On either side of a slick black streak, stands miles of desolation and dirt.

Fried shrubs and tumbleweeds, dried mud and crumbled leaves.

At the peak of the two lane road, a mirage broils in the atmosphere above the pavement.

Only here could the autumn air be so humid.

Only here could both sides of the road lead to nothing.

Only here could we find Schism.

Schism blinks into material through the waving mirage and trots on down the road. His brown hairline is choppy and pulling beyond a pair of swollen temples. Onyx shaded, oval shaped sunglasses cover a pair of dueling shiners on his eyes. The pale bruises bleeding beyond the plastic frames and onto his high cheeks. Schism's mouth curls into a thirsty frown, with tight lines near the edges of his lips.

Cracked and dusty knuckles tell of hard work, and a wayward trudge tells of little compensation.

"Nothing?"

Randy Weber, shouts from his pepper lined cheeks,

Schism shakes his head while closing the gap between he and Randy and a pickup truck mounted to the shoulder of the road. The hood is opened with smoke rolling from the sizzling engine block.

"Really?"

Randy asks again as Schism discards the question, and Randy. For all we know, not even a glance is spared for his companion under those dark shades, as Schism slips by Randy and moves to the broken down truck. An old clunker, an '87 Ford with a crumbling exterior that matches the condition of it's moving parts under the hood. Schism leans under the metal and tears at a few components with his rough hands. He shows a soundless wince through a crooked grit of his teeth as his palm is seared by the radiator.

As he watches his "client", Randy's face sags in a way that ages his tired features even beyond his obvious twilight. Randy is a short, husky man of sixty-something. Grey skin, grey hair and a nose so red you'd think he'd been hired to guide Santa's sleigh. But that's just byproduct of his love affair with the bottle. A wifeless, childless man, Randy spent most of his life working in professional wrestling as a ring-technician. A trade he picked up in his native Kansas City as a youngster.

After spending much of his life without any money, but earning just enough to enjoy traveling from city to city, tearing down wrestling rings and occasionally rubbing elbows with some minor-league "stars", Randy finally got his big break in 1999 at the not so spry age of forty-five. He was hired by the big leagues, the Xtreme Wrestling Federation, as a full time member of the ring crew. But with his best years behind him, one empty bottle and empty hotel bed after the next, Randy grew cynical of the only work he's ever known. Even after reaching the pinnacle, so to speak, of such work. That was until he met the kid. Schism.

Randy thought on that particular morning for a moment, until something caught his eye while watching Schism operate under the hood of the truck like some wonky scientist.

"HEY!"

A fresh pack of Marlboros half held by his shirt pocket. Randy waddles towards his partner,

"I thought you said there was nothing up the road, kid."

When their truck broke down, and diagnosing nothing but their lack of mechanical prowess, Schism took it upon himself to travel up the highway to find help at a nearby town.

That's right.

Schism waves him off with the reply, not sparing any attention from the truck.

Randy's fat cheeks shake as he grits his teeth,

"Then where'd you get the cigarettes?"

The BP Quick Pit in Willow Springs.

Randy squeezes his eyes shut, and pinches at the fat between his eyebrows,

"Kid... was there no phone at The BP Quick Pit in Willow Springs?"

He asks with a damning and patronizing tone,

I don't know.

Schism continues fidgeting around under the hood,

"Was there no one with a car?"

...

"No one with a number for a tow truck?"

...

"Jesus..."

Schism tilts his head towards Randy for a moment, giving him a featureless glare before returning his focus to the engine,

"...this was a big mistake."

Randy went back to thinking about the morning he met Schism.

The XWF ring crew had arrived bright and early at the First Energy Stadium in Cleveland, and began unloading the truck with all of the ring components, getting set up for that evenings Wednesday Warfare event. There had been mix ups with the scheduling of the crew, which was not uncommon for any XWF production. Often times, the preparation of setting the stage and the arena up for a show were a logistical nightmare. The schedule mix up left the crew short handed, and Randy knew that he and his team were going to be straining to have the wrestling ring assembled in time for the show. That was a particularly bad day for Randy, and the last thing he needed was to have that fat prick, Smoking Bob Williams, breathing down his neck. One whiff of those stinking Kiwi cigars that he smokes, one hint of his bloated, breathless nagging was going to be all it took to finally drive Randy over the edge and into a toaster-equipped bathtub.

