GOTCHA

We then cut to the backstage area. Our backstage area. 

Ivan Stanislav’s match with Jonathan-Christopher Hall is over, and while he would love to hang around The Footprint Center, Ivan has a comrade who needs saving from a bunch of hicks in hats.

Helping a comrade takes precedence over everything else.

Even beating the tar out of Jared Sykes. You lucky bastard.

The Russian Bear stomps through the garage towards the exit of The Footprint Center and looks down at what is possibly the largest, boxiest looking cellular phone in the history of the world. Perhaps even more amazing?

Ivan is trying to text.

He pulls the phone back and squints at it. No way he’s pulling out his glasses.

“Was wondering when you’d show up.”

The voice is familiar, enough to distract him from his mission. Still, when Ivan raises his eyes the sight in front of him is not one he expected to see.

For weeks the Russian Bear had made a point of harrowing Justine Calvin and Jared Sykes, always approaching either when the numbers worked in his favor or when he could easily overwhelm and eliminate one of the pair. But now Justine stands alone in the middle of a clearing backstage. As before she’s dressed to compete, hands heavily taped and hair pulled back. The more perceptive among those watching might notice a slight shake in her hands or hear a waver in her voice.

Justine Calvin: There’s…

She clears her throat. Seeing her there, Ivan’s demeanor seems to change. He lowers the phone from his face and tilts his head curiously to the side while scowling. The most important objective is still the mission at hand, and Alexei will be relieved of his current predicament. But, in the interim, a slight detour couldn’t hurt.

Justine Calvin: There’s something I meant to tell you last show.

Stanislav grinds his teeth as he stares at the much smaller woman and approached her, leaving little room between the two of them in the dark garage. 

Ivan Stanislav: You finally realize what a real man is capable of while I pummeled Jared?

Justine snorts a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. The slight curl of her lip, well that’s a different story.

Justine Calvin: So, what I need to say…

Her hand comes up fast. Thirty years of training in the sweet science unleashed with the speed and impact of a bullet. It lands flush across the nose of the Russian Bear. He groans with surprise and takes a step back, his vision now slightly blurred from the impact. Whether his stumble is from the surprise, the impact, or both we’ll likely never know. This story will be told very differently by the two people involved.

Stanislav brings his hand to his nose and snorts as he winces. 

Ivan Stanislav: Oh… Justine. I am sorry. 

He pulls his hand away. Crimson on his fingers. 

Ivan Stanislav: You do not understand what you have done.

He lunges for her, grabbing her forearm in his massive paw. Here in the bowels of the building there is no one to come to her rescue. And while a small crowd of production crew has gathered to watch this unfold, it’s likely that none of them will intervene. They all know better. He can tear her limb from limb and leave her scattered across the floor as a warning to anyone else that dares challenge his dominance. He growls down into her face, his eyes alight with fire and rage. 

Ivan Stanislav: Did you think I had Alexei put handcuffs on you to hurt you? Oh no, Ms. Calvin. 

He shakes her entire arm as he engulfs her forearm. 

Ivan Stanislav: I had him do that, because I knew you would be too stupid and strike me if I attacked Jared. And if you did that? You would have offered me no recourse!

He bellows and takes a step forward, physically moving her. He drops his phone in his left hand and balls up a ham-sized fist. His voice rumbles with a mix of rage and remorse. 

Ivan Stanislav: I did not want you to have to make me do this. But here we are.

Of course, that was always the plan.

Justine Calvin: (softly) Gotcha.

Ivan blinks. His voice flattens.

Ivan Stanislav: What?

The lights hit his eyes and Ivan’s attention is drawn from his target to the sound of an approaching engine.

The fastest forklift on record approached speeds of 75 miles per hour. This one doesn’t move that fast, but it has the element of surprise. Justine pulls her arm free and dashes aside, the expression on her face equal parts relief from the escape and pure, unadulterated joy that this plan actually worked.

Five tons of engine and steel slam into the Russian Bear and drive him violently back into a stack of production crates hard enough that one of the tynes punches through the heavy aluminum and ABS frame of the nearest box. The machine doesn’t stop until both the crate and Ivan are smashed against the nearest wall. The engine roars. Stanislav’s throaty bellow of anger and pain nearly drowns it out. 

The driver, Jared Sykes, throws the machine into reverse and begins dragging both Ivan and the crate away from the wall. The bottom half of the trunk gives out, dumping excess cables and fasteners into a heap on the floor, and allowing Ivan a brief moment of reprieve. He glances down to his chest only to see that he has narrowly avoided being impaled. One of the tynes snaked its way inside his suspenders and tore a gash into his shirt. He places a hand on his flesh and draws it back. His hand is soupy with dark blood. He bellows something unintelligible, but it’s too late. 

