An Itch To Scratch: Modus Operandi

‘We never truly retire, do we?’

Slater kept his eyes on Antonio, watching his muscular colleague caress his black beard. The question was supposed to be rhetoric, but Antonio replied with a Lovecraftian answer anyway.

‘That which is not dead can eternal lie.’

Issuing a pompous smirk, Antonio threw a stick into the large body of water that formed Lake Simcoe, sparkling conspicuously beneath the radiant sky.

The two Wrestling Coaches were enjoying a relaxing break at Wilkin’s Beach; false advertising considering the locale never really formed a beach of any sort. What did exist were plenty of rocks - large enough to sit on and small enough to pierce bare feet - dried twigs and branches from the neighbouring forestation, sticks convenient enough for Antonio’s pet dog - a Chinook breed - to hyperactively chase after, and bicycle trails criss-crossing their way along the various paths in the area. It was a tranquil environment, no doubt, but not as the name deceptively implied.

On occasion, Slater would venture to this place to relax and unwind. He would often reside on a cluster of rocks near the water’s edge, soaking in the atmosphere as luxury yachts and vessels sailed amongst the setting sun. Very few people disturbed his privacy; some were too enamoured by the lake to ask him personal questions, but others respected his lonesome activities enough to leave him be.

That was not to say he was never asked anything. Those who did interrupt his meditative state followed a simple formula: they would introduce themselves, their families, nod accordingly to his response and utter the same question, “when are you coming back to wrestling?”

After a while, Tic-Tac-Toe had more variety and genuine surprise than their soft interrogations did.

Predictably enough, and ironically enough, Slater and Antonio currently occupied the same cluster of rocks, sitting on one each nearby the lake. A lone bird chirped above them, attempting to contact its absent brethren. Two yachts navigated the immense water in the distance with a third boat anchored close to the harbour, undergoing some kind of test as its owner leaned on the railing. The summer days were beginning to dwindle, but this area was capable of captivating anyone during any particular season.

This was one of the reasons why Slater chose Barrie as a place to call home; the primary reason was due to the hectic environments of Toronto and Ottawa, climbing the ranks in population and making discrete choices around the city almost impossible. People often wondered why Slater opted to live in Canada in the first place. It was for Amy and Gabriel, but Slater would sometimes joke that Canada and the United Kingdom were distant siblings, pleasantly tolerating each other more than the Americans did; a joke that should have been hilarious if it was not contaminated by historical truth.

With its reddish-gold fur covered in grime, Antonio’s loyal dog emerged from the lake. It frantically grabbed the discarded stick and ran towards him, instinctively shaking water from its body and splashing the two men with residue. Slater and Antonio shielded their faces from the bombardment, allowing their clothes to take the brunt of the watery assault.

‘Damn it, Crash!’ Antonio shouted. The dog merely settled down onto the wet ground, waiting for its master to continue this playful game of fetch.

Slater had always found the name Crash strange for a dog, but Antonio, as he would later clarify, had been obsessed with Crash Bandicoot as a youth. Slater believed him when he caught on to the Chinook's resemblance of the eponymous character, even though a Bandicoot was a marsupial; more related to rabbits than canines.

‘That name will never sit well with me,’ Slater said, picking up another stick and throwing it underarm towards the lake. Naturally Crash bounded from his position and chased the airborne stick, following its trajectory into the shallow depths of the murky water.

‘Maybe I should change his name to Snake then,’ Antonio joked, also revealing his support of the Metal Gear Solid series of video games. Slater could not act superior; he favoured the Final Fantasy series and Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater as a young man, and the amount of times he played and completed Final Fantasy VII could not be determined. He still played video games from time to time, but ever since he purchased the latest Tomb Raider for the Playstation 3 he had not added any more games to his collection.

‘How about Freeman?’ The comical suggestion caused Antonio to smirk.

‘A Half-Life fan, huh?’

Slater laughed. ‘I was referring to Morgan, actually.’

‘Of course you were.’ Antonio rolled his eyes, aware of Slater’s concept of the actor being a realistic version of God since his iconic role in Bruce Almighty.

