Post by Mr. Showtime on May 21, 2015 17:09:31 GMT -5
It’s no secret that “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght suffered from night terrors. It’s nothing he bragged about, but it’s not a very well-kept secret. Time and time again they come in his hour of need. They are less hallucinations and more dreams to help clarify his life. Terrifying dreams. They’re vivid and disturbing. Like a strong smack in the face.
This night was different though. The sleep he was in was not self-inflicted. A member, maybe members, of the Black Hand had sought out Showtime. A struggle ensued when they didn’t identify themselves. In their minds there was no need to. A member of their order should always know their brethren. Michael Wryght was of a different thought process. He’s lived a life of battles and fame. A hated opponent would be just as likely to try to abduct him as a lunatic fan. Either way Showtime was not one to go quietly into the night.
Somehow a cloth was thrown over Showtime’s nose and mouth. Though he thrashed, the chemicals worked quickly. He subsided into an unconscious state full of nightmares and realities. Like many of his dreams he’s put into a clairvoyant state. More like a fly on the wall then a participant.
He found himself in a hospital. Cold and white. It gave him the uneasy feeling that the struggle with the shrouded figured ended terrible. Maybe he was left for dead, and he refused to pass on to the next life. A feeling which was short lived once he’d realized he’d been here before, and it no longer existed. He was in the maternity wing of Point Pleasant Hospital. Once an epicenter for new born babies in the Jersey Shore area, long since replaced by a multilevel parking structure.
There was the piercing of infants screaming. Though in the nursery of about two dozen infants there is one that seems almost docile. He started swaddled but somehow kicked his legs out. He’d been born with both his hips and feet turned inward. It made his feet seem to be on backwards and would need a brace to turn them the right way. It looked like a pair of baby shoes with a brass bar to connect and adjust them.
In the window stood a man with dark hair and a thick mustache. His eyes were locked onto the blue tag that read M. Wryght. Mr. Showtime wouldn’t be added to that name for some time. As his father looked on he was distraught over his son’s disfigured legs. Not knowing at the time it wasn’t all that serious. He just stared. Too afraid to meet his son for the first time. Afraid that this life would be too fragile for what laid in store.
Harold Wryght looked on as a male nurse entered the nursery. The fact the man was headed towards his first born was lost to the idea he was a male nurse. Not something overly common in the early eighties. Once he realized that the nurse was headed straight for his son he tapped on the window separating them. He motioned the international symbol of confusion, upturned palms and shrugged shoulders, the moment the nurse looked his way. He responded to Harold Wryght with a wave into the nursery.
Harold froze. This was it and he knew it. He would need to face his son for the first time. He had the option to be in the delivery room while Michael was being born, but gave that up to his mother in law. The now common practice of the father being the birthing coach had just began its process to normalcy. After what felt like an eternity, Harold finally took the invitation.
“Is everything alright?” were the first words Michael would hear from his father.
“Yeah he’s fine,” he replied, looking over the future superstar. “This little bugger was in a hurry to get out. The charts say he was three weeks early.”
“Are you sure he’s okay?” pressed Harold. “I haven’t seen him cry once, and his leg are all…”
“Did you notice that his are the only eyes open?” asked the nurse, which Harold obviously didn’t. He’d yet to look inside the tiny translucent plastic crib. Once he did though, all of his fears melted away instantaneously. Though only for the briefest of moments. “It seems to me he’s too busy to cry. He seems to be looking for something.”
Of course Harold thought it might be the little guy’s father he was looking for, but the nurse was insinuating something entirely different. From the pocket of his scrubs, the nurse withdrew a blue rattle with a tiny black hand print pressed upon the side.
“They’ve marked him already?” whispered Harold, the color slipped from his face. His eyes wouldn’t leave the rattle positioned between a small stuffed Kermit the Frog and baby Michael Wryght.
“The same as you, Mr. Wryght,” coldly replied the man, adding no comfort to his voice. Harold stepped away, running his hand through his black mane. As he was pining over the marking he failed to notice that the nurse had procured a small syringe. Baby sized even. By the time Harold had returned his gaze on his son the damage was already done. The nurse had returned the needle to his scrub pocket. The two men locked eyes after Harold had caught him in the act.
“What did you just do?” Mikey’s father demanded. He immediately turned his attention to his son. Young Michael’s eyes had rolled into the back of his head and he began to shake uncontrollably. He squeaked here and there but never made a sound resembling a cry. In a panic Harold looked back up towards the nurse, but the man had fled. Instead of trying to chase him down Harold stopped at the door he entered crying for help. An army of nurses rushed in to assist with his son. When questioned Harold told the whole story, to be met with only one solid answer; there were no male nurses at Point Pleasant Hospital.
Showtime’s dream slipped away. He reached for consciousness. Yearned for it. This had been the most intense dream he’d ever had. He’d known about the seizure he had when he was days old, but never knew that it was inflicted. There was no long term damaged caused, only a hernia that he’d need operated on in a few weeks. He never became a big crier and was always curious. His dad was known to say that everything caught Mikey’s interest, at least for as long as it could hold it.
When Showtime slipped back into his dream he saw himself older. He didn’t know the exact age, but if he needed to guess it was around five. He actually remembered this day, but none of the conversation would come to him. His father had taken him to a place where he probably shouldn’t, but justified it as a way to keep his son safe.
