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Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name;
thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us;
and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
Amen.
… … … … …
“Greetings sir, how may I help you?”
A man stands at the gates. He’s bone thin and a good foot taller than myself. He wears a red tunic and a bearskin hat, looking like something out of Buckingham Palace. Slow and steady, he eyes me over, head-to-toe, with an expression suggesting I may not belong. Nevertheless, I can tell he won’t outwardly question it.
“Yes ummmm,” my voice trails, pointing at the doors, “I’m here to finish what I started.”
I peer through the giant metal entrance in front of me but there’s no gap between the opening. What lies beyond, no clue. It’s me, this guard and these big doors. The rest is entirely engulfed in darkness.
“Yes…” the man reveals a clipboard and scans the front page, “but only a Conor Fuse is due to arrive. Are you him?”
“Uh-huh,” I sigh, “The Power-Up King. Last Level Legend. The Vintage. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me. Apparently I’m all the rage ATM.”
The guard gives me another one-over. “I’m sorry. I was expecting somebody a little more… imposing.”
Now is not the time to get into an argument. I’m plenty imposing. “Perhaps I should have mentioned my other mantra, High Octane World Champion?”
The guard is nonchalant.
“Yes,” he continues in a deadpan tone, “but perhaps not for much longer?”
Wow, they’ve got some real swell people watching this castle.
“Can you just open the doors already?”
The man in the bearskin hat nods, taking a massive keychain from his side belt. He marches towards the metal doors, there are numerous keyholes so it’s a solid minute for the guard to unlock them.
CLICK.
Finally, the right side of the gate creaks backwards and a new darkness awaits.
“Are you bringing anything in with you?” He inquires as I reach into my pockets, assuming there’s airport security.
“Only one item to declare,” I’m about to show it but the guard puts his hand on my arm.
“It’s quite alright,” he reassures, as if he already knows.
I take a step forward to examine the world. I’m sure many people have entered and not many leave. To be honest, I’ve been told by others there is no escape.
“Say hi to The Queen for me,” I mention, patting the guard on the chest. In return he gives me a confused look, having no idea what I’m talking about.
I’m ready to step into the unknown until the guard taps me on the shoulder.
“Your map, sir.” He hands me a tattered scroll. “Enjoy your dream sequence.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I reply while I wander in, “I always do.”
LET THERE BE CARNAGE
The Sacred Timeline (3)
The Future?
The #97red-pebbled path leads to an area below I cannot see, covered by tree tops. The ENDGAME, however, may be miles away but in clear view.
Alcatraz Castle.
Large, booming clouds hang over the cement structure at the top of a steep hill. From here, I can only imagine the noises inside. I unroll the map I was given, three distinct areas marked with an X. I plan to hit them all, I have to. There’s only one road to follow.
“Don’t sidetrack too much, dummy,” I mumble to myself. “Keep your ADHD on the straight and narrow.”
I say this like it’s an achievable thing to do. Even in a linear world, I’m bound to be sidetracked.
“Hmmm, no desert,” my eyes scan the map. “Maybe next time.”
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
MAP OF 97
Generic Grasslands → Swamp of Death → Patella Purgatory → Alcatraz
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
Generic Grasslands
The trees range high, so high you can’t see anything else from above. Every so often I find a fork in the road. The first fork had me confused but I’ve got the hang of it now. There was a sign in the middle of fork #1. A man grappling another and an arrow pointing left, a man kicking the shin of an opponent and an arrow pointing right. The second fork also compared two wrestling moves, so did the third, etc. By now, I’m on fork #25.
My belief is each fork presents options. By choosing a path, I am, therefore, choosing a move I should likely implement in Alcatraz. It’s tough to interpret these thoughts but that’s what I’m going with. For example, fork #5 was spinning slingblade vs. short-arm clothesline. I definitely took the spinning slingblade. It’s a move only few can do fluently and I happen to be one of them. Clotheslines are boring and generic.
