The scene opens out onto the bedroom of Hans and Vanessa von Richtoven’s rented home. At this time of the day, the sunlight is finally fading below the horizon, the soft light from the lamp on the bedside table the main source of illumination in the room. Ah, there it is. The fire in the pit of your stomach. Smoldering away like a volcano long thought dormant. You think on her words. (Erica): I get why you’re with her. You feel sorry for her. You’re like her caretaker, not her husband. The bytch is ate up in the head. Don’t you see you’re like a support animal to her. Un perro pequeno, y nada mas por ella. She’s got you on a leash and you don’t even know it, but I’m going to set you free, just you wait and see. In fact… You reach for the combat mitts. No fraying. Pristine. (Erica): A man like you shouldn’t have to hide himself, and cover up for the sake of some dumb bytch. You’re a saint for putting up with her, but you don’t have to any more… Deep breath out. Deep breath in. (Erica): What changed your tune Hans, was it the wife? After things settled down at home were you in bed and Vanessa’s laying there reminiscing about her calling me a “turncoat” at Havoc? Did you say what you said to keep the peace with her at home? I get it, but let me ask you something Hans. Is she worth it? Is she worth sacrificing your true values for just to be agreeable? No, now is as good a time as ever to crack your knuckles, yes… (Erica): Bytch, you hand up on me and I’ll make sure you have to wear a wig next time I see you. Escuchame pendeja, you’re nothing, you’re some fuked up ##### that somehow landed one of the good ones and has him on a short leash. Ok. Drop the trunks into the bag. Boots next. (Erica): You’re some fuked up ##### that somehow landed one of the good ones and has him on a short leash. The fire is being stoked at this stage. It was always known that HWA would attract… characters and you, well, you don’t get on with a lot of them. A spade is a spade, people don’t like it when you act blunt around them and call it for what it is. Some would be weak enough to go and target your wife to get a measure of revenge… But this. (Erica): Look at you, you’re pathetic. You don’t deserve him. What are you late, late 30’s, early 40’s…you haven’t even had any kids. That ship has sailed. A man like that needs to spread his seed. Your grip tightens on the boots. You’re meant to drop them into the bag but no… you’re not… (Erica): Fuking bytch, truth hurts doesn’t it? Doesn’t matter, I’ll see you at Havoc Vanessa, I’ll be ringside after all and you better call that match right. None of your bias bullshit talk against mi Maestro. I better hear some respect en tu boca pendeja! A long pause. Another breath? The boots drop into the bag. (Erica): Is she worth it? What a stupid question. Of course she is. A snort of amusement breaks the peace of the room.
On the bed, laid out carefully and being meticulously checked is Hans’ wrestling attire and gear. Combat mitts, boots, trunks and all other manner of things are being checked over and inspected.
At the foot of the bed is a black duffel bag, open and ready to receive the various this spread over the remainder of the bed as and when Hans feels it’s ready.
The room is silent, but for the sound of fabric and leather being rustled and adjusted, Hans taking his time, enjoying the quiet and the ritual he’s undertaking.
The issue with silence though, is that thoughts can stray in unbidden.
Before long, even as he focuses on the stitchwork of the boots, he can’t help but think about what caused his wife to get in his car in a flood of tears.
They’d rescheduled their viewings for another day, ‘delays on the interstate’. It’s LA so their realtor didn’t bat an eyelid. One of the places had gone in the time since, but in truth, Hans had the feeling it wouldn’t have been the one they’d have settled on anyway, so no loss.
It wasn’t until the following day that he’d had the chance to catch up with what had gone on with the recent promos. There it was, live on air for all to witness. Naturally not to much the aftermath on Vanessa’s side of the phonecall once she’d hung up on Erica, but what was shown was…
Into the bag they go.
What’s next? Ah, the trunks.
Another deep breath in, through the nose this time.
Hold it.
And exhale.
She got to Jeremy. She got to Matt. She’s caused enough damage.
No.
This is something else.
The fire in the stomach quells slightly.
The grip doesn’t release.
Ok. In through the nose. Hold.
And release.
Let’s repeat that.
And again.
And again.
You find yourself staring into the depths of the bag as if it’s the depths of hell. You’re on edge now, not what you need to be at this time of the night, but, here you are. Maybe this is good? Maybe this match with Herr Chaos will be a good release?
A noise comes from the back of your throat, a grunt of agreement almost.
You glance across the room at the closed door, your wife in the next room, respecting your tradition and giving you the time to pack your things. She’ll be reading a book right now. If your eyes hadn’t deceived you when you walked into the room, it looked like that Max Ernst book you’d got her the last time you were back home with her. Surrealism wasn’t your thing but it appealed to Vanessa.
And if like a spell was broken, you find yourself snapping out of it, finding your eyes drifting back to what remains on the bed.
You reach for the next item, as the scene fades out slowly to black.
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