Post by Kyle Shane on Aug 28, 2017 19:07:09 GMT -5
Came the day that the moon blotted out the sun over an entire half of the world.
Those that didn't have a view obstructed horribly by clouds flocked out to see it in droves. They had their homemade viewing goggles, their cobbled together contraptions, their peepholes cut in cereal boxes. For two minutes when the eclipse was at it's apex, millions of people stood outside, watching the sky; all the strife and political divisions and angst falling away for a communal bonding experience.
In the deep south, South Carolina to be precise, there was a swath of land where the world was going to be at it's darkest, and viewing of the eclipse was going to be the clearest. Of course, the stygian darkness and near black pitch of it all brought out the occult element. The true believers, the worshippers, and the pretenders. (And the cryptid hunters who believed that it was the advent of the lizard men.) They believed that the blackness covering the land was a template for eldritch energy and power. So many made the trip to the deepest part of the South like a pilgrimage to Mecca, for a once in a generation sojourn to a place where their powers could peak in the darkness. No matter if a good most of these were practicing shams who only knew Wicca through discount books they bought from Amazon and had no inkling of the real power unlocked in the day where the sun went black, they all made the trip with the goal in mind.
Regardless of your faith or your belief in what it represented, when the eclipse was happening, it was impossible to deny the thrumming sense of possibility. The surge of anticipation, of potential energy, something big is coming. It broadened your view of the universe and gave you a peek into a dark mystery within.
And then there were those who were spending the afternoon and evening of the eclipse just trying to get home.
He'd had a lot on his mind after Return to Glory, and with the new card posted, and the looming threat of Grimm on his mind, he'd packed his bags and went on a road trip. Our boy was therefore on his way down I-95 which stretched the entire lip of the Eastern Seaboard, Spotify playlist titled "angry pop-punk for motivation" filling the air with cacaphonous fury as Kyle drove. No particular destination in mind, at the time, but when you feel stuck and at a crossroads in life for so long, the power of the road trip is palpable in it's own right. It gives you a sense of moving forward, driving towards a goal instead of wandering, of freedom. It was just what his mind needed to take the edge off while his hind-brain worked at the jigsaw puzzle of the upcoming triple threat match. He gritted his teeth as the raw energy of vintage 2003 Finch provided noise to lubricate the cogs. A third match with Grimm, he'd mused. This time, with Alexa Black as the third party in. But this time, Grimm was sure to be more dangerous, bringing the implacably dense and heavy sense of doom as well as the fire he showed in the outing the last time he lost to Whitey Ford. Kyle passed exit 90, but decided to keep going, as far south as he could before turning back. Grimm had come back from that first loss, Kyle had reasoned, and put out what some said was best effort of the year, so a second loss, who knew... and it was true, he had to own it, he had last to the man twice, kicking himself afterwards for going so light and fluffy in a match where he had to bring his grittiest, most uncompromising performance.
He was currently doing almost 80 on the interstate. The chassis of his Mazda was shaking in a way that he didn't really like, so he adjusted a button on his phone to turn up Spotify, sorta a "just gonna drown this out", as, overhead, the sky was beginning to darken like it was clouding over. Had he been paying attention to that, he would have felt it apropos as his mood was likewise turning dark.
The problem with adding Alexa Black into the match was an X-factor. She liked to believe she was a lot tougher and scarier than she was but the stupid wench needed two body-guards and a razor-wire bat to claim to be hardcore. That's not on me, it's on her ridiculous profile. Because apparently Alexa Black has never heard the words "too much" "overkill" or "compensating for a lack of talent", he thought with a snort.
But the problem with Grimm...
He was still thinking of that when the shaking in his chassis became a knocking, and before he knew it, he was rolling full speed through the rumble strips on the side of the highway, smoke coming from under the hood, and he grumbled "Shitttshitshit shit!!!" He juddered as he went over the sleeper lines and pushed the break hard as he could, and he hoped that it wasn't this way his story ended ignominiously, crumpled up in a ball on the side of the road over a guardrail in South Carolina. But finally, he thumped back against his seat, sighing as he'd come to a stop. He looked up, glancing at his smoking hood, and grimaced. He resolutely got out of the car, craning his head to look at the sky, and being instilled with awe at the coming eclipse. He watched with his hand shading over his eyes as he dialed AAA.
That was the dawn of the first hour.
Coming towards the middle part of the first hour the tow truck man had finally come. The sign on the side of his truck read "Lizard Lick Towing", and he was a tobacco-stained, filthy redneck that reminded him of the much-ballyhooe'd Hangtown, but as the driver chewed his cud and loaded the car up on the back of his forks, he squinted at Kyle, saying "Can take you to the shop, but it closed early today, 'count'a the ee-clips." Kyle, frustrated, tired from the road and a million more pressing concerns on his mind, shook it off. "Yeah, whatever."
Maybe it was better this way. He walked down the street in Orangeburg, of all places, a small town. The streets were almost as crowded as the Big Apple on this day, scores of people, some in weirdly specific occult dress, some not, had flooded this town, the center point for the eclipse's dark light. He paid them no mind as he beat on foot, going somewhere but nowhere in particular in mind. Without the forward thrust of his car carrying him, he felt lost again. Directionless. And wasn't that an apt metaphor. He had let himself become directionless in his career through nobody's fault but his. Now he was stranded for who knew how long in this quaint little southern town and honestly, why not stay here? Why not build a whole new life, make a new him that had nothing to do with the famous Kyle Shane on tv. Why not say fuck it to the weekly grind of having to produce new, and innovative content on demand, only to have it - heh - eclipsed by one man who shit all over everything he did just by being dark and prosaic. His frustration had reached the boiling point, and he walked, unsatisfied through the hordes of cultists as celestial phenomena opened itself up over his head.