Fork #25 shows two mid-match moves, a flying missile dropkick from the top or a grounded dropkick to the back of the shoulder. Some of the moves presented to me aren’t even in my arsenal. A few forks before, it was standing moonsault vs. fujiwara armbar. I haven’t done an armbar in my life, let alone a fujiwara. Maybe my subconscious is telling me I need to channel different things but what kind of champion would I be if I went back on what got me here? If Mike and I laid our cards on the table, deep down I know if he connects with a couple maneuvers, I’m DOA. Christ, the guy throws a right hook with such conviction. And yet, I’m banking on it. Throw the hook with conviction, Mike. Really lean into it. I am so nimble, you’re gonna find air and that momentum will tilt you forward. The perfect time to strike.
Long story short, I’m choosing the missile dropkick from the top. It goes without saying.
Onto path #26.
With each passing fork, I feel my face tightening, my heart racing. This is not a fairytale journey, there’s nothing enjoyable about the experience. I’m simply trying to survive. There’s an ominous threat, I can feel it sinking into the depths of my throat. I approach fork #26 with twice the seriousness as I did fork #13. What if I chose wrong? What if the answer was the fujiwara armbar? I left a couple grounded chokes behind. I picked the high flying moves instead. I said I won’t play his game, so I WON’T fucking play it.
“So much for a nice peaceful slumber…” I mumble.
Fork #26, submission based move, the anaconda vice vs. standing sky twister press. We’re going into deeper transition sets now. Obviously, I’ve used the twister press before. Not a big submissions guy. To the right it is.
I wonder how long this will go for. With my OCD, I could be here for hours.
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
MAP OF 97
Generic Grasslands → Swamp of Death → Patella Purgatory → Alcatraz
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
Swamp of Death
Emerging from the trees, the #97pebbled pathway brings me to an open environment. We’re at the lowest point in this world, basically a gorge. My surroundings: the bottom of a hill to my right and marsh to my left. A black tarpit swamp sits in the center of the marsh. The sun is out and it beats down heavily. I stand beside a sign reading ‘Swamp of Death’ but it looks like the word swamp has been vandalized and replaced with the word group.
My map tells me the journey through this area should take ten to fifteen minutes. There are coagulated cries from the edge of the swamp. I see three people running, as if something was chasing them, yet nothing does. The men go straight into the tarpit and it eats them alive. They willingly get sucked down quickly. And they do not resurface.
“Hey!” Continuing on my journey, my eye catches a fourth man in the tarpit, chest-deep and sinking. He’s close enough to the edge I may be able to save him. Racing over, I keep shouting to grab his attention. When I arrive, I realize he’s been looking my way the entire time. He wears a cloak, like he was in the middle of preparing for battle.
“What the hell, guy!?” I lean forward, offering my hand, keeping the edge of my toes out of the swamp. “I can help you!”
Snatching the man by his shoulders, I pull profusely. It’s only delaying the quicksand, though. He’s still going down, just not as fast.
“They- they told me I’m next,” the man whispers in my ear. “I couldn’t do it!”
“Next for what? Who’s they?” Using every muscle possible, I wrap my arms around the man and continue to heave. He’s offering no help whatsoever.
The man finally fights… me off him. He snaps back and is immediately consumed by the rest of the tarpit. The fear in his eyes, I could say he was dead before he had entered.
What are these guys running from? And why is death their only answer?
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
MAP OF 97
Generic Grasslands → Swamp of Death → Patella Purgatory → Alcatraz
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
The Village
Every game has one. Would’ve been nice if they put this on the map, though. Huts line up left and right and most of its inhabitants walk in patterns. For example, the young woman and her son have been gardening since the moment I laid eyes on them. It wouldn’t be a problem if they hadn’t stopped raking the same corner of their lawn this entire time. Another boy sits in his yard, rocking back and forth, scribbling memoirs into his colouring book.
