[[Augusta, Maine. Tuesday, October 27th, 2015]]
My mind wasn’t where it should have been. Not for what I needed to get done… not to meet my daily goals within Mister Grey’s gymnasium. I should have been counting my reps when I was hitting the weights and performing calisthenics, I should have the rhythm playing in my head as I throw combinations against the well-worn heavy bag in the corner, I should be focusing on my breathing technique as I do another lap around the track.
The only thing I should be hearing besides the thrum of my own pulse heavy in my ears as my heart works ever harder to keep the blood pumping through my veins as I continue to add stress onto it, but all I can hear are my self-doubts and frustrations.
All I can think about is my failure.
My fugue state has kept the world looking colorless and bland over the past two days, the bumps and bruises, the welts and the stingers, ALL obtained from two days ago - from my failure - in Sin City Wrestling.
It was my first battle royale, the concept a difficult one for me to grasp as Mister Grey and Eduardo continuously walked me through the specialized rules for such a match.
“… don’t get thrown over the top rope…”
“… don’t let both your feet touch the floor…”
“… try and throw out every single other woman in this match…”
“… grasp the ropes with all your might and don’t let go…”
“… get low, a lower center of gravity is far more difficult to toss around…”
Even as I trained for the match - an event that Sin City Wrestling as a promotion aptly called the ‘Queen Of Sin’ - and felt my muscles grow and strength increase as I tried to feed into the concept of obtaining as much raw lifting power as I could, I still felt the concept alluded me.
I’d felt nervous in a wrestling ring more often than I’d care to admit, being trained as a kick-boxer and shootfighter during my formative years had done little to curb the nagging in the back of my head that maybe - just
maybe - I was out of my depth. The one defeat I had ever suffered in a wrestling ring had been a multi-person match… to say nothing of the several stumbles I had in even my singles affairs as my record accumulated win after win within the ropes of Pride & Honor Wrestling.
Sometimes that nagging in the back of my head was but a whisper, something I could push away, other times they seemed to compound, putting added pressure upon my shoulders… but keeping me driven, focused.
All of that was the product of Mister Grey having faith in me.
Every single doubt or worry, every setback I felt I have and every time my resolve falter, those expressionless grey eyes were always there, watching… but never with any sort of judgement or disappointment. The were very matter-of-factly… often cold and blank, but his words were clear. I should win, I will win, because he believed in me that much...
… and until two days ago, he’d been right every single time.
All of the advice and mental preparation, muddled as it were by adrenaline, worry and just simple primal instinct melted away as I stood in front of the biggest crowd I’d ever seen. My first time in a ring in months, the first time I had wrestled outside of the United States of America, my first time on an international stage… my first battle royale… and suddenly all of that mental baggage had just vanished into the ether.
Even now, cowed though I am by that loss, I have no doubts about the showing I put on in the ring that night… I was magnificent.
The amount of experience and raw humanity coming at me from all directions, the roar of a crowd so loud and dense it shook the mat beneath my feet, the spotlights so hot that the entire ringside area felt humid and sticky… the details of it seem so sharp and clear in my mind. Angles and features pronounced with startling clarity.
For how stark those memories though, there seemed to be tenfold as many moments I had to fill in by watching the match back in my shame, bitter taste on my tongue as I witnessed my own elimination - tied for third with a woman I had never even witnessed before as we were both sent sprawling to the floor by a dropkick.
For how intermittent my memory was during the match, after my elimination felt all too clear. A long slog to the back as I tried to absorb what had happened, what I had just managed to do in that ring, and what I had failed to do above all.
I had been defeated. All that faith the Mister Grey had stocked in me, in my ability to see my way through any obstacle since my very first failure… and it felt like I had damaged it, sullied it.
All those days and months in the gym after the closure of PHW, slaving and toiling to be a better version of myself, a stronger, faster, smarter and more vicious Tala Multo. All those times I had relayed through Eduardo to communicate to my benefactor my dissatisfaction of having nothing to do, nowhere to ply my trade as a fighter… and suddenly all of that fussing, those times I felt like making a snide remark of him not letting me off the proverbial chain to do what it is I do best just came back and hit me in the face with cold, hard reality.
When I had gotten backstage to find Mister Grey standing just past the Gorilla Position alongside his new client - man who stood shorter than I did, but made up for it by packing a nearly absurd amount of muscle onto his frame - named Tobias Burden, I couldn’t meet his eyes. I felt embarrassed, I felt ashamed… I felt that my manager was well within his right to berate me, to chastise me for my flaws.
