Ursa Somnum

“Shoulda been. Never was. Stuck on the past. Because all your bitch ass has is PCW and OSW.”

“You STILL shit the fucking bed like the goddamn embarrassment that you are.”

“A pee wee champion thirty years ago and talking shit like you still got it to be world champ.”

“I know some friends who can show you a mass grave and you can see your dead comrades. Snowflake.”

“I hope your continued losses have your mother put in a goddamn gulag, you disgusting subhuman piece of shit.”

“You’re last week’s Big Bad Wolf.”

-Brandon Youngblood via Jabber
PRIME Universal Champion

—

Tuesday, September 19, 2023
12:08 AM MST

Ivan Stanislav jolted awake at the sound of heavy rain and thunder crashing outside his Moscow apartment. His thick chest heaved as he peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt and ran a hand over his bare arm, feeling the chill in the air. The blankets flew from his body as he swung his massive legs off the side of his oversized bed, adjusting his shorts before padding barefoot over to the window. He pulled aside the blinds to reveal a view of Moscow’s lights distorted by sheeting water that cascaded down the glass. With a sigh, Ivan settled into his desk chair and pressed a single button on his land-line telephone.

“Ivan?” Alexei sounded like he had just woken up.

“Alexei. Why do they cheer him?”

“Who?”

“Youngblood.”

“Ivan, are you all right?”

Stanislav frowned and gripped the receiver tighter. “Yes, I’m fine. I just could not sleep. Goodnight.”

“Ivan? Wai-”

He hung up immediately and fretted. Sleep, leading up to UltraViolence, would be in short supply for The Russian Bear.

—

I tried, Brandon. Back at PWA-01, I tried to offer an olive branch and align with you. To represent PRIME as two stalwart defenders. You laughed at me.

Truthfully, Youngblood, you intimidated me. A young man, full of strength and intensity, and I, an old veteran beyond his best years. A cessation of hostilities would have served me.

I didn’t want our problems to be personal.

It was you who crossed uncrossable lines and attacked my dead comrades and family. Why? Was it confidence? Stupidity?

Alexei wanted to drag your family into this and I was unsure. But you dishonored my friends and loved ones. A man of desperation deserves no leniency. No consideration. But still must be taken seriously.

But why do they celebrate, no, worship you, when your character, put on full display, is so poisonous?

Many of the same qualities that have earned me their scorn bring you their adoration.

My fear of you turned into anger, rage, and jealousy. It wasn’t your titles or bravado. Your standing rankles me and yet it was not even that.

It was your lifetime of recognition, awarded to you by the organization that you treat with such disrespect.

—

Wednesday, September 20, 2023
3:14 AM MST

“Dammit!” Stanislav bellowed with frustration as sleep once again eluded him the next night. He launched himself out of bed, the blankets billowing about him, and stomped across the room to his desk. Brandon Youngblood lived rent-free in his mind.

Ivan had given his staff some time away and had taken most of his office supplies to his apartment. He shifted his case of medals and placed Kliment’s dog tag beside a “Get Well” card from Kohime Mori. Ivan found a stack of stapled papers beneath the mess. It was a copy of his PRIME contract.

The anniversary of Ivan’s return to PRIME was only a few days away and rumors about a contract extension were beginning to circulate. Most of the time, Ivan had no concerns fighting for what he wanted. Yet something about this inevitable contract negotiation terrified him.

Something a lesser man like Brandon Youngblood achieved with ease.

—

In 2003, Ivan loomed large in professional wrestling, and that confidence made him lean back in his chair with a proud look on his face. He sat across from OSW owner Jane Reagan and observed her as she settled down into her chair and opened a binder. She wore an expensive cream blouse and olive skirt, both of which were more valuable than his entire wardrobe. Her jade eyes flared from across the table as she tossed her fiery hair over her shoulder. She was all business.

“So, we know why we’re here, Ivan,” she said calmly. “Thoughts on your contract?”

He adjusted his crimson suspenders and squared his shoulders. His beard had grown more unkempt and appeared greyer than it had only a few months ago. He wished that Alexei was present, but Ruslan could never share the same space with Jane Reagan.

“Considering all I have done for OSW, Jane,” he boomed, “I wish to explore potential for lifetime contract.”

There was an awkward silence in the room. In the early 2000s, it was unheard of for a wrestler of such “advanced” age to request such a thing. But Stanislav radiated confidence. He was taken aback when she replied.

“Lifetime contract? Ivan, you’re forty-two years old.” She waved away his response while her eyes remained cold and emotionless. “Professional wrestling is a young man’s game. You can’t wrestle forever and who wants to deal with your superiors for the rest of their lives? They’re a pain in the ass.” She leaned forward and smirked, her eyes twinkling with malicious glee. “And so are you.”

