Crash
“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we have a treat for you in attendance!”
Without a job as of two days ago, and no consistent income, Jason Jackson finds himself looking for any way to earn a buck. Unfortunately, it brings us here… to this fucking carnival. Don’t get it wrong. This is a pretty sweet carnival. There’s foot long corn dogs, ring toss, beebee shooter, and that magnetic fishing game even. This carnival slaps so much it has that hammer thing where you can see how strong you are.
“Tooooooniiiiiight! A wanderer joins us to challenge our champion, Merciless Mac! A man who has wrestled from the valleys of Japan, to the mountains of Mexico, and around the greater Tri-State area will seek to dethrone the one and only Carnival Champion! Tonight’s challenger has broken bones, lost blood, and even suffered a short spell of amnesia, all in the name of glory. Tonight, we welcome…”
From there… to here.
Jason stands outside a crowd of about fifty plus. He doesn’t scoff or snarl, he’s friggin’ pumped up, boyeeee. This is where he wants to be. This is why he was fired two days ago for requesting the night three months ago – to do what he loves. This is why he still does what he does. He wants to put on a fucking show.
“CRAAAAAAAASSSSHHH!!!”
Let’s get it.
Looking at his cigarette, halfway done, Crash flicks it off into the abyss. A nice little applause that would suffice at a middle school recital grabs his attention as he pulls his t-shirt from over his head. He makes his way through the crowd to a lot of gasps at the sight of his many, many scars. It’s his first instinct to explain all these monstrosities but time is of the essence and it’s whoopin’ time. Crash quickly slides under the ropes and throws up a respectful fist to the fans in attendance.
Well that’s… interesting.
Beyond his beastly looking opponent, who we have to assume is Merciless Mac, Crash immediately notices that the ring sits questionably close to the Tilt-A-Whirl. Somewhat alarming. There are those steel guard rails though. People are standing there. Shouldn’t be an issue. Crash turns to his opponent with a fist pound, which does not receive a return.
DING DING DING
Instead, Crash feels a very solid forearm blast him over the head and tumbles to the mat. Now, he feels an arm wrap around his neck, grab his pants, and whip him across the ring with a release suplex. This is hardly going the way he needs it to.
What th- Alright. Enough goofin’ around!
Crash rolls to his feet, noticing a slight pain in his back, before squaring up and stomping his foot. He pounds his chest.
“Lucky play, fat man. Try it again.”
Mac charges, hard, and slams his upper body into Crash. He flies into the turnbuckle before Mac decides to join him and slam his knuckles into his face and headparts. Like a swarm of flies, Crash tries to bat them away before Mac spins and delivers a heavy elbow to the jaw. Crash drops to a knee.
Jesus Christ. This carny came to fight. This is worth a lot more than five hundred bucks…
Crash looks up, sees Mac gloating about, and rises with the fury of a phoenix. His boot rocks Merciless Mac in the midsection, doubling him over, and then follows it up promptly with a knee to the face. This brings a nice little cheer from the drunk dudes standing around, watching the coolest bar fight they’re ever gonna see. Crash lifts Mac off the mat and pulls him in position for a German Suplex. Mac turns back with an elbow and boots Crash into the ropes before sending him to the outside with a rolling clothesline.
Guhhhhgh… too many hurts.
The fans, just outside those metal barriers, start cheering him on. They don’t know who the fuck Merciless Mac is, the carnival only comes around every now and then, and suddently, at least, want Crash to put up a friggin’ fight. Crash grabs the apron and uses the top rope to bring him to his feet. That’s exactly the moment the sound of thunder comes his way, blasting him off the side of the ring and into those super safe metal barriers. So glad those were there.
Ohgod. Ohgod. Ohgod.
For a big man, Mac is pretty quick because, well now he’s on the floor with Crash. This is right about the time Crash realizes it…
We’re at a goddamn carnival, dude. REALLY!?
Mac grabs Crash and pulls his hair, dragging him towards the ring. Now these people are just booing this sloppy Mac guy because he is absolutely gross. His long, wispy hairs dangle from a mostly bald head like a 1990’s Intercontinental Champion. He kicks Crash in the gut a few times, knocking him to the dirt floor, before picking him back up and pinning him against the side of the ring. A nice, firm backhand to the chest is just a cherry on top.
OOOOOHHHHHH
Fuckin’ hell, Mac… Relax!
