Post by markflynn on Sept 24, 2022 11:47:46 GMT -5
BLAM! A blue duffel bag is dropped on the front desk of the Velvet Rabbit. A cup full of pens, a welcome placard, a return box full of hotel keycards are all knocked to the floor.
“CHECK IN!” An agitated voice screeches.
DING DING DING DING, his fingertips rapidly tap against the bell, pretty much the only object he didn’t knock off the counter.
…A disinterested middle-aged womansteps out form behind a door. in a polo shirt, with the Velvet Rabbit logo emblazoned on the front… Just below the logo, pinned to her shirt, is a laminated nametag, reading ‘Kathy’.
"TODAY MAYBE. LET'S GET THE FUCKING LEAD OUT."
DING DING DING DING.
Despite the constant dinging of the bell and the verbal admonishing, Kathy doesn’t move an iota faster than she needs to. Before calmly sitting at the front desk.
She taps the spacebar. Her computer comes to life.
DING DING DI-
Kathy slips the bell off the front desk and tucks it into a drawer.
Finally, she looks at the angry gremlin man standing before, in a suit and sunglasses.
“Room number?”
“Whatever room The VIP Suite is.”
“Name?”
“Mark. Flynn.”
Kathy’s fingers rapidly skitter across the keyboard. Windows and tabs flash across the screen.
This movement doesn’t assuage Flynn’s temper.
“Goddamn Page.” He mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m his fucking star client. THE WINNER OF THE CANNABIS FUCKING CUP. THE BEST WRESTLER IN THE WORLD. And what does he do? He books the first show of his fucking REBOOT… THE NIGHT AFTER RELENTLESS.”
Flynn scoffs, in disbelief. People checking in around him, stare awkwardly. That doesn’t even make him an ounce more self-aware. “My first time headlining the biggest event in wrestling. THE BIGGEST MATCH OF MY LIFE! And I don’t even get to enjoy it. I CAN’T EVEN STICK AROUND FOR THE AFTER-PARTY.”
Flynn shakes his head, his fists tight thinking about it. “Nope. Roll out of the ring, run backstage, stuff my shit into the nearest bag. Hop on a greyhound bus, sit seven hours next to a screaming child, and a man blasting music out of his cellphone WITHOUT HEADPHONES… To get to Las Vegas. The fucking WORST CITY IN AMERICA.”
Kathy continues to only engage with this asshole by doing the bare minimum required by her employment.
“Identification, please.”
Flynn exhales, testily, shuffling his hand into his pocket. He hands over his ID.
“Well, I’m here. At least, I’m through the worst of it.”
Kathy looks down at the card. Up at the screen. Down at the card. Up at the screen.
“Sir, your name doesn’t match the reservation.”
…
“Fucking. EXCUSE ME.”
Kathy flips the screen around…
Mark sees a picture of his face…
The VIP Suite.
…
And the name ‘Matt Flynn’.
***
Several Weeks Earlier…
Page is watching television on his 96-inch television. Lounging across his couch like an Egyptian Prince.
Charlie Nickles cut a promo… Where he calls Mark ‘Matt’.
Page draws a blunt towards his mouth.
“Oh Shit, is his name actually Matt? I've been calling him Mark this whole time.. Embarrassing. Shoulda corrected me…”
Page inhales. Exhales smoke.
He reaches toward the coffee table and grabs his laptop…
“I’d better fix his reservation… Also, I should re-write his Birthday card...”
...Page picks up a card with a cat hanging on a tree.
"To MY Favorite Client. Way to HANG in there. Happy Birthday, Matt..."
...
"Wait, it's September... His birthday was in June...
...
Page crosses out 'Happy birthday' and writes 'Merry Christmas'.
"Perfect." He smiles, sipping out of a coffee mug that says "World's Best Agent".
***
…Flynn grunts angrily.
“It’s a typo. Call your boss.”
“Sir, it’s company policy to only admit guests after they’ve provided identification matching the name of the reservation.”
Flynn slides his face next to the computer.
“It’s me. You can see that, right? THIS IS A PICTURE OF ME.”
Flynn points up from under his chin. “MY FACE.”
He points at the screen. “MY FACE. IT'S THE EXACT SAME FACE.”
“...Sir, it’s company policy t-”
“LOOK!” Flynn slams his index finger down on the ID.
“My name is MARK FLYNN.”
“Uh huh.”
“And the name on the reservation is MATT FLYNN.”
“Yes, it is.”
“These names sure seem similar, don’t you think?”
“Sure.”
“So, don’t you think it’s possible that there was a clerical error when booking the reservation entering the name?”
“Yeah, that’d make sense to me.”
“...”
“...”
“So? Give me the room.”
Kathy pushes the ID card back across the desk. “Sir, it’s company pol-”
“GODDAMMIT. CALL YOUR BOSS. RIGHT FUCKING NOW.” Flynn grits his teeth, shaking with rage.
Kathy is unmoved.
“Sir, it’s against company policy for the corporate office to make reservation changes the day-of a reservation. If you’d like, you can call the person who made your reservation and get him to correct it.”
…Flynn quakes in indignant rage.
“MY BOSS IS YOUR BOSS. THE GUY THAT OWNS HALF THIS FUCKING DEN OF DEBAUCHERY OWNS THE WRESTLING COMPANY THAT BOOKED MY ROOM.”
“Sir, you’ll have to be much more specific. A lot of people own stakes in the Velvet Rabbit. Many of them affiliated with the sports entertainment industry.”
