Balls To The Wall [WC: 2929]

The genius of the hole: no matter how long you spend climbing out, you can still fall back down in an instant.

He sat in the middle of the floor. The furniture was all jumbled up in the corner – he could taste dust in the back of his throat. They weren't poor housekeepers. He wasn't a slob. The desk and equipment just hadn't been moved since they'd settled in almost a year ago. Only recently had Nevada started to feel like home rather than a place that he haunted because he was working down on the strip. It was still better than that suite in the pyramid at The Luxor, even though he'd really started to love the place. It had a distinctive smell, sort of like sweet coconuts and sand – it was probably intentional, to give it that Egypt vibe. He'd found it soothing when he'd worked for SCW, as if walking through those doors and pulling the air deep into his lungs granted him some sort of superpower. He'd felt invincible even though he'd been under the microscope, judged for every word that passed his lips. It had felt different then, as if the masses had been more forgiving. Maybe he'd just been better.

Maybe that was what it all boiled down to: he'd peaked then. This was the downhill part of his career, the backslide that felt like it had been picking up momentum for the last ten months. When he thought back on it now, he couldn't remember how many matches he won – he could barely remember who he'd faced and there were so many of them that seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth since then. It was ironic, really. He'd left Sin City in May of 2016 and the company hadn't lasted much past the summer. He'd split with Riot Star at the end of March this year and their last broadcast show was six months later. He'd been branded a coward more times than he could count but the gut feelings couldn't be ignored. He'd felt the energy shift, felt himself mentally check out in response. Walking away was easier than adding another layer to the weight of anxiety and depression that kept him in bed more and more often these days.

A part of him longed to recapture the past even though he knew those days were faded memories, more fondly recalled than they even were at the time. The gilt around the edges had tarnished long ago. There was nothing good left in this space. The walls were too austere now, without the posters and photos and all the memorabilia. He'd gone at it like a cyclone, tearing apart the place as though he'd finally realized it was more a shrine to wishful thinking than any sort of celebration of a long and fruitful career. At their old place on the lake, he'd had a red wall in his recording studio. It had helped him focus, to find a center for that ember of self-righteous angst that always seemed to be simmering, waiting for another gust to fan the flames.

That wall would have been a godsend right about now.

He'd gotten off at the last port of call before the good ship Trinity went under – he'd felt the winds changing. He'd learned to trust his gut years ago and now a part of him mourned that lost opportunity. Would Action Wrestling have wanted him? Would they have rolled out the red carpet, thrown a ticker-tape parade? He had no earthly way of knowing and fear of rejection kept him from reaching out, kept him safely in his state of quasi-retirement.

He could still see those hateful words, the stupid shit that had been tossed his way on social media.

"Trash goblin," he muttered, shaking his head slowly. He'd never expected to be universally loved – there had always been that mis-wired brain that kept some people from vibing with him. For years he'd lamented that disconnect, hated it more than anything. He'd smashed himself against the rocks, against the glass ceilings of so many damned places who'd said he'd never be the best out there. There were relics in the cases, these framed snapshots that'd been packed away for a year down in the crawlspace as proof he'd overcome. He kept finding excuses for why they couldn't go back up.

The truth was, he couldn't stand to look at them.

Sanity had been forsaken for too many transitory things – he couldn't bring himself to stare that truth in the face on a daily basis, especially now that his daughter was old enough to start asking questions. The past belonged where it was and display cases with shiny hardware belonged in a museum more than the house of a man who hated everything to do with the pomp and circumstance and egos that were all the rage these days.

The bathroom door swung open with a crack – it was an accident, really; he'd just lost control of the weight behind that idle shove but it smashed against the mirrored wall. That wasn't hard to do when your hand was full of pus-filled cuts, numbed from lashing out against the heavy bag for days on end. The last few nights, it had been too cold out in the garage where it hung and it was more like pummeling a cinder-block wall – he could make the comparison legitimately. The thought of punching walls was so damned clichéd that it made him laugh like a crazy person, breathless and near-hysterical. It hurt his throat. He couldn't stop until the tears flowed and his guts ached even more than his head.

There was no joy left. He tried not to think about it. Failed miserably. Tried to ignore the nausea and the headache waiting in the wings – nope. Letting his head hang, he just focused on clearing his mind but the task was beyond impossible. His eyes slipped closed. He breathed shallowly. He tried to focus on something – anything.

