It had been billed as a 'Cataclysm', a chance for one company to assert its dominance over the other, and that was indeed what took place. Sin City had gone six and one in matches on the evening.
Jared Sykes should have been glad to be a part of the show at all. Under a mask as King Blueberry he had only days prior won the LiveWire Championship from a masquerading Desade, granting him the opportunity to challenge PRIME's equivalent champion.
It was the first match he'd wrestled in Boston - his hometown, since he returned to active competition in the United States.
Six and one.
His was the only match on the card that Sin City had lost.
It was for this reason that when Lawrence Spiderman, Jared's agent with the unfortunate name, had tried to call his client he was less than excited to ring straight to voice mail.
'Hi, Jared, it's Larry. Please, as soon as you get this give me a call. Not quite sure how much reception you get in Canada, but I want to talk to you about the week three possibilities before you head to Florida. That match you were hoping for? There's a chance you might get it. Call me.'
This was the message that awaited Jared Sykes when he and Mervin Humperdink (who also had an unfortunate name) had exited a rather nondescript Mexican restaurant on the U.S. side of the border with Canada.
-----
It was a fortunate thing that the recent tour of Sin City Championship Wrestling had been within driving distance, because it had afforded Jared the chance to alter his drive home, meeting with his agent in New York before returning to Boston.
It had taken Lawrence Spiderman almost six months, but he was finally starting to get used to the presence of his rather unorthodox and unusual client. No longer did he find it helpful to have a drink or two (or more) before meetings, and while he was usually certain that his client was going to say or do something outrageous, nothing had been accidentally broken since July.
Of particular interest to Mr. Spiderman was that on the afternoon in question his client, the artist formerly known as King Blueberry, was remarkably sedate. No doubt, he imagined, it was a side effect of the dark circles he had noticed forming under Jared’s eyes.
“Are you alright?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, “You look like a zombie.”
“Yeah,” came the lethargic reply, “just a little tired is all. Haven’t been sleeping that well for the last few days.”
Mervin, who had done the majority of the driving since they left the Canadian border – mostly out of concern for his own well being, couldn’t resist the chance to take a poke at Jared, especially given his sleep-deprived state.
“He’s been thinking about Alex,” his words were almost singsong in nature, “Jared’s got a cru-uh-ush.”
Smack.
Mervin’s smile was fleeting, replaced by a pained grimace. While Jared’s left arm might have been injured, hairline fractures at the hands (and knees) of Wyatt Connors, his right hand was still very much unscathed. He used it to deliver a jab to Mervin’s shoulder.
“Don’t listen to the dork. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Spiderman slid his thumbs up and down the space between his suspenders and his shirt. In an ever-changing business, Larry Spiderman was still known to dress old school. He felt it lent an air of professionalism to anything he did.
“Still, Jared, this isn’t a good time for you to not be sleeping. I hope it’s not because of the message I left you yesterday.”
“No, no, nothing about that. My mind’s just been really… active these last few days,” he shot a sidelong glance at Mervin, who opted to remain silent this time. “But to be quite honest the thought of getting a rematch isn’t going to help me as far as the sheep-counting is concerned. You have no idea how much I’d love to crack that Mr. Clean-lookin’ son of a bitch in the face.”
He hadn’t confided this in many people, but when Cataclysm was over Jared was more than a little embarrassed at his performance. The rest of his company, the entire locker room it seemed, celebrated their victories. They’d seen it as a casting off of the “red headed stepchild” stigma, legitimizing them among the best this coalition of federations had to offer.
Jared Sykes had taken part in none of the celebrating, instead making himself a silent promise that he’d get back at the person who beat him, the person who “defused” Sin City.
He promised himself he’d even things up with Kaiser Vashaun.
“Well I can’t guarantee anything. They’re not announcing the matches, so I have no idea whether you’ll get your opportunity, but you’ll be there and he’ll be there so there’s like a, what, thirty-three percent chance you’ll be in the same match?”
Spiderman paused; he could see Mervin working out the math in his head.
“My numbers might be off,” he continued, “but you never know. Either way you might be able to gain some of whatever it is you’re looking for. There’s Vashaun. Flyer’s been on a pretty big roll lately. Not to mention Sirrajin.”
Mervin stifled a laugh. Spiderman picked up on it instantly.
“What? Did I say something funny.”
“Tell him what you told me the other day,” Mervin prodded Jared, “Tell him what you said about Sirrajin.”
Professional wrestling’s Black Sheep sighed, and began recounting the story to Spiderman.
“You know that tattoo Special K has on his chest? The one everyone says looks like hedge clippers?”
“I’m vaguely familiar with it.”
