Act 3
"The Scorpion & The Frog"
A nimbus of blue light flares open in a dark living room and a young boy sits down on the carpet in front of the TV.
He absently changes the channels, then, finally settles on a cartoon he likes. The boy stares at the television set. Not really engaged, but not looking away either.
The flickering light plays across his face.
There's no volume, nothing but the sound of an argument coming from the other room. It's heated by the sounds of it. A chair is dragged across a wooden floor. Something tips over and falls to the floor.
Someone shouts a word that he's not allowed to say.
Footsteps now...
From the other direction of the argument. Heavy footsteps, the owner of them probably wearing boots of some kind.
The boy can feel someone hanging in the doorway behind him.
"Anything good on the tube, kiddo?" a voice asks.
"No," he replies dryly.
"Mind if I sit with you awhile?"
The boy doesn't answer and after a moment the heavy sounding footsteps are walking into the living room. The owner of those footsteps sits down next to the boy on the floor and the boy can smell strong aftershave.
"Do anything fun today, partner?"
The boy turns to look at a face, with a cowboy hat shading the eyes, covered in gray whiskers.
"I went to the arcade."
"Really? Sounds fun."
Long pause… and then --
"What's an arcade?"
"This place my dad takes me to when he needs to get out of the house. It's called Flynn's Arcade. Tons of games and stuff. You wouldn't like it."
The Visitor laughs, and it fills the room.
"Oh, is that so, little man? I know a thing or two about games."
The boy smiled.
"Yeah, card games. Those are boring."
"Maybe you're right."
The Visitor motions toward the TV.
"Might I recommend we watch something different?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Something a little more… exciting, with some action. Maybe a gunfight or two. How about a Western?"
Long silence… and then --
"What's a Western?"
The Visitor smirks, rubs a hand over his mouth.
"Hand me the clicker, partner. We're going to watch a good ol' fashion Western. You'll love it. You see in Westerns, much like every day life, there are bad, bad men, and then there's the good guys. Like you and me."
"Do the good guys stop the bad guys?"
The Visitor runs a hand through the boy's hair causing it to stick up.
"Sometimes, kiddo. But only the real good ones."
Anj sat in the quiet of the locker room methodically taping his wrists. Warfare kicked off in about an hour and he could already feel the nervous energy percolating in his gut.
Tonight he put it all on the line, and there would be no do-overs, re-starts, or --
"Excuse me, Mr. Angelus?"
Anj looked up at the tall, acne covered face of one of the XWF interns. In fact, it was the same intern who he had shoved to find Carver after Impact's last show.
"You have impeccable timing, kid. What do you need?"
"Uh… nothing, sir. I just… this came for you."
He passed over a white envelope.
"Oh, is today pay day?"
Anj smiled, but the kid didn't get the joke. He opened the envelope and pulled out the white stationary.
"Hello, how's the City of Sin treating you? Well I hope. An old friend of mine recommend getting in touch with you. Seems we have a mutual acquaintance in a man named Cobb. We'll talk soon.
P.S. -- Good luck, tonight. Not much of wrestling fan. It's all fake, right? Anyway. Put on a good show."
Any folded the letter and shot a look back at the intern.
"Where did this come from?"
"I -- I don't know. I was just told to give this to you. Apparently it was forwarded over from your hotel."
Anj looked away, lost in his head, and after a moment sensing that he wasn't needed the intern scrambled off to safer ground.
Cobb.
He'd been careful. Almost to the point of insanity.
There was no way anyone could know that he was looking for the man. But yet, this letter proved just the opposite.
He went back to taping his wrists and hands. He needed a clear head and for now, Cobb, would have to wait his turn.
August 23rd, 1977
He drove a dusty pickup truck down an even dustier road through some farm country in northern Iowa. He was cruising along, humming to a tune on the radio, and feeling pretty good about life.
The road dipped slightly and he was surrounded on both sides by white picket fences that had corn stalk rising up and over them. It was hot out, the air was stale, and having the window down was doing no good, but he liked the wind in his hair.
Wind in your hair is wind in your sails his father used to tell him.
Up ahead, he could see a white farmhouse coming into view. He slowed the truck and then shifted it into reverse. He drove backwards until the farmhouse was no longer in view. He killed the engine and stepped out. He pulled off his suit jacket, rolled the sleeves up on the button down and loosened his tie.
After flipping the jacket up over his shoulder he began to walk toward the farmhouse.
By the time he reached the dirt driveway he was covered in sweat and feeling very parched. In that driveway, was a tall man wearing coveralls, and working under the hood of his own pickup truck.
The man in the suit shuffled his feet in the dirt to alert the other of his presence.
Tall Man looked over, head still under the hood of the truck.
"Help you?"
Tall Man had dark hair and almost gray colored eyes. His face was covered in thick stubble and grease.
"Yes," said the man in the suit. "Truck broke down a ways up the road, was hoping I could use your phone to call for a mechanic."
Tall Man finally stood up, wiped his hands off on his coveralls.
"I don't got no phone and I'm 'fraid the mechanic won't be able to come out for a few days. Wife just had a baby and all."
"I see," said the man in the suit. "Guess I could just try to hoof it into town and see if I could get some help there."
"In this heat? That's crazy. You'll die of heatstroke before you clear the first couple miles."
"Well, I'm afraid I'm out of options, friend."
"Tell you what," Tall Man said. "We're about to have dinner. Why don't you stay, get a meal in you, I'll lend you my couch so you can rest if you like. First light, if I can get this old beater behind me to start, I'll give you a ride into town."
"That is far too generous. I couldn't accept that."
