You’ll Get Used To It

You know what I’ll see when I look across the ring at Tropical Turmoil?

 

Two frauds that couldn’t beat me.

One Dragonslayer that came close.

And a so-called Diamond and a Kirkland brand Wade Elliott that have never had the pleasure.

 

It’s been a quiet spell for the Event Horizon since ReVival 27, hasn’t it?

 

Don’t worry, it’s gonna get loud again real quick. Wanna know why? Because I think I’ve learned to drown out the noise. Especially from the noisiest corners of the Motherland and Mount COOLympus. Because that’s all it is.

 

Noise.

 

I’ll be the first to admit that I wasn’t quite ready for this level. It was all a little too quick for the Comeback Kid. But every time I win, every time I kill the Bear, or scramble the eGG, my chest gets a little bigger. The smirk behind this ‘stache gets a little cockier. And I’m sure it’ll be the same when I chop up the Butcher, or even crack the Diamond. 

 

Fuck it. Even if I have to burn the Dragonslayer.

 

A pretty fitting combination for the Turmoil; Good Guys vs. Bad Guys. Except the Bad Guys are just that. BAD. And I’m the Good Guy that’s proven it over and over.

 

“Good Guy.” 

 

I told you all before Culture Shock that if I didn’t take back my title, that you were gonna see something different.

 

Well, lucky you. 

 

Looks like you’re gonna get it anyway.

 

---

 

You asshole.

 

The high of the night hadn’t kicked yet. This three-dimensional world still looked strange, and he was coherent enough to recognize it. Every color brighter. Every sound a surprise. Every edge of every object had a sharp, pronounced border. Like a comic book.

 

You absolute asshole.

 

The sun was rising over the mountains behind Vegas, gleaming completely. Radiant and terrible. Gorgeous and horrifying. Bloodshot eyes studied it blankly, the fatigue of the comedown creeping in.

 

The Sunday Scaries on a Tuesday morning.

 

I thought we were past this. I thought we had a grip on this shit.

 

Electronic noise from bluetooth speakers droned in the background. Those still awake carried empty conversations about life and meaning and purpose. Strangers unable to order Ubers drooled face-down into the carpet and couch cushions.

 

I thought we had stopped being so fucking weak.

 

From his perch on a barstool in the kitchenette, Younger Brother sat hunched; eyelids desperate to fall heavily, but unable. 

 

The colors were too bright. The borders too sharp.

 

The dread, though, was deep. 

 

Are you happy with this? Are you proud of yourself yet? 

 

Dark eyes fell on Older Brother’s gangly frame, still alert. Still engaged. Even behind reddened eyes of his own. Energized to tell his own tales. To share the powders and the pills. 

 

Aren’t you happy to see him again?

 

---

 

I hope this match gets weird. 

 

Because I’ve gotten pretty comfortable in these cluster-fuck matchups. 

So comfortable, that I’ve never lost one. 

There’s just….something about them. When I don’t have to focus on any one thing. On any one person.

 When I focus too much, I overthink.

When I don’t have the choice, I thrive.

 

So I guess I just thrive in the chaos. 

 

I wanna see Bobby Dean roll his ass to the ring just to get in Cancer’s way. I wanna see my old buddy Alexei so I can knock his ass out again. Let’s see Foster and his helmet! Let’s see Joe and Sid! Flambo, TAB, and Farthington! 

 

I’ll beat the piss out of every. Last. One of them. 

 

By my fucking SELF.

 

Woof, this shit gets me going.

 

And the more I think about it, the more it pisses me off. A whole gaggle of professionals that would rather spend every spare second of their free time on Jabber instead of stepping up to the plate. Maybe Ivan could have actually beat me if he wasn’t so busy tapping those sausage fingers and telling the wrestling world how much of a fake champion I was. 

 

Matt Ward didn’t waste his time with that shit. Or Killean Sirrajin. Or Hessian.

Nova. 

 

Jason fucking Snow.

 

No.

 

All they did was walk the walk.

 

And put on a god damn show.

 

---

 

“How long have you been staying here?”

