As they step into the dimly lit corridor, Montague can't help but feel a sense of unease. The air is heavy with anticipation, and each step echoes ominously. Holding a flashlight, Holden leads the way, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of personnel. Montague's heart races as he imagines what sort of threats lurk in the shadows.
Suddenly, Holden stops, his gaze fixed on one of the many heavy, steel doors lining the halls. The number “173” is clearly stenciled in large, white letters on the door.
Holden: It's an animated statue that can snap the necks of any living beings when not directly observed. It's unsettling, to say the least.
Montague raises an eyebrow, his eyes darting from the door to Holden and back again.
Holden: Shrug. That’s what it is.
Without any further explanation, the hipster turns and continues their journey. Montague steps lively to catch back up.
—
—
The contrast in styles for this match is unmistakable.
You have two creative types, known for their unorthodox fighting techniques and unpredictable shenanigans, and two straightforward types, known for routine combat and winning a lot.
Who you root for in this contest is going to depend largely on what you look for when you set out to be entertained by professional wrestling.
Do you come to see an exciting, one of a kind performance, delivered by artists who see the whole world as a stage? Are you hoping for death-defying stunts and narrow escapes? Are you desperate for something as surprising as it is intriguing?
Then you’ve ordered your Battleground ticket weeks in advance, and now you’re eagerly counting the days until your chance to see Holden Orson and Montague Cervantes!
Perhaps you’re the type who will purchase your ticket at the door, miss the opening dark matches by standing in line for watered down beer, and just wants to watch grown men punch each other for a while?
You fully expect JC and Matt Knox to retain their freshly reminted golden plates.
—
—
The next time Holden brings them up short, he shines his light on a door reading “914”.
Holden: This is one I’d love to mess around with. A massive clockwork machine that can alter the properties of any object placed inside it.
Montague: Sounds chaotic.
He reaches for the one of the many bolts latching the door, but feels Holden’s hand on his arm.
Holden: The results are enticingly unpredictable, sure, but I’d still prefer to test it in as controlled an environment as possible. At any rate, that’s not why we’re here.
Once again, he departs without making sure Montague is following.
Further down the corridor, the curiosity building in the Doctor-Professor’s chest becomes too much, and he clears his throat loudly. Holden pauses and shines the light back, seeing that Monty has stopped outside a door labeled “426”.
Orson looks at Montague quizzically, causing the Conquest Champion to tilt his head slightly toward the door.
Montague: Shall we go in?
Holden: Smirk. There’s nothing in there but Dave.
Monty starts, his brow furrowing.
Montague: Rydell?
Holden chuckles.
Holden: No, it’s a toaster. Named Dave. Kind of boring, actually. I doubt you’d enjoy it.
After his mouth opens and closes slowly, the Showman blinks and steps away from the door.
Montague: Are we going to check out any of these rooms?
Holden: You wanted an effective way to approach the challenge that we’ve somehow stumbled into, so that’s what we’ve come for. When we get to the room they keep it in, we’ll enter.
Cervantes sighs and nods, continuing to follow Holden through the facility.
—
—
Personally, I’ve enjoyed the few interactions I’ve had with JC this year. He’s just the type of measuring stick by which anyone worth their salt would be proud to compare themselves.
I know for a fact that some competitors quail when they see their name opposite his on the card. Who could blame them? He’s a beast in the ring, a real monster. He’s left dozens of bodies broken and bleeding in his wake. I’ve never had the pleasure of witnessing it myself, but I’m not entirely convinced JC couldn’t kick someone’s head off, if he really tried.
Others feel their heart rate quicken for an altogether different reason; they recognize the bump in influence when you conquer a monster like that. People don’t forget when you fight a grizzly bear with your bare hands and live to tell about it. They don’t forget when you assassinate an evil dictator. And they don’t forget when you beat JC.
You can imagine, then, why Matt Knox is so confident, since he gets to lace up his boots beside the Bogeyman.
You’d think I’d remember someone with the moniker of “The Raven,” but sadly, I don’t. It seems he might have been in the troupe that Sebastian and Duncan tried to introduce back when the Astro Creeps were stealing UGWC out from under everyone, but I don’t think I ever saw any of them after that. Talk about ineffectual…
I’d waste time wondering why this gentleman is so angry at me, but from what I’ve seen, he seems angry at literally everyone.
Including JC.
—
—
Encountering one room containing an unfathomable enigma after another, Holden and Monty trek further and further into the building, eventually ascending several flights in their search. From time to time, Holden pauses to share his favorite anomalies, only to move on quickly without exploring it. Monty occasionally indicates a door whenever he begins to feel as though they’re never going to reach the one Holden brought them here for.
