Rondeau of Blood | Level Up Wrestling

Rondeau of Blood Apr 25, 2022 21:35:13 GMT -5

Post by Job on Apr 25, 2022 21:35:13 GMT -5

The bigger they are, the harder they fall
Clichéd and so old, we'll soon bear its pall
I'm not just some fool, so I realize
The Tale of the Tape says I'm the wrong size
Drake Wilcox is massive, seven feet tall

But inches don't measure who wins this brawl
The tallest stands last at timekeeper's call
The bell doesn't care, it won't moralize
The bigger they are

You won't find me sobbing, curled in a ball
I can't just back down, I fight for us all
So Level Up's roster can vocalize
Game Changers aren't suffered to terrorize
I'll keep a quick pace, I won't let him stall
The bigger they are

* * *

Jommy's been getting weird about my memory ever since EXP 23, and I kind of get why. I remember most of that night. I remember going to the arena. I remember recording an interview with Lenny Brasco that seemed to go pretty well. I remember having a conversation with Buster Gloves that seemed like it could have gone better. I remember entering the ring, getting bitten, starting to get the upper hand on Guy Manson despite his seeming disregard for the rules of both wrestling and civil society...

And then I remember being backstage. At first things were kind of fuzzy and ill-defined, like a dream right at the frontier between wakefulness and sleep, but I came back rather quickly. Quick enough to be fully myself when I went to try to prevent Drake Wilcox from interfering in the main event. Man, I wish my memory were having issues with that part of the night instead. I thought I could make a difference for the better and instead I just cost Centurion the match.

Maybe Buster Gloves was right.

Whether he was or not, though, at the moment I'm just unwinding from the day's workout in the hotel room I'm sharing with Jommy. I'm staring at the backpack that comprises my wardrobe and travel supplies, tucked away in a corner by the TV. It's been getting more and more laden with comfort after each match. Having money feels great, and it occurs to me that I may be on the cusp of needing to buy some real luggage instead of living like I'm on the Appalachian Trail.

As I muse over the minute details of the luggage I may someday own, Jommy interrupts me with a pointed, "Hey!" I turn to face him, peering quizzically. "Are you okay? You're not purpling out again on me, are you?"

"Nah," I say hastily.

"Good, good." There's a beat. "But if you were, you wouldn't be able to remember anything, right?"

"I don't know, Jommy. I don't remember."

"Well, hmm. That is a real paradox of a quandary conundrum. I think I've got a good test for that, though!" He clears his throat. "Do you remember the day I told you about your father?"

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, how could I forget? It was

* * *

April 14, 2016"

I'm at Poet's Corner. I come here a lot. It's free to come here and nobody tries to kick me out until at least sunset, which gives me plenty of time to get home before Mom.

It's a big enough place that I can usually mind my own business without somebody else trying to mind it too.

Usually.

* * *

"Do you remember anything else about that day?"

"Yeah. I was at Poet's Corner, just doing my usual thing, but then one of the high school kids came over and started to bother me."

* * *

I'm just staring at the grass and working out the next stanza of my poem about Dad when I feel something bad coming my way before I even hear the voice. "Hey, Deranian! You strike gold yet, kid?"

Ryan Sullivan. What he means is that I'm picking my nose again. I try really hard not to, but when I'm focused on something else I stop trying and it happens again. I pretend not to hear him and flick the booger.

"Maybe if you do you can afford some fucking first-hand clothes." I keep trying to tune him out but his voice keeps getting closer. "Or pay for a haircut."

I don't look up, but he's getting close enough that he's obviously going to keep coming even if I ignore him.

* * *

"Right, right. What was that Sullivan kid's problem, anyway?"

"I don't know, Jommy. It's not like he was the only one back then."

"What do you mean?"

"Felt like someone was always messing with me when I was a kid."

"Not when I was around!"

"Yeah, well, you weren't around that day. Not yet."

* * *

"Maybe even shoes that fit! Actually, forget shoes. Get some sandals, Jesus."

"Jesus Christ?" That's blasphemy!

"Yeah, because your dad is imaginary but you act like you're better than everyone else." Now I'm within his reach. I try to remember what Matt taught me.

"Come on, Ryan, I'm not the Messiah." Mom says He was born without sin. Mom says I was born into it.

"Good point. Jesus had a bunch of friends." Now he's within my reach. Matt was my counselor at one of the camps Mom made me go to.

"Why are you always such a bastard?" Matt was the only one who stuck up for me and when he had to leave he taught me how to stick up for myself first. If you can't avoid a fight, control it.

