The Black Won't Come Out.
Oct 7, 2017 3:53:26 GMT -5
Stace Matthews, Rick Majors, and 1 more like this
Post by Kyle Shane on Oct 7, 2017 3:53:26 GMT -5
Johnny had noticed the black mark on the belt first.
To set the scene, first, it's important to picture the moment in time. Two figures, a father and his son. Norman Rockwell like a motherfucker, huh?
Johnny was splayed on his stomach on a Persian rug in Kyle's new and upgraded apartment. A cavernous loft with bay access window that stretched from wall to wall over a balcony overlooking the Mystic River. IKEA furnishings bought new that gave the place a business-like aspect. A coffee table with a residue-clogged pipe sitting by. An easy chair with a North American championship belt slung over the arm-rest, with it's owner, sitting nearby in front of the PS4, none-the-wiser that a peculiar black dot had begun to cover it like ink.
He had been lounging on his new sofa in front of an impressive entertainment system, engaged in a particularly challenging round of Overwatch, thumbs blurring as his Reaper mowed down a particularly vocal group of little shits blowing up his chat. (Cause of course, Kyle would main Reaper.) A Mercy exploded under his fire, and he laughed and let out an "in your face" as his son barely looked up from coloring. As per usual, Kyle's attempts at bonding with the boy fell on disinterested icy stares, and he had been sick of taking shit off a nine year old. So he let Johnny do his own thing, and considered this bonding enough. Besides, he was also doing his part to provide for the house. He switched channels on the headset from his PSN chat to bluetooth, calling one of his boys downtown. Again, he saw Johnny lift his head, to listen in curiousity, but he didn't care what Johnny took from this. It was just how daddy did his business. The line on the other side rang again and again as he continued playing the game. Finally, his contact picked up.
Kyle, quick, businesslike and to the point, said, "Hey Todd. Kyle. Listen man, I got some stuff I need you to move." He paused, listening to a brief question, and annoyed, rejoindered, "Because my guy who handles ring crew at the arena was looking to sell." Again, a pause, and again, a hasty response, "Because I'm supplementing my income, what do you want from me."
He felt rather than paid attention to Johnny looking at him with eyes that were hesitant. And now his dealer friend wouldn't stop questioning him, I thought you were trying to go legit, wah wah. His son sat up from his coloring, and he looked over at the belt laying on the chair. "Listen, just get down here so I can move this coke, alright? A half a key." He looked at the brown-wrapped package sitting on his coffee table next to his baggie and pipe with half a mind to chuck it out the bay window.
He listened to his headset with his ear cocked for a second, taking his attention off the game as the voice raised a higher dander. "Tell you what, for your cut, you can take 30 percent this time. What the hell are you talking about, that's more than fair!" He was currently getting pummelled and he cursed, trying to course correct on the game. Johnny extended a finger to the belt, eyes widening to the secrets of the universe over in his little world, and looking back at his dad, who was getting to the point of exploding over this drug deal.
"Well it's not my fault if your guy got stopped, I - No, look, Todd -" Kyle was losing control of it all. And on his headset, the cool Siri voice let him know he had an incoming call, from "Krista Miller" and he shouted "FUCK" just as the round ended and "bonerfarts91" was awarded Play Of the Game.
"Dad?" his son ventured, and Kyle had to physically freeze his arm in mid-arc to stop him from throwing the controller in the direction of the new sound. He finally saw Johnny instead of sensory-overload, and he realized what a bad look that was. He calmed himself, projected soothing vibes. And yet, the headset jangled again, with the cool female voice letting him know he had an incoming call from "Krista Miller." He gritted his teeth. "One second, bud." he said, absently.
"You've been avoiding me, and our sessions," Krista said, as soon as they connected, "That wasn't the deal, Kyle. We were working on something - "
"I know, Kris, look, just," he was pacing restlessly around his living room in a way that made Johnny look nervous. "I've had a lot on my mind, with trying to find a new direction, and becoming a dad, I'm, I'm doing my best - "
"Dad, it's - " the kid said, poking a finger into it. The black almost swallowed his finger up to the webs. Johnny whimpered out in shock and horror. His father's head whipped around like a snake, reactionary. "WHAT?!"
