▶Clown to the Left of Me, Vampire to the Right
Our scene begins not in the sun-swept, sandy wastelands that would be to come of the area in the 2300s, nor is it the metropolitan city of Halifax in present day, but instead a small suburb, somewhat famous in its own right, just on the edge of the Regional Municipality that is the capital of the land that, in later days, would become the seat of a Vengeance. Long before the conquest of a young, would-be king, stood the neatly rowed, often identical McMansion housing made possible by the success of some of hockey’s biggest names since the likes of Lemieux, Hull and Gretzky. The luxury homes sat dotted across the landscape of Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia, where Sidney Crosby and Nathan MacKinnon plied their trade long before they made it to the promised land of the NHL.
Of course, generational talent and ostentatious luxury only truly stand out when they are compared against something lesser, something unremarkable, something ordinary, humdrum or even prosaic. If MacKinnon had been playing against players of comparable talent, Colorado may not have come knocking. If Sidney Crosby’s teammates had been as inspired in their hockey prowess, Sid the Kid may not have ever taken the captain’s C from Mario Lemieux in Pittsburgh. And the ostentatious flexing of wealth in the form of over-priced, over-manicured houses in the area would not seem like anything special without the presence of a small, unassuming, brown bungalow on the very edge of the limit of the community.
A bungalow where, even today, dandelions seem to outnumber the blades of grass on the patchy lawn. A beige truck – an old Ford F-250 from the late 80s – sits idle on the side of the yard, covered in old pine needles and pollen and rusting on cinder blocks under the weight of not only the years’ worth of elements but also the expectation that this is the season that the car’s owner, an enthusiast, finally would get the parts needed together to get it road worthy again. Next to it sits a hap-hazard pile of weather-beaten salvaged lumber, the beginning of a number of projects abandoned over the years in favour of some other bit of work or, more likely, play.
The only difference, really, between this house today and the home it was in the 1990s when Jarvis King would be forced to visit his uncle Gordon and his cousin Gordy Jr., is the number of beer bottles littering the lawn. Gordy Senior might have been a drinker, but he was a person with a drinking problem, one his son did not inherit, and one that he did his damnedest to mask from his co-workers at the port, his family – left fractured after the death of his beloved wife Georgette – and importantly, the judging eyes of the newly rich neighbours that gradually took over the formerly working class neighbourhood where his modest house, once his pride and joy to own outright, now stuck out like a sore thumb.
Gordy Jr. – our Gordy – never had any such concerns. His father, taken by the cirrhosis a decade earlier, left his only son the house and much like in his failed hockey career, Gordy didn’t mind much the perceptions of those who considered themselves his betters. He lived and let live, and their bullshit opinions never bothered him much. Once his dad was gone, Gordy lived off of the proceeds of an independent wrestling career and took in a roommate – his old buddy Ian Ambrose – and the loose vinyl siding and yellowing linoleum flooring that spans the kitchen to the living room area still did its job as far as The Most Canadian Man Alive was concerned, thank you very much.
Unfortunately, the thing that didn’t do its job had been the audible alarm on the carbon monoxide detector in the very 80s kitchen that sunny afternoon. The silent LED indicator was no help, as condensation pooled on the outside of the amber bottle of beer next to a smouldering ashtray, a stubbed-out joint still letting off a slow, steady stream of pungent smoke next to the face of Gordy King, slumped over the kitchen table, his cheek resting in a pool of his own vomit, unconscious and fading fast.
---
This shit’s confusing, eh?
Like last I remember, I was making a decent little bit of cash coaching major midget hockey and wrestling on the weekends... nothing crazy but enough for groceries, the hydro bill and a case of Keith’s and a bag of the good weed from the Native shop – fuck the NSLC, bud – every week or so. That’s the shit I remember. Like, you’re supposed to remember shit in your past, eh?
But like, also – I’m here remembering shit that happened in my future, bud. Like, that shit’s a fuckin’ head trip. I’ve taken a goddamn gainer down off the fuckin’ dock into the goddamn harbour and come out feeling more like I know which way’s up, bud. Like, fuck – I’m out here remembering shit that hasn’t happened, like it has happened, or will happen?
