▶Assumptions
Stainless steel. Sterile in its construction with the typical scratches that come from heavy use, made largely from its previous life as a butcher’s work surface, standing as a steady reminder of the grim reality of a medical practice in the post-apocalypse. There are no pools of blood, human or animal (or other, for that matter), but even without the visible blood and bone, without the scent of viscera and gore, an operating table being a piece of salvage seemed to scream out the truth of the matter: something went wrong here.
That isn’t to say there was no hope to be had. Even in the post-apocalypse, the world destroyed by the Amoralists, one could find pockets of those who had the temerity, the chutzpah, to imagine a better world of some description; ironically, it was the scientists, the analytical minds, that took it on an article of faith that there would be a future worth living in. It was those minds that believed, despite and against all evidence to the contrary, that progress could be achieved, that discovery could drive humanity forward, that a better tomorrow was possible.
Foremost among those thinkers in the 24th Century was Dr. James Russell, a small man with thick, wire-frame glasses over his watery blue eyes, and just the memory of salt-and-pepper hair on his pale scalp. In a world with literal time travel, subdermal implants that allowed for nearly literal super powers, and actual honest-to-god vampires, it might have been easy for a scientist even of his ilk to think that the limits of exploration, of discovery, had been reached, but this had never been Russell’s attitude. His research on the mind had, in spite of his humble butcher’s block work surface in his spartan concrete office, brought him to the brink of something truly revolutionary.
Reincarnation.
Of course, he would not use such a term. The scientists were in many ways the latter-day faith leaders, but there was decorum to be recognized. This was not a religious experience, it was the fruit of many years of hard labour, brought to the fore by Russell, who stood on the backs of giants stretching back to Copernicus. Reincarnation was a philosophical concept, and while philosophy had its place, it did not belong with the scientific inquiries that Russell was grappling with. It didn’t belong with the body of the man lying before him, a self-professed king, looking up with him with a mixture of defiance in the face of fear and righteous self-belief.
“Well,” said the man, his black hair tied back and his stone-grey eyes fixed on Russell’s with a fire behind them. He too was a man of a different kind of faith; one in himself, in the righteousness of his cause - that might makes right, and that he was the mightiest and thus the most righteous. “Get on with it.”
Russell flipped a series of switches, the last of which extinguished the light in the young monarch’s eyes. His attendant, a muscular woman, prone to and proficient in violence, rushed to his side and grabbed his lifeless hand. The earliest readouts were promising. Whether or not the final outcome would be successful? Russell could only take that on faith.
---
June, 2026. Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia. Gordy King awoke in a start, drenched in sweat in his four-poster bed. It was just a dream, of course, but it was, as always, as vivid as a memory.
---
Jesus Christ, bud – I’m gonna be real with you – I didn’t think that people were still called Esmeralda. Like, don’t get me wrong, eh? I know it’s a real name and everything, but it’s kinda like...how many people named Muriel do you meet in the run of the day if you’re not hangin’ out in a nursing home or independent living community or whatever? Kinda figured if I wasn’t chilling out with some dude with bad posture over in Paris, I wasn’t likely to run into any Esmeraldas any time soon, eh?
But shit, Ezzy – I’m gonna call you Ezzy – you went ahead and proved me wrong. And like, that’s on me bud – you know what they say about when you assume things; you make an ass outta you and me. Egg on my face, bud – my bad. Not gonna assume anything else about ya.
‘Course, I could’ve assumed a thing or two about ya if I had been in that Rumble at Golden Intentions and still been okay. Like, for example, I could’ve assumed that you’d flop over the top like a sack of potatoes. I could’ve assumed that when the chips were down, you’d fold; that, just like the fancy dress you gave away at ringside, you’re all flash and no substance, you’re all pomp and no circumstance.
It’s lucky that you’re from Cologne, girl – because something about you stinks.
---
Sunlight dappled the very-90s kitchen in the early summer morning. The decor and appliances seemed to be almost frozen in amber, with a well maintained Kenmore refrigerator standing proudly at the focal point of the room, as natural as if it were sitting in a Sears showroom. A Black and Decker coffee maker was the only thing with appreciable wear and tear on it, as it bubbled away with the last blasts of steamy hot water coming through the filter, bringing with it the bitter-brown coffee into the stained pot below.
A breeze wafted the scent of the fresh brew, lazily lilting through the room from an open window, left that way out of an abundance of caution following recent events. There sat Gordy King, motionless in thought at the kitchen table, with an expression of deep contemplation affixed on his face. His nostrils flared at the scent of the President’s Choice Arabica that he had set to brew, but even despite this external stimuli, he did not move, but for the thoughts crossing his mind.
Everyone was treating the last several months differently. To some, it was as if nothing had happened. Ian, for his part, had insisted that he had always been employed as a backstage interviewer with the CWF, that he had never worked as a research assistant at East Halifax University in the city. Of course he had EHU merch; he and Gordy had met there when Ian was a journalism student and Gordy was a successful dual-sport athlete, splitting his time between the hockey rink and the wrestling mat.
According to Ian, Gordy had never spent any time as a struggling minor-league professional hockey player; his choice had been between wrestling and hockey, and while The Most Canadian Man Aliv had his suitors from both worlds, it was the opportunity to continue the King legacy in the world of professional wrestling that made Gordy’s decision for him.
