Before Perfection
by The Great Red Dragon
Chapter 9
I followed The Shark into the locker room (which had a sad smell of blood and sweat), keeping completely silent as he headed towards the sink. He turned and lowered his head, and there was splashing of water. When he turned 'round, his face was clean of paint and blood, and now I was able to view the features of this skilled warrior.
His eyes were a dark green, and they were able to express their wear and tear even from my distance. He had a scar above his upper lip, as if somebody had slashed at his face with a knife, and it gave him a semi-goofy appearance.
But not now. The air surrounding him was that of a great solider, who had survived many battles with the courage to tell about it. He picked up a tissue and held it to his mouth as a coughing-fit overtook him. The white texture turned to red almost instantly, and The Shark had to exchange it for a new one. When he had recovered, renewed blood was painted on his lips, and tears were in his eyes. He wiped himself clean with the back of his hand and started picking the lock on a nearly storage bin.
As I watched The Shark pull a pair of jeans from the chest, a strange feeling overcame me. This mere human, who I had considered lower than me, had displayed courage and stamina that was comparable even in my league. I, the great (as I called myself) and powerful Experiment 541, felt that I actually had an equal.
It wasn't like back in the lab, where I was beaten into submission by something artificial. Here I was, being put into mental submission by someone who I merely saw. I didn't think that was possible.
The Shark had now completely changed his attire. No longer in tights that perfectly outlined his leg-muscles and no longer was his finely-chiseled chest displayed. He was now garbed in a pair of ancient, faded jeans, and a loose, white T-shirt. The Shark started to head from the room, but then ran back as though he had forgotten something. He opened the storage bin again and pulled out a small, shining...something. He fumbled with it around his neck for a moment, then let loose.
It was a silver, metal scorpion amulet - not really worth anything: pawn-shop trash. But The Shark treated it as if it were a priceless treasure; he clasped it lightly in his hand as he left the room, keeping it from jerking up and down when he climbed the stairs out of the empty locker room.
He (or 'we', depending on how you look at it) met almost no one as we walked through the now-empty halls of the arena. Here and there came a small group of people, obviously recognizing The Shark and waving. He waved back, and for a few seconds he donned a fool-proof smile. When the giggling teenies had passed, however, the weathered look of inner-defeat returned to his face. I was actually starting to feel sorry for him.
A staircase up, we arrived at a somewhat-important-looking door. I watched as The Shark used his thumb to first touch his forehead, then his left shoulder, then the right, and then the left shoulder again; Lord, give me the strength I need.
He knocked curtly, and there was a ruffle of papers inside then a tired;
"Come in, come in..."
The Shark opened the door and stepped inside, while I crawled forward a few paces until the entire office was in my view.
It was a shabby place. My first thought was that the cleaning-crew must be out with the flu. The room was a downright mess: empty chip and candy bags littered the table and sofa at the far end. File cabinets lay half-open, with scripts pouring out that looked like they had been there for years. The lamp above gave only a small amount of light, giving the whole office a gangster-like look. Behind an ancient, chipped, wooden desk sat a man. He was large (fat) with a great mass of dark, oily hair raining down upon his shoulders. He was wearing a grey suit, which looked like it had been left alone in the dryer. On his big nose rested a pair of clip-on shades. One of the lenses was missing.
Before the knock, he had looked worse than The Shark outside, but his face brightened when the door was opened.
"Riley!", he said cheerfully, in a voice with a strong New York accent.
"Come in! Sit down, please!"
"Hey, Dave", said Riley.
His own voice was moderate in all, but was kept to a low volume, as though he didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to himself. He would come to remind me of Michael Jackson.
"My boy, how are you tonight?", asked Dave while leaning forward on his desk heavily.
"How was your match?"
The Shark sighed.
"I thought Jason was taking medication for his aggression", he said.
"I'm not ready to be his punching-bag."
He had a sense of humor. I liked that.
"Oh Riley, let me apologize", said Dave, and a look of pain came to his face; was it real?
"I should have watched...I could have stopped it anytime..."
Riley shook his head.
"But what would the fans have thought?", he asked reasonably.
Dave chuckled.
"The fans?", he said sarcastically.
"I've been told there weren't many present tonight. We started out good, but lost steam when that idiot Elex tripped and twisted his ankle. I have never been more ashamed..."
He brought out a bottle of some gold-colored liquid from underneath the desk, and then two small plastic cups.
"Drink, Riley; I insist", he said.
It was almost an order. He poured both glasses halfway full, then handed one to Riley. Riley swallowed it down in one swig. He looked like he was in for another coughing-fit, but was eventually able to keep it inside of himself.
"Keep up there, Riley, there's a good man", Dave said pompously.
I was starting to get sick of 'Dave'.
"Really, it's hard to find talent nowadays...", he said airily, seeming to drift away.
"Young idiots…they have one week of professional training and think they're the next sensation or something."
Riley had recovered by now and looked as though he wanted to say something important; he was just waiting for the opportunity. Finally, Dave paused in mid-sentence to choose a word (I would have put in a combination; 'I am an overweight tub of lard with the stomach to rival a hippotomous'), and Riley jumped in.
"-Speaking of talent", he began quickly, leaving his boss in a sense of disapproval.