“Well, if you can get Killean into the map room and can hold a glass up to his chest, you shine a flashlight at it and eventually it shows you where the Ark of the Covenant is buried.”
This visibly confused Lawrence Spiderman, and with his brow furrowed his gaze shifted continuously between the two men in his office.
“I don’t get it. PRIME has a map room?”
“It,” Jared started to respond, but cut himself off. Explaining the joke would ruin it. “Never mind. It’s not important.”
This did nothing to alleviate Spiderman’s curiosity, but after six months he knew when to cut his losses.
-----
Sleeping had been difficult since Quebec. Each night he would lie down, close his eyes, and lay restless for hours before finally falling unconscious. Though his next appearance with his own company was also to be in Canada, Jared had instead decided that it might do him some good to try sleeping in his own bed, more so since he knew he’d need to make back-to-back appearances in Halifax and Jacksonville.
By 2 o’clock in the morning, and after having tossed and turned for the better part of 2 hours, Jared still found himself functionally awake.
Reluctantly he threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, sliding his feet into a pair of white bunny slippers, one of many juvenile traits he was glad that the world at large was [i]not[/i] aware of. He rose to his feet, taking a moment to rub an ache in his still-taped left arm, and made his way to the bathroom.
If sleep weren’t going to come naturally, he would try to coax it a little.
With an exacerbated sigh he stepped into the hallway, shooting glances in either direction to make sure there was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a habit he picked up when he was much younger and afraid of anything that went bump, but it had stuck with him well into adulthood.
It wasn’t long before he was in the bathroom, the bright fluorescent light causing his eyes to squint reflexively. He stepped to the medicine cabinet and removed the item he’d gone there for: NyQuil liqui-caps.
He held them for a moment, not quite sure if this was the route he wanted to take. NyQuil had a tendency to give him strange thoughts (or, in truth, thoughts that were stranger than normal), as well as the occasional hallucination. On one particularly notable evening the pills, which he lovingly referred to as ‘the green whammy’, had him believing that with each press of his alarm’s snooze button a missile would fire on Russia.
He never bothered to think what it said about him that he pressed it anyway.
-----
His eyes snapped open a moment after the light filled the room. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, but he was certain of the fact that he wouldn’t be falling back to sleep anytime soon.
His heart began to race. His mind flipped into overdrive. He tried to breathe, but could take in no air, as if a weight had been placed on his chest.
He tried to move and found himself immobile, paralyzed. Panicked, his eyes darted across the room, but he could only see outlines; fuzzy objects awash in the soft, blue light that filled his bedroom.
Shadows fell across his bed, and his eyes widened.
There were three of them, each one tall, slender. Their eyes were dark and soulless. He knew what they were immediately. He could hear them speaking, though no words escaped their lips. When they spoke he heard it only in his head.
“You’re sure this is the one you want?” asked the first, the shortest of the three. It stood on the right side of his bed, peering down at him inquisitively. “He doesn’t look like much.”
His lungs burned, but still he found himself unable to breathe. A thin film of sweat began to form all over his body.
“Yes,” answered the second, slightly taller than the first and standing at the foot of his bed, “As I have doubtless told you before, I am but a scientist in search of an experiment.”
His eyes slammed shut. He prayed that it would all go away. Irrationally, his brain tried to convince itself, much as a child would, that if he couldn’t see them that they couldn’t see him.
“This one interests me. I very much wish to see what makes him tick.”
The third one, the tallest of the three who stood to his left, made a sound that appeared to be giggling only crueler, almost sinister. When it communicated it was with a playful madness.
“I do so love their juices. So bright, so vibrant, so delicious.”
He was sure he heard it laugh. It didn’t matter that his eyes were shut and he refused to look at them, they did not leave.
The first one spoke again, “That’s not [i]quite[/i] the way I want to think about him, if you don’t mind. It’s kind of disgusting.”
The second one, the obvious leader, leaned in, almost hovering over his bed. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but he slowly opened his eyes and met its gaze. Its eyes were cold, a deep gray, and soulless. The thin lips that formed its mouth seemed to curl up slightly at the edges, though whether it could be called a smile was unclear.
Thin fingers reached out to him, gently brushing across his cheek.
“Tell me, Jared Sykes, what is it that we should do with you?”
He bolted upright in bed, red-faced, sweating and desperate for air. He breathed deep, and in his panic tried to stand, but instead collapsed to the floor. His eyes scanned the room quickly, taking inventory of his surroundings. Through the shade he could see the sunlight peeking in. The time on the clock read 11:42am.
His breathing slowed to normal, his heart rate calmed, and he came to realize where he was.
Unfortunately, this would not be the last time that the redheaded women of Sin City would haunt his dreams.