(Re)Evalution

A Long Time Since Hello Quickly Turns to Sadness

Tristan John Cross, with his giant ginger beard, is sitting at the breakfast counter with the laptop in front of him. He had Skype open and was eagerly awaiting a call to come. At that moment, the photo of William and Georgia flashed on the screen; the name “Ex-Wife” was above their image. This call was a court-mandated call to allow Cross interaction with his offspring while the custody battle raged across continents.

Cross answers the call.

His Ex-Wife’s face dominates the call.

“They can’t talk long,” she says with a frosty voice. Her pure hatred for Tristan piercing from her eyes through her overly made-up face. “We have things to do as a family.” the nastiness is emphasized on the final word.

William Cross and his cute blonde, almost white locks come into view with the assistance of his mother’s new partner, a man he once put in a hospital when he came home early from work.

“Hi, William.” beamed Cross with a smile from ear to ear as he got to see his son for the first time since he can’t remember.

“Hi Daddy.” his son smiled back. “Mummy says I have to go now.”

William Cross’ smiling face leaves the screen, and his daughter, Georgia Cross, replaces William on the screen. Her beautiful red hair that matches his own almost perfectly.

“Hi Darling.” he smiles, but the sadness is evident in his eyes as he comes to realize that his vindictive ex-wife will remove her and end the call as soon as she speaks.

“Hi, Daddy!” she beams. But that is all Georgia can say as her mother removes her from the screen. Georgia can wave at him with the innocent smile of a child before the screen abruptly goes blank.

Cross closes the laptop with sadness. It's moments like these that he feels he is a failure of humanity. He feels he failed as a father because he can’t be there with his children, raising them in his image. He loves them with every inch of his body, and he hates himself for being unable to control his emotions when he discovered that he had failed as a husband. To this day, he regrets leaving work early that day to see another man fucking his wife. To his day, he regrets beating that man into a bloody mess. To this day, he regrets flinging his wife over his shoulders as she tried to stop him from destroying her lover. To this day, he regrets that it took him hearing his daughter’s voice calling ‘Daddy’ to make him stop. To this day, he regrets his children seeing him like that.

He is a failure, and he wishes he could fix that.

Tristan runs his finger along the edge of his closed laptop as the tears roll down his face.

Packing Bags

“Ya need ta get some balls on ya, Son.” The words that left Jerry Eisenhower’s mouth sounded insulting, but the edges of his tone tinged with respect.

Tristan Cross continued packing his suitcase, neatly folding each article of clothing and placing it in his suitcase with care. The six-foot-five behemoth had been on a downswing of unlucky breaks in recent times. Truthfully, he was experiencing the Twenty Twenty that most were experiencing. Still, Tristan, like the rest of us, was trapped inside a bubble of his thoughts and genuinely believed that his situation was worse than those around him. It was the frailty of his ego. It felt self-important and disregarded the feeling of those that lived their lives around him. It was the by-product of his chosen profession as a professional wrestler. He couldn’t get into the ring, with the expectation that he was going to lose. So, he developed the belief that he was always going to win - that he was still better than his opponent. Some would call it confidence; some would call it arrogance. Whatever it was, the truth was, Tristan Cross didn’t much believe it. Outwardly, he would show faith in his ability to get the task at hand completed to a positive outcome - the victory you could say. But on the inside; deep in the pit of his stomach, in the depths of his mind where the world couldn’t see, in the areas where he wouldn’t let the world, behind the locked doors, in the rooms that only he would enter - he doubted his ability to get anything done. Short term successes only seemed to lead to long term failures.

It was a vicious cycle.

Cross looked up from the task in front of him and at the older man in the room with him. His face was painted with the look that comes knowing something was said to you, but not knowing what was said.

“Did you say something?” Cross asks, knowing that he did but hoping that he will repeat it.

Jerry Eisenhower was a cantankerous old man. He was a wrestler from a lost generation; from a time that is widely disrespected by the modern world. What has never helped Jerry was the fact, he always felt the world was owing just for his existence. He wanted to be a wrestler. He wanted to be World Champion. He wanted people to remember him as something more than another name in the obituaries. But he never put in the effort. He always did the bare minimum to get by, and that was still someone else’s fault - even now, in his twilight years, as a trainer of new wrestlers, their lack of success is always their fault. Tristan Cross was one of his pupils, probably his best - not that he would ever tell him that. Yet, Eisenhower always claimed any of his success and was still quick to blame Cross when he failed.

“Typical, son.” Eisenhower scoffed with disdain.

“What’s typical?” Cross asks now genuinely bemused.

Eisenhower continues to stand there with his arms crossed, staring at the absurdly neat suitcase sitting upon the neatly made bed. As equally absurd for a bachelor.

“This, Son. Neatly folded clothes. Just toss ya gear into a duffel bag and make a move.” Eisenhower scoffs.

Cross frowns. “It’s what I do, Jerry. I don’t need to travel like I am a transient bum. If I take care of the suitcase, I take care of myself. When I’m on the road, it’s my home. You should know that. You lived on the road for most of your living years.”

A small chuckle leaves the lips of Jerry Eisenhower before he speaks, “Son, I lived it all. The bag slung over my shoulder, wallet in my back pocket and I worked town to town. Just these promoters didn’t recognize the talent that I had. They cast me by the wayside. Do you think a pretty suitcase and a pair of ironed socks are gonna change that? Well, then, Son, you a bigger fool than I ever thought you were.”

Cross’ frown grows deeper on his face as much as Jerry Eisenhower was his mentor. As much as he owed his entire career to the work that they had done together, he always felt put down and belittled when Jerry voiced his opinion on the old days. He always felt that Jerry felt he wasn’t good enough to compete on the grandest stages of the World.