Like, fuck – I’m a former World Champion somehow? And like...I’ve now got a shot at regaining that title against a literal Killer Clown who may or may not be from outer space, and a vampire with a problematic nickname.
Maybe I gotta lay off the reefer a minute, eh. Jesus Murphy Jones, bud. I’ve been less confused after taking a cross-check to the back of the head.
---
“GORDY!”
Ian Ambrose arrived back at the house in the nick of time. A gust of fresh air coming through the kitchen door was enough to rouse the unconsicous King, allowing him to provide the diminutive Ambrose a bit of help bringing Gordy out to rest on the lawn rather than being absolutely dead weight.
“Whathefuhappened?” slurred The Most Canadian Man Alive, his brain still foggy as Ian collapsed in a heap behind him, exhausted from the exertion to bring his oldest, most bombastic, friend to safety. The 40-something housewives passing by with their designer dogs tutt-tutted as they passed by the scene, oblivious to the seriousness of what they’d passed.
“Jesus Christ, Gordy,” Ian panted, “that could’ve been it for you, man. You could’ve died.”
‘I did die,’ Gordy thought to himself, his cloudy thoughts starting to clear. ‘But I got past that somehow...’
“Stay with me, Gordy,” said Ian, fumbling with shaking fingers through his aged Motorola smartphone to dial 9-1-1.
‘I...I was a champion. I was a winner. I had a brotherhood. No...it was more than that, somehow...it was like...an understanding. A truce.’
‘A Pact.’
Gordy’s lulling eyes snapped to attention with a clarity of purpose, uttering a single word, before he passed out into a fitful sleep.
“Harlan...”
“Gordy, you gotta stay with me—hi, yes, I need an ambulance to 14 Old Miller Road...my roommate is...”
---
Harlan gave me – gives me? Jesus Christ, the timeframe thing isn’t getting any easier, eh? – the fight of my life. Things between us were...well, tense towards the end there, but fuck me if he wasn’t the better man on the night. The thing is, he and Shane both...they made me a better man.
Like fuck man, I’m just some hoser from up outside of the city, I like a bit of hockey and a bit of a scrap, not necessarily in that order. I wasn’t ever supposed to be a serious contender, you get me? I was always meant to do what it is that I do, I just know that guys like me...well, they don’t always succeed, eh? Like, I’m a big feller, I can handle myself and I can take care of business, but...fellers like me are usually not given the chance to be the guy.
That shit’s usually reserved for folks that ain’t got the scruples, ain’t got the thought in their brains beyond screwin’ over whoever they gotta screw over to take what they think outta be theirs. And like, don’t get me wrong, I get that the boys around me were no saints but like...fuck me, man, they took me in anyhow and let me not only survive but thrive with them.
And...fuck man...now Harlan’s gone. Who knows what’s become of Shane. And I’m here having to pick up the pieces. I’m having to try to get my own head on straight and not only make sense of watching one of my teammates, one of my boys in blue, one of my brothers in the Pact fall before his time, but I also gotta do what I can to avenge The Pact.
Well, y’know what? Ole Gordy loves his video games...and you know what GLaDOS said.
We do what we must, because we can.
---
“24 to 48 hours should be enough to get him past the worst of it.”
Gordy groaned in the hospital bed, gradually coming to as the attending physician in the emergency department of Dartmouth General casually conversed with Ian.
“Ah, Mr. King,” he said, smiling over the former champion’s bed. “I’m Dr. Russell. You gave your friend quite a scare, there.”
Ian, bags under his eyes, gave a weak smile to his friend, as the doctor grabbed the chart from the foot of Gordy’s bed and made some notes. “The good news is, you’ll make a full recovery and be more than ready for your big match at the pay per view...although I have to say, I’m glad for both of us that you’re not in that rumble.”
“Yeah,” croaked Gordy, “I don’t think the family has ever had much luck in that kinda thing.”
---
Oh hi, Mark.
Wait, we did that already, didn’t we? Or we wi—never mind, bud, I ain’t gonna keep doing that bit.
Is it still being the third wheel if you’re part of the family? Like don’t get me wrong, Mark – I’m sure you’ve got some environment where you’re like...wanted and desired and sought after...statistically speaking that’s gotta be the case, eh? But like...I’m not really sure where exactly it is, y’know?
