Détente

Listen, I’m not gonna pretend I’m thrilled about this situation, eh?

 

Like, I mean, c’mon. Wrestling against another champion in this company is one thing. Add in the fact that it’s the Paramount Champion, a title that’s prestige I know a thing or two about, and it’s a whole ‘nother thing. Add in a guy who literally calls himself Crazy, we’re in a real party situation…

 

But then there’s you, Danny Boy.

 

Wait – is that what the B stands for? Danny Boy? Note to self – get to the bottom of the stupid last name thing before August. Could be the key to retaining the Cup.

 

Anyhow – Danny – you decided to step to me in Buffalo while I was celebrating, and honestly you probably pissed off more Canadians than Morocco and Michael Oliver combined. Now, interrupting me while I’m in the ring with my confetti and my celebratory speech...that’s just average wrestling stuff. I get that.

 

But then you took my cup.

 

Now, Danny, I ain’t a huge fan of yours to begin with, so it’s pretty easy to say that you stepped over the line with that one. You know how it is with someone you already kinda hate; you give them less rope to hang themselves with, but yet you still wanna find a way to string ‘em up. Thing is, you really did step into a hornet’s nest wearing a big ole sign that says “Sting Me” on it.

 

Put it another way, Dan-Dan – you fucked up big-time.

 

That being said, there’s a time and a place. We’ll deal with that in time, bud – you’ll get yours when the time is right – but between now and then, we gotta find some way to co-exist. So, how about we make a deal, eh?

 

You bring my cup. You stay out of my way.

 

And I don’t rip your head off before Wrestle Fest.

 

---

 

Wrestling and hockey share more similarities than may seem immediately apparent. It’s no mistake, therefore, that a young Gordy King was placed at a crossroads between a career in Canada’s pastime and the career path that made the King name famous. Both sports require a mixture of speed, aggression, technique and instinct in order to be successful. Both are incredibly athletically demanding, requiring a mindset that prioritizes long term grind over giving into short term pain, all for a shot at everlasting glory.

 

And both careers often result in more trips to the emergency room than the average for the population.

 

This brings us to our scene.

 

Gordy King wore an ice pack on the back of his head and a scowl on his face. Clutching his World Title belt in a manner that seemed to imply that he thought that doing so would bring back the cup that he carried along with it, The Most Canadian Man Alive looked off into the middle-distance of the cream-coloured hospital room as a nurse buzzed around him, notating the various vital signs necessary for her chart. The champion had been cleared of all signs of a concussion – perhaps owing to a callous common between wrestlers and defensemen, - but the doctor on duty in the small-town hospital in some nameless town between Buffalo and Manhattan had insisted on doing the full battery of tests, likely to clear himself and ill-funded hospital of any chance of liability in the event that their care (or lack thereof) was linked to an adverse outcome for a famous athlete.

 

Not to mention, to milk Gordy’s health coverage for every penny it was worth.

 

Gordy knew he was fine, or at least as well as he could be under the circumstances. It was Ian who had insisted on stopping at the emergency department when Gordy had demanded that he pull over so that he could vomit. Of course, a chair shot, followed by throwing up, and then coupled with the dazed expression that Gordy was carrying, all seemed to point to concussion, but King had suffered a concussion before. He knew this wasn’t it.

 

Sure, the crack of the chair had been a crisp, efficient way to bring King down, but Danny B had focused the shot on the Champion’s back, driving the air out of him rather than affecting blunt-force trauma to Gordy’s head. Danny was an assassin with pin-point accuracy. He was not making an attempt on Gordy’s life; he was doing surgery.

 

Gordy had thrown up, not because of a concussion, but because he found himself sick to his stomach with rage. The Ripper’s physical assault was one thing, there would be a receipt for that transgression, but the real violation was the attack on Gordy’s dignity.

 

The Ripper hadn’t stolen Gordy’s title; that was an impossible task, as the only way to take away a title from a champion is to properly beat him for it. No, what Danny B had done was take a possession from Gordy. A physical manifestation of his success, his pride, his joy, his hard work made into a trophy. Danny B could not steal Gordy’s title, but he had stolen his joy.

