days, 3 hours, and 27 minutes. Please hold.

Corey holds his phone out from his face, aghast. Fuming, he slams his finger down on the “End Call” button. He looks like he’s about to rage again, when he happens to glance across the street, where another gaudy McMansion sits. His neighbor Marjorie, well past middle aged and the textbook definition of “resting bitch face”, also just so happens to be at her mailbox pulling out her mail. Corey’s eyes narrow as he spots a black envelope in her hand. He grits his teeth together, then cups his hands around his mouth. Marjorie! Don’t open that black envelope! It’s B.O.B.!!

She glances back at him, confusion overwriting her features. With an annoyed twist of the lips, she replies. What?!

It’s B.O.B.!!

Who’s Bob?!

No! B-Dot O-Dot B-Dot. The Brotherhood of Baddies!

Marjorie waves him off in a dismissive fashion, turning her back to him as she starts walking back towards her house. Fucking hippies….

Corey rolls his eyes. Fucking Marjorie. You know what, she and B.O.B. deserve each other….

Corey’s phone, which still had not left his hand, chimes. He looks at the screen.



At one point, such a development would have warranted a phone call. But ever since Corey had created a rift chock full of awkwardness between them, non verbal communication had become the norm. Oh. Better and better.



He did indeed know which one. And this situation did indeed need to get handled. But Corey couldn’t deny the sinking feeling in his stomach at the prospect of seeing Thad, and the difficult conversations sure to follow.

11 HOURS LATER

Corey found himself in a comfortable seat made with red satin fabric. His heart missed a beat when he realized he didn’t remember how he got here, or where here even was. He cast a glance to his left and saw a man in a three piece suit wearing a snake mask. Corey shriveled from the sight, and then chanced a look at who was to his right. There, he saw a woman in a glistening red dress wearing a rabbit mask. He didn’t have any time to ponder the circumstances further before the people to his sides and behind him erupted into an applause. What had been a dark void in front of him was now invoked by brilliant stage lights revealing a deep red curtain. The curtain rose, and a single figure was behind it. Bare chested, and wearing simple white slacks, he also lacked any sort of footwear. A breath caught in his throat when he realized it was Christian.

Christian was posed with his arms hugged around his torso. Then, turning his left knee outward, he took a graceful step, prying his arms loose and laying bare the vicious scar on his side. Corey watched, enrapt, his fingers coiling over the edge of the armrests. He was beset by an unease he couldn’t fully understand.

On the stage, which in the blink of an eye was now a party to gently drifting snow that somehow didn’t reach the audience, Christian’s body started to gain in momentum, and he progressed into a sensual dance. His body unwound, his legs pirouetting effortlessly across the floor, kicking up the snowflakes in his wake. The scene had a sort of ethereal beauty to it. And the centerpiece was this rhythmically writhing form, moving in a fashion that was equal parts seductive and unsettling. Corey struggled to find the source of his unease, and he soon realized that the pace of Christian’s dancing was increasing incrementally.

He’s going too fast. He whispered the words aloud, but his neighbors to his left and right paid him no heed.

But the veracity of the statement was as clear as the spotlights illuminating it. The snow became whirlwinds beneath his feet now, and Christian’s dancing started to take on a livid quality. If a dance could be a manifestation of rage, this was approaching it. Corey tried to catch sight of Christian’s face, searching it for anger or fear or sadness, but he was moving too fast, features blurring behind the current of snowfall. Corey let out a frustrated gasp and leaned forward in his seat. But still Christian continued to move quickly and more violently.

He’s going to hurt himself! He spoke louder, but still garnered no reaction.

Christian’s body had taken on a reckless abandonment, limbs lashing and twisting with such force they looked as though they could become unmoored from their sockets. And he wouldn’t stop. Corey shuddered in his seat, fearing the inevitable pop of a surrendering limb, followed by Christian’s screams.

No! Stop! Christian stop! Corey got up out of his seat.

The snow flakes he was kicking up now bore a crimson sheen. Blood. It was blood. Because the soles of Christian’s feet were starting to tear under the strain. Corey tried to cry out again, but it was caught in his throat. Christian threw out another arm, and with a sickening crack of bone breaking and tendon rending, the arm spun loosely at his side like a dead appendage. Corey screamed silently. Then, halfway through a pirouette, one of his legs twisted with such savagery that Christian’s kneecap exploded and buckled. And still there were no cries of pain. Christian’s broken body tried to continue the dance, beholden to the sadistic whims of an unseen puppeteer. He took on the macabre appearance of a scarecrow twisting in a violent wind.

Corey tried screaming again, willing his lungs to push his terror clear of his lips. But still nothing. Nothing. His eyes surrendering to a haze of tears, he looked back at the masked man. And through the haze of pooling liquid, that dread visage was still unmistakeable.

It was The Engineer.

Shocked, Corey stumbled back, almost losing his footing. He looked to the woman again. It was Madison Dyson. Neither of them were paying him any mind though, they were too ensorceled by the grisly spectacle on the stage.

Corey chanced a look back up at Christian. By this point he was nothing more than a mass of warped limbs in the throes of sheer madness. His head was screwed around now and laying flush with his spine, broken neck swaying, swaying, swaying….

He awoke with a gasp, lurching forward in his seat. Corey tried to bring his breathing under control and account for his circumstances. It had been a nightmare. Just a nightmare. He looked up, seeing now that he was in his proper place. Seated on a bench beside a small hangar, waiting at the appointed private landing strip Thad Duke had directed him to. A packed bag was still tucked between his sneakers. He slowly became aware of Iggy’s voice beside him. He was singing.

