Defective

[Tyler Scott]

Tyler looks down at his hands.

Years of grappling have taken their toll. He had lost count of how many time he had broken a metacarpal or fractured a knuckle in the ring. The tendons and ligaments have been to torn to shredded. Regular twisting, torsion and impacts have left his hands permanently swollen and curled up like claws.

He cannot really feel his fingertips on his left hand anymore. All that is left is a distant tingling that fades with every passing day. Dexterity is a long gone concept.

Once upon a time Tyler used to mend his own ring gear. Intricate tasks such as sewing and needlework are almost impossible nowadays. Even tying his own shoelaces is a struggle. A proud man, instead of changing in the locker room with the rest of the roster, now resorts to putting his boots on in the privacy of a cubicle for fear of other wrestlers seeing his weaknesses. Left handed at writing, he dreads the rare occurrence of a fan asking for an autograph. Thankfully, he has come to perfect a scrawling signature that looks authentic and hides his inability to grip a pen properly. The same can be said for his in-ring style - he continues to evolve his move set to hide his shortcomings and make the most of his dwindling strengths.

The pain is there. It is always there. Some days are better than others but today is particularly painful. The knuckles on his left hand feel as though they are about to pop out of his skin. There is a constant rubbing of bone on bone where cartilage has eroded to nothingness. Every time Tyler outstretches his fingers his joint crack and pop.

He unscrews the cap on the medication bottle and throws a large red and yellow capsule to the back of his tongue. With a gulp of single malt whiskey it disappears down his throat. A pill and a shot was an ill-advised daily pain-numbing ritual - but tonight is different. This is only to take the edge off. He is planning ahead.

There is never an ambient temperature - his hands are either glowing red hot or dead freezing blue. It all depends on whether his heart working sufficiently on that day to pump blood far enough around his body.

Tyler looks across to his right arm. There is still some pain but not like the left. This pain was different. Less of a dull ache and more or a sharp intense shock. It is like a small electrical shock in his forearm and up to his elbow.

He had experienced his pain before. The surgeons told him to expect some damage - particularly as Tyler refused to give up wrestling as a career. They warned him that the repairs they have made would likely be negated if Tyler continued to put his body in harms way. Instead of retiring, taking it easy and looking after his brand new arm - Tyler accepted the risks. He knew his surgically repaired arm would break again - so he learned how to fix it himself. After all - he could wire a plug so, naturally, he assumed that the same principles should apply to rewiring a bionic limb.

He rolls back his black long-sleeved t-shirt to reveal a ‘C’ shape of stitches on the inside of his forearm, just below the elbow. They hold a square of pasty white skin to the surrounding areas. The skin was supposed to return back to a nice pinkish nude hue - but it has never had the chance to fully heal. In the ring, his long elbow pads cover the area - the fans and other wrestlers would never know.

Tyler picks up the syringe and pierces the vial of methadone.

Back in London, Tyler had a acquaintance that worked as a porter in the local Mile End hospital. He would frequently pilfer morphine from the hospital stockroom in exchange for stolen cash or goods. Since coming back to America, Tyler has tried to employ the same tactics of sourcing painkillers. He had recently befriended a female nurse named Nancy whilst she was on a smoke break outside Moses H Cone hospital, Greensboro. Tyler convinced Nancy to source morphine for him. However, Nancy is not the thieving type and not as subtle or conniving as Tyler’s previous accomplices. She only grabs what medication is available at the time. Today Tyler has a batch of methadone - which pleases him very much.

The syringes sinks into his skin and into the bulbous blue vein throbbing in the fold of his elbow. A slow trickle of crimson seeps into the syringe - natural blood mixes with artificial drug. The two substances swirl around one another for a moment like a tornado trapped inside a test tube. Gradually Tyler presses on the plunger and the methadone is released into his bloodstream.

A few moments pass. Whilst the drug kicks in, Tyler cleans up the injection wound and disposes of the needle in a safe and hygienic way. He reaches back into his armchair as the methadone steadily washes over him. A feeling of blissful disconnection to the world overtakes him. The pain subsides. A clarity of thought returns like a eureka moment. Suddenly a weight is lifted from his body and mind. He pinches the skin on his right arm. He can’t feel anything. The methadone has done its job. Tyler is ready to operate.

Tyler reaches into his washbag-come-toolbox and extracts a pair of tweezers. One by one, Tyler removes the stitches with a clumsy yanking action. Some stitches comes out easily. Others take a forceful tug. A few snap and Tyler has to go digging around to pull the short stumps from under the skin. There is always a bit of blood when he inevitably catches an unhealed scab but nothing that a few handfuls of tissue paper cannot stem the flow of.

