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”We were too greedy, grasping for immortality too soon. Perhaps if we had only been patient, content to wait, we would all have forever in the end.”
– Jessica Khoury, Origin
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June 9, 2022
The Death of Ego
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A cacophonous roar echoed in his ears. His eyes were closed, face tensed up, trying to wrench it away, but it stayed there, never changing, stabbing him in the eyes and temples, wrapping figurative fingers around his throat, and threatening to choke the life out of him.
Six days had passed. Six days of life within a stunned cocoon of his own consciousness, numb to feeling anything, shocked at himself, shocked at what he had become, shocked beyond reason at the choices he had made.
Dan Ryan sat in the dark, in a corner of a large empty room. Once, some time ago, there was furniture, large ornate furniture one might expect to find among royalty, far beyond what any one man needed. But now it was gone. It was all gone. And it was a metaphor for life at this moment.
Everything…
It was gone.
Silent.
Dead.
And he did it to himself. No one to blame. Nothing to feel except an overwhelming sense of shame and guilt. He was suddenly thankful he had never succumbed to the temptations of illicit substances, or he would be even deeper in the pit, scratching and clawing in vain to get out, and, if he would admit it to himself, he wasn’t sure if he would feel any worse than this even if he had.
This must be what hell is like.
A lifetime of work and accomplishment flushed down the toilet with his own hand.
The roar continued in his ears. It sounded like an odd mix of fans screaming his name, of hard scratching on a chalkboard, never-ending. And it tortured him.
And he tortured himself.
He couldn’t just come back from something like this. There was more to it this time. More than any other disgusting vile action taken in the pursuit of an Empire. He had prided himself in having an exit strategy. But there was no exit strategy for this. There was no hope.
Just cold, heartless death.
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September 22, 2022
It’s My Pity Party and I’ll Cry if I Want To
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“You look like shit.”
Phyllis Anderson, personal assistant to Dan Ryan for some 20-odd years, stepped over the threshold of the door to a very big, much too big office. Dan Ryan sat on a leather chair, cracked on one armrest and squeaked with each tiny movement, halfway looking through the ceiling-high window and halfway looking off into nothing.
She eyed him up and down, and he turned his head slightly, just enough to make eye contact. His eyes were a dull gray where shimmering blue existed once before. The vitality in the man she had devoted her professional life to was gone. He looked soft, out of shape, and not overweight, but neither did he look anything like an athlete. His hair was unkempt and long for him, nearly to his shoulders in the back and way too thick on the sides. It was clear that he hadn’t shaved in months.
Phyllis, receiving no answer, looked around the room, noting the untidiness of the place. Dusty books were in their place on bookshelves, and cobwebs stretched across one section high up near the ceiling.
“Dan… I came to see how you were doing. I’ve heard some disturbing things. People are concerned about you.”
His eyebrows shot upward and he turned just enough to give her his attention.
“Are they? And who exactly are ‘people’, in your estimation? Not my wife, I presume. I haven’t heard from her since she told me two months ago that she needed time to ‘think things over’. Not Cecilia… who blames me for ruining her life. Daddy’s girl, who won’t even answer a text. Not Lindsay… my ‘best friend’ who refuses to acknowledge my existence….
Phyllis sighed.
“Dan…”
He waved her off.
“It’s okay, Phyllis.”
He turned, this time looking directly out the window at the gray afternoon Texas sky.
“I don’t blame them. Chickens come home to roost and all that. I Flew too close to the sun, I suppose. Took one too many chances. I’ve got cliches for days. Trust me…”
He glanced her way again before turning back.
“No one cares.”
Phyllis stared at the back of his head, shaking her head in sadness, and stepped toward the desk.
“I know it must seem that way. But you’d be surprised.”
“Would I?” he said, laughing and responding in a mocking tone. “Would I be surprised?”
“Why yes you would be surprised,” she said, turning his tone right back onto him. “As a matter of fact, I’ve taken some interesting calls from people inquiring about your well-being. It’s hard to get in touch with a man who hides in his house and lets everything around him rot away into shit.”
He snorted dismissively. “Whatever.”
Phyllis stood in silence. He sat still and quiet, and she got the distinct feeling he had done quite a lot of this very thing, stewing in his own thoughts, beating himself up more than he had done to any opponent in his career, feeling so sorry for himself he could barely breathe.
She shook her head again, resigned herself, and turned to walk away. Her steps echoed on the wooden floor as she approached the French doors of the office. As she reached out for the handle, his voice cut through the quiet.
“Phyllis….”
She stopped, turned, and looked back at him. He still had his back to her.
“What people?”
She smiled a slight smile that he couldn’t see.
“Sir?”
“What people inquired about me?” His words hung in the air and dripped with sadness. “You said people were concerned about me. What people?”
