You had me down, 21 to zip
Smile of Judas on your lip
Shake my fist, knock on wood
I've got it bad, and I've got it good
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
August 3, 2021
He had been bothered that she hadn't even visited him while in his coma. And Joe had asked around. No one had seen a single platinum blonde hair from her head come into the hospital in Reno. Not a phone call. Not even a mention on social media.
Joe could have died and Lucy Wylde, for all intents and purposes, wouldn't have cared.
He supposed that she was well within her rights. She had, after all, been the one to end the relationship. She moved out of the condo they shared (which was hers to begin with) and moved on to whatever it was she moved onto. She had no obligation to see him. He knew that, and that was fine.
What wasn't fine was telling him in a 'Dear John' letter that she was doing this for his benefit somehow. He knew it was bullshit then, and he had that cemented when he learned how close he was to dying and how she hadn't bothered to check on him. It was the way she had trashed him online to anyone that would pay attention later.
And when he woke up, he had a long time to think about who she really was and decided he probably dodged two bullets that summer.
That became even more apparent on the day he was finally discharged from the hospital.
Joe and Trent had been watching old matches, relieving the glory days of OWF and NLW. JC in particular noted the first victory he took from Will Prydor, a tainted one but he would go on to earn real victories.
After Trent and Joe said their goodbyes, a nurse finally informed him that he was leaving, and that someone had come to pick him up. He refused a wheelchair, even though his legs were weak and that was standard, and walked to the entrance and a familiar face greeted him.
"Hey Joe," his ex-wife, Stacy, said as she stood there, writing a hospital flyer she likely didn't even need.
"You flew all the way here just to get me?" He said, shocked.
She nodded. She seemed just as nervous to see him as he was surprised to see her. It's not like they hadn't been on speaking terms. In fact, they'd been friends even after their divorce. But this seemed above and beyond what a friendship called for. Joe couldn't help but notice one other wrinkle that made things different.
"Where's the kid?" he asked, motioning to the spot that their daughter Lizzie would have occupied if she didn't come running to him.
"I couldn't..." Stacy said, turning her head away. "I couldn't let her see you like you were. I never brought her here. And I didn't know how healthy you'd be even after they told me you woke up."
He guessed it hadn't been the first time. Even though they had both went their separate ways. Even though their relationship ended mainly due to his wandering eye, they never stopped loving each other. It just took on a different form now than it had.
And yet, seeing her on the verge of crying, he wanted to reach out and hold her.
He took a half-step forward and reached out, but as she turned her head back he lowered his arm. Her eyes were wet.
"I'm..." he started, not sure of what to say. "I'm sorry, Stace. I'm not gonna say I didn't know you cared but...I didn't intend to put you through this."
She gave a humorless laugh, and the tears started to flow a little more. She made up the distance and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her smaller frame against his and laying her head on his chest. All he knew to do was what he had done in the past. He laid a hand on her head and stroked her hair. It was almost like old times.
His ex-wife peeled away and then hit him in the arm. He wasn't sure if it was playful or not, because it stung.
"I've always cared, Joe, you asshole. Come on, let's talk on the way to the car."
Already discharged, he followed her out through the doors and the conversation continued through the parking lot. It was uncomfortably warm almost immediately. It didn't help that he was wearing items from the gift shop, as his bloody ring gear had been discarded. So it was sweatpants and a hospital hoodie or nothing. And in the dry humidity of Reno, that was not advisable.
"I knew you cared," he said, breaking the silence after they had made it away from prying ears. "I just didn't expect tears and staying with me, not knowing if I would wake up."
"Someone had to," Stacy said, trying to hide any sort of emotion in her voice. She wasn't doing a very good job of it. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, always did. You always knew where she stood on a particular subject or person. And she always held a certain amount of disdain for her replacement.
"Trent told me that you were there for a couple of weeks straight."
She nodded. "Yes, and Lizzie had a great time at her aunt's, asking her when she was gonna get to see her Daddy again."
"Does she know?"
They made it to a little rent-a-car that she had picked up from the airport. She shook her head as she reached into her purse for the keys.
"No, she thinks you were away for work. I'm not letting you do to her what you did to me."
He frowned, but said nothing. Instead, he moved around to the passenger side and gripped the handle, pulling the door ajar. But before he opened it all the way, he rested his arm on the roof, not realizing how hot it was until it scorched his arm. She saw this and laughed.
"Dumbass," she said. She was mad, but obviously not that mad. Joe chucked back, before getting serious. Wrestling was, after all, one of the driving wedges that split them apart. And here she was, cleaning up after his mess again, thanks to wrestling. The one thing in his life he just couldn't give up, even now at 45.
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "You don't deserve anything that I've put you through. And this whole thing, the coma, who showed up and who didn't...it's really been putting things into perspective."
