Phantomas, part 2: Burying Synns
Jan 27, 2023 15:38:10 GMT -5
Marcus Welsh and Thunder Knuckles like this
Post by Harmony on Jan 27, 2023 15:38:10 GMT -5
Here I was, honing my trade yet again. Bordering on apparent mental breakdown as I was, Corey had suggested to me that I turn to some sort of distraction to occupy my mind. So I had chosen to attend another writing seminar. Different locale, different class than my last venture. And I might even manage to avoid falling into bed with the instructor again. Considering that this time the instructor was an old hippie pushing 70, I didn’t think it would be much of a challenge. I listened to what she said next.
The strength through rape survival trope is one of the laziest, most trite tools in the writer’s repertoire. Almost always utilized by a man writing a female character, the implication of this trope is that a woman can only blossom and achieve full autonomy by enduring the violence of a man. This is, of course, misogynist hogwash at best and outright lurid sexism at worst….
Huh, seemed somehow relevant.
I had to admit the august old battleax teaching the course certainly had a certain vigor, but no amount of energy would save me from the exhaustion soaking through me like a chill November rain. The...visions…I had been having had been taking a toll. Sleep had been an elusive mistress all week as my anxiety had been compounded by relentless Google searches into the onset of schizophrenia. Self inflicted as the fear was, the shadow of mental illness was a formidable storm cloud I couldn’t deny. And unlike Synn, my potential illness was more than some tacky gimmick substituted for want of a real personality.
But is that truly what it was? I had yet to confide to Corey what had been bothering me. And though I knew he wouldn’t dump me as a client over it, a part of me didn’t want to challenge that unerring faith he seemed to have in me.
It was amidst this backdrop that sleep started to claim me. With my chin rested on my folded hands, I felt the characteristic plummeting sensation of one transitioning from the waking world to the dreaming one. And before I was quite aware of what was happening, my eyes settled on the cover of a familiar book.
Oh…
It was another blase motel room with nicotine stained wallpaper and a bed that was entirely too creaky for adequate rest. But all that didn’t matter. I could feel the warmth of my mother nestled up to me, one of her hands absentmindedly but gently petting my unshorn ‘fro as she opened the book that was propped up in my lap. It was in these rare moments that I was torn between confusion and feelings of profound affection. My mother rarely read to me, it was just not a priority. But nonetheless, in her black bag replete with tools of her murderous trade, this book was also cached. She never forgot it.
Of course, at that age my mind wasn’t sophisticated enough to truly recognize the dichotomy. I wanted to simply accept her love without interrogation. And usually, I did so. I did so to the point that I never caught on to the mechanical way she read to me. Parsing this children’s story like she was reading stereo instructions. I missed the obligation there, the notion that she was doing this because she felt like she had to. Because she knew, in a cool, objective sense, that her child needed some semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos of our lives. I wouldn’t realize until I was older that these moments were born not of natural motherly instinct, but as an attempt to remedy what she was inflicting on me.
Nonetheless, there I was. With her detached voice recounting the tale of this baby bird looking to find its mother. The drone was lulling me to sleep. A sleep within sleep, as it were. My eyes fixated on my bare child’s feet poking up through the end of the blanket as my eyelids grew heavy and threatened to draw down.
It started as a peculiar rustling, this intimation that something was deeply wrong. My eyes opened wide again as I saw the blanket between my outstretched legs start to twist and writhe. And try as I might to deny it, I knew precisely what it was. I could hear now the quiet hiss, the sound of scales moving across fabric. With a small gasp, I tried to rear back against my mother.
But my mother wasn’t there anymore.
The Faith had displaced my mother, and it was then that I realized how trapped I was. My heart beat furiously against the interior of my chest as though it too was trying to escape.
Bringing his masked visage closer to my ear, he whispered to me.
Do you remember?
But my eyes were locked on the serpent beneath the sheet making its way towards me, slowly, methodically.
Do you remember, Harmon? The Faith’s voice was reedy and oddly effeminate, with a perverse glee that was sufficed by my mounting terror.
