Catalina Cortes Vs. Matt Knox

“Hey, Dad.”

The velveteen monotone of his oldest daughter brought a whole new surge of shame from the deepest pit of his stomach. He leaned forward, a hand shooting up to rest on his forehead. He inhaled once, letting a steadying breath out before speaking.

“Hey kid, what’re you up to?”

“Drinking wine, and writing a paper. I watched your match. Surprised you could dial me, as many shots to the head as you absorbed.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I left this one a few steps closer to the mental ward that’s for sure.” he chuckled before a silence loomed. She knew. He didn’t even have to act like she didn’t at this point.

“Taking it rough, are we?” she asked, her tone sympathetic, but detached.

“It doesn’t tickle. Hon”

Another short silence, as he heard her settle in on the other side, the soft thud of a cup setting upon the coaster. When her voice came back, it was gentle, and her words about floored him.

“It’s not going to chase me off, whatever the slide was,” she said gently, “You will slide, you will fall,” She paused, allowing herself a quiet sigh before continuing “And then you’ll get back on your feet, Dad. You’ve always done so.”

He exhaled an unsteady, shaky breath into the phone. His breath hitched on the inhale before he replied,

“I’m sorry I let you down, kid. I’m sorry I let everybody down, I just -”

“Don’t. Believe me, you didn’t let anyone down. All you did was prove how much of a threat they consider you to be, Dad. That entire match was JC and Amber landing blows while you tried to end the other one. Amber just slipped and left the both of you vulnerable in the end.”

“I just feel like...like maybe I don’t have it in me, not anymore. I’m not the Matthew Knox who won that PWE World title or the guy who won every other belt but the big one in the FWF. I’m not the guy who toppled the Weird World Order, hell. I’m not the guy who showed up to We Are Relentless, it feels like..”

“You’re not.” came her curt reply. She audibly took a drink from her tumbler, before continuing “You’re not a young man anymore, Dad. Back when I was young, I loved watching you fly. It was so unnatural, and there was my dad doing it. Better than men half his size. And you’re still impressive, but you take risks like you’re twenty-five. You’re smart, cerebral. But you still fight like a young man trying to prove a point.”

He remained silent, hanging onto her words as she spoke. He made a soft scoffing sound. Before replying with a bemused slur to his tone.

“Really wish you weren’t so good at this.”

“Wrestling has been a part of me since you took me in, Dad. IT shouldn’t surprise you,” a brief pause before her voice returned, warmer and full of reassuring mischief “Don’t worry, I’m not going to get fitted for tights anytime soon.”

“You better not.”

“Listen, what you’re looking for? I don’t have it, Dad. But what I can say, is that maybe it’s time to quit trying to prove yourself to anyone else, and do what you know is right. Stop chasing inevitabilities, and just take them when they arrive. Because they will. And next time, I know you’ll be ready.” a pause, “And they won’t.”

He soaked in her words through the fog of inebriation, eyes still shut tight. After a beat, he replies while trying to hold back a chuckle.

“Thank you, Hope. For everything, forgiving me..falling right into the mess I’ve made and--”



“You’re my Dad. You’d do the same for me.”

“What I wouldn’t do for you, kid. I love you. Go, drink wine, write a thesis. Change the world.”

“I doubt a paper on Steinbeck’s toxic masculinity is going to change much of anything”

“Not with that attitude.”

“Call me tomorrow, we should get lunch. That diner you keep going to with Mitch and them.”

“I’d like that, baby girl. I love you.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

“We all do.”

And with that, the line went dead and he set the phone back down. He lifted the Jim Beam to his lips, letting it linger for a moment before letting it weigh his hand back down. He drops the bottle on the floor, caring little for the shape of the rug. He brings the now empty hand up, wiping the tears forming on his face away. His fingers brushed over the fresh knots from Mia Rayne, a smirk playing on his face.

They were all right. Pearl, Mia, Amber, Hope, Bert. This wasn’t nearly the end. He’d be in the picture still, maybe he’d need to get past his friend in Silvio to do so. But that was a long, long time coming anyway. Silvio had made plain that their desires aligned. For whatever reason, management gave him a shot first. And he came up short.