“NOT ALL OF THEM HAVE A VELVET FUCKING PAINTING HANGING IN YOUR LOBBY!” Flynn says, shoving his hand above the revolving door entrance.
…Indeed, hanging above the families wheeling in luggage carts… Is a Velvet Painting of Chronic Chris Page, shirtlessly riding a horse.
…Despite Flynn’s wild gesticulation, Kathy doesn’t even tilt her neck to check the painting against Flynn’s claims.
“...Sir, there are other people in line. If this interaction continues, I will have to call security.”
…Flynn exhales.
He scoops his duffel bag off the front desk.
He stares at the nametag, brimming with rage. He points threateningly at Kathy’s nose.
“There’s not a world where I forget your name…”
…
…Flynn double-checks the nametag
“Kathy.”
Flynn backs away, still angrily pointing.
“That’s my aim, sir. Memorable customer service.” Kathy says, emotionlessly.
***
…Flynn jogs across the highway dividing the beautiful, glowing, neon-Velvet Rabbit… so vivid in color that it draws the eye in the daytime.
…
To the dilapidated Motel-6 across the street.
He jogs across a parking lot with security cameras, chain-link barbed wire fencing.
Honestly, he has more close calls getting nearly hit by cars in Motel 6 parking lot than he did sprinting across the Vegas Highway.
And that’s saying something.
***
The door to Room 221 kicks open.
“GOD DAMMIT. Finally.”
A blue duffel bag flies through the air, landing with a thud on the bed.
“For Fuck’s fske, I haven’t been in Vegas for more than a half-hour and I already feel filthy. I gotta wash my hands…”
Flynn pulls open the bathroom door. Flips the faucet. Rinsing… Scrubbing fiendishly.
“I haven’t even been NEAR a strip club…” Flynn mutters angrily, “How did these hands get covered in glitter?”
“Hey, Flynn! Up here!”
Surprised, Flynn glances upwards and sees…
Himself in the mirror.
Looking at him. Tapping his foot impatiently.
“Flynn, this opportunity is huge for you! You gotta get your shit together. We gotta plan out a strategy for your match tonight.”
…Flynn blinks. He rubs his eyes…
…Nope, mirror-Flynn is still there.
“Okay… I might be sleep-deprived… Or… having a rage-induced psychoactive episode…”
“Well, whatever it is, put a bandaid on it! We don’t have time for your FEELINGS. You’ve got a big match tomorrow.”
“...Wait, you mean Monday Night Brawl?” …Flynn scoffs. “…Psssssh. I’ve beaten ol’ Vaughn-Vaughn like four times now. That match is in the bag.”
Mirror-Flynn shakes his head. “Maybe a few months ago! But, now, Peter Vaughn has turned over a new leaf. The War Criminal calling him a coward has inspired him to dig deeper. He now insists on battling without fear. Without surrender.”
Flynn exhales, rubbing his temples… “Goddammit, NK. Even post mortem, you’re causing problems for me…”
“Against this new-thinking Vaughn, the battle begins anew… You’re basically starting from scratch.”
Flynn frowns.
“...All right, fine. IF what you say is true… It can't hurt to prep. What should I do… me?”
“There is only one way to maintain your supremacy over Peter Vaughn. To defeat the Janitor… You must become a janitor.”
…
“Sorry. What?”
***
Flynn stares down at the speckled, gray carpet.
Beside him, is a handheld mirror with his reflection staring up expectantly.
“CREATE THE MESS.”
Flynn takes from his pocket a plastic knife… And stuffs it in a jar of strawberry jelly on the counter.
After the plastic blade is sufficiently engrossed in the jelly… He takes it… Kneels down… And strokes it into the carpet. Both sides… Just fucking rubbing that shit deeeeeeeeeeep in the fibers.
“Yes. Perfect. Your janitorial trial begins. Now! Choose your implement wisely, yet quickly… For if you fail this test… That stain will NEVER COME OUT!”
Flynn looks back to his right on the counter… He sees a bottle of Windex… A two-liter of club soda… A handheld swiffer… And a jug of vinegar…
“...Okay. Okay…”
Flynn grabs the…
His hand twitches. Wait, no. Not that.
Um… Mayb- …No.
“The clock is ticking! Time is of the essence!”
“...Wait, I got it!”
Flynn takes the… two-liter of club soda!
His fingers deftly unscrew the cap…
And he dumps out a drizzle of liquid cleaning miracle onto the jelly…
…
He gets down on his hands and knees, eyeing the condiment curiously.
“You have chosen…”
…
“POORLY!”
Suddenly, the ground shakes beneath him! The room quakes! The floor splits open!
The Stain… Grows…
Expanding in every direction… It takes up every inch of the floor!
Flynn crawls up the drawer and scampers up the counter!
Flynn looks shocked! He eyes the mirror! “But… Wait! Club soda will clean-up just about anything!”
“For stains made of basic compounds, you fool! Jelly is an acid! A 5.5 Ph!”
The jelly crawls up the walls…
The jelly on the walls begins to twist and turn, like the tentacles of a great beast of the sea!
The massive stain… grows a mouth!
IT ROARS!
“Oh shit!” Flynn ducks behind the cabinet, as jelly is flung across the room!
The jelly flies over Flynn’s head and into the built-in refrigerator! It melts like it’s being dissolved by acid.
“Which it is. As we’ve mentioned before, je-”
“SHUT UP!”
Flynn forward-rolls, scooping the… jug of vinegar off the counter.
His twitching fingers wrap around the cap… Unscrewing it!