 

Paul replied by tossing another beer can into a trash bag. His tall, lanky frame stumbled awkwardly throughout the two bedroom suite that Hayes had called home through PRIME’s first year of ReVival. He looked tired, unkempt with a mess of black hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow.

He looked like shit.

“Oh, I dunno, a couple months I guess,” Paul replied, maintaining an amused smirk under his dark, heavy eyes. “Is that cool? The chick at the counter said you left a key for me…”

“Yeah. Yeah, man, of course,” said Hayes, sipping a coffee. “Just caught me off guard a little. You could’ve called about it or something.”

Paul waved him off. “Nah, didn’t wanna bother you. The last thing you needed was to worry about me on your quest for world domination.”

Hayes forced a laugh, and strained more coffee through his mustache.

“Speaking of which,” Older Brother continued, making his way to the kitchenette where Hayes sat on his stool. “What’d I tell ya! Universal Champion! Mr. Two Time! You did it, bro!”

Paul punched Hayes playfully in the shoulder while reaching for the coffee pot. Something wasn’t right. A couple lines and a night with Molly was one thing, but Paul’s eyes were betraying him. 

“Former Mr. Two Time,” Hayes corrected, setting down his mug. 

“Yeah. Sorry, bro. But it’s cool! You’ll get that thing again, tie Tchu’s record even!”

“Did you watch me lose it to Rezin?” Hayes asked, skirting Paul’s positive declaration. “You texted that you were gonna be in Orlando, but I never saw you.”

Paul kept his eyes down, pouring a cup. “Ah, man. Sorry, dude. I got wrapped up in some shit. I caught the highlights later, though…”

Paul took a slow sip. Hayes remained quiet.

“…then saw you win it back,” he said with a sly grin. 

Hayes offered a weak one in response.

“Everything cool?” asked Younger Brother.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m cool!” the Older replied unconvincingly, slapping Hayes on the shoulder and standing from his stool. Hayes eyed Paul cautiously as he made way to the fridge, opening the door and reaching inside. “The Brothers Hanlon, back together again! It’s always cool when we’re together! Want a drink?”

“Paul. C’mon, man. Talk to me…”

“Nah, it’s all good, Lil’ Bro! Here, let’s have a little hair of the dog and get outta here. It’s been months since we hit the Strip….”

 

“PAULY.”

 

A strength of voice enough to slow his roll. Paul took a beat, inhaling through his nose and releasing through his lips, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I…listen…”

The eldest Hanlon sibling closed the refrigerator door, turning to lean his spindly hands on the granite counter.

“…I made a few bad bets.”

“What kinda bets? Crypto?”

“Yeah,” said Paul sheepishly. “Crypto.”

“How bad?” 

“Don’t worry about it.”

“How BAD, dude?!” Hayes urged.

“I SAID DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT!!” 

 

Paul’s outburst echoed through the suite. Hayes hadn’t even realized that he’d stood from his stool. The two were such a contrast to each other; Hayes, the athlete, broad chested with muscles pushing through his gray hoodie. And Paul, even taller, but thin and gangly by comparison.

 

It was the eyes that gave them away as brothers. They were nearly identical. And one set was impervious to betraying the other’s. 

“How bad, Paul,” Hayes demanded. Calmly.

“Bad,” said Older Brother.

Paul stared at the floor, pushing a hand through his messy black mop of hair, and exhaled deeply..

 

“…450 thousand.”

 

---

 

Another chance to climb the mountain.

 

I’m getting a little tired of that metaphor.

 

All it tells me is that there’s another hurdle. Another obstacle in my way. Another moment in time where someone’s asking me to “prove it.”

Well, I’ve already proved it. And when I look at this collection of some of PRIME’s “best,” I don’t see any hurdles.

Because, maybe, I’m the obstacle.

And there IS no mountain.

And even if there was? Even if Cancer really did climb COOLympus, or if there ever was a COOLympus, the only thing you’d find at the top is the flag I planted there at Colossus. 

 

No.

 

There is no mountain. Only the ring. 

And everyone walking into it needs to understand that they’re not there to beat each other. 

 

They’re there to beat ME.

 

Paxton can’t do it. This stage is too big.

