The Anglo Luchador
There’s a phrase that summarized The Anglo Luchador’s return to wrestling and his tenure in PRIME, specifically. Some observers couldn’t get over actually eating IcyHot on camera. War with Hoyt Williams’ mind-snared automaton soaked up an entire half-year. The Intense Championship snugly fit around his waist from Great American Nightmare until the main event of ReVival 21. And then there was the internal social media platform, one where Tom had spent far too much time. The phrase came not from the Luchador, but from Coral Avalon, who remarked that his interactions on the application could be distilled into three simple words:
“Oops! All Enemies!”
–
Tom wasn’t as angry at losing at ReV 24 as much as he was pissed off that Tyler Best had more unearned vindication for invisible crimes committed against his person. Younger wrestlers feeling like they’ve been wronged… what atrocities could they have seen that the older generation hadn’t? Oh, Tyler’s Diet Coke had ice in it. Boohoo. The cart FLAMBERGE hitched himself to careened off the road, erupting in glue-fueled incendiary chaos? Rub some dirt on it, kid. Oh wow, Jerichoholic Anonymous? You’re mad because of politics in a shitty Canadian-based wrestling organization? You idiot.
There it was again.
Aesthetics were the only real difference between the French Phenom and the man the Luchador was 20 years ago. Hold a mirror up to the soul of Jeune Julien, and the petulant reflection of a manchild Tom used to be looked right back. Like many regrettable and unseemly chapters from a life lived in the sludgy quagmire of mental struggle, he tried his best to keep the roads barricaded with alcohol, with busywork, with video games. Every once in a while though, some traveler comes trudging out, caked in shit, reminding him of all the things he wished stayed buried.
The reason he came back to wrestling was to build a new legacy so he, and maybe every other wrestling fan, journalist, and historian, could forget the past.
–
“Muchacho,” started El Guapo Grande, “how many shows are there in a pay-per-view cycle?”
“Six. Five television dates and the big show itself.”
Tom sat splayed on his couch, a beer in hand, halfheartedly paying attention to the La Liga match unfolding on his television for the benefit of his extended houseguest.
“By the time the battle royale’s over, you’d have worked five of them. How many wrestlers are in this promotion that they got you pressed every week?”
“Doesn’t matter. I wanted all that smoke. Didn’t the Aztecs believe in ritual warfare anyway?”
The elder shook his head and sighed.
“The thing about the gods in any pantheon, muchacho, is that they love fucking with people.”
Tom shook his head and took a slug from the bottle.
“Besides,” his houseguest continued, “How many times do you want to get your heart ripped out? Shed your own blood?”
No answer.
“It’s like talking to a brick wall. Here’s something. Have you ever heard of the saying ‘it’s better to be a warrior in a garden than be a gardener in a war?’”
“Isn’t that more Eastern than Mexican? Are you reading Sun-Tzu now?”
“The world should be your arena,” Guapo replied with a snort, “but the saying predates Sun-Tzu. Do you know what it means?”
“Yeah. You should know how to fight, even if you aren’t going to get in one,” Tom shot back dismissively.
“Well, muchacho, that’s one meaning, and that meaning can be perverted to some self-destructive ends, especially when the warrior uses it to go looking for fights that wouldn’t exist without prodding. There’s more to it though, at least from my perspective.”
Tom turned his head and looked at his elder quizzically, the strains on his face a proxy for a spoken word question.
“I always saw implied meaning, that the warrior tended his garden, and that was good because he wasn’t out looking for battles. The warrior only fought when he had to.”
The words of his houseguest sobered him faster than the beer he was drinking continued the process of inebriation.
–
The Anglo Luchador’s first pay-per-view match was the direct result of prodding Hoyt on Jabber. The war that followed raged for six months, ending pyrrhically with him nearly losing his sacred mask. A friendlier match with Randall Knox arose from repartee on the app, but it was still a match he lost. With all the poking around he did with anyone he thought was acting unjust or downright rude, one would be surprised he hasn’t wrestled on every episode of ReVival.
He didn’t see it as stirring the pot. How could he? Injustice festers and grows if no one does anything about it. People like Tony Gamble and Ned Reform, Ivan Stanislav and Phil Atken, they needed to know that what they were doing or saying was wrong. Loud. Clear. It was the way of the tecnico to do right.