…He heaves it forth…
…
Nothing comes out.
Flynn checks the top of the jug.
“...Goddammit, stupid plastic seal.”
The jelly creature howls, undulating its every liquidy-solid limb as Flynn punches his knuckle through the plastic seal…
FLYNN GRABS THE JUG BY THE BOTTOM AND FLINGS LIQUID VINEGAR AT THE CREATURE…
“You have chosen…”
…
“WISELY!”
The vinegar splashes against the jellified monster! It screeches in the most profound agony! Its tentacles recede like the calming of a raging storm…
The center mass of the jelly monster contorts, wriggling, crying… AS IT EXPLODES!
***
Flynn sits exhausted on the couch, breathing heavily… A television remote sitting on his chest.
Next to him, he’s perched the mirror in the corner of the couch, catching his reflection.
The room is just fucking DRENCHED in strawberry jelly residue.
“...So. Fuck, janitors have it rough, huh? Cleaning shit is hard.”
“...Yeah.” The mirror replies. “This was my idea, and even I didn’t think it’d be this difficult…”
Jelly on the ceiling. Jelly on the walls. Jelly on the bed.
Jelly on the corner of the TV set…
Flynn glances down at the screen…
It’s playing a TV cut of the Karate Kid.
The OG one, not the Jaden Smith version…
…Flynn leans forward watching as Mister Miyagi forces a teenager to paint his fence and wax his car… Cleaning his property…
…CLEANING.
Flynn’s eyes widen!
“That’s it! Mirror-Me! I was a cleaning master this whole time!”
The Mirror-Flynn’s eyebrow raises perplexedly.
“Fucking, what?”
“Don’t you see? Cleaning and fighting? It’s the same skill set! The same motions! Just like Daniel-San learned fighting by cleaning Mister Miyagi’s stuff, I MUST HAVE MASTERED CLEANING BY BEING A MUCH BETTER FIGHTER THAN PETER VAUGHN.”
…Mirror-Flynn is a stress-induced hallucination… And even he’s not buying this.
“I dunno, man. I think that might only work one way…”
Flynn forward-rolls off the couch!
He grapples a strand of the carpet completely doused in jelly! He latches onto its fibers, like he was clinging into a wristlock! He tightens his grip around the base, like he were isolating the shoulder joint… And he runs a wet wipe along the length of the fiber!
He’s Fujiwara-Armbaring the carpet fiber!
And afterwards, it looks immaculate! Spotless even!
…Mirror-Flynn is astonished.
“Holy hell! Wow! I guess you’re right! Flynn, You truly are a master of cleaning!”
Flynn pumps his fist triumphantly.
“Hell fuckin’ yeah, I am.”
Mirror-Flynn delivers a thumbs up. “Well done! I guess the only left to do now is clean the rest of the motel room.”
…
Flynn looks around, at the remainder of the Motel 6 space. Each inch of wall caked in jelly.
…
“...Yeeeeeeeeeah. Yeah, for sure. We could do that.”
…
“Ooooooooooor.”
***
Daniel-San is limping on one foot… The referee asking him if he wants to continue…
Johnny paces on the mat as his sensei watches, eager for him to finish the job.
Flynn has a bowl of cheddar popcorn on his lap. He scoops out of the bowl a smaller cup of popcorn, which he sets next to the Mirror.
“Goddammit, I love this movie so much. This is, like, Top 5 films of all-time. I could never get NK to watch it.”
The Mirror-Flynn squints curiously. “Yeah, it’s been really good. I’ve never seen it before.”
“...What are you talking about? Yes, we have. We watch this movie all the fuckin’ time.”
“You have, I’m not real.”
“...Oh, yeah. Guess you’re right. I forgot that you’re not actually my reflection… You’re like a… stress thing.”
“Yep.”
…
“So, if you’re not me-me. Do you have, like, memories of your own, or how does that work?”
“Well, y’know, that’s an interesting question. You see, I f-”
“Wait, hold on, just a sec.”
…
“GET HIM A BODY BAG, YEEEEEEEEEAH… Haha…” Flynn says in synch with the villainous sidekick in the film.
“...”
“Okay, sorry, what were you saying?”
Mirror-Flynn scratches his scalp. “...Y’know what, I don’t remember.”
Flynn shrugs. He takes a popcorn kernel and dunks it into a bit of jelly sitting on the arm of the couch.
The Mirror-Flynn tries to reach into the cup… Unfortunately, his hands bounces off the glass.
Suddenly, there’s a knock on the hotel door.
“Excuse me, sir! Housekeeping and Management! We need to inspect the space!”
The door beeps… The lock twists…
“Sorry, sir, this will just take a second! We’ve been getting reports from guests about a sudden influx of ants… Like, everywhere. And people on the second floor have reported a strawberry smell coming from this hal- GOOD GOD, WHAT THE FUCK?”
The property manager retches disgusted at the room, filled to the brim with jelly stains…
The window is open, the curtains blowing in the breeze.
…And the mirror has been stolen from the bathroom.
***
Ha ha, Goddamn, Vaughnie.
We gotta stop meeting like this.
For some reason, our mutual friend is convinced that this is the way to kick off the big return show for his magnum opus.
The Reboot of WGWF.
…See, Vaughnie. That might not mean so much to you.
You’re young. And it’s become apparent to me that kids like you and Kido…
Don’t bother to teach themselves the history of this business.
See, XWF is the pinnacle. THE BIG TIME. THE FUCKING TOP.
The XWF is where raw talent gets FORGED into ABILITY.
Where promise is realized.
