Title: Empire of Dirt
Featuring: Tchu
Date: On and Off the Wagon
Location: Vs Hessian (242 RP)

~January Night~
Six Days Sober



As he squished the “Channel Up” button under his thumb, Matt felt his pinky begin to tremble, then to twitch.

For the past forty minutes, he’d sat flipping through the channels on his LED television, trying to ignore the ongoing shaking that pulsed through his limbs. There was a simple solution, a quick fix, the kind of thing that would take no effort at all (other than moving his ass off the couch), but that solution meant flushing away six days. Six days of progress.

Six days of agonizing bullshit. For what?

Tossing the remote onto the sofa, Matt trudged across the living room and headed straight for the refrigerator on the far side of his kitchen. On top of the appliance sat a small black bottle, and he snatched it from its perch, popping the lid, then a few Vicodin, not bothering to count. With half the magic formula completed, he opened up the fridge, withdrawing an icy Blue Moon. Twisting off the cap, Matt put the bottle to his lips and took a long drink, practically smiling even as the beer rolled down his tongue and coated the back of his throat.

Returning to his spot on the couch, he continued on with the channel surfing, a wave of comfort washing over him as he mashed the “Channel Up” button, holding the remote in his cold, steady hand.






~ The Day of the Match~
Sheikh Zayed Stadium






Fingers trembling, he held the tips of his laces, pulling them tight across his black boots. It was just minutes before the main event, minutes before what was likely his last shot at glory. His elbow pad was in place, wrists taped, trunks on �" all that was left to do was lace up his old pair of boots.

They were scuffed and dull on the surface, worn to more of a grey than black, and as he tied them up, he realized anybody with one good eye would be able to tell they weren’t his normal wrestling boots. But sometimes, it just felt good to go back to the way things were, and one last dance for the Universal Championship seemed as good a reason as any to try and recapture the past in every way. Including a pair of boots older than his kids.

“Hey, Champ, you forget the knee braces, huh?” Wilbur Russel held up two identical black pieces of metal and plastic, shaking them in his wrinkled hand like they were rattles. For the past half year, he’d been helping Matt work through the complications of trying to stay competitive in a young man’s world while being handicapped by age and two bum wheels. In six months, he’d never seen Matt go for so much as a jog without his knee braces.

“Not tonight, Willy.”

“You gotta have ‘em.”

“No.”

“Why hire me to be your personal trainer then not take my advice? I been doin’ this for ‘long as you been on this planet, Champ. I trained Mike Tyson, y’know?”

“You did not.”

“When he was just a kid. Back before the title fights and ear biting and that movie with Zach Whatshisname.” Willy shook the braces once again, as if it were the only way Matt would be able to see them. “You got the knees of a ninety-year old. They practically bend backwards, like y’some sorta flamingo in tights or somethin’.”

“Thanks, Willy. I appreciate the pep-talk ten minutes before I go out there to wrestle fuckin’ King Kong.” Matt finished tying his left boot and sat up straight as he could, cracking his back. “I need to be fleet footed out there tonight. I’m not gonna be able to match size and strength, can’t have a couple of bulky braces slowin’ me down, takin’ away the only advantage I got.”

“Heart is your advantage, kiddo.”

“Sorry, Willy,” Matt adjusted the long black sleeve that protected his surgically repaired elbow, as the smallest of smiles spread across his face. “think that’s in worse shape than the knees.”






~An Evening in March~
Nineteen Days Sober






“So �" how long?”

“Nineteen days.”

“Good.” Mary smiled and she reached across the table to squeeze her husband’s hand. “I’m glad to hear you’re doin’ this.”

“Yeah. It was tough at first. Three days sober, off the wagon. Six days sober, off the wagon. Four days sober…” As he rattled off his repeated failures, Matt picked at the tip of his straw with his fingernail, bending and splitting the plastic to the point of uselessness. “But I’m tryin'. One day at a time and all that stuff.”

“This is the man I wanted to see. This is the guy I was hoping to sit down and have a nice dinner with. Clear-eyed and sober. Working to make things right.”

“I gotta admit, sometimes it still feels kinda shitty not being stoned, but I’m getting to the point where I don’t miss it anymore. I miss my family quite a bit, the pills and the booze not so much.”

“You know what I miss the most?”

“The sex?” Matt looked up and raised an eyebrow as he jabbed at the ice in his drink, trying to impale a rather large cube near the bottom of the glass.