“I write essay on how great He is,” the boy exclaims with joy and reasonably broken grammar, saying he’s been challenged to do it in exactly 750 words. I wish him good luck.
A few of the adult villagers have spoken to me. Albeit, I’m not provided with much wisdom.
“Be careful of the snake in the grass.”
“What depths are you willing to go?”
“There are other colours than #97.”
I’d ask for them to elaborate but the first couple weren’t able to so I stopped altogether.
Villagers attend to a fallen warrior in medieval body armour. The soldier’s sallet (helmet) is off. His face is plush; his eyes, vacant. Blood runs down his forehead as he trembles. One of the villagers wrings her hand towel, placing it on the man’s head while a second villager starts removing the warrior’s lower garments. I assume the soldier has significant injuries.
“Pick a box, its contents will help you on your way.”
I’m startled to find another young boy in front of me, no older than ten. He holds a silver plate with three miniature chests resting on top.
“Shit, kid. I didn’t see you there.” I put my hand on his shoulder, apologizing further. “What did you ask me?”
The boy’s facial expression doesn’t change. He merely stares at my forehead, blinks and repeats himself.
“Pick a box, its contents will help you on your way.”
I’m gonna get nowhere with this boy.
“Hey listen,” I begin, glancing past the child and into the pebbled road ahead. It looks like another step or two will get me out of the village. “Gotta go. Not sure if there’s a time limit on this dream, okay? I’m trying to be concise.”
The boy blinks. “Pick a box, its contents will help you on your way.”
My hand remains on the kid’s shoulder until I tussle his hair. “I’m really sorry but I don’t want anything.”
My right hand digs into my pocket.
“I brought something along with me, anyway.”
The boy lowers the tray and moves to the side. It’s the first time I witness a hint of sadness in his expression. Right before I exit the village, however, I hear a wiseman’s voice behind me.
“Don’t be a fool, Conor,” the voice says. I can instantly tell this man won’t be on repeat so I turn to face him. He’s elderly, similar in looks to Walter. Perhaps he could pass as a spiritual brother. The wiseman is hunched on a chair beside what I can only assume is the hut he resides in.
“You should take a box,” he remarks.
“It’s okay, sir. I mean no disrespect but I’ve got everything I need,” is my reply, although the elder doesn’t agree.
“You dream all this up and don’t take a power?” His voice is rather off-putting. Maybe he’s not related to Walter.
“I’ve gotta get going,” I reply.
He scoffs, watching me out of the village. “You’re a strange one, son.”
Oh, I’m well aware.
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
MAP OF 97
Generic Grasslands → Swamp of Death → Village → Patella Purgatory → Alcatraz
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
Patella Purgatory
It’s instant. It hits me hard and fast. The second I exit the village, it’s right in front of me.
The destruction.
The venom.
The castle.
The promenade is swarmed with motionless soldiers, piled on top of one another, all wearing armour, blood seeping from their helmets. All have met their demise. I can only imagine how much more blood remains on their bodies if I can see some of it already splashed across their uniforms.
The cries.
I hear them crystal clear.
THUMP.
CRACK.
“FUCK YOU!”
A war rages on inside the Alcatraz walls, which is only a minute away. The building drips in venom, something out of Ganon’s castle in Breath of the Wild, in the shade of crimson red.
But this is not a game. And while I may be dreaming, reality is pending.
I cautiously make my way through the piles of bodies. How many people came for Him? All these warriors failed; the death toll is substantial.
As I march through the body count, I develop a headache, similar to the one I’ve felt twice before. I can’t wait, I walk a little faster. I’m sorry, fallen brothers but I am different from you. I am a special, noble warrior. The last hope.
Mike has indirectly taught me so much about how to navigate the wrestling industry. He only seems to act human when he desperately wants something. Last year, he desperately wanted to remain world champion, even though he knew it meant killing his brother. This year, he wants to build on his legacy. He got real with me and did something he typically doesn’t.