If one were to point out the irony to him, that he was letting the inner workings of his head sour him on the beauty and wonder that was going on, he would brush them off, the mood he was in. There's a lesson in there, somewhere, but he wasn't for it. Right now he was just feeling heightened. He felt that if Grimm was here, he would gladly cut through the middle man and punch him right in the dick, whereupon Grimm would follow through with a treatise that was as meaty and folksy as a Stephen King brick. Glumly, he walked, trying to discern some sense of purpose. So his car was on blocks and he felt lost, he told himself. There was time to figure out a path.
Behind his back, in a small town square wooded on four sides to make an orange grove, there was an old wooden promenade built in the latter part of the 19th century. In all it's years of holding bandstand performances and having teenagers sneak into the park to make out on the wooden benches none had ever held such an outre scene as the candles and daubed red symbols which adorned it now. Bustling past Kyle, one member of a trio went to join his compatriots in the promenade, and he looked over at Kyle, who gave him a "sup" head bob. The zealot, with shaved head and mad, reddened eyes, just hurried past Kyle. Not giving a second thought Kyle had kept walking and reflecting, and as he walked away from the square a member of the robed trio raised a gleaming knife to bring down on sacrificial flesh.
Kyle's ears perked up as he thought he heard the crying of a baby. He tilted his head and mouthed "what the f- " but he shook it off. The sky was turning black, as we approached hour two and the full on eclipse was about to begin.
His stomach grumbled, and he realized he'd been running on shitty gas station coffee and protein bars for the last 300 miles of his impromptu trip. He set out, scanning the closed doors of the town square and trying to find an open little mom and pop diner, or even a Wendy's, he wasn't particularly picky. He needed fuel, and he needed to ruminate. Weirdly, as he cut around a corner, he noticed that the packs of people wearing cloaks and hoods was thinning out. But the windows and doorways of many businesses were ornamented with wreaths of herbs above the doorsill; flickering single candles sat in silent testament to an unspoken truth; the entire street was becoming eerie and otherworldly feeling. It felt like he was slipping into a liminal space. A world between worlds, where everything was it's negative and terrible opposite.
"Oh, shit, there's a Waffle House," he said, perking up a little bit. That was the thing about that famed establishment, it was the ultimate comfort food for the broken and downtrodden. Maybe because of schadenfreude - as in, no matter how lost or alone you felt, if you went in Waffle House, there was at least a dozen more like you drowning their sorrows in the greasiest of grease and terrible, terrible coffee. Feeling bolstered somewhat, he headed up the rue where the yellow lights beckoned him, as, overhead, the sun was being crossed by a tremendous shadow.
The parking lot to the Waffle House was even more of a mystery, as the candles that had been placed in spontaneous doorsteps had multiplied, and furthermore were laid out in a pattern. They formed a guttering, orange lighted path, a walkway with rows of candles on either side of it, in a curving lip that brought him right to the front door. He looked nonplussed at the path, and he froze with trepidation as he saw a line of dead, severed cat heads on the threshold of the eatery, but the door opened when he pushed it and so, stepping widely to avoid that little hurdle, he put one foot far over the line of cat heads, then gingerly swayed over them as he entered the inner door. He looked back at the cat heads, and the candles in the parking lot, and he cocked an ear to observe the ominous chanting that was coming from the surrounding parking lots. Blinking quickly, he turned and entered the restaurant.
Despite the yellow lights welcoming him in, the diner was dark. And yet, it was open. There was almost a post-apocalyptic feeling to the sight of a darkened, abandoned Waffle House, it felt like something you would see at the end of days. He sat at the counter, looked around him, trying to find an overweight waitress who had been a homecoming queen in this very town maybe twenty years ago or a fry cook who had a loose cigarette behind his ear, anything. The sooner he could get started in on a hashbrowns smothered and covered, the better he'd feel, probably. Then the world might start making sense to him a bit more. He pulled a pot of coffee sitting over on the counter, sniffed it, realized it was stone cold, and sighed as he appropriated an empty mug to pour it into from behind the counter. It was all he could do to keep up that sense of motion, of doing something.
Thing was, Grimm had to be feeling just as lost in the shuffle as he was now. Robbed of his championship and now conclusively locked out of the World title conversation, the Hangtown Horror was no more toothless or less of a threat than ever.
But the bigger takeaway for him out of Return to Glory was in how Grimm was perceived. He had been looking at Grimm as his bogeyman, an unstoppable, monstrous, horror movie badass. He had felt that he was the ultimate expression of his time in PCW, and that beating Grimm would mean to him, that he had finally made it here in this company, you know? Grimm's style was so anthemic and he was synonmous with this place, and Kyle had been vocal before about being different from anything we'd seen here but still it seemed to eat at him. But Whitey Ford had destroyed all of that. Just, utterly shredded it, and sliced through that aura like a knife through butter 'cause he didn't treat Grimm like he was his ultimate test. Not at all, the promo Whitey did treated Grimm like a joke. Here was a champ who played cooking games on Wii and skinny dipped and basically reacted to facing Grimm with a "what, again" lackadaisical-ness and here was Kyle Shane killing himself trying to think of what to say. That contributed more to his confusion over what PCW wanted from him, and it made the impetus for his head-clearing trip more than ever. And the question of, maybe sometimes, it would be better if he wasn't...