There was a brief pause of dead air on the phone and he realized that he was still on the headset. Krista then said, determinedly, "I'm coming up," and he began to stutter, "No, Kris, wait, he's - " before the line disconnected. He cursed. He turned towards Johnny, and he had to make a mental effort not to project that he was heaving with rage like a Hulk over him, because he was very cognizant of the fact that Johnny was looking up at him with the dawning horror and apprehension that he had regarded Eric Shane with many a time when the old man had come kicking into the trailer at 3 am; breath smelling of stale whiskey and rot, his mental status altered and belligerent, and ready to strike out at his son with a wicked backhand for even the minorest of irks.
His own son looking at him like that hurt him more than he could ever put into words.
Johnny was trembling so hard and when Kyle bent down to his level, he still kept his distance. He tried to force the words out. "There was a hole there... a black hole... a mark on the belt... it was like it wouldn't... come out..." And he evidenced his hands. Kyle, wonderingly, looked at what he was talking about. There was an ink-like, black stain on it covering it's faceplate. It was so dark that it denied light, as if somebody had cut out a parcel of black velvety night sky and laid it over top of the gold. Kyle almost thought that someone had played a prank by scribbling over it with a Sharpie. It'd happened before, when you're in college, being scribbled on by Sharpie is the number one going concern. But what he touched wasn't Sharpie. When he pulled his fingers away, his fingertips were turned so black by touching the velvet stain that it was like they were severed by a black knife.
Disturbed, he wiped his hand on his pajama bottoms, and looked at the stain again. He gingerly picked the belt up. A cord of connection between his chest and this object intensified. "Johnny, this is - how long's it been like this?"
He couldn't tell him, but Kyle noticed the spot growing on his onesie, right in the center of his chest. Johnny hadn't reacted yet, and he didn't want to freak the kid out at the slowly spreading, wet-looking ooze of black coming from his heart. The fact that it had started when he touched the belt meant one thing. The fact that his son hadn't seen it on him yet made him worry that he was going insane. He grabbed the title belt, picking it up, and ushering Johnny to the door. Before they went anywhere, though, he stashed the pipe on the coffee table and the key of coke wrapped in butcher's paper underneath the couch, and then readied himself. Krista was calling his phone again, but he hit ignore. He turned to Johnny, looking serious but not overly so, and said calmly, "We're going to go find someone to look at the belt, okay?"
"Is this my fault?" Johnny asked, in a self-sad way that crushed his heart. He was doing so bad at this.
No, he thought, it's mine. Ever since he won the title from Gabriel, many, including Gabriel himself had sneered that he'd put a stain on it's legacy. He just didn't expect it to be such a literal black mark that had spread onto everything.
But no, that's ridiculous, too, he thought with more than a hint of growing annoyance. Gabriel thinks that I'm unworthy, that I stole the title from him in a moment of weakness and I could never have beaten him otherwise. Both he and Seromine are so confident in the stooge's ability to win the gold back on a night where he's ready that it's not hard to imagine they're going to resort to trickery, numbers games or having Seromine's followers interfere. In fact, they had done that just as many times to get Seromine and Gabriel both key wins. And yet, if someone got them on an off night, they're thieves? The fact that I've beaten Gabriel twice now, when he was fresh AND on a night when we'd both gone through a previous match only tilts things towards the fact that I should be more confident than him.
Maybe so, but under Gabriel, the North American title was wrested away from a man Seromine had had trouble beating. He thought all of this as they waited in the elevator, and he stole glances down at Johnny. Johnny was unaware that the black mark had enveloped his whole chest cavity, swimming there like a puddle of black ink. It felt like the longer he held on to the stained belt, the worse he would make it look. But was that true? Or was it even stained by his hands? Or was this all in his mind? If so, what kind of madness could make it pass on to Johnny so he could see it? Maybe the question wasn't so much what he was doing to the actual belt, but what blackness he secretly held inside of him, that passed on to what he loved, that made it worse. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, one of the very things that kept him awake at night.