Sing someone’s praises.
Well, I desperately want something, too.
I want to beat him; I have to. The championship has little to do with it on my end.
How can a rematch happen if I don’t win? How can I show Mike I will be there for him everytime we play? I may dream silly, I may say annoying things but I’m just a confused kid trying to fight my way through. A confused kid who wants to do right… entertain the masses. Is this so bad? I’m not 100% video-game-manchild just like Mike’s not 100% asshole. He’s a chameleon, changing his stripes to what suits him best. Last year at this time, the SON went on the most riveting, inspirational speech, apologizing to the people around him before fighting Max to the death. It was euphoric.
We are all human. We all want something. We all need something.
Well I, Conor Fuse, am here to tell Mike there’s no other option. I need to leave Rumble at the Rock the same way I entered. Conor Fuse HAS TO BEAT Mike Best. The sacred timeline demands it. I can’t recover from a loss.
I’m a few feet away from Alcatraz now. My body, as tense as ever. Not only do I have a headache but I walk with a significant limp. Foreshadowing? We’re about to find out.
No time to die.
The doors await, the shrills inside. I hear a grown man cry from his beating. Fuck that is sad. Pretty sure the echo of the CRACK I heard was another warrior getting his skull caved in. Looking up, I hope to see Mike discard whomever out the window. This is when I hear coughing from someone below me. Peering down, I notice a fallen soldier has a hand on my leg. His body convulses, I think he’s having a seizure. He’s still alive.
I immediately drop to my knees. I wasn’t able to help the man in the swamp but I’m not gonna lose this guy. I reach down and pry his visor open. My face goes cold, my heart hammers away.
“NAC, what the fuck…”
I rest on my knees. In front of me is New-Age Conor, aka NAC, aka myself at apparently forty-five years old. Over my HOW career, he’s appeared here and there. I used to think he had my best interest in mind. Our most recent interactions taught me otherwise.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand. “I thought I buried you in my subconscious two months ago.”
While a trickle of blood runs from his forehead, I don’t trust NAC enough to help him any further. I leave his helmet on, his visor up. His cough sounds pretty fake.
“C- Co- Conor is that you buddy?” He asks, opening an eye to look around before closing it up, ‘pretending’ to be in more pain.
“You can quit the theatrics. What do you want?”
My eyes have drifted from this evil side of me. My ears perk, once again hearing a battle transpire from inside Alcatraz. I am so close. Enough with this dream sequence shit, LET’S FUCKING GO.
NAC raises his right arm and weakly grabs mine.
“Don’t- don’t go, Conor.”
I shake my head and knock his hand off me. “The last time I saw you, you told me fuck my friends and I’m some childhood murderer. It took a lot to suppress you.”
My words have sunk in a little.
“What makes you think you’ll beat Him?” he says, changing the tone of his voice to resemble someone who, as I thought, wasn’t hurt after all. “You win a couple matches and you think you can hang with Mike? You know he’s crushed everybody. Soundly.”
I fucking hate this guy. NAC, that is. “I went over this. How is it my problem?”
The NAC-Man laughs. “You really are naïve, Conor.”
“Thanks, Conor.”
New-Age Me continues. “You’re also an idiot. You made some great points about Mike and then you follow with… this? A dumb dream sequence?”
Again, screw this guy. “I spent five hours going over my moveset and the rest of it trying to psych myself up. Heaven forbid my creative ADHD mind gets in the way.”
NAC starts peeling off his armour. “Heaven forbid? Yeah, what’s with the Bible verses recently? Serenity prayer, Lord’s prayer. Are you becoming spiritual?”
I don’t know why I humour him. “I’m an atheist. This was getting into a different mindset. Ya know, Son of GOD,” I huff. “If I have to spell it out for you…”
I take a deeper look at NAC, reaching for his forehead. Exactly what I suspected, ketchup for blood.
“So”, I begin, “since you’re ‘me from the future,’ do I have a shot?”