Harold Wryght steps into what could best be described as a parlor. It was empty sans two older gentleman. One of which puffed on a long Churchill cigar, while the other enjoyed a red pipe. Between the two they'd left a sea of bluish-grey smoke.
Underneath the tobacco cloud stood Mikey Wryght. He had platinum blond curly hair, which will soon begin to darken, and the same piercing blue eyes. He was enamored by the room. It was one which he'd never experienced before. The walls were delicately carved from rich mahogany and animal heads lined the walls. These were the types of beasts he'd only seen in coloring books or Saturday morning television hosted by Jack Hanna.
Michael's eyes were finally drawn to the marble chess set that the two men were concentrating on. The way Michael saw it they were engaged in battle. He may have yet to participate in a game, but he knew the pieces and the concept. The man moved his knight and both young and present Michael could have sworn they heard it whinny.
"Mr. Wryght, please come join us," said the pipe wielding man, without looking from the board. Michael looked up at his father, and after receiving the nod he ran over to get as close as possible. He studied the movements of the men, infatuated with the strategy behind it all. He missed probably half the conversation before he realized that it had turned heated.
"Jasper, please you must understand," begged Harold Wryght. "You must ask them to grant me an audience. They have to lift the marking from Michael. He should be able to choose his own path."
Michael looked from man to man, now fully engaged at the mention of his name. He wasn't sure which was Jasper, but he'd never seen his father beg before. It was startling for a boy this young to see even the slightest weakness in his father.
"You're afraid, and it isn't the first time a Wryght has come in here, hat in hand," started the man with the cigar. With a pause he looks down at young Michael and continues, "And probably won't be the last time. You already know there is nothing any of us can do to remove the mark. Plus the Wryghts have been member for as long as anyone can remember. They could even be founding members for as much as we know."
"What if I had found a replacement? There is a boy that was referred to me by Damian Sorrows. He was a part of his fertility trials and a prime candidate. His surname is Matthews or Michaels. Something like that."
"Sorrows, uh?" asked Jasper as he pulled from his pipe.
"The good doctor is a dangerous man, Mr. Wryght. The Black Hand has almost expelled him a few times and the work he’s doing in the ward is sure to be the final nail."
"Are you sure you want to put this family through an initiation test? If this child, er..."
"JUSTIN!" blurted out Harold. It was hard to contain his excitement as the conversation seemed to be turning in his favor.
"Sure, Justin. Do you really want to put his family through this? You know as well as anyone else that if the boy is not up to standards then he will perish. Maybe not now, but he would be marked eventually. If he falls in with protocol he might be initiated, but chances are someone will be sent to destroy him.”
"Anything to get Michael unmarked."
"It's always the sins of the father that ruin the sons. You really think that bringing in a trade could cut off the line of Wryght?"
"If this new boy does get marked it will probably be Michael that needs to deal with him. The two will be set up to destroy each other, and there is no way to know if this little one can survive. All to clean up the mess you put on him. This is the way the Hand works. You're failure should be your own, don't put this evil on him."
"I did not fail," growled Harold. "What you asked me to do was unthinkable. No man should be asked to do something like that."
"But you were Mr. Wryght," replied Jasper as he looked up at Harold, his bifocals sliding down his nose. "And you failed by not acting. Now instead of that necessary evil you may be responsible for the smiting out of an innocent life. How can you live with that?"
Michael's father was clearly speechless. He thought this would be the end of his nightmare, but it was only redoubled. Not only was Michael locked in, but he'd ultimately need to deal with the sacrifice of Justin Michaels.
Though Harold was speechless, Michael was far from it. He'd understood as much as he could and raised his prepubescent voice, "You can't talk to my daddy like that. He's a hero and better than any of you. You...you...you ASSHOLES!"
Jasper lowered his head to Michael's level and said, "Looks like Mikey here has more fight in him then you ever did, Mr. Wryght."
Michael wasn’t sure what it meant to have fight in you, but knew what was said was an insult. He looked Jasper dead set in the eyes and cracked him on the cheek with an open palm slap. It sent old Jasper’s glasses sailing through the air. The old man showed no anger though, and only crooked an eyebrow in response. The fact that none of this seemed to phase the elderly man forced him to come to a last resort. There was one thing above all that could antagonize the best of them. Ruin their game. It may not seem like a big deal to adults, but to a five year old it was downright blasphemous.
Michael knocked all of the chess pieces onto the floor, and though Jasper made no move the man smoking the cigar had a flash of annoyance. He must have been winning.
Little Michael turned his back on the men, and with head held high stormed out the way they’d come. He scored it as a personal victory while everyone else saw it more so as a temper tantrum. Probably the first of many epic tantrums that Showtime would throw throughout his life. Harold scooped up his son and just as they walked out Michael grabbed the last word, “And don’t call me Mikey!”
The dream vanished and Showtime’s eyes began to crack. Through slits in his eyes he could see a glorious bright light. He didn’t know what it was but he fought to awake. Someone must not have thought it time for Showtime to come out of his slumber. A rag was replaced over Michael’s face and mouth to bring him back to his dream world past. The sour taste followed him, or maybe it was the blood that filled his mouth in the next stage of his journey.