"So, friend," spoke up a harsh, snake-oil whisper in the dark, "Seems like you're at a crossroads in your life..."
Kyle looked up. He searched the deserted eatery for the direction of the voice. "I do some of my best work with crossroads, you know."
Kyle scoffed, "Yeah, hey mister, one of us is gonna have to go back behind the counter and get on the grill if we wanna get our Grand Slam on." As he said this, he casually peeked at the man sidling up to the counter with him. He was bald, with a long, thin goatee which had been tied into a braided knot, and a very sleek black suit coat and slacks. Except for the fact that his skin was grey and his eyes were coal black he would make a very convincing club promoter. The man sat amiably down at the counter a few stools away from Kyle, no clear intention on cooking him his damn hash browns. Kyle grumpily looked down into his coffee cup, and the stranger smiled, but he said nothing, and his momentary feint of offering Kyle assistance faded into silence, peaceful and serene on the dark gentleman's end, whereas Kyle himself was squirming and trying to cast out lines as to what to say to break the ice. Many pennies had suddenly dropped for him now, and he didn't know how to broach the topic at hand, but he still felt he had something in him to say.
The goateed gentleman grinned, as if he heard these thoughts, but he kept looking straight ahead, those pupilless, black well of eyes scanning the ceiling innocently. "Mister Shane, I understand that you are a simple traveller looking for his destination, his purpose. There are many things that can be came to an accord on. I, too, am a traveller, and have come a long way to - "
Kyle let out a little sigh, as he stirred the cold coffee with the handle of a spoon, and he nodded his head. "Yeah, okay. Are you the devil?"
"Am I - " his mouth popped open in a little O of astonishment. "Why would you say - I'm clearly - how did you - "
Kyle shrugged nonchalantly, "I've lived a crazy life and seen some really macabre shit. I just like to be up front when I'm getting into something around the bend," he replied matter of factly. "Are you the devil? A trickster leprechaun? Some kind of dark god? We're shooting straight here, man."
The goateed gentleman clicked his teeth together. He rubbed the back of his neck, and drummed his fingers on the sticky counter. "Let's just say... I am a salesman... who provides commission for unique opportunities in exchange for rare coin." Kyle responded by giving him a sarcastic wink and double finger guns, as if to say I get what you're putting down, bad man, you want souls. The gentleman cleared his throat. "And in this plane, where I have been called on the day of the blackest sun, I have the resources possible to make your wildest wishes come true. So, what do you desire?"
"Hmmm, you know, my piece of shit Mazda blew a head gasket and it's gonna set me back a thousand... can you loan me that to get me back on the road?" He said, rubbing his chin as if he was a buyer at a market teasing the merchant with feigned interest of which there was no serious intent. The man in the suit snapped at him, "I am not taking a soul in exchange for getting a car out of a shop!"
They sat in silence for a beat. The man in the suit turned to him, an acid sweet smile on his face, and got a little more forceful in his push. "But what do you want, Kyle? What do you really, really desire from your life? Wealth?"
Kyle blew out a raspberry, "I'm a former World champion in two different companies and that shit commands a pretty high asking price when you're negotiating on the indies. Plus, I've still got a savings account from when I was a dealer, and I get residuals from that snuff film I did in college. I'm not trading you my soul for ten years of being a billionaire only to get dragged to eternal torment by hounds of hell on the eleventh hour of my deal being struck."
The man with the goatee laughed, "It's so amusing when people think they can talk shop. But I know what you really hunger for, Kyle. I know that wealth is good for you, but you want recognition."
Kyle arched an eyebrow at him. "Recognition, you say,"
"Oh, yes," Scratch was foaming now, he leaned over the counter at Kyle, his greasy, sliding voice trying to pry it's way into his head, into his heart. "I know because you are still that little boy who looks to his father for any sign of being proud. I know because the opinion of your peers eats at you, you long for them to accept you and embrace you like they have their so-called legends, you agonize over your every promo effort and you want to make it the most memorable and unforgettable twenty minutes of their life. You would do anything for them to see you as good as you want to believe you are, even if you aren't always at your best. I can give that to you. I can make them see you as the best thing they've ever seen. I can..."
"What are you talking about? They gave me awards for being a Breakout Star and the Most Innovative," Kyle snarked.
"...Hm. True." Mister Goatee sat back on his stool, a little bit stymied. He rubbed his fingers over his chin, and gave a worried glance to the window pane, checking on the outside source of darkness. It was nearing the end of the second hour, and the darkness was beginning to subside just a little bit. Kyle, for his part, ignored it and turned back to his cold coffee.
"Now, that's not to say there isn't room for improvement, but that's something I can do myself. I don't need supernatural assistance, I just need to, I don't know... try harder some weeks, I guess," he said, and he felt himself coming to a grudging, but terminable peace with himself.