She walked back toward him, retrieving a folded-up piece of paper from the inside pocket of her jacket. He turned his chair around to face her and watched as she approached the desk and slid the paper across.
He reached out and put his hand on the paper, then slid it the rest of the way so that he was looking straight down at it on the desk. Phyllis stood silently as she watched him read one name after another. Once or twice, his eye flashed in surprise. He looked up.
“All of these people called?”
She nodded. “Keep reading.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then looked down as instructed. He read the rest of the names, shaking his head incredulously, before finally stopping on the last one, the shock in his eyes too obvious to hide. He looked up again.
“Are you serious?”
She nodded.
“Really? I mean… really?” he responded in disbelief.
She nodded again. “Really.”
He stared at her and she waited to see his next move. He looked down at the paper one last time. Looking up, she saw something new flash in his eyes, and she saw life there for the first time in a long time.
“Phyllis, would you be so kind as to let me use your phone?”
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January 29, 2023
New Life and the Man Reborn
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Buffalo Grove, Chicago, Illinois
A frigid breeze blew the leaves on a tree in front of a beige metal-sided building, large enough to be a warehouse of some kind. There were no markings and no distinguishing features other than a pair of doors underneath an awning covered with snow.
Dan Ryan walked up the unpaved walkway from a long driveway, the gravel crunching under his feet.
As he walked toward the doors, he felt a vibration in his coat pocket and reached inside to retrieve his cell phone. At the top, there was an email notification. He took note of it, then stuffed it back where it came from.
Inside the building, the space was built out as a workout facility. A full-sized wrestling ring was the centerpiece, flanked by workout equipment, including free weights, heavy bags, and an oval track that runs around the edge of the building.
On the right side of the entry, an office was set in a corner. The door creaked open as he walked through and, closing it behind him, he removed his jacket and hung it on a hook by the door, but not before pulling his phone from the coat pocket. He sat at the desk in the middle of the room. The room itself, nondescript, and not particularly fancy, was minimalistic and pragmatic in approach. The walls themselves were blank. The buzzing of a small fridge provided the only noise.
He leaned back, and looking down at the screen of the phone, hovered his thumb over the notification and pressed down. An email sprang open onto the screen. The message was simple.
“Need you to handle something for me. STRONK. Get him right. When you get to the Mackey, come see me. We’ll talk.” – L.B.
“STRONK Godson, eh?” he said to no one.
He swiped the email from his screen and opened up a text message, in an ongoing message that said “C. Massey” at the top of the screen. Dan typed “Got a job for you. Need you to find STRONK Godson. We’re gonna team up this week.”
Craig Massey, a long-time associate going back to the early 2000s, once upon a time when Dan Ryan was running things, responded right away, “I’ll reach out to his people. Hit you up when I’ve got something.”
Dan put the phone on the desk face down. Standing up, he stretched his arms out to each side, then cracked his neck to the right. He walked over to the window and looked into the smaller office next to him, sighed, then turned back around and started toward the desk again. Cutting through the silence a buzzing erupted from his phone, causing it to slide a bit to the side with each buzz.
Surprised, Dan increased his gait and reached down for the phone. Massey had responded.
“I found him.”
Impressed, Dan nodded to himself and typed back a response.
“Wow, that was fast. Where is he? I want to get in touch before we head down to Lafayette.”
Dan waited, watching the three little dots flash on the bottom of the message.
“Well, apparently he’s at some sort of Slap Fighting competition called ‘The Concussion Factory.’”
Dan stared at the message, then felt a small migraine coming on. He rubbed his temple with a free hand, then typed back his response.
“Forget I asked.”
Massey responded immediately. “I’ll do some more digging and let you know what I find. Maybe I’ll see where he’s staying for the show and you can go hit him up there.”
Dan smirked.
“Let me know. I’ll go ahead and get on the road now so I can get there early. Hit me up with the hotel route when you get it.”
Within a few moments, Massey’s answer came back in the form of a thumbs up. Dan locked the screen, then walked over to the door and pulled his coat off the hook, and put it back on. He walked briskly through the building and out the main doors, then turned his collar up to fight back the cold air. He looked up and saw two kids across the street in the yard of a house, laughing and playing in the snow. He watched for a few seconds, then realized he was smiling, and caught himself. He muttered to himself…
“Well.. that’s new.”
…and he left.
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Rebuild, Restore, Renew
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Well, this is exciting.
Moreso for me than you, I assume, whoever you are. It’s been a long long time, and my mind has been swirling with so many things I want to say. But there are 8 months worth to tell, and we’ll need to pace ourselves if we’re going to get through it together.
I want to give a special shout-out to Joe Bergman, Sunny O’Callahan, and Scott Stevens. The three of you were so kind as to help me introduce a new move to finish matches with, and I have to say, you did a bang up job. Especially Sunny, who smacked into the hard concrete and then flopped around like a fish. It was amusing, really.