A sudden snapping noise made Slater look over his shoulder. Behind the jovial pair, a wooden Gazebo housed Antonio’s wife, Roxanne, reading some kind of novel that he did not recognise. She adjusted her strawberry-highlighted black hair every so often, highly engaged by the literature and nothing else. However, his vision focused on his son Gabriel, giddily ripping branches from the trees as Antonio and Roxanne’s daughter, Nina, stared at his physical prowess next to the Gazebo.

‘Leave the trees alone, Gabriel,’ Slater instructed, causing Gabriel to freeze. Hearing his father’s parental order, Gabriel stopped tearing the branches apart and instead picked up his Ironman toy, luring Nina on a chase around the Gazebo. He really does take after my infant self, Slater thought.

He watched the two children encircle the Gazebo before he noticed Roxanne doing the same thing, being mindful of her daughter around the dirt and miniscule rocks. Not even the endearing subject matter of her book could stop her from caring about her only child; it was a quality every parent should have shared, although that was an idealistic hope in this day and age.

Knowing Gabriel and Nina were being monitored, Slater looked back at the twinkling lake. He stared at the manoeuvrability of the nearest yacht for a while, deep in thought about his prior conversation with Antonio.

‘Brian thinks I should return to wrestling.’

While massaging Crash’s spine, Antonio glanced at Slater.

‘What do you think?’

‘I’m on the fence at this point,’ Slater admitted. Antonio concluded his hand strokes and threw another stick for Crash to pursue, this time aiming it away from the water.

‘You can’t listen to anyone else, man. You need to decide what to do by how you feel. I’d go back if it weren’t for my fuckin’ knees, but hey, I lived the dream. You need to decide whether that dream is worth livin’ again.’

Perhaps it was; perhaps it wasn’t. The only way Slater could know was to embark on that journey again, despite the logical arguments Amy put forward. Unfortunately, taking that first step through the door was a hard act to commence.

‘I’d prefer to uphold my healthy lifestyle,’ Slater replied. ‘But it was like you said before, that which is not dead can eternal lie. At this rate, I’m going to be feeling the urge to compete until my dying day.’

‘That’s the lasting power of H.P Lovecraft, man.’ A guttural chuckle emanated from Antonio’s mouth, causing his thick stomach to shudder. ‘But seriously, I can’t force you through that door. You have to look in the mirror and see for yourself.’

Everyone’s acting like my Psychiatrist, Slater thought, but he knew he could not take their advice lightly; after all, it was better to take the advice of someone who experienced these turmoils first-hand rather than someone that calculated statistics from an outside perspective.

A few months ago, whenever he looked into the mirror, he saw a man content, a man renewed. In recent weeks, his perception had drastically changed. Now he viewed a man unsure of himself, disguising no subtleties or concerns about what the future held.

He should have been happy with his current situation; instead, he was mentally back-pedalling to a time where he almost had nothing to cherish, all for the purpose of settling his frustrating desires.

‘It’s an addiction...’ Slater mused, unintentionally announcing his inner thoughts.

‘A dangerous one at that,’ added Antonio, simultaneously reaching his hand out to Crash. The dog gratuitously rubbed its head against Antonio’s palm, cementing their loving bond with a friendly connection. ‘That reminds me. I’ve been sitting down too long.’

The moment Antonio began to stand up from the rock, an anguished groan filled Slater with dread. His aforementioned knees had locked-up, ensuring that when his muscles stretched he would feel pain. His agonized expression lasted only a couple of seconds, but the results of his wrestling career would last a lifetime.

After studying Antonio’s upright posture, Slater’s eyes focused on Antonio’s right knee. He noted the surgical scar next to the patella, contributed by inflamed swelling at the joints. Such misery could only have been caused by an aggressive, full-contact sport, the type of sport that Slater deeply yearned to compete in again. Antonio was nearing the age of forty and already he was walking with the briskness of an Octogenarian; imagining his health in another ten years was too depressing to fathom, especially with a young daughter to properly raise.

But that was the price they paid. That was the penalty for risking life and limb for championship gold and reputable acceptance. And even with these visual reminders of wrestling’s morbid nature, Slater still could not put the beast to rest. A dangerous addiction, indeed.

‘I’m used to it by now,’ Antonio said, noticing Slater’s contemplative expression. ‘Extra strong painkillers seem to help, but that shit isn’t good for the systems, man.’