"But, but!" the man in the suit said, having hit upon an epiphany, "I can give you what your soul hungers for, I can give you something that can give you real recognition, with my assistance you can defeat the Hangtown Horror, Grimm! Huh? Huh?" He raised his eyebrows, sliding his hand along smoothly to proffer a handshake.
Kyle looked down at the hand pitiably without moving, his eyebrows knit together. He was only just now coming to terms with the fact that beating Grimm, while it was a worthy win, wasn't the high point of validation he thought it would be, and thus not the brass ring he needed to be grabbing for. And, anyway, if it was something he really wanted, he wanted to win it without help, which getting this tool's asking price was a violation of. And it came to him, then... he had been beating Grimm all along. He was closer and closer every time. The first time he had performed a perfect match, only to make one mistake and fall into a finisher. The second time he was taking care of business, only for Whitey Ford to attempt to interfere and his backstage segment partner decided to distract him instead. What many people didn't like admitting was that he was closer to beating Grimm both times than anyone, and getting closer every week to eclipsing him.
Eclipsing! Ha, he finally thought of a good metaphor to base a central promo around, he'd have to get to work on that when he got home.
"But, but what about facing him and Alexa Black in a triple threat match?!" the goateed man spat, and it was inconceivably funny and ridiculous to believe that the devil paid attention to wrestling and he wasn't just grasping at straws here. "If you deal with me, Alexa wouldn't be able to -"
"Alexa Black is only in this match to eat a pin," Kyle said with boisterous good humor, "I mean, obviously they don't want me and Grimm to conclude business just yet, so whoever wins this match is probably just going to beat Alexa, because she is by far the weakest link in any match."
The devil let an animalistic growl that sounded like no beast from this plane escape his throat. He was pulling at the braided goatee now, twirling it anxiously. "Grrr, you make a good point."
The man in the suit was looking more and more nervous all the time. He kept looking back over his shoulder, looking out the plate glass windows. He craned his head, looking and trying to see if the eclipse was waning and light was returning. And he was also looking more and more sketchy. "Just give me something, I'm running out of time, " he demanded urgently. "You want the PCW World title? I'll - I'll make it so they give you a shot at all three belts at once. You want more girls? I'll get that Array and that Krista therapist lady, they'll agree to love you until the end of time."
Kyle sighed, put his coffee down, and stood up. "Yeah, sorry, you have nothing that interests me, sir." He gathered his hooded jacket from the next stool and put it on, as, outside, light was beginning to chase the shadows away, returning the world from the stygian, primal night it had been engulfed in. The sense of unreality, of being between worlds, waned, as much as it ever did being in a Waffle House.
The goateed man desperately grabbed hold of the sleeve of his hoodie. "I can give you your mom back! For ten years, ten whole, good years with the woman who birthed you, if you just give me your soul, please, I need to make this deal before the eclipse is over."
Kyle yanked his arm back, his mouth becoming a firm line. Fun is fun, but this was not a joking matter with him. And any deal to bring Karen back, while it was tempting, was not something he wanted to make, because there was no way that he would want to disturb her from her rest. He stared at the man coldly, and the dark, grey-hued man squirmed uncomfortably. He was twitching like an addict. It seemed like he was about to discorporate.
"If you deal with me," he said, with one last pitch, "I can make it feel like you have found somewhere you really belong in this world. A home, a career you enjoy, everything, I can make you happy and content, a celebrated champion, everything you've ever wanted." He gripped onto Kyle's shoulders like a drowning man clutching flotsam. "Please, Kyle, work with me, let me help."
Kyle brushed his hands off his shoulders. "It's a nice pitch, but I've come to realize what I should have seen before going on this trip. It's up to me to find all of those things myself. If I had them handed to me, not one of them would feel worth it." And that was true. He had set out of the road feeling adrift and at odds between where he was in his career and where he wanted to go. But it would be up to him to pull himself up by his bootstraps and get there. And to get what he wanted out of life. No deal he could make, no soul he could sell, would buy him what he wanted. "No deals."
The man in grey let out an unearthly wail, as light returned to the Waffle House. And then, he was gone.
Kyle paused for a moment, taking it all in, and he let out a little, surprised, "Huh." He was still disgruntled, though, having had no food, but with light and sanity returning to this corner of the universe, maybe the sleepy little southern town would start waking up and he could find a place that sold hot coffee. After that, he would see about getting his car back on the road, and finding his way home. As he stepped out of the diner, he thought about what was said between the two of them, in this strange encounter on the day of the black sun. He thought of all the fretting he had been doing previously. All the agonizing over what he could do to make things better, all the fear over Grimm. He knew that it was just an extension of what the man in the suit had offered him. But as he stepped out into the dawning light of day, a new thought came to him. That as one star fell into darkness, another one was rising, in a way that not anyone could stop. He had not let setbacks, or unrest, or the feeling of not fitting in stop him. He had proven it at Return to Glory over Alyce Starchylde and he knew he could prove it on Trauma.
An eclipse happens when two celestial bodies come into each other's orbit and the one in front passes over and blocks the one falling behind's light. And so it would be.
And in those moments when the eclipse happens, it's a brilliant spectacle, a once in a lifetime occurence, a sight that can never be replicated. He craned his head upwards to look at the sun in the middle of the day, as it appeared, a corona of light around a black hole.