Where men ascend into LEGEND.
…But where do they go after they’ve ascended to this legendary status?
The WGWF seems like. The home of XWF Legends, continuing to perfect their craft to the peak of human capacity.
Where masters meet and elevate their game even further above the rest of the field...
Tristan Slater and I invaded this place 10 long years ago. For the purpose of waging war on behalf of the XWF.
But, if I’m being honest… It was surreal.
You can watch staticy gametape of legends… Guys like James Raven, Raziel, Christian Connolly… The people that advanced this sport to its PEAK. You walk through the XWF Hall of Fame… And you see pictures and newspaper clippings, like these guys are mythical creatures, only caught in grainy photographs by obsessed fans…
And then, you turn a corner to get to catering… And there they are.
Your fuckin’ heroes.
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Talking shop, trading pointers…
God, my heart is pounding thinking about being that close to fucking icons…
The WGWF is the wrestling equivalent of the Elysian Fields. Mount O-FUCKING-Lympus.
Where the greatest competitors gather to elevate the sport beyond the heights that our imaginations can conceive.
…
So… With that in mind.
What the FUCK are YOU doing here, Vaughn-Vaughn?
First off. Hey, Page. Probably not a great idea to debut your program with a match wrestling fans have seen THREE FUCKING TIMES.
‘I better TiVo this one! Can Mark Flynn find it in himself to beat Peter Vaughn? A man he’s decimated on THREE SEPARATE OCCASIONS?
Singles match? Warfare, December 15th, 2021. Beat Peter Vaughn.
Trios match? Denzel Porter Invitational, Day One, February 25th, 2022. Beat Peter Vaughn.
Tag match? Warfare, June 8th, 2022. Beat Peter Vaughn.
Hell, I can even beat Peter Vaughn without wrestling Peter Vaughn. I just took on a coaching role, consulting my… former partner... the North Korean War Criminal.
WarGames? His team didn’t just beat your team. They DESTROYED Peter Vaughn’s squad.
And if NK hadn’t called you a coward. It would have been a CLEAN SWEEP.
…Now. Lemme be clear.
I don’t dislike you, Vaughnie. Truly. I’ve said it a number of times. I see flashes of myself in you.
…Admittedly, a dumber, less-capable me.
But, I see a kindred spirit. Someone willing to grab the wrestling world by the throat and choke the life out of it until it accepted him.
And let’s get the obvious out of the way.
Yes. Peter Vaughn is a FOUR-TIME World Champion.
…Let’s review those world titles, though, shall we?
ThunderPro Wrestling? Minor League Company. Dead.
Pro Wrestling Valor? Basically an organized rec-league. Dead. Looking for new management.
Online Championship Wrestling? …Y’know what. Skip. Not gonna touch that shit. Not with a fifty-foot pole.
And finally, the X-Treme Wrestling Federation? The most legit world championship you have laid claim to.
…Unfortunately, you won it while the reigning champ was amidst a psychotic breakdown.
And he only won the belt because he’d cashed in a 24/7 briefcase.
You pretty much fell ass backwards into every major accomplishment to date.
Even the Supercontinental belt around your waist? Corey Smith took his ball and went home after destroying the entire SuperContinental division. And you just cruised over Mac Bane to win.
Your title defenses have been against the mid-tier quality competition of Ned Kaye and CALYPSO TWICE.
…
See, Vaughnie. Are you highly decorated? Undeniably.
You’ve got four world championships (of varying quality) on your mantle.
But, have you silenced a single critic? Is there much of an argument you belong at the top echelon of the wrestling world?
No.
How do you do against GOATs? POORLY.
You failed to beat James Raven.
You couldn’t hold a candle to Alias.
Hell, I’m a dark-hose GOAT pick that only Dolly Waters seem to back… And you lost to me on THREE DIFFERENT OCCASIONS.
(Four if we count coaching)
((I do.))
And here you stand, at the precipice of signing on with your… at least fifth(?) wrestling company in the last year.
But this isn’t Pro Wrestling Valor, Vaughnie, m’boy.
This isn’t Thunder Pro Wrestling.
This isn’t beer-league, slow-pitch, whatever the fuck low-effort amateur hour where you’ve racked up your quote unquote WORLD TITLES.
…This is WGWF.
This is where legends rise to the status of Gods.
Where the ink of wrestling accomplishment dries into PERMANENT LEGACY.
And Vaughnie?
You just don’t stack up.
And I plan to demonstrate that. For the fifth straight time.
I plan on twisting your arm to the canvas, pressing your joint flat. And stomping your shoulder blade until your fucking arm pops off.
I plan on breaking you.
This is the first-ever match for the fledging WGWF World Championship Division.
A division I plan on making a one-man operation.
So, Vaughie?
Vaughn-Vaughn?
Vaughnaroo?
As your friend.
As your former tag-team partner.
As the realization of everything you hope to be.
…I’d recommend skipping this week.
Stay home.
Tidy up the house like the janitor that you are.
Because otherwise.
I’ll spend Monday Night Brawl wiping the floor with you.
…
I bet you think your new attitude will be the trick.
That my partner will have given you the secret ingredient to pull one over on ol’ Flynn.
The same partner, you’ll recall, who I threw into a fucking electrical box.
Whose career I ended in one move.
…NK could have stayed cowardly. And remained at my beck and call.
But he chose to stick his neck out above the tall grass.
…And I took his head. Clean off.
…
Sometimes, Vaughnie.
Being cowardly is correct.
Because throwing yourself into battle?
With a superior fore?