Didn't matter. First priority to him was getting this belt fixed, getting it cleaned, because he knew full well what it looked like. If Grimm, if Whitey Ford, if Gabriel, or any of his staunchest critics saw it like this they would have a field day. Imagine them, smug lips, saucy zingers, all lined up to take their shot at the man who stained their precious championship, the representation of the company. It wouldn't matter what they'd be doing in his situation. The first thing he did as he hit the street with the belt in his hand, was push his way over to a food truck parked on the side of the street. One of those super hippie gentrified pieces of shit that's popped up in every metropolis now, with a white man wearing terrible clothing and a waxed mustache selling falafel.
His phone was ringing with text messages. "Dad!" Johnny called, in confusion and exasperation. Kyle ignored it as he pushed into the side trailer entrance to the "kitchen" of the food truck. "Hey brah, you can't be back here!" shrieked the annoying hipster. Kyle moved over to the small sink used for supposedly washing the cooking utensils and ran water over the faceplate of the title. The hipster cook slapped at him with a towel. The phone continued to go off in his pocket.
Kyle used his nails, a Brillo pad and then grabbed steel wool. Kyle ran dish detergent over it, trying to pry it off like it was twice-baked lasagna stuck on Aunt Harriet's favorite crockware.
The stain would not wash out.
It wasn't even raised, like some sort of extra layer he could peel away. The belt was marked with the inky blackness that seemed to have taken the place of the golden plate itself. Now and again it spit-bubbled like a toddler trying to form words. Frustrated, and piqued by all the effort, he sank back against the side of the fridge.
I refute this narrative, he thought stubbornly, angrily, sulkily. It's bullshit.
I did what every man who's cashed in their Icemann Invitational Title shot has done. I earned the right to challenge for any title by going through a grueling series of matches. I won through two matches in a row to retain the Underground title and win TIIT all in one night, and then Gabriel came along behind me and grabbed glory by winning the Underground and North American at Living A Legacy. All I did was one up him once again. All I did was win two matches in the same night and once again came away with a title. But Gabriel was not winning. He faced Whitey Ford and was going to lose if he hadn't weaseled his way out with a DQ. His big moment in the sun was spoiled because he is not good enough to win the big one on his own without help from his Lord. And he saw me coming. I didn't attack him from behind. I announced my intentions plain and clear. It isn't a stain, any more than Gabriel trying to run away like a little chickenshit rather than face me is a stain.
He exited the food truck sheepishly, aware that everyone was looking at him. And he looked at the belt, because he had a strange inkling that maybe the black was psychosomatic. And by alleviating any negative feelings of how he won it maybe he could take away the black. But before he could examine it, he looked at his son, and his jaw slackened with shock.
"Dad?" bubbled the black mass of flowing ink.
His mind blanked from the horror.
Everyone in the sidewalk area, at the condiment stand and passing by kept a wide berth as he threw the title down on the pavement, embracing the boy. He wanted to rage, yell, scream to give the kid back. Alternatively, he wanted to suck it back into him, through the cavity of emptiness that he felt beat in place of a heart. He finally identified that the black felt like it was emanating from within him, his own innate darkness. It was going to stain everything. "Give him back, god damn you." He shouted at no one in particular. "Give him back!!"
Elsewhere, from a car parked at curbside, a sorrowful hand wavers over a call button as she observes this, a heart breaks. "Oh, Kyle..." she mutters. And then, when the voice on the other end of the line answers to Child Protective Services, she looks out at the two boys from the window.
