PWP 12: Trick Or Treat - Jackson vs. Stefan Raab

Madison Square Garden (backstage) || July 27, 2014 [off camera]

Daddy... wake up.

That little voice came in the back of his head but he couldn't distinguish it past the blood pounding in his ears. Anger coupled with agony— pain pounding in his head, behind his eyes, surging through his veins like fire. The pain was worse than anything he'd ever felt before and he couldn't breathe. His lungs were burning but he couldn't push that copper-tainted air out.

GIVE HIM ROOM!

A new voice boomed in his ears, making him flinch, that sour air finally replaced with sweetness as a gasp drew in oxygen-rich air. There was a mask on his face but he couldn't even feel it. All he could feel was the rage like a white-hot poker in his belly that pain merging with the dull ache that filled every last inch of his broken-down body. The last time he'd fallen this far, his back had been a million shades of fucked. It had taken almost two years for him to get back in the ring and that had been more than fifteen years ago. He'd been a snot-nosed kid then, no older than the blonde waif that crouched on the floor next to his immobile body.

Daddy... open your eyes. You have to give me away in two weeks. You can't die on me now!

He tried to open his eyes, really trying. It was like pushing a boulder up a mountain, utterly exhausting. All he wanted to do was let go and sleep for a thousand years.

Mr. Jackson, try and move your fingers.

Light flooded his eyes, piercing into his brain like a laser. He felt himself flinch and the pain demons came screaming back, setting his back on fire.

He's responsive! Pupil reaction normal... doesn't look like any head trauma.

His eyes were open now, seeing nothing but red-tinted haze and the first thought that slammed through his brain with the impact of a Mack truck was more like a snapshot memory. Legacy, bloodied and battered, getting further and further away while the smirk on his face grew bigger.

"L-lyv—" he croaked out his wife's name, his voice giving out. Nobody heard him.

Legacy's smile grew bigger, wider until it swallowed the whole world. The first match back would be his last— he knew that now.

Stay with us, Mr. Jackson. We've got an ambulance on its way to take you...

He fell back in time to another place, another hard stretcher, immobilized. He'd fallen off a balcony that time, dumped over by a man who called himself Cobra— when was that? Five years ago? Six? He couldn't really remember. All he could see was the man in a hood with green snake eyes and the words being shouted as the darkness took him.

THE SERPENT SAVES US ALL!

The serpent— that whole concept of Jörmungandr, the snake that eats the world wasn't laughable now. He was right there in the middle of the wasteland. There was nothing on the horizon but more pain. The world had been swallowed and SCW held nothing for him now.

The Monster. The 'Wrestling Machine'. The legacy of the so-called Dark Horse. None of it was real.

He'd lost to Chris Madison.

He'd lost to Adam Stryker.

He was a washed up hack.

"Jax?"

"Lyv." He tried to open his eyes and failed. His fingers spasmed, reaching for hers. "B-babe..." he trailed off, catching himself as he remembered how much she hated that generic name he'd called all the other women in his life.

The nickname he'd called her didn't matter, she didn't even hear it. Her focus was solely on him, "baby, I'm here..." her voice faltered as she met his hand with hers, squeezing his bloody fingers, "you're okay, baby." Her other hand stroked the hair back from his brow as she cataloged his wounds with her own eyes. She'd seen him looking worse, but not by much. "I'm not gonna leave you." Those words came out firm as she leaned over and kissed his forehead.

"I can't..." his eyes were open now, one further than the other, both sets of lashes crusted with blood that was starting to dry. His fingers crushed hers, panic in that tight squeeze, "I can't feel... "

The panic he was feeling made her throat tight as she shook her head. "You're gonna be fine... you've gotta be in shock or something. You've fallen before and you were okay." Dread was digging into her guts and somehow she was clairvoyant, plucking that memory from his head, "remember? Back in 2009 in New Jersey, you had that match against Boston Bancroft, I think his name was. That snake charmer guy threw you off the balcony and you landed on those chairs—"

"Mmmfh," he grunted, wondering how she even remembered something that had happened before they'd ever gotten together more clearly than he could. How she managed to store up all these tidbits of the career that he'd largely forgotten was beyond him. His gaze cut to the corner of the room and he realized just what she was doing when he saw how ashen his daughter Ellie was. "Yeah. Few weeks and I was back at it..." he had to make an effort with every word, "jus' a fuckton of bruising and a pinched nerve."