Cancer can’t do it. He never has.

Ivan can’t do it. He never will.

And if Nate or Jared find me at the end? I’m sorry…

 

…but I’ll never let them.

 

---

 

A sudden, digital ringing jerked Gregory Hanlon from his afternoon nap in his recliner.

 

Even in 2023, he and Sofia refused to trade their landline in for cell phones.

With a mutter and a grumble, he reached for the recliner’s lever, pushing it foward to sit upright before thudding his stocky and tired body into the kitchen. He snagged the phone from its holster, taking an agitated breath before pressing the green “talk” button.

“Hello, Greg Hanlon speaking…” he said gruffly into the speaker.

“…ah, sure. Let me see if she’s awake.”

He pushed the phone against his chest, an effort to drown out residual noise.

“SOFIA! PHONE!”

He rubbed his tired eyes and dragged a thick hand over his near-black beard as he waited. He could hear his wife’s quick and measured footsteps carry down the hall, until she appeared in the kitchen’s threshold.

“Who is it?” she mouthed. He replied with a shrug.

Slightly annoyed, she took the phone from her husband’s grip and held it to her ear.

“Sofia Hanlon speaking.”

“Mrs. Hanlon, do you have a moment?” came a male voice on the other end.

“I…yes, but who is thi….”

“I have information regarding your father. Tobias Castellanos?” 

 

A tremor through the aether. Her face fell flat. And white. Like stone.

 

“That is your father, correct?”

 

“Yes, yes it is,” she managed. “What are you calling to tell me about?”

“Mrs. Hanlon…”

The voice paused. Gregory lifted an eyebrow to his wife’s frozen gaze. She didn’t shift to acknowledge him.

“Mrs. Hanlon, I felt it best to inform you that your father will be released from Washington State Penitentiary on Thursday, July 20th.”

She felt her heart pull forcefully into her throat. Felt tension in her jaw. Her pupils dilating.

“Wh…why is he….”

“That’s all I know. I’m sorry.” 

Her stomach turned. Her heart raced.

“And…who are you?” she asked after a swallow.

She could hear the man’s voice sigh heavily.

Just someone who thought you should know.”

She wanted to dig further. Wanted to thank them. Wanted to ask a thousand more questions.

But the words failed her, and she had nothing.

 

“Goodnight. Sofia.”

 

A click and a dial tone forced her to hold the phone at arm’s length. With short, quick breaths and tremble, she brought herself to lift her blue eyes to her husband’s concerned dark browns.

“Who was that?” he asked, approaching slowly.

“I…I don’t know,” she answered. “But…Gregory…”

The Hanlon patriarch visibly deflated without knowing why, but his wife’s crumbling body language told him almost everything he needed to know.

 

“…I have something I need to tell you.”

 

---

 

“ARE YOU SERIOUS, DUDE? WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?”

 

Younger Brother’s voice bellowed deep within the suite. Paul glanced to see if the balcony door was open, and wondered if it would carry down the hall.

“Hayes. Chill out…”

“HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?? WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DUMPING IT ON?? DOGECOIN??“

“Bro, I can explain. It was a good bet. Then interest rates spiked and…”

“And what, that’s why you’ve been hiding out here? Paul, how are you gonna pay that back?”

“I’ve got it handled, man,” said Older Brother, holding up his hands in defense. “Take a breather…”

“YOU TAKE A BREATHER!”

A break in the cacophony. Younger Brother’s chest heaved, breathing heavily through his nose, lips pursed behind his mustache. Paul stood across the living room calmly, pushing shaggy hair from his forehead.

A long, pregnant pause, before Hayes broke it.

“Does Olivia know? Do Mom and Dad?”

“No,” said Paul, honestly. “And Hayes, please don’t say anything…”

“Because I can’t cover that, man,” Hayes interrupted. “Olivia won’t. And I don’t think Mom and Dad would be able to…”

“I know. And I’m not asking you to. Or the folks. Or ‘Liv. I just…”

Paul took a breath, shaking his head. Shaking the thoughts of his mistakes, and searching for the words to explain it.

“…I just need my brother right now.”