Then he screamed as the extra-violent lights seared through his corneas, "YARGH, SON OF A BITCH!!" and he ran back inside the Waffle House.
Those that didn't have a view obstructed horribly by clouds flocked out to see it in droves. They had their homemade viewing goggles, their cobbled together contraptions, their peepholes cut in cereal boxes. For two minutes when the eclipse was at it's apex, millions of people stood outside, watching the sky; all the strife and political divisions and angst falling away for a communal bonding experience.
In the deep south, South Carolina to be precise, there was a swath of land where the world was going to be at it's darkest, and viewing of the eclipse was going to be the clearest. Of course, the stygian darkness and near black pitch of it all brought out the occult element. The true believers, the worshippers, and the pretenders. (And the cryptid hunters who believed that it was the advent of the lizard men.) They believed that the blackness covering the land was a template for eldritch energy and power. So many made the trip to the deepest part of the South like a pilgrimage to Mecca, for a once in a generation sojourn to a place where their powers could peak in the darkness. No matter if a good most of these were practicing shams who only knew Wicca through discount books they bought from Amazon and had no inkling of the real power unlocked in the day where the sun went black, they all made the trip with the goal in mind.
Regardless of your faith or your belief in what it represented, when the eclipse was happening, it was impossible to deny the thrumming sense of possibility. The surge of anticipation, of potential energy, something big is coming. It broadened your view of the universe and gave you a peek into a dark mystery within.
And then there were those who were spending the afternoon and evening of the eclipse just trying to get home.
He'd had a lot on his mind after Return to Glory, and with the new card posted, and the looming threat of Grimm on his mind, he'd packed his bags and went on a road trip. Our boy was therefore on his way down I-95 which stretched the entire lip of the Eastern Seaboard, Spotify playlist titled "angry pop-punk for motivation" filling the air with cacaphonous fury as Kyle drove. No particular destination in mind, at the time, but when you feel stuck and at a crossroads in life for so long, the power of the road trip is palpable in it's own right. It gives you a sense of moving forward, driving towards a goal instead of wandering, of freedom. It was just what his mind needed to take the edge off while his hind-brain worked at the jigsaw puzzle of the upcoming triple threat match. He gritted his teeth as the raw energy of vintage 2003 Finch provided noise to lubricate the cogs. A third match with Grimm, he'd mused. This time, with Alexa Black as the third party in. But this time, Grimm was sure to be more dangerous, bringing the implacably dense and heavy sense of doom as well as the fire he showed in the outing the last time he lost to Whitey Ford. Kyle passed exit 90, but decided to keep going, as far south as he could before turning back. Grimm had come back from that first loss, Kyle had reasoned, and put out what some said was best effort of the year, so a second loss, who knew... and it was true, he had to own it, he had last to the man twice, kicking himself afterwards for going so light and fluffy in a match where he had to bring his grittiest, most uncompromising performance.
He was currently doing almost 80 on the interstate. The chassis of his Mazda was shaking in a way that he didn't really like, so he adjusted a button on his phone to turn up Spotify, sorta a "just gonna drown this out", as, overhead, the sky was beginning to darken like it was clouding over. Had he been paying attention to that, he would have felt it apropos as his mood was likewise turning dark.
The problem with adding Alexa Black into the match was an X-factor. She liked to believe she was a lot tougher and scarier than she was but the stupid wench needed two body-guards and a razor-wire bat to claim to be hardcore. That's not on me, it's on her ridiculous profile. Because apparently Alexa Black has never heard the words "too much" "overkill" or "compensating for a lack of talent", he thought with a snort.
But the problem with Grimm...
He was still thinking of that when the shaking in his chassis became a knocking, and before he knew it, he was rolling full speed through the rumble strips on the side of the highway, smoke coming from under the hood, and he grumbled "Shitttshitshit shit!!!" He juddered as he went over the sleeper lines and pushed the break hard as he could, and he hoped that it wasn't this way his story ended ignominiously, crumpled up in a ball on the side of the road over a guardrail in South Carolina. But finally, he thumped back against his seat, sighing as he'd come to a stop. He looked up, glancing at his smoking hood, and grimaced. He resolutely got out of the car, craning his head to look at the sky, and being instilled with awe at the coming eclipse. He watched with his hand shading over his eyes as he dialed AAA.
That was the dawn of the first hour.
Coming towards the middle part of the first hour the tow truck man had finally come. The sign on the side of his truck read "Lizard Lick Towing", and he was a tobacco-stained, filthy redneck that reminded him of the much-ballyhooe'd Hangtown, but as the driver chewed his cud and loaded the car up on the back of his forks, he squinted at Kyle, saying "Can take you to the shop, but it closed early today, 'count'a the ee-clips." Kyle, frustrated, tired from the road and a million more pressing concerns on his mind, shook it off. "Yeah, whatever."
Maybe it was better this way. He walked down the street in Orangeburg, of all places, a small town. The streets were almost as crowded as the Big Apple on this day, scores of people, some in weirdly specific occult dress, some not, had flooded this town, the center point for the eclipse's dark light. He paid them no mind as he beat on foot, going somewhere but nowhere in particular in mind. Without the forward thrust of his car carrying him, he felt lost again. Directionless. And wasn't that an apt metaphor. He had let himself become directionless in his career through nobody's fault but his. Now he was stranded for who knew how long in this quaint little southern town and honestly, why not stay here? Why not build a whole new life, make a new him that had nothing to do with the famous Kyle Shane on tv. Why not say fuck it to the weekly grind of having to produce new, and innovative content on demand, only to have it - heh - eclipsed by one man who shit all over everything he did just by being dark and prosaic. His frustration had reached the boiling point, and he walked, unsatisfied through the hordes of cultists as celestial phenomena opened itself up over his head.
