''One's'' Inner Demon (4)

[Level-Two]

''One's'' Inner Demon (4)

In cold pane sight...
December, 24th, 2007

I remember standing frozen in my own foot print. Feeling dead like the bushes, feeling as cold as the winter wind and observing the sharp icicles that hung to the roof top gutter like a cancerous soar as my only way out. Yet in a sense being here was a form of therapy. This had been a special night; one in which I tend to desperately avoid.

A steady flow of fragile snow-flakes descended from the sky onto the ground below. Surely, the foot steps that brought me through the yard, would be covered up by the morning and this unsuspecting family wouldn't tell the difference. I peered through the dead bush, ducked low, and crawled my way just beneath the window ceil. With my new found bravery, I was one step closer to finally experiencing this old age legend of Christmas. While I had seen it on television plenty of times, it often came with fake excitement, bad acting, and cheesy production... It just didn't have the same effect.

How pathetic was I? I mean, having to crash a dinner party because you simply weren't invited? Storing a Christmas wish list in a stack of out-dated newspapers in an old cardboard box, waiting for at least one gift to find itself in my hands? I never had to stay up to two o'clock in the morning to see that fat ass, self indulgent, big red bastard really didn't exist.

I took a deep breath of the cold air which burnt my lungs on the way down and lifted my head slowly above the window ceil. Bright colors of white, red, and green reflected off my eyes. The sound of Christmas music, could be heard ever so slightly through the glass window. The Christmas tree was decorated from head to toe; with a few homemade creations, hanging on the thick branches. Below it, rested the most prized positions; the Christmas gifts.

''Spoiled brats'' I slurred to myself in envious tongue, as two kids wearing pyjamas ran through their living room straight to their gifts. Behind the two young boys, came both the mother and father who carried big coffee mugs with their drinks of choice inside. The kids shook their gifts in anticipation, after waiting a few months, another day was gut wrenching to them. Yet, I couldn't sympathize with them. ''Imagine waiting an entire life time, kid''

The young boys grabbed the biggest gift they could find under the tree and rushed over to their parents ''Mom, can we please just open up one?'' The younger of the two, pleads. ''Yeah, what do you say, dad?'' His brother follows up, clinching to his father’s leg.

''What do you say? It can't hurt anything, can it?'' The father says, turning to his wife whom draws a sip from her mug. A smile from her is all her kids need, as they quickly rip open their gifts of choice.

''Mom, I can't believe you got me the Mr. V super-hero action figure!'' The younger boy exclaims in excitement. Quickly, his emotions are re-confirmed by his blood brother. ''Speed racers!? Awesome, I love you guys!'' The older boy expresses, embracing his father with a hug. The two boys stared at their presents with admiration on the living room couch, while I crouched knee deep in snow with thoughts of envy.

''Fucking brats'' I uttered in disgust. My eyes were as cold as the snow; if looks could kill, I'd have four counts of murder on my hands. I was angry, frustrated—I hated them. They raised their gifts above their heads in triumph, as if to show them off to me. They would go onto brag about it to their peers at school and show it off to the less than fortunate; at least that's how I remember it.

''Kids, your just lucky you aren't anything like me'' I said sharply, the frost from my mouth made its way onto the window, fogging up my vision into the home. ''Fortunate, little shits. Your father isn't in jail for murder and your mother, isn't a whore. Well, at the very least she isn't an alcoholic whore. You don't know how damn well you two have it cut out for you right now; and unless you turn out to be anything like me, you never will'' I said, wiping away the frost from the window.

''Nobody understands. No. Too dis-illusion by the bright lights, the publicity press, and the mass amounts of money, I make. I tell you that it isn't all that is there to life...but you don't believe me'' I placed my hand on cold window, leaving a print painted behind.

Suddenly, the mother lifted her head up, peering her attention the window. Tapping her husband lightly on the shoulder, she gained his attention. ''Babe, I think I just saw someone at our window!'' She claimed in a panic stricken tone. Her husband unsure of her claim, slowly parted away from his son whom sat on his lap, and slowly approached the window.

I stumbled through the cold snow, tripping over my own feet in the process. I ran until I couldn't carry my feet no longer. After all, my face could be easily recognized. Cold, empty, lifeless—that face you attach to your deepest and darkest fears, imagine seeing something like that in your window?