 

“This is so fucked up, dude,” was Younger Brother’s response, hands held behind his head. “What does all this mean? Are people gonna come after you or something?”

“Bro,” Paul started, holding up a palm. “I’ll figure it out. Stop freaking on me.”

“Pauly, I haven’t seen you in almost a year, and I come back to find you raging with randoms, high out of your head, and almost half a million in debt? Should I not be freaking? What the FUCK, man?!”

“I’ll figure. It. Out. Now c’mon, bro! Let’s just chill for a minute…”

“I can’t, Pauly! My fuckin’ heart is all over the place. Jesus fuckin’ christ….”

Paul knew what was coming. When Hayes placed his palm over his heart. When his words didn’t come as seamlessly as they did on the ACE Network. He was on the verge of panic.

And he only knew one way to fix it.

Slowly, Paul reached into his pocket, and felt the cylindrical shape of an orange bottle.

“Here. C’mon. Let’s zone out for a little while,” he said, twisting the white cap. “ Nothing’s gonna change in the next few hours. I know you’re about to panic, but here….”

Hayes shot quick breaths through his nose, eyes trained on Paul’s hand as he shook a few bars into the palm. In some way, the very visual of them offered a calming effect. 

And he hated that.

 

“…this always helped.”

 

---

 

2007.

 

“I saw it, Pauly! I saw it AGAIN!“

 

Paul’s heart sank. He watched as his younger brother bolted across the white carpet of their living room and to the kitchen window, jumping and pushing himself off the sill to get a better view.

“What, Hayes?” he asked, knowing full well what his younger brother had seen.

“The car!” Hayes wailed. “The WHITE CAR! It’s always here when mom tells us to get out of the house!”

Hayes paced back and forth, breathing heavily, fingers laced behind his head. Paul could see the panic in his wide eyes, and heard the shake in his voice.

He’d never have the strength to tell him.

“Dude, it’s probably just a client or something,” he lied. “Work stuff she doesn’t want us to be around for. You know she hates being bothered…”

“NO!” Hayes screamed. “I’ve SEEN it, Pauly! Through her window!! I don’t know what to…”

“Hayes, breathe dude.”

Younger brother’s eyes glistened, his voice manic. Paul was at a loss. At age fourteen, he didn’t know how to explain it to a twelve year old, and had no idea how to calm down his younger brother’s oncoming attack.

Save one.

“Stay here. Give me a minute.”

Hayes nodded through blubbering lips and dried his eyes on the back of his hands. Paul took off through the living room and down the hall to their bedroom, grabbing his green Jansport backpack from the floor and resting it on the bottom mattress of their bunk beds. 

A makeshift pocket had been cut inside the backpack’s lining. He reached inside, retrieving a small Altoids tin.

Popping it open revealed two pre-rolled joints, and a Bic lighter.

Older Brother took a heavy breath, an almost final breath, with eyes shut, and closed the tin before shoving it into his pocket.

“Follow me out back,” he said, walking briskly past his younger brother and through their home’s back door. Curious, Hayes followed him along the edge of their white house in West Linn, into the sunshine of September, and  to the back where it butted up against a manicured line of Maples waiting to turn color.

Paul plucked a joint from the tin and placed it in his lips, snapping the lighter to spark it.

“Is that a…”

“Mmm hmm,” Paul nodded, the joint’s end igniting. Hayes flinched at the smell as his older breather inhaled, holding it a moment before releasing a plume into the air.

“But that’s…”

“Yup,” Paul confirmed. “And it will help you relax.” 

He passed the joint to Hayes carefully, who took it in his fingers clumsily, and uncertain.

“Quick. Before it burns out.”

With one last nervous glance, Hayes lifted the joint to his lips, and did his best to take a draw. His coughing fit was almost immediate, enough to make him drop it in the grass. Smoke billowed from the young boy’s mouth, almost nothing reaching his lungs as he fought to regain his breath. 

The hacks and coughs were loud enough that Sofia, their mother upstairs, could almost certainly hear.

But she probably didn’t care.

“Don’t worry,” said Paul, as Hayes continued to choke.

 

“…you’ll get used to it.”