Matt Knox Vs. Silvio Leon

Matt got to the back catching his breath, Willis’ music rang through the hallway as he was peppered with random golf claps and compliments. The random pat on the back. He made his way to his locker room, and fell into the chair therein. He grabbed a towel from the nearby gym bag, and dabbed at his face. His face contorted in pain a moment, but through the grit and hurt and the suffering…a smile found it’s ways onto his features..



True, he lost. And that’s never, ever the plan. But if he could pin the blame on anyone…it was himself. No one out there, not the rookie, not Thor’s associate, not even Willis were any better than him. He fucked up going for the satisfaction of hurting Thor, leaving the most inexperienced wrestler in the ring with the only one out there who had given him any real fit all night.



Simple. Easily fixable.



By god, it was true. Finally.







The buzz of the cellphone was usually too dull to wake him up, but he had fallen asleep with it upon his chest. For just this reason. Groggily, he picked the phone up. He dropped it, making and irritated sound before flexing his hand to get the feeling back. God, it felt like he had to pull start parts of himself just to get going some days… He picked the phone up, and opened the expected e-mail from Carnage management





He skipped most of the matches, noting lazily that he had a segment piece with Beyond the Belle. No doubt to rebut what Thor had orally vomited out into existence the night prior. He also had next to top billing, against someone who had won their debut unlike him. Silvio Leon. He blinked himself awake, sitting up and scooting back to lean against the headboard. His mind, through the fog grasped onto pieces in the promo that stood out.



The man came off a goof. He did a fucking tarot reading for his opponents, for christ’s sake. Matt shook his head at the silliness of it all. But, silly or not, the results spoke for themselves. Silvio, and his tarot deck, were 1-0. Matt Knox and his youtube selfie video joint smoking shit talking ass were 0-1. Math read simple. Silvio > Knox.



He’d just have to drag the kid down to his level. Use him to prove Underground was a fluke.



The buzz of his phone alerted him once more. His breath caught in his throat, as he swiped down to see a brand new text message…



From Hope. The messages buzzed in quickly, at the speed a 19 year old could send text messages. God, was she really 19? He replied, finding himself in a conversation he honestly wished he didn’t need to have, just as much as he truly, truly wished he hadn’t brought it upon himself




That last line stung. He closed his eyes, exhaling before leaning his head back and opening his eyes to stare at the roof. Sunlight spilling in from the drawn blinds. He waited another moment, trying to compose himself and structure his next message, before typing it and sending it





And with that, he set his phone down on the nightstand. He didn’t want to read anymore, if she event sent another word his way. He slid out from under the blankets, and threw on a t shirt and jeans. His teeth grit as the pain of the match bit at his bones. He leaned over, into the nightstand and grabbed a bottle of Vicodin. He popped a couple out, and popped them. He bit down, and chewed them up. His mouth twisted at the bitterness, and his hand instantly went to snatch the bottle of water on the nightstand, swishing the powder down before walking out of the room, snatching the phone up once more on his way out.



He headed down the stairs, and out of the hotel on autopilot. The lobby and it’s occupants, however sparse in the early morning hours, blending in with the fog ever present in his head, further spreading from the warmth of the opiates. His hand reached up and rubbed at his jaw a moment. Christ, Willis hit hard for a man that small. He took comfort in knowing that wherever the other three were, they were feeling just as beat up as he was.



He walked away from the hotel then, oblivious to most of the world he passed by. Faces, covered in masks. Some judging him for the oversight of his own “New Normal” face gear. He wasn’t one of the assholes convinced this was a conspiracy to usher in the new world order, but there was one thing Matt Knox was, and he knew it.



Temporary.



His existence, his lifestyle were both accelerants to the end. Hell, the only reason he saw 39 and was looking at forty in seven months was not mixing the drugs and debauchery with the ring work. He didn’t plan to either, but what if he did? This, Carnage, Thor it was all temporary. And he embraced the existential dread, or rather, he acknowledged it and did not fight it. His entire life, his whole damn life, death was just a part of life. And not in that cheesy way films push to comfort kids over a dead dinosaur.



His father killed his mother, then ate the gun. His adoptive father, killed in a home invasion on a hit meant for him. Because people in this business just couldn’t be normal. He always got a lot of shit, for not fully embracing “The Raven” and going full goth in his look until FWF. Truth be told, and it was ironic to be walking the streets of Baltimore as he dwelled on this, it was born from his love of Poe. Back when he tried passing for a learned man, instead of embracing being a broken one.



