Blurry faces…

“DAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH… *huff* *gasp*”

Distant voices. Loud… But far away. Obscured. Like you’re hearing them through double-paned glass.

Like a petri dish under a microscope.

“Hahahaha. Not your finest hour, eh, Popinski? Flynn had the body of a crusty gutter rat and he still kicked your ass. I clipped the whole fight and saved a copy for my personal records!”

“Put me back in, Kaye. NOW.”

“Uh-uh-uh, Soda. *HE* wants alone time with Flynn.”

“PUT. ME. BACK.”

“Hahaha. Or what?”

“Or I will TAKE your HANDS and MOUNT them on the walls above my training ring.”

“...Uh. N-... *throat clear*... Unfortunately, I’ve… ceded control of the simulation. HE has admin privileges. I… uh… I couldn’t put you back in, even if I wanted to…”

Circuits smashing. The sound of electricity arcing. Metal holding under immense force.

“Popinski! You fool! Hands off the Maru! We don’t know what’ll happen if you destroy the machine while they’re in its environment!”

“WHAT WILL YOU DO ABOUT IT, Kaye?”

“...So help me, I’ll… I’ll… I’ll tell HIM what you did the second HE comes out!”

“THIS IS *MY* OPPORTUNITY. *MY* CHANCE TO TAKE BACK MY LIFE. FLYNN WILL NOT TAKE THIS FROM ME.”

“...Hehehehe… Please. Calm down, Soda… After all…”

“It’s just a game.”

***

INSIDE THE SIMULATION

Flynn-Gravy stares down… Miles? Flynn? Phone #1 this adversary.

This adversary has his eyes.

And his voice.

Flynn clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth…

“A tic we’ve had since childhood.” Says Elder Flynn Opponent. He’s an OPPONENT…

“A reflex when we’re faced with a… difficult conundrum. It’s a dead giveaway, Mark.”

The OPPONENT grins ear-to-ear.

“For someone who tried to gamble for Charlie Nickles’ career, you do a terrible job hiding your tells.”

Opponent taps his nose.

“Especially when you’ve got bad cards.”

Flynn-Gravy’s eyes narrow.

“Go ahead. Say it. I’m Robert Miles. Or ‘you’re Robert Miles’. Same diff, really.”

...

“Honestly, you should have seen this coming. After all, YOU were the original Robert Miles. Who else would callback to *your* wrestling history? Who else would recruit ‘Soda Popinski’ just to mess with you? You might say I made it too obvious.”

Opponent waggles his finger, shaming Flynn “I’d be disappointed in you… If I didn’t already know you so well.”

His teeth bared… His eyes twitch …Flynn squeezes his fist angrily. Actually, he squeezes his fist so hard, it seems to aggravate his left arm. Flynn sucks in air, cradling his left arm by its elbow, squeezing it to his chest. Still, his eyes focus… Calculating…

…Opponent’s eyes widen. He smiles in disbelief.

“Oh my God. Really, Mark? You’re STILL trying to figure out the trick? I flipped to the back of the math book and GAVE YOU THE ANSWER. And you’re STILL too stubborn to accept the truth?!?”

…

Opponent sighs, exasperatedly. “Fine. Let’s talk through it, Mark. You and me. Two heads are better than one.”

…If you recall, Flynn-Gravy hadn’t been attacked on that elbow…

“Even if it is the same brain.”

But, the exaggerated faux-injury drew attention to his right hand… While his left crept into Gravy’s pocket.

“What’s on your mi-?”

“POCKET WET!” THWIP! Flynn-Gravy whips his hand out of his pocket like a chop! Mysterious moisture zips through the air.

The Opponent ducks low, avoiding the moisture.

The perfect position for Flynn-Gravy to sprint forward and catch him with a running kn-

“Pause Player 00.”

PAUSE PLAYER 00

…

A few inches from his Opponent’s face, Flynn’s knee is held in midair.

Along with the rest of him. The sprinting soccer kick maneuever perfectly preserved like a peewee athlete’s trophy.

…Opponent smiles at the frozen Flynn.

“Admirable, Flynn. See, this is why I put you through this whole ordeal. I put you, a technical wrestling virtuoso… In the body of a blunt tool. And you figured out how to make it work. You claim to be adaptable, but winning a fight piloting a body with a lifetime of fighting experience wholly different from your own? Not too fucking shabby.”

The Opponent snaps his fingers…

In a flash, Flynn’s Gravy exterior vanishes. And he returns to his grumpy bearded self again.

“But. You’ve already impressed me, Flynn.”

