"Wherever we look upon this earth, the opportunities take shape within the problems."
-Nelson A. Rockefeller
23rd July, 2009
"What's it about?" Draeden asked, looking at the cover of the paper-backed book in his hands.
The woman standing in front of him had introduced herself as Helen Harris from some publishing company Draeden had never heard of. She smiled politely. Draeden already disliked her. "It's an epic tale of one man's plight to save the world," she said.
Draeden eyed the woman suspiciously, leaning against the frame of the open front door and leafing through pages of the book. "Sounds pretty uninteresting."
"Well, I gathered that your interest lies in fantasy fiction, Mr Darksky," she persisted. "Please, keep that copy. You don't have to make your decision now. The author was very insistent that we contact you about it and, as you should well know, it's best not to judge a book by its cover. After all, there wasn't a great deal of people predicting your progression past round one of the Extreme Tournament now, was there?"
"They thought I was dead."
She shrugged. "Irrespective, my point remains."
"Indeed. It remains moot. Good day to you," he said as he pushed the book back into her hands and backed away to close the door.
"Please, take my card. If you reconsider?" the woman almost pleaded, extending a hand, a small card between her fingers.
"I won't."
The force of the door slamming shut was enough to cause an echo that boomed throughout the huge open hall. Draeden was growing more and more frustrated with all of the marketing reps knocking on the door and ringing the phone. He had received piles of mail, some junk, some fan mail, some hate mail. The rest of it was correspondence from the persistent companies that were desperately trying to get his face on their commercials, his mark of approval on their packaging. The vultures circled him now, more so than ever since his apparent death. Draeden was running out of patience.
"Another one?" came a soft voice from Draeden's right. It was Alexandra, freshly out of bed in her dressing gown.
Draeden looked at the time on his watch. 08:19. "Yeah."
"What was it this time?" asked the young woman as she beckoned Draeden towards the kitchen.
"They wanted me to read some book and write a review on it," he said, following her lead. "As if wrestlers can read."
Alex smiled at him as she pushed the kitchen door open. "Might do you some good to read something instead of sitting around the house brooding."
"I'm not brooding. I'm mentally scarred."
She didn't take the bait, but as she opened the cupboard with the coffee she turned and threw him a grin instead. "No, I mean it. You're just sitting around the house doing nothing all day, then going out on the weekend to the Extreme Tournament." She spat the last two words like a bitter taste from her mouth.
Draeden scowled. "I'm not reading that crap."
"Just do it! It's something to do, other than be miserable. You've already perfected that, do something else."
"No. If I accept it they'll ask me to do a review on it."
"Take it, read it, then write a paragraph slating it so they can't use it; job done, hilarity ensues," laughed Alex, filling the kettle.
"No. If I do this one then the rest will want me to do whatever the hell it is they want me to do and they'll think I might do it. Which means they'll hassle me more. I really can't be bothered. I don't wanna open children's' hospitals and shopping centres. I want to be left alone."
"But a book is something good to be involved in. I mean, involvement in literature is better than opening malls and doughnut franchises. It's something intellectual and interesting, raise your profile a bit!"
"I don't give a fuck about my profile. I'm doing this Extreme Tournament thing. I don't even want to do that. I'd much rather slip away into the kind of obscurity that only time can grant me," he argued. "The sooner the world can forget about Draeden Darksky, the sooner Draeden Darksky can get on with the rest of his life in peace."
"Yeah, well, other people give a fuck about you and your profile. Have you seen the pile of fan mail you have? There's people out there who were overjoyed to find out you're actually alive. Maybe you should have a look through that, if not the stupid book."
Draeden said nothing.
"What was it called, anyway?"
"What?"
"The book. What was it called?"
"'Shadow Crusade'."
* * *
26th July, 2009
Becky Hellian, down and out. Time to leave via the rear fire escape again, nice and quiet with no attention drawn. His jaw felt about an inch out of joint, a sore spot on the right side where Hellian had cuffed him. She was a tough fight, nothing like Swing last week. No, this one stood a chance, knew Draeden was coming. Not that this changed anything in particular but at least she wasn't expecting a drunken Russian, otherwise she'd have been seriously surprised.
