The Friends Lost Along The Way (Part 2)

[Matt]

One of the things about this business that is both incredibly difficult to get used to while also being an absolute necessity is death. Dying young happens so often in this business that it’s practically a badge of honor to be one of the few who makes it to a ripe old age in this industry.

I remember the first wake I attended. It happened all too soon after I had joined Sin Wrestling, within the first six months. My original tag team had gotten derailed and I was lost. A wrestler named Hecate had befriended me in the back, taking pity on the confused kid trying to regain his footing.

You get three guesses as to who we were burying, and the first two don’t count.

These days, I’m numb to it like most of us who’ve been around for as long as I have, but back then?

Hecate’s death cut deep.

I remember the wake, where the whole damn roster tried its best to behave itself to pay proper respects to the deceased, but if you knew that gaggle of degenerates you’d understand that you’d have had an easier time finding a watchable Sahara Duke match.

Her husband got into shouting matches with people, largely management. Was difficult to not feel bad for the guy, Hecate was a hell of a person, but he was such a douchebag that he burned through the sympathy people had for him in record time.

I stood silently, staring at the memorial for the woman who had gone out of her way to make me feel welcome, make me feel like I belonged in this business.

It was something I’d do in the future as well. I remember staring at a memorial for Tony Millennia, arguably the most important competitor to ever step foot into a Sin Wrestling ring and another figure who helped me get back on my feet in the industry after that failed start.

I remember doing it for Vincent Kane, my former tag partner and one of the men I formed the Society stable with, once upon a time. One of my closest friends I’ve ever had in this god forsaken business.

Despite knowing each man longer then I had known Hecate, neither impacted me the same way her death did. By the time they passed the callus had already formed inside my heart to such things.

But Hecate? That day I cried. I didn’t want to, I felt foolish as hell feeling those tears running down my cheeks. You know that toxic masculinity bullshit, emotions are bad, you gotta be tough blah blah blah.

I was a stupid kid.

As I sat there, looking like a mess, another wrestler came over, concerned over what was going on. I didn’t have my shit together enough to offer a verbal response, so they opted to give me a hug and let me regain my composure.

That wrestler was Nikita.

I haven’t openly spoken about this in a long time to anyone, of course. Appearing human isn’t something people want to see out of the competitor who sports the moniker of the “Manmade Monster”. Still, I feel the context is important for people to attempt to understand what makes me tick.

I want Sahara Duke to understand what she’s up against. What drives me forward, what motivates me.

I want her to understand the futility of standing in my way.

The Paradigm Championship isn’t some fancy tricket to look good on across my shoulder or around my waist. It’s not some appealing fluff to slap onto my career resume so I can demand a raise the next time I go to negotiate a contract with a new company.

Beating you isn’t some bragging material to give me ammunition to act the fool on Twitter and try to puff up my own self-importance.

These are things people like you care about. The concerns of the vapid ninnies like you and the circle of friends you keep.

When I get into the ring, what drives me is those thoughts of my continued presence in the ring while so many of the people I knew when I began are gone. The understanding that outside of a few diehards sitting in their parents’ basement the memories of those people are completely lost within the business.

When I climb into the squared circle and ruin the day of some overhyped pretender, I’m fighting back that wall of apathy. Each time I take a championship from someone the business would be better off without, I’m reminding the viewers at home and in the arena of who I am and where I came from, and in that way they will also remember those people.

They’ll remember the friends I’ve lost along the way.

I haven’t forgotten. I’ll never forget.

No matter how hard I wished I could, and how low that drove me.

Standing over Nikita as she lay in the snow was a sobering reminder of that fact, and I was able to quickly get her inside, removing my coat and setting her down at the kitchen table.

Blood was pouring from her eyebrow where the chunk of firewood had connected, splitting it open. I grabbed a rag and pressed it against her head to try to staunch the flow of crimson, but it was too deep to be dealt with in that way.

I had no idea where I would find what I was looking for, so I went to find the bathroom, tearing through it to try to locate things to clean up the wound and try to close it. As I did so, I heard a voice call out to me.

“Shane, you bastard.”

I stop ransacking and go back to the kitchen, where Nikita has begun to stir, pressing the rag to her own head.

“Where’s your first aid kit? I think I’ll need a sewing kit too.”

“Fucking hell, that bad?” It’s on the top of the fridge. Grab me a liquor bottle too.”

I gave a nod before going to grab the items I needed, pulling down a cookie tin and opening it.

“Wait, these are actually cookies.”

“I like cookies.”

“Who keeps cookies in these tins? These are supposed to be sewing kits.”

“Shut up and keep looking, you prick, I’m getting tired of bleeding all over my table.”