There is only enough time to look up before he’s slammed by the vehicle a second time. The impact barrels him over and he’s sent skidding across the concrete. His momentum is only stopped by a tower of boxes that buckle from the strike. He tries to push himself up, blood seeping between his lips, as the boxes high above topple over upon him like some skyscraper falling atop a battered Soviet Godzilla. His roar booms from beneath the wreckage and then it stops. 

For a moment everything is calm save for the sound of the hydraulics lifting the fork higher into the air. An angry Russian arm sends one box flying in one direction. A combat boot throws two more boxes skipping along the floor and crashes into a gate. But no sooner does Ivan manage to shove the last of the crates off his body does the forklift rev into action again, this time aiming straight for his prone form on the floor. The sound of crunching plastic signals the death of his precious cell phone, and with a screech of the tires and a sharp cut of the wheel the forklift tips, leans, and topples. The driver bails and rolls to his feet in a single motion.

Ivan only has enough time to try and get his hands up to slow the crashing cab before it slams against him and shoves his hands painfully flat against his chest, pinning him to the floor beneath the mast and cab. 

With his adversary trapped, Jared Sykes slowly walks over to the scene of the crime. He points to the raised tynes of the forklift, which now lies on its side with Ivan pinned beneath it.

Jared Sykes: You know I wasn’t sure that whole “lift it up to make it unbalanced” thing was going to work. You’d think after last year when I took one of these all around the MGM Grand that I’d have some idea about how they work, but… Nah. But hey, happy accidents am I right?

Then he starts laughing. It’s quiet at first, barely a giggle, but it doesn’t take long until the sound fills the space. It’s only when he’s managed to compose himself a bit does Jared speak again.

Jared Sykes: Oh man. I just realized… You’ve actually just been crushed under the weight of a literal engine of capitalism.

The Dragonslayer hops up onto the side of the forklift and takes a seat on the overturned cage. From his perch he can safely look down at Ivan without fear of reprisal. The added weight forces a painful groan out of Stanislav. 

Jared Sykes: You know, for the record, you brought us here. And this isn’t a place I like to go, Ivan. This isn’t the sort of thing I enjoy, but I needed – I NEEDED – you to know what could happen if you kept pushing. See, I seem to be built for this sort of thing. Maybe it’s my lot in life. Predestination, if you believe in that shit. People get their rocks off throwing me at things, through things, you get the idea. But I told you… I TOLD YOU that bringing the people I care about into this was going to be a mistake, but you just couldn’t help yourself. So… 

He holds out his hands, palm up.

Jared Sykes: Here we are.

Ivan opens his mouth to speak, but at the first sound of his voice Jared is off his perch. A single stomp lands across Ivan’s jaw.

Jared Sykes: No, nonononononono. I’ve heard e-fucking-nough of what you have to say for a while.

And then just as quickly he’s back in his seat atop the forklift’s cage. Ivan glances toward the gathered crowd, but Sykes follows his eyes.

Jared Sykes: Oh, them? Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to work the way you’re probably expecting. See, I kinda have a bit of an “in” with some of the folks who help with production and whatever. Mark – you remember him, yeah? – he was tight with a lot of these folks, and then Paxton went full murder-hobo and Mark got caught in the crossfire. But then, well, someone put his own body on the line to try and get a little bit of justice for all that.

He snaps with both hands then points at himself with both index fingers.

Jared Sykes: So what I’m saying is that if there’s a choice on who to help here, you or me… well…

Jared glances around the area. True to his word, some of the production crew has already started to wander off, and none with any sense of urgency. There will be no help from the PRIME staff.

Once more Jared hops down to the floor. He reaches into the cab of the forklift and finally kills the engine.

Jared Sykes: This is where I say goodbye, Ivan. I imagine someone might be along eventually to help pick this thing up, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. Don’t worry though. Far as I can tell the ambulance is still here. All gassed up and with its tires intact. Lucky you.

He takes a few slow steps towards Ivan’s head.

Jared Sykes: But, and it’s important you pay attention to this next part, the version of me that you know? It’s not all there is. I think given your current situation even you’d have to admit that’s true. Now, here’s the thing I want you to take away from all this…

He crouches low, and though his voice is barely above a whisper the microphones still manage to pick it up. Stanislav stares directly into Jared’s eyes as the chin of his beard is now black and red, instead of white. 

Jared Sykes: I could show you so much more.

As Jared makes his exit, The Russian Bear moans weakly from beneath the wreckage of the forklift. 

No proletarian comes to his aid.