And refusing to retreat.
It’s a good way to wind up…
In a body bag.
…
Yeeeeeeeeeeeeah.
“CHECK IN!” An agitated voice screeches.
DING DING DING DING, his fingertips rapidly tap against the bell, pretty much the only object he didn’t knock off the counter.
…A disinterested middle-aged womansteps out form behind a door. in a polo shirt, with the Velvet Rabbit logo emblazoned on the front… Just below the logo, pinned to her shirt, is a laminated nametag, reading ‘Kathy’.
"TODAY MAYBE. LET'S GET THE FUCKING LEAD OUT."
DING DING DING DING.
Despite the constant dinging of the bell and the verbal admonishing, Kathy doesn’t move an iota faster than she needs to. Before calmly sitting at the front desk.
She taps the spacebar. Her computer comes to life.
DING DING DI-
Kathy slips the bell off the front desk and tucks it into a drawer.
Finally, she looks at the angry gremlin man standing before, in a suit and sunglasses.
“Room number?”
“Whatever room The VIP Suite is.”
“Name?”
“Mark. Flynn.”
Kathy’s fingers rapidly skitter across the keyboard. Windows and tabs flash across the screen.
This movement doesn’t assuage Flynn’s temper.
“Goddamn Page.” He mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m his fucking star client. THE WINNER OF THE CANNABIS FUCKING CUP. THE BEST WRESTLER IN THE WORLD. And what does he do? He books the first show of his fucking REBOOT… THE NIGHT AFTER RELENTLESS.”
Flynn scoffs, in disbelief. People checking in around him, stare awkwardly. That doesn’t even make him an ounce more self-aware. “My first time headlining the biggest event in wrestling. THE BIGGEST MATCH OF MY LIFE! And I don’t even get to enjoy it. I CAN’T EVEN STICK AROUND FOR THE AFTER-PARTY.”
Flynn shakes his head, his fists tight thinking about it. “Nope. Roll out of the ring, run backstage, stuff my shit into the nearest bag. Hop on a greyhound bus, sit seven hours next to a screaming child, and a man blasting music out of his cellphone WITHOUT HEADPHONES… To get to Las Vegas. The fucking WORST CITY IN AMERICA.”
Kathy continues to only engage with this asshole by doing the bare minimum required by her employment.
“Identification, please.”
Flynn exhales, testily, shuffling his hand into his pocket. He hands over his ID.
“Well, I’m here. At least, I’m through the worst of it.”
Kathy looks down at the card. Up at the screen. Down at the card. Up at the screen.
“Sir, your name doesn’t match the reservation.”
…
“Fucking. EXCUSE ME.”
Kathy flips the screen around…
Mark sees a picture of his face…
The VIP Suite.
…
And the name ‘Matt Flynn’.
***
Several Weeks Earlier…
Page is watching television on his 96-inch television. Lounging across his couch like an Egyptian Prince.
Charlie Nickles cut a promo… Where he calls Mark ‘Matt’.
Page draws a blunt towards his mouth.
“Oh Shit, is his name actually Matt? I've been calling him Mark this whole time.. Embarrassing. Shoulda corrected me…”
Page inhales. Exhales smoke.
He reaches toward the coffee table and grabs his laptop…
“I’d better fix his reservation… Also, I should re-write his Birthday card...”
...Page picks up a card with a cat hanging on a tree.
"To MY Favorite Client. Way to HANG in there. Happy Birthday, Matt..."
...
"Wait, it's September... His birthday was in June...
...
Page crosses out 'Happy birthday' and writes 'Merry Christmas'.
"Perfect." He smiles, sipping out of a coffee mug that says "World's Best Agent".
***
…Flynn grunts angrily.
“It’s a typo. Call your boss.”
“Sir, it’s company policy to only admit guests after they’ve provided identification matching the name of the reservation.”
Flynn slides his face next to the computer.
“It’s me. You can see that, right? THIS IS A PICTURE OF ME.”
Flynn points up from under his chin. “MY FACE.”
He points at the screen. “MY FACE. IT'S THE EXACT SAME FACE.”
“...Sir, it’s company policy t-”
“LOOK!” Flynn slams his index finger down on the ID.
“My name is MARK FLYNN.”
“Uh huh.”
“And the name on the reservation is MATT FLYNN.”
“Yes, it is.”
“These names sure seem similar, don’t you think?”
“Sure.”
“So, don’t you think it’s possible that there was a clerical error when booking the reservation entering the name?”
“Yeah, that’d make sense to me.”
“...”
“...”
“So? Give me the room.”
Kathy pushes the ID card back across the desk. “Sir, it’s company pol-”
“GODDAMMIT. CALL YOUR BOSS. RIGHT FUCKING NOW.” Flynn grits his teeth, shaking with rage.
Kathy is unmoved.
“Sir, it’s against company policy for the corporate office to make reservation changes the day-of a reservation. If you’d like, you can call the person who made your reservation and get him to correct it.”
…Flynn quakes in indignant rage.
“MY BOSS IS YOUR BOSS. THE GUY THAT OWNS HALF THIS FUCKING DEN OF DEBAUCHERY OWNS THE WRESTLING COMPANY THAT BOOKED MY ROOM.”
“Sir, you’ll have to be much more specific. A lot of people own stakes in the Velvet Rabbit. Many of them affiliated with the sports entertainment industry.”
“NOT ALL OF THEM HAVE A VELVET FUCKING PAINTING HANGING IN YOUR LOBBY!” Flynn says, shoving his hand above the revolving door entrance.