The ring of the ship bells brought him around, and the salt water wafting his nostrils brought him back home to Monterey for a moment. He wished, briefly, that he had dressed a little warmer but pushed the thought aside as he sat down at a picnic table, and stared out at the endless ocean. Funny, if he picked a direction and went, and just kept going eventually he’d end up right back here. Unless the earth really was flat, then fuck this metaphor.



He pulled his phone out from his pocket, first checking if he had any new messages from Hope, as morbid curiosity and self harm were always to the forefront of his priorities. With a twinge of both relief and sadness he found nothing new. He cleared his throat once, before opening the camera and continuing this odd new trend of selfie promos. He would not lower himself to a selfie stick, though. Just wasn’t in him. Frankly, shouldn’t be in anyone.



Pushing the 30 year old boomer rants from his mind he leaned forward and sat the phone on the table flipping the kickstand from the cover to prop it up. He checked the frame, before hitting record. And silently, he stared into the camera. Eyes baring into whoever watched these things, with the sounds of the early morning tide washing behind him



If one were to look for it, the stare held nothing resembling that of a defeated man within them. Simply the intensity of a competitor, of a man who had convinced himself that he was on a mission and working toward a goal. He leaned back, breaking eye contact with the viewer and stared out once again at the endless blue, green, and gray of the sea. When he spoke his tone was as even and calm as ever



“I guess I ought to address Redemption before I go on my scheduled tangent against my opponent this week.” A smirk cracked his features as his eyes remained off in some far place where he would never reach “I lost my match, against three very competent competitors. Let my own ego, and anger get the best of me in the end. Not to discount the efforts of the winner, or my other opponents but Willis was the closest thing to an equal I had in that ring. That’s 1-0, John. I look forward to evening the score. Next time, the rookie won’t be there to get me off of you.”



His tone took a harsher edge at the end, his face contorting in a little bit of disappointment. He had Willis dead to rights, and Adrienne Levi rung his bell. Not wholly surprising, the girl had grit and desire. Tough as nails too. But, He could not be her fan. Not in this instance.



“And then, in the match that followed I believe..well shit one of them anyway, my opponent for this week got his win in HIS debut match. Very admirable. I won’t take anything away from it, wins are wins and they’re how we all advance toward those shiny gold belts we break bones for” He turned his gaze back to the camera, leaning in “You are quite the character, Silvio. Can I call you that? I’m going to, because truth be told, I enjoy the goofy names all of you here seem to have. Mac, Empty, Silvio, Poppy, Sah’ta..” A curl of the lip…but he continued, waiving a dismissive hand


“Anyway, not the point. I’ve seen a lot in my time. Cultists, monsters, legitimate psycho and sociopaths..the works. But never, in all my time, have I seen someone perform a carnival act as their effort to get in their opponents head. I gotta ask, did you get them right before filming? Or was it a Wish order?” He chuckled at his own joke, but raised his hands as if settling the imagined temper he was raising “Oh, but take no offense. Hail, mighty Oracle. Seer of Carnage and it’s legion. UNDEFEATED and OMNISCIENT” A chuckle, as he leaned in



“Let me tell you, Silvio. Ain’t a thing in that deck that could tell you I was comin. Ain’t a thing in that deck can tell you what I can do to you. Ain’t a thing in the world can save you. Not from me.” He exhaled, and nodded “Yeah, you won. One and Oh. But you were a big fish, in a small pond boy. Now you’re in open water, and there ain’t a thing can save you from the deep” He lifted the phone then, turning it to face the open sea before continuing



“It may sound it, Silvio but this isn’t personal. What I do to you at Chaos, I do because I have to. Big as the sea got for you, the world got smaller for the both of us. Whoever loses this contest, Loses because they weren’t as good as the other man. There’s no extra bodies and extra factors there to fuck the equation up any more than it already is.”



He exhaled, breath shaking as he felt the rage swell in him. His bitterness, deep seeded from the loss, from Thor and his shit, from Hope all boiling at once and focused on the poor, hapless supposed psychic. “Silvio, bring your best son. You’ll need it. You aren’t going to beat me, but if you bring that A game, if you bring all your spirits, and your charms, and your cards. Maybe, maybe all that help in this world, and that one will get you out of there to see another day. See you for Chaos, oh Pansophical one”



He turned the camera off then, and set to uploading the promo both to Twitter and the Carnage Wrestling web page. He leaned back on the table, propping his elbows and staring out at the tides. His journey had just begun, but it felt like it was still hell bound for the end. He stared down at the his own hands then, turning them over and noting the bruising on his knuckles. Whatever, wherever it took him. He knew he’d be ready.



