9.7.21

Christian’s heartbeat was its own gentle companion, its slow pulse against the side of Corey’s head was like the ethereal made earthly, astral gift made flesh. It meant life. Vitality. Love.

Corey liked to think that sometimes their hearts beat in sync, his and Christian’s. But it was not the case tonight. Because tonight, Corey Smith couldn’t sleep. His own pulse was an aggravating quickening, the liaison of an unquiet mind. But try as he might, Jace Mingla’s wild assertions had taken root and grown. And Corey found himself questioning if his refutation of those assertions wasn’t putting everyone he cared about in danger.

Jace was right. Corey had been a party to the fantastic ever since Lux came into his life. He had borne witness to the bleakest of futures. He visited a realm that was, for all intents and purposes, the gateway to the afterlife. Sometimes Corey found these memories slipping away like water through grasping fingers. He still struggled with the notion that these were real things that actually occurred, his mortal mind ill equipped to consider their magnitude. Part of him wondered if they were simply dreams while Lux had the wheel. But, deep within, he knew they weren’t.

The other reason Corey was loath to reflect on the fantastic was that to allow those moments in time to be real, as awesome as they were, was to acknowledge that perhaps it was also possible for Madison Dyson to still be alive. Cavorting with angels and the notion of his worst enemy’s return were strange bedfellows, but of the two Corey had to begrudgingly accept that Madison being alive was honestly the less fantastic.

The young man was interrupted by a jabbing bolt of pain in his head. His palm sprung to the area just above his right eye, and he used the heel of his hand to massage the area. He had been told to avoid stress. But what if stress continually found him?

Sensing the pain was to be a constant tonight, Corey slowly lifted his head off Christian’s chest and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. Testing his balance gingerly, he made his way through the door and to the nearest bathroom. Opening the mirror above the vanity, he withdrew his medication, taking a moment to muse on the fact that it was still there. Corey allowing it to be unprotected was a deliberate sign of his trust in the wayward souls who lived with him. He wanted them to know, “I trust you not to betray me.” There had been a few occasions where he was let down, but by and large, the respect that the people had for him was of the utmost.

Another jab of pain struck. Corey fumbled with the bottle, his vision going temporarily hazy. But he was able to get it open, drop a pill onto the back of his tongue, and then flush it down with a gulp straight from the tap. But as soon as this was completed, a sense of wrongness washed over him. His back simmered for the presence of something behind him, that primitive psychic nudge that transcended the five senses, expanding into an amorphous sixth when one was in mortal danger. Corey closed his eyes, the pounding in his head having not yet subsided. And then….

….a cool breath on his neck. No words. But the word was death. And it was without life.

Corey spun around, and a lightning bolt illuminated his field of vision. And, for a split second, borne of that lightning bolt….

….her.