If one were to point out the irony to him, that he was letting the inner workings of his head sour him on the beauty and wonder that was going on, he would brush them off, the mood he was in. There's a lesson in there, somewhere, but he wasn't for it. Right now he was just feeling heightened. He felt that if Grimm was here, he would gladly cut through the middle man and punch him right in the dick, whereupon Grimm would follow through with a treatise that was as meaty and folksy as a Stephen King brick. Glumly, he walked, trying to discern some sense of purpose. So his car was on blocks and he felt lost, he told himself. There was time to figure out a path.
Behind his back, in a small town square wooded on four sides to make an orange grove, there was an old wooden promenade built in the latter part of the 19th century. In all it's years of holding bandstand performances and having teenagers sneak into the park to make out on the wooden benches none had ever held such an outre scene as the candles and daubed red symbols which adorned it now. Bustling past Kyle, one member of a trio went to join his compatriots in the promenade, and he looked over at Kyle, who gave him a "sup" head bob. The zealot, with shaved head and mad, reddened eyes, just hurried past Kyle. Not giving a second thought Kyle had kept walking and reflecting, and as he walked away from the square a member of the robed trio raised a gleaming knife to bring down on sacrificial flesh.
Kyle's ears perked up as he thought he heard the crying of a baby. He tilted his head and mouthed "what the f- " but he shook it off. The sky was turning black, as we approached hour two and the full on eclipse was about to begin.
His stomach grumbled, and he realized he'd been running on shitty gas station coffee and protein bars for the last 300 miles of his impromptu trip. He set out, scanning the closed doors of the town square and trying to find an open little mom and pop diner, or even a Wendy's, he wasn't particularly picky. He needed fuel, and he needed to ruminate. Weirdly, as he cut around a corner, he noticed that the packs of people wearing cloaks and hoods was thinning out. But the windows and doorways of many businesses were ornamented with wreaths of herbs above the doorsill; flickering single candles sat in silent testament to an unspoken truth; the entire street was becoming eerie and otherworldly feeling. It felt like he was slipping into a liminal space. A world between worlds, where everything was it's negative and terrible opposite.
"Oh, shit, there's a Waffle House," he said, perking up a little bit. That was the thing about that famed establishment, it was the ultimate comfort food for the broken and downtrodden. Maybe because of schadenfreude - as in, no matter how lost or alone you felt, if you went in Waffle House, there was at least a dozen more like you drowning their sorrows in the greasiest of grease and terrible, terrible coffee. Feeling bolstered somewhat, he headed up the rue where the yellow lights beckoned him, as, overhead, the sun was being crossed by a tremendous shadow.
The parking lot to the Waffle House was even more of a mystery, as the candles that had been placed in spontaneous doorsteps had multiplied, and furthermore were laid out in a pattern. They formed a guttering, orange lighted path, a walkway with rows of candles on either side of it, in a curving lip that brought him right to the front door. He looked nonplussed at the path, and he froze with trepidation as he saw a line of dead, severed cat heads on the threshold of the eatery, but the door opened when he pushed it and so, stepping widely to avoid that little hurdle, he put one foot far over the line of cat heads, then gingerly swayed over them as he entered the inner door. He looked back at the cat heads, and the candles in the parking lot, and he cocked an ear to observe the ominous chanting that was coming from the surrounding parking lots. Blinking quickly, he turned and entered the restaurant.
Despite the yellow lights welcoming him in, the diner was dark. And yet, it was open. There was almost a post-apocalyptic feeling to the sight of a darkened, abandoned Waffle House, it felt like something you would see at the end of days. He sat at the counter, looked around him, trying to find an overweight waitress who had been a homecoming queen in this very town maybe twenty years ago or a fry cook who had a loose cigarette behind his ear, anything. The sooner he could get started in on a hashbrowns smothered and covered, the better he'd feel, probably. Then the world might start making sense to him a bit more. He pulled a pot of coffee sitting over on the counter, sniffed it, realized it was stone cold, and sighed as he appropriated an empty mug to pour it into from behind the counter. It was all he could do to keep up that sense of motion, of doing something.
Thing was, Grimm had to be feeling just as lost in the shuffle as he was now. Robbed of his championship and now conclusively locked out of the World title conversation, the Hangtown Horror was no more toothless or less of a threat than ever.
But the bigger takeaway for him out of Return to Glory was in how Grimm was perceived. He had been looking at Grimm as his bogeyman, an unstoppable, monstrous, horror movie badass. He had felt that he was the ultimate expression of his time in PCW, and that beating Grimm would mean to him, that he had finally made it here in this company, you know? Grimm's style was so anthemic and he was synonmous with this place, and Kyle had been vocal before about being different from anything we'd seen here but still it seemed to eat at him. But Whitey Ford had destroyed all of that. Just, utterly shredded it, and sliced through that aura like a knife through butter 'cause he didn't treat Grimm like he was his ultimate test. Not at all, the promo Whitey did treated Grimm like a joke. Here was a champ who played cooking games on Wii and skinny dipped and basically reacted to facing Grimm with a "what, again" lackadaisical-ness and here was Kyle Shane killing himself trying to think of what to say. That contributed more to his confusion over what PCW wanted from him, and it made the impetus for his head-clearing trip more than ever. And the question of, maybe sometimes, it would be better if he wasn't...