Kissing his cheek, she pressed her forehead against his, wanting to be as close as she could. "Right. So you'll be fine..." she kissed him a few more times, oblivious to the grime and blood on his face, "you're just in shock, Jax. Try to take nice slow breaths. You're okay, honey. They'd have said something if you weren't."

"Shock," he tried to roll the word around his numb lips, feeling a few teeth wiggle against his tongue. He had no idea how they'd gotten loose— couldn't remember anything beyond walking out for his entrance. "Did I..." he paused, seeing the sad look in his wife's eyes as she pulled back to look at him. The question died on his lips. He'd lost.

Legacy had just ended his wrestling career.

"Daddy?" Out of his blurred peripheral vision, he could see his Ellie inching closer, wringing her hands now.

"Yeah... prob'ly it." He muttered the words for her benefit, realizing that the pleas he'd heard when he was halfway out of it had been hers.

"Dad?" Ellie had tears streaming down her face and somehow that made him feel infinitely worse. In the two years since she'd come back into his life, he'd never seen her cry. Getting closer, she leaned over and pressed her face gently against his shoulder, wrapping her arm around him. Was she shivering or was he? "Oh, Daddy." Her body shook with sobs as Lyv took a hand and placed it on her stepdaughter's shoulder.

"It's okay," he mumbled the words, trying his best to console her when he was strapped to a backboard. "I'm gonna be alright," the words were forced out but his brain was stuttering over the prospect of severe spinal damage. He couldn't feel his legs or his feet at all. That fire of pain ended around his lower back and everything beyond that was a fuzzy void. He turned his head the best he could, trying not to scream from the agony of his protesting neck muscles. His eyes met his wife's and he simply stared at her, hoping that for once, she picked up his unspoken cue.

Lyv nodded slightly as she straightened up and looked at Ellie. "Hey, Elles? Could you go call Lex and Han? Just let them know Jax is fine but we might be a little late getting back to pick up Christian..."

Ellie nodded, wiping at her eyes. "Okay... yeah okay..." she fished out her cell phone, already scrolling through the contacts as she left the room.

Exhaling, Lyv tried to disguise how worried she was by smiling gently down at Jax. "You want me to get you anything?"

"Did they say they were taking me to the hospital... or did I dream that?" He glanced at the doorway, a sort of desperation on his face. Yes, he was shivering. Maybe it was just shock, but it didn't feel like it. Something just felt wrong.

Nodding, "yeah... they just wanna check you out to make sure you're okay."

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. "No," he said it in a low, strangled voice, that irrational fear taking over. If they didn't find it, they couldn't make him hang up his boots.

"Jax, just for a little bit... please?" She asked, knowing if he stood strong in the decision, she'd give in. She always did because she couldn't stand to see him bloodied and broken like this. "You need to make sure."

"No," his voice came out stronger, brimming with all the fury he'd bottled up and hadn't been able to fully unleash on Legacy. He twisted his arms beneath the straps that bound him to the board. "Undo these fuckin' things. I need to get outta here."

She hesitated, frozen in place as she stared at him.

"Now, Lyv!"

Finally, she nodded and did as she was told. "Okay, let's go." She held a hand out to him, confident that she could take better care of him than a room full of strangers. She knew what he needed.

Jackson struggled to sit up, his wrist screaming in protest beneath the layers of tape. It wouldn't hold his weight and he was sweating profusely. His ears were ringing as everything grew too bright and then started to go black. "Shit..." the word came out on an exhalation and then his eyes rolled up in his head as he fell back against the stretcher, falling down the rabbit hole...


DarkHorseOnline.Net blog: October 16th

Stefan Raab is a good kid, really. He eats his Wheaties. He says his prayers. He hits the gym on a semi-regular basis.

He loves his alphabet soup.

Wait... what?

Yeah. Soup. Little letters floating in it and every spoonful is another nugget of wisdom about some place nobody here gives two shits about. SCW. SLUUURP. WEW. SLUUURP. STFU. SLUUURP. That's what I pictured when I listened to your shit. Didn't bother to watch it because I was training at the time. I know, novel concept, right? You just assume I don't do that anymore since I've dropped a whole weight class and about forty pounds. Nobody cares about the whys or the hows of that phenomenon. It happened months ago. I was sick. I got better. End of story.

But for you, the scabs are there and you feel like maybe you need to dig at them because there might be blood. Nope. Good try though, kid. I'll give you a blue star for trying anyhow.