He grinded his eyelids and teeth as he clenched the boy tight, not caring even if a tide of noir ink washed over him. He shut his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the vaguely boy-shaped lump with swimming eyes and melted features. It's not you, kid. It's not in you, and it won't ever be in you. It's me. And finally, when he felt the sticky ink no longer pulsing around him, he opened his eyes to a little boy, standing on the sidewalk, looking confused. He wasn't covered in the stuff. He wasn't consumed by the black, it hadn't spread over him. Possibly never had.
He stood up, straightening the kid's onesie, feeling an awkward distance growing between them. He cleared his throat. "So, uh... nothing to see here... we're all good..."
"The belt!" Johnny said, incredulously. He looked down, expecting to see that it was cleaned... but still, that damn black spot was on it. Just one, black spot.
He snatched it up, angrily. Oh, come on.
What was ridiculous to him about the entire idea of Gabriel calling him out for this, that made the current situation even more outrageous was that, it didn't matter what name Gabriel traded under. Gabriel told us time and time again that there was a clear demarcation between his time as Rick Majors and his time as Seromine's vassal, to the point that he told us again and again Rick Majors was dead. Except it patently and absolutely did not work that way. A simple name change isn't enough to wipe out who knew how many untold years here in PCW of rampant mediocrity. Going by a new holy identity didn't cover for a lack of effort. Just because he had found success and championship wins going by Gabriel didn't mean that he wasn't still at the very bottom the same man who couldn't get it done before. Just meant that he had more help to get there. Yeah, he thought. Help. A concept Kyle Shane had never gone by. Everything I've come by in Pure Class Wrestling, I've done on my own, often times fighting off stables and followers just like Seromine and yours, big man.
All that Gabriel is, can only be attributed to Seromine.
He only rose to prominence and held those belts because Seromine wasn't here, licking his own wounds after the beatings and druggings by Nathan Saniti. It took the commish banning Nathan from using his hatpins, and Nathan going his own way out the door, to get this title, but the fact is that if Seromine had been around Gabriel would have had to hand it over. So it seemed to him that the life Gabriel touts as being to his utmost potential was ultimately a lie. He was never at his best, never could be as long as Seromine was around. If he did, he would have to sabotage his own run just so he could give his Messiah a win, which in the end made both of them look halved. To say nothing of the fact that when their congregation of followers was around neither of them could win a match without interference. Ultimately, the entire act, which supposedly strengthed the souls and bolstered the will of both men, made them look both flawed and ultimately weak.
And himself?
He felt his chest as he and Johnny stood together in a jeweler's shop. The older man behind the counter was looking at the faceplate through a loupe. And he felt for the blackness, the sucking gravitic void in his heart, where he sensed that black stain came from... the coldness and aloofness that lived inside his heart that had started this morning when he sat with his son and peddled his wares over the phone and felt that divide.
The jeweler adjusts the goofy thick glasses sitting on top of his head, pulls the belt until it's almost under his nose so he can gape at it. "It's almost as if the gold's turned black because it's supposed to be like this."
Kyle squints at him, "Say what?"
He slowly puts the belt down, "Ayep, mayhap it's always sposed to have been like this, matter of fact. Nothing gold can stay, after all. And who's to say that black wasn't it's natural color before? Got a theory about that, you see, working in the jewelry business, and all we ever see is tarnished, dulled, diluted product. This belt's black mark could be indicating that it was covered up with purty gold once, but it's real nature will always come to the surface. ...Or at least, if you wanna get metaphysical about it."
"Huh." Kyle said, lost in thought. In his pocket, his phone buzzed again, and again, it was Krista, calling him.
But then, isn't that always the way? You always put your fingerprint on anything you hold closest to you. You always stain anything you care about, or that tries to care about you. Sometimes he feared that void, when he became really aware of it. How heartless he was, and could ultimately be. Sometimes, he thought, looking at Johnny, it's a curse that I fear passing on. But when it comes, when I want to apply it to something, being so utterly heartless is a gift I can never give back to anyone... a terrifying gift.
And with that in mind, Kyle looked curiously at the belt in the jeweler's hands. He took it, examining it's faceplate. The beat in his chest, the pulse of his missing heart, hadn't felt this far away in a good long time.