"So, friend," spoke up a harsh, snake-oil whisper in the dark, "Seems like you're at a crossroads in your life..."
Kyle looked up. He searched the deserted eatery for the direction of the voice. "I do some of my best work with crossroads, you know."
Kyle scoffed, "Yeah, hey mister, one of us is gonna have to go back behind the counter and get on the grill if we wanna get our Grand Slam on." As he said this, he casually peeked at the man sidling up to the counter with him. He was bald, with a long, thin goatee which had been tied into a braided knot, and a very sleek black suit coat and slacks. Except for the fact that his skin was grey and his eyes were coal black he would make a very convincing club promoter. The man sat amiably down at the counter a few stools away from Kyle, no clear intention on cooking him his damn hash browns. Kyle grumpily looked down into his coffee cup, and the stranger smiled, but he said nothing, and his momentary feint of offering Kyle assistance faded into silence, peaceful and serene on the dark gentleman's end, whereas Kyle himself was squirming and trying to cast out lines as to what to say to break the ice. Many pennies had suddenly dropped for him now, and he didn't know how to broach the topic at hand, but he still felt he had something in him to say.
The goateed gentleman grinned, as if he heard these thoughts, but he kept looking straight ahead, those pupilless, black well of eyes scanning the ceiling innocently. "Mister Shane, I understand that you are a simple traveller looking for his destination, his purpose. There are many things that can be came to an accord on. I, too, am a traveller, and have come a long way to - "
Kyle let out a little sigh, as he stirred the cold coffee with the handle of a spoon, and he nodded his head. "Yeah, okay. Are you the devil?"
"Am I - " his mouth popped open in a little O of astonishment. "Why would you say - I'm clearly - how did you - "
Kyle shrugged nonchalantly, "I've lived a crazy life and seen some really macabre shit. I just like to be up front when I'm getting into something around the bend," he replied matter of factly. "Are you the devil? A trickster leprechaun? Some kind of dark god? We're shooting straight here, man."
The goateed gentleman clicked his teeth together. He rubbed the back of his neck, and drummed his fingers on the sticky counter. "Let's just say... I am a salesman... who provides commission for unique opportunities in exchange for rare coin." Kyle responded by giving him a sarcastic wink and double finger guns, as if to say I get what you're putting down, bad man, you want souls. The gentleman cleared his throat. "And in this plane, where I have been called on the day of the blackest sun, I have the resources possible to make your wildest wishes come true. So, what do you desire?"
"Hmmm, you know, my piece of shit Mazda blew a head gasket and it's gonna set me back a thousand... can you loan me that to get me back on the road?" He said, rubbing his chin as if he was a buyer at a market teasing the merchant with feigned interest of which there was no serious intent. The man in the suit snapped at him, "I am not taking a soul in exchange for getting a car out of a shop!"
They sat in silence for a beat. The man in the suit turned to him, an acid sweet smile on his face, and got a little more forceful in his push. "But what do you want, Kyle? What do you really, really desire from your life? Wealth?"
Kyle blew out a raspberry, "I'm a former World champion in two different companies and that shit commands a pretty high asking price when you're negotiating on the indies. Plus, I've still got a savings account from when I was a dealer, and I get residuals from that snuff film I did in college. I'm not trading you my soul for ten years of being a billionaire only to get dragged to eternal torment by hounds of hell on the eleventh hour of my deal being struck."
The man with the goatee laughed, "It's so amusing when people think they can talk shop. But I know what you really hunger for, Kyle. I know that wealth is good for you, but you want recognition."
Kyle arched an eyebrow at him. "Recognition, you say,"
"Oh, yes," Scratch was foaming now, he leaned over the counter at Kyle, his greasy, sliding voice trying to pry it's way into his head, into his heart. "I know because you are still that little boy who looks to his father for any sign of being proud. I know because the opinion of your peers eats at you, you long for them to accept you and embrace you like they have their so-called legends, you agonize over your every promo effort and you want to make it the most memorable and unforgettable twenty minutes of their life. You would do anything for them to see you as good as you want to believe you are, even if you aren't always at your best. I can give that to you. I can make them see you as the best thing they've ever seen. I can..."
"What are you talking about? They gave me awards for being a Breakout Star and the Most Innovative," Kyle snarked.
"...Hm. True." Mister Goatee sat back on his stool, a little bit stymied. He rubbed his fingers over his chin, and gave a worried glance to the window pane, checking on the outside source of darkness. It was nearing the end of the second hour, and the darkness was beginning to subside just a little bit. Kyle, for his part, ignored it and turned back to his cold coffee.
"Now, that's not to say there isn't room for improvement, but that's something I can do myself. I don't need supernatural assistance, I just need to, I don't know... try harder some weeks, I guess," he said, and he felt himself coming to a grudging, but terminable peace with himself.