I’ve been waiting a long time for this, guys. I’m not gonna bullshit any of you. I’ve been chomping at the bit since November, back when GOD gave the word that I’d been resigned. I’ve been waiting patiently, marking time, and planning my return.
As a reward, I’ve been placed into a team with the one and only STRONK. And I don’t know about all of you, but I’m excited. I know the poor boy is in something of a mental slump lately, but believe me, I can relate. There’s no one more well-suited to give the boy a boost and help get him back to what he once was.
Sometimes we make the wrong choices. It happens. I’ve been given a chance to fix things, so I’m gonna show him how to fix them, too. Fortunately for him, he’s young. There’s so much time. He doesn’t have to wait until his mid-40s like me to get reality kicked through his thick skull.
The kid is special. I think we all know that. There’s so much potential, and I won’t see it go to waste. I especially won’t see it go to waste against Scott Stevens and Bobbinette Carey.
I’m gonna keep this nice and simple, because while I want to show the two of you the respect you deserve, and then I want to tell you how much you suck, I need you to be patient with me. It’s been quite a long time, and my shit talking muscle is a bit atrophied. But give it some time and I’ll be the same fire breathing monster I always was. There’s a starting point for everything.
Mine just happens to be the two… of you.
Bobbinette Carey. Hello, dear. I don’t believe we’ve formally met, although I do know who you are of course. I’m sure you know who I am, so let’s not bother with introductions. You’re a hall of famer, so it means you’re good. But no matter how good you are or how good you once were, here’s what I need you to know, hun.
I’m gonna hit you so hard that by the end of this match, you’re gonna be asking ‘What’s Love Got to Do With It?’.
Do you understand?
I’ve watched you break more alliances than 20th-century Germany, and I’ve seen you screw people over like a modern-day Benedict Arnold, only without his obvious sex appeal.
But I’m gonna spoil this for you. I’m gonna beat the hell out of you. No mystery, no secrets, just me punching you in the face over and over until you’re screaming like you accidentally sat on the corner of the washing machine during the spin cycle again.
And you, Scott Stevens. Again, thank you for standing there like an idiot while I beat you up. From one Texan to another, it’s most appreciated, part’ner. Yippee ki yay and all that noise.
You know, it’s hard to be as delusional as you are. You’ve been walking around calling yourself a demi-god and proclaiming the Gospel of Lee Best, meanwhile, he won’t even give you the time of day. And now, two weeks in a row, he’s sent people he actually trusts to shut you the fuck up.
Now… I realize based on experience that you will never, in fact, shut the fuck up. Apparently, it’s simply in the Stevens DNA pool to be naturally dumb. I’ve never met a more ridiculous collection of simpletons than you and your brothers, your dad, your grampy, sister Melba, and who the fuck ever else is down at the Stevens homestead keepin’ the hound dogs company. You’re the Beverly Hillbillies of Texas, without the money, name recognition, or funny TV show.
You, Scott Stevens, are a pimple on the armpit of Texas wrestling. Nobody in Texas knows who you are. Most of them only recognize the Stevens clan as the people running the rides when the carnival comes into town.
Now I know you’re gonna say some shit that you think is clever. You’re gonna try so hard, because that’s what you are, try-hard. You’ve had more World Title shots in the last two years than Andy Murray has listeners to his podcast. Every time anyone turns around, there you are. You’re the Steve Urkel of High Octane Wrestling, and I just need you to know that I don’t care. I don’t care what you think of me, my situation, what I did, what I’m going to do, or how I’m going to do it.
I don’t want to hear your thoughts on life. I don’t want to hear your thoughts on Lee Best, Lee Strasburg, Lee Press-On Nails, Vivien Leigh, the General Lee, or Lee brand blue jeans. I don’t want to hear a thing from you. So come to the ring like the good little soldier you are, and take your fucking talking to.
You and Bobbinette Carey are in for a beating, and it’s not gonna be pretty. I gave you a preview before, but now I’m giving you the whole enchilada. And please, just because I said enchilada doesn’t mean we need to hear your take on creative enchilada references, because even though you are very much like an enchilada, in that you often give people the runs, please, save it. You’re not funny. You’re not talented. You have views on women that belong in a handbook on how to be a good wife from the 17th century, and you’re about as threatening as a slice of cheese… made from 1% milk… with an eye patch. You understand me, Hack Sparrow? You cover yourself with tattoos of words you can’t even read, and you have fucking gray pubes growing on your chin.
You fucking suck, Stevens. That’s what I’m saying.
Oh…
WITH ALL DUE RESPECT.
And don’t worry about a Control-C coming your way. This week, it’s Control-X for the two of you.
I look forward to locking up with both of you. It’s truly been an honor to get to match up with two Hall of Famers like this, and last but not least, I will never forget this night.
Now… go fuck yourselves.