 

As for the dazed look, Gordy wore that for the same reason he hadn’t said more than a couple of sentences to Ian since they left the arena some hours prior.

 

None of this made any goddamn sense.

 

---

 

Fellas, I gotta admit, I kinda feel bad for ya, eh?

 

And like, it ain’t because I think you’re irrelevant. Well, Dan isn’t anyways...I guess a case could be made for you, Chris – I mean, you’re in a tag team with your brother and...well, it isn’t called the Crazy Boys now is it?

 

It isn’t because you two are just a couple of heartbeats from your mid-40s and the best that you can say about your careers is that you’re the best of the middle of the pack. There’s honestly no shame in being good enough. Lots of fellas aren’t good enough, eh? And hey, to still be good enough while you’re a bit older in a young man’s game...that almost makes up for you still shopping for wrestling gear in the mark-down rack at your local Hot Topic like it’s still 2001.

 

Which, I guess that makes sense, eh – trying to recapture not so much the glory of your youth but at least the feeling of potential...the feeling that you’re destined for something beyond the reality of your situation.

 

No, bud, that isn’t why I feel bad for you boys. I feel bad because here you are, two shows in a row, finding yourselves in the main event of Infernalia, but relegated to background character roles. Like honestly fellas, it’s a rough go. Here you are, Dan – a champion – and Chris – present, I guess – and you’re just extras on a movie that you’re not a real part of, two episodes Infernalia running. Like last show, you get to be the star of the show in the main event...just for the Peacock and his Pal to show you up altogether. That can’t be good on the ole ego, eh?

 

Like, don’t get me wrong, I don’t wanna say that you’re not gonna be a challenge, because pretending otherwise would be a one-way ticket to Upset-ville for ole Gordy, eh? But that’s kind of the thing, boys – you winning would be considered an upset. It would be contrary to the flow of things, against the run of play, a real case of a beaver walking down Bay Street; like, technically it’d be possible, but it seems real unlikely, don’t it?

 

---

 

“Gordy?”

 

Ian Ambrose had been sitting at his best friend and roommate’s side. The two had always – to hear Ian tell it, anyhow – rode together up and down the roads, but there had been a distance between the two long time friends since whatever divergence brought Gordy to this timeline.

 

“Gordy?” Ian said again, trying to rip his old friend away from whatever far-away place that he was. The doctor had, under the flimsy pretense of state athletic compliance, taken a blood sample to be tested for a battery of diseases that hadn’t been seen in ages, presumably to bolster the bill at the end of the visit. The two men, wrestler and interviewer, had sat idly and silently since, left alone in the silent examination room, with far-off sounds of the hospital being the only interruption.

 

Gordy snapped to attention, almost as if he had been awoken suddenly from a fitful nap. His eyes met those of Ian, and for a second the Most Canadian Man Alive felt the old connection to his friend, one unmarred by the confusion of mixed timelines, changed circumstances and changed backstories.

 

That moment proved fleeting, as the reality of things came flooding back. Gordy had a hard time with the feelings this engendered in him; Ian wasn’t trying to betray him, but yet betrayal was all that King felt when he looked his old friend in the eye. As far as Gordy could tell, Ian was telling him the god’s honest truth – that Gordy’s life had always been in wrestling at a higher level, that he had never spent time trying to make it to the NHL, that Ian never worked at East Halifax University... hell, East Halifax University didn’t exist.

 

Be that as it may, there was something about Ian – this Ian – that was a circle that Gordy could not square. While Ambrose hadn’t, to the best of Gordy’s sensibilities, lied to him, there was still this feeling in the air between them.

 

Ian – this Ian – wasn’t his Ian.

 

This was no one’s fault. Or, at least, it wasn’t Ian’s, or even Gordy’s, and so Gordy felt a sense of self loathing at the sense of anger that he felt whenever he looked Ambrose in the eye.