The Opponent cracks his knuckles.

“Now, it’s my turn to impress you.”

The Opponent winds his arm back…

Flynn tries his hardest to wince and brace himself for the coming blow, but he’s completely frozen!

…

*click*

Instead, the Opponent clicks a handheld mouse… And in Flynn’s eyes… A slideshow projection.

TItled: ‘The Optimal Path…

For Beginners’

“Ready for the sales pitch?”

***

“Let’s start with what you got right.”

*click*

“The Optimal Path? This idea that the Universe sends concentrated human suffering at those it deems worthy of greatness.”

“It’s a viable theory. Not… too far off.”

“But your …perception of the ‘Optimal Path’ is a small part of the bigger puzzle. Incomplete. Lacking important Context.”

“Like the bright shining light a guppy sees on the ocean floor.”

“Before being devoured by the anglerfish.”

*click*

“Adversity IS a gift given to those worthy of facing it. Of standing against it. But… why do you think that is, Flynn?”

…

“I’ll tell you why.”

“Because it makes for a good story.”

“A compelling narrative.”

“You see, the universe is controlled by a pantheon of… tastemakers. Storytellers.”

“Moralists.”

“Entities beyond your and my comprehension that divine the journey of each and every living thing in our plane of reality. Largely deciding our successes and failures, for no real purpose, except to entertain themselves.”

“Now. We have an… amount of free will. We may partake in some grandiose crossover adventure or create film parodies or start our own nation-state. All the unique decisions that you and your little friends have made.”

“But our ultimate fates? Whether we’ll accomplish our life’s work? Nothing more than a roll of a dice. And *they*... Let’s call them ‘The Bookers’. Are the ones that call the roll. And, at their whim, fudge the numbers at their discretion.”

…

“Any questions? You seem to be handling the idea that your reality is decided by a dozen or so deities surprisingly well.”

…

“...Oh! You’re still paused! Haha, that’s hilarious. ENABLE SPEECH PLAYER 00.”

ENABLE SPEECH PLAYER 00

While Flynn’s body remains stuck mid-soccer kick, his face regains mobility.

“*INHAAAAAAAAAAAAALE*... *gasp* I COULDN’T BREATHE, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!”

“Oh please, you’ve got the lung capacity of an olympic level DOLPHIN. You’re fine. Could you hear me, though? I can start over if you’d like.”

“You’re INSANE.”

“...Is that a yes or a no?”

“You’re saying the universe is rigged? Fake?”

The Opponent waves his hand mid-air, iffily. “Ehhhhh. Notsomuch FAKE… I prefer the term ‘predetermined’.”

“You’re telling me some interstellar Cthulu monsters get to decide whether or not I win?”

“That’s a way of saying it. Essentially, yes.”

Flynn scoffs. “...Go.”

“FUCK yourself.”

Flynn spits on the ground.

…It takes a lot of neck-wrenching because he only has control of his body above the neck.

Still, he does it.

“*I* determine my fate. That’s the Optimal Path. The Universe throws garbage at me, I weld it together into a fucking sword that pierces Destiny itself.”

“Haha. Exactly, Flynn. You determine your fate. You just needed… a little… push. Extra pressure. A sort-of driver on your wagon. Holding a carrot in front of you and a stick against your rear. Or like a slingshot. Holding you back… just enough to build potential energy. To shoot you all the way to the top.”

“I-”

…Flynn squints, pondering that statement.

“...Wait. What do you mean?”

“Flynn. We’re talented. We’ve got a bag of neat tricks. We do that fun little back-to-back Northern Lights Suplex that I’m pretty sure is physically impossible. But, did we really have the gumption to succeed? The fucking GRIT to keep climbing as the mountain tilted against us? Did we have a story to tell that would please The Bookers? You running around taking Burger King advertisement deals and learning to love? It was cute… in 2014. But to please the Bookers, you needed an equal. An adversary. Someone who could be one step ahead of you at every turn. Someone that even the laser-focused Mark Flynn couldn’t foresee the planning of.”

Opponent laughs.

“And who else could fit that role… Besides yourself?”

“Fuck Y-...”

…Flynn’s eyes widen. He double-takes toward his Opponent.

“Wait. So…”

The Opponent nods. “We’re almost there. Who do you think made the call to take away your overtime match with Thad?”

...

“Who do you think pulled the strings to keep you from getting Uni shots until you had to win a five-round tournament to secure a title shot all by yourself?”

…

“It was me, Flynn. Us. Not Theo. Not Vinnie. Not destiny or fate. I was the one working against you.”