I don’t know if it was because Eduardo wasn’t there to translate or because he didn’t want to display some sort of hair trigger temperament in front of Tobias, but he only raised my face - rough weathered hands lightly on my chin leading my gaze upwards - to meet his…
… and he nodded.
There was no emotion in his eyes, there never was. Whether that nod was tacit approval or acknowledging that I’d at least tried my best was unknown… and it had my hackles raised. This was my one chance to prove to him that I could get back into the waters and continue wrestling again, continue championing his name… did I also fail in proving that?
The past forty-eight hours seemed to crawl, the flight back to Augusta, the echo of words I exchanged with Eduardo but simply not retaining any sort of stance in my head.
Only a few hours ago I’d learned that the client Mister Grey had chosen to put into Sin City Wrestling was… not me, and I felt that blow as harshly as any kick or punch. I felt the already fragile ship that was my pride and confidence get sent crashing into the rocks.
I hadn’t been good enough… and now Tobias Burden would reap the benefits. A dour, weathered man who had walked into this gym months ago as nothing but bones and a shroud of misery he wore like an omniscient presence. He had put in long hours in the gym, never talking with me, only occasionally offering a cursory nod as he or I left the facility… I’d watched him grow strong, curious as to how a man that driven could come to be the shape he was in when he’d first arrived.
… but until a few hours ago, I couldn’t fathom that he’d replace me in whatever it was that Mister Grey had planned.
I was supposed to be hand-picked, I was supposed to be his success, I was supposed to be the one to impose his will… wasn’t I? ! Didn’t I do that!?
Did one moment of weakness finally break his belief in me?
Was I finally a ghost to him, just like the name I’d chosen for myself implied?
I almost stumble then, awareness coming back to the here and now of Mister Grey’s personal gymnasium. I had been running the track, the sixty pound weight vest digging abrasively into my shoulders as the sports bra offered no layered protection against the rough edges of coarse material, my eyes unfocused, brain hinging on my thoughts.
My legs were burning
My lungs were screaming
I vaguely taste the bile burning at the back of my throat.
… and my vision is clouded by tears I hadn’t - until this very moment - noticed had been welling up as my frustration mounted.
I stop then, falling to my hands and knees as my stomach lurches and I feel myself dry-heave. There wasn’t enough moisture in my body to put up anything but air and stomach acid, my mind having been so clouded as to forget to hydrate properly.
I sit back on my knees after a moment, hands raising to cover my face, skin flushed red from equal parts embarrassment and exertion. My breaths are ragged, emotion tugging at a possible strangled sob.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I was supposed to be the one moving forward with their career.
Hands drops from my face and I get a clear view of the gym for what felt like past forty-eight hours… and there he is, seated on a bench in between sets of chest presses. Whiskey-stained green eyes locking with mine, face impassive…
… I swear, a few more years and a mask on him and he would be the spitting image of Mister Grey.
That face that betrays nothing incites something in me, anger… rage… my humiliations mixes with my jealousy and - even though I know better - I rise into action. The warmth of adrenaline spreads through my skin but bolstered by my emotions I feel like I’m boiling alive, sensory overload causes black to start closing in at my vision.
I’m going to prove to Mister Grey he should have championed me.
Tobias rises from the bench, head cocked slightly to the side but confusion not evident on his face. He can read my body language. Muscle wise he could out match me on any day, I’m going to have to hit him hard and fast.
… aim for the neck, aim for the knee, slow him down and knock him out…
Ten yards now, he’s coiled back now, lips slowly turning into a cross between a sneer and a smirk. I see something brief flicker across his eyes if only for a moment. Appreciation? Approval? I don’t know… I don’t care… I’m going t-
"Tala, Nakatanggap ako ng ilang mga mabuting balita!"
The black disappears from the edges of my vision as quickly as it had appeared, the anger and assertions that I was going to drop Tobias immediately shirk and wither in their resolve as Eduardo enters the gym with that proclamation… and Mister Grey - his gait smooth despite his cane-assisted limp - following behind him.
My mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, apprehension and legitimate fear taking over… had they seen what I was about to do? Did I just damn myself completely?
Eduardo stops in front of me, but waits for my benefactor to catch up and it occurs to me that even if they hadn’t seen me. It would be nothing to Tobias to fill them in on the confrontation that had just been narrowly avoided.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and…
… he’s back on the bench, hands braced against the weight bar before continuing with the chest presses he’d been committed to before. Face impassive, focused upwards as he carries on with his workout… and once again, I’m just a part of the background to him.
I try to keep the relief from visibly showing as I turn to face Eduardo and my manager.