Would they?

11:37 PM 

The night found Knox inside a bar at the harbor. How long had he been there? About seven nursed pints, three smokes, a joint, and a bump of Vicodin. He sat tucked in a corner booth, a couple extra Ben Franklins had convinced the waitress not to seat anyone in either of the booths nearby. He stared blankly into the amber liquid of the glass before him. As he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. Matthew’s voice was not classically powerful anyway, but this tone was softer and dreamier than the usual hoarse velvet he would orate



“It’s been 14 years, and I still can’t drown you out of my head, Miss James” he blinked back the mist that usually threatened to burst forth when he was inebriated and let that name pass his pale, chapped lips “How pathetic, really. Wounded over a woman who had tried to murder me as many times as she had kissed me” he took the pint and brought it to his lips, washing his tonsils with the lager before setting it down, wiping the head away from his mouth



“I felt like I was unfaithful, the entire time you know. That I was with her, with Astryd” He slumped further down in the booth then, scoffing “It isn't fair to her, and I won’t say that I never felt anything but…but fuck you, Charlotte…you left me.” He sneered, a bitter edge taking hold to his voice “Just couldn’t not be a fucking loon for once. Couldn’t hold it together long enough to be helped, and now look where you’ve managed to leave me” He motioned to the invisible chart of his situation around him



“Fighting that sawed off son of a bitch Thor, or trying to. Busting some girl’s face on the ring stairs. Fighting the young, skinny Miss Cleo..but a mister” He scoffed again, paying his own joke a light chuckle. Silvio probably didn't even know who Miss Cleo was.. “And that’s just this month. Because of you, I had to learn to fake it. With everyone, even me. God, if I hadn’t started playing the part with Astryd…I..” He straightened up, and leaned close to the glass in front of him. Where, to his mind, she was listening



“I’ve always wanted to come after you. Find you. I wanted to follow you the next day, but you know me. Soon as Bohne started throwing out accusations, I went off and picked that fight. Then next thing I know, I’m balls deep in that cultist’s daughter and Stall has us doing interviews together, being inseparable. Trying to make a product out of a backstage fling. And I let it happen…I guess..” He considered, nodding before speaking again “I chose the slow death, Charlotte. And I think, sick bitch that you were….that’s what you wanted”



He lifted the glass, leaning back into the welcoming, cracked leather. He started one more into the liquid, before whispering to it “Guess I did right by you, after all..” He downed the drink, setting the empty glass with the others. “I will honor you, Charlotte James..I will make Carnage suffer the way you made me suffer. Starting with Silvio, and ending when I say it ends. They will know the suffering you’ve left me with. They’ll be as broken as I am, have been, and ever was..” He trailed off, just as the waitress who had been tending to him since around seven walked over



“Freshen that for you?”



“Sure. Got nothing else going on”



She smiled, and turned to go to the bar, but hesitated. She turned around and clutched the serving tray a little closer to her modest bust. He eyed her, knowing the body language. She was attractive, not an inch over five feet. The uniform was complimenting, knee high skirt that hugged her curves. Black shirt with a deep green collar, top two buttons undone. She had dark hair, and green eyes


Like she did..



“Look, I know this might seem forward. But, I’m about to go on my break..and no one stays here through two shifts without being lonely and…in need of something” She hesitated, her olive skin taking a crimson hue around the cheeks “Im sorry, that sounded so stupid I..”



“Not at all, miss. I’d be honored to have you join me, and I’d appreciate the company”



He paid her a kind smile, which only deepened that crimson hue of her cheeks. She paid him a nod, and left to get his drink, and presumably one for herself. He looked in the window, at his reflection. He snorted, before informing the man he saw “I hate you so fuckin much.” in a low, gritting tone dripping with venom and loathing. He leaned back into the forgiving leather once more, a smile cracking his face "And I know you hate me too" his eyes closed halfway then, waiting.




Donald Dismuke walked into the James Joyce Irish Pub. He breathed into his hands, against the cold nip therein. He looked around a moment, before flagging down one of the waitresses “Hey, can you let Veronica know I’m here for her?” The waitress put on her best poker face and nodded “Yeah Donny, I’ll let her know”



She walked away then, heading to the back. She let out a sigh, preparing herself for what she already knew she was going to see..



