She sat at a forward angle in a grey stiff bus seat, looking one moment as though she would want to jump out of the bus, and then the next staring intently at the ipad in her lap. The Bus raced through the lower Eastern Seaboard. Trees passed the window beside her of little material consequence. Catching her eye occasionally, as she continued to stare at the craigslist ad in front of her. The Bus’ driver intoned mechanically as they came rolling in to stops. People came and went as they crested a hill. Her gaze lingered again on the same craigslist ad, on an ipad that wasn’t hers.
It had seemed a fairly simple proposition. The phone call came in from one of her good friends. Hey, I just noticed this on craigslist, I think you might be interested. Oh yeah? she had said, Why do you think that? Her friend replied by saying, paying well, looking for a slim woman, that’d be you, she quipped easily, and they are looking for someone with your full name specifically. She thought that was strange, but she said it paid well, and all of the expenses were going to be covered, and it was a chance to be a star.
She nervously ran her fingers over the ipad screen, the interview process had felt incredibly brief. Do you watch wrestling? She didn’t. Fine. How tall are you? five-foot ten inches. Perfect. Can you please confirm your name? She had hesitated, why was this important. If it is, we can use you, if it’s not we can’t. Well it is. Great.
Details had been exchanged. The next day she got the ipad from UPS, with a greyhound bus ticket to Greensboro, North Carolina, and she was on her way. She told her parents what the plan was, so far as she knew. Where she would be staying. These types of important details. Even though she had talked to someone over skype. Uneasiness lifted the fine hairs along her spine. The man sitting in the background would’ve been more striking if his hair had been less greasy, or if he hadn’t been wearing sunglasses in a not entirely luminous room. He stroked his mustache in a way that seemed unsavory.
He didn’t wear a shirt. Just a sleeveless denim jacket. A cigarette had hung from his mouth. His hand wrapped around a mostly empty bottle of hard liquor. She hadn’t recognized the label. Him not using a glass seemed to be an important detail to her at the time. She couldn’t entirely place why.
When the bus finally pulled into her final destination, the sun had begun to sink below the horizon in a dying rust of oranges and reds poisoning the sky. Shouldering a modest bag she pulled up some directions on her ipad and began walking down the sidewalk, her flats clacking softly against the concrete. The reassurance of GPS kept her on the path she sought.
The fluorescent haze of a diner’s sign illuminated the requested mid thigh white dress that fit her snugly, she brushed the hair from her face as she looked down at the device. Looking at the address on the brushed aluminum exterior, and checking again, disappointment marked her face.
Pushing the door open, booths of hard red vinyl sheltered a row of round bar stools and a wide pass. Which behind perched a cook of considerable girth looked up, sweat rolling in beads down his forehead. A quick scan revealed the entire place was almost entirely empty. The Cook thumbed to her right, quickly returning to whatever order he was likely burning.
She walked down the space quickly, clutching at the ipad, and holding it against her chest. A mess of bags shambled into the booth. It all landed with a dull thud and crash. She pursed her lips in annoyance at her clumsiness.
Across from her was the man she had seen earlier. Sunglasses. Mesh Hoodie. Mustache. Cigarette. He was drinking a non-premium mexican beer, and he wasn’t alone. Next to him sat a fidgeting young man, preoccupied with an SLR. Gaunt, Pale from a lack of sunlight.
She looked at the booth beside, pointing at the sign.
“There’s not smoking here.”
He smiled as his lighter struck a spark. Smoke began to idly drift from his mouth. He cleaned his mustache as was his habit with his forefinger and pinky. He offered it across the table to her. She shook her hands in polite discouraging.
“So.”
He had started slowly, letting the words ooze forward across the table at her. the tendrils of slime forced her to fidget. Maybe this is why his counterpart with the camera seemed so uncomfortable. A thumb across his nose seemed like an attempt to fill space on his part.
The box of marlboro reds felt the idle rap of finger across it, as he stared at her. Sizing her up.
His eyebrows scrunched down as he squinted behind sunglasses. He liked the way she had done her make up, just for him, heavier on the eyeliner, lip gloss. A little glitter.
“What does the name Seymour Almasy mean to you.”
Her eyes darted up and left. She had no idea who Seymour Almasy was, how could she, she had been chosen partly because she didn’t know a good deal about wrestling. Smoke drifted slowly out of the now open diner window.
“I’m not sure.”
She said it slowly, with hesitation. A sly smile broke across his face. He adjusted his sunglasses. Taking a long plug on the beer.
“You’re not sure.”
“No.”
He ashed his cigarette out of the window. The tip glowing a bright orange as he sucked more air through it. He continued to tap the marlboro box, looking at his fidgeting cohort next to him. Cleaning his mustache. The sly smile spread to reveal of all things a grill. She frowned at its revelation, but it went unnoticed.