He strangely knew where he was this go around, but from present day life rather than the past. His father sat at a small round table across from an older woman. This woman was someone that Showtime would come to loath for changing his life forever. It was the member of the Dillinger family known as Granny. She didn’t look much younger, though almost thirty years would pass before he saw her again. Harold looked terrible. Almost a year had passed since the scene at the parlor and those months were not kind to the eldest Wryght.
“Granny, there must be something that you can do,” begged Harold Wryght. He had exhausted all outlets and his actions to get Michael unmarked had not gone over well.
“People are beginning to question your loyalty Harry,” she replied. She was the first member of the Black Hand to not formally address Showtime’s father. In this society the family lineage meant a lot the longer you’d been a member. The Dillingers and Wryghts happened to be two of the eldest. A nuance that Showtime would figure out at this moment. “I didn’t agree to take you on as a mentee because I enjoy it. I did so to help solidify the bond between our houses. Our families have butted heads as much as we’ve supported each other. It’s time we formed stronger bonds.”
“And now I’ve failed you.”
“It’s not me you have to worry about,” she replied, sorrow forcing its way into her eyes. “It’s him. He needs you Harry, even if you don’t see it. He needs your guidance or he’ll never be ready for when the time comes. For my two boys it will be easier. Hangtown is a hard place to grow up. You remember how hard their father is.”
“Yeah he broke a couple of my teeth when we were kids,” replied Harold, rubbing his jaw.
“If I’m not mistaken that was after you tried to take his eye out with a shard of glass.”
“Well he was much bigger, but I was a wiry fighter.”
“Carful with that, karma has a way of coming back and biting someone you love,” they laughed at the chances of that, but the jovial mood died quickly. It’s a side of Granny not many have seen, but the Black Hand has a way of pulling a person out of you that you didn’t know existed.
“What do I do now?” asked Harold, looking up at his mentor.
“I think it’s time for you to get away,” she replied solemnly. “You’re no good to him now and maybe some time away can get your head straight. You have dug yourself a hole with the Hand. If you prove that you are willing to do anything, and I mean anything, maybe you can regain your stature. It sure wouldn’t hurt Mikey’s future.”
“How could I leave him now?”
“You’re in the process of ruining your family’s name. With your father gone and only you to get Mikey ready they will kill you before they let you destroy one of their longest lines. Take a break from your family. Give him the chance to excel.”
“You think I should have done it,” said Harold with a sneer.
“Harry, I think if you should have done it you would have,” her words were met with Michael barging in the front door. He had a bloody lip, a black eye and a handful of what looked like red weeds.
“What happened?” asked Harold with a raised eyebrow.
“Nothing,” grunted young Mikey.
“What’s that in your hand?”
“Hair,” he replied, letting the red strands of hair fall to the floor. Suddenly an older boy with long jet black hair kicked in the door followed by one about the same age as Mikey. If not slightly older.
“William. Phinehas. Have you boys been fighting?” asked Granny.
“Yes ma’am,” replied a young William Dillinger. “Phin found someone who would actually fight back instead of running away. It was fun to watch, he even knocked out Phin’s front teeth.”
“They were loose to begin with,” defended Phinehas, showing off the gap between his lateral incisors.
“I would have won too if Billy didn’t cheat,” pouted Mikey, kicking the rug.
“Nuh-uh,” blurted both Dillingers, but for different reasons.
“Billy did so cheat,” added the squeaky voice of Ruth, whose head popped in the doorway and vanished. Billy cursed under his breath and ran after his sister.
This scene was one that surprised Michael Wryght as it faded from his consciousness. He didn’t remember it, but there were numerous scuffles in his young life. Even more with this particular family in later years. The thing that nagged him was no one would out right say what his father wouldn’t do. It had to be something big, but how big? What could spook him enough to try to cut ties with the Black Hand after being connected for so long?
This time around the drugs did their work. He didn’t almost wake. He didn’t even try. He knew that it was a hopeless battle. Instead he tried to see through the clouds and begin to make reason of this all. They had hinted to so much. So much that had already unfurled in front of his eyes.
He heard screaming that sent chills down his neck. He knew what was to come next, and every part of him wanted it to cease. This he didn’t need to be seen again. It was already burned into his memory. It was a fight between his mother and father. The final fight. After this day he’d never see Harold again, or so he thought. He’d go to his father’s grave around his birthday every year, not knowing it was an empty plot. All a ploy, but for what?
“How could you have done this?” screamed his mother. She was half in tear and half in fury. For her small stature she came at him with a fire of all nine circles of hell. His father fought back though, this would not be one sided. He threw anything he could get his hands on. Michael’s eyes were locked on a VHS sized hole in the wall. It was an odd sight. Just a perfect slit.
His father was jacked up, on Jack Daniels of course, “I did what I had to do the same way I always had. I told you that this was my reality and that if you didn’t like it then you could have left. Now look at me. I have nothing.”
“You’re damned right you have nothing,” she snarled back. Michael always wondered what started this fight. Any time he’d asked his mother, she’d immediately burst into tears. She always blamed herself for her husband’s fate. If she only knew.