They both got in the car, but Stacy made no effort to start the ignition.
"For me too," she said softly.
He didn't reply, but his eyebrow did raise. He wasn't exactly sure where he was going with it. Was she going to demand custody of their kid? Was she going to tell him to give up wrestling if he wants to remain in her life?
"You're addicted," she added. "You're addicted to wrestling. You've got all the same signs I did with my painkillers, right down to nearly dying. And just like you didn't leave my side...I think I kind of have to stay by yours."
"Stace, you don't have..."
She held up a hand. "Please let me finish, because I've been repeating this in my head since I left the airport and I want to get it right."
He shut up and nodded. He didn't really want to argue her point, because it was true. He was pushing himself beyond his limits for a sport that he'd loved since he was a child. And he very nearly lived every wrestler's dream by dying in the ring.
"Someone has to look out for you, because you won't do it yourself. And I think...I think I want to anyway. Watching you so close to death...it kind of made that other stuff wash away, I don't know."
She didn't need to say much else, because he was starting to put together what she meant. She turned the key and the car sputtered to life, as they drove out of the parking lot. As they hit the exit, he smiled to himself.
"So, are you trying to say you like me?"
She had no answer for that, and the two of them simply laughed.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
August 3, 2021
He had been bothered that she hadn't even visited him while in his coma. And Joe had asked around. No one had seen a single platinum blonde hair from her head come into the hospital in Reno. Not a phone call. Not even a mention on social media.
Joe could have died and Lucy Wylde, for all intents and purposes, wouldn't have cared.
He supposed that she was well within her rights. She had, after all, been the one to end the relationship. She moved out of the condo they shared (which was hers to begin with) and moved on to whatever it was she moved onto. She had no obligation to see him. He knew that, and that was fine.
What wasn't fine was telling him in a 'Dear John' letter that she was doing this for his benefit somehow. He knew it was bullshit then, and he had that cemented when he learned how close he was to dying and how she hadn't bothered to check on him. It was the way she had trashed him online to anyone that would pay attention later.
And when he woke up, he had a long time to think about who she really was and decided he probably dodged two bullets that summer.
That became even more apparent on the day he was finally discharged from the hospital.
Joe and Trent had been watching old matches, relieving the glory days of OWF and NLW. JC in particular noted the first victory he took from Will Prydor, a tainted one but he would go on to earn real victories.
After Trent and Joe said their goodbyes, a nurse finally informed him that he was leaving, and that someone had come to pick him up. He refused a wheelchair, even though his legs were weak and that was standard, and walked to the entrance and a familiar face greeted him.
"Hey Joe," his ex-wife, Stacy, said as she stood there, writing a hospital flyer she likely didn't even need.
"You flew all the way here just to get me?" He said, shocked.
She nodded. She seemed just as nervous to see him as he was surprised to see her. It's not like they hadn't been on speaking terms. In fact, they'd been friends even after their divorce. But this seemed above and beyond what a friendship called for. Joe couldn't help but notice one other wrinkle that made things different.
"Where's the kid?" he asked, motioning to the spot that their daughter Lizzie would have occupied if she didn't come running to him.
"I couldn't..." Stacy said, turning her head away. "I couldn't let her see you like you were. I never brought her here. And I didn't know how healthy you'd be even after they told me you woke up."
He guessed it hadn't been the first time. Even though they had both went their separate ways. Even though their relationship ended mainly due to his wandering eye, they never stopped loving each other. It just took on a different form now than it had.
And yet, seeing her on the verge of crying, he wanted to reach out and hold her.
He took a half-step forward and reached out, but as she turned her head back he lowered his arm. Her eyes were wet.
"I'm..." he started, not sure of what to say. "I'm sorry, Stace. I'm not gonna say I didn't know you cared but...I didn't intend to put you through this."
She gave a humorless laugh, and the tears started to flow a little more. She made up the distance and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her smaller frame against his and laying her head on his chest. All he knew to do was what he had done in the past. He laid a hand on her head and stroked her hair. It was almost like old times.
His ex-wife peeled away and then hit him in the arm. He wasn't sure if it was playful or not, because it stung.
"I've always cared, Joe, you asshole. Come on, let's talk on the way to the car."
Already discharged, he followed her out through the doors and the conversation continued through the parking lot. It was uncomfortably warm almost immediately. It didn't help that he was wearing items from the gift shop, as his bloody ring gear had been discarded. So it was sweatpants and a hospital hoodie or nothing. And in the dry humidity of Reno, that was not advisable.
"I knew you cared," he said, breaking the silence after they had made it away from prying ears. "I just didn't expect tears and staying with me, not knowing if I would wake up."
"Someone had to," Stacy said, trying to hide any sort of emotion in her voice. She wasn't doing a very good job of it. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, always did. You always knew where she stood on a particular subject or person. And she always held a certain amount of disdain for her replacement.
