The Ballad of Resurrection Joe

“Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive."

- Damaged

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes there are moments which are crystallized, or at least, they seem to go by in slow motion. These moments are usually dangerous ones, as they presumably give someone a chance to see their life flash before their eyes before the damage happens. 

For JC, that moment happened at UGWC Battleground. It happened when their champion, Hide Yamazaki, hung in the air, suspended, before dropping his entire 253 pound body weight straight down onto JC's neck. 

The pain was immense, but there was something much worse that happened as a result. 

One of JC's legs went numb.

It was as if a switch had been turned off and he suddenly became very aware that he couldn't move his right leg. Between the pain and this new problem, it wasn't a surprise when he heard the bell ringing. It wasn't just for a few seconds, as had happened before, but it seemed prolonged, extended. The time went on forever. 

He carried himself to the back, hoping no one noticed his strange gait. He hoped no one saw that one of his feet simply dragged behind the other one. How he moved tenderly because his nerves were a road map that had been set on fire. How he felt tingling in his extremities. JC was exhausted, and just wanted to get to the back. Away from the prying eyes of his peers. 

There were many emotions stirring through him, floating in and out of his mind, but they would have to wait. He had one person he wanted to make it to, one person that knew what was happening and could get him to the right people, right away. 

As expected, she was right where he thought she’d be, standing behind the curtain. Lucy Johnson, his fiancée, was trying very hard not to show how upset she was by what had transpired. Lucy was trying to play it cool but he wasn’t sure for who? The people backstage? Or for him? 

Either way, that went out the window when he collapsed. 

He had pushed his body as far as it could go, and he felt his ankle buckle, dropping him down to a knee. He felt dazed, but managed to hold himself at least in a kneeling position. He tasted copper and spat it out onto the ground, suddenly remembering his lip was split and swollen too. 

Lucy’s reaction was near instantaneous. When he went down, so did she, her reaction in harmony with his fall. 

Hate yourself later for worrying her, he thought bitterly. She wasn’t exactly in the best shape, having gone through a grueling match on her own.

“Joe?” she asked, her hands on his face. His breathing was ragged. “What’s wrong?”

“Leg,” he forced out. “Can’t feel it.”

Joe saw panic flash in her eyes, as she instantly put together what was wrong. She knew of the ticking time bomb in his neck, the herniated disc that occasionally showed up to pinch nerves as a way of saying hello. She was the only one he ever told, and she respected his decision not to retire on the spot. 

He wondered if she regretted not trying to get him to retire along with his doctor.

“Can you get up?”

With a hand placed on his knee, he attempted to push himself up. The numbness was gone, for the most part, but his leg still felt like heavy, dead weight. The tingling that surged through with the slightest movement was almost as bad as the pain he was feeling.

As he pushed up, his leg shuffled off to the side and he came down again, landing hard on his hip.

“No.”

She immediately swiveled her head around, looking for someone to help. She was stronger than she looked, but he did weigh more than double what she did. 

His eyes followed hers as she scanned the room, and they both landed on some poor, hapless arena employee, who had been gawking at the situation but didn’t bother lending a hand. He was built almost as well as the wrestlers at the show, as luck would have it.

“Hey! Get the fuck over here and help.”

“That’s my Lucy,” he said, the words coming out with a dry, humorless laugh. “Straight to the point.”

“And you shut up. I’ve got to make a phone call.”

She reached into her jacket and pulled out a cell phone, dialing 911. The man came over and awkwardly bent down, and Joe put an arm around his neck before pushing off with the leg that still functioned properly. The two managed to get him to what could generously be described as a standing position.

He glanced back at Lucy, whose tone with the operator wavered between panicked and furious. 

“I know there are EMTs on standby, but they’re not FUCKING HERE.”

She stormed off, phone held against her head. He assumed she was off looking for the medical workers herself, prepared to give them a piece of her mind. He remained where he was, leaning on a total stranger for support. 

“Hi, I’m JC. I’ll get you free merch or something once this is over.”

“Thanks, but I don’t even like wrestling.”

He laughed a little, in spite of himself. 

“Of course you don’t.”

After what felt like hours but were probably only seconds, Lucy came back around the corner, practically dragging an EMT along with her. Another one followed close behind with the stretcher and both seemed a little red-faced. He wondered how much she shamed them for not being around when they were supposed to be. 

“Well, I was hoping not to be carried out of here tonight.”

