Mirrors.

Xander, I’ve looked for it. 

I’ve searched everywhere. I’ve looked under the covers, I’ve checked in the couch cushions. I even dared to check behind the refrigerator and underneath the stove. I looked high and low, I went up into the attic. I haven’t been in an attic in thirty years, but I looked for it there too. I walked outside and stared up into the clouds, I looked at the trees, I looked down at the ground. It wasn’t there, I couldn’t find it anywhere. 

I even called Jace and asked if he could lend me an extra pair of eyes… oh sorry, I meant eye. Singular, he hates when I do that. Anyway, Jace didn’t have a set of eyes for me, so I just kept using my TWO eyes so I could keep looking. 

I retraced my steps, walked back the way I came. Checked under the seat of the truck, went for a ride to the last three places I’d been. And yes, all of them were the same liquor store. But that’s besides the point Xander, I went and looked. I walked the aisles, walked, stumbled, it’s all the same thing. I wandered, I wandered the liquor store aisles, and definitely wasn’t shopping. I was looking for it, not for the three bottles of Jack I walked out with. But they didn’t have it either Xander. 

And they have everything. 

Even the nudie mags. 

But they didn’t have it, they didn’t have what I was looking for. I went back to the house, and made sure I didn’t put it somewhere. I checked the closets, I looked under the rug, I even checked my sock drawer. The only thing in there was my 1911. But I kept at it, Xander, I didn’t want to disappoint you. I didn’t want to leave you hanging. So I kept digging around, but I couldn’t find it, Xander. I just couldn’t get the job done. Just like my relationship with the World Heavyweight Championship, it was nowhere to be found. 

You know what I was looking for, right? 

The single solitary fuck I could possibly give about this match. 

I want to give a shit, I want to have a reason to go out and bash your fucking head in like an eight year old baseball player swinging an aluminum bat at a pinata. I want there to be justification for my actions, I want there to be a reason. When I leave your face looking like Jace left Solex’s after March To Glory, I want to be able to curl up under the covers and be able to sleep at night. 

See Xander, I didn’t used to be like that. 

I didn’t give a fuck, I didn’t give a fuck if I beat you to death and left you to die. I didn’t give a fuck if I skull fucked you, I didn’t give a fuck if I murdered some fuckhead in a hallway. I loved it, I fucking relished it. I was the living, breathing embodiment of High Octane Wrestling. I was everything Lee Best ever wanted, I was a big dumb murder cowboy who liked to beat the fuck out of people. I was the heart of the fucking Alliance, I wanted it to stay forever, I wanted it to be the best it could possibly be. I almost killed Jace Parker Davidson for losing to Darin Zion, I smashed his face in, using my own forehead, in an infirmary in Alcatraz. 

I was a fucking menace, Xander. The same night you tried to sacrifice the girlfriend Zion forgot about to your goddess and made some fucking weird ass portal, I caved Jace’s face in with my forehead. That was the difference between us Xander, you liked your insane bullshit, you liked your portals and multiverses, and I liked beating the fucking shit out of people. 

And this last year, I beat the fuck out of people, but I felt bad about it. I felt like I had to do these things, I felt like I was pressured to dish out violence in response. I was always on the back foot Xander, I was always on my heels. I was always punching from behind, because I found these stupid fucking things called morals. Garbage fucking morals. 

Who the fuck am I, Xander? Am I good guy Clay Byrd, the man who rides into the cowboy town and offers to be sheriff? Am I hat kind of fucking dweed? Am I that kind of fucking mutant? When did I go from being the hellraiser, to being a little bitch with a moral compass? How many times did I apologize to Conor Fuse last year? Three? Four? 

What fucking good did morals do me? What fucking good did fighting on the side of the good guys do me? What did I get out of being the guy the children could look up to? 

I’ll tell you what I got, Xander. I got smashed with a steel chair by Dan Ryan. 

AND I THOUGHT I FUCKING DESERVED IT. 

I believed it, I believed Christopher fucking America. That repulsive shitstain we have as a champion, deserved to walk away with the World Heavyweight Championship. Because the best man would win, because America didn’t make the decision to cheat. How fucking stupid am I, Xander? I have to be pretty fucking dumb, right? Clearly, everything underneath the twenty seven gallon hat, is either an empty skull or the only gray matter is fucking gravel. I’m an imbecile because I believed that fucking shit. 