See it's been almost three months since the last time I wrote one of these little missives. It's been that long since I've competed inside a SCW ring. I haven't been back since Legacy beat me. In fact, this is my return, Stefan. Do you feel special now? You're my space monkey, for lack of a better term.

It's been almost a year since I parted ways with CWF (well, ten months, anyhow) and I haven't really looked back too much on that. I guess you could say I'm over it but maybe you're not, since it was your wife who did one of those ludicrous naked aggression matches. Were you proud of her, Raab? Was that one of those ticker-tape, career-defining moments for her? For you, maybe? I don't even want to think about that.

So we'll move on.

It's been four months since Chris Madison beat me in 220 Wrestling, in front of a rabid Tokyo crowd that cheered for the handshake I gave him after the match was over. He earned it. Sadly, I had to swallow my pride and admit that the better man won.

It's been a year since I parted ways with FTW, as brief as that foray into backstage politics that made Obama look squeaky-clean. Speaking of which, I remember another F. Do you remember FWF? I do. I met your wife there way back in 2007. Honestly can't remember if she was one of the mediocre hacks I steamrolled with a huge winning streak before I got bored and moved on to more competitive pastures or not. It doesn't really matter.

But you know what I remember the most, Raab? A few days past a year ago and there was this German guy in this revival of this little promotion in Louisville, Kentucky. The guy was facing a girl named Alyvia— she calls herself Lyv most of the time— Lyv Jackson, actually. My wife. See, we've been married for a couple years now, inching up on three. We've got a kid that's almost two now. So this German guy goes on camera, and he says that he'd glad that she learned how to wrestle from a legend like her father, Brad Jackson, but that she couldn't hope to beat a seasoned veteran like you.

You remember that, Raab?

You thought my wife was my daughter.

So with all the doling out of respect, I have to wonder if you're just compensating for the fact that you think a girl who's closer to thirty than she is two twenty could possibly be the child of a guy barely over forty.

Nah, just yanking your chain, chief. Don't worry about it.

We all make mistakes.

And you got beat by my protégé that night so I guess we won't rub that in too much since you have all your alphabet soup accolades and upcoming gigs to keep you warm at night.

You've got other places to be that are far more important that slumming with the likes of me— do I sound bitter? Yeah, maybe a little. For all your talk, you said absolutely nothing that some troglodyte couldn't recreate in ten seconds of skimming through my Twitter timeline, let alone hitting Google.

You respect me? You think I'm great?

Good.

Fantastic.

Doesn't matter much to me in the grand scheme of things and I know it's a little harsh to be this honest but I feel like I have to be frank with you, Raab. I can't use my flowery metaphors. I can't drape a pretty little blanket of words over your head because there's a 99.99% chance you won't read them (and if you do, they'll come out ass-backwards). It's not your fault, kid. You've been dropped on your head a lot over the last year. The latter months of 2013 were unkind to both of us, weren't they?

I'm still struggling with the concept that I lost more than once. You're still trying to learn how to walk and chew gum at the same time.

I'm no longer feared in locker rooms. You're no longer solely breathing through your mouth.

My legacy was murdered. You never had one to speak of beyond being a laughing-stock of the industry, right up there with Angel Kash.

We have nothing in common, Raab. We're about as opposite as two people in this business can get. You'll realize that when even a broken down has-been manages to put you down.

I've had a few false starts. I've taken a few bad turns this year but I'm back and I've chosen PWP as my last best hope. Unlike you, I'm not globetrotting and name-dropping. I don't give a shit about the other places, those other letters floating around in your little bowl. Don't care what gold-painted turd you strap around your waist. I don't care about who you beat to get here and who from my past you're jizzing over facing next. Focus for ten seconds on the present, you ADHD-riddled fucktard.

I should prepare to be Raab-inated? How about instead, you prepare to be OBLITERATED.

I'm gonna break you, kid. No tricks. No treats.

Just good ol' fashioned pain. A broken nose. A bellyful of razor-blade candy.

It's all the same to a willing monster like me.

Take off the mask, kid. Do us all a favor and stop pretending to be something you're not. Leave the threats for those who have the skills to back them up. It's times like these I can almost forget how fucked up I've become. Right now, I'm not dreaming of tearing you apart with my bare hands. Instead I'm still laughing at the memory of the last time we met. Once we hit that ring, all bets are off, chief. The voice of reason won't be there. The mask won't keep you safe because faceless, you're even easier to destroy. For now I'll alternate between laughter and maiming you a thousand different ways in my thoughts.

