The Trigger and The Cool Down

September 22
Chicago, IL

“Tonight is the night. It’s the night Tom Battaglia finally gets what he deserves.”

Almost a year ago, when Paxton Ray paralyzed Jonathan Rhine, he forfeited his right to the communal locker room at PRIME events. Lindsay Troy famously confined him to the parking lot for his first show back, but since then he was quietly given his own locker room. It was commonly one of the smallest, smelliest rooms in the arena, and in Soldier Field tonight, night one of Ultraviolence, it was a utility closet. 

But Paxton was not bothered by the smell of turpentine, nor the creaky fan that spun slowly, threatening to fall on top of him. He was focused on what came next. 

“The guy drives me crazy. Not jus’ ‘cause he took my daughter. Not jus’ ‘cause he thinks he’s living out some hero’s quest every time he puts on his sparkly tights. Well, maybe it is that last thing. How can a guy so broken, so irrational, so spurred by ego and rage think he’s a hero? The guy tries so hard to be part of an inner circle that locked its doors to him ages ago. Any time he’s had to prove he belongs, he shows exactly why he doesn’t. Youngblood? FLAMBERGE? Me? Every time he fell short. An’ it eats at him so bad he has t’do mad things like kidnap a crazy man’s daughter.”

Paxton grinned, looking up. “Ya know, it’d be typical villain a’me t’say somethin’ like ‘he and I ain’t very different,’ but that ain’t true. We ain’t nothin’ alike. Mostly ‘cause I got the self awareness to know I ain’t nobody’s hero. An’ ‘cause I never gave a shit what anyone thinks, but his entire act is a transparent cry to be liked and accepted by the world. But he ain’t my daughter’s hero. If I know anythin’ ‘bout Shway, he wasn’t even her first choice. He was jus’ the first idiot t’say yes.”

A darkness swirled in his eyes as his teeth clenched together. “But he uses it to prop up this image of himself that falls apart when ya look at it, kinda like a sand castle in a thunderstorm. An’ I think that is what pisses me off the most about him. He can’t see himself for what he is, so he never tries to change, an’ he never backs down. He ain’t jus’ annoyin’. He ain’t jus’ a tomato can that only speaks in pop culture references. He’s also a fuckin’ bad guy who thinks he’s a good guy. He’s a middle of the pack wrestler who sees himself as the face of the company. He’s a little kitty cat tryin’ t’convince everybody he’s got the loudest roar in the room. An’ lemme tell ya, I cannot fuckin’ wait these last twenty minutes til I get my hands on ‘im.”

Paxton’s eyes had burned like fire through his speech, but as he locked eyes with the person in the room with him, they were doused in uncertainty. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s nice and all, but how does this get your daughter back?” Nurse Julie Dunn asked. 

Paxton stared blankly in response. He wasn’t sure how to answer. 

“And if this is all just about hurting some wrestler and not about your daughter, then why did you even bring me here?”

Paxton looked down at his feet. He certainly wasn’t sure how to answer that. 

_______

September 15
New Orleans, LA

Paxton wiped blood from his mouth as he stared at the mountain in front of him. Theodore Boswell sneered down at him, tasting victory. 

This was new territory for Paxton. He had lost in PRIME, but that was the best wrestling company in the world. Gray’s Wrestling Academy was Paxton’s domain ever since he stepped foot inside the dusty New Orleans gym. He never felt in danger of losing. Yet here he was in his semifinal match, moments away from humiliating defeat.

“Focus, Pax!” Foster Nackedy clutched the ring bell hammer like he was bringing a sword into battle. In a way he was — if Paxton lost here, it was over. The finals match would be two members of Team Rhine, and the gym would be lost forever. Gone would be the plans of Fighting by Foster Nackedy, the satisfaction of kicking out his former protégé and his conniving ex-girlfriend, his reason to stay sober. Maybe even his connection to Paxton and his managerial gig in PRIME. All could be dust if Boswell pulled this out. 

The son of the final NWC:Central Heavyweight Champion lumbered forward and sent another stiff fist into Paxton’s jaw, knocking him to the ground. “They say you’re the boxer around here,” Theodore boomed. “Haven’t seen much of that so far.”

Theodore had been talking trash through the whole match, mostly on a surface level. Insults about Paxton’s fighting, his dismal showing in the Tropical Turmoil match, his cowardice for paralyzing Jonathan Rhine. But as he stared at a prone Paxton Ray, his talk turned a little more personal, and the trigger was pushed.

