Wyatt Connors pressed the pause button on the tape recorder, and stared out the window of his office--or rather, the office of 'R.W. Chandler.' It wasn't much of a view, as it overlooked a street and a brick wall. Still, it would do until the thick curtains came in.
Turning away from the outside world, he swept his gaze over the rest of the office. He'd added some furniture--a few second-hand leather chairs, and a couch he'd found at Goodwill. Not exactly professional, but that didn't concern Connors either. It wasn't as if people were going to see it.
After looking over the rest of the furniture--desk, filing cabinet, potted plant--Wyatt focused again on the one thing that dominated the room: the large dry-erase board that ran along the west wall. Its surface had been covered with letters, numbers, lines, and other markings that only made sense to the man who drew them. Connors resumed recording as he looked over the pattern.
'I have spent the last several weeks researching the personal interactions between various members of the SCCW roster, dating back to my arrival in the company. I have charted the results, and created a...map, I suppose, of the company. By looking at this sketch, one can quickly and accurately determine the allies, enemies, and history of anyone in SCCW.'
The Wise Guy paused the recorder again, and took a harder look at his scribblings. What he saw was a morass of multicolored lines and symbols, with no indication of what they meant. It looked a bit like the alphabet had been apprehended by Spider-Man.
'That is the theory, anyway. I will admit that it is a bit...complicated.'
The Rainmaker stands almost completely still in front of the board, the only movement coming from two places. First was his eyes, which darted around the board, picking up information from the 'map' he had drawn. The location of a letter, the color of a line, the direction of the arrows...each marking told him vital information about his work environment.
Second was his mouth, which hadn't missed a beat.
'The chart was completed a few days ago, and I have spent the following time in study. Before moving forward with any plans, I must learn how they will affect others, both directly and indirectly. Of course, any disturbance will quickly devolve into chaos in a closed environment such as this. However, there are certain events that will always generate the same outcome. Insult Lance Marshall's wife, and he will punch you in the head. Talk to Rick Malloy, and he will make you want to punch yourself in the head. And so on.'
His focus sharpened, and Connors took a look at the letters specifically, checking their proximity to the center of the grand design. There were a few on the outskirts--Q, F, SS--but the letters seemed to group together more toward the center. X was connected to a number of things, as was PK. LS and CM were fairly close together, connected by a red line with an arrow on each end. LS seemed to have a lot of lines stemming from it, actually.
'Fortunately, most members of this company are extremely simple, in many senses of the word. I was able to extrapolate the likely result of every scenario I considered. Unfortunately, they all led invariably to the same outcome.'
Wyatt let out a heavy sigh, giving voice to his...let's call it 'concern,' if not 'despair.' He started to talk again, but froze suddenly, and realization flashed over his face. Quickly, he stopped the tape, rewound a few seconds, and began recording again. It was as if he dared not show a sign of weakness, even when nobody was looking.
'I had hoped to delay this confrontation, of course, but I knew that it was going to come. My own schemes in SCCW would have force the issue sooner or later. Any action made in that company eventually leads back to her. Unfortunately, because of PRIME and their need to make everything an overblown mess, I have been forced to move my own timetable forward dramatically.'
As he passed over the swarming design on the board, his eyes eventually settled on the dead center. There was the focal point of the company, the ones who had inserted themselves into the dealings of nearly everyone else on the board. In a small space surrounded by lines and arrows, two letters were written. 'A'...and 'D.'
'In a few short days, I will be facing two challengers. One of them is a gigantic, remorseless, brutal man-monster who has both the ability and inclination to snap me in half.'
'The other...is a threat.'
Wyatt Connors is silent for a moment, letting the recorder run as he stares at the singular character, written in red marker. It was the first thing he had written when designing his chart...and in all honesty, he might as well have stopped there.
'Note seventeen, end.'
# # #
The arena was filled to the rafters that night. Forty thousand screaming fans, all there to see a new champion crowned...and he did not disappoint. It had been a hard-fought, bloody match, but in the end, he hoisted up the champion and planted him with a powerbomb. Exhausted, he fell on top of his prone opponent and hoped for the best. His body was screaming in pain after such a grueling contest...but once the referee's hand hit the mat for the third time, it all went away.