''Hun, I don't know what you think you saw—but there isn't anything here'' Her husband assures her as he turns away from the window, and re-joins her at a seat on her couch. The younger boy, looks up at his parents, and smiles.

''Maybe it was Santa Claus''

The yearly check in, check out.
Time: Unknown

APW President Jeff was all about the well being of his talent. Especially, in regards to his biggest draws within the company. President Jeff ensured that his talent was looked out for, and kept a close eye on. Apart of my contract with the APW, included at least three therapy sessions through out the year. While I certainly didn't look forward to them, if anyone on the roster needed it—it would be me.

My greatest fear was simple; letting them into my mind. It's a fucked up place. It's unstable, uncontrollable, and an explosive environment. Tapping into the reservoir of my deepest and darkest thoughts is the closest thing you can get to committing suicide, without actually killing yourself. These therapists often teased such ideas, begging me to put it all in the open, but I knew the only thing I'd get in return is a one-way ticket to a mental asylum, with my own padded room, and a straight jacket with my name on its tag.

''Lester, I can see something is troubling you deep down. Your stress levels are even higher then the last time we spoke'' The therapist stressed. She sat in her small desk, with her pad and pen laid out in front of her. I on the other hand, sat on a comfortable sofa surrounded by warm colors, strategically placed to lure me into a false sense of security.

''I don't know'' I lied. ''I guess with a big match coming up in a few days, it has me valuating my career all over. I mean, if I lose... where can I possibly go from here?'' I pitched false worry upon the therapist, whom hesitated at the sight of the bait.

''Surely, that can't be the sole reason for your increase of stress. These are dangerous levels, which call for some concern, Lester. Usually, levels like these, tends to root to deep trauma of one's past'' The therapist says confidently, as I shook my head and laid back into the soft chair.

''What do you know anyways?'' I shot back in frustration. ''Look, I just tend to get stressed out this time of the year...'' I said, turning my head, peering my focus outside the office window. The trees waved back and forth, its bark coated with a thin layer of snow. ''I think it's the weather''

''Now you’re just throwing out whatever comes to your mind, Lester'' The therapist counters with a soft smile. ''Lester, I'm not your enemy here. I am here to help you. The quicker you open up to me, the quicker we can start stitching together those wounds that are bothering you as you sit here with me today...''

It was clear that this therapist had been smarter then the rest. She understood the human mind; where as I only knew the strength of my own. I knew I would have to give up a little, hopefully enough to get her tongue wet but not so much as for her to keep me here for a few more hours and possibly have I shipped off to the mental asylum. ''It's Christmas, okay?'' I said drawing a deep sigh.

''Hmm'' The therapist mutters, before raising an eyebrow which peaks over her fragile thin glasses in concern. ''What about Christmas is it that bothers you?''

I looked up at her and sighed. ''Alright...''

I take you back to a time where I lived in the darkest corner of the planet, at least, in my opinion. I lived there with no escape. Locked doors, often teased me of the thought of freedom. And even, if I had managed to escape, I had no where to go. I sat in my bedroom, resting on the cold wooden floor, where cockroaches often crawled beneath the floor boards. My knees had been pulled up to my chest, my head resting down upon my knees.

A few days ago, I remember a few kids at school bragging about their up coming holidays. For at least two weeks, the gifts that laid wrapped under their Christmas tree's were the hot-playground discussion within the school yard. They asked me, what I was getting for Christmas—I told them, I didn't know. Though, I lied.

Before I knew it, a banging rattled the door which startled me momentarily. The banging, had been rivalled by the sound of my mother’s voice. ''Lester! Lester, open the door and come down stairs now...'' My mother demanded. Her voice, was less raspy then normal, and her tongue no longer tripped over her saliva. She must've ran dry out of vodka, or something.

I pulled myself to my feet and eagerly tugged open the door. My mother stood over me, greeting me with a gentle smile. She extended her hand, grabbing my own, eagerly tugging me down the stairs and into the living room. There was no tree, and not a single decoration; however a few boxes and pieces of wrapping paper aligned themselves on the floor.