“You’re about to let Foster down just like you let your whole family down. Nora must be disappointed to have a father like you.”

The Trigger. 

Paxton fought angry, but it was a base level, a default anger. When he needed to find another gear, he could draw upon a stronger form of anger, a blinding rage. It was just a question of what would trigger this anger, and Theodore Boswell just provided it. 

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Paxton growled, launching himself to a standing position and leveling Boswell with an uppercut. He unleashed a flurry of punches, doubling Theodore over with a jab to the gut and swinging overhand to connect with the back of his head. As the giant struggled to get to his feet, Paxton used all of his strength to lift him in the air. It wasn’t as easy as it was for most of his opponents, and he certainly didn’t get all of it, but the Lafayette Lullaby was enough to keep Boswell down until the bell rang. 

“Great job!” Foster clapped twice. But Paxton didn’t exit the ring. The thing about The Trigger was that it could provide Paxton with energy and motivation to finish a match, but it didn’t have an off switch. 

“Disappointed, huh? We’ll see who’s disappointed when ya never fuckin’ walk again.” Paxton grabbed Theodore’s leg and placed a boot against his knee, just like he had against Kenny Truong. Theodore was larger, his legs heavier, but Paxton knew that didn’t matter with the right pressure added. 

“That’s enough!” Foster screamed. Paxton shot him a look and grinned. 

“Ya didn’t say boo when I did it t’the other kid.” Paxton started to lean back, his eyes glistening. “What’s different now?”

“I wasn’t the other kid’s father,” a voice boomed. Paxton saw Nathan Boswell step over the ring ropes. A hair over 40, Nathan looked like he could still lace up boots and sign a contract with PRIME if he wanted to. Paxton had only seen stoicism from the trainer, but now his cheeks burned red. “Let go.”

Paxton looked from Nathan to Foster, then let go of Theodore’s leg. “Whatever,” Paxton muttered, then rolled out of the ring and walked to the locker rooms, sending a shoulder to Connor Nackedy as he passed. 

“No, not whatever,” Foster shouted, following him to the locker room. Paxton was already down to his underwear. “Shower’s going to have to wait. We need to talk.”

“Oh, now you’re gonna lecture me ‘bout hurtin’ people?” 

“When the person is a trainer’s son, you bet your ass I am.” Foster stepped up to Paxton and poked a finger in his chest. “This shit has got to stop. You’re gonna try to murder anyone who talks a little trash?”

“He mentioned Nora,” Paxton said through gritted teeth. 

Foster cocked an eyebrow. “Uh huh? And?”

“He said I disappoint her. An’ since your goons still ain’t found her, I can’t…”

“YOU DON’T DESERVE NORA!” Foster shouted, his outburst surprising both men in the locker room. When he recovered, Paxton was still speechless, so Foster continued. “Look in the mirror over there. Do you not see yourself for what you are? You’re a fucking psychopath! You flew to Philadelphia to steal someone’s kid, you can’t hear one fucking name without trying to end someone’s career…what do you think is going to happen if you ever see her again? She’s going to run away from you because eight year olds are still terrified of monsters and you’re the biggest one there is.” 

Foster felt winded from his verbal attack, putting a hand on a nearby open locker to steady himself. When he locked eyes again with Paxton, his tone had softened. “You’re constantly threatening this gym. You could get fired at any moment for the shit you pull. I try my best to help. But you’re not a good person, and I’m just going to say it, man: you’re a bad father.”

If someone had counted the seconds between Foster’s speech and Paxton’s reply, the number wouldn’t reach double digits; yet it felt like ages to Foster before a wry grin crept across the Bayou Butcher’s face. “Want to talk about bad dads?” Paxton looked over Foster’s shoulder and saw Connor standing in the doorway. “Ya barely pay attention to your boy, an’ when ya do pay attention you’re yellin’ at him and talkin’ down to him. I bet ya don’t know anythin’ about him.”

“No,” Connor whispered from the doorway.

Foster, his eyes firmly on his client and not noticing his son behind him, bristled. “Listen, Connor and I have a complicated relationship, but that doesn’t mean I don’t–”

“Know he’s gay?” Paxton interrupted, then studied both Nackedy reactions. Foster’s eyes narrowed with confusion, while Connor’s went wide. The younger Nackedy leaned against the doorway and began to slide down. Paxton met Connor’s eyes and was drawn into them for a moment: blue, with the slightest sparkle as water began to form. 