"But, but!" the man in the suit said, having hit upon an epiphany, "I can give you what your soul hungers for, I can give you something that can give you real recognition, with my assistance you can defeat the Hangtown Horror, Grimm! Huh? Huh?" He raised his eyebrows, sliding his hand along smoothly to proffer a handshake.
Kyle looked down at the hand pitiably without moving, his eyebrows knit together. He was only just now coming to terms with the fact that beating Grimm, while it was a worthy win, wasn't the high point of validation he thought it would be, and thus not the brass ring he needed to be grabbing for. And, anyway, if it was something he really wanted, he wanted to win it without help, which getting this tool's asking price was a violation of. And it came to him, then... he had been beating Grimm all along. He was closer and closer every time. The first time he had performed a perfect match, only to make one mistake and fall into a finisher. The second time he was taking care of business, only for Whitey Ford to attempt to interfere and his backstage segment partner decided to distract him instead. What many people didn't like admitting was that he was closer to beating Grimm both times than anyone, and getting closer every week to eclipsing him.
Eclipsing! Ha, he finally thought of a good metaphor to base a central promo around, he'd have to get to work on that when he got home.
"But, but what about facing him and Alexa Black in a triple threat match?!" the goateed man spat, and it was inconceivably funny and ridiculous to believe that the devil paid attention to wrestling and he wasn't just grasping at straws here. "If you deal with me, Alexa wouldn't be able to -"
"Alexa Black is only in this match to eat a pin," Kyle said with boisterous good humor, "I mean, obviously they don't want me and Grimm to conclude business just yet, so whoever wins this match is probably just going to beat Alexa, because she is by far the weakest link in any match."
The devil let an animalistic growl that sounded like no beast from this plane escape his throat. He was pulling at the braided goatee now, twirling it anxiously. "Grrr, you make a good point."
The man in the suit was looking more and more nervous all the time. He kept looking back over his shoulder, looking out the plate glass windows. He craned his head, looking and trying to see if the eclipse was waning and light was returning. And he was also looking more and more sketchy. "Just give me something, I'm running out of time, " he demanded urgently. "You want the PCW World title? I'll - I'll make it so they give you a shot at all three belts at once. You want more girls? I'll get that Array and that Krista therapist lady, they'll agree to love you until the end of time."
Kyle sighed, put his coffee down, and stood up. "Yeah, sorry, you have nothing that interests me, sir." He gathered his hooded jacket from the next stool and put it on, as, outside, light was beginning to chase the shadows away, returning the world from the stygian, primal night it had been engulfed in. The sense of unreality, of being between worlds, waned, as much as it ever did being in a Waffle House.
The goateed man desperately grabbed hold of the sleeve of his hoodie. "I can give you your mom back! For ten years, ten whole, good years with the woman who birthed you, if you just give me your soul, please, I need to make this deal before the eclipse is over."
Kyle yanked his arm back, his mouth becoming a firm line. Fun is fun, but this was not a joking matter with him. And any deal to bring Karen back, while it was tempting, was not something he wanted to make, because there was no way that he would want to disturb her from her rest. He stared at the man coldly, and the dark, grey-hued man squirmed uncomfortably. He was twitching like an addict. It seemed like he was about to discorporate.
"If you deal with me," he said, with one last pitch, "I can make it feel like you have found somewhere you really belong in this world. A home, a career you enjoy, everything, I can make you happy and content, a celebrated champion, everything you've ever wanted." He gripped onto Kyle's shoulders like a drowning man clutching flotsam. "Please, Kyle, work with me, let me help."
Kyle brushed his hands off his shoulders. "It's a nice pitch, but I've come to realize what I should have seen before going on this trip. It's up to me to find all of those things myself. If I had them handed to me, not one of them would feel worth it." And that was true. He had set out of the road feeling adrift and at odds between where he was in his career and where he wanted to go. But it would be up to him to pull himself up by his bootstraps and get there. And to get what he wanted out of life. No deal he could make, no soul he could sell, would buy him what he wanted. "No deals."
The man in grey let out an unearthly wail, as light returned to the Waffle House. And then, he was gone.
Kyle paused for a moment, taking it all in, and he let out a little, surprised, "Huh." He was still disgruntled, though, having had no food, but with light and sanity returning to this corner of the universe, maybe the sleepy little southern town would start waking up and he could find a place that sold hot coffee. After that, he would see about getting his car back on the road, and finding his way home. As he stepped out of the diner, he thought about what was said between the two of them, in this strange encounter on the day of the black sun. He thought of all the fretting he had been doing previously. All the agonizing over what he could do to make things better, all the fear over Grimm. He knew that it was just an extension of what the man in the suit had offered him. But as he stepped out into the dawning light of day, a new thought came to him. That as one star fell into darkness, another one was rising, in a way that not anyone could stop. He had not let setbacks, or unrest, or the feeling of not fitting in stop him. He had proven it at Return to Glory over Alyce Starchylde and he knew he could prove it on Trauma.
An eclipse happens when two celestial bodies come into each other's orbit and the one in front passes over and blocks the one falling behind's light. And so it would be.
And in those moments when the eclipse happens, it's a brilliant spectacle, a once in a lifetime occurence, a sight that can never be replicated. He craned his head upwards to look at the sun in the middle of the day, as it appeared, a corona of light around a black hole.
Then he screamed as the extra-violent lights seared through his corneas, "YARGH, SON OF A BITCH!!" and he ran back inside the Waffle House.
