Golden

The key is knowing when not to talk. Chris Jericho, The Rock, even the company's very own Cerebral Assassin can barely grasp that concept. They use words as weapons. To agitate, insult, incite. It makes them feel superior to watch their adversary foam at the mouth as a result of their verbal lashings. I bet it gives them a hard-on.

They build the bomb. They watch and wait for the explosion. Flying brain matter. Wreckage. Devastation. All in a day's work.

Word's are easy. The bad words, especially. The ones made of barbed wire and coated with vinegar for that extra sting. Even five-year-olds know how to taunt and ridicule. It's practically part of the curriculum. Sticks and stones…

Silence is the hard part. They never think of that. Most likely because they equate it with being weak. Or stupid. Not smart enough for an oh-so-witty come back. The world is made of noise. The first thing a parent expects of their child, after learning to walk, is talking.

I can't, for the life of me, understand why we aren't taught when to shut the hell up.

Forget building the bomb. If they're after a real rush, try defusing it. Watch it tick its way down to zero and then shut it off before it destroys everything within a twelve mile radius. You can't use words for that. The wrong ones only make it tick faster or lead to it blowing up in your face.

Triple H placed his bomb and ran. Back to his little faction. The coward.

The championship belt had been dangled in front of my brother's face only to be snatched away at the very last moment. Beaten and abused, the Undertaker seethes. Rage clouds his judgment.

Silence. Don't say a word. Not a sniffle. Not so much as a throat-clearing. Even saying his name is too much of a risk. Otherwise, I might as well have "Insert Knuckles Here" inscribed on my forehead.

The lockers decide to crumple themselves around his fists. I don't know why. They never appeared suicidal to me. Perhaps they are going for a new look. Wrinkled and blood-spotted.

He doesn't notice the cuts on his knuckles. He will later. Expletives stream from his mouth, unbidden. The likelihood of me putting a stop to them is slimmer than a Slim Jim.

In all honesty, I feel his pain. I had been champion once. For a day. One day. Try swallowing that pill. Once you've had it, you can't stop chasing it. You want it back. You deserve it. No one's worked harder than you. You fight the good fight and expect to be rewarded accordingly.

Too bad it doesn't work that way.

We all chase the dream. Even guys on the absolute bottom of the totem pole. It's just a glimmer to them, that championship gold. There are a lot of motherfuckers in the way. I'd be deluding myself by claiming to have no interest. The minute it no longer holds any value for me is when I pack my bags for good and ride off into the sunset.

Mark had gotten close to that gorgeous gold. But close don't count. So he's taking it out on his surroundings. Any sane person would make sure he or she was not part of those surroundings. I'm not sane; I diffuse the bomb.

The lockers fall apart under the weight of his vengeance. He lets loose an unholy howl that would loosen the bowels of lesser men. It's not enough. He starts in on the concrete wall. Punching. Kicking. Swearing. Sweat runs into his eyes. Blood stains the wall, drips onto the floor. Blood and sweat are what made this company. It's what made Mark the Undertaker.

I don't want the Undertaker. I want my brother. The man that insists he doesn't need directions. The man who drives twenty miles out of the way because he won't admit he's lost. The man who makes love to me upside a car… in the middle of nowhere… simply because he can.

It's my job to bring him back.

You can't talk to him when he's like this. Reasoning doesn't work. He's liable to rip your heart out and take a dump in your chest cavity. Words won't work. They require him to think, to absorb. He is not open to discussion.

Be silent. Be patient. Wait.

The tremors start. First in his hands, then his arms, then shoulders. Soon, it's a full-body shake. The rage. The indignation. The disappointment. The fear. We never talk about the fear, us former champions. The fear of never holding that belt above our heads again. We've gotten a taste of it and it stays in our mouths. It doesn't ever fully wash away.

To have been so close…

All these emotions are boiling inside him. He's about to explode.

Time to cut the wire. If you're right, the fire sputters out. No further harm done. If you're wrong… Say goodbye to your kneecaps.

My mask drops to the bench. The sound and movement draw his attention. I can almost hear the joints in his neck pop as his head slowly rotates. His eyes are dark and cold. Gone is that mischievous sparkle, the hint of the delightfully devious mind locked inside. I wonder if I'm beautiful to him now. Or does he simply want to rip my face off?

I love him more than the gold. Maybe because I only had the belt for one day and have had Mark for most of my life. It's so tempting to tell him that. That I love him. One would think it would solve everything. In his current state of mind, however, those words are another weapon. One he can use to wound me.

Our eyes are locked on each other. This is the test.

He draws in a deep breath, his chest expanding to almost inhuman proportions. I brace for the scream. Brace for impact. His fingers curl in on themselves. Fists clenched at his sides, the finally breath escapes. Softly. A whisper past his lips.

"My hands hurt," he says.

I nod. No words. Not yet.

The tremors subside. "My hands hurt," Mark repeats. He slumps onto the bench beside the battered lockers. He looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers. The blood is dry. His wounds have started to mend. "That was a stupid thing I did."

"No stupider than the things I've done. I dated Tori, remember?"

Mark looks up at me. There's a hint of fear in those eyes, but it's overshadowed by warmth and his usual devilish gleam. "God… What were you thinking?" He manages a soft chuckle and I know the worst is behind us.

I join him on his bench. Without asking, he places his hands in mine. "I was thinking she was the sort of person I was supposed to be in love with." I'm glad I restocked our first aid kit. I'm about to get my money's worth.

"And yet you were devastated when she left you?"

"Right. Because she left me to play 'Hide the Vienna Sausage' with my fake best friend. I can't be blamed for getting a bit emotional."

I guess it runs in the family. We both have the sense not to say it, though.

Shaking his head, he sighs, "I made a mess of myself."

We've done worse. Half the time to each other. "Yeah… You're gonna need bandages. Guess I'll have to help you shower."

From the curve of his lips, I know we are in for a couple of interesting encounters. "Well… If you insist…"

END