TRASH GOBLIN. 

He heard the crackle, opened his eyes to see the crack through his face and then he was bent over the toilet bowl. When it was over, he dragged himself upright, staring at the bisected face of a stranger. Clammy skin. Sunken eyes. When the hell had so much of his hair gone silver?

A soft sound came from behind him and he flinched, turning on the water as he tried to cover up the evidence of the sickness.

"Daddy?"

He closed his eyes, slowly running his wrists under the cold stream until he couldn't feel his pulse pounding so hard in his ears. It took longer because he knew she was watching – a trick of time thanks to anxiety. He counted his breath, five seconds in and out. His head throbbed at the base of his skull. He felt old, so damned tired. 

"Hey, Princess Peanut." He turned after splashing the water on his face, reaching for the towel with one hand as he turned off the tap. "It's a school night. Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"It's seven-thirty." Her dark eyes that were so much like his were solemn.

He pulled the phone from his pocket, checked the time to verify even though he could hear the other sounds upstairs of the house waking up. He could smell the coffee brewing and it made his mouth water with nausea again. The little girl took his hand, led him towards the stairs without asking about the wrecked room. "I lost track of time," he murmured, seeing the mess with new eyes. The wall had been patched in places, half of it red before he'd run out of paint and he could see the shoe prints through the mess like blood on the hardwood – fresh murder scene aesthetic. Shaking his head, he put his hand on the wall and let Allegra use the railing. "Need to have a red wall down here – I don't know why I forgot to do it when we moved in. Guess I was trying to pretend I wasn't the same person…"

When they reached the kitchen, he kicked off his shoes by the door.

"Daddy? Do we stop growing when we're older?"

Her question took him a second to process and she tugged on his hand again, taking him through the dark room where he could hear the coffee percolating with a rattling hiss. "Physically? Not really. I mean, your bones do eventually. Your height will max out and then eventually reverse just a little as gravity pulls harder…" he raked a hand through his disheveled hair. "Hair and nails grow forever. Even after you're dead. I mean, until the meat decomposes, leaving just bones." He'd always talked to her like any other person. He'd never understood why people lied to kids and he'd vowed never to do that. That raw chuckle came past his lips as he elaborated, warming up now, "mentally, too. I guess... we're always changin'. Evolving. Experiences, choices… all of that rewires you in ways that you never see until it's happened." He looked down at her, a sliver of light through the skylight in the hall catching her upturned face – maybe she wasn't telling him to accept the changes in stride. Maybe she was just asking because that's what kids did but he felt stupid for missing an obvious truth.

They were in the upstairs hall and he could hear Hannah in the baby's room, humming softly. "C'mon," he murmured, "you wanna tuck me in for a change?" His daughter laughed as she nodded and he picked her up, carrying her the rest of the way. Every time he started to drift too far from the shore, the anchors were there to pull him back. He was grateful for that.



"New year. New me. That's what everyone always spouts on social media. New company. New set of adversaries – we'll go down swingin' hard from the get-go. New year, for sure. Gonna have to disappoint though, 'cause the new me is really just the old me who kinda got lost for a little while. It happens. Hello me. Meet the real me."

His laugh is almost breathless.

"Welcome to the empty spaces where we used to talk – maybe I'm ripping off song lyrics but there's a kernel of truth there. Didn't used to care so much 'bout how these things'd be received back then. I'd just fire up the recorder an' say whatever was on my mind. Wasn't watchin' stats or countin' hits or any of that nonsense then. I just wanted to make sure my voice was heard. Wanted to be the voice of the people, of the oppressed. I saw that as a niche I needed to fill, like there was that void waiting for me an' most of it was wishful thinking. I created those moments out of thin air. I made a name for myself through sheer blood, sweat an' hard work. I picked battles for so long that it almost started to feel like that was how it was meant to be but the ones I fought hardest against have all disappeared.

What does that say about me? Have I been declared the winner by default?

I'm not sure how I feel about that. And here we are – new year, new horizons… new battlegrounds to conquer? My future hangs on a shiny golden chain above my head. All I gotta do is lift my arms and puck it from the sky but I'm just so… fuckin'… tired."

Collins sighs, the pause heavy with unspoken emotion.

