PWP 13: Lucky 13 - Jackson vs. Chris Night

Reno || November 2, 2014 [off camera]

The music was so loud that every drum kick made his ears throb— it needed to be like this so that he could blot out all thoughts. Everything kept circling back, over and over to the point where he was too nauseated to even keep anything down. He'd been guzzling water all day, hiding down here with the weights and the terrible playlist on repeat. Disturbed came on and all he could think about was stabbing Matt Ford with a screwdriver. Idly, he wondered if that prick was even wrestling— it was enough of a distraction to reach for his phone. The back of the case was gritty already with dried salt and the little sweaty balls of dead skin and talc from his hands. He didn't care. Fumbling with his thumb, he swiped away the picture of his wife smiling demurely, her face half hidden with a wide-brimmed hat from some recent photo shoot to reveal the little icons. He pressed his thumb against the globe, watching the fog from his finger cloud the glass. A few clumsy taps later and he was looking at the website. The no-neck goon was still champ. Shock and a half. That bullshit dive had been rife with politics of the worst kind— the dry ream without the courtesy of a reach-around. Maybe if they hadn't treated his wife like a jobber, she wouldn't have given up so quickly and gone back to the less hostile environment of fashion modelling. Deus Ex Machina was a bad dream, some ill-conceived notion that had garnered them a little bit of notoriety in SCW after the failure in FTW. Not enough to really matter when push came to shove.

Who the fuck is Chris Night?

The voice in the back of his head kept nagging and he couldn't put his finger on why that name kept striking a chord. Since February, his long term memory was fading, the moments of recall coming less frequently— before it had been a steel trap and every name drop would conjure a flood of memories. He could play the word-association game for days and always come out on top. Now, he needed his wife to keep track of his appointments because he kept forgetting how to use the calendar function in his damned cell phone. In his mind, it didn't matter who Chris Night was, or what version of the alphabet soup IWF he worked for (if those letters at the end of his Twitter name even meant he was employed by any company by that acronym). Maybe they stood for Indestructible Wrestling Fanatic?

Fuck it. Who cares? He'll fall just like Raab and I can—

His thoughts were silenced by the sudden blaring of Iron Maiden's FEAR OF THE DARK. Ten years and he still had the same damned ringtone. Spiral, wherever he was, would probably have a good laugh over that one. The surprise almost made him drop the phone before he adjusted his grip, sliding his thumb from left to right across the screen.

"Music OFF!" He barked before bringing the phone to his ear, the sudden silence making him slightly lightheaded as his ears rang.

"Dad?" Ellie's voice came through the speaker, almost timid.

"Hey, kiddo." The warmth that flooded his voice telegraphed the smile on his face as he settled back against the weight bench. "What's up?"

"I... uh...." she hesitated for a bit too long and then blurted it out, "we were supposed to meet for breakfast. Did you forget again?"

"Aw, shit." He let out a groan, "I forgot. Swear... I've just been so wrapped up in getting ready for the next go-round that I—"

"Next? Dad? What're you talking about?" Now she really sounded confused. "I thought you were done after Friday."

"Done?" He let his eyes drift around the weight room. There were too many shadows in the corners. Maybe he'd add another bank of lights later. Making it hotter down here wasn't necessarily a bad thing, after all. He could smell garbage even though the room was clean. In the back of his mind, he could hear the rats scuttling and it took everything he had to focus on what his daughter was saying.

"...at least that's what she told me and maybe I got it all wrong. God knows, I've done it before—"

"Wait... hold up. Back up, El. What did she tell you exactly?" He had a feeling he knew exactly who she was.

"She said she felt like she was on eggshells," Ellie sighed, feeling a little guilty at selling out her step-mother but she'd never been able to lie to her father. "And she said that your match against that Raabtard guy—"

"Lord Raab," he interrupted, wishing that his daughter didn't have Twitter for the millionth time in recent months. "Sorry, kiddo. Go on."

"Well... she... she said that was just another of your 'bucket list' matches and that there was nobody else left on there so," he could hear her swallow hard, "she said she was counting the days until that was over and you just got the retirement over with for good." The kid was babbling and with good reason. She could hear the change in her father's breathing, knowing he was mad. "Dad? Hey, you know... I'm sure I just got it all mixed up. Don't be mad."

"I'm not mad." He ground his teeth, reflexively reaching for cigarettes that weren't there and hadn't been there in months. "I'm glad you told me so I could correct the idiocy. I'm not retiring, okay? I've got a match at the end of the month against another guy in that same company."

"Okay. Do you want me to watch Little Bubbers when you and Lyv go?"