"You know what," Kyle says with a smile, "I think it looks fine like this, the way it is."
To set the scene, first, it's important to picture the moment in time. Two figures, a father and his son. Norman Rockwell like a motherfucker, huh?
Johnny was splayed on his stomach on a Persian rug in Kyle's new and upgraded apartment. A cavernous loft with bay access window that stretched from wall to wall over a balcony overlooking the Mystic River. IKEA furnishings bought new that gave the place a business-like aspect. A coffee table with a residue-clogged pipe sitting by. An easy chair with a North American championship belt slung over the arm-rest, with it's owner, sitting nearby in front of the PS4, none-the-wiser that a peculiar black dot had begun to cover it like ink.
He had been lounging on his new sofa in front of an impressive entertainment system, engaged in a particularly challenging round of Overwatch, thumbs blurring as his Reaper mowed down a particularly vocal group of little shits blowing up his chat. (Cause of course, Kyle would main Reaper.) A Mercy exploded under his fire, and he laughed and let out an "in your face" as his son barely looked up from coloring. As per usual, Kyle's attempts at bonding with the boy fell on disinterested icy stares, and he had been sick of taking shit off a nine year old. So he let Johnny do his own thing, and considered this bonding enough. Besides, he was also doing his part to provide for the house. He switched channels on the headset from his PSN chat to bluetooth, calling one of his boys downtown. Again, he saw Johnny lift his head, to listen in curiousity, but he didn't care what Johnny took from this. It was just how daddy did his business. The line on the other side rang again and again as he continued playing the game. Finally, his contact picked up.
Kyle, quick, businesslike and to the point, said, "Hey Todd. Kyle. Listen man, I got some stuff I need you to move." He paused, listening to a brief question, and annoyed, rejoindered, "Because my guy who handles ring crew at the arena was looking to sell." Again, a pause, and again, a hasty response, "Because I'm supplementing my income, what do you want from me."
He felt rather than paid attention to Johnny looking at him with eyes that were hesitant. And now his dealer friend wouldn't stop questioning him, I thought you were trying to go legit, wah wah. His son sat up from his coloring, and he looked over at the belt laying on the chair. "Listen, just get down here so I can move this coke, alright? A half a key." He looked at the brown-wrapped package sitting on his coffee table next to his baggie and pipe with half a mind to chuck it out the bay window.
He listened to his headset with his ear cocked for a second, taking his attention off the game as the voice raised a higher dander. "Tell you what, for your cut, you can take 30 percent this time. What the hell are you talking about, that's more than fair!" He was currently getting pummelled and he cursed, trying to course correct on the game. Johnny extended a finger to the belt, eyes widening to the secrets of the universe over in his little world, and looking back at his dad, who was getting to the point of exploding over this drug deal.
"Well it's not my fault if your guy got stopped, I - No, look, Todd -" Kyle was losing control of it all. And on his headset, the cool Siri voice let him know he had an incoming call, from "Krista Miller" and he shouted "FUCK" just as the round ended and "bonerfarts91" was awarded Play Of the Game.
"Dad?" his son ventured, and Kyle had to physically freeze his arm in mid-arc to stop him from throwing the controller in the direction of the new sound. He finally saw Johnny instead of sensory-overload, and he realized what a bad look that was. He calmed himself, projected soothing vibes. And yet, the headset jangled again, with the cool female voice letting him know he had an incoming call from "Krista Miller." He gritted his teeth. "One second, bud." he said, absently.
"You've been avoiding me, and our sessions," Krista said, as soon as they connected, "That wasn't the deal, Kyle. We were working on something - "
"I know, Kris, look, just," he was pacing restlessly around his living room in a way that made Johnny look nervous. "I've had a lot on my mind, with trying to find a new direction, and becoming a dad, I'm, I'm doing my best - "
"Dad, it's - " the kid said, poking a finger into it. The black almost swallowed his finger up to the webs. Johnny whimpered out in shock and horror. His father's head whipped around like a snake, reactionary. "WHAT?!"