"Trent told me that you were there for a couple of weeks straight."
She nodded. "Yes, and Lizzie had a great time at her aunt's, asking her when she was gonna get to see her Daddy again."
"Does she know?"
They made it to a little rent-a-car that she had picked up from the airport. She shook her head as she reached into her purse for the keys.
"No, she thinks you were away for work. I'm not letting you do to her what you did to me."
He frowned, but said nothing. Instead, he moved around to the passenger side and gripped the handle, pulling the door ajar. But before he opened it all the way, he rested his arm on the roof, not realizing how hot it was until it scorched his arm. She saw this and laughed.
"Dumbass," she said. She was mad, but obviously not that mad. Joe chucked back, before getting serious. Wrestling was, after all, one of the driving wedges that split them apart. And here she was, cleaning up after his mess again, thanks to wrestling. The one thing in his life he just couldn't give up, even now at 45.
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "You don't deserve anything that I've put you through. And this whole thing, the coma, who showed up and who didn't...it's really been putting things into perspective."
They both got in the car, but Stacy made no effort to start the ignition.
"For me too," she said softly.
He didn't reply, but his eyebrow did raise. He wasn't exactly sure where he was going with it. Was she going to demand custody of their kid? Was she going to tell him to give up wrestling if he wants to remain in her life?
"You're addicted," she added. "You're addicted to wrestling. You've got all the same signs I did with my painkillers, right down to nearly dying. And just like you didn't leave my side...I think I kind of have to stay by yours."
"Stace, you don't have..."
She held up a hand. "Please let me finish, because I've been repeating this in my head since I left the airport and I want to get it right."
He shut up and nodded. He didn't really want to argue her point, because it was true. He was pushing himself beyond his limits for a sport that he'd loved since he was a child. And he very nearly lived every wrestler's dream by dying in the ring.
"Someone has to look out for you, because you won't do it yourself. And I think...I think I want to anyway. Watching you so close to death...it kind of made that other stuff wash away, I don't know."
She didn't need to say much else, because he was starting to put together what she meant. She turned the key and the car sputtered to life, as they drove out of the parking lot. As they hit the exit, he smiled to himself.
"So, are you trying to say you like me?"
She had no answer for that, and the two of them simply laughed.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Doctor Doctor, gimme the news
I got a bad case of loving you
I got a bad case of loving you
No pill's gonna cure my ill
I got a bad case of loving you
I got a bad case of loving you
"I don't know Brandon Hendrix."
JC stood in an empty parking lot, under a lone light, pacing. The glint of the orange light occasionally caught his mask, clutched firmly in his hand by the hair. He was dressed as close to 'the nines' as he could be, as it seemed he was on his way to something before he decided to speak his mind for this upcoming show.
"And frankly, I don't think he knows me. If he knew of my pedigree, he wouldn't saddle me with a masked wannabe second from the bottom on this big show of his. Or maybe he would. I don't know what goes through the mind of wrestlers these days. Maybe it's a generational thing. But back in my day, we showed respect to those who came before us."
He smirked a little, then chuckled. The light flickered, briefly enveloping him in darkness. When he was back in the light, his grin was bigger.
"Of course back in my day, we'd annihilate people who used the phrase 'back in my day'."
The light flickered again, and he simply walked out of it, moving to another light. The smile never left his face. A smile guaranteed to give nightmares to those familiar with what he did in the ring.
The light flickered again, and he simply walked out of it, moving to another light. The smile never left his face. A smile guaranteed to give nightmares to those familiar with what he did in the ring.
"And it doesn't matter anyway, right? It's for a good cause. An exhibition match on an exhibition card in an effort to say 'fuck addiction.' That's a worthy cause. Celebrating a man's sobriety is a worthy cause, because quite frankly, he's a stronger man than I. Because I am hopelessly addicted to pro wrestling, and I'm way past the point of an intervention. Besides, an intervention only works if the person wants help, and I do not. So good on you, Brandon. Good on you for making this event and good on everyone that actually showed up because this is a worthy cause. A righteous cause."
The Bogeyman nodded as he did so, his smile dissipating for a more solemn look.
"And I would never belittle something like that. Everyone's got their demons. I have my own, and I have what are probably ineffective ways of dealing with it. You see, I battle mental illness. Every day. And the healthiest option for a psychotic like me is a strict medication regimen, rigorous therapy and certainly, staying far away from a platform where I could damage others."
He started to grin again. He'd giggle, openly, if the urge struck him. But for now it hadn't.
"As the late Meat Loaf once sang, 'two out of three ain't bad.' Because I shouldn't be in wrestling, and yet here I am, delivering a brand of cruelty that sets me apart from all the pretend monsters out there. I am truly an abomination worthy of Lovecraftian lore. An Old One in the world of wrestling, lurching out of the depths to claim new victims whenever the rituals must be performed. I don't call myself a monster. I don't claim to eat people or drink their blood or whatever edgy, 2000s-era e-fed character might say."