Like, it kinda reads to me that you’re the third wheel when it comes to the Highlander family. I mean, you’re a vampire related to a Priestess...your cousin-in-law is the Hammer and you’re here with a few screws loose. I dunno bud, kinda feels like you’re the odd man out. Just like you will be at Golden Intentions,eh?
I mean, fuck bud – what exactly have you done to deserve this shot that you’re getting? I mean, you’re not exactly the main character around these parts, huh? Hell, bud – you never really have been...your big moment, your shining achievement? Double-crossing the baddies in a way that...just didn’t matter. Heck, buddy – you can go all the way back and it’s an ongoing story; you’re an afterthought! You came onto the scene all those years ago and were nothing but a lackey for my cousin, with a nickname that you can’t fuckin’ say in a hockey locker room these days...I’d say you got cancelled but like...shit man, you kinda gotta be something to get cancelled, eh?
Here’s the thing, bud – you’re a distraction at Golden Intentions, and nothing more. I hate to say it, because like...beating up a vampire to regain my World Title, that’d be a hell of a story to tell around a bonfire, eh? But honestly bud...you’re not it. You’re just an add-on. You’re not even a good one...like you’re not extra guac, you’re the chips at the table. You aren’t the opening act, you’re the roadie doing a mic-check.
I’d call you nothing but a clown but...well, you don’t even have that wrapped up, do ya?
---
“Gordy,” Ian said with a plaintiff tone in his voice. The former CWF Champion was already pulling on his street clothes, mere minutes after the doctor had left them. “You really ought to rest some more.”
Gordy shook his head. “Nope, bud...I’ve got work to do. I gotta get out there.”
“Get out there?” Ian repeated, anguished.
“Yeah bud,” Gordy said, a smile on his face as he pulled a hockey jersey over his head. “I gotta get my stick back on the ice, bud.”
---
Ozric Mortimer. Hell of a way to introduce yourself to me, bud, killing a guy that I considered a close personal friend. I’ll admit something, Ozzy – you spooked me. You could see it in my eyes, I’m sure. What happened at the end of that there match, well, shit bud – I’d lost a lot of blood, I’d been through a war, and here comes this creepy lookin’ motherfucker, snapping necks as easy as a slap-shot.
You’re a spooky dude, Mortimer, and clearly you’re dangerous, eh? The thing is – and I still don’t know the answer to this one – am I supposed to know who the fuck you are?
Like shit, man, I keep on hearing that you’re some big, significant part of wrestling lore but like...seems to me that your whole thing is a little less Jarvis King and a little more Jumpin’ Jack, y’know? Like, don’t get me wrong, you got my attention – killing Harlan’ll do that – but like...you’re kinda like a fella who gets called up from the AHL to the big show and puts up a 2 goal, 2 assist night. Sure, it’s impressive, but like...I gotta look up how to spell your name, y’know?
I guess I’m one to talk, eh? I kinda came outta nowhere, beat Carlton’s more talented cousin and won the World Title on my first night. But like...I didn’t expect anyone to know who I was before then, eh?
But they know my name now, Ozric. My name is actually carved into the history books already, bud...and I promise, it’s not as fleeting as your impact on things. Word gets around fast. I wonder if it got around to you. I wonder if you know just who it is you’re dealing with. Mark probably knows; I’m sure Cali told him a thing or two about what it feels like when I hit the Cross Check. Maybe you saw a little bit of what I’m capable of when I’m fighting a friend.
Imagine what it’ll be like when I face off against an enemy.
So, whether it’s you or Mark in my way, bud – lemme promise you...I will be champion again. I will avenge my fallen brother...and importantly, I will show you just who in the fuck Gordy King is: a goddamn winner, baby.
It’s time for the fuckin’ powerplay, boys.
---
Somewhere across the Atlantic on the streets of a European city, a red Acura Integra Type S swerved to avoid a collision with beat-up sprinter van carrying the logo of a popular online retailer. The wheels squealed out in protest on the luxury sedan before its owner laid on the horn.
“MotherFUCKER!” screamed the car’s driver, before giving a single-fingered salute to the courier. The sprinter van sped off, seemingly unaware of the fact that its driver’s erratic manoeuvring nearly caused a potentially catastrophic t-bone collision.
“That shit could’ve killed me, asshole.”