♫♫♫We're going on a bear hunt. We're going to catch a big one. What a beautiful day! We're not scared. Uh-uh! Grass! Long wavy grass. We can't go over it. We can't go under it. Oh no! We've got to go through it! Swishy swashy! Swishy swashy! Swishy swashy! ♫♫♫

Iggy pumped his arms in tune with the beat of the preschool classic. Corey reached over towards him, batting at him feebly. Iggy...Iggy! He finally gets his attention.

Oh, hey Corey! Did you have a good snooze?

Not...uhhhh….really. But anyway, do you think I could just have some quiet time for a bit? I need to collect my thoughts.

Oh, sure! He reaches down and picks up a blue child size backpack that he had been keeping between his own feet. You know where to find me if you need me. He leans in towards Corey. In your brain. Iggy speaks the words as though he was spilling a forbidden secret.

Corey nods at Iggy, a forced smile pinching his features. Yes, thanks Iggy. Appreciate the clarification.

Iggy snaps his fingers, and with an audible *Pop* (or audible to Corey anyway), he’s gone. Corey sighs and looks above him, where a halogen light protruded from the side of the hangar. The sun hadn’t fully set, yet a sea of gnats had already begun swarming it. He starts talking, but his eyes stay fixed on the light. Do you ever stop and ask yourself, “What is my life?”

He taps his hands on his knees a few times, and then reorients himself towards the camera.

By the time this hits the proverbial presses, Warfare will have come and gone. But, this is being filmed on Sunday the 14th. A time when our opponents for the tag team championships at March Madness are, conceptually, not known.

But in reality? They are known. They are Them No Good Bastards. He states confidently. No psychic powers or special insight needed, it’s as clear as the nose on your face. The day Morbid Angel hooked up with Mastermind, he signed a contract with mediocrity.

He leans over, resting his elbows on his knees. Bobby. TK. Hello again. How’s tricks? I see you boys have been busy. Busy being the most “relevant” tag team in the XWF and all. Except no. No, no, noooooo. That’s not quite right. Because, the defacto most relevant tag team in the XWF are the TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS.

You know, if whoring yourselves out all over the airwaves equated to anything worth a damn, don’t you think the Jenny Myst’s of the world would have earned a modicum of respect? If ambushing people, beating people up outside the ring, was some indicator of inherent worthiness, then why does The Left Hand still suck so bad? He leans back up, punctuating the questions with an inquisitive look.

I mean, bravo for one thing, you boys have added a bit of dramatic tension to the otherwise unbearably tedious Chris Page. Whether you meant to or not. And I’m sure that all of this business will definitely lead to some kind of emotionally fulfilling catharsis, and NOT a giant wet fart that does nothing but prolong the reign of the most beatable Universal Champion since Gabe Reno.

By the way, hey Alias! EAT CHRIS PAGE. Corey hisses the words out playfully before returning to the topic at hand.

You know what DOES make a tag team relevant, boyos? Winning tag team matches. Consistently. Which is what Continuum does. And which is something you guys do somewhat LESS consistently. I mean, you guys should probably be pretty thankful that Atara and Betsy are in the tournament, because by all rights, they have more claim to this opportunity than you two do.

But let’s hit all those heavy beats, eh? I did get handed one third of the tag team championships. 80th verse same as the first. But I’ve also been busting my ass defending them. Ya know, against you guys AND the former number one contenders DDS. Not bad for a silver spoon sucking layabout riding his friend’s coattails to championship gold. That about cover it?

Another beat. Continuum DID NOT DEFEAT Them No Good Bastards at Snow Job. No, we beat The Left Hand. I mean, you’re gonna go there, right? Well, let me head you off at the pass. Because if you WERE the best tag team in that match, one of you (let’s face it, probably Bobby) would have been the ones getting the three count on Marf’s cucked ass. But you didn’t. We did. Which makes you boys second place. Or first loser. Take your pick.

Another beat. “It’s gonna be different this time.” How’s that? Hmmmm? “Well, this time Corey doesn’t have Doc to rely on.” Heh. And thank God for that! But you’re right, I don’t have Doc to rely on. I don’t have to rely on a man that I distrust and despise in equal measure. No, this time, poor ‘ol me is just stuck with my best goddamn friend. A man I would trust with my life. A man I outright love (insert TK’s homo jokes here). You feel me on this? At Snow Job, you guys lost to a team that weren’t just not on the same page, we weren’t even in the same fucking LIBRARY. But we still got it done. So just think about how much tougher its gonna be this time, facing two bonafide main event calibre talents, who trust each other implicitly. Think on that.

Bobby, final thoughts, this one’s just for you. Look at Thunder Knuckles. I know it’s hard, he probably has this weird greasy sheen and he’s likely 12 PBR’s deep and doing that thing where he’s got his hand down his pants and fumbling around because he’s too drunk to remember social mores.

But look at him. And then look at Thad Duke and Corey Smith. Now, this isn’t a cheap shot on his looks. It’s about how much confidence you got in TK in that ring with us. Now repeat after me. “Thunder Knuckles can beat Thad Duke or Corey Smith.” Uh huh. How did that feel? I mean, I know you can SPEAK the words. You’re a consummate showman Bobby, and what is a consummate showman but a prolific liar with a dash of razzle dazzle. But do you FEEL those words? Corey taps his fist to his chest. Do you BELIEVE those words? Do you believe your tag partner is on par with US?

He looks expectantly at the camera.

I can’t wait for you to lie to me. Buuuuut...he slaps his hands together….in the mean time I’ll just be eagerly awaiting your responses in the near future. I think I’ll try out a “fuck” counter for Thunder Knuckles. If f-bombs were a personality that man would have an 18 in charisma. He smirks. But they’re not.

He stretches and looks out at the setting sun.

Later days, gents.