As Randy slammed the swinging door of the empty tractor-trailer shut, he was startled.

I'm looking for a job.

Schism appeared behind the door, tall and lanky, those dark sunglasses, like some lingering phantom in the brisk Cleveland sunrise. Getting, and furthermore, keeping any help lately had been nearly impossible. The nature of the global pandemic had transformed, or better yet, diminished the workforce in every industry across the country. Randy weighed his options and realized that not even suicide would be a suitable enough remedy for having to listen to Smoking Bob Williams' voice.

"Well, you're hired. Three hundred bucks for the day. Now get your ass inside."

The two shook hands in a moment that would lead them here, stranded on the side of the road on an impossible trek to Anchorage, Alaska:

"I've made my fair share mistakes in my life-"

Randy continued while watching the seemingly aloof Schism continue his aimless tinkering with the smoking engine,

"-but giving up my job? Of forty some odd years!? Risk it all on some dumb kid who I thought could wrestle? Well this one sure takes the cake!"

Randy pulled some sweat from his from his forehead, then pulled a cheap plastic pint of vodka from his back pocket and took a laboring swallow.

"I mean, I got you in the door. I've never asked that prick Smoking Bob for a damn thing in twenty years, and I got him to agree to sign you to a contract. Only for you to go out and lose a match against a couple of bottom feeders like Harmon Hayes and Over-a-ton? Where was that fight you showed when that asshole tried snatching the money I paid you out of your hand? Jesus, kid. You nearly broke that man's arm. I quit my job, got you signed on a temporary contract to wrestle, WITH THE BIGGEST PROMOTION ON EARTH, and you go out there and fall on your face, and Marf the damn match all to hell."

Marf?

Schism asks, still not looking at Randy,

"Yeah, Marf. It's something like a Munson. A joke the ring-crew started making lately. It means to totally fuck something up. To lose in embarrassing fashion. To swim your way up Shit's Creek with an open wound where your testicles once were. That was you kid, a real Marf!"

Marf is the man I'm fighting in Anchorage.

"Anchorage?! Look around around you kid! You see anything resembling snow?"

I don't know. I've never seen snow. I've heard you can see it on the television box. That's why I want to win one.

Randy slaps his hand against his forehead,

"The Television Championship! You're wrestling, not fighting, WRESTLING for a chance to win the Television Championship. Hell, if you were to have won that belt, you could buy a hundred television sets. But that'll never happen now, because we're not making it to Alaska! We're Marfed out here in the middle of nowhere with my old broken ass truck."

Oh, I'm supposed to wrestle? How's that different from fighting.

"Oh, you know... in every way imaginable. Theoretically, philosophically, fundamentally. Wrestling takes skill and precision, which you displayed when you took out that prick in Cleveland. Any old jack wagon can fight. It takes a special type of talent to wrestle, and I guess that's where I misjudged you."

Randy turns his back to Schism and leans onto the fender of the truck, chugging down the last bit of vodka in his bottle and pitching it to the ground. He looks up to the skies shaking his head,

What's snow look like, anyway?

Randy blurts out a fed up laugh,

"Ha! Snow? Ah, it's beautiful, kid. It's white and powdery, and cold. It melts in your hand and turns into water."

That doesn't sound all that great.

"It's kind of overrated. But not nearly as overrated as all of this useless, lifeless desert and dirt."

Like the Marf?

"Yeah kid, useless dirt. That's a Marf."

The sound of the hood slamming shut startles Randy as he turns around to see Schism whipping his oily hands on his shirt.

"Giving up, huh? You done Marfing this situation up?"

No. I fixed it.

"Yeah. Righ-"

Before Randy can even finish speaking, Schism climbs in the cab of the truck, and starts the engine. It sputters a bit and begins to idle normally.

I found a mechanic at The BP Quick Pit in Willow Springs

Randy looks dumbfounded.

I told him what was wrong, and he told me how to fix it...

In disbelief Randy waddles over to the passenger seat and climbs in, looking like he Marfed himself.

...the idle valve was stuck open.

Schism turns up the radio on the truck,



Now lets go win a television.