He just never stopped typing to notice barely any of the other tecnicos on the roster were as loud or pervasive on that app as he was. But in his own head? It didn’t matter.
The war never stopped.
–
“Mooooooommmmmm!”
Tam was roused from her review of her company’s in-progress Q1 numbers by the screams of her older son.
“Mom’s busy right now, Lorenzo. You know that.”
“Yeah, but it’s important. I need help with my algebra homework,” Zo explained walking into her first floor office, printouts with variable equations waving around in his left hand.
“Is your father not home? He didn’t tell me he was leaving to go to South Street…”
“No, Dad’s home. He’s just been brushing it off. Keeps saying he’d help but I asked him like five times already over the last three hours. He’s just on his phone.”
Tam rolled her eyes and furrowed her brow. She rose from her office chair and wandered into the living room to find Tom furiously tapping on his phone next to his houseguest, who was snoozing on the couch.
“Uh, hello? Tom?”
Startled, he looked up.
“Oh, babe, uh, you need anything?”
“Uh, yeah? Your son has been asking you for help on his homework since he got home from school?”
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.
“You know, Tom. You were never like this before you got back into wrestling. Never this burrowed into your phone. What’s so goddamn important in there that you have just been so rude and distant, especially lately?”
“You said it yourself. You have an account on Jabber. You…”
Tam interrupted her husband with a grunt so loud it shook Guapo from his sound sleep.
“And I told you, that’s all bullshit that you should just fucking let go. You know, brushing off Zo, scaring Vinny like you did at Disney. I don’t like this person you’re becoming.”
Tom had no answer, which only seemed to annoy his wife even more.
“Forget it. Just help your son with his homework, okay?”
She stormed back into her office.
–
“You wanna come in for coffee, bro?”
Usually, Tom found a reason to turn down his brother’s invites for coffee after their ritual morning jogs. Yes, he ran on Dunkin’, but it wasn’t the brand loyalty that kept him from going in. It was the Keurig machine, good enough for Mikey the landscaper, anathema to Tom the professional wrestler. This particular morning was different. They ran their most grueling route yet, broaching limits further south than they’d ever been. It was by Tom’s design; few wrestlers get two main events in the same PPV cycle. He wasn’t about to fumble another bag, but after that hellish run, he needed some rest before he got home.
“Yeah, I think I will today.”
The decor in Mikey’s apartment was sparse as one might expect for a mid-’30s bachelor. A television sat on a coffee table along with a router and a cable box in front of an unmatched living room – a loveseat and couch to be specific – and a single bookshelf strewn with various reading materials and a single framed picture of the entire Battaglia family, mom, dad, and the five brothers.
“I got this real good dark roast jawn, T. You want that?”
“Nah,” Tom replied with a sigh. “Dark roast always has less caffeine. I need something with a boost.”
“Lemme see if I still got that 100 percent Colombian.”
Tom turned around to plop on the chaise lounge when he noticed something about the framed picture. Mikey’s past as an addict always required naloxone to be handy in case of an overdose. He always kept it behind the picture, just out of sight so that only the most prying eyes could find it, but easy enough to grab for use in a dire emergency. The picture looked like it wasn’t hiding anything anymore. He walked over and nudged the frame ever so slightly to reveal the nothing that it was concealing.
“Hey Mike, c’mere for a second.”
Mike walked in the room patting his hair and neck dry of the perspiration that accumulated there during their run.
“What up, bro?”
“You hide the Narcan somewhere else?”
Mikey was taken aback by the question. He paused for a beat before answering.
“Nah. I ain’t got it here no more.”
Now it was big brother’s turn to act shocked.
“That’s for an emergency though. What if, God forbid…”
“I know what you’se thinkin’, bro, but I got a real good reason not to have it here.”
Tom nodded, willing to listen.
“If there was the Narcan there in the house, I’d always have in the back-a my mind that I could go back and, y’know, use again just once, and I’d have a safety net, right? When was the last time I relapsed?”
“A couple of years ago?”
“April 21, 2017 to be exact, bro. I used, and the next mornin’, I woke up on Kensington Avenue, my sweats soaked wit’ piss, blood dried on my mouth. I felt like shit. An’ I didn’t wanna ever feel like that again, or risk puttin’ you through what I put you through the last time I OD’ed.”