“What? Do you want me to leave? That’s it, isn’t it? Everyone thinks that we’d all be better off if I just got fucking lost. Hell maybe I should just end it all.”
“Don’t make idle promises Harry,” came the main comment that would torture her tomorrow. “I don’t know what happened to you three years ago, but you’ve never been the same. All you do is mumble about protecting Michael, but you’re the only one hurting him. You’re the only one hurting all of us. Don’t you remember that you still have a wife? You still have a daughter. What about us? You’re not the man that I married and I’ll be damned if I let you take us down with you. One time I would have been happy to help. I begged to help. Now…now there’s nothing left to help.”
It was a cold dagger that ripped deep into Harold’s heart and one that Michael would play in his mind on repeat. He sat on the couch watching this Shakespearean scene play out. His little sister had her head buried in the crook of his arm trying to block it all out. That wasn’t an option for Michael.
His father slipped on the tile floor. He’s thrown a pot of pasta all of the kitchen, and by the remains sticking to the wall it was almost done. The mixture of booze and water was the recipe for his fall and the last thing all of them would remember of him. Embarrassed and defeated he started to crawl until his feet caught the ground. The slamming of the front door caused the glass to shatter onto the foyer. His mother crumpled to the floor, full on sobbing, throwing a fist full of linguini in frustration. Michael just sat back, rocking his sister to some place calm.
It would be a few hours before the Brick Township police department showed up at the front door. Apparently Harold hadn’t had enough to drink that night so he went out to consume more. By the time he had finished they had to kick him out of his local watering hole, the Arrowhead. In his inebriated state he drove his Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera into a Mac truck. The car tried to go under, but unlike the movies cars don’t fit under there. The top was completely ripped off of the car and Harold. Though future events would prove that to be false.
Michael Wryght’s eyes burst open and he was finally awake. He didn’t know where he was, but all the anger he ever felt was amplified to new heights. He jumped off the cot and careened into the first person he saw. It was the only person left in the room with him. With both hands he grabbed the cloaked figure by the neck and pinned him against the wall.
“What did you do this to him? Why did you take him away? You destroyed him, for what? What wouldn’t he do?” So many questions raced through his mind at that time and as he asked them they began merge together. His rambling continued forming nonsensical phrases. None being answered. His victim had no chance. The air to his lungs was cut off and his legs could only twitch. Showtime wanted to squeeze harder. He didn’t know this man, but what did it matter? The vengeance would be sweet.
In the act he noticed that his hands were black as coal all the way up past his wrists. The thought crossed his mind that this was still a dream, so he could follow through. In the end he released his grip and the man fell to the floor. He wheezed and gasped for air. No gulp was big enough.
Showtime started to feel the after effects of being drugged. He had acted so quickly that he didn’t notice them at first. He slumped to the ground and looked over at the hooded figure, “So what now?”
The response was thick and raspy when it finally came, “You get to decide that. You either stay or try to go down the path of your father.”
“How could you do that to him?”
“Everything that had happened to him was self-inflicted. The Black Hand never asked him to leave. It was he who asked to go. Membership here isn’t a choice, you are chosen. Some people at birth and some at death. The Hand works in mysterious ways, but I assure you that it does work.”
“How do you expect me to fight for you now? What the hell does a wrestling match mean after everything I have seen? What about Justin?”
“You know as well as I do it is your duty to protect the integrity of The Black Hand. The three of you are currently our face. You have brought us to the public and you more willingly then the rest. You have to go through the other competitors to cement the Hand’s dominance. It is the only way. This tournament means everything, and you were always meant to win. We are only here to show you what you needed to see.”
“I have so many questions,” replied Showtime, though still angry he sounded somewhat defeated.
“You will find no answers here, Mr. Wryght,” being called that name felt eerie to Showtime. He’d seen his father called it so many times that it almost seemed dirty. “You will have to decide. There are three men that still stand in your way, and two will need to fall to you. Justin was always supposed to be yours to deal with. Your father saw to that.”
“Him and Sorrows, I suppose.”
“Regardless, who put him there he is your responsibility. He cannot be allowed to move on. He has been marked, by you. His children have been marked, by you,” continued the hoarse voice. Inside Showtime’s mind the glass pane of clarity shattered. It wasn’t until that moment that he connected the rattles that he’d left with the Michaels’ twins and the one placed in his cradle.
“No,” he pleaded. “I never marked the twins. That was only a mind game to get to Justin. He was the one I marked not the other two, and according to those dreams it wasn’t me who marked him either. I don’t have that sort of power.”
“Please, Mr. Wryght.”
“No, stop it! Don’t you put this evil on me. Those children are innocent. You must unmark them.”
“Mr. Wryght, you of all people know that is not possible, but not all is lost. You can be the one who saves them as well. You have that power, but first you must deal with your next task. Please, do not let this enlightenment cause you to stray. You have only been shown all of this because they thought you were ready. You must deal with Justin Michaels and then either Sean Rhodes or Byron Belasko. This is what you were put here for. It is you who must finish what your father started.”
“I have more questions.”
“Then you must find someone that knows the Black Hand but no longer answers to them. I shouldn’t have even told you that, but that is your only hope.”
