Chapter Three: Coming in from the Cold
For the first time in years, Garth Black recorded the WZCW televisual programmes from the week before. He had done so primarily to scout out his opponent Stetson Hayes, but the longer he watched the more he thought and considered the plights of his colleagues. He realised he saw a lot of himself on the screen, and not just in his own match.
He winced as Tastic, bitter and twisted, turned on Stormrage. Bitter at his spot, bitter at the world, Bitter at everything. Black had been there, and he felt that he was still there at times, angry when it wasn’t his time at the top. Angrier when it was. He hoped Tastic felt a degree of catharsis about it all from his attack, but if he was anything like Black it wouldn’t. Alienation and despair and a continual sinking feeling. When you feel like you’re on the down and out, the vicious circle keeps spinning over and over. He felt for Tastic, but he knew only too well that time was the only medicine that would work.
But Dead Mas wasn’t the only thing that had caught his attention on the broadcast. The hubris of the champion Flex Mussel had raised his ire too. Black had beaten him the week before, and here he was losing again. This is something that he would have let fuel him before. An unworthy champion, but Black was at peace with it. He wanted to become his own, worthy champion, and would be doing so at Gold Rush. He reflected that it was at Gold Rush a couple of years ago where he was able to cement his legacy and put himself in the title picture. Now, here he was in a different title picture, but with a different attitude.
He watched Flex intently, and noticed that Kole and Toyota were always there, always ready to step in. How long before one of them tired of being a sycophant and turned on him. He’d been here long enough to see empires rise and fall. Pale Riders, Cerberus, Apostles of Chaos, Vis Imperium. He was here before all of them, and here once they’d all gone away. He’d long since suspected that it was impossible for ambitious wrestlers to get along with one another. The sword of Damocles hung above every single wrestling team. To the extent that the tag division had died. Killed in the crossfire of friendly fire.
Black had a partner once, but Phoenix had proven to be what everyone else was. A false friend. A mirage of amicability, when the seeds of treachery were always germinating beneath the muddy waters of friendship. Black thought of those that had crossed him, but unlike in earlier weeks, he wasn’t very angry about it, just pensive. He had sworn long ago that he’d never rely on anyone else, but as he reached his own match on last week’s show, he saw something he hadn’t seen for a long time. A smile on his face.
Both himself and Kagura had fought with fluidity and understanding and the results were clear to see. Xander in knots, and Hayes in the back. A victory that Black wouldn’t forget for a long time, and he hoped that it would improve his relationship with Kagura. He didn’t expect her to forget his words and actions, but hopefully she could now move to forgiving him.
It struck Black that perhaps there were people that could be trusted. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that he should now form a more lasting alliance with the Gold Rush finalist, but it was an eye opening experience nonetheless. He thought about those groups. They’d rarely turned on each other, there was always someone holding the knife, or swinging the chair at least. Black looked at the outcome of his match in a new light.
He’d never had any time for Xander, there was no reason to, but the guy fought this match like a man and took his defeat with more grace than was probably deserved. He looked again at his opponent for the upcoming title match. Stetson Hayes walked out on his partner when he needed him most. Not only did he walk out on him, it was more aggressive than that, he fed Xander to the wolves. This was inexcusable.
It struck Black that Hayes was the very worst sort of individual. He would happily throw his so-called partner under the bus to improve his own position, yet he is utterly reliant on a band of sycophantic minutemen to do everything for him. Black spoke, to nobody in particular.
“You can tell the minutemen, that time is up. Because Gold Rush is going to be my finest hour, and the only place Hayes is going to finish is in second place”
He looked around, hoping to get some praise from the room for his excellent word play, or at least a s******, but to no avail. Surrounded by possessions, and not many of those, Black could hear nothing but his own words echoing up the stairwell. After years in the social wilderness, living on his own terms and answering to nobody, Black had grown accustomed to his own company. It was beginning to strike him that the side-effect of being more calm and relaxed about the world was that he was potentially actually missing human interaction.