He pushed himself back up to his feet as the ring announcer made the call. The fans exploded with cheers, which doubled when the referee handed over the title belt. He made his way toward the corner, and climbed up the turnbuckles. As he held the Heavyweight Championship over his head, the crowd started to chant..
'Eeeeeeeeeexit liiiiiiiiiiight!'
'Hrm?'
'Eennnnnteerrrr nii-iiiiight!'
Deacon Dale cracked one eye open, hoping to spot whatever disturbed his rest. As the fog of sleep dissolved, he recognized it as the ringtone of his cell. He reached toward the nightstand, and immediately a bolt of pain shot down his back.
'Arrrgh!'
'Taaaaaaake my haaaannnnd!'
Through a bit of blind fumbling, he managed to retrieve the phone. Meanwhile, his right shoulder had decided that it did not care for all this movement either, and let its displeasure be known. Deacon grit his teeth and chastised himself for leaving the phone on in the first place. Anyone who called at...whatever time it was...probably wasn't worth talking to.
'Off to never nev--beep!'
'What?' Deacon growled.
The voice on the other end was just as familiar as it was unwelcome. 'Wake up, fucker. You know how Connors gets his panties in a twist when we're late.' The slight drawl and heavy vulgarity were both trademarks of Trevor Ratigan, Deacon's occasional travel buddy and tag team partner.
'Christ,' he muttered. 'Yeah, all right. Gimme ten...' He winced as his back screamed at him again. 'Gimme half an hour.'
'Whatever. I just better not catch you watchin' Matlock when I show up.'
Dale replied, 'Fuck off,' but the man on the other end had already hung up. Deacon flipped the cellphone shut, and reached back toward the nightstand. This time, he came back with a bottle of pills.
He clumsily opened the bottle, causing a few of them to spill onto the bed. He grabbed three of them and shoveled them into his mouth, then concentrated on the arduous task of getting out of bed. After a few minutes of rolling around, he finally worked up the energy to half-walk, half-crawl toward the bathroom. He briefly considered taking a few more pills, but thought better of it. Three was already pushing things--he'd had a scare last year, and the last thing he needed was a repeat.
The hot water from the shower did wonders for his aching back, and by the time he was finished, the pain had been reduced to a bit of stiffness. Deacon toweled himself off and walked into the main area of his hotel room. It was much nicer than he was accustomed to--throughout most of his wrestling career, he'd crashed in cheap flophouses with six other guys...or his basement...or his car. Even when he worked for Connors in Maryland, they stayed in craphole motels, because Wyatt was notoriously cheap in those days. Now, it was four-star all the way--comfortable beds, plenty of hot water, room service if you felt like it, and best of all, a separate room from Ratigan.
'Eeeeeeeeeexit liiiiiiiiiiight!'
'Shit,' he muttered, and picked up the phone again.
'Where the fuck are you at?' shouted Ratigan, before Deacon even had a chance to answer.
'Getting dressed,' Dale snapped back. 'I'll be down there in a minute.'
'You're spankin' it, ain't you? All them porn channels we get drove you nuts. You punch the clown on your own time, Deke.'
'Fuck off.' Deacon hung up the phone and went to the dresser for a clean set of clothes. Blue boxers, white socks, blue jeans, and a black t-shirt bearing the name of The Conspiracy, the trio tag team he'd been a part of, along with Ratigan and Connors. He smiled briefly as he looked at the back of the shirt, which featured the words 'I'M IN ON IT' in large, bold letters, before pulling it on over his large frame. Finally, he grabbed his wallet, phone, and keycard from the nightstand, slipped on his shoes, and headed out of the room.
As he rode the elevator down to the lobby, Deacon drifted back to that old team. Yeah, it was a headache, dealing with Ratigan all the time. And yeah, things got really rough when Connors went kinda nuts at the end of their run. But he'd never enjoyed success like they had on that team.
Well, that wasn't true. He'd never enjoyed success at all, before then. Seventeen years of busting his ass, wrestling in barns and meeting halls, embarrassing himself night after night with ridiculous gimmicks--he almost choked, just thinking of the word--and for what? Barely enough money to get to the next town. Then, one day, he got a phone call from Wyatt Connors...and suddenly, it all turned around.
What a turnaround it was, too. Seemed like they went straight to the top of the mountain in a matter of months. It had all gone so well, until the day that Connors--
Ding!