“I said what I miss the most.” Mary chuckled and rummaged her fork through some lettuce, taking a bite of salad before continuing. “I miss that little bit of you in everything. I miss the way you made the perfect moments even better. I still laugh with the kids, rolling around on the floor with them, I still enjoy a beautiful sunset, talking with my parents, reading a good book �" “

“Pride & Prejudice?”

“For the umpteenth time.”

“Figured.”

“I miss the way you made everything matter. So many sweet things just aren’t quite as sweet without you. What’s a good time without that special someone? What’s ever worth celebrating or being proud of without someone to share it with? There’s a lot of things I love, but I feel like I don’t love any of ‘em quite as much these days. What we have injected everything we built with something special. I miss those that sorta thing.”

“That… that means a lot to hear.” He stared at his wife, a wife he hadn’t seen in six weeks, and he watched her eyes as they watered up, a couple teardrops escaping, falling onto her plate and mixing with salad dressing. She seemed elated and devastated all at once, hopeful and defeated. And his only response was to take a sip of soda from his mutilated straw.

“Every word of it’s true.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“So �" how are the kids? I miss my angels.”

“They miss you too.”

“Georgie doin’ alright in school?”

“Doin’ great.” Now it was Mary’s turn to stab aimlessly at something in front of her, spiking her fork into a field of green, over and over, never bothering to take a bite. “Now that you’re sob�"turning things around, you should come and see ‘em. Maybe we can even talk about moving back into the house. I’m sure Mom and Dad could stand some peace and quiet. They love the kids, but it’s a lot of ruckus.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not now. I can’t do it now.”

“What do you mean you can’t do it now?”

“Things have changed, but not enough yet. Or I dunno, maybe some stuff’s changed too much.” Matt propped an elbow on the table and rubbed the back of his neck. “I get what you’re saying about missing that sweetness in everything ya do. I get it. All the gold in the world isn’t worth anything if you’ve got no one to spend it with. And I love you, god I love you �" but this isn’t gonna work right now and three weeks sober doesn’t change it all. And everything you said, true as it was, much as it made me smile �" this can’t happen. This is something I have to fix on my own.”

“Ok.”

“I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, or what you probably expected.”

“No, not really.”

“But, there’s just something of that guy I used to be, something I have to find.”

Mary finally stopped playing with her salad, plucking a cherry tomato from the edge of the plate. She took a bite and chewed, and when she’d finished, she smiled, “Look me up when you do.”

She winked, and empty as he felt, he couldn’t keep himself from smiling.






~ The Day of the Match~
Sheikh Zayed Stadium






Since CVII and the match with Troy, puking had been a part of his pre-match ritual, but as he stood over a dingy, porcelain throne, waiting for the contents of his mid-day meal to leave him in fantastic fashion, like a marriage spiraling out of control, he realized there’d be a change to the tradition on this evening.

With a sigh of mixed emotions, Matt turned and shoved open the stall door, heading out of the restroom and making his way toward the gorilla position, wondering why he hadn’t thrown up as he’d done multiple times over the prior months. Maybe it was being sober, maybe his body had finally purged itself and started to adjust.

“Ya lose yer lunch, Champ?”

“Not this time.”

“That’s an iron gut ya got there. No nerves.”

“Guess so, Willy.”

As the old man and the trainer trudged up the hallway, Matt mulled over the idea of ‘no nerves’. Maybe that’s why his intestines had stayed in place. Maybe an accomplishment needed luster to make it tie up a man’s insides and wreck his nerves. And maybe nothing had that luster right now.






~An Evening in March~
Nineteen Days Sober






Pushing open the door to his empty kingdom, Matt tossed his keys on the corner table by the sofa and sighed, feeling the effects of a dinner that was too big for him to handle. He looked around the living room, cast in shadows, just the shapes of the furniture giving the room any substance and for a moment, just stood still, not moving from away from the front door.

He didn’t bother to hit the lights because there was nothing to see. Nothing in the house had any value. Not the 55” LED television. Not the title belts in the trophy room. There were a countless things around him, but nothing of merit. The house, and the belongings in it, were worth millions. It was his, the empire he had built from years of blood and sweat, broken bones and ultimate successes. But there was nothing worth bathing in light, and so it all remained in the shadows.

On tired knees, he slowly sauntered over to the recliner in the corner of the room. Spinning on his heels, Matt eased himself into the chair, taking a seat in his throne, king on his mountain of mud.
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