Nature Of The Beast: Full Circle

There it cackled, standing atop the rotten remains of a room fading light; a domain once glistening with pride, now damaged by the same pride of its foolish, wounded enemy. It eyed the broken sword at its feet, completely shattered beneath its decrepit claws. Overwhelmed by a sense of victory, the creature bellowed towards the grounded knight. Superior growls flowed through its grinning maw; soon its prey would falter, felled by something once enslaved by his own construction.

Vulnerability would follow, and then, just as it had long estimated, an overdue conversion would euphorically occur.

‘Now do you understand?’ it hoarsely questioned, although no words were vocally spoken. The ferocious entity transferred its words psychologically, allowing its victim to experience a common language while its anatomy bulged with a resurgence of power. ‘You lost when you opened the door. You were always going to lose.’

The individual it sought to demoralize weakly observed the open doorway, exposing nothing but blackness on the other side. Lying amongst blood and debris, the battered male groaned, withdrawing his gaze from the fractured door and returning those same fatigued eyes to the imposing monster. He persistently reached towards the sword, as if attempting to draw it closer with his depleting will.

‘So you wish to continue?’ The creature pondered this sight with twisted delight, being rather amused by his perseverance. ‘Your fate was written long ago. Every chapter you finished failed to eliminate what would inevitably come. Every barrier you installed was going to be broken down. Now all you have attained... is gone.’

He failed to heed the monster’s words, continuing to resist the growing realization that he could not stop what stood before him. It had always been there, roaming amongst the recesses of his mind, waiting to reclaim its place, waiting to return to where it truly belonged.

But that growing realization soon became his noble undoing. Struggling to cope with his weakening form, his eyes lowered gradually. Noticing the exposure of vulnerability, the monster widened its own, deeply-sunken eyes, transmitting a future deal its host could not - and would not - refuse.

‘But you know you can begin again... as you should have always been. Do you understand?’

Engulfed in flames - fuelled by its ever-increasing strength - the creature hideously cackled once more. Blank, glowing irises focused on the fallen master that had valiantly attempted to control its influence. Unfortunately, he had only served to frustrate what would always exist. He was unable to fully cleanse what he deemed a hindrance and, ultimately, these revitalized parts would demolish what was left of the barriers, cross the threshold and reform what he had always been.

The beast would always be part of him; this he finally knew once his blood-stained arm collapsed to the ground.

‘You opened the door…’ the beast reiterated, advancing on its host as an immortal inclusion, something that would mesh every aspect of his being into one true form, ‘... and now we will close it.’

The room darkened exponentially, soon only displaying the flickering flames of the beast. Unleashing a dominant growl, it lunged at the body of its master, but not before emitting one last declaration as everything turned to black.

‘Together.’




‘Have you lost whatever intelligence was left inside that corrupted mass you call a brain? You… are a serious disaster waiting to happen.’

Dr Kroos was never fond of mincing his words. Bluntness was his forté, projecting a recycled mantra of criticizing every single problem his patients had in order to straighten them up. On some occasions the patient departed the hospital in tears, yet he would never be disciplined for his verbal lashings. His expertise kept his chosen profession secure, even when he was not in the finest of moods.

And there he stood as a critical figure once again, tapping yet another medical clipboard on his thigh at the foot of yet another hospital bed.

‘I’m sorry, were you expecting a hug and a sympathetic consolation?’ He nonchalantly threw the plastic clipboard onto a transportation tray, subsequently folding his arms against his thick chest. ‘Here’s the God honest truth, undiluted, unfiltered, practically raw with a delectable side dish of who gives a damn. If you continue to do what you’re doing, you will end up in a wheelchair. And I’m absolutely certain you don’t have the kind of salary that will smooth over those continuous medical bills.’

Supported by a neck brace, Matt Slater stared absently towards Dr Kroos, half-listening to his rough lecture from the moderate comfort of his hospital bed. He was too enamoured by the ramifications of his dream to fully pay attention.

‘Play the revenge card if you wish, but I won’t be there clapping and shouting any praises for you.’ Dr Kroos caressed his rounded jaw, mimicking a safe poker deal with his other hand. ‘In fact, I’ll be betting on your idiotic mistake and let me tell you… I’ll be cashing in as you get wheeled off to God knows where with ruptured vertebrae and whatever else decides to snap, bend or crack inside that fragile neck of yours.’

‘You really should polish up on your bedside manner.’ Hardly a comment Dr Kroos wanted, but Matt begrudgingly felt he deserved that kind of response. He then tensed his swollen fingers, attempting to ease the partial numbness that currently affected his left hand.

‘I’m sure you’re used to being celebrated and given kisses and gifts by your adoring fan-base for simply gracing them with your British presence.’ Dr Kroos adjusted his white coat irritably. ‘Well mister… you’ve been brought to the wrong place for that kind of reception. They might wave their little signs and send you electronic messages with “Get Well Soon” and “Our hero will rise again to save the day” - but in reality, they’re hollow considerations. Compliments and well-wishes aside, you’re on the brink of permanent paralysis. And what good will they have done for you and your little crusade against some kind of diabolical threat when you’re unable to move, relying on the dumbness of strangers and using a bedpan for a piss pot every morning?’

Arguing would have simply prolonged Dr Kroos’ preventive agenda, Slater calmly deduced. He remained silent, watching this aloof yet dignified individual scribble down some notes before slotting the pen into the pocket of his coat.

