History Of One Tough Motherfucker

The red wall, fully painted, seemed to be less of a focal point with the projection screen down in front of it. Right now, it was filled with an aerial view of what he believed to be Los Angeles – the standard screensaver for the AppleTV. He'd been spending days down here, binge-watching the various streaming services they subscribed to. The days were bleeding together in the worst way. He only knew it was Good Friday because the Easter candy for the girls was hidden in one of the empty Amazon boxes stacked in the corner.

This Monday would be the third show in a row he wouldn't be wrestling on – he was waiting for the criticism to start. In the back of his mind, he knew that's why he hadn't gone public with the diagnosis. Nobody knew what was actually wrong with him. The front office thought it was a new injury, a strain picked up while getting manhandled by Spartan and exacerbated by his tangle with Aaron Blaze. He hadn't expected any courtesies, surprised when Irina had agreed to let him sit out until after Easter and now, he was just marking days like a prisoner. He hadn’t told Smitty or Damon, letting his brothers think he was simply being overlooked. It was easier that way, especially when he was still hauling ass cross-country to keep the illusion of solidarity intact.

The cracks were beginning to show, despite his efforts. And maybe none of it was ever meant to be a long-term solution. He’d never been a people person, after all. His social skills were minimal, limited to mimicry after twenty-seven years of closely observing how others did it – he was still shit, even after all this time.

His routine was shot. He wasn't watching any tape. He wasn't trying to come up with new ways to counter a new foe. Following doctors' orders for the first time in his life felt like a cop-out, felt like he'd finally gone soft and shucked the rebellious punk mindset he'd cultivated for a good twenty years. He wasn't pushing himself and that made him feel more like a stalled-out hunk of junk more than anything else.

He wasn't sleeping at night. Every time he laid down, the demons in his head awoke, screaming and shrieking. His chest was tight – he knew it was anxiety. He'd felt on the verge of a panic attack for weeks but it was just that slow build, the tension inching tighter and tighter until he felt like he could suffocate. It never went off, never got to that release. He'd started getting lost in his head for longer stretches of time, only aware he was doing it after the fact. Time had started to bleed, the past seeming too close, breathing down his neck and he knew that was more the anxiety and depression but he didn't have something – someone – to pull him out. It was like the obsession with finding his father's discarded urn at the beach months later and he remembered what Freddie Lombard had said, that it wasn't like tossing something in a bathtub; he shouldn't have expected it to still be there. The current had taken it. Now it was taking him, too.

The world, when left unchecked, had this tendency to keep right on doing its thing. He'd been thinking about that too much lately – about things he'd missed with his eldest daughter in those three years he'd let mental illness steal from him.

When it came right down to it, walking away was easier than confrontation that was a waste of energy. A physical altercation was completely separate – he could do that without any sort of emotional attachment. It was a Pavlovian response, ingrained behavior. Even if he didn't fight back, even if he couldn't bring himself to strike that killing blow, he'd still take the damage and get up. He had to. Being a husband, a father, an ally, a friend – a goddamned role model – had nothing to do with it. His sole purpose was to be a target, was to suck up the violence and hate like a good little sponge. Like Oliver Twist, he was destined to hold out that empty bowl and ask for more even though it had never been palatable in the first place.

He picked up his phone off the table, idly checking notifications. There were more mentions from that Red Riot idiot, some banter between the Architects and the Cowgirls among other things. He tried to focus, tried to bring himself to give a half of a shit about any of the empty words and posturing – he failed and the phone returned to its place, face-down on the table.

Hannah watched him in silence from the stairs, trying to read his body language. She, too, was thinking about what had happened after he'd nearly drowned. It had been a long time since she'd felt an underlying sense of panic, but she knew it well. It didn't help that every little thing about their world had been altered by this damned pandemic.

"You missed story time." She knew better than to chastise him for spacing out, skipping dinner and bath time and everything else. After this much time together, she knew all his tells – she knew something was horribly wrong and the last thing she wanted to do was assume they were headed for a repeat of 2015.

"Shit." He stopped his hand in the midst of reaching for his phone to check the time, knowing she wouldn't lie about that. "Was she..?"

"She settled." Hannah stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her hand still on the banister as she slipped the baby monitor into the pocket of that beat-up Ramones hoodie she'd stolen when they'd been in high school. The fact that she was wearing it was a huge red flag – it was a comfort thing.

His gaze found hers and for the first time in what seemed like weeks, he held it. There was clarity, a strange sort of melancholy seeming to radiate even though his expression was blank.

