Une méditation sur ce que signifie être un jeune homme à l’ère de la colle interrompue

♫ EVERYTHING IS AWESOOOOME! ♫
♫ EVERYTHING IS COOL WHEN YOU’RE PART OF A TEAM ♫
♫ EVERYTHING IS AWESOOOOME! ♫
♫ WHEN YOU’RE LIVING OUT A DREAM ♫

click

“And the score at halftime is LA Chargers 17, Las Vegas Raiders, just 3. Back in a-”

click

♫ Retuuuurn of the snacks ♫
♫ Retuuuurn of the snacks ♫
♫ Retuuuur- ♫

click. static. beeeeoooorm.

Why do these “fancy” hotels always have the same old setup for TV? No Netflix, no HBO Max, just analog channel surfing? To this 22-year-old, the lack of stimulation-by-choice made him feel dull and trapped.

“It’s really not that serious” would be the rational and measured response to straining under the weighty yoke of using a clicker to channel surf in a hotel room in Vegas – in this moment it’s more like the fourth or fifth to last straw for FLAMBERGE. The camel’s back isn’t breaking, not yet – but that eventuality isn’t THAT far away.

He pulls out his phone. “Hey Siri.”

boop

“Text Hank: how is the penny count going?”

boop boop Texting Hank, how is the penny count going.

Hank’s such a sweetheart. FLAMBO and the Glue Factory as a whole are in ever-changing and ever-escalating stages of grief following the heinous and untoward assault on Phil Atken. A Universal Championship freshly won, a partnership newly forged, and before the REAL work could begin…

The Kid didn’t like finishing that sentence in his mind. Hank, for his part, found solace in being a helpful good boy. Nate Colton, that pas bon fils de pute suffisant à deux visages, decided the best way to repay his debts for starting the fight that damaged his car would be to damage it AGAIN in the form of 1300 pounds of pennies (and, hopefully ONLY one, nickel). The car’s liner smells like a doorknob, now, and he had to call a specialty tow to even get the thing out of the MGM Grand parking lot. FLAMBO only glances at social media, at Jabber, at any of it these days – there’s only so many “Awesome Prank, Nate!”s one can stomach without a bottle of Tums nearby.

His phone lights up – it’s a text from Hank.

“80085”

FLAMBERGE stares at it a moment, and would probably sensibly chuckle if he was in a better mood – either Hank is less than halfway through the count or he’s just got titties on the brain. At least he’s trying to help, which is all anyone can ask of Hank.

Cecilworth, for his part, is doing his best “Emma Thompson in Love, Actually after finding out the jewelry wasn’t for her” impression…if he’s hurt and upset (and he’s ABSOLUTELY hurt and upset) he’s keeping it to himself, but otherwise making sure Christmas isn’t ruined for the rest of the family. FLAMBERGE had seen this before, and not just in the movies – it reminded him of his own mother ten-ish years ago, keeping the house in order and getting Pre-teen Flambo to school and practices and games while definitely DEFINITELY trying to keep her phone conversations with the divorce lawyer out of earshot.

Trying to. Mostly succeeding. The one time Pre-teen Flambo heard something and later asked his father “que veut dire Allie Moanie”, the dam burst for Henri for good. THAT was a straw breaking a camel’s back. Any last threads binding and holding the rage inside snapped, and from that day until present day, well…you’ve seen Henri, haven’t you?

His phone lights up again. Another text from Hank.

“8008135 lol lol”

Knowing he didn’t have eighty thousand dollars worth of pennies straining his car’s suspension, The Kid rubs his temples. He’s going to have to count these coins himself, isn’t he?

His thoughts returned to Phil Atken. As high as FLAMBERGE felt a month ago, a sinking feeling sets in.

He’s going to have to do a LOT of things himself, isn’t he?