‘That’ll be substituting one addiction for another,’ Slater replied. He meant it too; the amount of talented athletes that had succumbed to the constant consumption of narcotics ranked high on the cause of casualties in wrestling, just falling behind respiratory failures and suicide. A sport of grandeur and pageantry? How glamorous…

‘There’s always the possibility of more surgery,’ Antonio explained, ‘but I can’t afford the bill. So, this will have to do. As long as I’m walking around more than usual, that cuts down on the tension. The swelling’s a bitch, but eh.’

‘Why do we go back?’ Slater asked indirectly. At this point he was angry at himself for having the nerve to even consider returning to a sport that victimised its greatest assets. American Football players were lucky to last one Season, nevermind two or three. Professional Wrestlers might as well have been classed as sadists, always clamouring to perform and entertain even after suffering near-paralysis. It was fortunate - in fact, it was downright miraculous - that Slater managed to retire with only nagging shoulder pains. ‘Amy was right.’

‘I take it she’s not being supportive?’

‘That’s an understatement,’ Slater answered. ‘She pleaded with me not to go back. I understand what she means, but...’

‘Wrestling is something else. Am I right?’

Slater nodded approvingly. ‘I can’t describe my feelings accurately. Sometimes I’m ready to pull the trigger and dive back in, but other times, like right now, I’m desperately trying to back away. I’m fighting this neverending battle with myself, and I know for as long as I hold off entering that door, I’m never going to be at peace.’

‘You’re really stuck in purgatory, aren’t you?’ There was no other way Antonio could analyse Slater’s mental struggle. It truly was purgatory, but the only difference was that one side was pulling him in closer as the other side weakly tried to resist. ‘I think we both know what needs to be done.’

‘You want me to go through it...’ Slater concluded.

‘It’s the only way, man. Once you feel that energy, you’ll be more inclined to settle down and really decide what to do.’

Exhaling with a long drawn-out sigh, Slater stood up from the cluster of rocks, looking out at the lake’s horizon as he did so. ‘What do you think will happen?’

‘Personally, I think you’ll get a broken neck,’ Antonio said. Another guttural laugh surfaced, but Slater did not appreciate the dark humour this time around.

‘That’s not funny.’

‘Okay, seriously, anything can happen. But I know what you can do. I’ve seen what you can do on those tapes. You’ll be able to handle that punishment and the pressure.’

‘Suppose you’re wrong?’

‘Then prove me wrong,’ Antonio instructed, motivating Slater to complete this one solitary objective. ‘That was your Modus Operandi, after all. Never backing down, fighting on behalf of the vulnerable, fighting for the sacred traditions of wrestling that are slowly dying. You kept your promises the majority of the time, and the people loved you for it. But you see, I think there’s more to this than just your feelings.’

‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Slater asked.

‘I don’t think you need to go back to wrestling. I think wrestling needs you to come back.’

‘Now you’re being absurd.’

‘A noble Knight without a land to defend, a true technician that can offer good-hearted principles to the sport? I don’t think that’s absurd, my friend.’

Slater remained silent. A few moments ago he was perplexed, unable to take Antonio’s opinion seriously. Now he was contemplating his apparent values, wondering if he could make a difference.

As much as the wrestling business had its flaws - and there were many to be sure - not everything was a lost cause. Injuries were not as regular as they used to be. Afflicted wrestlers were placed into rehabilitation programs and therapeutic sessions to cure their demons. Even the fans were less volatile, although there were occasional miscreants that wanted nothing more than to disrupt matches to garner attention. Slater understood why the negatives were highlighted more, far more, than the positive attributes of the sport, but he still enjoyed wrestling; he still loved wrestling.

Furthermore, wrestlers were able to travel fewer distances and compete on lesser days than they were in the past. It was a requirement to compete five nights a week back then - sometimes two times on the same night - but now any wrestler could wrestle twice, maybe even once in seven days. This allowed them to spend more time with their families, polish their skills, attain peak physical fitness and do other things that were difficult to the point of being impossible in olden times.

Visionaries of Wrestling currently operated on a bi-weekly model, although they did schedule a couple of house shows in the area. With so many companies offering open contracts nowadays, any wrestler could choose when and where to compete. They were in control of their own schedules, but it was still difficult to maintain a decent lifestyle on the road.