“Think she’s lying?”
Not waiting for a response, he turned back to her. His intern had raised a useless finger as though he was going to answer.
“Heard of Ultratitle? Don’t answer that. Not important. If I wanted someone familiar with wrestling, there’s an entire gaggle of useless slits I could’ve called on.”
“Well. I have. But I don’t watch wrestling.”
He was only idly listening. A quick rap across the marlboro box and a thumb across the nose, and he had hopped up. Adjusting his sunglasses he offered her his hand. Pulling her up, She dropped her purse and bags. A single hand placed against the table braced her from fumbling with them nervously.
“He’ll get those.”
Following, his intern dutifully grabbed the bags, while still managing the camera. They assembled outside of a Nineteen Seventy Dodge Challenger. White. Dark interior. Shoving his intern into the backseat, he allowed a hand to the lady, to let her gracefully slide down in the passenger seat.
“Vanishing Point?”
While she didn’t know about wrestling, she did know about car movies. His eyes perked at the reference as he threw his current cigarette away, and lit another one, cracking a bemused smile before wiping his mustache and ashing the cigarette out of the window. The thought of cracking another beer appealed to him.
Rolling out of the parking lot at what would be considered an alarming speed, the drive went without incident. Downtown Greensboro melted by in a mess of pale yellows, blues ,and reds.
Pulling into the lot, he cast his cigarette out of the window towards the pool, parking in front of it. He leaned back in the car, rapping his fingers impatiently on the wheel. She felt a pall on her skin as the hair stood up on the back of her neck again. She felt sweat roll idly down her arms, and she tried to flick it away. He inhaled deeply.
“C’mon.’”
Slithering out of the car, he took her bags from her lap, and again offered his hand to her, his eyebrows tensed above his sunglasses. She accepted the hand, noting that it wasn’t nearly as sweaty as her, she shook her head as he shouldered her bag, and handed her, her purse. Which she clutched like a security blanket. His intern followed behind.
“I’m going to tell you a story.”
“Okay.”
She said it timidly, as they walked down the taupe painted hallway. Taupe of course being very soothing. He slowed his gait to keep stride with her. She was about his height. Pulling a cigarette from his pocket, he lit it as they walked on, ashing it on the hallway floor. He offered her the cigarette, but she had politely declined. He again seemed to find this amusing.
“It’s the year two thousand and five. Two very different wrestlers, are on two very very different paths, and at that point, the idea of any kind of divergence is... unlikely, lets say that.”
He stroked his mustache in amusement, letting his fingers idle at the corner of his mouth for a moment before continuing.
“One man, Seymour Almasy is trying to desperately recapture the fire that has brought his nickname of the tournament god. The other, Pete Whealdon...”
“You.”
“Yes, Me. The Other is Pete Whealdon a promising scruffy young rookie, delivering thunderous kicks and putting on the kinds of matches overweight slobbering nerds on internet forums enjoy. I’m sure you know the type.”
“ah...”
She paused.
“A lot of time has passed since that year. If I gave a shit about fate, this would probably resemble it.
Almasy decided that year would begin his descent from being a wrestler that other younger wrestlers look up to, to being an empty husk barely resembling the man he was. All because of one event.”
Whealdon blew smoke in a large cloud behind them. Reaching the door, he unlocks it quickly. his intern following him. She hesitated for only a moment before following him, looking over her shoulder to make sure that his intern was following, it gave her very little comfort.
“So we both entered Ultratitle. He is the same addict, and probably a couple of years away from stealing televisions and robbing siding from construction sites. Just so he can sit on the rotten mattress of tournament wrestling telling the same stories about aught-five and how he caught the big one once.”
“Why.”
It wasn’t asked so much as a question, but put forth as a statement. Whealdon cracked a grin. Two double beds. A bathroom. A closet. A nightstand full of open bottles. A notebook, likely filled with broken vows.
“Because, Almasy thinks hiding behind some face paint and pretending like he’s not a nice man, it gives him carte blanche to pass judgement on others, as though I needed or wanted validation for putting Chris Hopper’s entire career out to pasture. It’s been a recurring theme. This one, if it had been Chris Hopper, If It had been Sean Stevens, if it had been anyone else, Almasy might have a chance. But I’m not Sean Stevens, and I’m not Chris Hopper.”
“Who?”
Whealdon, forgetting for a moment that he was talking to someone both young enough and not a part of the world of professional wrestling, looked at her, big soft eyes. Whealdon cleaned his mustache trying to put together the words on how he had put Chris Hopper’s career effectively to rest, how he had taken a shot at the heart of what Hopper had believed in, how he had eaten the best that Hopper had been able to muster, and how he walked away with his hand raised.