The snake’s head was now poking out the top of my blanket, sprawled over my stomach and chest. I sobbed silently, my body helplessly rooted in place.
Harmon…
A wail broke out of me, and the serpent’s tongue flicked in and out in consideration.
Harmon, you WILL remember. I did it for you, Harmon.
I couldn’t bear it anymore. My little boy’s stomach bobbed up and down as my breathing gave way to panicked gasps. So I screamed. I screamed and…
…I awoke back in my writing class. Stares ranging from concern to bemusement were all fixated on me. Taking stock of reality once again, I forced my breathing to slow, and logic started to trickle back in.
I needed to talk to Corey. I needed to get this figured out before it drove me mad, or worse.
Are you okay back there? The instructor probed, eyes narrowing.
I slapped my notebook shut, picked it up and fled the room out into the night. All the while those cryptic words took root in my mind…
I did it for you, Harmon.
I did it for you.
Synn, turns out I gave you too much credit. You are as dumb as you look.
Now, I tried to tell Corey there was something of substance between those ears. That despite the faux trendy Spencer’s Gifts exterior and weakness for inane “spooky shit” dialogue, that there was SOMETHING to you.
Hell if I wasn’t wrong.
“See something, say something?” More like “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than say something and remove all doubt.”
I honestly didn’t even know where to begin with this bilge. The sheer amount of things you got wrong about me was so fucking staggering I have to believe you could only be this wrong on PURPOSE. But anyhow, let the burial commence.
I think the thing that bothered me the most about what you said is how you seem to think I’m some directionless waif being buffeted about by forces and personalities that are stronger than me. As if I so fundamentally lack autonomy that I’m like a rabbit caught in a cyclone of people who wish me ill. Take B.O.B. for instance. True, there are lines I’m not willing to cross. So I’m not 100% in lock step with the Thunder Knuckles’ and Nickelmen of the world. But this notion you seem to have that B.O.B. is somehow using me because I’m a champion? Hoooo boy…you’re fixin’ to feel real stupid, Synn.
I mean, let’s strip away the fact that B.O.B. still has the tag team championships, or as you like to put it, “the drunk girl passed around at an orgy” (which, last time I checked, still means we ARE tag team champions you nitwit). This idea that B.O.B. keeps me around as primo championship arm candy is ridiculous on a number of fronts. Number one? They recruited me BEFORE I was a champion. Shit, they recruited me as I was preparing to face fellow B.O.B. member Crash Rodriguez for the Craze championship. Now that seems like a lot of shit to stir when they were just looking for another shiny gold belt on their resume, eh?
Let’s look at your next bit of evidence that B.O.B. is using me: that they didn’t run down to make the save for me. Synn…Synn…SYNN…were you NOT already employed by OCW when I told Crash Rodrigiuez that I didn’t want him to guest ref my match with Moonlight Rose? Hint, you were, you just weren’t paying attention. Has it ever occurred to you that B.O.B. didn’t fall over themselves to help me because I have specifically asked them not to? Because I am specifically avoiding doing one of the things you yourself accused me of, of being DEPENDENT on them to cover my ass? Has that occurred to you? Because it’s the truth. I am a member of B.O.B., but I don’t NEED them to hold my fucking hand. I don’t NEED their interference to succeed.
So what exactly do I require from B.O.B.? The answer is simple. Their experience. Check it.
Nickelman. Industry veteran.
Thunder Knuckles. Industry veteran.
Crash Rodriguez. Industry veteran.
Bobby Bourbon. God tier industry veteran.
Seeing a pattern there? And this…THIS…runs it all back to the notion that I’m some guileless sap being manipulated by my betters. The fact is I…ME!... chose B.O.B. so I could LEARN from them. I’m not being used…I opted in to B.O.B. of my own accord so I could learn the ins and outs of the business. That’s what my involvement is all about. Duh.
But enough about me Synn. Let’s talk about YOU. Let’s talk about how desperate you are to convince the world I’m some sort of hypocrite for hanging with B.O.B. Synn, would you please point to the specific place and time I told the world I was in line for sainthood?
It didn't happen.
