Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
- "The Waste Land", T.S. Eliot
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A lone candle burns in a dark room. The suggestion of a table, of a chair, and of a man lie within the flickering light of the candle, all of it merely shadows and gray. The rest is darkness.
"Do you remember this?" I said, leaning forward so that my smile can be seen in the light.
"Do you remember when I sat in a room, lit only by a candle, and became another man? When everyone loved Drake Callahan, there was another part of me, on the sides The part that everyone ignored, because the rest of the man was good. It was you - you and Ty, my old friends - who brought this out in me. When I was pushed to the limit, that little bit of me that was something different came out.
"Some would say that's who I am now. But you and I, Showtime, we know better."
I pulled out a cigarette and held it over the flame to light it, put in my mouth and took a drag.
"I'm neither of them, not anymore. Maybe they're still part of me, somewhere, but I don't think so. The hapless drunk and the would be monster. The perfect Jeckyl and Hyde. I thought - I was a little afraid, to be honest - that when I came back to WZCW, I would bring back with me the man in the darkness. But I didn't, you see, because...
"...because I brought another into the darkness with me."
The brief strike of a match is heard and another candle is lit. The camera pans out to reveal a woman sitting next to me. Stoya laughs a little, as I take her hand.
"It's difficult to become so lost when another holds your hand, Showtime. But that's just what's wrong with you, isn't it? You're all alone. You have a wife and a son, but you cast them aside so you can come back for...what? Vengeance? The big shiny belt? The spotlight you love so much? Whatever it is that convinced you to come back, you no doubt think you're walking back into the light, into the hearts and minds of the people, into a good place. But you're wrong, Showtime.
"You're walking into the darkness, with me. And that's not exactly a good place for you to be, right now. I'll give you some advice - forget about Holmes. He doesn't exist in here, as much as he might think he does. Because I want to be clear, Showtime - this isn't the darkness of evil. This is the darkness of men who know. Who've won and lost, who've climbed the hill and come back down again, who've suffered and learned and seen the way it works. Holmes is drunk on his own glory, reveling in his success, at the top of a mountain of his own creation. He has no place here.
"But you and I...well, we know better than that, don't we? I made you painfully aware of what it was like to lose everything, and I gave you the glimpse of this darkness, and you returned the favor to me. We just can't seem to get away from one another, can we? What I am given, you take. What you are given, I take. What you have, I want. What I have, you want. On and on and on forever. They keep telling us we're moving forward, they keep saying next week on Meltdown, as if next week is any different from last week or a hundred weeks ago. We just keep coming back to this. I don't know why, Showtime, I didn't choose this. I didn't choose you. Maybe it's fate. Maybe it's God. Maybe it's just Vance Bateman throwing darts the wall. I don't have the answer, but here we are."
I tapped some of the ash off the end of the cigarette. Stoya clutched my hand a little harder. I looked at her. In the darkness, I saw the faint outline of a smile on her lips.
"What I do know is I'm ready to face you again, Showtime. I'm ready to face you, and I'm ready to beat you. And I'm going to enjoy it. Because, you know, last week, I asked why everyone thought Titus was some big god damned hero. And I'm asking the same question of you - why does everyone think you're so great, Showtime? You leave your wife and son at the drop of the hat. You chase glory relentlessly and never care who gets in your way. You're cocky, you're brash, you're arrogant. The only possible explanation I can think of is that people liked you because you held the title for so long, but now that's gone to. So why? Why do they cling to you?
"Don't worry, I'll answer. Because someone told them to, that's why. Because they've been conditioned to know who the heroes and the villains are. Because they've been taught over and over that the good guys are the ones who eat their vitamins, say their prayers, and most importantly, kiss their ass. That's the only difference between us, in the end, Showtime. When I say 'You people', you say 'You fans.' When I say 'you morons', you say 'my friends.' When you pander, I insult. When your nose is brown, mine is in the air. But the message is the same, in the end, isn't it? The message is 'I want it'. I want the world title. I want the win. I want my name in lights, I want to be the superstar, I want to be on top, I want to be the greatest of all time. And yet, how ridiculous that it's not our actions but our words that make us loved or hated. Because while your family is left behind at best and dragged into your wars at worst, my only companion is a woman who wants everything I want, who wants to see me succeed as much as I do. When I point out the liars and the frauds hiding in the shadows, I earn only spite, but when you prop them up, you get their love.
"This entire sport, this entire industry, Showtime - all of professional wrestling, is a fucking joke. When the liars are heroes and the honest are the villains, what else am I supposed to call it?"
I tapped some more ash off the cigarette before continuing.
"So let me tell you the truth. Whatever they perceive, whatever delusions they suffer, there is a single, universal truth that I've come to understand. In this game we play, Showtime, there are no heroes and no villains. Morality lies only where men think it lies. They think it lies with you, because you're nice to them, and because you're on the souvenir cup, and you signed their program. They think it's abandoned me, because I tell them things they don't want to hear, I snarl at their children, and I make people like you hurt. In the end, morals are just an illusion of the mob.
"I've done everything I ever could to justify why I want to beat you, Showtime. I've called you a monster, I've called you a puppet of Ty Burna, I've called you a million other things. Some of them true, some of them not. But none of the matter, in the end. Because all I've really been trying to do is pretend you're the villain and I'm the hero, but I know better than that now. You don't, still. I know. I understand. As I always have, Showtime, I'll lend you my wisdom in this. And you'll take the lesson, in time, as I know you will.
"I don't need a justification to beat you any more, Showtime. I just want to, and I'm going to. I could say defeating you is the first step toward me winning the world title, but you know what? I don't even care about that right now. I just want this. One more win over you. One more night I walk away on top. Because that's become the sweetest feeling in the world to me, Showtime. That feeling when, despite all of it, I still win. I still do what I was born to do - win. And there's nothing better than beating the one man who has dogged and vexed me since the beginning of my career. I'm sure you know the feeling."
I reached out a hand and snuffed at the candle. In unison, Stoya did the same with hers. We became shrouded in darkness.
"The hour is late, Showtime, and the night is dark. It's time we were about our business. The mob wants a show."
I laughed briefly, letting the sound linger for a moment.
"Yeah, the mob wants a show, and it's showtime."