There was a brief pause of dead air on the phone and he realized that he was still on the headset. Krista then said, determinedly, "I'm coming up," and he began to stutter, "No, Kris, wait, he's - " before the line disconnected. He cursed. He turned towards Johnny, and he had to make a mental effort not to project that he was heaving with rage like a Hulk over him, because he was very cognizant of the fact that Johnny was looking up at him with the dawning horror and apprehension that he had regarded Eric Shane with many a time when the old man had come kicking into the trailer at 3 am; breath smelling of stale whiskey and rot, his mental status altered and belligerent, and ready to strike out at his son with a wicked backhand for even the minorest of irks.
His own son looking at him like that hurt him more than he could ever put into words.
Johnny was trembling so hard and when Kyle bent down to his level, he still kept his distance. He tried to force the words out. "There was a hole there... a black hole... a mark on the belt... it was like it wouldn't... come out..." And he evidenced his hands. Kyle, wonderingly, looked at what he was talking about. There was an ink-like, black stain on it covering it's faceplate. It was so dark that it denied light, as if somebody had cut out a parcel of black velvety night sky and laid it over top of the gold. Kyle almost thought that someone had played a prank by scribbling over it with a Sharpie. It'd happened before, when you're in college, being scribbled on by Sharpie is the number one going concern. But what he touched wasn't Sharpie. When he pulled his fingers away, his fingertips were turned so black by touching the velvet stain that it was like they were severed by a black knife.
Disturbed, he wiped his hand on his pajama bottoms, and looked at the stain again. He gingerly picked the belt up. A cord of connection between his chest and this object intensified. "Johnny, this is - how long's it been like this?"
He couldn't tell him, but Kyle noticed the spot growing on his onesie, right in the center of his chest. Johnny hadn't reacted yet, and he didn't want to freak the kid out at the slowly spreading, wet-looking ooze of black coming from his heart. The fact that it had started when he touched the belt meant one thing. The fact that his son hadn't seen it on him yet made him worry that he was going insane. He grabbed the title belt, picking it up, and ushering Johnny to the door. Before they went anywhere, though, he stashed the pipe on the coffee table and the key of coke wrapped in butcher's paper underneath the couch, and then readied himself. Krista was calling his phone again, but he hit ignore. He turned to Johnny, looking serious but not overly so, and said calmly, "We're going to go find someone to look at the belt, okay?"
"Is this my fault?" Johnny asked, in a self-sad way that crushed his heart. He was doing so bad at this.
No, he thought, it's mine. Ever since he won the title from Gabriel, many, including Gabriel himself had sneered that he'd put a stain on it's legacy. He just didn't expect it to be such a literal black mark that had spread onto everything.
But no, that's ridiculous, too, he thought with more than a hint of growing annoyance. Gabriel thinks that I'm unworthy, that I stole the title from him in a moment of weakness and I could never have beaten him otherwise. Both he and Seromine are so confident in the stooge's ability to win the gold back on a night where he's ready that it's not hard to imagine they're going to resort to trickery, numbers games or having Seromine's followers interfere. In fact, they had done that just as many times to get Seromine and Gabriel both key wins. And yet, if someone got them on an off night, they're thieves? The fact that I've beaten Gabriel twice now, when he was fresh AND on a night when we'd both gone through a previous match only tilts things towards the fact that I should be more confident than him.
Maybe so, but under Gabriel, the North American title was wrested away from a man Seromine had had trouble beating. He thought all of this as they waited in the elevator, and he stole glances down at Johnny. Johnny was unaware that the black mark had enveloped his whole chest cavity, swimming there like a puddle of black ink. It felt like the longer he held on to the stained belt, the worse he would make it look. But was that true? Or was it even stained by his hands? Or was this all in his mind? If so, what kind of madness could make it pass on to Johnny so he could see it? Maybe the question wasn't so much what he was doing to the actual belt, but what blackness he secretly held inside of him, that passed on to what he loved, that made it worse. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, one of the very things that kept him awake at night.