"Nonsense. We could all do with helping our fellow man a little more. There's still some good people out there."
"There sure are," the man in the suit said. "By the way, I'm Cobb."
Tall Man came over and the two shook hands.
"Cobb? Nice to meet you. Call me Ronald."
"Pleasure, Ronald."
"C'mon then, let's get some food. Hope you like corn. There's no shortage of it at this house."
Ronald led him inside where he was introduced to the rest of the family. Mrs. Gale, Ron's wife, was almost too sweet, so much so he thought she might give him a cavity. They had three kids, poster children for Americana. The oldest was a red headed girl named Rachel, who was about fifteen. The other two were Maggie and Ronald Jr. Both had dark features like their father.
Dinner was fantastic. Never in Cobb's life had he eaten so much. It seemed like every time he was pushing his plate away, someone was filling it up again.
He was especially taken with Rachel. She was a very smart girl for her age, maybe even smarter than her parents. She was funny, too, and had a spirit about her that was contagious. He liked her.
After dinner, the family took turns telling him old stories and the constant mischief of Ronald Jr. Later, Cobb and Ronald enjoyed a smoke on the porch and then it was time for bed.
The couch was unforgiving, but that was okay, he wasn't planning on sleeping anyway. He stared at the ceiling for about three hours, making sure there was plenty of time for everyone to be asleep.
Finally, hearing the house go quiet, he slowly crept up the stairs. He made sure to leave his shoes off to reduce the creak in the old wooden boards. Rachel's room was the first door on the second floor.
It was already opened a crack and he slipped in without a sound.
She was asleep on her side and he could hear a soft whistling coming out of her nose. He was pleasantly surprised to notice all the books that covered her room.
He crouched down beside her bed and woke her. She rubbed at her eyes sleepily and for a moment was startled to see him.
"It's okay," he whispered. "I just want to talk to you."
"About what?"
"About all these books. You like to read, huh?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Me too. Especially books about ancient times and ancient societies. I'm fascinated by history. I'm reading a book right now about the fall of the Roman empire. I'll have to lend it to you."
"Okay," she said. "Can I go back to sleep now?"
He smiled at her and brushed some of the hair out of her face.
"How'd you like to hear a story right now?"
"It's late I --"
"It's a fable actually --"
"I'm tired, Mister Cobb -- "
"And if you tell me the moral of the fable I'll let your family live."
The dark tableau hung in the room. Neither saying anything.
"The fable is about a scorpion asking a frog to carry him across a river. The frog is afraid of being stung during the trip, but the scorpion argues that if it stung the frog, the frog would sink and the scorpion would drown."
He watched Rachel's eyes widen.
"The frog agrees and begins carrying the scorpion, but midway across the river the scorpion does indeed sting the frog, dooming them both. When asked why, the scorpion explains that this is simply its nature."
Rachel started to pull away and he grabbed her wrist, hard --
"You see Rachel, there are good people and there are bad. I'm sorry to inform you, but I'm the latter."
Subject: Angelus
Date recorded: 1/30/13
Location: Las Vegas, Nevada
"Luck is for Losers"
That's right, baby. Luck is for losers. But hey, the gang is all here. If you were to say, hey, Anj. Let's have a tournament to determine who the best in the biz is I'd probably require that there be a checklist of sorts to fit all comers.
Let's see --
A fifty something Alice Cooper Fanboy -- Sebastian Duke!
Check.
A certified mental retard -- Crimson Dong!
Check.
A cripple with multiple disfigurements -- Mr. Satellite!
Check.
A zombie or a deceased person, preferably with no head -- Cyren!
Check
An over-cocky, rookie with his head up his ass -- AJ Powell!
Check.
Man, that is quite the rogues gallery here tonight.
But let's not forget we have a litany of cast-offs from who knows where.
Dexter Bale, JB Colt, Tommy Carlos King, Neil Capra, John Michael White…
Who are these guys?
This is the best of the best?
This is who management has deemed should get a shot at glory?
What next we're just going to let Michael James compete here tonight?
Oh, wait…
Speaking of which, where is good old Mike James?
Licking his wounds somewhere?
Way to be the Personification of Perfection, Mike.
You can't even show up when your number is called.
You're making guys like Duke look like they have a chance tonight.
Hell, you're almost making guys like AJ Powell look like they have a chance tonight, but let's be honest, AJ Powell is riding high on that ignorance is bliss train right now.
If he actually knew who he was stepping into the ring with tonight he'd probably no show like James too.
And now, speaking of delusional people…
Our friend Mark Flynn has decided to rear his ugly head.
I know you've had some trouble in the past, Mark. Trouble in perceiving reality and make believe, but let's get one thing straight --
You've never beaten me.
You've never pinned me.
You pinned my partner in the Lethal Lottery, so by association, yes, you've "won" over me, but Mark, you've never beaten me.
Make sense?
So, let's call it a draw, because you may have thought you "blocked" me on the European championship, but we never fought one on one for it...
And Mark...?
And Mark...?
You've never beaten me.
And you never will.
Overrated? That's not for me to decide. Barely passable in the ring? I think I'll just let my kicks do the talking on that one.
So I hope you're having fun up there on your step ladder, because that's all you are, a step.
A step to the next rung in this company.
The ship isn't yours, Mark. It never was.
It may feel like you're on a ship because you're going down and you're drowning under the weight of your own mediocrity.
People may talk of a new era and that you're the old guard, Mark.
But you're not getting left behind because you're old.
You're getting left behind because you're just not good enough anymore.
Maybe you never were.
A captain goes down with his ship, right Mark?
Hope it's not too lonely at the bottom.
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