I decided to keep my thoughts to myself as I found the two kits and the bottle, bringing them over and flipping on the overhead light. Nikita grabbed the bottle, uncapping it and taking a big swig from it as I moved the rag so I could get a better look at the cut.

“Well, it definitely looks like it’ll need stitches.”

“Glad to hear you volunteered to do them, then.”

“I didn’t—”

“Shane, if you put the hole in my head you can close it.”

That was logic that was pretty damn difficult to argue with.

“Fair.”

I opened up the first aid kit to pull out some alcohol wipes so I could first clean off a sewing needle and then around the wound. Can’t say I’ve ever had to do this before, but hey, gotta learn sometime.

“So, going to explain why you showed up at my doorstep?”

“I know you won’t believe me, but to make amends.”

“You’re right, I don’t believe you.”

“Yeah, well, it’s true. I’m back in the “big leagues” and I’m trying to get my shit together.”

That was met with silence, as Nikita took another drink from the bottle while I threaded the needle so I could begin working. Before I could start, she pulled out a lighter and flicked it open, holding the flame over the tip of the needle.

“You’re so far past the point of where “getting your shit together” would even help, you know.”

“Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.”

There was a slight wince as the needle entered her flesh, but she held her head still as I got to work. Thankfully, I’ve seen enough stitches given in the back to understand the general concept.

“What you did was fucked up, you know.”

“I know.”

“Yet here you are, claiming you’re here to apologize, but you still haven’t done so.”

Shit. She’s got me there.

“You’re right. I did a lot of fucked up things to you over the years, things you didn’t deserve, and for that I’m sorry.”

Silence once again. The needle continued to pierce skin as the thread pulled the wound closed slowly but surely, finishing up after what was likely a few minutes but felt much longer.

“There.”

Nikita took another drink, then capped the bottle and set it down before looking up at me.

“I am right, and you did do a lot of fucked up things. I’ve been willing to forgive fucked up things in the past, as you know.”

Nikita held up her hand to me. Once upon a time Tony Millennia took a katana and lopped off three of her fingers. The scar tissue remained, and dealing with my own knee injury I imagine it never worked the same ever again.

“That was a past life though, Shane. I’m done with the business. I’m done with the bullshit of it all, and I don’t appreciate you showing up unannounced.”

“In my defense, you didn’t leave anyone a number to reach you at.”

“Maybe you should’ve taken the clue that I didn’t want to be reached.”

“Touché.”

I moved to take a seat next to Nikita, pulling out another chair, at which point she put her feet up onto it. Not cute. I grabbed a different chair, sitting down.

“Well, then I’m sorry I didn’t get the hint there on top of everything else. I just felt I had left you hanging about all of this for long enough.”

Plus Dame was pushing me towards having to do this, but Nikita didn’t need to know that.

“I’m sorry Shane, but I’m not ready to forgive you.”

We don’t always get what we want. This is a difficult lesson for everyone to learn, and oftentimes we just never do.

We get angry. We wallow in misery. We lash out.

None of that is productive though, is it?

It might offer some temporary relief, a placebo balm to apply to those burns.

Ultimately, it doesn’t help. You either learn to accept it or you don’t.

I hope you’re one of the lucky ones, Sahara. I hope you learn.

At Hardwired to Self-Destruct I’m going to teach it to you. I doubt you’ll be receptive, but that’s not going to stop me from beating the concept through your thick skull.

I know if our roles were reversed, it wouldn’t stop you.

You’re going to fight. You’re going to come at me with everything you’ve got because there’s so many factors in your life that make people (myself included, admittedly) assume you’ve got it easier than the rest of us.

Every time you step into the ring, you’re fighting both your opponent and the reputation that you’re a kept woman who has gotten where she is because her husband was signing everyone’s checks.

That extra bit of drive, I’m sure it’s been a hell of an edge for you in OCW, hasn’t it?

The problem is that I see it. I know it’s there and it’s going to motivate you. I know that it doesn’t ultimately mean a fucking thing.

Because we don’t always get what we want.

I’ve learned that lesson. It pushes me. It’s why I bring misery to the rest of this business, because you all need me to teach it to you.

I didn’t forget. I won’t forget. I’ll make sure you don’t either.

You’ll be going into the cold Canadian night, just like I’ve found myself having to do as I left Nikita’s place, unable to get the closure I was there for, filled with regret about the failure.

There won’t be any silver lining for you, just anger.

That’s what I thought I’d be dealing with, but when I stuck my hands into my jacket pocket I found a piece of paper with a phone number on it.

We don’t always get our way, but I’ve learned how to live with it. I’ll be teaching you all about it soon enough.