Mac offers a sixth consecutive chest chop before Crash rolls out of the way, still trying to stand, and Mac’s hand whips into the ring post. It’s quite a long time, considering how that must have felt, before Mac can let out a guttural scream. Clutching his hand, he drops to his knees as everyone around him is giving the ole “I’m about to puke” look.
Karma, dude.
Crash rips off a superkick from naughty land upon his less-than-ready foe. Mac spills backward into the fence but somehow regains his footing rather quickly. Crash doesn’t waste time to find out how before he runs at him and drops a shoulder. Mac topples over the barrier with a wet thud.
Oh shit, is it muddy over there? Why was that wet? Oh… I think that’s where everyone is pissing… maybe throwing up?
Mac stands up, beaming with rage, and wearing a lot of wet dirt. A snarl draws Crash’s attention, the barrier still between them. Crash’s eyes go wide as his very angry opponent begins to climb back over the guard rail.
Really!? Just die already, clown!
Without a chance to think twice, Crash darts for the ring, sliding under the ropes with a spring in his step. Mac is pretty lame at this point so he’s barely come up with a plan to scale the fence. Crash is up, bounds off the ropes, turns to lock onto his target. Mac decides the “best way” to do this is to stand on the fence. Crash jumps, planting his feet on the top rope, and offers his physical body to the wrestling god’s. He lifts his feet, flies head first at Mac, before rotating his lower half and thrusts both feet into Mac’s chest.
Gotcha, b-
OOOOHHHHHHH
Crash falls square on the barrier, crushing his ribs and dropping him into the mud stuffs with a very similar smack. Hoping he’s just dead so the hurting stops, Crash lays there without a move. This is when we hear the whirly dirly whistles of the all too familiar Tilt A Whirl firing up, which has seemingly one one passenger. Merciless Mac.
Can I go dies now?
Pulling himself up with the metal structure that might have been the worst thing to happen to him all year, Crash gets to his feet only to see bright lights that blind him briefly on his way to seek medical attention. Beyond the phonelights and bodies gathering near, Crash sees Mac – ass planted in the Tilt A Whirl – unconscious. The voices in the crowd are a bit hard to make out but the general vibe is… good. One of the drunk dudes slams the green button, sending Mac spinning into the joys of not being buckled in on the spinny spin. Crash can’t help but laugh.
2 days later…
The door opens to the carnival office trailer. Nobody steps in but very audible groans and grunts are made just outside the door. A few agonizing seconds later, Jason Jackson pulls himself in with help of the door frame, wearing street clothes, shades, and a sling on his left arm. He matches the eyeline of Raul, the guy who runs this five star group of troubadours, before offering a cheap grin.
“Holy shit! Look who’s back from the dead.”
You couldn’t have just fuckin’ Venmo’d me, bro?
“How ya feelin’, kid?”
Crash looks at his lower half and then up at the man holding his money.
Not the best but, hey, put on a hell of a show. That helps numb the pain.
“Probably just how I look.”
Raul chuckles, crosses his arms, and cocks his head.
“Aside from the sling… not lookin’ too bad.”
Crash removes his shades, revealing a nice shiner and split lip.
“Ouch.”
Thanks, dick.
Raul shakes his head wearing a pleasant smile. Some might even think it’s… proud? He reaches into his drawer, pulls out a check, and places it on the other side of his desk.
“Well, here ya go, champ. Get used to it.”
Can’t believe this guy. I told him I’m working my way up. I’m not gonna wrestle carnivals for the rest of my life. That’s a goddamn promise.
“Raul, I told you, I’m not here for the long haul. I appreciate what-”
Raul waives whatever words Crash says away.
“You think I can afford a superstar like you, kid? I wish you’d take peanuts for pay but… something tells me you ain’t gonna work for piss and pass up the big leagues.”
Did I kick this guy in the head that night, too? He only ever calls me Kid and Pussy Boy.
“Do you have anything left in that pipe? Because, whatever you’re smokin’, I’m sure it’ll help me not feel every heartbeat in my rib splinters. What are you talking about? I just gotta pay rent tomorrow.”
Raul offers a look of confusion himself. He lets a few thoughts run through his head before shrugging.
“You’ve been under a rock since that night, haven’t you?”
Yes, Raul. I didn’t think I had to explain why I’m moving slower than a concrete block. LOOK AT ME!