Because of these fucking morals, I had to feel bad about that? I had to sit there and be a sad mopey fuck? I had to practically beg Conor Fuse to put me out of my misery. I walked out into the arena that night, begging Conor Fuse to cave in my chest with 450 splashes. Because I believed it all. I drank the kool-aid, and I swallowed the blue pill. 

I deserved it. 

I was a fucking failure. 

 

——————————————–

The antique store was small, and frankly I had no idea what I was doing there. I had no idea why I had opened the front door. I had no idea why I kept walking in after the smell of incense and an unkept litter box smashed me in the face. I have no idea why I kept walking through the aisles stacked with junk, garbage, and random cats. 

But I did, I kept walking through that horrid place. Through the smells, through the little old lady who kept asking if I needed help finding anything. I just kept walking, looking back on it. Maybe the torn jeans and the ripped High Octane T-shirt was the reason she followed me around so much. It’s neither here nor there, but finally, I found what I was looking for. 

No Xander, I’m still looking for THAT thing. But I’ll make sure you’re the first to know when I find it. 

One of the things that my father always kept of my mother’s was an old antique hand mirror. He’d even built her a little wooden stand for it, so she could use the mirror on the vanity so she could see both sides of her face. I always loved that mirror, even the small black dots that had formed on the surface over time, the craftsmanship around the frame was exquisite. 

And it was her’s. Anything that belonged to her, I cherished. 

But it was always in my fathers room, he’d gotten rid of a lot of my mother’s things over the years. But that vanity, and that mirror with the little stand, he couldn’t bear to part with it. I loved it though, I remember sneaking into his room when he was out in the barn, and I’d go right for it. I’d hold it up and look at myself, and I’d smile. It always made me smile, because it belonged to her. As I got older, I could imagine her on the plush, velvet stool, doing her makeup. I could imagine her smiling as she got ready for big events, I could see her holding the mirror up to look at her hair from different angles. 

When I burnt the ranch to the ground, I never grabbed the mirror. 

When I tried to look through the ashes, it was gone. The fire that I had started, had ripped through my fathers room. Bed frame and mattress springs had melted together. The large amount of broken glass in the pile of ashes had probably come from the vanity. 

But I wanted to hold it again, I wanted to look into it, I wanted to see her again. 

So there, in some shitty old antique store I stood. I probably smelled like hell, I hadn’t had a shower in over a week, my arms were an ashy gray, covered in soot, dust, and grime. My hair stuck to the side of my head, and I had just thrown a forty down behind her shop, in the alley. However, I needed an old mirror. And this little antique shop had what I was looking for. 

I looked it over, its ornate wooden handle had been cheaply painted with silver spray paint. But underneath the spray, you could feel the craftsmanship. Old mirrors have a weight to them, something with the material they used back then. But it’s heft told you it’s quality. I spun the mirror around in my hand, the back was just as nice as the frame and handle. I spun it back, and I looked down into its reflective surface. First I looked for the small black spots, the small amounts of dirt that had been ingrained into the surface over decades of use and wear. And finally, I looked at what it was reflecting. 

The filthy face that stared back, the sunken cheeks, the bags under the eyes, the matted beard. It all looked back at me. I snarled, I didn’t recognize this man, I didn’t recognize what I had become. I didn’t notice the lines forming in my face, I didn’t anticipate forty years having crept up so fast. That man, that’s not the man I thought I’d be at forty years old. Never in my wildest dreams did I see that broken, disheveled man in my future. A year of torture, a year of fighting the Best’s had aged me like Obama’s second term. 

I had always pictured a clean cut man staring back, the steel blue eyes hidden under stubble like my father had. There would be children, there would be a woman, I’d be living on some gigantic farm just like my old man. I’d have all the things he had, and all the things he didn’t. 

I think we’re genetically conditioned to try to one up our parents, to over achieve and out do them. To promote and climb the social ladder of life, just like they did. I’d take the gifts, and the privilege he’d given me, and use it to become something greater. I’d build upon his knowledge, and take it to the next level. 

And my son would try to eclipse me. 

I guess that’s how you think when you’re young. 

But I never imagined this, I never imagined a beaten, weathered man. I never imagined myself friendless, aimless, no one around, no camaraderie. I never imagined myself like that. I never imagined that my life could be what it was, and is. I never imagined that the reason for my visit would be because I burnt down my father’s house in a fit of rage, I never imagined I’d be alone. I never imagined I would have nowhere to turn when times were tough. 