No doubt, Leon would evade making that mistake.

The fact is, Silvio was probably the most dangerous man in the company. Especially after tasting loss for the first time. The way he came for Catalina? It was more malicious than he’d ever seen. Even in their match against Insidious, whose world views infuriated the incandescent ink master, there was an air of balance, zen, inner peace? Whatever label you could put to it.

But Catalina? She got a vicious, determined Silvio Leon who would not be denied. She would feel his pain, his loss. And for the first time in her Carnage Career, all that training, all that pedigree? It wasn’t enough to save her, or her record.

Now, he silently mused to himself as he dug a fresh cigarette from his pack, he was in the exact same position she was. Facing down wounded ego and pride, against someone who’d never felt the sting of defeat before. And Chris Marlowe hadn’t been seen since Chaos One Hundred, apparently Ill. Given the times, likely quarantined. And so, he imagined maybe she was somewhere stewing in defeat, all alone. Same as him.

His eyes drifted around the room as he fished the silver zippo out of the chair cushions, sparking the cigarette. He did a silent count of the empties as he took the first puff of the smoke, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils as he chuckled.

“Well, hopefully not the same.”

He couldn’t lie, not to himself or anyone else. The loss at 101 felt like the worst one he’d experienced since coming to Carnage. He allowed himself to be egotistical going in. He had a beat on Amber Ryan, and knew that whatever he gave up to JC in raw power, he made up for in speed and prowess. Someone he already fought, and a man who was so obviously physically regressing.

He let it slip, though. If he were being honest, he never had control of the match. As convinced as he was of the scouting he had done, Ryan and JC had scouted him to a tee. Even the timing of the shooting star press, a move he hardly utilized anymore. Roll in the late match assault on his head, and by the time he got to his feet, he couldn’t have sensed JC’s boot coming if it had red lights & screaming sirens.

And now, at least in the immediate future, he was pushed to the back of the line, along with the Hurricane Painted Red. Likely behind the Lucha Princess herself, if it weren’t for the tag titles around her waist. All that skill weighed down by the very thing that held her together, from what he was able to gather.

Codependence wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but most assuredly it was not the healthiest. He could relate to the fear of being left alone, it’s why he reached out to Hope. Why he was waiting for Pearl to come to him. Why he didn’t ignore Mitch, Ade, Sil...He knew what the ghosts behind his eyes were capable of making him do.

He knew he couldn’t be left alone with them.

---

---

“It’s amazing how alone we are, isn’t it Catalina?”

The camera fades in on a disheveled looking Matthew Knox, seated on the floor of his hotel room. Smoke rose from the cigarette pinched between his index and middle finger. He’s got one knee bent toward him, dressed in gray sweatpants and a sweat-stained white v neck t-shirt. His face looks sullen, dark rings forming beneath bloodshot eyes. Ghost white face covered in stubble.

His voice is strained, exhausted, and downright pitiable. It still carried the same weight of determination. A pitiable animal, wounded and still snarling at the beast come to feast on its corpse.

“You and me, we’re ghosts walking amongst the living. Doing our best to deny our fate in our own ways. I’ve gone and insulated myself with warm bodies, and warm liquor. Sometimes, they even make me feel alive again,” he trails off, eyes casting downward “Maybe they do bring me to life, and I’m just too miserable and tired of a trope to see it anymore.”

“But you, Catalina? You operate in a tiny circle. You, your partner, and maybe the occasional connection on Twitter, or Twitch. Marlowe, he’s been MIA since your improbable win at Chaos One Hundred. So, there you are, hidden away behind all you have left. The mystique and prestige of your pedigree and your unbeaten strea-” he paused, letting himself smile “- well, your pedigree anyway.”

“Because see, we both lost at this last Chaos, Cat. We both had our shoulders on the mat for that dreaded three count, and we both found ourselves missing something in the wreckage. You stand now, imperfect,” he trails off, a sad smile playing on his lips “And I stand with the bitterest of defeats lingering.”