Paxton grinned. “Yeah, that’s right, father a’the fuckin’ year. Ya wonder why he turned down Georgetown to stay here? Let’s just say it wasn’t your great coachin’. Ask why he was so eager to move in with Dustin. Why was that, Conny?”

Foster whirled around to see his son nearly in a seated position, the tears flowing now. He stared at Connor for a few moments, then walked over to him and knelt down. “Connor…is this true?”

Connor couldn’t answer. He tried to choke his tears down, but ended up only coughing them out in a loud, dry wheeze. He tried to look down at his feet, but Foster tilted his chin up and drew him into a hug. “I don’t care,” he said, tucking Connor’s head under his own. “I love you, okay?”

He held him there for about a minute before looking out of the doorway. “Dith, come here.” Slowly he stood, gently guiding his son to a standing position next to him. When the gym assistant arrived, he barked, “Get him to Magen. Tell her I’ll call her soon. Don’t ask him any questions.”

“O-okay,” Dith said, practically pulling Connor out of the room. Foster turned to face Paxton, who had watched everything unfold with the same grin.

“How dare you take that away from him.” While before Foster’s words were harsh and explosive, now he spoke in a controlled, low tone. “This arrangement is over. You’re gone from Gray’s.”

Paxton laughed. “Oh yeah? Didn’t ya jus’ watch me make the finals? If ya kick me out, who’s gonna fight for your gym?”

“Some things are more important, Paxton,” Foster said, turning on his heel and walking out of the locker room. “And if you actually wanted to be a good parent, you’d know that. Now pack your fucking bags.”

Paxton stood in the locker room, his hands balling into fists. He looked over at the mirrors above the sinks, then grabbed a nearby trash can and flung it into the mirror. Glass shattered everywhere, with a shard flying directly into Paxton’s wrist. Paxton slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, walked out of the locker room, and knocked over every trash can on the way out of Gray’s.

_______

The cool down.

Paxton watched the water in his tub fill up, then began dumping bags of ice into the tub. Unwrapping the gauze around his bloody wrist, he undressed and entered the tub.

Finally he could feel the anger melting off, and underneath was nothing but consequence and loss. 

The loss of his domain, the place where he gained the power and confidence necessary to be a top ranked wrestler in the best company in the world. 

The loss of his trainer and manager, who despite their constant disagreements was one of the only people to advocate for him, both in PRIME and out of it. 

And more than anything, the most crushing loss of all, the realization that Foster was completely right. He lost Nora. Not today, and not at last Ultraviolence, but slowly, step by step, until he became a person unworthy of her. A psychopath. A monster. 

And now, sitting in a bathtub filled with ice, he lost his anger. He thought of The Anglo Luchador and still felt dislike, but he also felt pity. Tom was struggling to find purpose, to find something he believed in, to find a place where he belonged. There was nothing in his life that filled him with as much passion and motivation as Paxton had with Nora. He was listless, a spinning top set in motion by a child who had quickly lost interest and left the room, losing momentum and threatening to topple at any moment. Paxton would fight TAL in one week, and hurt him badly, but it would be because it was his job, and not for the things TAL had taken from him.

But even Paxton’s purpose felt distant now. He closed his eyes, bringing ice water to his face to rub into his beard. He had finally cooled down, and he had lost everything else. He had no one. 

Suddenly, he opened his eyes again, and they began to burn. Not with anger, but with resolve. He stood up, toweled off and got dressed, then walked out the door.

Maybe he had someone.

_______

“Bye Lacie,” Julie Dunn shot over her shoulder, pulling her hoodie tight as she walked out of St. Bernard Memorial Hospital. The high was in the 80s, but a rain had just come through, leaving weather that almost felt fall-like. She had enough time to wonder if she should get a latte at the coffee shop nearby when she felt a shadow loom near her.

“Jesus!” she shouted, jumping back as Paxton approached her. “You have my phone number, Pax.”

“I was afraid you’d screen my calls.”

Julie shrugged, continuing to walk. “I probably would, yeah. What’s up?”

“Did ya mean what ya said?”

“What did I say?”

Paxton looked up at the sky as a raindrop landed on his head. “Ya told me you’d help me if I was willin’ t’put in the work for Nora.”