"I could win a shot to face Smith Jones right off the hop. Sounds like a dream, like shit right off the top of the bucket list. There's a vacant championship. There's another void to be filled – is it Lex-shaped? That's always my first thought, even though I used to deny it. Used to pretend I didn't want that but we all got aspirations here, right? Course we do. 

I won't try to blow smoke up your asses. I'm a stranger in a strange land, I know. You don't know me, not really, an' the shit you think you do is recycled, regurgitated poison. I'm a coward. I blow Popsicle stands when the wind shifts direction, when I get stripped of the gold that never should have been around a waist so undeserving in the first place – yeahhhh, I've heard it all. I know what they say an' I was damned close to hanging up the boots for good, to walkin' away from Five Boroughs 'cause I felt like the hate they drew was on my shoulders. I'm not good enough, not yet. A million championships… a thousand days without a loss… a hundred weeks without a speck of negative press – none of that would change a goddamned thing.

I am unfinished.

Incomplete.

A work in progress, constantly having layers build up an' subsequently eroded by this toxic environment around me. It's fucked up, but it's familiar, y'know?"

There's a disdainful sniff that turns into a rough chuckle, wholly self-deprecating.

"I'm not gonna deride the competition. I don't know most of them and I haven't had enough time to really review well enough to form an opinion. I prefer to learn under those lights, between those ropes. I prefer to look a man in the eyes as he's comin' at me – that's where the truth lies. Not in numbers on a page. Not in how loud the crowd gets when that music hits. It could be in an empty arena, without a fuckin' soul watching… just 'tween us an' the fictional guy upstairs. Who you are when you hit me, when you come at me with what I hope's your best an' not some retread bullshit… that's what matters. I don't wanna split hairs. I don't wanna criticize. I don't wanna tell the world that I'm gonna make all these chumps look like John Blade clones – what does that really do? If I tear them apart, who does that make me when I come out on top? The flick of a light, beatin' shadows? Kinda hollow, ain't it?

Yeah. It is. It's stupid. I'd rather dwell on the things I can control.

My attitude. My passion. My heart. My desire – not leavin' that behind in 2019. Nah. The fires've been lit again. The world around us is burning. This is our reality. You can either get all the smoke or rise above. Can't do both.

I know that I have the power to outlast. I know that I will always be the last one to stay down. I know that I've gone to hell and back over the last year and a half an' I can't let that be the end.

I can't quit. I'm not gonna give a single inch or a single fuck out there. Can't stop thinkin' about publicity shots. They're always the same in this business. Belts held aloft overhead – mouths open in triumphant screams. Mine're never like that. Nah, see, it's more a fist raised to the heavens before it's pressed over my heart. It's gratitude for those who've brought me here an' I'm low with tears in my eyes, broken in a million pieces. Survival songs're meant to be sung with shattered voices. They aren't meant to be beautiful. They're meant to make you feel so that's what this story is. It's about the truth. It's about who this man called Lex really is. 

I need to be accountable. I need to be the man Hannah's always told me I was – the guy my daughter thinks I am.

I'm ready for that now because I understand what that means. Those eyes of my past are staring back at me. Silently judging, I know, but I can't feel their weight anymore. It's necessary to breathe one last time before everything changes. Every minute kills you slowly. Rolling with the punches is a cop-out. Fighting back, seizing the moment – it's a goddamned choice."

His tone is vehement.

"I wanna be more. I wanna be something big... just once. I wanna be The Architect of somethin' great – somethin' WE built to usher in this fresh new decade. There's a void to be filled, a vacancy awaits an' we all know nature abhors a vacuum. We all know this business fosters avarice and hubris. There are no friends. No allies. There can be a foundation without those things, build on respect. Built on the backs of those of us who still care enough to put in the work. We can do this.

I'm through being the night watchman, guardin' a dusty pile of useless shit. We're gonna make it meaningful in 2020. Better. More honest. Doesn't seem insurmountable, really. The truth is incontrovertible. Panic may resent it, ignorance may deride it, malice may distort it, but it endures. I didn't pen those words. I forget who said them originally, but nothing rings truer. Even after all these years, I still strive for that level of tenacity.

Maybe this year I'll finally pull it off. Maybe."

There's a long pause, the silence hissing with static before the soft-spoken voice of Lex Collins comes back through.

"Fuck it – balls to the wall, right? Game on. Once more, with feeling."