“Stop,” she ordered. She was being very aggressive, likely to hide the fact that she was as scared as he was. Somebody had to take charge and he couldn’t exactly walk right now.

He pulled away from whoever it was he had been leaning on and took a tentative step toward the stretcher. The tingles weren’t as bad now, and it seemed he was finally getting the use of his leg back, but there was still a heaviness. He couldn’t quite lift the foot up so much as drag the toe of his boot along the ground. He caught a glance at Lucy as he moved, as she had a hand on her mouth and her eyes glistened with wetness. 

There was a sudden need to go to her but he knew he would likely fall over in the attempt. The EMTs helped him turn around and he pushed himself up onto the gurney. Lucy walked over and he took her hand, clasping both of his around it.

“I’ll be okay, Luce.”

After swinging his left leg onto the stretcher, he attempted to raise his right and only got it up halfway. One of the paramedics started to move over, but Lucy raised her hand. She grabbed Joe’s leg and put it up on the stretcher herself. 

“I know you will.”

He gave her a weak smile, but he knew neither of them were sure if he would be okay or not. They were lying to each other and themselves. He leaned back and resigned himself to the fact that his peers in UGWC, and perhaps Carnage if they made it backstage, were about to see him wheeled away.

He felt weak and embarrassed.

He felt small.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A day and a half later, Joe was seated upright in a hospital bed at the simply-named Hartford Hospital. The trip to the hospital involved several people poking and prodding at him, checking to see if he could feel anything in his lower extremities. He was stuck in a bed that night, sometimes alone, wondering how back his neck was. Because instead of doing x-rays and MRIs that night, they scheduled them for the next morning. 

So he had spent a restless night waiting for tests. Now, with the tests completed, he was spending a restless afternoon waiting for answers.

They also asked him more questions about the nature of his job than he cared to answer. Thinking about his job made him think about the match he just lost, and he didn’t want to do that right now. All of his hopes, dreams and desires were gone in three seconds. He saw himself cementing his legacy by gaining a first-time ever achievement, and that was gone. He saw his second chance, perhaps his only chance, at a World title slipping through his fingers. 

And the last thing he wanted to do was pick at new wounds before the old ones had even healed. 

Instead he kept his mind’s focus on his neck and hoping that after this was over, he could still walk his daughter around for trick or treating as he had a few nights before. While he knew he’d probably change his mind later, maintaining that focus and ignoring everything but his health currently kept him in a state of calm. 

Lucy, however, was not so calm.

“This is fucking ridiculous.  How fucking long does it take to READ SOME FUCKING TEST RESULTS?"

She yelled that last part out the door of Joe's hospital room before turning back to him with a half-assed smile.

“Luce,” he said, his voice hoarse. The impact to his neck bruised his trachea, which was a little shocking since he was hit in the back. “Half the roster is probably in this hospital right now.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. 

"Good, then maybe they can ask about your RESULTS TOO!" She finished, leaning out the door again.

He tried to smile a little, but the split lip made that painful too. If he even could fight Davison, his war with Hide left him at less than 100%. Maybe less than 75%.

“I can’t really get mad at you making a scene when I would be doing the same thing.”

His throat continued to bother him, so he grabbed a couple of ice chips from a cup on a nearby nightstand.

“But I don’t think channeling Eden is going to get them to come any faster.”

To that she shook her head. 

"Edie is right, I just haven't made enough of a scene yet."  She replied, pacing around and looking like she's stretching for a marathon.  At first she appeared like she was going to leave the room but instead she casually walked over and pressed the call button on the side of Joe's bed.

“I don’t think that’s going to…” 

Before he could finish his sentence, the latest ER doctor came in. He was different from the person who saw him last night but at this point he didn’t care. It was likely Lucy didn’t either.

“Good afternoon, sir. I’m Dr. Patel. I just reviewed your test results and first, I should say that things were mostly normal. Your neck isn’t broken or anything like that.”

He flipped some papers on a clipboard, likely looking over Joe’s medical record. 

“You mentioned that you have a herniated disc and have had one for some time. That tracks with what we found. You have a small bone spur growing where the disc has deteriorated, and it’s pinching and inflaming the nerves that go all the way down to your extremities.”

Joe said nothing. He simply nodded. Lucy, however, looked unimpressed. 

"So it takes you eight God damned hours to come in and tell us that?  Shit we already know?  How about you tell us his prognosis, doctor.. Will this go away or is it gonna get worse?"

“The bone spur is new, Luce,” Joe said quietly. 