Her heart was beating like a jackhammer in her chest and her hands were clammy but she managed a warm smile. "The girls wanted dinosaurs. There's some left in the fridge if you’re hungry."

"Guess I should eat something." He leaned back, arching his back and rolling his shoulders. The twinge wasn't there and he wondered how long it had been absent and he just hadn't noticed. His shoulders popped and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Didn't come down here to offer me dinosaur nuggets, did you?"

Exhaling and willing her heart to stop pounding, she approached her husband and shook her head. "Not entirely." Hannah took a seat and leaned over, resting her arms against her legs. "I wanted to check in on you. Make sure you're feeling okay." She was studying him and it was painful to know that something was eating at him and she might not be able to help him through it. "All things considered... are you?"

"You want the honest answer?" She inclined her head, saying nothing. "No. I'm not. I can't do this anymore."

She looked away, biting her lip as she thought her worst fears were being realized. "Lex..."

"Don't, Han. Don't try to talk me down, alright? It has to happen." He knew he was going to have to go out there, cut one of those self-serving bullshit promos he hated. It went with the championship and even though the world was in shambles, that was still an expectation.

"You don't – there has to be another way." Her voice came out small, fearful.

"I do, though." He lifted a hand to rub his face, telegraphing his mental state with that single tic. "I can't – something's gotta give. Or break."

"Lex," she was trying to keep the self-loathing off her face, "I hate asking this, but I have to."

He turned his head, actually looking at her and the tension radiating from her registered. He realized he was speaking another language again. "What?"

"Are we... okay?" Her eyes were on him, fearful.

It was as if a switch had been thrown, his guarded expression crumbling at the words sank in. "Jesusfuck," he muttered, shaking his head quickly. "Leaving then was a mistake. You think..." he struggled to find words, "I'm gonna bail again in the middle of a worldwide crisis? Really?"

Immediately she regretted asking him, but if she hadn't it would have continued to needle at her. "I know how it sounds." She swallowed hard, feeling on the verge of tears. "You've been distant and with everything else going on in the world..." her eyes were on the floor, now. "I'm scared. That’s all."

"You think I'm not?" He reached out, taking her hand. "That's what has to change. I can't be on the road, puttin' this in jeopardy. I used to think that shit matters. Does it? Is anyone gonna give a shit in 2021 if I was a fightin' champion in the middle of all this? You think APW cares about my well-being? Nah. They care about numbers. Tickets... merch sales – they care about profit an' the second I stop pullin' weight, the moment I'll be replaced. Feels like Smitty's already scouting." He sighed. "Should care but honestly? I don't."

He too knows it's bullshit...

She placed her other hand over his. "Tell me what you're thinking." Whatever he ultimately decided, she would support him; that would never change.

"Call it. That's what I wanna do." He chuckled humorlessly, "and I'm gonna get all sorts of shit when I pull the trigger on that, I know – this is gonna be my last year wrestling. Full stop. No pissy little appearances in any regional feds. No more 5BW. I'm gettin' out, Han. Clean break." He stared at her for a few seconds, making sure she wasn't going to try and talk him out of it. "I don't give a shit anymore about the greater good, about the halls of fame an' all those other trappings. What's any of that matter when people are dying for no reason... when you can't even buy a pack of smokes at the corner store without it having to be a big ordeal 'cause if you're not careful, you just punched your ticket. It's..." his voice broke and he shook his head, at a loss for words.

She dropped to her knees in front of him, still holding his hand in hers. "Honey, if this is what you want, then I am with you one hundred and ten percent." The thought of him being safe at home was something she had wanted for a long time. Life was too short and they were seeing the evidence of that daily.

"There's a repair shop that's been closed for a while. It's in foreclosure but it's a prime location. It doesn't have any lifts, so we'd have to renovate for that... but I'm thinkin' maybe it's time to do somethin' that doesn't put me in jeopardy every time I walk out the door."

She knew how much he'd always loved fixing and restoring old bikes and cars. "I think this is a great idea." She was smiling up at him and nodding in agreement. "Goes without saying that I'd wanna be part of this, with you."

"It'll be a family thing." He nodded, "something tangible to pass on rather than some sad fuckin' story in a documentary about how I ended up in a wheelchair or dead. I'm almost forty, Han. We both know my best years're behind me."

"Maybe in the ring, but otherwise, you've got so many good years ahead of you." As she looked up at him, the love she felt shone back at him. "Ahead of us and our family."

"Only thing that matters." Now that he'd told her what was on his mind, he felt that weight lifting, as if he could finally see the light at the end of a dark, dark tunnel.