Holden: “999” is this blob of slime that apparently has psychoactive effects when it touches you. It can calm any emotions and bring on euphoria…
Montague: When you touch it, you mean?
Holden: Hmm?
Montague: You said ‘when it touches you.’ You mean when you touch it, right?
Holden: No, if you go in there, it will come to you.
Montague: That… ok, I want it.
Holden: Bet you do…
Montague: What’s this one?
He indicates a door with “504” stenciled on it.
Holden: Exploding tomatoes.
Montague: Pull the other one.
Holden chuckles.
Holden: I’m not kidding. They explode immediately upon someone in their vicinity expressing any sort of dissatisfaction.
Monty’s mouth drops open.
Montague: That’s perfect! As dour as our opponents can be, they’ll be covered in explosive ketchup in no time.
Holden: Well, as far as I understand, we’re not competing under Chaos rules.
The Mothman’s face falls.
Montague: Pity. What about that one?
He points out a door with the numbers “682” written on it.
Holden: Best to steer clear of that one. It’s an unkillable dinosaur.
Montague: Holden, I’m afraid you’re going to have to show me some of these if you expect me to believe you.
Holden: I’m not here to convince you, Montague. I’m here to find a strategy.
Monty shakes his head.
Montague: Very well.
They walk on.
—
—
That’s one of the many unfortunate ramifications of being part of the High Societies in this industry. The anger.
The Raven is the poster child for everything we fight to defeat in this business. He’s obsessed with winning and championships. Look at recent footage of him, it’s all he can talk about.
This should come as no surprise; if he’s part of Sebastian’s circle–the ones who feel like our worth is only measured in how many companies you work for, how many likes you can collect on Twitter, and how much gold you’re now obligated to carry with you to every show.
When you’re driven by such fleeting and forgettable accolades, you can’t be blamed when a profound sense of discontent is your default mood. The braggadocio isn’t an effective mask when your bellicosity can clearly be seen through it.
The best of us understand that the outcome of the match is secondary to the journey, the story told in pursuit of that outcome, the emotional connection with the audience. Boastfully listing off your accomplishments over and over not only reveals your lack of humility and self-awareness, it indicates a compensation for something you’re missing.
Which is meaning.
I’ve taken a leap of faith by giving many of my opponents the benefit of the doubt this year, including JC. I simply can’t pay that same respect to Matt Knox. He’s no doubt an accomplished fighter; even if I couldn’t recall his name at the time, he won the Survival of the Fittest tournament and became the second Keyblade Master of 2023. He’s locked in his chance to headline Horizons, and you can’t get much more influential than that.
Unless something changes, Knox headlining Horizons will result in the most forgettable Horizons in this company’s history. The self-hate and rage he carries around is infectious; even JC, who is seeing a sort of Renaissance in his UGWC legacy, is starting to slip back into coming across like an aimless brute, mindlessly throwing fists and kicks in every direction hoping he hits something. Lucky for him, so far he has, every time.
If their team-up isn’t ended in short order, JC will go back to just being another belt-collecting, Twitter-camping, audience-alienating fighter with a carbon-copy personality unable to deal with losing to anyone with a modicum of charisma.
We’ll hold out hope for JC, but in the meantime, we’ll focus on delivering captivating performances, creating compelling storylines, and connecting with the fans on a deeper level. We’ll dampen their egos by having as much fun as we choose at Battleground, no matter the outcome.
Enough of the misplaced priorities. Wrestling is an art, and the greatest artists are the ones who leave a lasting impact, not just on the record books but on the hearts and minds of the people who watch them.
—
—
Holden: Here it is!
They approach a door that, to Montague, looks like the dozens they’ve passed already, except this one has the number “1981” emblazoned across it. Monty waits patiently as Holden fiddles with the relatively simple lock.
Once he's jimmied the latch, he swings the door outward and gestures for Montague to enter. The Showman steps in cautiously, eyes cautiously scanning the room as they light up with anticipation.
In the center of the room is an analog television ratchet-strapped to a rolling cart. On the shelf beneath the TV, some sort of video player sits with a single cassette tape on top.
Montague: Is that…?
Holden approaches with a look of awe.
Holden: A Betamax player.
Monty nods sagely. Of all the fascinating objects here, of course Holden was only interested in the archaic technology. He reaches for the case on top and pulls it out, reading the white label on which has been written with felt tip pen:
'RONALD REGAN CUT UP WHILE TALKING.'
Montague: They spelled it like The Exorcist.
Holden: Eye roll.