Didn't matter. First priority to him was getting this belt fixed, getting it cleaned, because he knew full well what it looked like. If Grimm, if Whitey Ford, if Gabriel, or any of his staunchest critics saw it like this they would have a field day. Imagine them, smug lips, saucy zingers, all lined up to take their shot at the man who stained their precious championship, the representation of the company. It wouldn't matter what they'd be doing in his situation. The first thing he did as he hit the street with the belt in his hand, was push his way over to a food truck parked on the side of the street. One of those super hippie gentrified pieces of shit that's popped up in every metropolis now, with a white man wearing terrible clothing and a waxed mustache selling falafel.
His phone was ringing with text messages. "Dad!" Johnny called, in confusion and exasperation. Kyle ignored it as he pushed into the side trailer entrance to the "kitchen" of the food truck. "Hey brah, you can't be back here!" shrieked the annoying hipster. Kyle moved over to the small sink used for supposedly washing the cooking utensils and ran water over the faceplate of the title. The hipster cook slapped at him with a towel. The phone continued to go off in his pocket.
Kyle used his nails, a Brillo pad and then grabbed steel wool. Kyle ran dish detergent over it, trying to pry it off like it was twice-baked lasagna stuck on Aunt Harriet's favorite crockware.
The stain would not wash out.
It wasn't even raised, like some sort of extra layer he could peel away. The belt was marked with the inky blackness that seemed to have taken the place of the golden plate itself. Now and again it spit-bubbled like a toddler trying to form words. Frustrated, and piqued by all the effort, he sank back against the side of the fridge.
I refute this narrative, he thought stubbornly, angrily, sulkily. It's bullshit.
I did what every man who's cashed in their Icemann Invitational Title shot has done. I earned the right to challenge for any title by going through a grueling series of matches. I won through two matches in a row to retain the Underground title and win TIIT all in one night, and then Gabriel came along behind me and grabbed glory by winning the Underground and North American at Living A Legacy. All I did was one up him once again. All I did was win two matches in the same night and once again came away with a title. But Gabriel was not winning. He faced Whitey Ford and was going to lose if he hadn't weaseled his way out with a DQ. His big moment in the sun was spoiled because he is not good enough to win the big one on his own without help from his Lord. And he saw me coming. I didn't attack him from behind. I announced my intentions plain and clear. It isn't a stain, any more than Gabriel trying to run away like a little chickenshit rather than face me is a stain.
He exited the food truck sheepishly, aware that everyone was looking at him. And he looked at the belt, because he had a strange inkling that maybe the black was psychosomatic. And by alleviating any negative feelings of how he won it maybe he could take away the black. But before he could examine it, he looked at his son, and his jaw slackened with shock.
"Dad?" bubbled the black mass of flowing ink.
His mind blanked from the horror.
Everyone in the sidewalk area, at the condiment stand and passing by kept a wide berth as he threw the title down on the pavement, embracing the boy. He wanted to rage, yell, scream to give the kid back. Alternatively, he wanted to suck it back into him, through the cavity of emptiness that he felt beat in place of a heart. He finally identified that the black felt like it was emanating from within him, his own innate darkness. It was going to stain everything. "Give him back, god damn you." He shouted at no one in particular. "Give him back!!"
Elsewhere, from a car parked at curbside, a sorrowful hand wavers over a call button as she observes this, a heart breaks. "Oh, Kyle..." she mutters. And then, when the voice on the other end of the line answers to Child Protective Services, she looks out at the two boys from the window.
He grinded his eyelids and teeth as he clenched the boy tight, not caring even if a tide of noir ink washed over him. He shut his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the vaguely boy-shaped lump with swimming eyes and melted features. It's not you, kid. It's not in you, and it won't ever be in you. It's me. And finally, when he felt the sticky ink no longer pulsing around him, he opened his eyes to a little boy, standing on the sidewalk, looking confused. He wasn't covered in the stuff. He wasn't consumed by the black, it hadn't spread over him. Possibly never had.