“Correct,” the doctor concurred. “And I recommend you go to your regular doctor and set up a surgery appointment to get it removed. As soon as we let you out of here, actually. It would be minor surgery, but you’d be down for a few weeks or so. You really should just get the neck repaired entirely but the pressing issue is the spur right now.”

Patel then turned his gaze to Lucy, who likely would have caused him to burst into flames with her glare if she could.

“I’m going to go get a nurse to prepare your discharge. Sit tight.”

With that, he turned around and left the room as though his life depended on it. Joe continued to sit quietly, thinking to himself. A deteriorating disc. Surgery. Weeks out of action. That would be the end of his World title pursuits. With the way the Carnage roster was changing, would there even be a place for him when he came back? He was only just now finding his footing after his previous absence.

But if he didn’t get the surgery, the problem might get worse. The inflamed nerve could become permanently damaged. Even if he could technically walk, he wouldn't do it very well if you couldn't feel his legs. 

A long sigh escaped him and he rubbed his temples. He felt more defeated now than he had the night before, if that were possible.

"Another eight fucking hours before they let us out of here,"  Lucy muttered to herself as she stared across the room.

“Yeah,” he added, barely audible.  She turned her head to look at him, her eyes softening. 

"Hey, it's gonna be okay.  You want me to call and make that appointment?"

His eyes shut and he kept his head lowered. His hand clutched at the railing on the hospital bed, with his knuckles turning as his fingers turned red. He could have asked for time to think. He could have asked for time alone. But none of that would have mattered.

Joe made up his mind as soon as the diagnosis was made.

“I’m not gonna do it,” he said, refusing to look at her as he did so. He didn’t want to see her reaction, whether that was anger or sadness. He knew what he was saying and needed to stand by the decision. A decision that he knew she could change if he let her.

And he was right to not look.  

"So, let me get this straight.  You'd rather… You know what?  Nevermind.  I won't tell you what to do, but I will say what a stupid fucking decision that is."

Another sigh. A fight was inevitable, and he had no desire to deal with it. 

“Let me finish, please.”

He didn’t hear anything from her so he assumed it was okay to continue. 

“I’ll do it,” he said, letting those words hang in the air to let her know there was a ‘but’ coming. "Eventually. But I’ve got Davison next week, Luce. I’ve got a second chance. Maybe, probably, my last chance. I’ve been fighting for this for a year. You, of all people, know how important this is to me. And…”

He looked up at her, seeing that she looked angry but he could also see some sadness there. It wasn’t an either/or situation. She didn’t want to fight either, but she was putting his health before everything else. 

It almost made his next point harder to get out.

“And,” he continued, “you’re risking your life with that throat every time you wrestle. If anyone can understand....I mean, this isn’t exactly an easy decision for me to make.”

"First off," She started, pointing her finger in the air, extenuating her point. "Don't turn this around on me.  We're both on borrowed time, I get that.   But.. and I've thought about this for a while.. If you asked me to give it up because of my 'issue'.. I would.  But you won't because you know how much I love this.  Second, it's your choice.  I don't like it but I won't step in for the same exact reason.  I just hope you're making the right choice."

Joe took a deep breath, really allowing himself to feel it, before expelling it through his nose. He thought of his daughter. Would she forgive him if he ended up in a wheelchair? 

Would Lucy?

Would anyone?

She got up before he could speak again. It seemed she said all she had to say, so she began to gather things in the room. Once that was done, she walked toward the door, perhaps to ask about the discharge with the nurse that still hadn’t come around.

“This is my last chance,” he repeated. “I will have it done, but I can’t right now.”

She turned around to look back at him and nodded, sadly. He lowered his head, and spoke again, although he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. 

“I have to know.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A single light illuminated a whiteboard. The whiteboard was located backstage and was used to indicate to the roster what times they had to be ready to compete, what matches would air in what order and other pertinent information to running a smooth episode of Chaos.

Instead, all of that was erased. C$J would likely be annoyed at that later, but maybe he would learn the lesson of not using a whiteboard to make announcements. 

All of the lights were out, except for the one, which shone brightly against the white. A silhouette stepped in front, and JC turned to face his audience, taking the spotlight of his own making. One of his hands was behind his back.

You know, I had a plan for when I was going to speak to you, Ken.

I was going to come in and bluster, yell at you for thinking you deserved this more than me. Instead, I just want you to look at something. 

He pulled his hand out from behind and slapped it to the board, a small piece of tape holding it in place. It was an x-ray of someone's neck. 