“J-Jane, I am loved here…”

Her laughter poured through the air like acid rain and struck him in the chest. “Do you really think the fans love you, Ivan? Really?” She shook her head and verbally battered him. “They loved Tempest, Ivan. Not you. They loved the freak show that was your pairing.” She mocked a pout. “But she left you, didn’t she? And so they’ll grow tired of you and go back to hating you. Just give it time.”

Ivan stared in shock as surprised amusement registered on her face and a cackle burst from her painted lips. She rested back in her chair and entwined her fingers. “You really do think they love you,” she oozed condescension. “Ivan, they will never love you. No matter how noble the cause. Do you know why? Because you’re Russian, foreign, different, and old, and nobody wants that. When the work truck rusts out, Ivan, junk it. That includes contracts. Not only do I have no stomach for dealing with you for the rest of my life, but I also certainly have no interest in renewing this one.”

With one last punch, she drove her point home. “But Praporshchik, if you want, maybe PRIME will take you? They’ll take just about anyone these days!”

As the sure thing crashed around Stanislav, he blinked. “That… is it?”

Reagan smiled sickeningly and closed his career in the binder. “That’s it.”

Humiliated and cowed, Stanislav rose and promptly left the room. As the door shut behind him for the last time, Jane stood and stretched her arms high above her head. She beamed with satisfaction.

—

I eventually joined PRIME and failed. Jane Reagan had crushed my heart.

That was why I secluded myself at home for twenty years, Brandon. I was too ashamed to tell anyone, even Alexei. Me, a discarded relic.

A hero of noble cause rebuked.

Yet you, a crass loner, older than I was at that time, succeeded.

Why do they not love me?

—

Thursday, September 21, 2023
2:51 AM MST

Ivan’s eyes flew open as an invisible weight crushed down upon him. His barrel chest heaved and he felt icy fingers seize his lungs, slowly squeezing the life out of them. He coughed and wheezed as he fought to breathe. His massive hand flailed in the darkness, knocking over a lamp beside his bed. It hit the floor and turned on, revealing a light that illuminated the sodden shirt that clung to his panting body. He stumbled out of bed onto the cold floor, doubled over and drooling from the exertion of trying to breathe. Even with all his strength, the weight on his chest had been too much for him; he was unable to stand.

“Don’t worry, Vanya, it’s not a heart attack,” said the voice. It was familiar.

Ivan turned his bulging eyes to look for the source of the voice, landing on an intruder who was at the foot of his bed. The figure had blonde hair, a cherubic face, and a terrible scar that ran from brow to neck. He was no older than his early twenties and was clad in a creased and faded aviator’s jumpsuit of military make. Ivan’s dead brother merely stared at him, smiling sweetly. Stanislav exhaled slowly and felt the tightness in his chest dissipate while staring at Kliment.

Klim Stanislav knelt beside his big brother and gently clasped his thick shoulder. “It’s been awhile, Ivan.” His azure eyes sparked with warmth.

Ivan blinked back tears, unable to process the image before him. “Klim?” His voice quavered as he spoke his younger brother’s name.

Kliment continued to smile fondly. “Yes, brother,” he said softly.

“How…?”

Klim tutted. “I still live up here.” And with that, he lightly tapped the top of Ivan’s head.

Ivan made a vain attempt to assert control over this situation, and he rose from his knees and wobbled unsteadily away from Kliment. “Get out of here,” he pleaded, but Kliment simply shook his head in reply.

Stanislav’s face contorted with anger as he pointed an accusing finger at the figure before him. “You are nothing but a byproduct of post-traumatic stress! You are dead, Kliment!” Yet the words brought new tears to Ivan’s eyes, and wet streaks glistened on his deeply-lined face. His brother looked so young, despite the mortal wound that caused the scar, and Ivan couldn’t help but feel his heart breaking for what could never be.

Kliment grinned, as if reading Ivan’s thoughts. “And you look old, Vanya, and tired.”

He wanted to say something back, but the words lodged in his throat. Finally, resigned to the presence of his brother, Ivan managed a whisper, “I wish mother could see you, Kliment.”

“Vanya, I’m not real.”

The painful, honest admission nearly crushed The Russian Bear. He bowed his head and whispered, “I know.”

Kliment spoke gently, “Brother, what causes these sleepless nights?”

Ivan stubbornly bore holes into the ghost. “Kliment, you already know what is on my mind.”