He didn't answer her for a while, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to figure out what his wife was up to. The anger was hot, making his skin burn. "I'll let you know. Not even sure where the event's taking place from... somewhere east coast, I think."

"Okay. Well just—"

"Tomorrow," he cut her off mid-sentence. "We'll do breakfast tomorrow, okay? My treat and then we'll go shopping... guess it's about time I think about Christmas and all that, right?"

"Tomorrow's fine, Dad. Really."

"Alright, pumpkin. See you then..." he pulled in a deep breath, "love you, kiddo."

He hung up before she could say it back, letting the phone drop from his hand to land harmlessly on the floor.

It's fucking déjà vu all over again.

He could taste blood from the split in his chapped lips. Labored breaths rattled in and out of his lungs as he lay there in a puddle of his own sweat, trying like hell to shut off his brain and swallow back the irrational anger. Feeling his stomach lurch, he swallowed hard as he put a hand over his eyes. The overhead light was burning, but he couldn't take the dark. It was too close— too fucking real.

"Fuck," he mumbled, sitting up slowly and scooting forward on the bench. There wasn't going to be any more peace until he got the issue settled. His rhythm was wrecked anyhow. If he'd lost her support, he didn't really know what he was going to do. The match was booked, after all....



DarkHorseOnline.Net blog: November 15th

he too knows it's bullshit but that somehow it all helps

Well there's twenty minutes of my life I'm not getting back.

Regrets. Yeah, I live with those every day. I live with the what-haves, and might-have-beens… and all the other doubts. Honestly, it's getting to the point where every little thing is setting me off— some small part of me realizes that it's all part of the game they like to play. They want nothing more than to weaken me. Humble me. Booking me against a guy like Stefan Raab, for example. Seriously, I'm not calling that guy 'Lord'. That's idiotic.

I'm staring at the prospect of another young lion and the disaster of Adam Stryker comes to mind. I still have no idea how I managed to lose to that idiot with more product in his hair than I have title belts in my trophy case. Somewhat disturbing, I know— I have to admit, at first, I thought this was going to be awesome. I thought this guy worked for Insurgency like Dexter Jacobs. Nope. Inferno. The same place where Raab is a prime player. Right. So it's that level of awesome and gosh, I gotta say, I feel grossly out-skilled here. Truly.

But hey, if Raab is the top dog and I beat him handily, I guess I can beat this guy who teams with his wife in tag matches.

I know you were hoping this was the beginning of some lame-ass retirement speech. Some self-serving shit about how I've 'lost my smile' or somesuchbullshit. If that's what you were thinking, log off now. Power down your computer and toss it out the window because you're too fucking stupid to live, let alone surf the Interwebz. I'm here. My laces are intact. My boots are waiting by the door, ready to be polished up via insertion into another interloper ass in my ring.

Yeah, there's a little thing about ME that you're not going to understand, kids. There's no such thing as a fluke where I come from. No such animal as LUCK. No shamrocks. No horseshoes. No rabbit's foot. Here in the Jackson household, we don't deal in hypothetical situations. The truth? Yeah, it's staring you in the face. You can't hope to beat me, Night. Not when you spend more time on that tossed hair salad on your head than you do on actually LEARNING how to string together an arsenal of more than ten moves. Show me a successful singles career without leaning on your Barbie doll wife like a crutch and I'll try not to belittle you.

Yeah, I know. Parallels up the wazoo, right? My wife and I used to team together so this isn't just an empty jab, kid. This is the voice of experience here, okay? My wife... I thought she was great. I thought she had enough talent to go all the way (and that was probably biased as hell). For the life of me, I can't remember why she stopped. I mean, PCW imploded but she held a belt there for the better part of the time the place was open. I trained her and we can chalk that up to a giant failure. We never managed to capture gold as a team despite having a really huge shot at it over in Sin City Wrestling. I guess that's on me, isn't it?

Let's pretend for a second that you've actually managed to make it this far. Let's pretend you actually listen to me. Fair warning, kid— I won't be pulling punches out there. Here's a little truth: as much as you want to run from it, and reinvent yourself, you can't. You can change your hair. You can change your gear. You can rename every move in your arsenal, ditching all the crap they used to mock you about and it doesn't matter because the past is right there with you. It molded you into the person you are today. It warped you into what you've become. You can deny it. You can forget it but it doesn't matter much in the grand scheme. It still exists and it still has its claws in you.