The door swung open on rusty hinges, squealing like a stuck pig and alerting everyone standing outside that Draeden was there. The whole crowd turned around simultaneously and Draeden was awash with camera flashes; reporters barrelled towards him, elbowing one another aside for a chance to speak to the dead-but-not wrestler. He hated these people and resented the fact that they were more interested in him after he'd 'died'.
"Draeden!" the first reporter barked, reaching for him over the head of a photographer. "What really happened in Chi-"
"Was this all just a gimmick," another interrupted, "or are the rumours--"
"Why did you go to China?" called another, pushing to the front. He was nudged aside by a taller man that stuck out to Draeden like a sore thumb, his black hat obscuring his face.
The stranger stepped into the space Draeden commanded, where the others would not dare to step, and walked alongside him. "Why won't you read my book, Mr Darksky?" he said calmly.
Draeden glanced up at the taller man as he followed him and chose to feign ignorance. "What book?"
"'Shadow Crusade'. I sent someone to see you about it."
"I don't remember," he lied.
"I think you do. You said it sounded uninteresting. You should read it, I think you'll be… pleasantly surprised."
"I don't have time."
"You have lots of time."
"Not for this," Draeden said, pushing aside a photographer that strayed into his path across the car park, almost sending him flying with the brunt of his frustration.
The man hurried ahead and stepped in front of Draeden, forcing him to stop. The stranger thrust the book into his hands. "Take it!"
Draeden scowled at him and looked at the book in his hands. 'Shadow Crusade', by… wait, there was no author's name. "Who are you?" Draeden asked the black-clad man.
"Read it and you will find out."
Clearly displeased, Draeden held the book back out to the curious author. "No. I'm not playing your fucking games."
The author didn't take the book. Draeden dropped it, the man made no attempt to catch it and the tome fell onto the asphalt. Pushing past the man and continuing on to wade through the crowd of journalists, Draeden swore under his breath. He looked over his shoulder and the man was still there, watching him walk away; the sight very of him caused a string of expletives to escape his lips.
"Well, that sounds more like the Draeden Darksky we know and love, am I right?" Jack chuckled in the back of Draeden's mind.
"Not now."
"Ah, why not? Now's a good time; maybe you'll be too preoccupied in speaking to me to kill anyone? So maybe not a good time for you, but a good time for the people in your vicinity?"
Draeden eyed the reporters as they thrust microphones and questions in his direction, the camera flashes were beginning to hurt his eyes.
"Mmm, just look at all the people you could kill. You've got that sword haven't you? Cut 'em! That'll get rid of them, they'll run at the sight. Isn't that easier?"
"That is not the way," Draeden muttered.
"Oh, but it is! It's your way, Draeden, not mine. I see them, you know. Them. You know who I mean."
"I don't."
"Now who's playing games? I know your thoughts because they're mine too. Don't lie to me. You can't. You know they're there, you feel them watching you every night. You feel their eyes burning holes in your body and your skin is weakening. It wasn't so bad before; you could shut out their cries, turn away their accusing tones with your ignorance. But the voices grow louder with each one you collect, with each one you add to be your own torment. Eternal torment. You know they won't go away. They won't be released until you die. They'll haunt you forever, Draeden."
The voice referred to the faces Draeden saw when he closed his eyes, the faces of the men and women that died by his sword in China; the people he slaughtered in the name of entertainment.* "I know," he whispered.
(* http://bit.ly/zHB8e refers)
"Quite a burden you bear," remarked Jack.
Draeden realised now that he had stopped moving. He had left the confines of the warehouse's car park. The crowd encompassed him now, a seething mass of flesh and false pretences; people claiming to be interested in his story. The bastards, they were only interested in the money his words might bring.
Where the hell was his cab?