The younger Stanislav’s expression shifted from playful to serious. “Brandon Youngblood.”

As Ivan settled down on the edge of his bed, Kliment roamed the small apartment, studying pictures of Ivan’s past achievements that he never was able to witness. Multiple championships, vanquished enemies, and world-topping heights were immortalized in glossy frames.

“I know his nature bothers you,” Kliment said as he turned to face Ivan.

Stanislav’s voice was exhausted. “I know you do, Klim.”

“He dishonored your friends. He dishonored me. But what does he know?” Kliment shrugged as he studied a picture of Alexei. He tapped on it. “He lied to you.”

Ivan shook his head and ran a hand through his sweat-slicked beard. Klim continued. “You need to look past us, Ivan, and the pain. Youngblood doesn’t know what he talks about. Don’t let his ignorance hurt you.”

Ivan felt sadness sting the corners of his eyes before forcing it down with a deep breath. “Easy for you to say.” His body, and maybe his sanity, were sapped.

Kliment slowly approached his depleted older brother. “They cheer just as loudly for you abroad. It just sounds different.”

Ivan stared at his brother for a long moment before dragging himself towards the desk near the window. “You are a child, Kliment, you don’t understand.” The moonlight illuminated its polished surface, and upon the desk sat the wooden case in which nestled Kliment’s dog tag.

Kliment sidled up beside him, his blonde hair highlighted by the bright Moscow lights.

“I have been dead a long time, Ivan. Technically, I am sixty.” He wanted his brother to smile, but Ivan couldn’t, so he continued. “It’s a cycle, Ivan,” Kliment said softly. “They show respect in their own way. Do you understand?”

Ivan shook his head in confusion.

Kliment’s eyes fluttered and a trickle of blood started oozing from his scar, near his hairline. He didn’t wince or otherwise react, but he nodded with resignation. “You need to figure it out on your own. And I am sorry.” He pointed to the blood. “I won’t be here much longer, big brother.”

Ivan’s expression changed to distress as he understood the gravity of Kliment’s apology. The importance of Klim’s lesson was nothing compared to simply sharing this moment together. “Klim… no…”

Tears pooled in the older Stanislav’s eyes, reflecting the dim light in the room. He tried to choke back a sob but couldn’t stop it as he clumsily clutched Kliment’s arm. “Just a little longer.” His vision blurred through leaking eyes, “Don’t leave me…”

Kliment shook his head with a sorrowful smile and reluctantly pulled from Ivan’s desperate grasp. He held his gaze for an agonizing moment. “Think about what I said. I love you, Vanya. Always.” Then, he slowly backed away from the living Stanislav.

Ivan’s heartache held him motionless. “I love you too, Klim,” he uttered before flinging himself to embrace his brother for one last time.

The sunlight warmed his face as Ivan woke up in his chair. Tears soaked his cheeks and soiled his beard, but he stared dumbly into his hand where something glittering caught his attention.

A simple dog tag.

—

I thought long and hard about your words, Kliment. I figured it out.

I slept peacefully.

UltraViolence will be one year ago to the day when Hayes Hanlon pinned me. No amount of misdirection can erase my failure and shame.

The fans and roster laughed at me as I collapsed to the floor at Culture Shock. My Universal Title attempt was in vain. Another hapless stumble from an old, grizzled veteran. A man who could make it to the top of the mountain, but could no longer succeed.

My physicians tell me that I have an unreasonable desire for adoration and significance. Not just since the war, but because every important venture in my life has turned to dust: The Soviet Union. PCW. OSW. My life has been wasted, Brandon. I am a bear, trapped in a brittle cage of my own making.

I believed a lifetime contract could save me at a time when I was loved and cheered. When everyone, as one, appeared to value me. Yet Reagan revealed that behind those emphatic cheers were hints of eventual betrayal.

She was right.

Jane Reagan was not insulting me. She was preparing me for this single, pivotal moment. My brother, or rather, my subconscious told me all I needed to know. I should have faded away.

They never let me go.

—

Saturday, September 23, 2023
UltraViolence

Tens of thousands of fans thundered through Soldier Field. Ivan and Alexei, united in their mission, stood in stark contrast to the Americans who bellowed for Brandon Youngblood. The fans were bathed in crimson light as the Soviet National Anthem challenged their vitriol.

Ivan grimaced at the chorus of jeers from the crowd. Some shouted racist epithets and others hurled slurs about his character. He thought about Kliment and what he had said, and the truth that Jane Reagan had told him. Still, he remained focused on his goal: demolishing Brandon Youngblood and claiming the Universal Title. Ruslan moved in lock-step beside him, fidgeting in his brown overcoat.