"I...I do think that I was…exceptionally good tonight...so, I was hoping that...I could get a...a raise or something..."
Dave's face stayed neutral for a moment before falling. He sighed again.
"Riley...you live with your two sisters, right?", he asked.
Riley nodded.
"One's younger then you, right?"
Riley smiled weakly.
"They're both younger than me. Lara just likes to act superior", he said.
I noticed that he had tried to put some humor in that statement, but Dave didn't even smile.
"Riley...", he began, picking his words carefully.
"...I know that you're my top-boy. You've been with this company longer than anybody, and shed more blood for me than my own mother. But..."
His voice trailed off.
"Riley...", he began again.
The pain had turned into pure agony.
"Don't try to play dumb here. It's no secret to anybody that the EWF is going down the drain. We're sliding down the chute, and the people just aren't coming to us anymore. Everybody is flocking towards the WWE and bigger companies. We can't keep up with that."
Riley was almost in shock.
"B-but why? I mean...c'mon, Dave, we do stuff out there where we practically risk our lives every night. Nobody else does that!"
Dave shook his head in defeat.
"Riley, people don't come to Hawaii to watch pro-wrestling", he said.
"Every week, a distinct number of fans attending our shows leave us. When the people don't come, we lose money."
He grabbed the bottle by its neck and drank it by mouth. A bit of its content dribbled from his mouth.
Riley looked like a child that had gotten lost in the toy department. His eyes didn't focus on Dave, and his mouth was left hanging open.
"B-b-but there must be something we can do-!", he said desperately.
"I-I mean, uh, I'll jump off of the building if I have to! I-they can't shut us down!"
Dave looked very drunk now. He had the bottle in hand again.
"Now Riley, know that it's not your fault. I mean...who could've seen it coming?"
Riley wasn't listening; he knew too that his boss had left the real world.
"You've got a strong body...I'm sure you could get a job somewhere...(he took another swig) They're looking for pole-artists down in Singapore..."
Okay, now I knew he was drunk.
Riley knew it too, for that second he stood up and started to leave the room. I didn't think that Dave noticed; he had started to talk about pole-dancing. I left with Riley; slipping out of the doorway before he closed it.
The Shark stormed back down the hallway. He looked both furious and exasperated. He was kicking and punching everything in sight, but looking like he regretted it afterwards. I was even more careful not to make any noise now.
What I had just seenwas even more devastating to watch than the fight…and I didn't even know that I could care emotionally.
Here was a man (A/N: actually, he's still a teen. Around eighteen, I'll guess) putting his heart and soul on display every night and getting nothing for it.
I didn't complain about myself. Sometimes I'll even be grateful for my harsh treatment, as it toughened me for the world outside. But this was impossible to put in words. Riley's pain seemed almost a physical force that would reach out and grab a body who dared to stray too close.
Before I knew it, we were outside of the building, and in the dark of night. I came back out of the same hole I had created earlier. From there I jumped to the ground, and followed The Shark in the cover of the shadows. I had passed a parking-lot before on my way over, and that was surely where we were heading. I jumped noiselessly from place to place, keeping my eyes firmly planted on the bummed Riley.
But then, about only twenty meters from the site, I fell off-guard and made the lid of a trash can rattle violently. Riley whipped around quickly. His hands were in a fighting-stance, leading to the fact that he might know the martial-arts.
"Who's there?", he called.
His voice was somewhat low, but not with fear. I remained silent and hidden. I barely breathed.
Both of us remained in that position for several minutes. The Shark would call out once or twice more, yet he was the only voice to be heard in the entire vicinity.
"Come to laugh at me, huh?!"
Riley had turned angry; very, very angry.
"You wanna laugh at The Shark, huh?!"
He reached down and picked up a particularly sharp stone and hurled it in my direction, even though he couldn't see me.
Hesure had strength in his arm: if I hadn't jerked my head sideways at the last moment, I would be sporting a very nasty scar across my eye now.
He continued to shout off a list of obscenities, some of which I have not even heard of yet to this day. But finally, with grim loss in his face, he began to walk away. I wiped sweat from my brow and jumped to the ground. I had almost been uncovered. I would never have thought that could happen, that it was allowed to happen.
I began walking around the other side of the building, humming to myself absentmindedly.
Who knew? Maybe I would see The Shark again. I would certainly be keeping an eye out for him. But still, the feeling just wouldn't leave me alone. I had been psychically connected with Riley Kivana during some time in that building. Something had happened in there that had just a mystical effect on me. I still can't put my finger on it, but I think it was like...
Well, what it was like I'll never know. The next second I was to hear a mad screeching of tires, and the lights of a large car stared me in the face. My only thought was of how stupid I must have been to stray into the road without knowing it. I didn't even think of jumping away; I didn't have time.
BWU-CHTHAMP!
I couldn't feel the pain as the vehicle collided with my body. Maybe my brain shut down as to spare me of the fierce trauma. When I opened my eyes again, I was lying sprawled-out on the road. I knew that I had bee seriously hurt once again. I tried to sit up, but my head felt like an anvil. There was an almighty stinging going on in my left side. I reach over to feel what was the matter, and I found a wound that I damn near could've stuck my fist into.
I was unconsciousness when the owner of the truck stepped out to look at the body of the bloody, mangled road-kill that lay before, this time dead for sure.