You know... because I can.

That's what monsters do, after all.

GRR. (insert rolling of eyes here)

—Jax.


Reno || August 10, 2014 [off camera]

Lyv Jackson's eyes lazily opened to darkness and she still felt slightly drunk from last night's revelry. Jax's daughter had gotten married and had finally left for her honeymoon in Paris just hours before. The wedding and reception had gone off without a hitch. Turning her head, she was expecting to see her husband sound asleep next to her only to find that she was alone. Looking towards the bathroom, she almost expected to see him in there— after the amount he'd had to drink, she wouldn't have been surprised to find him praying to the porcelain gods. However, he wasn't in there and the room was pitch-black. The bed beside her was ice cold, too.

Throwing back the covers, she clumsily got out of bed. Even though she felt a tad light-headed, Lyv continued through the house and made her way downstairs, following the sound of muted music. When she reached the living room, she found him slumped on the sofa, staring at the TV.

"Hey, I missed you in bed," she walked into the room, "couldn't sleep?" Without hesitation, she went over and curled up onto his lap just as he reached for the remote and flicked off what he'd been watching.

"I'd love to sleep," he replied, his tone hollow, "but my brain won't shut off."

She frowned and slid her arm around his shoulders. "D'you wanna talk about it?" She usually didn't press him like this, but she was drunk enough that she didn’t care about the backlash. He could tell that by the lazy slur her words had.

He sighed, letting his head fall back against the couch. "What's there to talk about?"

"Why your brain won't shut off?" Leaning in, she kissed his temple before nuzzling his neck, "c'mon, Jax. Wedding's over... so just let the load off already."

He closed his eyes, staying silent. "Don't wanna talk about it."

"What if..." her fingers drew random patterns on his bare shoulder, "we go upstairs n'take a bath?" She doubted he would take her up on it. "We could put a movie on... not sure I'll be goin' back to sleep."

"Not like it matters much..." his voice came out quiet as he started twisting a lock of her hair between his fingers, "we've got nowhere to be."

So there it was. The elephant in the room was right there, trumpeting in her ear with her husband's bitter tone. "Jax," she exhaled deeply, snuggling as close to him as she could. "A little downtime won't hurt us. It's been a long few days and you need to just focus on relaxing." Smiling softly, she gave his cheek another kiss before resting hers against it. "The wedding was beautiful; Ellie looked like a princess."

"Yeah," he chuckled ruefully, "she did— obviously didn't get any of that from my fucked up genes."

She gently laughed along with him as she shook her head. "Despite what you think, you got good genes, baby. Christian's proof enough of that."

"Never shoulda taken that match," he almost blurted the words, looking down at her.

"What match?" She pulled back slightly and looked up at him. "What're you talking about?"

"Warped is doing this show."

"Warped?" She echoed. "I thought that place closed."

"It did. They were going to give it a proper burial." The way he said it made it clear he was drawing a mental parallel between that company and his own career.

"So... what did you sign on for?"

"Some title tournament for the light heavyweight belt or somesuchshit." He chuckled, "ironic, I guess. Since I stopped... y'know... I'm down below 215. I qualify and I thought—"

"You thought you could go out golden," she completed the statement for him., repeating what he'd told her when he'd accepted the match against Legacy for SCW's Global Title.

"I mean I'm probably fucked, Lyv." His eyes locked on hers, no traces of a smile on his face now. "Odds are pretty damn good on that ridiculous joke being my last hurrah... ever. Couple guys in that... half my age."

She was silent for a few long seconds before giving him an encouraging smile, "no, you've still got more time." It broke her heart to see him like this, "it's not gonna end like this, Jax."

"It hurts and it's deep, okay? It's not gonna just... disappear." He shook his head, "so this' who I am now. Might as well resign myself to it now. I'm the guy who can do one gig a month, if that. I'm a fuckin' special attraction now—"

"Stop," she said, cutting him off. "You've got more time, Jackson. Maybe you don't believe that, but I know—"

His nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath— she knew him well enough to know what that meant. He was biting back his anger. "Don't say that. I'm fuckin' sick of wishing and hoping and putting everything I have into recovery for a business that doesn't give a flying fuck about me anymore. I'm sick of giving everything I have in me to this goddamn business for nothing. Take one step forward and a thousand back. And that's great, babe. I had what... four matches? Four before I had to hang up the boots again. I just..." he lifted a hand, dragging his fingers through his hair before digging his nails into the scalp at the back of his head. "Something's gotta give."