Ian insisted this had been the truth all along, that the memories of foregoing college to chase a dream of making the NHL were probably just the after-effects of the carbon monoxide poisoning, the very event that made Gordy keep the kitchen window open. Ian was certain that Gordy had never spent time in the minor leagues, toiling as an undrafted prospect. He was insistent that Gordy hadn’t had money troubles that lead him to work a few independent wrestling dates around the Maritimes, capitalizing on his famous name. Those wrestling dates had never ended his hockey career, because he never had one, so the NHL Affiliate couldn’t cancel his contract due to a breach of the terms, as there had, apparently, never been terms to breach, let alone a contract.
Gordy rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back with a high-pitched scrape. Placing the heels of his hands on his thighs, he pushed himself up and turned to pour himself a cup of coffee in the plain porcelain mug that he had grabbed just before starting the machine. Little clouds of cream bloomed into a warm and inviting beige as he poured just enough into his cup, and stirred before taking a sip, making a face and tossing the spoon into the sink across the kitchen.
Gordy took a deep swig of his coffee and grimaced; all things equal he’d have preferred a Double Double from Timmies, but this was not a pleasure beverage. The coffee was awful, bitter and pungent, but it was what he needed to kick out of this stupor. He had brewed it almost strong enough to chew, which was the baseline he needed these days. He needed to focus.
The confusion of his circumstances would remain, ticking away in the back of his mind, but that didn’t stop the onward march of life. He could puzzle through what brought him to this particular dance, but the music would not stop for him to put it all together. There was too much to take care of, too much to do; a title to defend, Danny B on the horizon, as well as near enough every competitor on the CWF roster and beyond looking to take his place should Gordy manage to hold his ground against The Ripper.
It was time, in short, to start dancing.
--
So Ezzie, a big debut in a lot of ways for you, eh? Like, don’t get me wrong bud – I stepped into a CWF ring for the first time and got myself my first World Championship, so I know a thing or two about makin’ a splash on your debut, but all kidding aside, you acquitted yourself admirably in the ole Golden Intentions, eh? Like, that ain’t an easy party to get invited to, and for a while there a lot of people probably looked at you as the belle of the ball, the leader of the parade, the chief pig in shit.
...that line of descriptors kinda got away from me, didn’t they? Oh well.
Point is, I’d be stupid to think that just because you got your ass hoisted over the top rope in a rumble that I’m in for an easy time at Infernalia, eh? Like shit, Ezzie, I’d be faker than the jewels that you wear to the ring if I said I didn’t have my concerns. You came in and grabbed the attention of every single fan in the Colosseum, and obviously the attention of whoever it is who makes the final call on matches.
Actually, not to get too off track, but while I’m thinking of it...who the fuck is it that signs my paycheques, anyhow? Is it this Amelia chick? Can a person who only has one name do that sort of thing, like...legally? Like, if I started working for Penn and Teller, would Penn have to be the one to do the official paperwork since Teller’s only got the one name? How do you fill out forms with only one name? Lots of em won’t let you click submit online if you don’t fill it in properly, and like...you don’t really have a first or last name if you’re Teller or Cher or whoever.
Sorry, Ezzie, but I’m kinda on a tear now and sorta need to ask these questions. Like, what is it with wrestling and folks who only have one name? Seems like almost every woman in this industry – yourself one of the few exceptions – forgoes having a last name. What’s up with that? While I’m at it...how do folks who live in Parts Unknown get their travel expenses covered? Like surely they fly out to a particular airport, right? Can’t you just assume a fella’s from Dallas-Fort Worth if that’s where they go after every television taping? Oh – and masked fellas! Like are all luchadores in Mexico paid under the table or something?
There are mysteries in this world, Ezzie, but there ain’t any mystery in what’s gonna happen at Infernalia. Like I said, you were impressive at Golden Intentions, and I’m certain you’re gonna have a great career in the CWF. I mean, shit, you’d have to really fuck it up to not have success after the start you had, eh?
Thing is, that great career starts after you face me, bud.
You did something amazing in that rumble. I mean, shit, you were in there with the likes of Caledonia and Angelica and you didn’t look out of place. MJ Flair returned and at times, you took the spotlight from her. Danny B was in the ring, and somehow, with you there, he wasn’t the person with the stupidest sounding name.
Here’s the thing though, Ezzie, you made your great first impression, but now you’re hitting the ice against a single heavy hitter whose whole attention is gonna be squarely on you. You ain’t gonna be able to duck and dive away from ole Gordy; I’m gonna be right there, gunnin’ to show you what the big time actually looks like.
See, while you were gallivanting across high society, I was grinding it out in the ring and the rink. While you were in high society, I was at the peak of the industry. And while you were giving it your all last week, I was suiting up for war against a killer and a pervert. And I came out on top, Ezzie. That’s the funny thing about ole Gordy, bud – I usually find a way to do just that.
You had yourself a nice view of that at Golden Intentions, didn’t ya? I mean, shit, what a perfect little encapsulation of what it is to be rich in this world, I guess; you didn’t waste any money on a ringside seat, you just took it. Ole Elon didn’t get to be a trillionaire by being a good person, and you didn’t get yourself a match with the World Champ by being the best...you got it by just being there. You got someone’s attention...now you’ve got mine.
So, Ezzie, I’d say get yourself into your fanciest dress. Get your plastic gems all lined up perfect. Do whatever it is that you think you need to do in order to find success, but keep in mind that none of it really is gonna matter. When you step to The Most Canadian Man Alive, the glitz and glamour ain’t gonna do much for you dahling.
If you wanna have any shot at surviving, you’re gonna have to suit up and keep your stick on the ice.