“It assaults the taste buds, doesn’t it Cat? All the senses, really. Food is a little more bitter, drink not as satisfying, The sun, she doesn’t shine quite as bright or warm, and the nights are colder, lonelier. And let me be the first to tell you, child. It doesn’t get easier. No, not at all.”

Contemplative, he clasps his hands together a moment before lifting his cigarette and taking a long drag. He exhales, his face taking on a softer expression, his eyes full of sympathy. Pity, even. When he speaks, it almost sounds like he’s offering comfort.

“You will slide, into the deepest pits of self-doubt and despair. Places you never wanted to go, and would never tell anyone you’ve been to. And Marlowe, he won’t be there to ‘Save you from your worst impulses’,” he trails off, briefly reflecting on his own worst impulses for a moment “You’ll be alone in there, Cat. I want to tell you it’ll be okay, offer you a hand but I fear all I can offer this week to you, Princess Jester of Lucha Libre is a handful of earth for your casket.”

He goes silent a moment, wringing his hands together as he shifts in his seated position on the rug. The absolute, utter, and complete silence surrounding him adding a haunting, longing vibe to his presence. His eyes, not as bright as they have been, lift back up as his voice came forth once more. Soft, distant.

“You know, I’ve managed to miss feeling old here for the most part. Sure, I’ve taken on mentoring a few people, which says more about their choice in mentor than my actions. But for the most part, I’ve managed to evade feeling the years. But you’ve managed to get this advantage on me, Cat. You’re younger than me,” he leans back, eyes rolling to the sky as a thoughtful smile plays on his face “God, you’re only two years the senior to my oldest.”

“It wasn’t that long ago, I was carrying the banner for issues like this. Youth wrestling, at your age I’m guessing this isn’t something that you picked up after you turned 18. No, not as good as you are. Not with your pedigree,” he runs a hand through his hair, a chuckle escaping him “I can’t imagine the pressure, having your fate decided before you could walk. You were going to be a wrestler, you were going to be a great wrestler, or you were going to be a failure.”

“Perverse as that is to me, at least you’re not a disappointment. Because you are great, Cat. Whether it came from tag or singles competition, you notched nine wins before Silvio took from you what you took from him. That’s eighteen weeks, four and a half months worth of shows without ever knowing loss.”

He clicks his tongue, a smile playing upon his features once more as he begins shaking his head.

“But, that’s over now. You are a loser, Catalina Cortes. And what’s more, you’re facing it alone. No tag team partner to lean into for reassurance, no one & nothing to blame but yourself for all your shortcomings.”

“So, where do you go from here? Your twitter bluster would have us believe that you’re not shaken by the loss. You’re ready to prove that it was just a fluke, an inevitability that is no longer a part of your complex equation. And who better, than the man who seemed to break after his loss? Nothing easier than kicking someone while they’re down, right kid? Candy from a baby,” his face darkens, the smile slowly fading before he speaks again. His tone changes now, lower, dangerous.

“But I’m not down, Princess. Certainly not out, either. But I am wounded, a wounded animal. I’m lower than I’ve been in a long, long time and I want so badly to share this pain with someone, anyone. You just happened to be the one thrown my way. I understand and respect your place in Carnage,” He takes a pause, taking a drag from his cigarette and exhaling the smoke through clenched teeth, “I just don’t give a shit. The tag titles, that division? Not my focus, not right now. I can’t rely on anyone, but me. I can’t be like you, not anymore. Not like I once was.”

“I’m alone, but not near as lonely as you Catalina. I’m coming into Chaos with a lot to get off my chest, and a lot to put on your head. You will know loss, at least this once more. And you’ll find that hole only gets deeper. And while you suffer, while you waste away and struggle to pick up the pieces. While you lay awake at night, trying to figure out what went wrong and when?”

“You’ll be alone.”

As the camera fades out, Catalina’s voice plays from an older segment, from back when Chaos was in the double digits.

“I needed somebody to save me from my worst impulses. But those impulses are still there because at the end of the day I’m still...”