Raul can’t hide his excitement. He scrambles – and I mean SCRAMBLES – for his phone, eager to be the first to show Jason the latest buzz. It’s only a few seconds of taps and swipes before he turns the screen to face the hurting human being.
That’s… me?
Crash watches from the point of view of somebody watching the match two nights ago. It’s about the part when Mac stands on the guard rail, trying to catch his opponent, before Crash plants him with a Moonsault dropkick. Mac flies into the Tilt A Whirl as everyone around this phone is going fucking nuts. The shot turns back to Crash, slightly dying, and propping himself on the guard rail.
That’s soooo sweee-
Crash spots a number at the bottom corner.
402k
“Raul… this says…”
Raul smiles, ready to be the one to deliver this news to this nearly dead man. He folds his hands together, barely containing his eagerness to tell Crash about his future.
“Four hundred THOUSAND views, young man. Now, if that many people have seen it… how many do you think work in wrestling?”
Are you… kidding me??? DUUUUUUUUUDE
Crash stops living for a moment, trying to contemplate what this means or can mean or will mean and all that existential shit. Unfortunately, a strong buzzing from his pocket interrupts all of these super important thoughts. Crash removes his phone to see the phone voice icon on his home screen. Under that notification are, like, a thousand YouTube and TikTok ones. Crash’s eyes begin to grow in size.
HO. LY. SHIT.
Crash turns up from his phone, definitely wincing as he moves way too fast for his body, albeit only his head. Everything hurts. It’s merely an afterthought, however, as the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and something pumps through his veins that can only be a byproduct of dreams coming true.
“Thank you, Raul!”
Crash grabs his check, shoving it in his pocket – because, rent – before slowly, but somehow quickly dragging himself out of the trailer. Even the door moves faster than Crash, slamming into his lower back and pulling out a hiss of agony. The kind you do when you stub your toe but like four hundred and two thousand times louder. Just before the door closes, Crash somehow throws up a wave and thumbs up.
“Good luck to you, pussy boy!”
DICK!
– – – – –
“Mister Jackson, this is Deborah Youngman with PRIME.”
No way.
“We have recognized the work you’ve done and would like to extend an invitation to join our roster. The first possible booking will be in Detroit, Michigan for our ReVival 35 event. Before we can finalize the process, however, we will need you to complete and clear a physical examination.”
Well, shit…
“We have arranged your visit with an area doctor to be complete before the event itself. PRIME officials will reach out before the event to confirm your opponent.”
Crash pulls the phone away from his head because, shit, this is a long message. It is also the message he’s been waiting his entire life to hear.
This is the real deal, bubba.
“When you arrive, your hotel information will be provided, and we will assign you a personal driver. Welcome to PRIME, good luck, and we can’t wait to see what you do with this amazing opportunity!”
What the fuck kind of sign off is that, lady? I know they make you say that but, come on. I feel like I’m about to be Punk’d.
– – – – –
“I’m not trying to be a dick because, frankly, I’m not a dick. Take my word for it. The people at PRIME told me to come here, today, right now, in clothes, to get a physical.”
The whimsical jams of the waiting room aren’t too bad today. Nurse Daisy, as told to us by her obligatory name tag and stethoscope, looks at her computer before looking up and reluctantly smiles.
“Alright? And what’s your name, sir? I imagine you have an appointment?”
Come on, Daisy. I really have to spell this out? You really don’t know who I am? I thought this was, like, the highlight of the day around here. I did sign with PRIME right? I gotta check my emails.
“I’m just here to check the boxes, Daisy. I’m guessing it’s not in the file notes, which is cool, but the people at PRIME sent me over here to get cleared before I have to go whoop this ghost’s ass…”
Crash seems to pause. He pauses because this absolutely crazy to say out loud and he’s finally become self aware. He shrugs, already letting a very scary word fly from his face, and slowly blinks to hopefully save the moment.
“…Well, honestly, I’m not even sure it’s a fuckin’ ghost. There’s a body. Is that a ghost or a demon? Or is this a wraith situation? I’ve been watching the Witcher but, honestly, I’m not so up to date on my demonic monsters as I should be.”
Daisy can’t fucking even right now. A waiting room full of maybe-gonna-pass-soon visitors has her a bit frantic. Her eyes fixate on the generally attractive man in front of her but-
That’s right, girl.
She’s also trying to peel her baby blues away from Crash as he flashes another smirk her way. There’s so much going on – as it’s been said she still can’t even so – that this allows our hero to continue down this road to, sigh, further explanation.