The elevator doors opened, snapping Deacon out of his reverie. Standing in front of the doors, tapping his foot impatiently, was his associate Trevor Ratigan--T.J. to his friends (which were few in number.)
'Finally. Connors could have shut down the NWC again in the time it took you to get down here.' T.J. was scowling, but he didn't appear to be all that upset. More likely, he was just doing his best to give Deacon a hard time.
'Shut up, Trevor. I'm here. Let's go.'
'Least you could have done is taken the stairs. Fatty.'
'Another word, and you're riding in the trunk.'
T.J. lowered his head, and walked briskly toward the door. Deacon followed close behind. While they were both in a hurry, neither of them were all that eager to get to their destination.
They had a meeting with 'Wise Guy' Wyatt Connors...and you just never knew what to expect.
# # #
Wyatt Connors had been admiring the potted plant when he heard the creak open behind him. 'You're late,' he said, without turning around.
Deacon Dale--who had opened the door--hung his head slightly. Behind him, T.J. whispered, 'How does he do that?'
'Magic,' Connors answered at regular volume. 'Now, if you will have a seat, gentlemen?'
Deacon looked into the room, and noticed the two leather chairs that had been turned away from the desk, so that they faced the dry-erase board. He sat down in one of them, while T.J. headed straight for the couch. He laid down on it, with his back propped up against the armrest.
Connors nodded to nobody in particular, then spun on his heel and marched toward the board. 'Eyes front, gentlemen. Now, what do you suppose--' He turned around again, and now saw that T.J. Ratigan was staring intently at the side of Deacon's head. Connors sighed in exasperation. 'Trevor, do you think you could sit in a way that allows you to look at the board? Hmm?'
Trevor nodded, and rolled off the couch. Then, he took hold of the near end, lifted, and turned it so that the couch faced the whiteboard. Satisfied with his work, he flopped back down.
'See, I would have just gone for the other chair,' Wyatt quipped. 'But I suppose that works just as well. Now then. If you will please direct your attention up here. Do you see what I've drawn here?'
Both men looked at the tangled mess of lines and letters. From the looks on their faces, you might as well have shown them the world's most complicated math problem...written in Chinese.
'Now then,' said Connors, smugly. 'What do you suppose this is?'
Trevor cocked his head slightly to the side. 'Looks like the Flying Spaghetti Monster is attacking Sesame Street.'
Deacon turned toward the couch and asked, 'The Flying what?'--knowing full well that he did not want to know the answer.
'You don't know? You haven't been touched by His Noodly Appendage?' T.J. answered. He grinned even wider when Deacon's face twisted into a look of disgust.
'Ugh.'
'If you two are quite finished,' Connors interjected, 'I shall explain what this is.' He stepped a few feet to the side, allowing Dale and Ratigan to get a good view of the whole design. 'This is a visual representation of the current status of all SCCW wrestlers, as they relate to each other.' He glanced over briefly to see that he was barely holding on to Deacon's attention. He'd already lost T.J., who was staring at the ceiling and idly picking his nose. 'It shows what everyone thinks of each other. See, all the letters on the board, those are the other wrestlers. JR is Jon Rhine, Sp is Spacely, L is Legion, and so on. Following so far?'
Deacon nodded, slowly. T.J. worked on the other nostril.
'Good. Now, the lines, they represent the attitude and past interactions between two wrestlers. Red lines denote an adversarial relationship. If the line is solid, those two have fought in the past; dashes mean there is a very good chance they will do so in the future. Red slashes through the line mean outright hostility. You'll notice a lot of those sprouting out of Amy Campbell, here. The orange slashes mean that titles have changed hands; the arrows note which direction.'
'The blue lines mean positive interaction, whether it be alliance, friendship, or other. The dashed blue lines mean that two people have, at the very least, an 'understanding,' as you see between Lance Marshall and Philip Kennedy here. Solid blue is an alliance, such as between August and April Monday.' Ratigan's ears pricked up at the mention of a girl's name, but when it was clear that Connors was not about to describe this girl in detail, T.J. quickly lost interest again. 'Arrowed lines mark positions of authority, where the person on one end answers to the person on the other.'