All





~~~~~~~~~~~~

Corey awoke with a gasp to a sea of concerned faces. Christian was in the foreground, already reaching down a hand to help him up.

Corey!

Oddly enough, the pain in his head had subsided. But the fact that he had been on the floor long enough for the meds to start working was concerning in it of itself.

What happened?

I must have….must have lost my footing.

Christian’s nonverbal response was swift and broached no bullshit. It said “We’re not doing that anymore.” Corey got the message loud and clear.

I lost consciousness. He admitted.

Someone from amongst the onlookers asked, Should we still call an ambulance?

No. No, I think I’ll be okay.

You might have a concussion.

Christian leaned down and helped Corey to his feet, placing him on top of the toilet seat and taking a moment to ensure he was steady before dropping to one knee before him.

You’re proposing in the crapper?

This drew a titter of laughter from the group.

Guys, could we have a moment? With that, the small crowd dispersed and Christian gave Corey his full attention. I want you to get checked out.

Corey sagged in place. I might as well pay rent to the hospital. I feel like I’m practically living there.

You may have hit your head, and in your condition that’s just not good.

My condition. Jesus, that made him feel so weak. Chistian was waiting for him to reply, kneeling there like a watchful sentinel. I…he considered debating, but knew it was fruitless……first thing in the morning, okay? I’m exhausted.

If you have a concussion you shouldn’t sleep.

Shit. Corey swore as an admission. Then, wrapping on a grin. I could think of something we could do to keep me up.

Corey started to run a finger seductively down the front of Christian’s chest. Christian smiled, that thousand kilowatt smile, and lovingly took Corey’s hand in his before it could trend further south. As much as I’d like to, I don’t think it’s a good idea.

It’s “not a good idea” a lot lately.

Honey….Christian sighed.

Christ, this makes me feel so impotent. And yeah, impotent was the right word. Every letter of it.

Christian canted his forehead in towards Corey’s, touching them together gently. I can’t imagine how frustrating this must be for you. Surviving all that, making your comeback, only to go back on the shelf for good. But Corey, YOU are still YOU. Even without the XWF. And you’re still recovering. Christian chuckled a bit. We’ll be back to our torrid sex life soon enough.

Corey couldn’t help but smile, but it all still pulled at him, up and away from this genuine moment with the man he loved. But he said no more, opting to drink this moment in and savor it.

The next morning….

A storm front threatened the horizon as Corey went to the mailbox. He could already feel the whipping salty sea breeze that presaged a torrent of rain. Turning away from the coming conflagration, he withdrew the mail. The typical stack of junk, bills, and return correspondence to a resident or two. But, one piece did catch his eye. A simple plain envelope addressed to him with no return address. Replacing the rest of the mail, he tore open the top and started to read it, brief as it was.

What failed Madison can make YOU whole again. WE NEED TO TALK. 25°44'51.4"N 80°25'19.0"W -J

Corey crumpled the paper. His face set in a disappointed scowl. What is he playing at? Could he really want to end Madison for good? Or is this something else? Something more insidious?

Nevertheless, the siren’s call of normalcy was rising to a piercing shriek. I can go back. MAYBE I can go back. Settle this shit with Thad. Have my match with Alias.

Settle this shit with Thad.

Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.

He found himself unfurling the paper again.

Now

Corey Smith is seated, and the Supercontinental championship is in his lap. When we join him, his eyes seem to be on it, before rising to meet the camera.

Hello XWF. We need to talk. He grimaces. We need to talk about how I lied to you.

The camera nods “yes”.

Now, I know I said I was cashing in my 24/7 briefcase for a shot at the Universal Championship, currently held in perpetuity by a man spontaneously reborn in fire. Corey’s eyebrows lift. Shiiiiiit.

But seriously, I said I was going to do one thing with my briefcase and did another. He picks up the title before dropping it in his lap again. But, and hear me out, I’m not sure what I did really was lying per se…..

The camera starts to leave the room. We hear Corey plead from behind it.

No! Wait! Baby, please, baby baby PLEASE! I need you!

You can hear the annoyed sigh of the camera in your head as it slowly turns around. Corey pumps his fists. Thank you! I promise I’ll explain. You see, I had every intention of using that briefcase the way I said I would. But then circumstances changed. And by circumstances I mean Thad Duke. And by Thad Duke, I mean that “chintzy THOT Ooooh Rah sack of diabetes shits.” Rest assured Thad, your gut fucking will come! But not today. Ooohhh….nooooo….something that good needs to simmer a while. Really let the juices SET IN.

*Ahem*

Today we’re talking about my lie that isn’t a lie. Alias, I’m sorry (???) I didn’t cash in on you. You are absolutely worth the cash in. But, even if I had never won that briefcase, would you have turned me down for a Universal Title match? Corey waits. Exactly! No, you wouldn’t have. Because while you’re running an undefeated pain train on the whole roster, why WOULDN’T you stop to gussy up a sassy twink if he asked for it? I mean, there’s the whole “you’re my friend” thing. And, oh yeah, YOU’RE MY FRIEND. If it wasn’t official before, it is now. Anyhoo, I knew you’d never turn me down. So I didn’t need the briefcase.

I did however need it to take Thad Duke’s big Relentless moment and give it the old “You Can’t Do That on Television” treatment.



Yeah Thad, I GAKKED ALL OVER IT! Ya fuckin’ backstabber! And I’d do it again too if….

The camera starts to droop to one side. Corey notices and starts in his seat.

Oh, ok! Ok! No more talk about Thad for now. On to more sporting topics. Like, the guy I’m facing at Warfare for my Super (boy is this fun to say) Continental championship.

I’ll admit right off the top that my last singles title reigns were not impressive. I lost the TV championship to the monster known as Robbie Bourbon in short order. Who also, in turn, lost it about a month later. Huh. As for the XTreme, again another blip on the radar. And some people might be tempted to say “well that one wasn’t your fault.” Well, let me go on record and say that it was. The beating heart and soul of the XTreme championship is in the title holder’s ability to handle anything at any time. No matter how outlandish, overwhelming, or backstabby. A pointed look. So, I failed to live up to that standard. Full stop. And that loss was on me.