Just because there are lines I won’t cross doesn’t mean I’m not capable of being a BASTARD. There are things about me you don’t know Synn. Things about me you’ll NEVER know. I’ve had my hands deep down in the filth more times than I can count. I still do. There’s BLOOD on these hands, Synn! So, Harmon Egan…hero? You’ll never catch me playing that angle.
But you? Trying to position yourself as the virtuous one? When you attacked me from behind? When you used honest to god SLAVERY IMAGERY to talk about a black man? When you just fucking stood there with that idiot smirk on your face as Welsh revealed that screwjob stipulation? Heart of a warrior in you, isn’t there? Yeah, you got your goody two shoes on but you had no problem taking the easy way out in this match. And yet I, the bastard, am the one with enough decency to refuse putting the screws to Moonlight Rose by telling Crash no can do to his offer to ref my match with her. Funny how that works out. When it comes to courage and competitive spirit, one of these things is definitely not like the other.
Hmmm…”courage”, now there’s a word. “Fear” is another one.
You know at what point I knew you were fucked?
The very second you said I.Am.Fear.
Now, I know you were going for something intimidating. Something decisive. Something catchy. Something that plays well on a tee. But unfortunately for you it’s none of the above. Because…at the end of the day…
…it’s just something a fucking child would say.
A child, Synn. Because us grownups? We would never say a thing like that. We’re not comic book villains. But moreso, we know fear is real. And we don't deny it. Only idiots deny their fear, Synn. And while I may often seem confident, that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel fear. And you saying that you are the epitome of fear itself, rather than admitting to your own insecurities, shows just how immature you really are.
You’re not frightening to me, Synn. You’re a kid whose trauma arrested her development. Arrested it so hard you think saying things like I.AM.FEAR. is some kind of mantra that’ll garner you respect rather than pity. Because, in the end, my overriding emotion for you IS pity. Because not once throughout that factless, meandering, overlong diatribe you call a promo, did you ever give me the impression that you are anything more than some trumped up try hard headed for a loss.
But this is just character assassination. The fight’s the thing, right? So let’s end this on brass tacks. You couldn’t go a fraction of the matches I've had without sucking down a loss. I’m 13-0 with no sign of letting up. And just like your entire identity falls like a house of cards with just a little nudge, I’m willing to bet the ring skills do too.
You’re a fucking JOKE, Synn. And Decadence will be the denouement of the burial I started here.
The strength through rape survival trope is one of the laziest, most trite tools in the writer’s repertoire. Almost always utilized by a man writing a female character, the implication of this trope is that a woman can only blossom and achieve full autonomy by enduring the violence of a man. This is, of course, misogynist hogwash at best and outright lurid sexism at worst….
Huh, seemed somehow relevant.
I had to admit the august old battleax teaching the course certainly had a certain vigor, but no amount of energy would save me from the exhaustion soaking through me like a chill November rain. The...visions…I had been having had been taking a toll. Sleep had been an elusive mistress all week as my anxiety had been compounded by relentless Google searches into the onset of schizophrenia. Self inflicted as the fear was, the shadow of mental illness was a formidable storm cloud I couldn’t deny. And unlike Synn, my potential illness was more than some tacky gimmick substituted for want of a real personality.
But is that truly what it was? I had yet to confide to Corey what had been bothering me. And though I knew he wouldn’t dump me as a client over it, a part of me didn’t want to challenge that unerring faith he seemed to have in me.
It was amidst this backdrop that sleep started to claim me. With my chin rested on my folded hands, I felt the characteristic plummeting sensation of one transitioning from the waking world to the dreaming one. And before I was quite aware of what was happening, my eyes settled on the cover of a familiar book.
Oh…
It was another blase motel room with nicotine stained wallpaper and a bed that was entirely too creaky for adequate rest. But all that didn’t matter. I could feel the warmth of my mother nestled up to me, one of her hands absentmindedly but gently petting my unshorn ‘fro as she opened the book that was propped up in my lap. It was in these rare moments that I was torn between confusion and feelings of profound affection. My mother rarely read to me, it was just not a priority. But nonetheless, in her black bag replete with tools of her murderous trade, this book was also cached. She never forgot it.