'So...' Deacon stammered, trying desperately to retain any of the information. 'Like, LS--that's Stevens, right?'
'Correct.'
'Stevens has an arrow pointed at...Desade? So, he works for her?'
'Right again, Deacon. Yes, Lane Stevens is her lackey...and quite proud of that fact, incidentally.'
'OK. So those two arrows pointing at Lane. Then, those guys are his lackeys?'
'Not quite. Lackeys aren't allowed to have lackeys of their own. Those two are goons.'
'Oh...kay,' Dale answered, doing his best not to appear as confused as he was. 'So, what about JB, then?'
'Jadian Bridden. What about him?'
'Well, he's got arrows pointed at three different people. What's that make him?'
Connors pursed his lips slightly. 'He is...a lickspittle, I believe.'
The big man nodded. That part, he got.
'Now then. Do you understand how it all works? Because I'd prefer not to go through all that again.'
'Mmmm...not really, no.'
Wyatt turned toward the couch, where T.J. Ratigan was clearly disinterested. 'What about you, Trev--no, of course not. Here's the thing, boys--Trevor, take your finger out of your nose and pay attention.'
The junior member of the team sat up on the couch, and tried to wipe his finger on the cushions in a nonchalant manner. Wyatt rolled his eyes and continued.
'I know it's a lot of information, but really, there's only two people you really need to concern yourselves with--and that's these two right in the middle.' He pointed, of course, to the ominous red letters 'D' and 'A.' 'For one thing, there's very little that goes on in SCCW that doesn't affect one of them...and if you draw the attention of one, you are sure to do so for the other.'
Deacon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hadn't followed the national wrestling companies much after he was let go from the WWA, but he'd heard stories about Aimz. And as for Desade...Connors rarely told stories about her--and what he didn't say spoke volumes.
'There's another, more important reason why we must focus on these two.'
His charges stared quietly at him, obviously waiting for the explanation. A sly grin spread across the face of the Rainmaker.
'They're our targets.'
Deacon was about to comment, but stopped himself when he realized he had no response...with the possible exception of 'Are you out of your goddamn mind?'...and that is not a question you ask of the man who pays for your hotel room.
T.J. Ratigan broke the silence, however, as he sheepishly asked, 'Umm...sir?'
Wyatt was slightly taken aback. As far as he could remember, Trevor Ratigan had never called anyone 'sir,' let alone him. 'Yes, Trevor?'
'You're talking about Aimz, right? Like, held the title for a year, kicks the shit out of everyone she sees? Broke a dude's neck for showing off her nudie pictures? That Aimz?'
'That's the one.'
'And...Desade. Like, Alex Pierce. Like, the one where you used to cover our mouths when we tried to say her name.'
'You did do that,' Deacon pitched in.
Connors simply answered, 'Correct.'
'Well, umm...' Trevor began, obviously choosing his words carefully. 'That sounds kinda...dumb.'
Hey, that's remarkably careful for Trevor.
'To tell the truth,' Connors answered, 'it is not something I look forward to. But needs must that the devil drives, as the saying goes. PRIME management has booked a three-way match between Desade, Hessian, and myself at their upcoming supercard. This means I must prepare for her, and her foot soldiers...and also for Amy Campbell.'
'Wait, wait. Hessian?' Dale asked, somewhat nervously. His skin had taken on a slightly ashen color.
'Is there a problem?'
'I once fought that guy,' Deacon said. 'It was at a house show for some big company, about six or seven years ago. I remember the opening bell, and then I remember waking up in the hospital two days later. Couldn't even get out of bed for another week and a half. Dude tore me the fuck apart.'
'Really,' Wyatt said, in a tone so matter-of-fact that Deacon felt a little angry with him. 'Fascinating.'
'Point is, I wouldn't be surprised if he killed someone in the ring. The man will fuck you up in a second if you let him.'
Wyatt Connors nodded solemnly, and thought for a moment. He had a point to make, and it needed to be absolutely clear to the others.
'Your concern is touching, Mister Dale,” he began, as he looked Deacon in the eye. “But all in all, I'm not that worried. I have run across many bloodthirsty, ill-tempered giants in this business. Some are a little more fierce than others, but they generally act in the same manner. As far as we know, there could be a dozen, maybe a hundred Hessians.'