NAC laughs again. “No dude, not a chance.”
There’s no need for me to stay here anymore. I doubt NAC’s ever fought Mike. I simply pat him on the helmet, stand and intend to leave. “Well, thanks for that.”
This is my year, this is my story. I know it. I don’t care what he says.
“Conor, wait! You can’t! You have to turn back, you’re not ready!”
This is the last time I’ll entertain New-Age Conor’s bullshit. Alcatraz can wait no longer.
“What do I need to make myself ready?” I bite, challenging NAC’s comment but New-Age stands his ground.
The me of forty-five doesn’t want to indulge in what he’s about to say next but I know he’s gonna say it. “I didn’t want to be this blunt but you’ll never be ready.”
Things I’ve heard a million times over.
“Oh and you would know? I’ve accomplished a lot in HOW. I’m the fucking WHC for crying out loud.”
“Swell.” NAC rolls his eyes. “Can I ask you something, Conor? What are you bringing in there with you?”
A simple answer, “myself.”
Silence bestills us. I have spent a year understanding what I bring to the table is enough. It was enough for Mike to target me. It was enough for me to banish my arch nemesis SRK years before I was supposed to.
NAC finally speaks. “Nothing else?”
“Nothing else. A kid tried to give me a power-up box. I declined,” I state, pleading to get this over with.
In a Brad Pitt impersonation from Se7en and a shit-eating grin on his face, NAC responds with “what was in the box?”
Ignoring NAC’s awful acting, I reveal the item in my pocket and he raises his eyebrows.
“A vial?” he asks as I open it and pour some of its red liquid on my left index finger. This is not in #97red, that’s for sure. It’s much darker. I run my finger along the outside of my left cheekbone, below the edge of my eye cavity. I pour more liquid out and do the same with the right side of my face.
“Eyeblack, wow. Super cool,” NAC says sarcastically and I shake my head, leaving the evil me in my wake.
“Not exactly. I wear his nephew’s blood.”
I put the remains of the vial in my pocket, yet New-Age has no quit. He breaks out in a cackle, not taking me seriously. “You think that’s good enough for HIM!? Some shit fucking blood from his nephew? They aren’t even blood related!”
Last I checked, I won the world title when I blacked out and busted Sutler’s skull open. I weakened a Kael to the point of no return. This is more than a symbiote, it’s a sign I can match anyone’s hostility. I’m a high flyer by trade, yes but I am a chameleon, too. Mike changes his narrative outside the ring. Well, I can change it inside.
I don’t Weapon Get for no reason.
Sutler never should’ve messed with me. Mike? We’re gonna find out.
Almost there now. I put my right hand over my heart, close my eyes and recite what’s needed before entering. NAC continues ranting behind me while I pray.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name;”
“Mike doesn’t give a flying fuck about Sutler!”
“Thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”
“You think this dream can give you better insight!?”
“Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses,”
“NOTHING will prepare you for Him!”
“As we forgive those who trespass against us;”
“This is why you’re pathetic, Fuse!”
“And lead us not into temptation,”
“You’re an EMBARRASSMENT to HOW!”
“But deliver us from evil.”
“Fucking J.O.K.E.”
“Amen.”
I rise, methodically walking back to NAC. His hard and fast line comes to a close.
CRACK.
Because I punt him square in the face.
He’s surprised, running a hand across his temple, trying to collect his thoughts. I kneel down and get real close.
“There. Now your blood is real,” I remark stoically.
I turn away from NAC for good. This time I’ll enter the prison.
“Conor, you may think I’m your enemy but I’ve always had your best interest in mind. One day, you’ll see!”
I’m done listening.
“It’s not too late. Please stay out of there! Once you go in… what happens to you and Mike… Alcatraz changes lives! But for you, on this night, it’ll change you forever! You’ll never be the same again!”
And I walk into the abyss, leaving NAC with one final comment.
“So what?”