He grabs the betamax tape and loads it with his left hand, while turning on the TV with his right. He and Montague both back up to a comfortable viewing distance, and watch as the 40th president takes the podium.
Reagan: Thank you… Thank you very much…Thank you very much…Thank you very much…and, Reverend Clergy all, and Senator Hawkins, distinguished members of the Florida congressional delegation, and all of you: I can’t tell you how you have warmed my heart with your welcome. I’m delighted to be here today.
If you’re unfamiliar, this is the beginning of Reagan’s infamous “Evil Empire” speech, delivered in 1983, in which Reagan justifies the Cold War due to the Soviet Union’s ungodly Communist regime. It’s a speech that both Montague, being in his late forties, and Holden, being a veteran, are familiar with. At least, they’re familiar with the first seventy seconds. After that, the speech right angles into a word salad that would make John Blade’s battle raps intelligible.
Reagan: I’ve seen bodies burning by the thousands out there. Inhuman suffering. They eat the flesh and suck the marrow from their bones. Women, children, indigent, disabled… every color and creed, no one is excluded.
Holden glances over at Monty to gauge his reaction, but the Mothman only stares, wide-eyed at the screen, as a disbelieving smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
Reagan: When they put them in the trunks, they tie their wrists and ankles with wires that cut their flesh. You can imagine the taste as they force them eat the coronavirus vaccines, how they tear–
Montague: Did he just say…
Holden: Mm hmm
Reagan: And they packed three or four of them per box, with small holes drilled into the wood. This is happening at every port in the world, trading their bodies for cash and–
Monty gasps when a crescent-shaped wound suddenly opens at the top of Reagan’s left cheekbone and begins to slowly weep red tears.
Reagan: The things they put into this drink, it’s worse than the water in Flint, Michigan. But the teenagers buy it up like candy–
Montague: Ok… Holden, what is this? How could he know about those things?
Before Holden can explain, a red flower blooms behind his power tie, spreading as the hidden chest wound bleeds out. The Doctor-Professor stares incredulously as Dutch continues to orate while he steadily falls apart.
Holden: The wounds, like the words of his speech, change every time the tape is played. And look…
He points in the background to where the clergy men and women are arranged behind him. In the back row, seemingly unnoticed by its neighbors, a figure is cloaked in black, with a conical hood covering its entire head.
Holden: Whatever that is, it only appears in some playbacks, and in a different place each time.
Monty observes Reagan’s right eye suddenly burst from its socket, lying against his cheek like a half-cooked over easy egg.
Montague: That’s all curious, of course, but he’s referencing events that happened almost forty years after this was recorded.
Holden: Oh he’s predicted the outcomes of elections, wars, the tragic deaths of public figures, natural disasters… Sometimes he even predicts events before they happen.
Montague: That’s insanely useful. Has he ever predicted lottery numbers?
Holden: Scoff.
Picking the Betamax cassette case up again, Monty begins examining it inside and out.
Montague: Is this going to set off any alarms when we take it?
Holden’s head snaps toward Montague. On the screen, Reagan is gripping the podium so tightly his knuckles are turning white. Most likely, this is due to his left leg having been severed just below the knee, as it is now lying bloody on the stage next to the podium.
Holden: We’re not taking it, Montague. That’s the quickest way to wind up a D-Class personnel around here. Trust me, you don’t want that.
On the recording, the crowd has begun to applaud as the president collapses with the force of being struck with a sledgehammer. Holden reaches out and stops the player, then presses rewind.
Holden: We’re here to observe and, hopefully, get a clue for how to approach the Cooperative Champions at Battleground.
The second watch through is much the same as the first; Reagan begins the familiar speech, only for it to devolve into vague doom and gloom talk after the first full minute. Five minutes in, the wounds begin again, this time with his teeth falling out still covered in his oral viscera. Along the way, Mr. Trickle Down describes horrific assaults, mass casualties, and weather events both the entertainment professionals can remember.
Reagan: And they were, one and all, in their Nikes and black clothing, poisoned and asphyxiated, with black cloths over their heads. And then the tomatoes, the exploding tomatoes, drove the angry ones back. They put their heads on spikes and placed them around the–
Montague: Wait! Rewind it!
Holden: It’s no good rewinding, it will just play different words. But I heard it, too. Sigh.
Montague races out of the room without wasting any time trying to convince Holden. The hipster shakes his head and ejects the Betamax to place it back in its case. For a moment he entertains the idea of abandoning Monty to become a disposable asset in the facility’s roster, but ultimately decides the Showman has been good to him the last few months. With another spoken sigh, he exits the room, trying to work out how the two of them will smuggle the fruits out.