“Ano ito, Eduardo?”
He translates back to Mister Grey, whose eyes never leave mine… the thin line of his lips betray nothing but I’m expecting the hammer to drop any minute now.
"Mayroon kang isang tugma pagdating up sa dulo ng Nobyembre. Mister abo sabi ni ito ay para sa isang championship"
I give a long, disbelieving look to the translator before my eyes turn over to the masked man beside him. He gives me that familiar nod before his lips - betraying the emotionless nature of his grey eyes - break into a wide grin, before speaking through Eduardo
"Guarenteed mo ako ng pagkakataon kung hindi mo ipaalam sa akin pababa, hindi mo pa. Kaya huwag magsimula ngayon"
I can only nod back, too stunned to find humor or relief in those words, only awe.
Opportunity was here, I just had to take it in hand once again…
***
The camera fades in from black to reveal Tala Multo standing in front of a heavy bag, her normally stoic features covered by a breathing inhibitor that looks remarkably similar to an inhaler mask. She’s clad in tight spandex shorts and a black sports bra, hands and ankles expertly taped up.
“So… Mister Night. Christopher Night…”
The owner of the male voice that cuts through the silence of the scene walks on camera. He’s a small diminutive man clad in an expensive three-piece suit, a charcoal grey color that matches his bowler cap nicely. Poking out in frays from the edges of his hat are several long grey strands of hair. The only things visible besides the metal mask covering his face are his eyes and mouth, both of which contain no trace of emotion as he comes to a stop a few feet in front of the lens.
“I feel like leading up to this match you’ve found yourself at a disadvantage compared to us in the field of information. When this card was announced I’m sure you had a lot of questions where it concerned you first defense of the PWP Championship. Who is Tala Multo? How does she get signed up for this top spot against you for her first match in the company? How are you supposed to deal with an unknown quantity if you have no information to go on?”
A small sigh as the ghost of a smile graces his lips.
“You see Mister Night, it only takes a few clicks of the keyboard on almost any search engine in the known world and I can trace your career. Companies and tournaments most assume lost to the past all readily available to be scoured over online. You’ve been a part of the industry for long enough where there’s simply no shortage of material for young Miss Multo behind me there-”
He pauses as the Filipino woman steps forward to the bag, her fists peppering the canvas material of the bag solidly with precision shots. Smooth fast combos flowing together as she bobs and weaves, mentally envisioning an opponent that wasn’t there responding with strikes of their own.
“- to pour over, to analyze. To construct the best possible way she can think of to tear away your game plan, enact her will and leave you laying in a heap in the middle of that ring as she walks away holding on to a Championship she earned, as opposed to was handed…”
His smirk gains an aura of viciousness to it at that barb, but just as quickly as it was there he instead adopts a neutral expression once again.
“She’s seen your wins and your defeats, your triumphs and your failures… she has witnessed your claim to Inferno Wrestling’s tag team championship with your wife at your side and she’s even witnessed you all bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked lay your hands upon the CHZ Alpha title at the age of what? Sixteen? Seventeen?”
He points into the lens.
“What do YOU have to go on about Tala though? I’m guessing you found her tenure in a small independant promotion in Texas called Pride and Honor Wrestling in videos on Youtube… maybe even caught a few shaky hand-cam clips of my client's old semi-pro fights within the realm of shoot-boxing and kickboxing in her native Philippines and even in Japan?”
He cocks his head to the side, behind him we see Tala Teep kick the heavy bag, folding it slightly as it pitches back under the force before swinging forward again, only for the young Filipino woman to side-step to the left and bury a sharp elbow into the canvas.
“I know - if there’s any sort of urge to keep that title around your waist - that you’ve at least seen her most recent outing in Sin City Wrestling’s ‘Queen Of Sin’ where she finished third overall in that battle royale. I’m here to tell you both good news and bad news if you’ve managed to find and witness all of that, young Christopher…”
He holds up a finger.
“First the bad news, you have seen just about everything there is to see of my clients pro-wrestling career”
A second finger goes up
“... and the good news, there is no need to fret, because by the end of this promotional video, Mister Night, I shall give you more than enough information on my client that it’ll be something of a relief when she knocks half of the knowledge I’m about to impart out of your head on the thirtieth”
He drops his hand back down to rest on the pommel of his cane as we hear the distinct crack of Tala’s shin burying itself into the side of the heavy bag.