“I SET YOU ON THE OPTIMAL PATH.”

…

“I’ll say it again. Theo was right. You *are* your own worst enemy.”

…

“I’m going to break your left arm first.”

“Naturally, because the brachial artery is in the right.”

“I’m going to snap it off like a goddamn twig.”

“You wouldn’t want me bleeding out too quickly. You’d prefer to prolong the agony.”

“I’M GOING TO FLAY YOU LIKE A GODDAMN ANIMAL CARCASS.”

…Opponent grins.

“Mark. I did this for us.”

“For ten long years, we wallowed in mediocrity. We dedicated every second of our lives to being the best. And some higher beings decided we were too boring. Too weird. Lacking some… je ne sais quoi. That our lifetime of suffering… just wasn’t enough.”

Flynn bares his teeth venomously.

“So what? You did all this so we’d become Universal champion? You took eight years of my life to please some fucking flying spaghetti monsters.”

“No.”

“I did this to get those monsters’ attention.”

…The Opponent looks through the screen of your device.

“Right before I kill them.”

***

”Mister… Swaysons?”

You’re standing in front of a door.

Printed on the door is… some alien language.

Like when you try to read something in a dream.

”He’ll see you now.”

…Before you can even try to open your mouth, the door opens.

Before you stands… a figure.

Blurred.

Your vision is otherwise perfectly clear. But, something about this… shape. Confounds your perceptions. His boundaries seem to wax and wane before your eyes.

The harder you focus, the more impossible it seems to define its dimensions.

“Marf! It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.” The shape speaks in a faux-friendly warble.

“Let’s step into my office.”

All at once, the shape wraps around your arm.

In a flash, you find yourself thrust into a chair. It’s… jarringly uncomfortable. Its cushions are not unsoft, but bend against your weight. You feel yourself descending into its fibers…

The shape sits across from you.

“Let’s… uh… take a look at your… metrics, shall we?”

“Debuted 10/28/2020. You’ve been around a bit.”

The shape tilts his featureless visage toward you, in a manner it might think is reassuring.

It is not.

“That’s good. The audience likes what they’ve seen before. An existing IP is more financially viable than a new one.”

The shape flips through another page… Shaking his… head?

“Buuuuuuuut, that’s where your upside ends.

“XWF Record: 16-23-2… And one… pulling-out.”

“For starters, Marfy, your record is ABYSMAL. A .400 batting average will get you into Cooperstown, but this is wrestling. Our fanbase doesn’t love losers. If they did, they’d love themselves.”

“No, they watch this product to watch people TRIUMPH, Marf. To watch the physical elite, a caste they will NEVER BE A PART OF… Excel at a game that might as well be flying with how incapable they are…”

…

“But, there might be some brand image to salvage here…”

“Let’s take a look at your… annual performance review.”

“Marf’s 2022 Record (thus far): 3 wins, 6 losses, 1 no-contest.”

“1-4-1 in Title Matches.”

“Oof, even fuckin’ worse. This year alone, you lost to Ned Kaye, Thunder Knuckles, JOHN FUCKING BLACK… Hell, your big ‘win’ at this year’s Relentless was over Geri Vayden.”

“But, Marfy. EVEN MORE THAN WINS AND LOSSES… This game is about connecting with the fans. The people. Those mouthbreathing virgins that’ll stand in line for four hours to buy a souvenir cup with Jason Fucking Cashe’s face on it.”

“THE FUCKING CUSTOMER, MARF.”

“WHAT DO YOU DO FOR THE CUSTOMER?”

…

“Let’s see how they respond to your brand.”

“Scope this handsome fella.”



“Haha, this is cutting edge market research, Marfolomew. We put this photo of you at an XWF press conference in front of 100 random fans of our product. Then, we conducted heatmap imaging to determine where their eyes naturally focused WHILE looking at the image.”

“Now, check these analytics, Marf, my boy.”



“It seems… That the fans naturally focused on the… SHOULDER… of whoever is next to you.”

“Which, I think makes sense Marf.”

“One, because you have the personality and charisma of lukewarm dishwater.”

“And two… Because of a little phenomenon called Operant Conditioning.”

“Train your audience to do something? Give them something nice when you do it? They’ll do it over. And over. And over again.”

“And what has your career really been, Marf?”

“Well, as someone who watched all 41 of your lackluster in-ring performances, I can sum it up.”

“BACKGROUND.”

“SIDEKICK.”

“B-PLAYER.”