So yeah, two title reigns whose combined amount of time was just barely longer than the total time Charlie Nickles’ has spent with his children. Hrmmm. Too much? Corey nods and mouths “whoopsie”.

So that brings us to you. Kieran Overton. Who, I must say, bears an UNCANNY resemblance to…

Corey smirks.

You know what? Nevermind, not going there.

Kieran, you got me at a bit of a disadvantage here. Aside from knowing that you’re somewhat of a pinch hitter and that your record is pretty dismal, I don’t know much about you. I’m sure your “just this side of humiliating win/loss percentage” is NOT your defining feature, but I guess I just don’t know what is. And this isn’t some trite, weak ass “hurr durr you’re beneath my notice” thing. We’ll leave that basic bitch shit to the pumpkin spice latte’s of the world. No, I just don’t know much about you, aside from your lack of ring prowess, because you’re hardly ever here.

So why did I accept your challenge? Well, I’ll accept anyone’s challenge. And you sir, were the only one to step up and take a swing. I like that kind of moxie. It’s probably misplaced, but I still like it. Hell if Taco wanted a shot I wouldn’t even hesitate, man! I’d probably help him sign his contract by dipping his adorable little nubbin’ in the ink well and pressing hoof to paper. That’s legit, right?

Point is, I’ll take anybody. And you’re first. And in this case, hooooo boy, first really is the WORST. Because I’m not gonna front. I got something to prove. Rewind a bit to the part where I said my singles titles reigns haven’t been impressive. In fact, they’ve sucked almost as much as your ability to keep your shoulders off the canvas. So, me losing this match?

Won’t happen.

Can’t happen.

Won’t.

Can’t.

Talking. Like. Flynn.

*AHEM!*

Yeah! Can’t let that happen again. So Kieran, I’m sorry in advance for your pending loss. But look on the bright side. At least you’ll always have a place in our hearts when there’s an odd number of bookings for a show. You’ll always be that extra guy placeholder, coming to the rescue when just any body will do! Thanks for your service.

Corey pops off a smart salute, gets up, and starts to walk off camera. But then, he makes a screeching noise, like tires abruptly grinding to a halt, and walks backwards into the shot.

The stipulation! I almost forgot! What a maroon! Heh. How about this boss man, seeing as how you’re not so hot at the whole “not getting pinned” thing, I figure I’ll do you a solid. So the stip for this match will be that, in order to win, you have to pin your opponent THREE TIMES. That’s two whole extra chances for you, Kieran!

I guess so….?

Then, all you gotta do is pin ME three times, which would be the same amount of times I’ve gotten pinned in the ENTIRE last year, and then you too can experience the fun and enjoyment of saying the word “Supercontinental” on a daily basis. Trust me, it’s GREAT! Okay, now we’re good. Don’t fuck up your promo!

Corey waves goodbye and exits stage right once more.

Before

The New York Stock Exchange is its usual pit of frenetic activity. The very beating heart of capitalism has weathered the storm of international plague, and though many of its workers still wear masks, scars of the event, it’s the same as it ever was.

And though the activity has diminished somewhat over the years thanks to the ever forward march of technological advance, the brokers who still called the pit home were often at the helm of high value securities auctions and exchanges. To say that it could be tense was an understatement.

Enter Landon Pierce, one of that sea of faces. The nauseating level of stimuli from multiple monitors played across his eye glasses as he sat on a stool, nervously fumbling a match over and over again in his fingers as he waited on a call to action. Finally, the call came, and he nearly dropped his phone as he brought it to his ear.

It’s Pierce.



…huh?

The sound of dead air was undercut by vague voices and mutterings. Pierce scrunched his nose up. I’m sorry, I think we have a bad signal. Can you call me….

And then, a scream sounded from the phone. Startled, Pierce actually did drop his phone this time. Ah, shit… he muttered, as he picked it up. Thankfully, it had not broken, and the call had ended. But, no sooner had he picked it up than did the call come in again. And with the same result. This time, Pierce gave his tie a nervous pull as he tried to make out the sounds beneath the static. Hey, the signal is still bad. Let me call YOU back.

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The order bled through the rest of the white noise. The man stood stock still, shocked into silence. Finally, rallying, he pressed, Who is this?

Your view pulls back to a shot of Pierce standing with the phone at his ear. His expression starts to alter, imperceptibly at first, but then overtly. He drops the phone onto the nearby desk without even ending the call. Something about him seems distant, pulled between the threads of reality and torn asunder. His face tics, but is largely stoic, as he starts a slow zombielike gait to the nearest elevator. No one bats at an eye at the scene. Once inside, Landon hits the “close doors” button, and for a moment is simply still. Then, with a preternatural calm, he reaches inside his breast pocket and withdraws an ornate pen. Oddly, his expression becomes one of mild disgust when he looks at the pen while pressing the “B” button on the panel without looking at it. Then, going to one of the walls of the elevator, he holds the pen out horizontally in a tight grip, using the wall to brace his fist.

And that’s when the dam breaks.

His arm starts to shudder, and he wails “NO!” as though something horrible beyond mention had just occurred to him. He’s fighting this…this….whatever it is. Trying to open the white knuckled grip on the pen. No….he chokes out again. That’s when something gives. Maybe his will. Maybe his temerity. Maybe whatever forces at work on this random man at this random time were just too strong.

At any rate, he plunges his face forward into the pen. It slides over and around his left eye, causing it to bulge out of it’s socket as the brass tip slams into his brain. Landon collapses in a heap just as the pleasant “ding” of the elevator serves as a counterpoint to the horror. From our vantage point, we see a pair of hands drag Landon by his feet out of the elevator.