As if on cue the vehicle sped around the corner and Draeden watched it as it bombed along the road towards him. The journalists scurried away from the roadside to avoid the hasty driver, clearing a path for Draeden to enter the cab. The car hadn't yet come to a complete halt when Draeden grabbed the door handle and pulled it open, the duffel bag he carried taking point upon entry.
"Airport," he barked impatiently.
The driver wasted no time in accelerating away from the scene. They had not even rounded the corner at the end of the industrial estate before the driver became inquisitive. "Wow, so you must be famous or somethin', huh?"
"No. Just drive." He looked over his shoulder out of the rear window. There, a man in front of the ambling press and watched him as he drove away.
It was the author.
* * *
27th July, 2009
The keys clattered as they landed in the stone bowl atop the small table by the front door which slammed behind Draeden with more force than he'd intended. Apparently Alexandra had lubricated the hinges. The commotion summoned the woman from the dining room to the right, she was holding in both hands what looked like a bowl of porridge.
"You're back early," she grunted.
"Yeah. What's this?" Draeden asked, lifting a small square package from beside the bowl. He shook it.
"Well, the wrapping is still on it and my x-ray vision doesn't work at this time in the morning, so I don't fucking know, funnily enough."
He frowned and tore at the edge of the packaging, ripping the flap of the bubble-wrapped envelope off. "It's a book," he groaned.
Alex took the package from him and pulled the book out of its packaging. "It's that one you were talking about on Thursday."
"For fuck's sake. Bin it," Draeden said as he headed for the stairs, leaving the book in Alexandra's hands. She withdrew it and looked at the cover. There was some kind of coat of arms; a white shield with an inverted red cross flanked by a fire-breathing dragon at one side and a roaring tiger at the other. Alex sighed and pushed the book under her arm, heading for the dining room with her porridge.
"Definitely ordered the right book," she muttered.
* * *
31st July, 2009
Patrick Martin of the Hayward Daily Review had drawn yet another blank. No-one in the whole city was able to give him any relevant information and the whole task set upon him was becoming more akin to a monolith of failure as the days went by. Since Darksky's amazing reappearance on the 19th of July it had fallen to him to learn more about the elusive man. Attempts to contact him directly had been impossible. Letters sent to his home in Chicago had been ignored, as had been the several messages left for him on his last known cell number. Being a modest 5'3" Patrick hardly leapt out of the crowd at Darksky when he had waited for him outside the warehouse that the Extreme Tournament was being held in. When he had tried that exact tactic Darksky had elbowed him aside with minimal effort and even less consideration; a small, fleshy bump on the road home. He knew that to try and grab Darksky would be suicidal given his disdain for people in general, let alone a pushy reporter.
He'd witnessed the brief exchange between Darksky and the man with the book; he presumed that the man was trying to get an autograph and was brutally shot down. Patrick would have to try a less direct approach at contacting this man, but how?
With a long sigh, Patrick placed his bag down beside his desk and flipped open his notebook. While he waited for it to boot up he pressed the play button on the Dictaphone from his pocket and lay the device down beside the computer. He hated the sound of his own voice but it saved taking inaccurate notes.
"How exactly would you describe Draeden Darksky, personality-wise?" he heard himself ask. A moment of silence passed.
"Hard to say," said The Experts' light technician he'd interviewed recently. His name was Robin Tobin. Unusual, else he'd have forgotten it. Ironically irrelevant since Tobin's name would be omitted from any published article to preserve the anonymity he had requested. He wondered what the man was afraid of. "We don't speak to many of the wrestlers, y'know? They do their thing, we do ours. Apparently Draeden just turns up before his match, wrestles, then leaves. He doesn't speak to anyone, none of the ring crew, interviewers, least of all technicians like me. What we do is purely for the crowd and cameras..."
He'd had more to say but nothing of any value to Patrick. He wound the tape on. The next interview he'd recorded was with one of The Experts' ring crew.