With that, he turned his gaze away from his appointed muscle, and cast it back at the center of his carefully designed chart.
'But there is only one Alexandra Pierce.'
Deacon caught Connors' eye again, and the Wise Guy saw understanding. Even Trevor nodded slightly. He had gotten his point across.
'Any questions?' he asked.
'Yeah,' T.J. said, as he pointed up at the board. 'That line you got between D and A. The blue one, with the red slashes. What's that mean?'
He turned to look at what Ratigan was pointing at, and an odd smirk formed on the face of the Devil In The Details.
'I'm not entirely sure myself, Mister Ratigan,' he said. 'But I plan to find out.'
# # #
The sun shimmered as it dropped below the horizon west of the Windy City. After a long day of business, the boys had decided to cut loose a little. Connors would not accompany them, of course, as he still had important things to do. That was fine by T.J.; he couldn't imagine Wyatt Connors at a bar anyway.
Ratigan had gone back up to his hotel room to change into some clean--well, some less dirty clothes. Ratty, torn blue jeans, rapidly approaching the point where they became more hole than jean. NASCAR shirt with several stains of unknown origin. Socks that almost bent, if you had enough leverage. Sneakers that would set off a Geiger counter.
Incidentally, when people learned that his ring name was 'Rotten' T.J. Ratigan, they never asked why.
He was just pulling his long, stringy brown hair back into a ponytail when his phone began to ring.
'She's my cherry pie! Cool drink of water, such a sweet--'
A quick glance at his phone identified the caller as Vanessa Weaver, his longtime girlfriend. He quickly flipped the phone open and said, 'Hey, babe.'
'Hey, honey!' Vanessa answered. Trevor got a stupid grin on his face--more stupid than usual, mind you. 'How's Chicago?'
'Not bad. Not as good as back home, though.'
'Aww,' she cooed. 'Speaking of which...when are you coming home?'
Ratigan sighed heavily. He hadn't quite got around to telling her the news. 'Well, we kinda got this deal going on. It may be a couple days yet.'
'Oh, T.J. Don't tell me you're back into wrestling?'
Trevor was just about to answer when a knock came from the door. He darted over to open it, and saw Deacon Dale on the other side. The big man poked his head into the room.
'Hey, man,' he said. 'We gotta move if we want to get any proper drinking done.'
Trevor held up an index finger, as if to signal 'Gimme a minute.'
'It's different this time, babe. We got this totally sweet deal. Our travel's covered, and we're only gone three days for each show. Four at the maximum. It won't be like it was a couple years ago, I promise.' It wasn't the best response, he knew, but sometimes the truth was the best you could do on short notice.
'Honey, I thought you were done with that. You had a good job, and we had so much time together.'
'I know, Ness. And I miss you all the time I'm gone. But--'
Dale butted in, 'Hate to interrupt, but...y'know, beers.'
Trevor held up a finger again, only this time it was a different finger, which signaled something else.
'But you don't know how much I missed this stuff. You know how you always wanted to be a teacher? Ever since you were little, you said?'
'Now, Trevor, that is not even remotely the same thing. Teachers don't get hit with chairs for a living, usually.'
'I get that, babe. I do. And I know it's not the same, but it kinda is. This is what I've always wanted to be...and I'm getting another chance. This is real important to me, sugar. You get that, right?'
'I...I guess so. But I still don't like it.'
'Look...we'll talk about it more tomorrow. Okay?'
'All right. Love you, Teej.'
'Love you, Ness.'
Trevor flipped his phone shut, and slipped it back into his pocket. 'All right. Let's get drunk!' he shouted, and darted toward the door.
Deacon rolled his eyes and headed down the hall, with Ratigan only a few steps behind. 'So. Trouble on the home front?' he asked.
'Nah, it's cool,' T.J. answered. 'She just don't like me wrestling, is all. But I think we got it straightened out now.'
'So, you're not going to bail out on us for a piece of tail?'
'First of all, you never call her that again. Second...we got this thing now, right? Back on the job, back in the ring. Man's gotta do, an' all that shit. Besides...I love that woman to death, but she can kiss my ass if she thinks I'm goin' back to the fuckin' Home Depot.'
'Ha! You're a class act, Ratigan.'
T.J. flashed a smile, showing off his stained teeth. 'I know it!'