''Am I actually going to get a gift this year'' I asked myself. I swear, I may have just said it out loud—but mother didn't react to it. She led me over to the boxes and seated me on the floor.

''Alright, Lester. I need to hop in the shower and clean myself up. Robert, just called me like twenty five minutes ago and he won't be in town tomorrow, which means tonight is the only night I am going to be able to see him until the Christmas holidays'' My mother said, pointing at the boxes. ''So what you need to do, is wrap these gifts up for me, and have them ready by the time I get out of the shower. Understood?'' My mother made clearly, pointing her finger in my face. I nodded my head, which was enough to get the disgusting human being away from me. I nearly, puked all over her gifts right then and there. These weren't for me.

I remember opening up the boxes, taking a sneak peak of her new friend’s gifts. I never met this Robert figure and surely if I did, I'd hate him. The first box contained a few assorted bottles of alcohol. The drink of choice in particular escapes my mind today, but surely, my mother wasn't the only drunk in town. Opposites don't always attract. It didn't take me long before I realized these two, probably really did deserve each-other.

The second gift was a pair of black and pink lingerie. A matching bra and panties, was all it took to send me into a rage. Even on Christmas; mother had been the same. Her only ambitions had been getting drunk and ending the night off with a good fuck on the side. Her own son playing second fiddle, to such sinful needs. I refused to wrap up her gifts. I refused to give into her demands. I left the gifts on the floor and locked myself inside me room. Surely, mother wouldn't be pleased.

No, she wasn't.

It felt like an entire day, but time tends to feel longer, when you are bored out of your mind. Nonetheless, she was home. I knew this, first by the door which slammed shut. Then, by the heavy foot steps that made their way, angrily up the stairs. And if I was still naive in regards to my mother’s whereabouts, the strong stench of alcohol on her breath was unique to her, and her alone. I could smell it. She was here.

The next thing I remember her saying was... ''You fucking little shit. Do you know what the fucking shit you caused tonight?'' My mother slurred out a sentence that would drive the simplest grammar Nazi, crazy. My mother was a mess. Well, more-so of a mess then usual. Her hair was in disarray, and her mascara ran down her face, painting ugly down her cheeks.

''You didn't wrap the gifts and I ran my ass, late! I fell in about, an inch of snow after slipping on a sheet of ice!'' She slurred, her eyes carved a whole through my chest. ''Lastly, Robert... well, he broke up with me!'' My mother cried out loud, placing her hand on the side of her head. ''He's probably fucking some other, whore... isn't he Lester?''

I remember just staring up at my mother; with not a single thought on my mind.

''Lester, do you think I like doing what I do to you? Do you think this is how I want to live, Lester!? Answer me you little, twerp!'' My mother demanded of me, slowly pulling her self to her feet.

''Ask yourself that, mom'' I responded in a soft tone. My mother merely, ran her hands through her messy, brown hair, and cursed on her breath.

''I'm really sorry about what I am about to do to you right now...''

The therapist leaned over and grabbed my hand. ''Lester, what happened next?'' She attempted to extract every last detail out of me. I shrugged her palm off my hand and turned my head to the side—I couldn't look at her.

''She beat me until I was unconscious'' I said before turning back to her. A cracked a sly smile and raised my hands above my shoulders. ''Now is that good enough for you? Are you driven with excitement watching a big, bad, fearless fighter like myself quarrel in weakness as a child? Have I fulfilled your note pad, the way you were hoping for?''

''Excuse me?'' The therapist countered, taken a back by my sudden change of tone.

''Face it. You're a therapist and I am just some asshole who makes more money then you do in a single day, then you do an entire year. You don't really care about my problems, while the hell should you anyways?''

''Is it because I am human, Lester?'' The therapist asked, peering down at her notes. ''Lester, the entire world isn't as bad as you think it is. Not everyone is like your mother. Not everyone is out with the sole purpose of hurting you. It's time to give me, the world, hell yourself; Lester-- a second shot at all this''

I merely, shrug my shoulders and gave in. Shit, it was a better alternative then the mental asylum and if I pushed her any further with my outburst, surely I'd end up there sooner then later. And maybe, just maybe she may be right—maybe you people aren't as half as bad, as you've been cracked out to be. Though, I doubt it.