…Indeed, hanging above the families wheeling in luggage carts… Is a Velvet Painting of Chronic Chris Page, shirtlessly riding a horse.
…Despite Flynn’s wild gesticulation, Kathy doesn’t even tilt her neck to check the painting against Flynn’s claims.
“...Sir, there are other people in line. If this interaction continues, I will have to call security.”
…Flynn exhales.
He scoops his duffel bag off the front desk.
He stares at the nametag, brimming with rage. He points threateningly at Kathy’s nose.
“There’s not a world where I forget your name…”
…
…Flynn double-checks the nametag
“Kathy.”
Flynn backs away, still angrily pointing.
“That’s my aim, sir. Memorable customer service.” Kathy says, emotionlessly.
***
…Flynn jogs across the highway dividing the beautiful, glowing, neon-Velvet Rabbit… so vivid in color that it draws the eye in the daytime.
…
To the dilapidated Motel-6 across the street.
He jogs across a parking lot with security cameras, chain-link barbed wire fencing.
Honestly, he has more close calls getting nearly hit by cars in Motel 6 parking lot than he did sprinting across the Vegas Highway.
And that’s saying something.
***
The door to Room 221 kicks open.
“GOD DAMMIT. Finally.”
A blue duffel bag flies through the air, landing with a thud on the bed.
“For Fuck’s fske, I haven’t been in Vegas for more than a half-hour and I already feel filthy. I gotta wash my hands…”
Flynn pulls open the bathroom door. Flips the faucet. Rinsing… Scrubbing fiendishly.
“I haven’t even been NEAR a strip club…” Flynn mutters angrily, “How did these hands get covered in glitter?”
“Hey, Flynn! Up here!”
Surprised, Flynn glances upwards and sees…
Himself in the mirror.
Looking at him. Tapping his foot impatiently.
“Flynn, this opportunity is huge for you! You gotta get your shit together. We gotta plan out a strategy for your match tonight.”
…Flynn blinks. He rubs his eyes…
…Nope, mirror-Flynn is still there.
“Okay… I might be sleep-deprived… Or… having a rage-induced psychoactive episode…”
“Well, whatever it is, put a bandaid on it! We don’t have time for your FEELINGS. You’ve got a big match tomorrow.”
“...Wait, you mean Monday Night Brawl?” …Flynn scoffs. “…Psssssh. I’ve beaten ol’ Vaughn-Vaughn like four times now. That match is in the bag.”
Mirror-Flynn shakes his head. “Maybe a few months ago! But, now, Peter Vaughn has turned over a new leaf. The War Criminal calling him a coward has inspired him to dig deeper. He now insists on battling without fear. Without surrender.”
Flynn exhales, rubbing his temples… “Goddammit, NK. Even post mortem, you’re causing problems for me…”
“Against this new-thinking Vaughn, the battle begins anew… You’re basically starting from scratch.”
Flynn frowns.
“...All right, fine. IF what you say is true… It can't hurt to prep. What should I do… me?”
“There is only one way to maintain your supremacy over Peter Vaughn. To defeat the Janitor… You must become a janitor.”
…
“Sorry. What?”
***
Flynn stares down at the speckled, gray carpet.
Beside him, is a handheld mirror with his reflection staring up expectantly.
“CREATE THE MESS.”
Flynn takes from his pocket a plastic knife… And stuffs it in a jar of strawberry jelly on the counter.
After the plastic blade is sufficiently engrossed in the jelly… He takes it… Kneels down… And strokes it into the carpet. Both sides… Just fucking rubbing that shit deeeeeeeeeeep in the fibers.
“Yes. Perfect. Your janitorial trial begins. Now! Choose your implement wisely, yet quickly… For if you fail this test… That stain will NEVER COME OUT!”
Flynn looks back to his right on the counter… He sees a bottle of Windex… A two-liter of club soda… A handheld swiffer… And a jug of vinegar…
“...Okay. Okay…”
Flynn grabs the…
His hand twitches. Wait, no. Not that.
Um… Mayb- …No.
“The clock is ticking! Time is of the essence!”
“...Wait, I got it!”
Flynn takes the… two-liter of club soda!
His fingers deftly unscrew the cap…
And he dumps out a drizzle of liquid cleaning miracle onto the jelly…
…
He gets down on his hands and knees, eyeing the condiment curiously.
“You have chosen…”
…
“POORLY!”
Suddenly, the ground shakes beneath him! The room quakes! The floor splits open!
The Stain… Grows…
Expanding in every direction… It takes up every inch of the floor!
Flynn crawls up the drawer and scampers up the counter!
Flynn looks shocked! He eyes the mirror! “But… Wait! Club soda will clean-up just about anything!”
“For stains made of basic compounds, you fool! Jelly is an acid! A 5.5 Ph!”
The jelly crawls up the walls…
The jelly on the walls begins to twist and turn, like the tentacles of a great beast of the sea!
The massive stain… grows a mouth!
IT ROARS!
“Oh shit!” Flynn ducks behind the cabinet, as jelly is flung across the room!
The jelly flies over Flynn’s head and into the built-in refrigerator! It melts like it’s being dissolved by acid.
“Which it is. As we’ve mentioned before, je-”
“SHUT UP!”
Flynn forward-rolls, scooping the… jug of vinegar off the counter.
His twitching fingers wrap around the cap… Unscrewing it!
…He heaves it forth…
…
Nothing comes out.
Flynn checks the top of the jug.
“...Goddammit, stupid plastic seal.”