The look on Tom’s face softened.
“So three days later,” Mikey continued, “I took that Narcan and I threw it the fuck out. I figure, if the safety net ain’t there, I ain’t gonna feel like I could do that no more. You get what I’m sayin’?”
“But do you ever get the urge?”
“Yeah. It never leaves you, bro. That’s why I’m in NA even now. I don’t go to no bars. I meditate. I ain’t been on a date in years. I keep myself busy with work, runnin’, seein’ yer kids. And when it gets real bad, I remember, if I go down that path, there ain’t no comin’ back cuz I ain’t got a way back.”
Tom’s eyes bugged wide open as he sighed at his brother’s revelation.
“And I thought I was hardcore as the Intense Champion for six months.”
“Bro, you’se gots to be hardcore if you wanna break a habit for real for real.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Mikey’s head swung on a swivel as he heard the percolating noises of the Keurig stop.
“Aight, your coffee’s done. Lemme go make mine, and we can continue this conversation at the table.”
“Nah, Mike, I think we should talk about something else. No need to keep digging up your past. You’ve done a real hell of a job fighting your war.”
“Thanks, bro.”
Mikey went into the kitchen as Tom took his seat on the unfinished wooden chair at the cluttered kitchen table.
–
Another evening at the Battaglia household meant another night of Tom hunched over his phone, squinting at the Jabber app. His posting was less and less frequent, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t typing words and deleting them, trying to find different ways to plunge his verbal spears into the cybernetic sides of his targets. He thought he’d be safe this night keeping his watchman’s post. Both sons completed their homework on the bus home. Dinner was easy; everyone wanted takeout cheesesteaks. The thought that he might be free to find something, anything to post on the PRIME social media app left him oblivious to the surrounding world, mainly because he thought he was safe from judgment.
He didn’t notice the five-foot-four blond-haired sentinel glowering at him with two Eyes of Sauron.
“You know, Tom, you can obsessively scroll and post on the Internet at your parents’ house.”
“Yeah,” he said mindlessly, without looking up, “but then I’d have to deal with the old man, and I am not in the mood for that.”
“Well, I don’t wanna fucking deal with you right now.”
The venom in her voice finally jolted him to look up.
“What’s this all about?”
“Tell me something; are you this involved with your fucking phone when you go to South Street? Or when you’re at the gym with Timo?”
“Uh, no?”
“Then why are you like this here, with us, with your family?”
The abject chill that ran down his spine froze him dead.
“If you’re going to be this stuck up your own ass, I don’t want you here.”
“You’re,” he gulped, pausing for a beat. “You’re kicking me out?”
“If you don’t put that fucking phone down, I will.”
His phone dropped from his hands onto the floor as tears started welling in his eyes. He sighed, collapsing into his couch, a shapeless puddle of a man being brought forth to a justice he thought he was serving by his Jabs. He had no answer for his wife, but Tam saw his body language. She broke.
“Look, Tom. I don’t want to throw away what we’ve built. Over 20 years together. I’ve been happy for most of them. But you’re turning down this path and…”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Well, sorry isn’t going to be enough if that’s all you’ve got.”
She turned, slumping her own shoulders, and trudged upstairs to take a shower. Almost serendipitously, she passed Guapo, who’d been in Tom’s upstairs office.
“Hermano, is this a bad time?”
“Could be worse, Guap,” he replied without moving a muscle from his position. “What’s up?”
“Well, I’ve been watching some of your old promos. From the other feds you were in. One thing really struck me.”
“Was it the casual homophobia? Because believe me, I regret that too.”
“No, but uh, yeah, that wasn’t a good look. It was how off-track you would get. How many times you threw barbs at wrestlers who weren’t even in your orbit.”
Tom didn’t answer. Instead, the stark realization hit him like a spear plunging into his own brain.
“You’ve always been like this, haven’t you? You know, you came to me seeking peace. It’s going to take a lot more work than I thought.”
Tom’s posture sunk even lower than it had when his wife was baring her soul at him.