“Who can I find?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wryght, that is for you to figure out,” the man unable to talk any longer pulled himself from the room. He left Showtime alone, frustrated and utterly clueless on what he was supposed to do next. Everything he’s been pushing for had come down crashing around him and there was no one here who could help him. He needed to find someone. Anyone.
This night was different though. The sleep he was in was not self-inflicted. A member, maybe members, of the Black Hand had sought out Showtime. A struggle ensued when they didn’t identify themselves. In their minds there was no need to. A member of their order should always know their brethren. Michael Wryght was of a different thought process. He’s lived a life of battles and fame. A hated opponent would be just as likely to try to abduct him as a lunatic fan. Either way Showtime was not one to go quietly into the night.
Somehow a cloth was thrown over Showtime’s nose and mouth. Though he thrashed, the chemicals worked quickly. He subsided into an unconscious state full of nightmares and realities. Like many of his dreams he’s put into a clairvoyant state. More like a fly on the wall then a participant.
He found himself in a hospital. Cold and white. It gave him the uneasy feeling that the struggle with the shrouded figured ended terrible. Maybe he was left for dead, and he refused to pass on to the next life. A feeling which was short lived once he’d realized he’d been here before, and it no longer existed. He was in the maternity wing of Point Pleasant Hospital. Once an epicenter for new born babies in the Jersey Shore area, long since replaced by a multilevel parking structure.
There was the piercing of infants screaming. Though in the nursery of about two dozen infants there is one that seems almost docile. He started swaddled but somehow kicked his legs out. He’d been born with both his hips and feet turned inward. It made his feet seem to be on backwards and would need a brace to turn them the right way. It looked like a pair of baby shoes with a brass bar to connect and adjust them.
In the window stood a man with dark hair and a thick mustache. His eyes were locked onto the blue tag that read M. Wryght. Mr. Showtime wouldn’t be added to that name for some time. As his father looked on he was distraught over his son’s disfigured legs. Not knowing at the time it wasn’t all that serious. He just stared. Too afraid to meet his son for the first time. Afraid that this life would be too fragile for what laid in store.
Harold Wryght looked on as a male nurse entered the nursery. The fact the man was headed towards his first born was lost to the idea he was a male nurse. Not something overly common in the early eighties. Once he realized that the nurse was headed straight for his son he tapped on the window separating them. He motioned the international symbol of confusion, upturned palms and shrugged shoulders, the moment the nurse looked his way. He responded to Harold Wryght with a wave into the nursery.
Harold froze. This was it and he knew it. He would need to face his son for the first time. He had the option to be in the delivery room while Michael was being born, but gave that up to his mother in law. The now common practice of the father being the birthing coach had just began its process to normalcy. After what felt like an eternity, Harold finally took the invitation.
“Is everything alright?” were the first words Michael would hear from his father.
“Yeah he’s fine,” he replied, looking over the future superstar. “This little bugger was in a hurry to get out. The charts say he was three weeks early.”
“Are you sure he’s okay?” pressed Harold. “I haven’t seen him cry once, and his leg are all…”
“Did you notice that his are the only eyes open?” asked the nurse, which Harold obviously didn’t. He’d yet to look inside the tiny translucent plastic crib. Once he did though, all of his fears melted away instantaneously. Though only for the briefest of moments. “It seems to me he’s too busy to cry. He seems to be looking for something.”
Of course Harold thought it might be the little guy’s father he was looking for, but the nurse was insinuating something entirely different. From the pocket of his scrubs, the nurse withdrew a blue rattle with a tiny black hand print pressed upon the side.
“They’ve marked him already?” whispered Harold, the color slipped from his face. His eyes wouldn’t leave the rattle positioned between a small stuffed Kermit the Frog and baby Michael Wryght.
“The same as you, Mr. Wryght,” coldly replied the man, adding no comfort to his voice. Harold stepped away, running his hand through his black mane. As he was pining over the marking he failed to notice that the nurse had procured a small syringe. Baby sized even. By the time Harold had returned his gaze on his son the damage was already done. The nurse had returned the needle to his scrub pocket. The two men locked eyes after Harold had caught him in the act.
“What did you just do?” Mikey’s father demanded. He immediately turned his attention to his son. Young Michael’s eyes had rolled into the back of his head and he began to shake uncontrollably. He squeaked here and there but never made a sound resembling a cry. In a panic Harold looked back up towards the nurse, but the man had fled. Instead of trying to chase him down Harold stopped at the door he entered crying for help. An army of nurses rushed in to assist with his son. When questioned Harold told the whole story, to be met with only one solid answer; there were no male nurses at Point Pleasant Hospital.
Showtime’s dream slipped away. He reached for consciousness. Yearned for it. This had been the most intense dream he’d ever had. He’d known about the seizure he had when he was days old, but never knew that it was inflicted. There was no long term damaged caused, only a hernia that he’d need operated on in a few weeks. He never became a big crier and was always curious. His dad was known to say that everything caught Mikey’s interest, at least for as long as it could hold it.
When Showtime slipped back into his dream he saw himself older. He didn’t know the exact age, but if he needed to guess it was around five. He actually remembered this day, but none of the conversation would come to him. His father had taken him to a place where he probably shouldn’t, but justified it as a way to keep his son safe.