Perhaps it is doable, after all.

Suddenly Antonio whistled, cancelling Slater’s train of thought. Crash came running over excitedly, jumping up at Antonio and balancing its front legs on his thighs.

‘Stay still,’ he told the dog, revealing a collar with an adjustable leash. Crash surprisingly obeyed this command with devotion, not moving at all as Antonio put the collar around his neck and locked it tight.

Slater checked his watch. It was getting rather late. ‘I guess it’s time we all went home.’

‘Back to the grind!’ Antonio exclaimed, knowing there were plenty of chores waiting for him. ‘Damn laundry. I wish it cleaned itself.’

With a tug on the leash, Antonio gestured Crash to follow him. The dog spotted Nina and ran forward, almost colliding with Gabriel as it sniffed around the innocent children. Gabriel nervously stroked the dog, but Crash did not seem bothered; in fact, he accepted this simple act, wagging his tail frantically from the pleasure.

‘Good doggy!’ Nina yelled, vocally applauding Crash’s behaviour. The dog merely sniffed around some more, rummaging through the grass and dirt for a distinctive scent.

‘I like cats more,’ Gabriel admitted to his new friend. Instead of frowning sternly and combating Gabriel’s preference, Nina smiled wide. ‘I love cats too!’

‘You’ll hurt Crash’s feelings,’ Antonio told Nina, albeit lightheartedly. This time Nina pouted, feeling as though she had made a grave error of judgement.

‘But I love Crash more!’ she responded, covering up her obvious blunder. All the while Slater chuckled, still remaining by the rocks as he checked his pockets.

‘So are you coming or what?’ Antonio said to Slater, maintaining his grip on the leash as Crash set off exploring the Gazebo. Roxanne was already putting her book away, storing it in a handbag that was quadruple the size of the ones Slater’s mother used to own.

‘I’ll catch up to you,’ Slater replied before consulting his surroundings. The yachts continued to sail the seemingly-endless waters, creating wave ripples along their hulls. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘Whatever, man.’ Antonio issued a wave. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

Slater returned the wave, doing so as Gabriel stumbled towards him across the uneven terrain. He clutched his Ironman figure in one hand, being careful not to drop it onto the assorted twigs that snapped under his shoes.

‘What’cha doin’?’ Gabriel asked, staring up at his father quizzically. Slater placed his hand on his son’s upper back, keeping him steady as he gazed out at the lake.

‘Coming to a decision,’ he answered ambiguously. Gabriel looked more confused as a result.
‘What about?’

‘Something important, son...’ Slater said, caressing his son’s back at the same time. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’

As they walked away from the lake, Slater envisioned the beast behind the door, prowling the darkness in growing anticipation.

It wouldn’t be long now.




For three straight hours, Slater witnessed the glory and carnage of VoW’s latest PPV, Heatstroke. He failed to leave his seat during those three hours, enamoured by the action, entranced by the reactions from the crowd. He watched desperate competitors risk everything for one chance at victory. He watched two familiar faces uncover their secret plan, kissing in the middle of the ring. He watched the referees get knocked down by accident or on purpose, at the same time wishing there were sturdier people that could take this kind of punishment. But once the Main Event concluded with Valquist hoisting the World Visionary Championship above his head, a decision that sent him into a state of euphoria as two other men looked on in shock, Slater realised that he wanted to go back.

He needed to go back.

The event was a bonafide success; not just in the sense of satisfying the audience and giving them their money's worth, but in the sense of helping Slater approach the door with ease. Whether it was Big Boss Hogg or Tyler Storm, Reya Serra or Zui Zhong, every competitor made him weigh his viable options. The sport was certainly not what it used to be, but there was a certain charm that could not be ignored.

After turning off the television, Slater sat in silence for several minutes. He continued to soak in the aftermath, energizing his soul; energizing his very nature. His knightly duties began to beckon, increasing his temptation to step into that ring and live in the moment once more.

Wrestling would never leave him. For better or for worse, Wrestling was a part of him, as it always would be. Without it, he was a puzzle with a missing piece; a piece that needed to be claimed before it was too late.

It was not just his dream. It was not just his way of life.

It was his Modus Operandi.