The jelly creature howls, undulating its every liquidy-solid limb as Flynn punches his knuckle through the plastic seal…
FLYNN GRABS THE JUG BY THE BOTTOM AND FLINGS LIQUID VINEGAR AT THE CREATURE…
“You have chosen…”
…
“WISELY!”
The vinegar splashes against the jellified monster! It screeches in the most profound agony! Its tentacles recede like the calming of a raging storm…
The center mass of the jelly monster contorts, wriggling, crying… AS IT EXPLODES!
***
Flynn sits exhausted on the couch, breathing heavily… A television remote sitting on his chest.
Next to him, he’s perched the mirror in the corner of the couch, catching his reflection.
The room is just fucking DRENCHED in strawberry jelly residue.
“...So. Fuck, janitors have it rough, huh? Cleaning shit is hard.”
“...Yeah.” The mirror replies. “This was my idea, and even I didn’t think it’d be this difficult…”
Jelly on the ceiling. Jelly on the walls. Jelly on the bed.
Jelly on the corner of the TV set…
Flynn glances down at the screen…
It’s playing a TV cut of the Karate Kid.
The OG one, not the Jaden Smith version…
…Flynn leans forward watching as Mister Miyagi forces a teenager to paint his fence and wax his car… Cleaning his property…
…CLEANING.
Flynn’s eyes widen!
“That’s it! Mirror-Me! I was a cleaning master this whole time!”
The Mirror-Flynn’s eyebrow raises perplexedly.
“Fucking, what?”
“Don’t you see? Cleaning and fighting? It’s the same skill set! The same motions! Just like Daniel-San learned fighting by cleaning Mister Miyagi’s stuff, I MUST HAVE MASTERED CLEANING BY BEING A MUCH BETTER FIGHTER THAN PETER VAUGHN.”
…Mirror-Flynn is a stress-induced hallucination… And even he’s not buying this.
“I dunno, man. I think that might only work one way…”
Flynn forward-rolls off the couch!
He grapples a strand of the carpet completely doused in jelly! He latches onto its fibers, like he was clinging into a wristlock! He tightens his grip around the base, like he were isolating the shoulder joint… And he runs a wet wipe along the length of the fiber!
He’s Fujiwara-Armbaring the carpet fiber!
And afterwards, it looks immaculate! Spotless even!
…Mirror-Flynn is astonished.
“Holy hell! Wow! I guess you’re right! Flynn, You truly are a master of cleaning!”
Flynn pumps his fist triumphantly.
“Hell fuckin’ yeah, I am.”
Mirror-Flynn delivers a thumbs up. “Well done! I guess the only left to do now is clean the rest of the motel room.”
…
Flynn looks around, at the remainder of the Motel 6 space. Each inch of wall caked in jelly.
…
“...Yeeeeeeeeeah. Yeah, for sure. We could do that.”
…
“Ooooooooooor.”
***
Daniel-San is limping on one foot… The referee asking him if he wants to continue…
Johnny paces on the mat as his sensei watches, eager for him to finish the job.
Flynn has a bowl of cheddar popcorn on his lap. He scoops out of the bowl a smaller cup of popcorn, which he sets next to the Mirror.
“Goddammit, I love this movie so much. This is, like, Top 5 films of all-time. I could never get NK to watch it.”
The Mirror-Flynn squints curiously. “Yeah, it’s been really good. I’ve never seen it before.”
“...What are you talking about? Yes, we have. We watch this movie all the fuckin’ time.”
“You have, I’m not real.”
“...Oh, yeah. Guess you’re right. I forgot that you’re not actually my reflection… You’re like a… stress thing.”
“Yep.”
…
“So, if you’re not me-me. Do you have, like, memories of your own, or how does that work?”
“Well, y’know, that’s an interesting question. You see, I f-”
“Wait, hold on, just a sec.”
…
“GET HIM A BODY BAG, YEEEEEEEEEAH… Haha…” Flynn says in synch with the villainous sidekick in the film.
“...”
“Okay, sorry, what were you saying?”
Mirror-Flynn scratches his scalp. “...Y’know what, I don’t remember.”
Flynn shrugs. He takes a popcorn kernel and dunks it into a bit of jelly sitting on the arm of the couch.
The Mirror-Flynn tries to reach into the cup… Unfortunately, his hands bounces off the glass.
Suddenly, there’s a knock on the hotel door.
“Excuse me, sir! Housekeeping and Management! We need to inspect the space!”
The door beeps… The lock twists…
“Sorry, sir, this will just take a second! We’ve been getting reports from guests about a sudden influx of ants… Like, everywhere. And people on the second floor have reported a strawberry smell coming from this hal- GOOD GOD, WHAT THE FUCK?”
The property manager retches disgusted at the room, filled to the brim with jelly stains…
The window is open, the curtains blowing in the breeze.
…And the mirror has been stolen from the bathroom.
***
Ha ha, Goddamn, Vaughnie.
We gotta stop meeting like this.
For some reason, our mutual friend is convinced that this is the way to kick off the big return show for his magnum opus.
The Reboot of WGWF.
…See, Vaughnie. That might not mean so much to you.
You’re young. And it’s become apparent to me that kids like you and Kido…
Don’t bother to teach themselves the history of this business.
See, XWF is the pinnacle. THE BIG TIME. THE FUCKING TOP.
The XWF is where raw talent gets FORGED into ABILITY.
Where promise is realized.
Where men ascend into LEGEND.
…But where do they go after they’ve ascended to this legendary status?