I still want to be the best because I wanted to make my asshole father proud. I never got that and I've pretended it doesn't shape my desires. I tell myself that this is about my wife now. She married me when I was a winner. She doesn't deserve to be saddled with some limp-dick loser now. So it's about that. It's about going out on top but let's call a spade a spade, shall we? I want to win because I NEED to win. Simple as that.

I am the winter of discontent. I'm not really a poetic little cliché, but that's always where I slip to. I'm stuck in a repeating pattern and I almost expect everything to circle back and bite me in the ass these days. Probably will. Shooting off my mouth will fuck me over. I know it. I know it's not over but it feels like it is when Stefan Raab is the best opponent I can draw these days. Where's someone on the level of Chris Madison when you need him? Nah. I get this kid with the artistically shaved head who likes to fly. He's the Dollar Tree version of Adam Stryker, for fuck's sake. The show must go on....

I try to keep my head above the water, hiding behind the tree line. Exile. There's nothing to distract me from myself right now, and it's hurting. Raw wound. Trying hard not to sink into the depression I can feel reaching for me. I realize there is no sinking that I can avoid. I'm already here. I've been struggling. I want out of this cold water. I want to stop swimming. Try to find my endless drive, the motivation, and I can't.

Try to care and I can't.

Like sprinting a ten mile trail of sniper infested tree line. I'm not John Rambo. This survivor shit is not ingrained into every last cell of my body. I'm too ordinary for that.

Come on, tear me down. Break me out there. I don't care. I welcome it. Blaze of glory, suicide. So far out there now, in my head. Broken beyond any scope of human comprehension. Isolated and alone.

I love violence. I crave carnage. I like obituaries. I like anything that gives the game a little twist. That's what matters. This business of constantly having to explain my every word really needs to stop. My trip is my trip. You can have yours.

You want to bitch about weaknesses and inadequacies? List off your own. I'm a selfish man.

Lucky thirteen, motherfucker and we're going to collide. All out. Balls to the wall.

You think you can do it?

Go for it.

—Jax.



Reno || November 2, 2014 [off camera]

Lyv placed the bowl that was filled cake batter on the counter. Bringing the back of her hand up to her forehead, she wiped away a few beads of sweat. Walking over to where her son Christian was playing on the floor with blocks, she picked him up and kissed his cheek. "Soon, we're gonna have a chocolate cake, Bubbers."

No sooner had the words left her mouth than a loud crash filled the silence. Shocked, she whirled around in time to see the batter splattering all over the floor and the front of the stainless steel fridge. Jackson stood there with a stone-faced expression, one hand still outstretched from shoving the metal mixing bowl off the edge of the counter. "I prefer vanilla."

She stood there frozen, holding Christian close. The little boy became very engrossed in what he was watching. "I can make you another…" the tone of voice was tight and unsure, the anger on his face surprisingly out of character— he hadn't been like this in months. "Are you okay?" It was an obvious no, but she didn't know what else to ask.

"Am I okay?" One dark brow rose as he stared at her incredulously, "yeah, babe… fuckin' peachy. Super-duper psyched about how you're already planning some bullshit retirement party for me."

"Wait… what?" She looked utterly confused as she tilted her head to the side. "Jax, I seriously have no idea what you're talking about right now."

"Drop the shit," he snapped, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the counter as he continued to glare at her. "Ellie told me all about it— how much you were lookin' forward to having me at home so you don't have to worry. I'm barely over forty, Lyv. Not a goddamned child and I'm sure as hell not washed up like Larry Gowan, for fuck's sake."

She thought back quickly to any recent conversations she'd had with Ellie and finally remembered what he'd accused her of. "Yeah, I mean I told her that I'd be relieved you'd be able to rest…. I uh… I just, Jax…. I just want you to feel better." The words came out wrong and she winced.

"You want me to 'feel better'? What's that even mean? I could quit right now, and I'm never gonna be at a hundred percent… all the rest in the world won't rebuild my knees or unfuck the nerves in my hands. Are you insane?"

"No, I just get worried when you get in the ring— Jax." She took a few steps in his direction and tried to put a hand on his shoulder, with Christian on her other hip.

"Then stay home," he pulled away from her, shaking his head, "you don't have to watch me do it. Just stay here and bake cakes… gossip on the phone with Sabra about what the babies are doing. Do whatever boring bullshit your little heart desires, okay?"

"That boring bullshit entails me wanting to be along with you every step of the way." She exhaled, feeling annoyed— the apprehension was wearing off.

"Then fuckin' act like it!" He glared at her, "when I hear from my own daughter that you're counting down the days until I hang up the boots… there's a little bit of a disconnect there, Lyv, don't you think? I mean... I was floating the idea of us putting the team back together just a few days ago and you seemed like you were into it and now... I find out you're talking trash about me being washed up?"