"Oh hey. Did anyone miss me?"

There's a wry chuckle on the heels of the question.

"I guess I owe you an explanation, don't I? I'm asking myself why I care what you think – what they say. I'm not runnin' from anything. Nah, see... it's for your benefit that I've been absent. True story: it's only a matter of time 'fore I lose my shit out there. Smitty an' Damon, they'd be thrilled, I'm sure. Unleashed... unfettered... I'd be unstoppable. Dangerous, even. Restraint is the only good thing I've got left."

He sniffs.

"I could rant. I could rage. I could fill the silence left by the last few folks I defeated with empty words but what's the fuckin' point? Nobody listens anymore. I've become chronologically fucked up. Lemme explain. See, it used to be a game I'd play – hollowing myself out, tossing out parts that didn't matter. Used to see how deep I could go, how much I could delve into the alienation 'fore even I was a stranger to myself. I used to call that ‘sleight of mind’. It used to amuse me. Now it's just a bad habit I lapse into when I'm idle too long."

Sigh.

"It's been weeks. Time rushes through my hands, leavin' them raw an' bloody. Steeped in silence, I'm thinkin' these thoughts that're real bad. I wonder how much more I can pile on before my anxious mind shuts down, liquefies an' runs out my ears, leaving me as a vacant vegetable? I'd be a blank slate then, right? Tabula Rosa – you could ascribe whatever motivation you want to my actions. You fucks'd have a field day with that, wouldn't you? Fuck that. Lemme be frank, alright? I'm broken. Pieces fall out. They stopped fitting an' jamming them back into place for the greater good grows tiresome. It's futile. I should let them go. I know this."

He sucks his teeth for a second.

"Trashman. Soul Reaver. A fuckin' space alien – that's the short end of the stick. That's what my return gets us an' I gotta wrap my head around that. Is this Smitty's fall from grace or my own? I know the truth. It's on me. I'm past my shelf date – I know this. I know that I've held this belt without a defense. It'll be over two months once Gods of War rolls around. I know what that says about me. My truths are my own. I can't bludgeon you with them, much as I wanna. But hey, Sitch wants to be an Architect. I'm not sure how I feel about that – is my replacement being groomed? Is that what this is, Smitty? Did you orchestrate this whole thing as some sorta fucked up tryout? I don't know how I feel. How I should feel. I know the facts: I'll be taping my hands and wrists while parts of me atrophy an' die off. Y'know, the usual. I wasn't meant for any of this."

He sounds calm, almost accepting.

"Starvin' to death isn't a big deal – you go numb after a while. I am not scrabbling for scraps of adulation – I don't give a fuck about your respect. I'm not backstage huffin' used ego from a crumpled paper bag like these upstarts. Nobody gives a shit about tenacity anymore. Maybe they never did? I'm not underselling myself to screw with your heads. Why even bother? You'll see what you wanna see: unworthy champion. Coward. The weakest link."

His voice has grown raspy, as if he's holding back on the verge of yelling.

"Get knocked down. Get up again. It's like that song, right? How many times can I pull myself back together before there's a little less give than before? How many times can I patch the cracks in my psyche, and repeat the same old dance of insanity? How much 'fore weaknesses eat me alive. Somehow, they're always strong enough to knock me on my ass. Funny how that works out. Hilarious, if it weren't painfully true. My shortcomings pick my pockets, leave me wonderin' who else sees a target on my back 'sides Red?

These weaknesses are my greatest weapon when I let them loose. Oh yeah. I turn on myself – burn it all up phoenix-style. I take out the trash – maybe that's what I am deep down. Maybe it's only a matter of time before the truth gets out but I know I'll survive because I'm the punching bag of the world. Throw your shit at me. Touch me when I don't want to be touched. Use me and toss me aside. Tell me I'm awesome, and then curse me with your next breath. Lie to me. I expect this. If you don't, I'm gonna be upset."

Wry chuckle.

"This won't ever be a feel-good story. I'm a fucking cautionary tale. We're in the cross-hairs by design and this guy teaming with us wants in on that? What the fuck is wrong with you, man? Why would you willingly crawl up on that altar? Why would you want them to start judging you? Why... why... why? I don't get it."

He sounds bitter now, voice barely above a whisper.

"This is about more than stupid championships. It's about more than wins or losses or sweaty assholes kicking ass between ropes. It's about fixin' what's broke. It's about rebirth – not just of this place, but all of us. We can be heroes, if they'd just let us do what we set out to do. They can be the martyrs, the sacrificial lambs. Learn your place!"

Collins sighs.

"Or maybe I will."