* * *

"I saw more than you may realize."

"Then you know I mouthed off to him."

"I know that he was the aggressor for no good reason."

"It was probably a really hard time for him, after his mom's accident and everything..."

* * *

He snickers. "You think I'm the bastard, huh? Why do you always smell like piss and Communion wine?"

"Someone has to keep your mother's memory alive." When there are no rules, there are no cheap shots. "Clearly it isn't gonna be your father." When there are no referees, there are no rules.

"Whatever." His voice says it isn't whatever, though. "At least I know who my fucking father is." Get angry enough to focus.

"And who your father is fucking. Lucky you." I turn to face him and look up to make eye contact. I think I'm starting to piss him off. "Look, obviously your father could never replace your mother. He had no choice but to upgrade." Get them angry enough to be distracted.

"You don't know my family's situation, you little shit," he says harshly. "You don't even know your own." Let their attack create an opening.

"I can get a DNA test." Deflect. "Heard you got one already." Redirect. "Is it true you're half orphan?" Hit back hard. "On your mother's side, that is." Then hit harder.

That's when he stiff arms me in the chest. I twist with the shove and smile beatifically at him. His face is a mask of rage and his voice is hoarse as he says, "Keep talking shit like that and I'll rip off your head and shit down your neck." Stand your ground.

"Keep whispering sweet nothings like that and I'll let you call me Mommy first." Expect no mercy.

"Not cool, kid." Now there are tears in his eyes and he really is whispering. Show no mercy.

"You know what, Ryan? You're right." Get them to attack first. "Better throw in a box of White Zinfandel to keep things authentic." The first to land a hit usually ends the fight.

* * *

"Well, you drink, you drive, you lose."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"What's there not to be sure about?"

"He's not the one who drank and drove, but one might argue that he lost the most."

"Well, he certainly lost the fight he started! You kicked his butt!"

* * *

He's swinging at me, straight punch with his dominant hand aimed squarely at my nose. The first to try to hit usually misses.

I tuck in my chin and lean into his fist with my forehead. It hurts like fuck and it's disorienting, but I'll bet he feels the same, the way he shrieks and shakes his hand around. Let them hurt themselves trying to hurt you.

His guard is down and his face is open for the moment, but only for the moment and that moment will pass. Don't try to end it in one hit.

I look at the corner of his chin but stomp down on his front foot with all my weight. They've got longer reach than you, so keep them close.

I let the striking power build from the ground and through our feet, rising past my root, to propel my left elbow up into that spot just below his diaphragm. They're taller than you, so get them down to your level.

His face is reflexively snapping down and forward as the wind is knocked out of him. I reset the left as I bring my right fist arcing up into his nose with a gratifying crunch. They're after your blood, so take theirs instead.

Ryan's blood is getting all over everything. Honor is a luxury reserved for the dead. Blood all over his face immediately. You can never win a fight, but you can survive one. Blood all over my hands almost as soon. Beasts survive fights that kill humans. Blood all over the ground before he even hits it. You can be a human once the fight is over.

"Shouldn't have lost your head, Ryan." The fight isn't over once they're down. "You've got a family history, after all." Being down just makes them easier to break. "Now stay down, asshole." The fight is over once they're too broken to fight.

Maybe the stanza could be about Dad vanquishing a mighty dragon, or becoming a beloved king, or all sorts of wonderful things.

No great deed would be too glorious.

No respected station would be too esteemed.

It doesn't have to be realistic. Dad and I are the only ones who will ever read it anyway.

* * *

"Saying he lost makes it sound like I won."

"So?"

"So I didn't feel like a winner."

"Not even he came after you with that rock?"

* * *

I'm distracted from my reverie again, this time by what I could swear is Cousin Jommy's voice yelling, indistinct, from a distance. As my focus snaps back to my surroundings, I see that Ryan is back on his feet, bloody nose and all, this time clutching an enormous rock in his right hand. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what his intentions are, and he's caught me flatfooted. There's no time to think back on what Matt taught me.

But then...

Then everything comes into crystal focus as events slow to a crawl and quicken to a blur all at once. I have all kinds of time.

My right foot comes off the ground, up and around, perfectly intercepting the rock mid-swing. I feel the minor shock of impact through the weathered soles of my canvas sneakers. It travels the distance from my foot to my brain in an electric surge of tranquility. I'm tingling as the stone goes flying and the momentum of my kick sends me spinning to my left, clear around until my back is to Ryan, but not for long.