“Tala here has only very recently been formally trained to be a pro-wrestler. She made her debut… I believe it would be almost exactly a year ago in PHW when she walked out for a five man elimination match that was intended to be the inaugural show of the promotion… a promotion that obviously felt it had a lot more staying power than it did. Now while Tala did not win her first match, she did survive to the final two… and the culmination of that match is still the only time she has ever had her shoulders pinned to the mat, Christopher…”
He trails off a moment, collecting his thoughts.
“For a small independant, PHW had no shortage of talent and experience, some very well rivaling even yours… which turned out to be fortuitous to my client’s growth, because after Tala’s loss in her very first match, something ignited in her that simply nobody was able to put out. No amount of talent or veteran wile could pin her shoulders to the mat as she racked up wins against fellow kickboxers, a former Phoenix Wrestling World Champion… and even Mister Ian Rothburn, who I’ve seen is making his PWP debut on the 30th as well. A possible number one contender by the end of the card Ian is still the only wrestler to pin Tala… so another interesting wrinkle to say the least”
He holds up a finger again, this time a smirk tugging at his lips.
“ONE loss Chris, drove my client to not only raise her game, but break the bell curve of a company where literally everyone else was supposed to beat her. Win after win where she displayed minimal knowledge of pro-wrestling… where holds and suplexes were applied by her much in the same way a person tries to repeat a foreign dialect and instead sounds awkward. Victory after victory where she dropped people with kicks and punches, elbows and forearms. Week in and week out, appearing on screen with me as every opponent she had tried to tell her that she wasn’t going to be good enough to beat them in the medium of pro-wrestling, decrying that I was ‘USING’ her, trying to pry her from her focus by baiting her with insults and threats despite the fact she barely understands basic English!”
With that Mister Grey tips his hat, a dry chuckle escaping his lips.
“... drive is what makes Tala successful in that ring, Mister Night. It’s something that even surprises me, something you rarely find in humanity as a whole, let alone pro-wrestling. That sheer will to be better not just than what she herself was the day previous, but the will to be better than anybody around her. All of those factors that normally dictate who goes home happy or who goes home a loser don’t matter in the face of it. Size, strength, stamina, experience, tactics… all broken down into wreckage and dust against her own force of will and enacted by the fact she’s simply a fighter. Not a mat-wrestler, not a pro-wrestler, not a mixed-martial artist. Tala is a fighter, through and through”
A pause
“... and if you find that label hard to quantify, or even a bit nebulous, I must assure you that when you walk down to that ring against her on the thirtieth, Mister Night, you’ll be forced to experience exactly what it is I mean. As she will define every letter of it to you in brutal fashion”
In the background we see Tala step up to the bag with two jabs before ducking low with a hook to the liver. She pops back up and drags the back into a clinch before driving several knees into the canvas, her voice coming out in strained but muted grunts as the apparatus continues to restrict her breathing.
“I’ve had to tell it to many people before, Mister Night. You may feel vexed at being forced to defend your awarded belt against someone whose career match count hasn’t yet reached double digits, insulted even, but I know Miss Coran understands exactly what you don’t because - for much of Tala’s professional history? She was there watching my client’s quick ascension, and that is why you’re in this position. The position of a champion whose legitimacy with the PWP belt is in question…”
He thumbs over his shoulder to his client, who’s throwing a speedy flurry into the bag.
“... she is your trial by fire, Mister Night. Either you beat her, or she becomes the champion that belt deserves... and I make no small claim when I state with absolute finality that she WILL be the PWP Champion. She is coming off only her second failure within the confines of a wrestling ring just last month… in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, no less… the same place, and her opportunity to lessen the sting of a failure she won’t allow herself to accept”
He smirks.
“The last time she caught a spark like this, Mister Night, she became a fire that Texas couldn’t contain. On the thirtieth in Toronto? You’re going to get something far beyond a fire, blaze… or even inferno. You’re getting a global event - a veritable supernova - as every ounce of will and anger, drive and motivation you could never even comprehend existing in this world let alone backing a slim Filipino kickboxer, comes bearing down on you like it’s your own personal apocalypse. Only then will you learn the lesson that everyone else that has stood across the ring from her has.”
Jab, cross, then a hook leading into a spinning backfist, as the heavy bag rocks she steps in with a knee strike, the bag swing back and she lets out a piercing yell before her foot arces up high, connecting with a textbook Brazilian Kick.
“If you’re trying to win a wrestling match and not a fight against Tala Multo? You don’t get to be surprised when she puts you to sleep”
The creaking of the heavy bags’ chain as it rocks back and forth is the only sound for a moment before Tala takes the apparatus off and drinks in several, greedy breaths of air.
“See you on Monday, Mister Night. I know Tala’s looking forward to it…”
With that we fade to black.