"Don't hold back, if you're angry let it out." She repositioned her body so that she was straddling him, looking him straight in the eyes. "You wanna yell, you wanna scream... just do it, baby. There's nobody here but us."

"What's that gonna accomplish?" He stared at her and she could see beyond the exhaustion to the fear that lay beneath it. "I could yell until my throat's raw, and it won't change a fuckin' thing."

"No, but it might help you feel better." Leaning in, she pressed her lips against his forehead.

"It won't." Jackson almost snapped the words at her, shaking his head again.

"Okay then," she said with a shrug. "Want me to get you something to drink?" Lyv had pulled her head back and moved her hands to his shoulders, gently massaging them.

"You know what I want? So bad I can taste it....I could go for a nice little trip down happy river. What's it matter now?"

She bit down hard on her lower lip, studying him. He'd spent two months getting clean and now he wanted to slide right back down into that hole? "Is it," she hesitated, licking her lips, "Jax, is it something you need?"

"Need?" He chuckled bitterly, "it's always been there, Lyv. It's never going to go away."

She looked away, unable to look him in the eyes. "I'm sorry," her voice was timid at best.

Yeah," he kept his eyes fixed on a point beyond the top of her head, "maybe you should just go back to bed and leave me alone."

Swallowing hard, Lyv just continued to stare at her lap. "Oh," she said softly, "sure... whatever you want, Jax." It had been awhile since he'd snapped at her and it cut, hard. Her body was trembling as she managed to get to her feet.

"Get me a drink before you go?" He glanced at her, trying like hell to soften the tone of his voice, "maybe just... a bottle of whatever's left over and open from the party? Please?"

"Y-yeah, whatever you want." She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. Her smile faltered before she spun around, mumbling, "I'll be right back." Walking sheepishly out of the room, Lyv managed to find a leftover bottle of Glenlivet. With her eyes lowered, she approached him and held the bottle out. "Want me to get ice?"

He didn't take the bottle right away, lost in his own dark thoughts as he stared blankly at his ghostly reflection in the dark TV screen.

She watched him closely for a few moments before setting the bottle down on the coffee table. "Um, I think I might sleep in Christian's room so that way you can relax in the bed." Tears welled in her eyes as she tried like hell to hide it.

"Don't worry 'bout it," he finally turned his head to look at her, "the way my back's feeling... I won't be moving for a while."

"I could help you up to bed. It'll be better for your back and then I can get you settled and comfortable. I can roll on some of that Max Freeze stuff— you said that works for a while, right?" Her voice was still timid as she glanced up at him.

"Stop looking at me like that." The words came out in a hollow voice as he lifted his hand up, cupping the back of his neck and digging his numb fingers into the knots at the base of his skull.

Unable to stop herself, she walked over and knelt in front of him. Cautiously placing her hands on his legs, she exhaled deeply. "I love you," was all she could manage, as she grabbed his other hand and kissed the knuckles, "and I think maybe you're rushing into things, Jax. I really think you should slow—"

"Don't," he forced the word out, shaking his head, "Lyv... don't do this to me."

She shook her head, retreating immediately from the argument. "No matter what, I love you... don't ever forget that." She kept a hold of his hand a bit longer before letting it go.

"Love's not gonna keep us goin'. Not gonna pay the bills, babe."

"We'll be fine, Jackson. I know things look bleak, but I need you to believe that. I've got money coming in from modelling, remember?"

"I've got an offer to sell the club..." he sighed, "and a huge part of me wants to take it and run."

She mulled it over for a second, "we could sell it. We could sell this house and move somewhere smaller."

"I really like this house, though," he replied, finally meeting her eyes, "it's just... I dunno. Maybe I need to start living like a normal person."

She bit down on her lower lip and shrugged her shoulders. "What's normal these days?"

"There's a school in New York— maybe I could get a training gig." He pulled a face, hating the thought. "I don't know what I wanna do, Lyv. That's the trouble." If he couldn't go back to wrestling, there was nothing else he wanted to do. That was the worst part of it all.

If he couldn't get back in the ring, there was nothing out there left living for. After twenty-one years at it, the fray was all he knew.