"I dunno if he was on hands-free or something but, like, he was talkin' to himself maybe? Sounded like he was arguing, I dunno who with though," he had said. Ryan, Patrick thought his name was. "Just while he was waiting to fight last week. Only time he ever spoke to me was, like, when he first showed up, y'know, the first round. He asked which way the ring was and I was like, 'dude, ring seats are that way' and he was like, 'no, I need to get to the RING'. I was all like, 'shit man, the ring? It's right over that way', y'know? And off he went, man. Fucked up or what?"
The only thing Patrick thought was 'fucked up' was the fact that he couldn't find any information about this man following his disappearance from the VWF in September and, even then, the VWF refused to provide any information as to his whereabouts at the time. No, he needed to find the fan that had approached Darksky in the car park on Sunday night. He seemed to hold the man's attention for longer than thirty seconds. He must know something... but who was he?
Patrick sighed and switched off the Dictaphone, cutting himself off mid-question.
A monolithic task this would be indeed.
* * *
1st August, 2009
A man's worst enemy is often himself. Draeden Darksky had discovered this fact a mere matter of weeks ago, the inescapable diatribe from the darker recesses of his consciousness had taught him the meaning of self-loathing. The voice that had claimed to be an aspect of his conscience berated him constantly and had done for the whole month, without fail. What interested Draeden was the fact that, in Ireland, it spoke with a voice of reassurance with his preservation apparently in mind. Now that Draeden was in no immediate danger the vocalization of his guilt sought to punish him.
The battered duffel bag landed on the bed of the fine hotel room and Draeden thought back to this time last January, when he still worked for the Viking Wrestling Federation. The very same bag had landed on a tatty old sheet that covered a bed that looked like it'd been a participant in a crack-fuelled gang-bang. Draeden remembered the peeling wallpaper with the damp patch where the roof had leaked, the flaky paint from the ceiling that had transferred to the floor, the carpet that looked like it was covered in dandruff. It had been all he could afford at the time, twenty-five dollars for the night.
For the amount of sleep he'd gotten he may as well have crawled into the skip out back and bought himself a new cowboy hat. He would have to look for that when he got home, come to think of it. The cow-print hat had eluded him for some time now and he knew he hadn't taken it to China with him.
"So," Jack muttered, cutting into Draeden's reminiscence, "who do you get to beat up this week? You're alone now, you can talk to me. You should talk to me when there are people around. They'll be too afraid of you to come near you."
Draeden sighed. "Chester Addison."
"Who's that?"
"I don't know. I've never knowingly met him."
"So you won't feel bad when you gut him?"
Draeden sighed.
"What? I simply echo your own sentiments," Jack said innocently.
"Not quite."
"No, quite. Remember, I'm you. You're I. Your thoughts are mine and vice-versa, as much as it disgusts me to admit it. Tell me, how much are you going to hurt this one? It must be frustrating to know that--"
"Why do you keep asking me questions when you already know my thoughts?"
"I enjoy the conversation."
Somehow Draeden didn't believe him. Could this be a limitation to Jack's knowledge? "Huh, right."
"So what do you have in mind for this one, if not cutting him to shreds? Choke him a bit? Break his nose maybe, get a little blood flowing, liven things up a bit? Maybe you should go out now, get some blood on your hands before the match. It'll help you relax. Don't worry, you won't get caught. You're too good for that," Jack hissed. "You could probably get a few people. It's dark, a Saturday night. Should be a few drunks out there on the street. Easy. Don't deny yourself this simple pleasure, Draeden. Start denying yourself these things and you'll simply cease to exist! A shadow of your former self, you could say."
In silence, Draeden walked to the motel room door and flicked the light switch off. Plunged into darkness he waited for his eyes to adjust before returning to the bed where he sat down.
"What are you doing?" demanded the voice, the tone one of annoyance.
Draeden took a deep breath and, after a few moments, released it again. "Relaxing."
He closed his eyes.
* * *
Meanwhile
Alexandra closed the book, her fingers saving the page she was on as she turned it over and read the summary on the back cover. The words were misleading, they did not match the contents of the book. She opened the pages again, scanning hastily through the words she had read in alarm.
Something about this was not right, but then no-one said that this book was a work of fiction, had they?