"Talking trash?" Her eyes narrowed as she took a step towards him, stabbing a finger in his direction, "obviously you have me confused with someone else. I would never do that. You're my husband—"

"Do you want me to pull the plug on wrestling?" He stared at her, watching as she shook her head, refusing to be drawn into this argument he obviously wanted to have. She didn't back down and her backbone surprised him.

Handing Christian to him, she rolled her eyes and grabbed a handful of paper towels, staring to wipe up the chocolate splatter. "Even if I'm going to be relieved when you hang up your boots, I HATE that you have to say goodbye to something you obviously love so much."

"I'm not saying goodbye," he grumbled, "that's the whole point. I'm going to push as long as I can. That's what I've been trying to tell you— that's why I went to PWP. One event a month… I can do that. Hell I can probably maintain that schedule for YEARS, babe. Fuckin' years— think about the roll I can rack up, too. I mean, twelve wins in a year isn't that great but..."

"If that's what you wanna do, then do it." Her eyes cut to the baby in his arms, almost as if she was worried he'd do something to their son. "If your body can take it, you know better than anyone that I support you one hundred percent." She picked up the bowl and placed it on the counter. "I always have, no matter what reason. I think you forget that—"

"I don't." He stared at the bowl as though it had personally wronged him, "because if you were behind me, you wouldn't be trying to push me into obscurity—"

"I am NOT pushing you into shit! You're persecuting me for something I said to your daughter in confidence... in passing! I told her I would be relieved when this was all over… yanno what? Never fucking mind. It's going to be one of those nights where nothing I say or do is going to be right." She grabbed the toddler from Jackson's arms and started walking towards the staircase. Stopping, she turned back and looked at him. "If worrying about your health and your goddamn SANITY makes me a bad wife, then maybe…" she sighed, not even knowing how to finish that.

"Then maybe… what?" He prodded, "maybe you'll stop being such a selfish bitch and—"

Her eyes widened, a flash of anger going through them. "I'm a selfish bitch— but when you're hurting and miserable, I am the one who is fucking there for you. I ALWAYS have your back and this is the thanks I get? Well, Jax, shove it up your ass."

He stared at her for a few seconds, actually surprised at not only her tone but the words. "I'm not miserable," he paused for a second, "am I?"

"Can you honestly tell me that you're in perfect shape right now?" She shrugged her shoulders and continued to look him in the eye for a few seconds before letting her gaze drop to his shaking hands just as he stuffed them into the pockets of his sweatpants.

"I'm in good enough shape to pass a physical—"

"For how long?"

"It doesn't fuckin' matter, Lyv. I'm going to take what I get... cheat death as long as I can." He took a step closer to her, his eyes dropping to Christian in her arms, "I do everything I can to make sure we have what we need. I want you to be happy, Lyv. I want you to have anything you want… and I can't provide that if I'm sitting on my ass collecting dust."

"Jax," her words were soft and the anger she'd felt was melting away. With her free hand, she placed a hand on his cheek. "I don't want things— what I need is you and Christian. S'long as I have the two of you, none of the rest matters."

"It matters, Lyv." He shook his head, closing his eyes, "maybe you don't think so… but it matters to me."

"I get that, I do… but don't keep running yourself ragged on account of me. If this is what you truly want, then I'm in your corner. Just don't make it about me and forsake yourself in the process, okay?" Her thumb caressed his cheek.

"I don't want it," he corrected her, "I need it. I can't stop— frankly the prospect of doing that scares the shit out of me. If I stop... then they win. The rats will overtake—"

"What?" She stared at him in confusion, "what rats?"

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled, pulling his wife into his embrace as a form of distraction. Immediately, he nuzzled his nose against her neck, kissing her gently there a few times before pulling back with a sheepish look on his face. "I'm sorry I yelled at you, okay? I'm just a little high-strung right now."

She stretched up on her toes, kissing his cheek. "I love you, Jackson..." patting his other cheek with her hand, she pulled back slightly to look him in the eye, "now you go back downstairs and get yourself ready for Chris Night. I'll put Christian down for a nap... clean up this mess and then I'll come down and spar with you, okay?"

He nodded, letting her take his hand and lead him back to the basement door like he was the snot-nosed little child. "Yeah, okay."

Once he was out of eyesight and the door was closed, she leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly. "Something's gotta give," she whispered, just hoping at the end of it all, it wasn't her husband's mind. That was the last thing they needed.