I couldn’t pick up a phone, call heaven, and ask my father for his advice. 

I drug myself to the counter, mirror in tow. The old lady scampered around the counter, probably for her first sale of the year. She prepared her antique cash register and rang the mirror up. I didn’t care about the price, I was PWA rich, none of it mattered. I handed her a wad of cash and stumbled back out into the Texas sunlight. Fuck Scott Stevens and Dan Ryan by the way. I’m the best HOW roster member from Texas, and they can go fuck themselves.

I was glad to be done with it, I was ecstatic to be done with that wretched place. I stumbled back through the alleyway, I’d sneak a peek at my new prize every few moments, before I’d keep walking. I finally reached my home, I took a step up into the truck, I pushed my bag with my gear out of the way and sat down. I looked into the mirror one last time, before setting it down on a pile of other mirrors. It wasn’t exactly like hers, but like the others, it was close. I put the truck in drive and drove off. 

 

———————————————

Look at your goddess, she wants chaos. Look at our GOD, he wants CHAOS, they all want the same thing Xander. All of the people above us on the social, hierarchical, ladder. They all want it, they all need it. They beg for it, they want CHAOS. 

I’m going to give them what they want Xander. And unlike you, I’m not going to give it to them because I believe in them. I’m not going to give it to them because I worship them. I’m not even going to give it to them because it’s what they want. 

I’m going to give it to them because it’s what I want. 

I want CHAOS. I want uncertainty, I want them to wonder. I want them wondering what I’m going to do next, I want them trying to plan out what I’m doing six steps ahead. Before I was playing checkers Xander, before I was in Kindergarten. They were lapping me with their eyes closed. I’d move my black piece, and GOD would be their to move his #97RED piece and take two of mine as punishment. 

I’m done being predictable Xander. 

I’m done having friends. 

Whatever I do, it’s going to be because it benefits me. Because it’s what I want. 

Xander, I didn’t find it. I looked everywhere. 

But I don’t need to give a fuck, I don’t need to have some reason to come into the ring on Sunday and kick the living fuck out of you. I don’t need to check my moral compass before I start pounding your fucking skull in. I don’t need to check the direction of the wind, I don’t need to worry what people would think. I just need to do it, because it’s what I want to do. I need to do it, because it makes me feel good. 

Ruining your life makes me happy. 

Ruining your career makes me erect. 

Treating you like toxic waste and putting you in an incinerator gets me off. 

It’s what I want. It’s what I feel like doing, it’s what I’ll be thinking about all week. It’s all I’ll be thinking about, it’ll be the only thing I think about every night. I won’t give a fuck that it’s happening to you, I don’t need to invent some slight about War Games. I don’t need to invent some Bergman’s barn curse, I don’t need to come up with some elaborate fairy tale for why I’m going to cave your fucking skull in and eat soup out of your cranium. 

I’m going to do it just like I used to do Xander, I’m going to do it because I fucking like it. 

I’m going to squeeze your insides out like you are a toothpaste tube. I’m going to beat you like a rented mule. I’m going to embarrass you at CHAOS, because I want to do it. I’m going to send your entire existence into a tailspin, because it’s what I need to do. It’s what’s going to make me feel good. 

I’m sick and fucking tired of feeling bad about the shit I’ve done. I’m sick and tired of being a miserable cunt because I fucking lost. No, fuck that. You don’t become World Champion because you feel like you have to. You don’t become world champion out of spite. You have to want it Xander, I realize that now. I understand that now. It has to be the one thing you desire, it has to be the one thing you’re willing to die for. America doesn’t lie, it has to turn you into a monster. It has to pull you in, but you have to be willing to let it. 

I’m willing. 

I’m willing to do whatever it takes. 

If that includes smashing you into a million little pieces? 

I’m not going to lose sleep over it, I’m not going to sit in a room and cry. I’m not going to torture myself. I’m not going to frustrate myself over what I had to do to beat you. I’m just going to do it. And for the first time in a long time, I’m going to fucking enjoy it. There’s no more big dumb sad cowboy, there’s just a man who’s willing to do whatever it takes, because he likes it. Because he enjoys it. Because he wants it. 

I want it Xander. I want it bad. And you’re not going to get in my fucking way. 

See you at CHAOS.