But he thought that would be an overstatement, and he didn’t want to give her the wrong idea yet.
“Chris Hopper was a previous opponent of mine. Beyond that to you, he’s nothing more than a foot note. names like Jason Murray, and Gideon will also be mentioned, and you may not be familiar with them as well.”
The doors lock clicked shut loudly.
“Here, this is for you.”
He tossed her a hooded zip-up sweatshirt. It was ivory, with annoyingly loud red letters on it, “CHOOSE HATE”.
“If you would put that on. I think we’ll begin.”
Sliding it over her bare shoulders, she let her purse go to the floor. Whealdon ran his hands through his greasy hair standing shoulder width apart.
“There’s another thing about Seymour Almasy, I think you should know about.”
“Oh?”
Turning around, his hands went against her shoulders jamming against the wall. A small shriek erupted from her lips.
“He’s got me pegged all wrong. Right now, he’s thinking about how I’m going to hit on his fan club, how I’m gonna take all the right shots at them. The truth is, They’re completely inconsequential. Just like this whole Orphan facade.”
He blew smoke in her face, hand going around to the back of her head, near the roots, pulling her down by her hair to her knees. With his free hand he tore his sunglasses off.
“I know it’s a facade. He won’t even get rid of those silly Final Fantasy references. He thinks calling himself after one is going to take away his loss, his humiliation at having not won a tournament of note in over half a decade. He thinks branding himself a god machine makes it so. Almasy overreaches himself. ”
Whealdon looked in her eyes. Those big doe eyes.
“Almasy wants to make it seem like he’s this mythic figure passing judgement cooly from his perch in ACW, and while that stunt might’ve worked with more names of no consequence to you, I paid attention to Almasy. I know what makes him tick. And it’s one event, before that event. He was a different man, bouncy, just as fake. After this event, Well, it’s convoluted, but when he’s not thinking about this, he’s blaming his every problem on other people. it’s always someone elses fault in Almasy’s world. Any ideas what happened to him?”
She was oddly not struggling.
“No.”
Whealdon glared at her for this, pulling her hair back, forcing her mouth open and spitting in it.
“What’s your name.”
She looked at him, tears starting to swell in her eyes.
“Laura.”
“Full name.”
“Laura Winters.”
Whealdon winked at her, as the tears began to drain the mascara on to the white hoodie.
“Y..y..Yess.”
Whealdon sneers. Another wad of spit goes in her mouth, a little more willingly.
”He laid in her chalk outline and cried like a little girl. All he had to do was give up the pipe and the tinfoil, and he wasn’t strong enough to do it. Then he wasn’t strong enough to pull out another victory. And now here we are. He’s wagging his finger, thinking I give a shit about some inconsequential women in his life.
If Almasy want’s to get mad, good. I will still gutterfuck him just like I did Chris Hopper, if Almasy thinks he can throw around his softball threats in a hardball tournament, well maybe he can just go back and watch his riveting victories over wrestling luminaries like Space God, and he can go back and watch his successive failures in GTTT, King of Ages, and everything else put in front of him. Maybe Seymour Almasy can start to consider his legacy in the greater scheme of things. Couldn’t hack it under pressure, Couldn’t hack it when his wife wanted him to come home. Couldn’t say or do anything when it really mattered.
Because Seymour Almasy isn’t a tournament god, he isn’t a fictitious creative force in a video game, He’s just a small scared little man who misses his whore of a dead wife.”
Whealdon pulls her hair back further and smears the mascara across her face, turning estuaries in to dry lake beds.
“But me? I like whores. With pretty big eyes, and designs on doing anything they can to make it. That’s what Almasy doesn’t understand, he can lob threat after threat, and it doesn’t mean anything. Jason Murray had a generation on his side.”
“He’s gone.”
“Chris Hopper was a better wrestler.”
“He’s gone.”
“And now, what can Seymour Almasy offer me? Nothing. He isn’t the voice of a generation, He isn’t a ring luminary. He’s a man who throws one kick. One inconsequential kick. If he thinks that I’m scared of getting kicked in the head. If he thinks I’m scared of contact, he’s getting in the ring with the wrong man, He can keep posing, trying to make every one of his five foot nothing height seem imposing. He can keep trying to make those sneers look like he isn’t terrified I’m going to stick a fork in his forehead, and listen to the blood drip on the mat, that pitter patter. Maybe I’ll just laugh off his best shot and put a lit cigarette out on face. ”
Whealdon pulls back on her hair more, sneering. Flicking his fingers at her face. Sweat dripping onto her face.
“Maybe, when I send Almasy back to the bench, he can pop in Final Fantasy, and try to tear his next incarnation out of there. ”
Whealdon licked the mascara painting his own tongue black. For her part Laura didn’t try to bite him or resist.
“Sleep well Seymour.”