—–

FLAMBERGE remembers this room. Last time he was here, he was with Mr. Darby – that maniac was promising some sort of huge, groundbreaking Spartacus speech or some shit. We had an interviewer lined up and everything. Maybe it was out of pettiness, maybe it was because he thought he knew better (because he DOES know better), but FLAMBERGE had cut Darby off before he even started, the staff was satisfied with his short statement, and production wrapped for lunch.

This time, he’s by himself. No interviewer – just him, a tall-legged chair, and a PRIME-branded backdrop. Good thing he wore a suit today, because a short statement wasn’t going to cut it this time – the expectations are big here. As big as they could probably get in PRIME without a championship on the line. L’Homme de Colle Français is in a bitter matchup with A Sonofabitch at ULTRAVIOLENCE, and as much as he resented Lindsay Troy and Rezin and the PRIME Marketing Machine for making his last match non-title, he knew that so many eyes would be on this promo when it comes out.

It’s time, kid. Whenever you’re ready.

FLAMBERGE: “There are all these neat and tidy little boxes people around here like to use for each other. Brandon Youngblood? He’s some sort of Suplex Daddy-God that we should all bow down to, heavens forbid anyone crosses this paragon and use the art of pro wrestling to take his precious throne. Phil Atken, some old puppet master who only has the dark intentions…he’s A Threat, but he’s Wrong, but he’s Just Like Every Other Old Timer In Wrestling History, but we should also orchestrate an assault on the man before his influence grows too great…boxes do not work for Le Pro.”

“Especially because everyone here seems to have their neat and tidy box por le FLAMBERGE. And the boxes are Universally incorrect.”

FLAMBERGE shifts his weight in his chair and leans forward.

FLAMBERGE: “The truth is that from the first day Phil Atken and the Glue Factory made their presence known in PRIME, every roster member in their 20s was faced with a Prisoner’s Dilemma – join Phil Atken and fulfill his oath to bring the future to the forefront, or resist him and prove the man talks through the hole in his ass. The Prisoner’s Dilemma works best for all parties if they all choose the same shared correct choice, but if one chooses differently, one of the parties gets wrecked in the process. The mistake my peers made was misunderstanding the correct choice, les imbeciles, les incompetents. They believed the shared front against Glue would be their salvation – when a unified front ALONGSIDE Glue would have benefitted us all!”

“You think it’s a coincidence the 22-year-old, on-fire FLAMBERGE was put in a non-title match against the established veteran? That when the world title was forced to be vacated, the bastard established names who thieved away Phil Atken’s spot in front of God and Man now hold the main event of ULTRAVIOLENCE? By the way, you can bet your life’s savings that when the petulant snowflake Impulse returns with his insufferable saccharine compatriot Cally, this old guard wrestler gets a quick main event and a hefty check. Mark this moment down and remember it when it inevitably happens. Les putains.”

The Kid spits a heckin’ fat loogie to the floor.

FLAMBERGE: “So all my fellow young upstarts decide, let us stick our nose to the fake grindstone we think we must grind upon, let us feel the self-satisfaction of the Job Well Done as we fail and we struggle in the muck and earn the paychecks that are fractions of our real value…and I’M PRIME’s Most Hated Kid for seeing through this rigged shell game, this veneer, and understanding that this wrestling business does not reward ANYTHING?? Not effort, not talent, not even wins and losses if we are the honest? Listen to me veeeeeeery closely, my peers. Wrestling is a toxic hoard from which we must take, lest it takes us. Phil Atken understood this more than anyone, and because you all chose the wrong side of history, it is up to me now to educate.”

“Which brings me to the worst example of this child mindset in our ranks…Nate Colton.”

FLAMBO closes his eyes and tilts his head – we hear an audible crack, which seems to give him some relief.

FLAMBERGE: “Whether you choose to admit it or not, from the first moment you laid your dim little eyes upon me, you thought you had me pegged. I fit into a neat box for you, just like I fit into a neat box for so many people here. I am Skillful But Beatable Because I Take Shortcuts And You Listen To Your Daddy Who Certainly Knows Best And Knows Everything About Life. Fuck your father, for the record – he speaks about me as if he knows me, and he and I haven’t shared one word, and if we did, je le jetterais dans la lune si vite qu’il suffoquerait dans l’heure.”