“You followed Lycana around like a lost puppy… Dragging her down like an anchor around the neck of a prisoner. No matter how hard she fought, she couldn’t wash off the STENCH of failure sitting in her corner, sticking your disgusting hand out, pretending to want to tag in. No matter how hard the wolf ran, she couldn’t drag the DEAD WEIGHT past the finish line.”

“Then, you moved on to ol’ Char-Char. And somehow, the previously dominant Nickleman suddenly. STOPPED. WINNING. Like someone dropped a bag of sugar in gas task, Chuck’s momentum screeched to a halt.”

“Hell, it wasn’t until you stopped showing your face around these parts that the Bastards started winning again.”

“Hell, Marf. You didn’t even compete in WarGames, and you single-handedly RUINED Bobby Bourbon’s legacy as the most dominant competitor in the event’s history.”

“That’s what you bring to the table, Marf.”

“Not even net zero. You bring NEGATIVE VALUE.”

…

“But, what do all these teams have in common, Marfy? How does this explain the heatmap phenomenon?”

“You’re standing beside a more interesting person. Lycana. Chuckie Nickles. Bobby Bourbon. Riding on the coattails of an ACTUAL STAR.”

“SOAKING IN UNEARNED APPLAUSE BY STANDING NEXT TO ACTUAL TALENT AND PRETENDING IT’S FOR YOU.”

“...And where has that left you, Marf, my boy?”

“In the role of a PERMANENT SIDEKICK.”

“Like Pavlov feeding his dogs at the ring of a bell… The fans see your face and they salivate…”

“Where? Where is the interesting person? Where’s the real star? Marf is on the screen so whoever he’s with must be the person I should pay attention to!”

“And now, look at you. At a press conference to promote our upcoming events… And social media is buzzing, trying to figure out who the shoulder next-to-you belongs to.”

…

“For the record, it’s a sound tech. And he’s going viral.”

…

“You, young Marf.”

“Are Pay-Per-View Buy POISON.”

“The epitome of AVERAGE.”

“ME-DEE-OH-KUR.”

…

“But, see, Marf. That’s the perfect spot to be.”

“At the bottom.”

“With nowhere to go but up.”

“I see you, Marfy. With zero prospects. Zero momentum. Your only win in the last five months against GERI FUCKING VAYDEN.”

“And I see… OPPORTUNITY.”

“ROOM FOR GROWTH.”

“You know what the best thing about being in the basement is?”

“You have a lot of room to build up speed to SHATTER THE GLASS CEILING.”

“All you need, Marfy… The last step to turn your lifetime of FAILURE into a success story that The Bookers could get behind. Is an inciting incident.”

“A loss.”

“People don’t just get BETTER, apropos of nothing, Marf. They need to LOSE EVERYTHING.”

“They need a THUMPING.”

“Something devastatingly traumatic.”

“Horrendously humiliating.”

“The hero can’t start his comeback tour without being KNOCKED.”

“DOOOOOOOWN.”

…

“And that, my dear friend, Marf. Is the product that I offer you.”

Your vision begins to blacken at its edges.

“A complete and total loss.”

You’ve continued to try and perceive the figure before you…

But the longer you look, the harder it becomes to even see…

“A failure devastating to your MORAL CORE. Something that makes you question every choice. Every decision you’ve made in your life.”

You try to look away. To preserve your sight… But when you do. He shifts to the center of your gaze.

Like the lightning streaks across the eyes of one with a migraine.

He’s imprinted himself in your eyes.

“How can you claim you understand this game we call life?”

“When Mark Flynn spent seven minutes making your every move look like that of a RANK AMATEUR? A ROOKIE.”

You try to close your eyes.

…And in the darkness of your own eyelids.

He remains.

“The infliction of emotional distress on your psyche will be maximized for the utter desctruction of your sense of self.”

…You feel your eyes forced open.

Forced to see the truth.

The shape climbs forward over its desk. Shoving folders and papers to the floor.

“...And when that happens, Marfy?”

“When I’ve reduced your imperfect form to its component parts?”

The figure hovers over you. Drawing closer and closer…

“You’ll be ready to rebuild.”

“To start anew.”

“To throw away all the middling, loosely related events you call a life.”

You can feel… hot breath on the nape of your neck.

Spittle on your chin.

And still he draws closer.

“You’ll be imbued with glorious purpose. A great destiny. A chance to begin anew.”

“You’ll finally be ready.”

“To take your first step.”

“Onto the Optimal Path.”

…

The Shape…

Crawls…

Into your eyes…

“Or you’ll die.”