The WGWF seems like. The home of XWF Legends, continuing to perfect their craft to the peak of human capacity.
Where masters meet and elevate their game even further above the rest of the field...
Tristan Slater and I invaded this place 10 long years ago. For the purpose of waging war on behalf of the XWF.
But, if I’m being honest… It was surreal.
You can watch staticy gametape of legends… Guys like James Raven, Raziel, Christian Connolly… The people that advanced this sport to its PEAK. You walk through the XWF Hall of Fame… And you see pictures and newspaper clippings, like these guys are mythical creatures, only caught in grainy photographs by obsessed fans…
And then, you turn a corner to get to catering… And there they are.
Your fuckin’ heroes.
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Talking shop, trading pointers…
God, my heart is pounding thinking about being that close to fucking icons…
The WGWF is the wrestling equivalent of the Elysian Fields. Mount O-FUCKING-Lympus.
Where the greatest competitors gather to elevate the sport beyond the heights that our imaginations can conceive.
…
So… With that in mind.
What the FUCK are YOU doing here, Vaughn-Vaughn?
First off. Hey, Page. Probably not a great idea to debut your program with a match wrestling fans have seen THREE FUCKING TIMES.
‘I better TiVo this one! Can Mark Flynn find it in himself to beat Peter Vaughn? A man he’s decimated on THREE SEPARATE OCCASIONS?
Singles match? Warfare, December 15th, 2021. Beat Peter Vaughn.
Trios match? Denzel Porter Invitational, Day One, February 25th, 2022. Beat Peter Vaughn.
Tag match? Warfare, June 8th, 2022. Beat Peter Vaughn.
Hell, I can even beat Peter Vaughn without wrestling Peter Vaughn. I just took on a coaching role, consulting my… former partner... the North Korean War Criminal.
WarGames? His team didn’t just beat your team. They DESTROYED Peter Vaughn’s squad.
And if NK hadn’t called you a coward. It would have been a CLEAN SWEEP.
…Now. Lemme be clear.
I don’t dislike you, Vaughnie. Truly. I’ve said it a number of times. I see flashes of myself in you.
…Admittedly, a dumber, less-capable me.
But, I see a kindred spirit. Someone willing to grab the wrestling world by the throat and choke the life out of it until it accepted him.
And let’s get the obvious out of the way.
Yes. Peter Vaughn is a FOUR-TIME World Champion.
…Let’s review those world titles, though, shall we?
ThunderPro Wrestling? Minor League Company. Dead.
Pro Wrestling Valor? Basically an organized rec-league. Dead. Looking for new management.
Online Championship Wrestling? …Y’know what. Skip. Not gonna touch that shit. Not with a fifty-foot pole.
And finally, the X-Treme Wrestling Federation? The most legit world championship you have laid claim to.
…Unfortunately, you won it while the reigning champ was amidst a psychotic breakdown.
And he only won the belt because he’d cashed in a 24/7 briefcase.
You pretty much fell ass backwards into every major accomplishment to date.
Even the Supercontinental belt around your waist? Corey Smith took his ball and went home after destroying the entire SuperContinental division. And you just cruised over Mac Bane to win.
Your title defenses have been against the mid-tier quality competition of Ned Kaye and CALYPSO TWICE.
…
See, Vaughnie. Are you highly decorated? Undeniably.
You’ve got four world championships (of varying quality) on your mantle.
But, have you silenced a single critic? Is there much of an argument you belong at the top echelon of the wrestling world?
No.
How do you do against GOATs? POORLY.
You failed to beat James Raven.
You couldn’t hold a candle to Alias.
Hell, I’m a dark-hose GOAT pick that only Dolly Waters seem to back… And you lost to me on THREE DIFFERENT OCCASIONS.
(Four if we count coaching)
((I do.))
And here you stand, at the precipice of signing on with your… at least fifth(?) wrestling company in the last year.
But this isn’t Pro Wrestling Valor, Vaughnie, m’boy.
This isn’t Thunder Pro Wrestling.
This isn’t beer-league, slow-pitch, whatever the fuck low-effort amateur hour where you’ve racked up your quote unquote WORLD TITLES.
…This is WGWF.
This is where legends rise to the status of Gods.
Where the ink of wrestling accomplishment dries into PERMANENT LEGACY.
And Vaughnie?
You just don’t stack up.
And I plan to demonstrate that. For the fifth straight time.
I plan on twisting your arm to the canvas, pressing your joint flat. And stomping your shoulder blade until your fucking arm pops off.
I plan on breaking you.
This is the first-ever match for the fledging WGWF World Championship Division.
A division I plan on making a one-man operation.
So, Vaughie?
Vaughn-Vaughn?
Vaughnaroo?
As your friend.
As your former tag-team partner.
As the realization of everything you hope to be.
…I’d recommend skipping this week.
Stay home.
Tidy up the house like the janitor that you are.
Because otherwise.
I’ll spend Monday Night Brawl wiping the floor with you.
…
I bet you think your new attitude will be the trick.
That my partner will have given you the secret ingredient to pull one over on ol’ Flynn.
The same partner, you’ll recall, who I threw into a fucking electrical box.
Whose career I ended in one move.
…NK could have stayed cowardly. And remained at my beck and call.
But he chose to stick his neck out above the tall grass.
…And I took his head. Clean off.
…
Sometimes, Vaughnie.
Being cowardly is correct.
Because throwing yourself into battle?
With a superior fore?
And refusing to retreat.
It’s a good way to wind up…
In a body bag.
…
Yeeeeeeeeeeeeah.