Julie stopped, shaking her head. “I told you I’d find you someone to talk to. I texted you a number. Did you call them?”

“Nah. I don’t want anyone else’s help. I want yours.”

“Why?”

Paxton bit his lower lip and looked down at the ground as raindrops began to form a puddle and Julie pulled her hoodie tighter around herself. “Because you’re all I got,” Paxton said with a sigh. “I did somethin’ bad today. I felt like I was playin’ the role everybody expects me t’play, and I hurt somebody who didn’t deserve it. I was so angry I didn’t care at the time, but I do now. An’ now I know if I ever want Nora back, and if I want people t’actually stick around, I got to do somethin’ about this anger. And you’re the only one who cools me down like an ice bath.”

Julie furrowed her eyebrows. “Like a what?”

“You’re my cool down. When I’m around ya, an’ when I think about ya, I feel centered. I feel like I know what I hafta do t’be better. When ya ain’t around, life is confusin’ and frustratin’. So please, Julie. I’m ‘bout t’ask ya a crazy, huge favor, an’ I need ya to at least consider it.”

Julie looked behind her to her car, which was only a few feet away. Then she turned to the man who scared her, confused her, intrigued her, and she sighed.

“Okay. What do you need?”

_______

September 22
Chicago, IL

“I’m just saying, Paxton, you’re acting like a villain giving a speech about trying to take over the world because someone hurt his feelings when he was a child. If you feel the anger creeping in, you need to find a way to push it down.”

“But the anger helps me fight. What if I push it down and it costs me the match?” he said. “What if I get soft and he takes advantage?”

“Then you need to control it. If you need some trigger to win matches, but a cooldown to avoid hurting other people, then you need to find a balance. And I can’t tell you how to do it, but I can tell you that everyone has complex emotions swirling around them. My niece has a book called ‘I’m Happy-Sad Today,’ and it’s all about identifying the confusing contradictions you feel and learning to validate and control them.” Julie smirked. “And luckily it’s at a third grade reading level so you can understand it.”

“Bitch,” Paxton spat, but he couldn’t stop the smile from creeping on his face.

“You asked me to come here, to a weird wrestling show where almost no one wears clothing and half the people wear masks. We’re in a literal janitor’s closet. You get my advice and my snark, and you have to like it.”

Paxton snorted, then started to rewrap his fists with gauze. He looked down at the cut on his wrist and frowned. “Maybe I do.” He looked up and shared a smile that was immediately interrupted by his phone ringing. He grabbed it from the table and answered it. “Hello?”

“Hey Gator,” the German accent of Wilhelm von Krauser entered his ears, causing him to drop his smile. “Ready for tonight?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Good, because so is your opponent. Which means he isn’t in Philadelphia. And right now Gouskos and I are about one hundred meters away from your daughter and ex-wife.”

Paxton’s eyes went wide. “Really? Ya can see Nora?”

“I’m looking at her as we speak. Just say the word and we shall reclaim her for you.”

Paxton looked up at Julie, who was staring at him with slight confusion, but the same smile still on her face. Paxton smiled back. “Don’t do it.”

“What?”

“I ain’t ready t’be a good dad to her yet. Takin’ her outta that home would just drive her further away from me. I need t’earn it, and I ain’t there yet, but I’m gonna get there. So thanks for y’all’s help, an’ tell Bathory thanks too, but I am gonna get her back my own way.”

The German didn’t immediately answer. Finally, he said, “Very well. I shall inform Director Bathory. Good luck in your match.” 

Paxton put down the phone and looked at Julie. “Why did I do that?”

“Because you’re putting in the work. Here.” Julie stood up and walked over to Paxton, grabbing his wrist and gingerly tightening the gauze. “Believe me, it will pay off. Now, how do you feel about the match?”

Paxton looked up at the clock overhead, then smiled down at Julie. “I’m ready.”

_______

Wilhelm von Krauser looked over at his companion, then wordlessly dialed a number. “Hello, Director Bathory. Yes. Paxton has told us he doesn’t want us to take Nora. He said he wants to become a better person for her.” Von Krauser nodded. “Yes. I understand. I will call you after.”

The large German put his phone down, then looked over at Dmitri Gouskos. “Director Bathory has given us new orders. Let us take the girl.”

Gouskos looked at von Krauser and smiled. “Forever the Crown.”

“Forever the Crown,” von Krauser answered, exiting the door and slamming it so hard that it sounded like a gunshot.