“You are the face of the next generation of PRIME to so many around here, and I absolutely despise you for it. It may not even be for the reason you think. The reason I despise you so powerfully is because of this mindset you seem so focused upon. ‘The Next Generation of PRIME’? C’est une gifle au visage and you don’t even realize it. WE CAN TAKE OVER THIS COMPANY RIGHT THE HELL NOW, COLTON! YOU, ME, SCOTT, HANLON, ELLIS, LOCKHART, WINDS OF CHANGE…This could all be OURS, you self-satisfied, do-what’s-always-been-done-without-asking-why, bag-carrying, phantom-dues-paying, inferior-respecting, sit-on-your-ASS-while-the-REAL-opportunities-pass-you-by LUMP. The Glue Factory was BUILT for us, and I feel like I am taking the pills of the crazy for being the one wrestler in PRIME who understands this!”

France’s Only Dog In The Fight steps up from his chair and he kicks it behind him, sending it scattering into the PRIME-logo backdrop.

FLAMBERGE: “Phil Atken is a threat. FLAMBERGE…est DANGEREUX. And I will lead you into PRIME’s true future. Willingly, or not, kicking and screaming if I must.”

—–

It had been a solid 16 hours since he sat in front of that camera. We’re back in the hotel and the suit is off, the pajamas are on…but his leg is bouncing as if it had its own separate motor. Why wasn’t his heartbeat slowing down? Why can’t he fall asleep?

He knows wine wouldn’t help – if anything, it would help spike the anxiety even harder. It WOULD help him look back into that void once again. The void is a nice place to be sometimes – nothing to fight back, nothing to challenge you. You can just BE when you’re there. Alone, sure…but that’s familiar in its own way. OK – he’s convinced. One glass. Maybe a big glass. Hotel wine is dece.

One sip – ohhhhh dear. Stomach didn’t like that. Big ol’ lurch. Make it to the bathroom just in case – HAUL ASS, BUD – HRUUUUUUUUCK! …nothing came out. Whoo. K. Evaluate your systems. Did you just proclaim yourself the leader of the young generation of PRIME? Yup-HRUUUUUUUUCK! Dry again. Deep breaths, kid. Splash some cold water on your face.

Feels good. Feels soothing.

Look up, into the mirror. Look into your own eyes for a second.

…

I hate Nate Colton.

I hate Jake Colton.

I hate Daniel Darby.

I hate dad.

I hate Nate Colton.

I hate that my new mentor may be gone forever.

I hate being the 33rd wrestler signed after a 32-wrestler tournament began.

I hate Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

I hate Nate Colton.

I hate Nate Colton.

I hate not being able to watch my favorite French programs in Vegas.

I hate how few wrestlers of color compete in PRIME.

I hate Nate Colton.

I hate Nate Colton.

I hate Nate Colton.

I hate Nate….

…….

FLAMBERGE slams his fist dramatically into the bathroom sink – the sink, rather than cracking, instead sends a shooting bolt of pain through his hand and up his forearm. His eyes can’t help but well up.

For years and years, he never understood or rationalized why Henri Lavigne, this once-premier athlete and once-loving father in a once-happy family would succumb to hate so fully. Looking in the mirror one final time, he imagined how Nate Colton might handle this moment. Maybe he would reflect upon valuable life lessons Jake had taught him, learn from them, and grow as a man.

In this moment, FLAMBERGE just can’t. There’s nothing helpful to learn right now. His father isn’t here. His mother isn’t here. Phil Atken isn’t here. It’s just him, alone, in a foreign land in a foreign locker room that absolutely despises him for following what he knows is right.

There’s only pure, concentrated hate looking back at him in the mirror.

Sons often fear becoming their fathers.

FLAMBERGE, in this moment, knows a different fear.

Believing in the virtue of their monstrosity.