''Fine. Where do we start?''

All boxed in
Time: December, 16th, 2009

''Are you sure you are alright, Lester? To be quite honest, you look out of it right now''

I wish I could simply just answer that question. Though, it didn't demand quite the simplistic response. Patricia Lewis, wasn't easy to fool. She knows I'm over confident and head over heels with my own skill and natural ability. And for me to be worried heading into a match with anyone, never mind Slade Craven, it would be too much to believe. She wouldn't take the bait. She's smarter then that.

''I guess I'm just under the weather, you know?'' I said as I met Patricia Lewis at the front door. ''I'm glad to see you stop by though'' I said quickly, ushering Patricia Lewis inside.

''Oh, good. You know, I was worried about stopping in unannounced knowing that you have a big match to prepare for this up coming weekend'' Patricia Lewis says, removing her purse from her shoulder, hanging it up on a coat rack beside her black leather jacket. ''I hope I'm not barging in...'' Patricia follows up, with her guilty conscious.

''No. Not at all'' I assured her. ''Though to be completely honest, I was actually on my way out the door. I need to run a few errands...''

''Well, my car is out back. Why don't I drive you down the road while the engine is still hot'' Patricia says, with a smile on her face. I scratched my head nodding it back and forth, in protest.

''I appreciate the offer; but with the big Christmas holidays coming up, I think a walk could only help. God knows what shape my physique will be in after I'm stuffed with some hot turkey'' I lied; knowing full well, I had no Christmas plans this year, much like the last. Patricia let out a soft giggle, before her face lit up in intrigue.

''Wait. You’re having thanks giving dinner? It isn't with me. Who's it with?''

''Uh'' I stumbled through my train of thoughts, trying to conjure up something. ''Oh, right. Food service... didn't you know they did Christmas specials?''

''I wouldn't know. I never actually spent a holiday inside a hotel, Lester''

''Aha'' I said, lifting a finger in the air. ''But a guy like me has. Now, it's probably not as good as your turkey...'' I said, to which Patricia cut me off.

''Have you ever heard the saying, the life comes before your job?'' Patricia asks.

''Sure'' I replied in a cool, calm, and collect manner. As Patricia made her way into the living room shaking her head back and forth. ''The only difference is; is that there is no difference between my life and my job...'' I whispered to myself, before exiting through my front door. Surely, she'd understand...

She knew she shouldn't be here. Lester hadn't given her permission to roam his house, but surely she could do no harm, right? After all, she trusted Lester—and knew he shouldn't have anything to hide. She observed the room carefully, running her hands through some of Lester's most prized possessions. Old pictures, awards, and anything else you could attribute to his grand success. There had been a reason however, he didn't leave this stuff in the open.

He never wanted anyone to see it.

The last thing Patricia looked through was an old brown plastic bag. She opened its folds at the top with ease, digging her hands through old discarded newspapers. Pulling them out, she reached over switching on a light which hung over an old table, allowing her to see the small print. Placing the news clippings on the desk in-front of her, she found a small white piece of paper, with sloppy childish hand writing. It couldn't have been written by anyone younger then eight years old. And said...

''LESTERS CHRISTMAS WISH LIST''

3: Mr.. V super hero action figure
2: Speed racers
1: To be a wrestler

Patricia smiled to herself, tucking the contents back into the box until they appeared to her as if they had been undisturbed.

''Babe, at least you got the one thing you wanted. Don't let us down, now''

''This was that errand I was talking about. Man, what a life this is...'' Level-One on shooting yet another promo.

It's amazing just how fast time flies, huh? I'm sure it goes even quicker when you’re having fun and fun is what Slade Craven is all about. For the past several weeks; Slade Craven never fails to shy away from showing off his Christmas wish list. An age old tradition; usually done by ten year olds with a delusion complex with a fat, red wearing, white bearded pedophile knocking on the front door with his reindeer camping out back! Well, Slade is going to get a wake up call well before Christmas morning when he finds out his wish-list is merely no more then documentation the entire world can dig up and laugh at.