Over the course of his absence from WZCW and his time in Japan he’d lost a dozen phones and thrown half a dozen more at television screens and walls. The upshot of this was that he had no phone numbers to remedy the situation. If he was completely honest, he wasn’t sure how many people would bother answering the phone even if he did have.
He rooted through the drawers of an old desk, finding nothing but a rolodex that was clearly very old. However, Black was sure that there was one number he could call and be confident that the number would still be correct after all of these years. Fortunately, the number belonged to one of the only people who hadn’t completely shut Black out from their lives.
The phone rang for a while, before’s Daddy Mack’s answering machine answered, if not the man himself.
“Brotherrr, you’ve reached the Mack Attack, I’ll Call you back when I’ve had my snack”
Dejected, Black began to leave a message.
“Hi Mack Daddy, it’s Garth Black, I just wanted to see how things were go…”
“Woah Brother! I’m here, I’m here, yeah, thought it was one of those, advertising cold callers, yeah. The Mack Daddy needs no double glazing, yeah. How are you doing brother?”
“I’m ok, I just wanted to apologise for the way I’ve been the last few years. You didn’t train me that way, I don’t know why I’ve been so angry”
“Anger isn’t the enemy, yeah, you’ve just got to channel it, brother”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, brother, you’re not the only one who has been doing a little reflection, yeah, over the course of the last few weeks, old Mack Daddy has been looking in the mirror too, yeah, and I realised that the only reason I never made it to the top title, yeah, is that I didn’t channel my energy where it was appropriate.”
“You were hardly a failure, you were one of the most popular wrestlers with the fans”
“And I wouldn’t change that for the world, yeah. Nothing will ever replace the roar of that crowd, yeah, and I’m proud that I was Eurasian champion, yeah, but I was never angry enough to make it to the top of the ladder, yeah, and I think I could have done with some of your fire, brother.”
“But I feel like my anger has been leading me up the garden path. Even these last few weeks, I’ve seen it get the better of me at times. I just start reverting to how I used to be, not so much with the conspiracy theories, but definitely the acerbic poetry that I used to snap into some times.”
“And why is that a problem, brother?”
“Because it keeps me distracted from the matter at hand. Being angry at Becky Serra or Vance Bateman or whoever isn’t going to beat Stetson Hayes”
“But being angry at Stetson Hayes will, yeah. Not too much, but focussed energy brother, yeah, turn the laser cannon on him, yeah.”
“I mean I guess I am angry at Hayes. He’s a pretty big lowlife.”
“What are you angry with him for?”
“I hate the way he comes across rootin-tootin, when he’s quite highfalutin,
I hate the way he left his partner standing, and slapped him on the landing”
Black could feel the rage bubbling up. He liked it.
“I hate the way he talks, and then the way he baulks
When the going gets tough, he either gets rough
Or runs for the hills, seeking cheap thrills.”
“Ok Brother, yeah, this is working well”
“I hate his massive hat and boots, I hate his outlook, I hate his roots
He won’t be getting in my head, I won’t be stewing in my bed,
I’m going to bring the title home, for the fans, not me alone,
Even if I was a sinner, they deserve a worthy winner,
Not some low-life obscene, vulgar, cheap and thick ‘champeen’
At Gold Rush I’ll be victorious, and beat the guy whose shtick’s laborious.”
“YEAH! Now go get ‘em brotherrrrr!”
Black was ready, angry but ready. His mentor had channeled all of his fears and trepidation into a single minded focussed beam, and Black had Hayes in his sights. Black knew that he still had a long way to go before he could truly be content with where he’d got to, but he was on the way for sure. He was now confident that he had all the tools he needed to do it. He felt he had Daddy Mack behind him, and he was now going to get the crowd behind him too.
On the other end of the phone, Daddy Mack was lying in his bed with a bandana on. A nurse took the phone off him, and placed it back on the receiver.
“You know Mr. Mack, it’s none of my business, but I feel that your really should have told him”
“He doesn’t need to know yet, bro… er sister.”
Mack turned his head to the side and closed his eyes, falling into a peaceful slumber.