 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Gordy muttered, not really replying, but certainly responding, to Ian.

 

“Yeah,” Ian said with a bit of a laugh in his voice. He seemed to take Gordy’s response differently than The Most Canadian Man Alive had meant it. “These tests this guy is running are getting out of hand...I think if he asks for a stool sample we just leave.”

 

“Talk about a crock of shit,” Gordy said, despite himself. Ian laughed.

 

“Yeah...” he sighed. “Gordy, you’re sure that you’re doing okay? I mean, I know the doctor said that you weren’t concussed but...I’m starting to think that we should ask for a second opinion, and not just because this guy seems to be a bit of a quack.”

 

Gordy shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, dismissively. He didn’t want to another shouting match with Ian, not least of which because the apparent mood-swing would be further evidence of a concussion that Gordy simply did not have. No, the argument that would inevitably follow if discussions of the truth of things were to be had was not appropriate for this setting, neither time nor place.

 

Ian sighed again. He was unable to get through, from his perspective, to his friend. The talk of an alternate life in the wake of all of the other insanity that had come over the CWF roster had been a lot on not just Gordy, but Ian himself. Ambrose was, truthfully, concerned for his oldest and dearest friend.

 

But Gordy, for his part, just kept shutting him out.

 

“Listen,” Ian said, “I think it might be worthwhile seeing a therapist.”

 

Gordy stopped dead. This was, at least, not an outright dismissal of things. Ian was, at least, accepting that Gordy needed some sort of help that his old friend couldn’t offer him. “Yeah?” Gordy said, plaintively.

 

“Yeah,”Ian echoed. “I mean, listen...things have been...strange for all of us, not least of which you, and...”

 

“Okay,” Gordy said, definitively.

 

A calm came over the room, lessening the tension considerably. That is, until the local doctor opened the door.

 

“Mr. King,” he said, a greedy smile barely contained behind a facade of faux-concern, “I think we will need to run some more tests.”

 

Gordy rolled his eyes.

 

“When was the last time you had a bowel movement?”

 

---

 

Fact is boys, it doesn’t have to be you in that main event for the main event to exist, y’understand me? The star power, the talent – hell – the god-damn intrigue exists entirely on our side of the ledger. The headline of Infernalia is ‘Will Gordy King and Danny-of-No-Discernable-Surname Be Able to Co-Exist?’ It isn’t ‘Can Two Men Who Are Old Enough to Drink Twice Over, Dressed Like They’re Headed to a Middle-School Dance in 1999, Overcome the World Champion and Golden Intentions Winner?’ It’s a subtle difference, bud, but the difference is there.

 

Like, it could’ve been anyone in your seats is what I’m saying, but it isn’t just anyone in the end; it’s you two. And anyone’s got a fighting chance if they get in the ring and give a fight a chance, eh? Like I say, looking past you two isn’t what I’m tryin’ to do, but it’s kinda hard when I already have a pretty good idea what you look like when you’re lookin’ up at the lights, eh? Like I’m not fighting you, boys – I’m fighting complacency.

 

To be fair though, I guess you’re not fighting me, you’re fighting male pattern baldness and crows’ feet. So I guess we’re all fighting something other than what’s right in front of us, eh?

 

But y’know what? You get a chance to prove me wrong. You get a shot to show that you’re not just a champion (and his brother; sorry, Chris, like just about everyone else – including, I figure, your brother – I kinda keep forgetting you’re here), but you’re a fuckin’ contender. You get to drop the gloves against the Most Canadian Man Alive, the World’s Champion and test your mettle. You get to see just how much of a man you are and learn something that Danny Banny (is that it, Rip? I gotta be getting close...) is gonna learn at Wrestle Fest:

 

There ain’t no one tougher than the Most Canadian Man Alive, bud. I’ve survived killer clowns, vampires and...whatever Caledonia’s got going on. A little Danger ain’t gonna make me go Crazy, you get me?

 

Keep your stick on the ice, Danger Buds. You’re gonna need it.