Christ, look at that mess of a neck. A decade after a fusion and the other side is starting to show problems.

That, Mr. Davison, is my spinal cord. As you can see, I'm on borrowed time. I kept it hidden from everyone because I knew it'd be a target. I knew everyone would attack it. I knew that it would end my career before I was ready to do so.

But recent events, including surgeries that I'll need soon, tell me that none of that matters now. Even if it did, you saw my last match. 

I've run out of fucks to give.

He ripped the x-ray back down and let it fall unceremoniously to the ground. He glanced at it for a moment, then looked back up.

Because, I'm fucking tired, Ken. I'm tired of being bitter. I'm tired of the backwards fucking pageantry.

Mostly I'm just tired of you and all you represent.

What's this legacy you're building? You are a champion, but you have no one's respect. Don't you dare insult me by claiming otherwise. The way you acted prior to winning and the way you carried yourself after. Acting like the entire roster is beneath you because you won one match on one night. 

No one respects you. To them, you're a placeholder. You're just the name that someone they do respect is gonna dethrone. Your entire title run, at this point, is going to be remembered with all the reverence of Ana's phantom reign.

"But I beat Jack Michaels, I cleared the table on Paragon! You didn't do that, JC!"

He scoffed as said it, then spat on the ground. It seemed even briefly talking as someone like Ken Davison would talk left a bad taste in his mouth.

Answer me this. If someone beats Jack Michaels and no one gives a shit, did it really happen?

You don't carry yourself as a champion and so no one thinks of you as such. You treat the title as a prop meant to only make you look good. You don't carry this company. You only fight for you.

I fight for Carnage.

It was a phrase that he said before, back when he was losing his battle against mental illness. It took on a different meaning now, as he knew it was a fight he might not be able to finish.

I fight for a company that gave me a home when no one else would. A town that embraced me when I asked for its forgiveness. A roster that even if it hates me, will make the journey to another company's PPV just to cheer me on, because they know I am one of them. 

You should know, you were there.

You rooted for me.

You acknowledged I could win.

Simply put Davison, you respect me. 

Now, finally, he made his point that he had the respect of his peers, something his opponent lacked. With that achieved, he allowed himself a smirk. But it went away just as quickly, because he wasn't in the mood to joke. This was as serious as he'd ever been, if such a thing were possible.

I don't know what you're going to say to me and I don't care. Talk about my broken down body. Talk about the hell I put this company through. Talk about my loss to Yamazaki. 

But you look in my eyes, you son of a bitch.

His blue eyes pierced through the light, staring ahead. A familiar scowl began to form.

I. Do. Not. Care.

I will walk into Chaos 102 with a beat up body and a near-broken neck. I will be slower. I will be less aware. 

But you will not break my spirit. You CANNOT break my will. I will not let you take my redemption from me.

He shut his eyes and calmed himself. Once he regained his bearings, he started again.

You know, it's interesting. Before the diagnosis, I felt sorry for myself. After, I started to feel sorry for you.

Before the injury, before the loss, I was feeling pretty good. Now, I'm feeling enraged. I'm feeling like I want to hurt someone, and the person I want to hurt, who cost me that title shot, isn't within arm's reach.

He turned to the side as he spoke, and feigned like he was taking a moment to contemplate what he had to say. The truth was, he knew exactly what each word was going to be the second he decided to go forward with this match.

But you'll be, won't you Ken?

And you've got something I want. In a match where I can do whatever I want.

You were here last year. You know what I'm capable of. 

If you're smart, you'll drop the pretense of being 'godly' and start praying to whatever higher power you do believe in. You don't need to be a God-fearing man, Davison. You need to fear the Devil. 

As he spoke, he wondered if Davison could feel the venom coming off each word. The aura of bitterness that, even if JC was tired of it, still stung the air. 

JC may not like who he was in the past, but he did accept it. Part of him embraced the notoriety it brought him. 

Because I am him, he is me and we are coming to take what's yours. Your title. Your hands. Your blood. You watched what the champion of another company did to try to put me away. It took three people to beat me that night.

You're one man. One weak, pathetic man, desperate to hang on to a title you don't deserve. 

Pray, Ken. Pray, and then feel despair when those prayers aren't answered.

You may think that because I'm damaged that makes me easy prey. 

You're going to find out that being damaged makes me more dangerous.

JC stepped out of frame, allowing the light to once again shine on the whiteboard. After several uncomfortable moments, that light went out as well, leaving everything in darkness.