You know, the wish-list that includes the APW World Heavyweight Championship? I can't blame you to be quite honest. The fact that you received a title opportunity in the first place was something that not even YOU saw coming. And doing absolutely nothing to earn it, perhaps you figure the rest will simply fall into your lap if you just tried a little bit harder. You use our match, way back when, as the foundation for your dream. You believed that if you just brought a split hair more heart, a split hair more focus, and a split hair more of natural born ability—that it would've been enough to beat me. You believe it would've been enough to through a monkey wrench in my plans for world domination and that you would simply pick up the screws as a souvenir and hail as some type of hero, world wide.

Well for starters; I'm not out for world domination. Nor am I conspiring to ruin spoiled brats special holidays either, despite popular belief. Neither offers me anything at all. This world is pathetic and power isn't power; when you can only exercise it over a bunch of, snivelling cowards, weak minded souls, and useless degenerates with the gull to waste my air. It is beyond me, why men like you, must feel obligated to parade to people who could care less about you. In fact, you vow to save them...

You don't feel I'm entertaining enough, Slade? You think I am a boring champion whom has let the shine of his title, his name engraved in the plate, and the plethora of lights effect the way he sees, moves, and thinks? I'd value your opinion in most scenarios; really, I would. Unfortunately what you don't understand is that I am APW world champion and YOU or not. You can't speak from experience, you can't feel the weight of a company leaning upon your shoulders, you don't have every fucking man on the roster...fuck, the entire industry... eyeing you down; waiting for the second to pounce on you—because YOU are the measuring bar of what makes a modern day legend.

Let's cut the fucking bullshit, Slade. Let's cut the snout off the elephant in the room; alright buddy? You’re no different from the rest. You look at me and you see a falling star, Slade. You look at me—and you remind yourself about the many men that held my position and quickly fell face first off the map, and your hoping, your praying that I am no different. You've heard the rumours, you've seen my recent short comings, and you've struck up a faint—yet legit sense of hope heading into this match.

Can I guarantee victory, Slade? No, not anymore. I've made that mistake—while rare, I have made it. I sat down and I plagued my head until it hurts, trying to cover up any wholes big enough for a filthy, spineless rat like you to squeeze its body through and I can say, I made a bit of progress. I didn't do this because you scare me. I didn't do this because you are any different from the men I have beaten before, time and time again. I did this because I have the desire to better myself, I have the desire to not get back into ''old form'' you fuckers love to speak about on the internet; but to come back even stronger. Many men could walk away, after accomplishing half of what I have accomplished—but I am not one of them, Slade.


When was the last time you sat down and tore you up, after you walked out and won a match? When was the last time you walked out to the arena; put on a four star match and couldn't sleep that night because you failed to come home with five? Slade Craven; when was the last fucking time you stood atop as the king of the hill and merely said to yourself...

''It isn't high enough...''

Never, Slade. You have fooled yourself into believing that you have what it takes to be the APW world champion. You have refused to listen to the old tales, stories, and testimonials of what I am capable of and simply replaced it with a soft-delusion. A soft delusion to lull your fears asleep long enough until I forcefully rip its eye lids open. Do you hear me, you motherfucker? I am NOT taking you lightly, I will NOT over look you, and I will give you the FIGHT you simply weren't hoping for...

Slade you and the entire world knows that when I am at my absolute best; success is merely a constant. The world knows that when I am at my absolute best, neither man nor bitch can raise their hands above their heads in victory, above my own. Too often am I expected to walk out there with half the gas. Too often, does the question on whether or not I'll even show up to fight, crosses the minds of many. Too often does everyone forget that I never have and never will walk away from what me and you have, Slade.

It's a little thing called Wrestling; and I just happen to have a thread of talent long enough to circle you with it and choke you until your green in the face with envy, cunt. You may treat this entire thing as a fart-joke, but for me? This shit so happens to be life and death. I lose now and nothing else matters. I lose now and it overwrites everything I have done over the past 365 days. Forget the ups, fuck the downs—none of it is worth a damn thing if I don't walk away, leaving my mission statement in the minds of many.

Slade at the same time, I understand what exactly is on the line for you to gain—even though you don't. You beat me at Christmas Chaos and you set the momentum going into a new year, 365 days wide open for your taking with an APW world title to cement it. You beat me and you accomplish something, nobody else in the APW could and that is beating Level-One at his best. Slade, in a weird way; I wish you would win. I wish you could feel what I felt, shocking the world, accomplishing the seemingly impossible; it would work wonders for your career. Unfortunately, it's a lonely spot at the top Slade—and I am not the one for companionship.