“I am who I am, Sir. I can’t change who I am.” Cross says as he turns back to folding the last of his clothes into his suitcase.

“Baloney. You’re just afraid, Son. You’re so afraid of losing that you become afraid of taking. You think the greatest champions of all time sat there and let the belts fall in their laps? No, they didn’t, Son. They took, and they took, and they took some more.” Eisenhower says as he asserts his opinion with an ever-rising voice.

“That’s them, not me,” Tristan responds in a submissive tone.

“And that’s why you are not a champion, Son. Because you’re a coward, even know as you stand folding your slacks like a fucking pansy, you’re a fucking coward. I can see inside that ginger-brain of yours. The gears are ticking over, looking for excuses to lose because you’re a loser. Because you’re afraid to take anything from anyone.”

Tristan Cross stops folding his clothes and balls his fists, Jerry Eisenhower notices and allows a wry smile to cross his face, but he doesn’t stop ramming his point home.

“Even now, you are packing your bags for Bumfuck, South Dakota, and hoping that you can beat Masuda. Hoping that Masuda is still carving off the ring rust. Hoping that you can defeat him in your biggest match of the calendar year. The keyword here, Son, is hoping. If you were a real man, a real champion you would be getting on that plane and knowing you would kick his ass. You would be demanding that he begs for mercy from your six foot five, two hundred and sixty-pound ass in the damn thing. But you won’t do that will you, Son? You’ll be a good little choir boy and fight with honor and dignity, won’t you, Son?” Eisenhower finishes with a derisive snort.

The anger of Tristan Cross is now evident as the generated tension causes the muscles of his giant arms to pulse as he zips the suitcase closed. He turns to face his mentor and tormentor and looks his right in the eyes. The rage of his face irradiating into the pupils of Jerry Eisenhower.

“I will do what I have to do.” Cross snarls through gritted teeth.

“We’ll see, Son,” Eisenhower responds with the smirk of a bully that has successfully upset his target. “You had that blonde Russian bitch wanting to suck your dick and be your kid’s stepmom, but you couldn't even close that deal. How the hell, can anyone expect you to beat Jubei, Son?” Eisenhower callously laughs.

Cross says nothing as he lifts his suitcase and walks out of the room. As Cross exits, leaving Jerry Eisenhower to slump down on the bed.

“Get ‘em, Son.” says the old man to nothing but the dusty ceiling fan.

Alone in the Dark

Loneliness is a disease of the mind, it corrupts your thoughts like a termite worming its way through the timber framework of your house eroding at the structure until there is nothing but a corroded skeleton standing in the dust. Tristan Cross’ mind was locked in the battle with this disease as he stared at the slowly oscillating ceiling fan.

The irrational clicking was driving Cross mad on the warm June evening in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. A thin layer of sweat was building on his tattoo covered torso that still bore the scars of his epic hardcore brawl with Corey Black. With each click of the fan, the worm of self doubt burrowed deeper into his mind, picking at each failure.

Click.


Click.


Click.


Click.


Click.


Click


Click.

Tristan Cross sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. His body heaves with a sigh. Lifting his frame off the bed he grabs a crumpled shirt off the back of a chair and throws it over the upper half of his muscular frame.

-----

In the second half of twenty nineteen people were talking about Masuda Jubei as the most dominant champion in wrestling, and they were talking about me as the most promising rookie since LeBron James.

Things changed.

You were the pinnacle, the standard bearer for Alpha Pro Wrestling and then… then you died. Or at least you made the world think you did. Me, I was climbing the fast track to the top, I was riding the great glass elevator to the top of the world. But… but then something happened.

I fell in a heap.

I lost.

I lost.

I lost.

I made poor life choices.

But now, as we move into summer, we are both trying to claw back what we had before we gave it all up. A little over seven months ago Spartan versus Masuda Jubei would be considered a pay per view main event, a match of the year candidate. Today, we lack that impact.

I will change that. I know I can fight. I know you a master of your craft, pun not really intended.

But when I step in that ring I will show you. I will show the people that pay for those uncomfortable steel chairs. I will show Irina, most importantly I will show my children that no matter how many times I get knocked down, I will rise to my feet again.

No.

Matter.

What.

Sure, I tried to do things the way other people do things when I signed on the dotted line with Irina. Though, over time I came to realize that wasn’t the way to do things, Jubei. I didn’t want to rely on faceless entities to handle the business that I should be handling by my own hand. That’s why I walked out on Metal last week and resigned my position as the Commissar of Violence. That’s why this week on Metal I will face up to you, Masuda. I will be the one man to lift you up onto my shoulders. I will send you spinning down to earth.

By.

My.

Hand.

Osbourne called me on the arrogance I exude before we stepped into battle at Horrorkore. He found a weakness and he exploited it, Jubei. And when it is time for the truth to be spoken, I fully expect you to find a weakness in my game and exploit it. It’s why they call you the Master isn’t it? Let me be clear though, Master. No matter what you exploit I will find I was to counter it. I will find a way to defuse whatever explosive situation you place me in.

That I have to believe.

If I didn’t.

Why else would I be in the ring?

To fight? To lose? One of those things is a lie. It’s pretty obvious which one it is. And that’s what I am going to do on Monday, Masuda. I am going to step foot between those ropes and onto that canvas and I am going to fight you. No animosity. No grudges. Nothing personal. Just a contest between the shells of last year’s hottest properties.

And I will win.

But if I don’t and you do knock me down and I do lose, I will rise to my feet again and I will keep fighting.

But I will win.

I have to, Masuda. I have to.

Nothing personal, Jubei.