“Okay, so it’s a ghost inside a human body. Isn’t that the premise for Ghost in the Shell? Scarlett was bonkers hot in that. But, really, I need to see the doc. Then the doc will clear me. Then I can fulfill my deed for humanity and fight this ghost-demon-fuckboy and, hopefully, bring peace between us and the netherworld for generations to come. Please, let me fight this ghost. It’s for the greatest good.”
This is when Crash realizes there is an eight year old sitting, staring, and – worst of all – listening, to his interaction with this young hottie. The look of fear spreads over his itty bitty mug as the horror spills into his earholes. Crash offers a cheap, family friendly grin to the kid wearing a Brandon Youngblood t-shirt. The kid just offers the most pitiful ascareded face mankind has ever seen. Crash’s insides swell up before waving his hands, trying to erase this little dude’s memory.
“No, not a ghost. More like a… half-ghost!”
The tears stop forming in the little one’s eyes. This is where Daddy Crash spills over from the usual, uninclined version of Crash having kids, before he leans closer to the kid with a cool face.
“A haff ghost? Reawwy?”
“Oh, big time half-ghost, buddy. He was dead but now took over this real guy’s body. A guy like me and you!”
This causes mass hysteria, unplanned by the Northern Light. Usually he plans for these things to get free sammies from Subway in busy times. This one? Not so much. Once again hoping to gain some favor with this babe behind the big desk, he shoots a proud nod over his shoulder. It’s not until he turns back to see the flood gates begin to open.
“No, don’t cry dude!”
Crash turns his attention away from the desk, one hundred and four percent, and tries to console this kid. He notices how this little dude knows BY but can’t touch up on his rookie research? Knowing full well he can’t just slap little dude into not crying, fear begins to take over as many eyeballs are now aiming in his specific direction.
“Connor, right? Look buddy. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I like to have fun.”
Whoa, bud. Can’t say it like that to kids! A, he doesn’t know what the HELL you’re talking about and B, everyone else hears this is an abduction proposal! You’re version of fun is whooping on assholes and chasing ass all night.
The kid’s sobs start to get less and less in between some very short and deep breaths.
“But… this Max Kael? Guy?”
Conner slows down a little more. This guy is a pretty sly guy, you know? Could charm a cobra.
“Max Kael??”
I said it as if it’s a question that has an answer. Dude knows that it doesn’t. Why the fuck did they pick me to fight this ghost?
“Max. Kael?. He’s not a ghost, little bro. He’s just a a dead guy’s spirit in a human body.
“Like a demon??”
Crash again feels a wrenching on his soul. He spins, but doesn’t, while trying to bring the Nurse in to help his cataclysmic words not stain this poor child’s soul.
Is this guy a fucking DEMON!? Jesus Chriiiiiii
“Ha, right on, my guy. If he’s a demon, then what am I?”
Crash winks at the kid before looking up. Hopefully someone is streaming this sincerely lovely moment between two ghost-demon fearing humans.
“Dead Man.”
Crash chuckles, shrugging toward the front desk, before glancing to his – nobody is around to see this exclamation point of a smile. He has a lot of very cool smiles. Crash turns back to the little man, eyeing him up and down.
“No, dude. You don’t know who I am?”
So, what I’m getting is, nobody here is from PRIME. This is weird.
“The dead man!”
Little bastar- He might have a point. How in the hell are we supposed to stand toe to toe with a Max Kael clone? This is fucking batshit. That guy single handedly wreaked havoc on the industry for years. Now, he’s younger, stronger, and even more fucked up than he was before I ever had to cross his path. This is, at least, the craziest shit we’ve done, bro.
It just so happens that Nurse Daisy returns with a clipboard. She offers a look of concern as to what has transpired in her time away between the young child and belligerent man in her lobby. Crash stands to accept his rose.
“Who was it, PRIME Wrestling, that sent you? I see it now. Right here, Mr. Jackson. We’ll start your physical shortly.”
“Nope, not PRIME. Definitely not PRIME. Just a routine prostate exam.”
An eyeroll from Nurse Daisy says otherwise. This is certainly not how the Northern Light pictured this obligatory exam to go. The thought of waiting, in a room, with other people, was certainly not in the cards. Now, though, here… it’s clear that Crash is going to have a lot to get used to.
They’ll get to know your name, dude… and soon they’ll be screaming it.