Of course, at that age my mind wasn’t sophisticated enough to truly recognize the dichotomy. I wanted to simply accept her love without interrogation. And usually, I did so. I did so to the point that I never caught on to the mechanical way she read to me. Parsing this children’s story like she was reading stereo instructions. I missed the obligation there, the notion that she was doing this because she felt like she had to. Because she knew, in a cool, objective sense, that her child needed some semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos of our lives. I wouldn’t realize until I was older that these moments were born not of natural motherly instinct, but as an attempt to remedy what she was inflicting on me.
Nonetheless, there I was. With her detached voice recounting the tale of this baby bird looking to find its mother. The drone was lulling me to sleep. A sleep within sleep, as it were. My eyes fixated on my bare child’s feet poking up through the end of the blanket as my eyelids grew heavy and threatened to draw down.
It started as a peculiar rustling, this intimation that something was deeply wrong. My eyes opened wide again as I saw the blanket between my outstretched legs start to twist and writhe. And try as I might to deny it, I knew precisely what it was. I could hear now the quiet hiss, the sound of scales moving across fabric. With a small gasp, I tried to rear back against my mother.
But my mother wasn’t there anymore.
The Faith had displaced my mother, and it was then that I realized how trapped I was. My heart beat furiously against the interior of my chest as though it too was trying to escape.
Bringing his masked visage closer to my ear, he whispered to me.
Do you remember?
But my eyes were locked on the serpent beneath the sheet making its way towards me, slowly, methodically.
Do you remember, Harmon? The Faith’s voice was reedy and oddly effeminate, with a perverse glee that was sufficed by my mounting terror.
The snake’s head was now poking out the top of my blanket, sprawled over my stomach and chest. I sobbed silently, my body helplessly rooted in place.
Harmon…
A wail broke out of me, and the serpent’s tongue flicked in and out in consideration.
Harmon, you WILL remember. I did it for you, Harmon.
I couldn’t bear it anymore. My little boy’s stomach bobbed up and down as my breathing gave way to panicked gasps. So I screamed. I screamed and…
…I awoke back in my writing class. Stares ranging from concern to bemusement were all fixated on me. Taking stock of reality once again, I forced my breathing to slow, and logic started to trickle back in.
I needed to talk to Corey. I needed to get this figured out before it drove me mad, or worse.
Are you okay back there? The instructor probed, eyes narrowing.
I slapped my notebook shut, picked it up and fled the room out into the night. All the while those cryptic words took root in my mind…
I did it for you, Harmon.
I did it for you.
Harmon's Journal: Entry 16
Synn, turns out I gave you too much credit. You are as dumb as you look.
Now, I tried to tell Corey there was something of substance between those ears. That despite the faux trendy Spencer’s Gifts exterior and weakness for inane “spooky shit” dialogue, that there was SOMETHING to you.
Hell if I wasn’t wrong.
“See something, say something?” More like “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than say something and remove all doubt.”
I honestly didn’t even know where to begin with this bilge. The sheer amount of things you got wrong about me was so fucking staggering I have to believe you could only be this wrong on PURPOSE. But anyhow, let the burial commence.
I think the thing that bothered me the most about what you said is how you seem to think I’m some directionless waif being buffeted about by forces and personalities that are stronger than me. As if I so fundamentally lack autonomy that I’m like a rabbit caught in a cyclone of people who wish me ill. Take B.O.B. for instance. True, there are lines I’m not willing to cross. So I’m not 100% in lock step with the Thunder Knuckles’ and Nickelmen of the world. But this notion you seem to have that B.O.B. is somehow using me because I’m a champion? Hoooo boy…you’re fixin’ to feel real stupid, Synn.
I mean, let’s strip away the fact that B.O.B. still has the tag team championships, or as you like to put it, “the drunk girl passed around at an orgy” (which, last time I checked, still means we ARE tag team champions you nitwit). This idea that B.O.B. keeps me around as primo championship arm candy is ridiculous on a number of fronts. Number one? They recruited me BEFORE I was a champion. Shit, they recruited me as I was preparing to face fellow B.O.B. member Crash Rodriguez for the Craze championship. Now that seems like a lot of shit to stir when they were just looking for another shiny gold belt on their resume, eh?