Harold Wryght steps into what could best be described as a parlor. It was empty sans two older gentleman. One of which puffed on a long Churchill cigar, while the other enjoyed a red pipe. Between the two they'd left a sea of bluish-grey smoke.
Underneath the tobacco cloud stood Mikey Wryght. He had platinum blond curly hair, which will soon begin to darken, and the same piercing blue eyes. He was enamored by the room. It was one which he'd never experienced before. The walls were delicately carved from rich mahogany and animal heads lined the walls. These were the types of beasts he'd only seen in coloring books or Saturday morning television hosted by Jack Hanna.
Michael's eyes were finally drawn to the marble chess set that the two men were concentrating on. The way Michael saw it they were engaged in battle. He may have yet to participate in a game, but he knew the pieces and the concept. The man moved his knight and both young and present Michael could have sworn they heard it whinny.
"Mr. Wryght, please come join us," said the pipe wielding man, without looking from the board. Michael looked up at his father, and after receiving the nod he ran over to get as close as possible. He studied the movements of the men, infatuated with the strategy behind it all. He missed probably half the conversation before he realized that it had turned heated.
"Jasper, please you must understand," begged Harold Wryght. "You must ask them to grant me an audience. They have to lift the marking from Michael. He should be able to choose his own path."
Michael looked from man to man, now fully engaged at the mention of his name. He wasn't sure which was Jasper, but he'd never seen his father beg before. It was startling for a boy this young to see even the slightest weakness in his father.
"You're afraid, and it isn't the first time a Wryght has come in here, hat in hand," started the man with the cigar. With a pause he looks down at young Michael and continues, "And probably won't be the last time. You already know there is nothing any of us can do to remove the mark. Plus the Wryghts have been member for as long as anyone can remember. They could even be founding members for as much as we know."
"What if I had found a replacement? There is a boy that was referred to me by Damian Sorrows. He was a part of his fertility trials and a prime candidate. His surname is Matthews or Michaels. Something like that."
"Sorrows, uh?" asked Jasper as he pulled from his pipe.
"The good doctor is a dangerous man, Mr. Wryght. The Black Hand has almost expelled him a few times and the work he’s doing in the ward is sure to be the final nail."
"Are you sure you want to put this family through an initiation test? If this child, er..."
"JUSTIN!" blurted out Harold. It was hard to contain his excitement as the conversation seemed to be turning in his favor.
"Sure, Justin. Do you really want to put his family through this? You know as well as anyone else that if the boy is not up to standards then he will perish. Maybe not now, but he would be marked eventually. If he falls in with protocol he might be initiated, but chances are someone will be sent to destroy him.”
"Anything to get Michael unmarked."
"It's always the sins of the father that ruin the sons. You really think that bringing in a trade could cut off the line of Wryght?"
"If this new boy does get marked it will probably be Michael that needs to deal with him. The two will be set up to destroy each other, and there is no way to know if this little one can survive. All to clean up the mess you put on him. This is the way the Hand works. You're failure should be your own, don't put this evil on him."
"I did not fail," growled Harold. "What you asked me to do was unthinkable. No man should be asked to do something like that."
"But you were Mr. Wryght," replied Jasper as he looked up at Harold, his bifocals sliding down his nose. "And you failed by not acting. Now instead of that necessary evil you may be responsible for the smiting out of an innocent life. How can you live with that?"
Michael's father was clearly speechless. He thought this would be the end of his nightmare, but it was only redoubled. Not only was Michael locked in, but he'd ultimately need to deal with the sacrifice of Justin Michaels.
Though Harold was speechless, Michael was far from it. He'd understood as much as he could and raised his prepubescent voice, "You can't talk to my daddy like that. He's a hero and better than any of you. You...you...you ASSHOLES!"
Jasper lowered his head to Michael's level and said, "Looks like Mikey here has more fight in him then you ever did, Mr. Wryght."
Michael wasn’t sure what it meant to have fight in you, but knew what was said was an insult. He looked Jasper dead set in the eyes and cracked him on the cheek with an open palm slap. It sent old Jasper’s glasses sailing through the air. The old man showed no anger though, and only crooked an eyebrow in response. The fact that none of this seemed to phase the elderly man forced him to come to a last resort. There was one thing above all that could antagonize the best of them. Ruin their game. It may not seem like a big deal to adults, but to a five year old it was downright blasphemous.
Michael knocked all of the chess pieces onto the floor, and though Jasper made no move the man smoking the cigar had a flash of annoyance. He must have been winning.
Little Michael turned his back on the men, and with head held high stormed out the way they’d come. He scored it as a personal victory while everyone else saw it more so as a temper tantrum. Probably the first of many epic tantrums that Showtime would throw throughout his life. Harold scooped up his son and just as they walked out Michael grabbed the last word, “And don’t call me Mikey!”
The dream vanished and Showtime’s eyes began to crack. Through slits in his eyes he could see a glorious bright light. He didn’t know what it was but he fought to awake. Someone must not have thought it time for Showtime to come out of his slumber. A rag was replaced over Michael’s face and mouth to bring him back to his dream world past. The sour taste followed him, or maybe it was the blood that filled his mouth in the next stage of his journey.