The ball of my right foot plants back to the ground and serves as a pivot point as I continue to turn, my left knee pulling up to waist level, and for some reason I'm not worried about presenting my back like this, though I'm sure Matt wouldn't approve.

It's all happening so fast and I feel like a passive observer to my own body's actions, but I feel to my core that I am in control, especially at this pace.

Three quarters of the way through my rotation, my right leg lifts again, up and around, the same motion as the initial kick. With my left foot already up, I go airborne, and for a moment I am weightless. Nothing can touch me.

My insole makes contact with Ryan's face midway between his chin and his left mandible. I can feel the snap of my foot to his jaw, register things leaving their intended alignment, spot his head snapping around from the impulse of the kick before he drops again, this time with the fight having fully left him.

I can taste the sweetness of my victory.

I can hear the commotion of the others gathered at Poet's Corner today.

I can smell onions.

* * *

"No, not even then."

"I guess I can understand that. A high school student who tries to rough up a little kid hardly seems like a worthy opponent."

"It's not that. I just don't think I handled it well. I don't think I did the right thing."

"What else could you have done?"

"Lots."

"Well, so could he!"

"Look, he was being an asshole, but I had my own part in it. Did you know he could have gone to jail for that?"

"That seems pretty reasonable, under the circumstances."

"And he never talked right after that. People in town made fun of him for it. I don't think he deserved it. Not really."

"It's really admirable that you're considering the feelings of a bully who attacked you when you were a literal child, I guess..."

"I'm just glad you came along when you did, dude. I couldn't have handled all that alone."

"You didn't have to. You had your family."

"I had you, you mean."

"Well..."

"Well, thanks. For being there. For telling me. For showing me there really was a better way."

"Well, you're welcome. I wish I could have told you sooner."

* * *

FADE UP

INT. HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT

Selfie shot of PAUL FREEDOM, only his face and upper body visible amid deep shadow. He wears a white T-shirt and looks exhausted. In the background, a horrible ambient noise comes in waves as COUSIN JOMMY snores.

PAUL FREEDOM

Hey, Level Up fans! This is Paul Freedom, coming at you from the Red Roof Inn here in beautiful Greensboro, North Carolina. It's a hop, a skip, and a jump from the Greensboro Coliseum, where tomorrow night I'll be facing off against Drake Wilcox. The entirety of Drake Wilcox, which if you've been paying attention is about as much opponent by volume as Level Up's roster has to offer. This is a big match for me, and not just because my opponent is literally an enormous star in Level Up. It's also an opportunity for me to get my nascent career back on track going into Level Up's big upcoming show, Doom, as well as an opportunity to contribute to the slowing of the momentum the Game Changers have been building up recently.

He grimaces at the mention of Level Up's rule-breaking faction.

PAUL FREEDOM

For starters, let's address the elephant in the room. I'm giving up over a foot in height and over two hundred pounds in weight to Drake Wilcox going into this tussle, and I have to acknowledge that he has that size advantage. It would be possible for me to wrestle a handicap match and still be facing off against less total wrestler. The man is a capable competitor who looks as though he was built by starting with a bunch of muscles and then stacking on more muscles. I'm going to have my work cut out for me, for sure.

Paul sighs and shifts his weight awkwardly.

PAUL FREEDOM

There may be some doubt as to whether I'm up for this challenge, I guess. After all, I'm coming into this match fresh off a loss to Guy Manson in what turns out to have been his first victory as a professional wrestler. Speaking of which, congratulations are in order to Guy Manson! You're definitely building some momentum and I really hope you can maintain it without biting anyone else. No hard feelings, though! It's a tough business.

He smiles at this, and it has every appearance of being genuine.

PAUL FREEDOM

I guess the toughness of this business is likely a big factor in why the Game Changers formed in the first place, let alone came to be the blight upon Level Up that they are. Now we're looking at four people who could have been perfectly capable competitors in their own right banding together, not out of camaraderie or mutual respect but simply due to an overlap in respective self-interest. I'm sure that'll be a stable union in the long term.

Paul pauses for a moment after this statement to smirk while the sarcasm sinks in.

PAUL FREEDOM

So here I am, facing off against someone literally twice my size, hoping not to kick off a losing streak and fully aware that my opponent has some powerful and unscrupulous friends backing him. I'm fine with that. This is me in my element. All my life I've found myself fighting from a position of disadvantage, against greater size and superior numbers. All my life I've refused to back down from these challenges, because you can't win if you don't take the risk of competing. I'm looking forward to taking this risk. Appreciate you, guys. Paul Freedom out.

He uses his free hand to offer a peace sign to the camera.

FADE OUT