Let’s look at your next bit of evidence that B.O.B. is using me: that they didn’t run down to make the save for me. Synn…Synn…SYNN…were you NOT already employed by OCW when I told Crash Rodrigiuez that I didn’t want him to guest ref my match with Moonlight Rose? Hint, you were, you just weren’t paying attention. Has it ever occurred to you that B.O.B. didn’t fall over themselves to help me because I have specifically asked them not to? Because I am specifically avoiding doing one of the things you yourself accused me of, of being DEPENDENT on them to cover my ass? Has that occurred to you? Because it’s the truth. I am a member of B.O.B., but I don’t NEED them to hold my fucking hand. I don’t NEED their interference to succeed.
So what exactly do I require from B.O.B.? The answer is simple. Their experience. Check it.
Nickelman. Industry veteran.
Thunder Knuckles. Industry veteran.
Crash Rodriguez. Industry veteran.
Bobby Bourbon. God tier industry veteran.
Seeing a pattern there? And this…THIS…runs it all back to the notion that I’m some guileless sap being manipulated by my betters. The fact is I…ME!... chose B.O.B. so I could LEARN from them. I’m not being used…I opted in to B.O.B. of my own accord so I could learn the ins and outs of the business. That’s what my involvement is all about. Duh.
But enough about me Synn. Let’s talk about YOU. Let’s talk about how desperate you are to convince the world I’m some sort of hypocrite for hanging with B.O.B. Synn, would you please point to the specific place and time I told the world I was in line for sainthood?
It didn't happen.
Just because there are lines I won’t cross doesn’t mean I’m not capable of being a BASTARD. There are things about me you don’t know Synn. Things about me you’ll NEVER know. I’ve had my hands deep down in the filth more times than I can count. I still do. There’s BLOOD on these hands, Synn! So, Harmon Egan…hero? You’ll never catch me playing that angle.
But you? Trying to position yourself as the virtuous one? When you attacked me from behind? When you used honest to god SLAVERY IMAGERY to talk about a black man? When you just fucking stood there with that idiot smirk on your face as Welsh revealed that screwjob stipulation? Heart of a warrior in you, isn’t there? Yeah, you got your goody two shoes on but you had no problem taking the easy way out in this match. And yet I, the bastard, am the one with enough decency to refuse putting the screws to Moonlight Rose by telling Crash no can do to his offer to ref my match with her. Funny how that works out. When it comes to courage and competitive spirit, one of these things is definitely not like the other.
Hmmm…”courage”, now there’s a word. “Fear” is another one.
You know at what point I knew you were fucked?
The very second you said I.Am.Fear.
Now, I know you were going for something intimidating. Something decisive. Something catchy. Something that plays well on a tee. But unfortunately for you it’s none of the above. Because…at the end of the day…
…it’s just something a fucking child would say.
A child, Synn. Because us grownups? We would never say a thing like that. We’re not comic book villains. But moreso, we know fear is real. And we don't deny it. Only idiots deny their fear, Synn. And while I may often seem confident, that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel fear. And you saying that you are the epitome of fear itself, rather than admitting to your own insecurities, shows just how immature you really are.
You’re not frightening to me, Synn. You’re a kid whose trauma arrested her development. Arrested it so hard you think saying things like I.AM.FEAR. is some kind of mantra that’ll garner you respect rather than pity. Because, in the end, my overriding emotion for you IS pity. Because not once throughout that factless, meandering, overlong diatribe you call a promo, did you ever give me the impression that you are anything more than some trumped up try hard headed for a loss.
But this is just character assassination. The fight’s the thing, right? So let’s end this on brass tacks. You couldn’t go a fraction of the matches I've had without sucking down a loss. I’m 13-0 with no sign of letting up. And just like your entire identity falls like a house of cards with just a little nudge, I’m willing to bet the ring skills do too.
You’re a fucking JOKE, Synn. And Decadence will be the denouement of the burial I started here.