He strangely knew where he was this go around, but from present day life rather than the past. His father sat at a small round table across from an older woman. This woman was someone that Showtime would come to loath for changing his life forever. It was the member of the Dillinger family known as Granny. She didn’t look much younger, though almost thirty years would pass before he saw her again. Harold looked terrible. Almost a year had passed since the scene at the parlor and those months were not kind to the eldest Wryght.
“Granny, there must be something that you can do,” begged Harold Wryght. He had exhausted all outlets and his actions to get Michael unmarked had not gone over well.
“People are beginning to question your loyalty Harry,” she replied. She was the first member of the Black Hand to not formally address Showtime’s father. In this society the family lineage meant a lot the longer you’d been a member. The Dillingers and Wryghts happened to be two of the eldest. A nuance that Showtime would figure out at this moment. “I didn’t agree to take you on as a mentee because I enjoy it. I did so to help solidify the bond between our houses. Our families have butted heads as much as we’ve supported each other. It’s time we formed stronger bonds.”
“And now I’ve failed you.”
“It’s not me you have to worry about,” she replied, sorrow forcing its way into her eyes. “It’s him. He needs you Harry, even if you don’t see it. He needs your guidance or he’ll never be ready for when the time comes. For my two boys it will be easier. Hangtown is a hard place to grow up. You remember how hard their father is.”
“Yeah he broke a couple of my teeth when we were kids,” replied Harold, rubbing his jaw.
“If I’m not mistaken that was after you tried to take his eye out with a shard of glass.”
“Well he was much bigger, but I was a wiry fighter.”
“Carful with that, karma has a way of coming back and biting someone you love,” they laughed at the chances of that, but the jovial mood died quickly. It’s a side of Granny not many have seen, but the Black Hand has a way of pulling a person out of you that you didn’t know existed.
“What do I do now?” asked Harold, looking up at his mentor.
“I think it’s time for you to get away,” she replied solemnly. “You’re no good to him now and maybe some time away can get your head straight. You have dug yourself a hole with the Hand. If you prove that you are willing to do anything, and I mean anything, maybe you can regain your stature. It sure wouldn’t hurt Mikey’s future.”
“How could I leave him now?”
“You’re in the process of ruining your family’s name. With your father gone and only you to get Mikey ready they will kill you before they let you destroy one of their longest lines. Take a break from your family. Give him the chance to excel.”
“You think I should have done it,” said Harold with a sneer.
“Harry, I think if you should have done it you would have,” her words were met with Michael barging in the front door. He had a bloody lip, a black eye and a handful of what looked like red weeds.
“What happened?” asked Harold with a raised eyebrow.
“Nothing,” grunted young Mikey.
“What’s that in your hand?”
“Hair,” he replied, letting the red strands of hair fall to the floor. Suddenly an older boy with long jet black hair kicked in the door followed by one about the same age as Mikey. If not slightly older.
“William. Phinehas. Have you boys been fighting?” asked Granny.
“Yes ma’am,” replied a young William Dillinger. “Phin found someone who would actually fight back instead of running away. It was fun to watch, he even knocked out Phin’s front teeth.”
“They were loose to begin with,” defended Phinehas, showing off the gap between his lateral incisors.
“I would have won too if Billy didn’t cheat,” pouted Mikey, kicking the rug.
“Nuh-uh,” blurted both Dillingers, but for different reasons.
“Billy did so cheat,” added the squeaky voice of Ruth, whose head popped in the doorway and vanished. Billy cursed under his breath and ran after his sister.
This scene was one that surprised Michael Wryght as it faded from his consciousness. He didn’t remember it, but there were numerous scuffles in his young life. Even more with this particular family in later years. The thing that nagged him was no one would out right say what his father wouldn’t do. It had to be something big, but how big? What could spook him enough to try to cut ties with the Black Hand after being connected for so long?
This time around the drugs did their work. He didn’t almost wake. He didn’t even try. He knew that it was a hopeless battle. Instead he tried to see through the clouds and begin to make reason of this all. They had hinted to so much. So much that had already unfurled in front of his eyes.
He heard screaming that sent chills down his neck. He knew what was to come next, and every part of him wanted it to cease. This he didn’t need to be seen again. It was already burned into his memory. It was a fight between his mother and father. The final fight. After this day he’d never see Harold again, or so he thought. He’d go to his father’s grave around his birthday every year, not knowing it was an empty plot. All a ploy, but for what?
“How could you have done this?” screamed his mother. She was half in tear and half in fury. For her small stature she came at him with a fire of all nine circles of hell. His father fought back though, this would not be one sided. He threw anything he could get his hands on. Michael’s eyes were locked on a VHS sized hole in the wall. It was an odd sight. Just a perfect slit.
His father was jacked up, on Jack Daniels of course, “I did what I had to do the same way I always had. I told you that this was my reality and that if you didn’t like it then you could have left. Now look at me. I have nothing.”
“You’re damned right you have nothing,” she snarled back. Michael always wondered what started this fight. Any time he’d asked his mother, she’d immediately burst into tears. She always blamed herself for her husband’s fate. If she only knew.
“What? Do you want me to leave? That’s it, isn’t it? Everyone thinks that we’d all be better off if I just got fucking lost. Hell maybe I should just end it all.”