What he saw, he knew wasn’t there. But just like any other time he partook in the more carnal deeds of life, she was all he saw..all he could see. All he could smell. His face was buried in the crook of the waitress, Charlotte…no..Veronica’s neck as he worked, desperately biting at the nape of her neck. He felt her nails dig into his back.



The clearing of her coworkers throat got the desired result, as the pair froze “Donnys out here looking for you” came an unfamiliar female voice. She had a man? Well…at least they were both awful people.



“Hey, Jan can you let Veronica know..”



And there was the other foot. Always made it’s mark. The three froze. Mr Dismuke was no fool, an open door, Jan standing in the hall. The hurried shuffling and knocking as Knox fought his soon to be blue balls back into their denim home “Oh you fucking bitch. Not again. Not. AGAIN!” and he was on his warpath, shoving past Jan and grabbing a mop from the bucket leaned dutifully against the wall.



Matthew walked out just in time to get smacked in the face with the mop handle. The white, hot pain caused him to stumble back, falling over and bashing the other side of his head against the tile floor. He heard faint screaming. A man, a woman. He reached out, pressing a palm against the wall and started getting up, just in time to get hit again. The blow sent him back down for the moment, and the ones that followed only caused the fog to get denser.



Eventually, the girls managed to pull him back. The bartender, hearing the commotion had run to the back, bringing a bouncer to further assist the restraint of Donald’s angry ass. Matt got to his feet, holding his head. He looked after the group, and couldn’t help but grin. He deserved every bit of that. He spit on the ground, and walked forward toward the group. He saw Donny strain feebily against the two men as he passed by at a decidedly relaxed pace. He stopped, right by them.



The men restraining the jilted lover stared daggers at him as he locked his eyes onto Donny “They’re doin you a favor.” Was all he said, before walking out back to the main room of the bar, and then out the door and back to the harbor, to the salt air, and to the freedom therein. He didn’t acknowledge the angry shouts and screams that followed him as far as the door, shaking his head.



He produced a cigarette, sparking it up and walking off into the night. He checked the back of his head idly for blood. Finding none, he snorted and muttered “No wonder she’s shoppin around, Donny” had he been sober, most assuredly there’d be a tinge of guilt. But, tonight, in this comfortable, hateful fog? None was to be found. Fuck him for being weak. Fuck her for being a skank. Fuck her friend for being an enabler. And fuck himself for setting it all in motion, knowing what he had done. She never even took off her wedding ring.



He stepped to a railing, leaning on it and puffing away. The moonlight danced on the waves in such a way that it took him to a better time. Or, some time. He wasn’t sure, some days what memories were real and what were him faking it. He wasn’t sure most of the time, full stop.



But still, he was. For Bert, for himself, for Hope. He was sure that he was back to fighting form. In truth, while he wasn’t as fast as he was in his twenties, he had never hit so hard. And going from Cheetah fast, to Looney Tunes Road Runner fast wasn’t that big a step back. Or did he get that backwards? Not the point. He was stronger, wiser, angrier, and dangerous. Because he was driven. Sure, yes, it started with Thor.



Thor had to die, so he could kill who he was finally. Then, he could focus on who he is now. Work toward that mountain top one last time. But he had to win to get either one of those things. He had to “Prove” to Thor that he wasn’t rusty, and he had to prove to Carnage that was worth giving a chance at a shot to. It wasn’t going to be easy. Whole roster between him, and his goals. Hell, some nights, like this one, he was between him and that goal.



But most immediately, was Silvio Leon. Big shadow, tiny tree. The boy had plenty of skill, plenty to bring to the table. Hell, he might just ring his bell and put Knox down for the count. He might. Anyone who laces up their boots and gets in the ring has a chance to win. That was just basics. But, drive. Determination. A Goal. That’s what set them apart.



Ever since he showed his face, crawling from his hole and made this triumphant return Knox had presented a goal to The Carnage Legion. He was here for redemption, and he wanted a piece of Thor, and anyone who would dare get in his path. Silvio? All his promo showed was a child enamored with make believe. Maybe, there were some more ignorant fans out there who would buy into it but Matthew wasn’t one.



All the skill, None of the grit.



Big Shadow, Tiny Tree.



He flicked his butt into the ocean, and started walking back to the hotel. The night are caused goosebumps to raise on his arms. He really, really should have grabbed a hoodie this morning.



A lot he shoulda done..

He pulled his phone out, rereading the texts from the morning. There'd be time..

Maybe..