–
Another morning, another grueling jog with Mikey in the books. Tom decided against coffee again; Keurig two days in one week would’ve shot past his bodily tolerance for microplastics in a boatrace. He took a quick shower and put on some jeans before catching his reflection in his bedroom mirror. He saw himself, but it wasn’t the 41-year old man, gray streaks in his fading black hair, but the younger version, the other principal in the war raging in his brain.
“I know why you tried to fight everyone, you little nerd.”
He looked at his reflection expecting an answer. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d received one, but this time, only the image was different.
“It’s the same reason FLAMBERGE wants to punch everyone that pisses him off, why he’s so eager to follow a glue-hawking hypocrite. It’s why I’m so drawn to fighting him. Humbling him…”
He stared at his reflection hot enough to burn ants.
“…making sure someone as talented as him doesn’t make the same fucking mistakes I did.”
He thought he saw his mirror image smirk.
“You were, well, I was so insecure about wanting people to appreciate my talent. I needed the validation. If I didn’t win, maybe people would respect me if I fought anyone and everyone.”
He turned away from the mirror for a second, throwing his head back and sighing deeply. As he turned around, his younger self no longer reflected back at him. He saw Tom Battaglia as he lived and breathed in 2023.
“But why am I still so insecure today? Haven’t I grown? Matured?”
He sat on the corner of his bed, leaning over, staring intently into his own eyes looking back at him from the polished glass.
“I want to sue for peace. I am ready. Give it to me.”
The eyes in the mirror became red as the skin of the Devil himself. The reflected lips moved on their own volition.
“The answer is the same as it was a month ago. The. Fuck. You. Are.”
The reflection turned black and white except for the still-red eyes. It spoke to him again, this time, tauntingly in another tongue.
“Ton derrière est à moi jusqu’à ce que tu ouvres les yeux.”
Tom closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He thought about what he’d been through the last few days, and the revisitation scared him but only for a moment. Finally, the clarity sliced across his consciousness like the heavy sword after which his opponent at ReV 25 took his name.
“Bene, allora è ora di svegliarsi,” he replied.
He opened his eyes, and the reflection was normal once more.
–
Mikey grabbed a can of flavored seltzer from his fridge and sat down in front of the TV on his chaise lounge. Nothing was on that he needed to watch. Moments of idle boredom were few and far between in his life now, and they were the times when he most felt his former life as a junkie clawing and pulling at him. In those moments in the past, the urge to get a fix hit him strongest, even as over time, their intensity lowered.
As he popped the can open, he felt the thought creep back into his head, but then he turned around to the family portrait where he used to keep his Narcan. He remembered the conversation he had with his brother a few days prior. Like clockwork, the thought vanquished. No safety net. Do it right or don’t do it at all. He put the can to his mouth and almost immediately spit the sip out.
“GRAPEFRUIT? FUCK! I ain’t never lettin’ Lou go shoppin’ for me again.”
–
Tom emerged downstairs to a houseguest ready to eat lunch.
“What wonders are we having for lunch today, muchacho? Those sandwiches you bought back when I first came up, the ones I bought for the camera crew? They looked mighty good.”
“Nah,” Tom replied, “I’m going to cook. Something Italian. Give you a real taste of what I can do in the kitchen.”
“Hermano, if it’s anything like what you do in the ring? I am intrigued.”
Tom laughed before walking towards his kitchen. He stopped dead in his tracks, remembering the thing he decided on doing after talking to himself in the mirror upstairs. He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and stared at the home screen for a few seconds.
His gaze fixed right on the Jabber icon.
Did he really want to give up that source of interaction? The clearinghouse where he could keep up with friends and keep a watchful eye on the happenings of his enemies? The words of a wise man he spoke to a few days prior repeated in his head.
“You’se gots to be hardcore if you wanna break the habit for real for real.”
He long-pressed on the icon then dragged it to the trash. The temptation was no longer on his phone.
“Hey, muchacho, what are you waiting for? I’m hungry!”
Tom roused from his task and shot Guapo the iciest glare. He walked into the kitchen and went right to the potted herbs he kept on the windowsill, the ones that he used during winter months when the ground outside was frozen and inhospitable to floral growth. He grabbed his kitchen shears and snipped a few leaves of basil off the mini-pot in the center of the sill. The war in his head may not have ended, but at least there was time for a ceasefire.