At this point of my career; I've been given two choices. I either walk away, hand the title over to a young, yellow bellied, wet behind the ear, upstart like yourself—or I stand where I stand refusing to put YOU or anyone else ''over'' until I am physically removed from the spot where I stand. And guess which one I am choosing, Slade? Here's a tip. Leave the gift wrap, bows and name tags at home—because championships don't come in cardboard boxes. Sorry to break it to you, Slade.

Slade, you know that deep down, I am the real deal. One way or another, you've been scratching the dates off your calendar, jizzing in your pants in anticipation for the opportunity to step inside the ring with me. Your cockiness can't hide the admission that you and your boyfriend made that the main reason you came to the APW; was to test the waters with the True Expert. Sure, today, right now, I don't actually hold the hardware—but if you can't see the same man you saw back then, right here right now? Well, what the fuck do you expect me to do? I can do many things, Slade---but I cannot give sight to the blind or a brain to a retard. You're out of luck.

So you tell me this; Slade Craven. What has changed? What has changed in regards to raw ability? What makes the modern day Slade Craven any different from the man I beat months, ago? Simple questions that I don't think you can answer, honestly. If you believe the APW world championship hanging above your head is simply enough to give you an extra edge; then you better make sure, I don't look up, too. Do you think you’re the only one wanting to walk out the APW world champion? Are you that self-centered in your own delusion-complex that you honestly think you want that strap more then I do? I eat, sleep, and bleed for success and in turn that's what brings me championships. Three years, non-stop, busting my ass, night after night, day after day—and while your spouting off Christmas traditions, I skip holidays.

That's something you have over me, Slade—and you really shouldn't trade it for anything. You have a life. You have a family, you have friends, you can look at the world—and you can stomach its atrocities, you have it made. You don't need this. This doesn't need you. Go on. Run. Nobody will think anything less then you, shit; they'd probably even give you the slightest bit of credit. Take your main-event hand out and pitch for another contract, find some other low ball promotion, where you can get all the perks you want, shit, winning the big title shouldn't be too hard either—you've done it before, haven't you Slade?

It sure beats the alternative, doesn't it? I know you can't wrap your mind around it, fool—but lets just say, I beat you. Let's just say, Level-One defeats Slade Craven and retains the APW world championship, how does that help Slade Craven? How does knowing that not only can Slade Craven flop in a match that really means nothing, but he can also flop when the stage is set and everything is on the line—when the spotlight is shined down upon his face and winning is the only thing that matters? Are you going to say you got close, but lost your cigar? Are you going to claim I am nothing more then a low life cheat? OR... was it just another off night for the main man? Eventually, Slade—your fans will get tired of your failures, sick of your excuses and they'll toss you to the side like the tub that held their popcorn. And to be honest; I wouldn't blame them.

I fucking warned you, Slade—but I already know what you're going to do. I already know what you’re going to say, because YOU are all too predictable. When you were offered this match, it didn't matter if you were ready for it. The circumstances were irrelevant. Did Shadow even cross your mind, Slade? Did the fact that he has done more then you, that he has given more than you have to the company, did that have any play in your decision at all? NNo, of course not—because deep down, you don’t give a fuck about anyone but yourself. You don't care about who you have to screw over to get to the top because getting to the top is all that matters in the end. Shit, Slade...

You sure sound like me.

The only difference is; I deserve to stand where I stand today. Before you ask what the fuck I have done, look back and realize—that there isn't a damn thing standing behind you. This is the only night noteworthy in your entire career. You've accomplished very little; and have nothing to show for it. Your history is dead and buried; declassified as defunct garbage, which couldn't hold its head above water. Shafted away in an old dusty record book; forgotten in the minds of your old fans and irrelevant as we approach another, New Year. Fortunately, you'll find out—that unlike your short-list of accomplishments, Level-One will live in the minds of many, forever.

In turn; the only thing the world is going to remember about Slade Craven twenty five years down the road is;

''That guy Level-One beat at Christmas Chaos that one time...''

The truth sucks.