With all the stitches removed, he lifts the corner of the flap of skin. He pulls back the flesh to reveal a metal eco-skeleton intertwined with a series of red and blue wires. Manufactured arteries and veins weave between a titanium ulna and radius. Copper penetrates the outer sleeves. Electricity flows out like internal bleeding. Wires spark at the frayed edges of the misfiring connections. The black burnt remnants of plastic are evidence that the connections haven’t been right for some time.

Tyler reaches over to his little toolkit again, replacing the tweezers with a scientific screwdriver. He twists and loosens the screw just enough for the wire to slide back in. One by one - Black, orange, green, yellow - he places the wires back into the rightful place before tightly screwing them in place. The tingling in his finger subsides. The feeling returns. The connections are secure, they are stable - for now.

Elsewhere on his body there is a prosthetic hip and a silicon knee replacement. Several discs in his spine are fused together by rods.

Tyler Scott is a bionic man. But he is also broken man. His natural body is giving up on him. His mechanical parts are now in a state of disrepair. Every machined ball and socket joint is faulty. Every metal screw in his back has come loose.

His robotic body that was built to serve him has turned against him. It seems that, once again, people have also turned on Tyler Scott.

—-

Firstly - Justin ‘Stormm’ Michaels could not pin my shoulders to the mat. Nor could he force me to submit. He resorted to choking me out as the only way he could he hold onto his precious North American championship.

Secondly - Gabriel and his lord and saviour Seromine screw me out of the Icemann Invitational Tournament. Those two muppets float around claiming to save people. When have they ever saved anyone or anything? Two of the most over-dramatic conmen clairvoyants there have ever been - Seromine and Gabriel are total charlatans. Nothing I have seen from these two douchebags has ever lead me to believe that they can save a cat from a tree. But I want to be disproven. I want to know that there is the potential for salvation. Seromine, Gabriel - if you can fix people - fix me. If you can truly save people - for fuck sake save me. Please prove it to me.

And finally Kyle Shane...

Kyle Shane is a pompous little prick.

Kyle Shane magics up some bullshit term - thermodynamic miracles - to describe a seemingly impossible event. He paints himself as some form of catalyst for vast change - that somehow he can alter the future so significantly for his opponents that their lives will be transformed. He tried to implement this rhetoric with Gabriel. He thought by involving himself in Gabriel business he could help him to remove the shackles of his master and return to his old identity. Did that work? No it didn’t.

But... Kyle Shane was right about something. He does have the power to alter careers. He does have the power to change lives. Once Living a Legacy is over, Kyle Shane will have had a irreversible impact on me. Either I win and I complete a lifetime ambition of becoming a professional wrestling world champion or I lose and the collapse of my career accelerated towards oblivion.

Kyle Shane has been moaning that our match has come too early for him. He has stated that I have just stumbled across his opportunity at the last minute. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Nothing happens by chance. Everything in this world is governed by cause and effect.

Cause - Smack Kyle Shane in the nose.
Effect - Get a World title shot.

Cause - Kyle Shane runs his mouth like a little bitch.
Effect - I ram his teeth down his throat.

You may think that this title shot has come out of nowhere. You whinge and moan that there has been no build up - that I have not earned my right to challenge for the PCW World Championship. Well my entire career has been building this to moment.

I first competed in PCW way before you came along Kyle - I have been in this game a long time. Your narrow little mind cannot comprehend anything beyond your own limited experience. You refer to me as a newcomer - an upstart. I graduated this game before you were even in kindergarten you cocky little bastard.

You think that there has been no build up. You are wrong. I have been building to this for a very very long time. And you are just the unfortunate soul that happens to hold the PCW World Title when my story finally falls into place.

In the vastness of time and space, the planets align to cause eclipses. The holes in layers of circumstantial Swiss cheese match up perfectly creating a straight line to the PCW title. Kyle Shane - you are simply the last Chelsey layer.

The doubts and nagging incertitude plague me. I am constantly questioning if I am good enough to do this anymore. There is not much time left for me. Rather than listening to those oppressive doubts and once again fading away from Pure Class Class with a whimper, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I decided to make my own opportunities - to make the whole of Pure Class Wrestling take notice. I decided to punch Kyle Shane in his stupid fucking face.

I created my own opportunity.

I will make my own destiny.

Before I leave this place - I will test myself against the best. I will challenge for the PCW World Title. Whichever way the winds of destiny blow - whether I win or lose - I will know where I stand.

And Kyle Shane - you will know that you have been to fucking hell and back. You can bet your fucking house on that.