“Don’t make idle promises Harry,” came the main comment that would torture her tomorrow. “I don’t know what happened to you three years ago, but you’ve never been the same. All you do is mumble about protecting Michael, but you’re the only one hurting him. You’re the only one hurting all of us. Don’t you remember that you still have a wife? You still have a daughter. What about us? You’re not the man that I married and I’ll be damned if I let you take us down with you. One time I would have been happy to help. I begged to help. Now…now there’s nothing left to help.”
It was a cold dagger that ripped deep into Harold’s heart and one that Michael would play in his mind on repeat. He sat on the couch watching this Shakespearean scene play out. His little sister had her head buried in the crook of his arm trying to block it all out. That wasn’t an option for Michael.
His father slipped on the tile floor. He’s thrown a pot of pasta all of the kitchen, and by the remains sticking to the wall it was almost done. The mixture of booze and water was the recipe for his fall and the last thing all of them would remember of him. Embarrassed and defeated he started to crawl until his feet caught the ground. The slamming of the front door caused the glass to shatter onto the foyer. His mother crumpled to the floor, full on sobbing, throwing a fist full of linguini in frustration. Michael just sat back, rocking his sister to some place calm.
It would be a few hours before the Brick Township police department showed up at the front door. Apparently Harold hadn’t had enough to drink that night so he went out to consume more. By the time he had finished they had to kick him out of his local watering hole, the Arrowhead. In his inebriated state he drove his Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera into a Mac truck. The car tried to go under, but unlike the movies cars don’t fit under there. The top was completely ripped off of the car and Harold. Though future events would prove that to be false.
Michael Wryght’s eyes burst open and he was finally awake. He didn’t know where he was, but all the anger he ever felt was amplified to new heights. He jumped off the cot and careened into the first person he saw. It was the only person left in the room with him. With both hands he grabbed the cloaked figure by the neck and pinned him against the wall.
“What did you do this to him? Why did you take him away? You destroyed him, for what? What wouldn’t he do?” So many questions raced through his mind at that time and as he asked them they began merge together. His rambling continued forming nonsensical phrases. None being answered. His victim had no chance. The air to his lungs was cut off and his legs could only twitch. Showtime wanted to squeeze harder. He didn’t know this man, but what did it matter? The vengeance would be sweet.
In the act he noticed that his hands were black as coal all the way up past his wrists. The thought crossed his mind that this was still a dream, so he could follow through. In the end he released his grip and the man fell to the floor. He wheezed and gasped for air. No gulp was big enough.
Showtime started to feel the after effects of being drugged. He had acted so quickly that he didn’t notice them at first. He slumped to the ground and looked over at the hooded figure, “So what now?”
The response was thick and raspy when it finally came, “You get to decide that. You either stay or try to go down the path of your father.”
“How could you do that to him?”
“Everything that had happened to him was self-inflicted. The Black Hand never asked him to leave. It was he who asked to go. Membership here isn’t a choice, you are chosen. Some people at birth and some at death. The Hand works in mysterious ways, but I assure you that it does work.”
“How do you expect me to fight for you now? What the hell does a wrestling match mean after everything I have seen? What about Justin?”
“You know as well as I do it is your duty to protect the integrity of The Black Hand. The three of you are currently our face. You have brought us to the public and you more willingly then the rest. You have to go through the other competitors to cement the Hand’s dominance. It is the only way. This tournament means everything, and you were always meant to win. We are only here to show you what you needed to see.”
“I have so many questions,” replied Showtime, though still angry he sounded somewhat defeated.
“You will find no answers here, Mr. Wryght,” being called that name felt eerie to Showtime. He’d seen his father called it so many times that it almost seemed dirty. “You will have to decide. There are three men that still stand in your way, and two will need to fall to you. Justin was always supposed to be yours to deal with. Your father saw to that.”
“Him and Sorrows, I suppose.”
“Regardless, who put him there he is your responsibility. He cannot be allowed to move on. He has been marked, by you. His children have been marked, by you,” continued the hoarse voice. Inside Showtime’s mind the glass pane of clarity shattered. It wasn’t until that moment that he connected the rattles that he’d left with the Michaels’ twins and the one placed in his cradle.
“No,” he pleaded. “I never marked the twins. That was only a mind game to get to Justin. He was the one I marked not the other two, and according to those dreams it wasn’t me who marked him either. I don’t have that sort of power.”
“Please, Mr. Wryght.”
“No, stop it! Don’t you put this evil on me. Those children are innocent. You must unmark them.”
“Mr. Wryght, you of all people know that is not possible, but not all is lost. You can be the one who saves them as well. You have that power, but first you must deal with your next task. Please, do not let this enlightenment cause you to stray. You have only been shown all of this because they thought you were ready. You must deal with Justin Michaels and then either Sean Rhodes or Byron Belasko. This is what you were put here for. It is you who must finish what your father started.”
“I have more questions.”
“Then you must find someone that knows the Black Hand but no longer answers to them. I shouldn’t have even told you that, but that is your only hope.”
“Who can I find?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wryght, that is for you to figure out,” the man unable to talk any longer pulled himself from the room. He left Showtime alone, frustrated and utterly clueless on what he was supposed to do next. Everything he’s been pushing for had come down crashing around him and there was no one here who could help him. He needed to find someone. Anyone.