He stood up, straightening the kid's onesie, feeling an awkward distance growing between them. He cleared his throat. "So, uh... nothing to see here... we're all good..."
"The belt!" Johnny said, incredulously. He looked down, expecting to see that it was cleaned... but still, that damn black spot was on it. Just one, black spot.
He snatched it up, angrily. Oh, come on.
What was ridiculous to him about the entire idea of Gabriel calling him out for this, that made the current situation even more outrageous was that, it didn't matter what name Gabriel traded under. Gabriel told us time and time again that there was a clear demarcation between his time as Rick Majors and his time as Seromine's vassal, to the point that he told us again and again Rick Majors was dead. Except it patently and absolutely did not work that way. A simple name change isn't enough to wipe out who knew how many untold years here in PCW of rampant mediocrity. Going by a new holy identity didn't cover for a lack of effort. Just because he had found success and championship wins going by Gabriel didn't mean that he wasn't still at the very bottom the same man who couldn't get it done before. Just meant that he had more help to get there. Yeah, he thought. Help. A concept Kyle Shane had never gone by. Everything I've come by in Pure Class Wrestling, I've done on my own, often times fighting off stables and followers just like Seromine and yours, big man.
All that Gabriel is, can only be attributed to Seromine.
He only rose to prominence and held those belts because Seromine wasn't here, licking his own wounds after the beatings and druggings by Nathan Saniti. It took the commish banning Nathan from using his hatpins, and Nathan going his own way out the door, to get this title, but the fact is that if Seromine had been around Gabriel would have had to hand it over. So it seemed to him that the life Gabriel touts as being to his utmost potential was ultimately a lie. He was never at his best, never could be as long as Seromine was around. If he did, he would have to sabotage his own run just so he could give his Messiah a win, which in the end made both of them look halved. To say nothing of the fact that when their congregation of followers was around neither of them could win a match without interference. Ultimately, the entire act, which supposedly strengthed the souls and bolstered the will of both men, made them look both flawed and ultimately weak.
And himself?
He felt his chest as he and Johnny stood together in a jeweler's shop. The older man behind the counter was looking at the faceplate through a loupe. And he felt for the blackness, the sucking gravitic void in his heart, where he sensed that black stain came from... the coldness and aloofness that lived inside his heart that had started this morning when he sat with his son and peddled his wares over the phone and felt that divide.
The jeweler adjusts the goofy thick glasses sitting on top of his head, pulls the belt until it's almost under his nose so he can gape at it. "It's almost as if the gold's turned black because it's supposed to be like this."
Kyle squints at him, "Say what?"
He slowly puts the belt down, "Ayep, mayhap it's always sposed to have been like this, matter of fact. Nothing gold can stay, after all. And who's to say that black wasn't it's natural color before? Got a theory about that, you see, working in the jewelry business, and all we ever see is tarnished, dulled, diluted product. This belt's black mark could be indicating that it was covered up with purty gold once, but it's real nature will always come to the surface. ...Or at least, if you wanna get metaphysical about it."
"Huh." Kyle said, lost in thought. In his pocket, his phone buzzed again, and again, it was Krista, calling him.
But then, isn't that always the way? You always put your fingerprint on anything you hold closest to you. You always stain anything you care about, or that tries to care about you. Sometimes he feared that void, when he became really aware of it. How heartless he was, and could ultimately be. Sometimes, he thought, looking at Johnny, it's a curse that I fear passing on. But when it comes, when I want to apply it to something, being so utterly heartless is a gift I can never give back to anyone... a terrifying gift.
And with that in mind, Kyle looked curiously at the belt in the jeweler's hands. He took it, examining it's faceplate. The beat in his chest, the pulse of his missing heart, hadn't felt this far away in a good long time.
"You know what," Kyle says with a smile, "I think it looks fine like this, the way it is."