JC shook his head to reiterate his point and then donned his mask. Or rather, put on his true face. The face of this monstrous persona he created to channel his violent urges.
"I don't say anything, folks. I simply do. I break bones. I stomp faces. I throw people with reckless abandon. JC, The Bogeyman, is strong style personified. He is the writing on the wall. The whisper in the locker room. I am the tall tale young rookies only speak about in hushed tones. And now, I find myself against someone that might as well be a rookie. Hell, she's a relative innocent, and after this match, I will have shed innocent blood."
Knowing exactly what he was doing, he ripped the mask off his face halfway to expose his Cheshire Cat grin.
"But what's blood for, if not for shedding? Nocturne, let's get one thing straight. I am better than you. I'm not going to sit here and blow smoke up you ass because we both know it. More importantly, I'm braver than you are. You think simply walking up to me makes you brave? You know what I did to Will Prydor, and he's my fucking friend. Imagine what I'll do to you, someone I don't know."
JC then pulled the mask all the way off, showing his face again, his teeth bared.
"I wear a mask every day. This face? This is my mask. The item in my hand is my true face. The Bogeyman is who I am. You? You wear a mask to hide your identity. You go out there and take loss after loss and then slink back into the shadows, anonymous. Because you don't have the guts to go out there and take a pinfall, knowing it was you that lost. 'Nocturne' lost. But not you. That's cowardice. At least if I were to somehow lose to you, it would be me doing it. And hell, maybe you do get lucky. It wouldn't be the first time you pinned a psychotic and shocked the world."
The smile returned for a final time.
"But you'd better hope you have more than enough luck to banish me. I am not an ordinary opponent. I am brutality given form. I am going to do things to you that you'll feel fifteen years from now when the weather is perhaps just a little too cold and those joints scream at you for crimes you committed in your youth.
I am JC, Nocturne.
And JC kills."
The Bogeyman nodded as he did so, his smile dissipating for a more solemn look.
"And I would never belittle something like that. Everyone's got their demons. I have my own, and I have what are probably ineffective ways of dealing with it. You see, I battle mental illness. Every day. And the healthiest option for a psychotic like me is a strict medication regimen, rigorous therapy and certainly, staying far away from a platform where I could damage others."
He started to grin again. He'd giggle, openly, if the urge struck him. But for now it hadn't.
"As the late Meat Loaf once sang, 'two out of three ain't bad.' Because I shouldn't be in wrestling, and yet here I am, delivering a brand of cruelty that sets me apart from all the pretend monsters out there. I am truly an abomination worthy of Lovecraftian lore. An Old One in the world of wrestling, lurching out of the depths to claim new victims whenever the rituals must be performed. I don't call myself a monster. I don't claim to eat people or drink their blood or whatever edgy, 2000s-era e-fed character might say."
JC shook his head to reiterate his point and then donned his mask. Or rather, put on his true face. The face of this monstrous persona he created to channel his violent urges.
"I don't say anything, folks. I simply do. I break bones. I stomp faces. I throw people with reckless abandon. JC, The Bogeyman, is strong style personified. He is the writing on the wall. The whisper in the locker room. I am the tall tale young rookies only speak about in hushed tones. And now, I find myself against someone that might as well be a rookie. Hell, she's a relative innocent, and after this match, I will have shed innocent blood."
Knowing exactly what he was doing, he ripped the mask off his face halfway to expose his Cheshire Cat grin.
"But what's blood for, if not for shedding? Nocturne, let's get one thing straight. I am better than you. I'm not going to sit here and blow smoke up you ass because we both know it. More importantly, I'm braver than you are. You think simply walking up to me makes you brave? You know what I did to Will Prydor, and he's my fucking friend. Imagine what I'll do to you, someone I don't know."
JC then pulled the mask all the way off, showing his face again, his teeth bared.
"I wear a mask every day. This face? This is my mask. The item in my hand is my true face. The Bogeyman is who I am. You? You wear a mask to hide your identity. You go out there and take loss after loss and then slink back into the shadows, anonymous. Because you don't have the guts to go out there and take a pinfall, knowing it was you that lost. 'Nocturne' lost. But not you. That's cowardice. At least if I were to somehow lose to you, it would be me doing it. And hell, maybe you do get lucky. It wouldn't be the first time you pinned a psychotic and shocked the world."
The smile returned for a final time.
"But you'd better hope you have more than enough luck to banish me. I am not an ordinary opponent. I am brutality given form. I am going to do things to you that you'll feel fifteen years from now when the weather is perhaps just a little too cold and those joints scream at you for crimes you committed in your youth.
I am JC, Nocturne.
And JC kills."