Ivan approached the steel cage that stood between him and victory. He ran his hand along the cold metal, feeling within it the strength and resilience of his homeland. Solid steel forged by resolute Russians, just like himself.

Despite the swirling chaos, Ivan and Alexei focused solely on each other. “This is it, Ivan! No more trickery from these fools!” Alexei projected manic excitement. “Tonight, we crush them once and for all. We destroy their hero! We take the Universal Title! I have my baton, bolt cutters, zip ties, sedative…”

But Ivan’s expression was stern. He grabbed Ruslan’s arm and tightened his grip. “Alexei, I must do this alone.”

Ruslan’s jaw dropped as he processed the words. “What?”

Ivan nodded grimly. “It is something I have to do. I need to know I can beat him.”

Alexei shook his head. “We know you can do it, Ivan! No, we fight him together!”

“No, we don’t. I have to know, after all these years, that I can do it, Alexei. Please.” Ivan said pleadingly.

Alexei’s frustration faded as he looked deeply into his friend’s eyes and he reluctantly conceded with an understanding nod. He reached up and grasped Ivan’s burly shoulders before placing a single kiss on his cheek. Tears suddenly welled in his eyes as he stepped back and gave a single, proud nod of assent before speaking, “Here we are, a year later on the precipice of absolute victory!” He suddenly smiled happily. “You shattered Youngblood two weeks ago. Shatter him again, Vanya! Make history, Ivan Stanislav. Let your name live on in PRIME forever!”

With one last salute between them, Stanislav entered the cage while Ruslan made his way up the ramp and out of sight.

The crowd continued to chant insults and curses as The Russian Bear stood alone, awaiting The Diamond. Taking a deep breath, he reached into his pocket and produced a glittering chain adorned with a small piece of steel. He clutched his brother’s dog tag, and tucked it back into his pocket with a squeeze.

—

You, Brandon, have helped me to unlock a wonderful truth. The angry fans never forgot me, even when I hibernated for nearly two decades. Their fear never waned. I am omnipresent in their psyche. I own a small portion of their hearts, which bleeds with terror. I live in their nightmares. Old men whisper to their children about the terrible Bear from Russia! The ursine horror who threatens their comfortable, insignificant lives. Without me, those people are nothing.

And so, too, are you, Brandon Youngblood. Without me, you are a rudderless, listless wretch who pounds his chest and screams into a void of nothingness. You are nothing more than a shadow bound to my side. A helpless puppet! Without me, you have no purpose. Your existence is intertwined in the monster that I am. My presence darkens your life and leaves you an empty husk, craving my attention!

The masses grow bored of your loud, brash voice and tiresome strutting. It is you who has become old and redundant. Just a stagnant retread of every hero in PRIME, who desperately scrambles for their attention. Your haughtiness is only overshadowed by your deep-rooted need for self-aggrandizement, so blatantly put on display for the simplest of people. Rest easy, Brandon, for I am pleased to inform you that this Red Nightmare will never leave.

You cannot shout me down, for I am unstoppable!

No force shall knock me out, for I am unbeatable!

I will never tire until my legacy is solidified in the annals of PRIME history, for I am indefatigable!

I grant the fans what they have simultaneously wanted and feared! What they have always yearned for! I bask in their enmity and permanent, terrified memory of Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav. All shall watch with bated breath as I gleefully destroy Brandon Youngblood, just as they knew I would!

While standing in my shadow, you have disgraced yourself, Youngblood. You have exposed to us the depths to which you are willing to plunge for the sake of your fragile pride. I will strangle you with the leash of your own excessive wailing. Tonight, I expose your true nature to the world with victorious finality: That you are a flailing, haranguing fool not worthy enough to lace my boots.

Worry not. I seize the burden from your overtaxed shoulders and happily carry this crowd of animals to the new horizon. You know the truth. They only cheer you, Brandon Youngblood, because they fear me! And for all the cheers you receive, Brandon, they shall scream for me all the louder. Their anger in America translates into awe in my Motherland! I immerse myself in their caustic embrace.

They have always loved me, in their own fearful way, and they will forever!

My legacy shall dominate the ReVival Era! The Tower of Babel shall fall! The Diamond shall crack! The Red Scare will vanquish you, “Suplex Daddy.”

I am Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav, and you, like all others, are just another casualty in my great patriotic war!

You were wrong, Brandon. I am not last week’s Big Bad Wolf.

I am forever The Russian Bear!

Step into my den, Brandon Youngblood, and break beneath my boot!

—

With a defiant roar, Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav awaited his destiny.

Finally, he was at peace.