‘This is a warning, and I hope you’re smarter and more competent than the majority of the patients I’ve had to deal with over the years.’ He leaned on the steel frame of the bed, arching his body forward to emphasise how serious he was. ‘Do not - I repeat, do not wrestle again.’ Beads of sweat drizzled down his forehead from his curled, ginger hair, revealing an exasperated state concealed behind a steely exterior. ‘If you choose to do so, I won’t complain or intervene. I’ll simply chalk you up as another idiot that failed to take my logical, common sense advice, and another person that will spend the rest of their lives regretting the mistake they made and wondering why they were so unbelievably stubborn.’

Administering a nod of finality, Dr Kroos straightened his posture and relaxed his hands behind his head.

‘So what will it be? Helpful rehabilitation, or paying the price for an irrational act of vengeance that won’t solve anything and will only serve to satisfy your beloved fans’ selfish amusement?’

Despite being accustomed to these kinds of recommendations, Matt knew this was a situation Dr Kroos could not cancel or prohibit in any way. An unfathomable level of hatred had been reached between Matt and Seth Iser, ostensibly taking what used to be a war of respect and turning it into a deeply personal conflict.

Fate of the Gods II should have been his night of redemption, his night to authenticate his superiority. Instead, it turned into a controversial affair, as it so often did with a man that could not accept his fading strength and resilience.

All because he had the knowledge and experience to outwrestle him.

All because he had the justification to slap him in his grizzled face.

All because he had the audacity to kick out of his infamous Deprivation DDT at the count of one.

The malicious Piledriver had been a concern, but Matt was fortunate enough to have only sustained a traumatic compression. Being aware of his eventual recovery, the wheels of retribution had started to turn.

He would not get away with this, Slater determined. After all, he was the better wrestler. He was the better man.

Releasing a sigh, Dr Kroos gathered his personal instruments. He left the clipboard on the tray, turning towards the door with another thought-provoking message.

‘Society collapses from the blood-loss of wounded morality and wisdom. Be someone that can make a healthy difference… not someone who sticks the knife in further for a temporary solution.’

As poetic and philosophical as Dr Kroos’ words had been, Matt continued to explore the dimensions of his restless mind. The established doctor walked away without a second glance, already contemplating his next objective for the day. The moment he did was the moment he granted Matt the freedom to validate his choice, investing in various methods that made his decision that much more tempting and stimulating.

He was going to settle the score. He was going to unleash the fire inside, just as the lasting vividness of his dream creatively depicted.

Or was it? he suddenly considered.

Psychologically, his mind had temporarily concocted a visual representation of what he would soon become, doing so while everyone else joyfully dreamed of winning the World Series or bedding Emilia Clarke. But now, mere hours later, the transformation was steadily occurring.

His psyche was changing, eliminating the barriers he had mentally installed and developing a complete personality that refused to be softened or segregated.




With a slight creak, the door swung open as intended. Matt surveyed the dim interior, digesting the contents of his private room in Barrie without the aid of sufficient lighting. His posture remained upright and firm, merely showing the process of deep breathing from his relaxed stomach. Hardly eliciting a sound, his lips tightened as he punched the light-switch, establishing vibrant color and brightness within the space of a fully-prepared second.

Delicacy and care had been important factors for the room he weakly stepped into with the use of a cane, a room renewed from absolutely nothing. Every part of his home contained a purpose, a sense of meaning and practicality. This one was no different, except for how unique it was; how retrospectively significant it was.

Once he took that first step, the pristine remnants of his past captured his attention. Undivided, he continued onward, analysing his achievements as if they were recently salvaged treasures. Championships, trophies, even historically important photographs of days gone by; each object had firmly cemented its place here, protected to be forever observed whenever time allowed.

A new visitor would have been pleasantly awestruck, inspiring them to ask endless questions for every object they witnessed. However, having meticulously worked on the room himself, Slater was hardly affected by what he saw.

That was until this current moment, wandering around at a time when dawn was a distant event, at a time when the darkness outside concealed Lake Simcoe and its bordering forestation from view. Even though he was deprived of sleep, he was being controlled by an urgent need; a need to see what he had preserved and what was left to truly claim.

Stopping in the center of the room, Matt remembered the bleak, dismal scenery of his dream. The room was untarnished, clean of carnage with no rampaging demon in sight. There was no creature that aimed to eradicate the positive energy he exhibited on a regular basis, no creature that intended to unify their ambitions for a greater purpose.

Unfortunately, the positive energy he usually contained had been scarce for quite a while. His wholesome comments and actions - to those who deserved such pleasantries - were being forced out of a slowly-decaying shell. Nothing had been the same since that night.

That night…

He closed his eyes. He could still hear her fatigued body crumple to the canvas. He falsely remembered the sound echoing ominously, as if they were the only ones present in a place where dreams came to die. He could still picture her bloodied, tear-stained face, remaining eerily beautiful despite the increasing paleness of her skin. He could still hear the faint breaths she took through the oxygen mask, struggling to hold on to an existence that would soon reach its merciless demise, strengthened by the soul-crushing reality that he was powerless to stop her internal affliction.

It was a situation that jeopardized both of them simultaneously, creating two separate results that would be documented infinitely; grossly appropriate for the name of the event they had only just competed on.

She turned out dead, and he morbidly felt as if he was, operating on instinct rather than thought.

“But you know you can begin again…”

A strong recollection of the creature’s words dominated his fury-stricken mind. His heavy breathing increased. The change was everlasting, becoming stronger by the day. He could feel the figurative gears shifting, utilizing a side of himself he had kept subdued for so long; so very long.

He knew it was correct. He could begin again in a different capacity. Their accepted dichotomy would bring him the justice he craved, settling his acts of vengeance with no remorse.

Victimised by jealousy and association; criticized for his allegiances and promises; always being pressured to succeed; always being used for purposes of entitlement by those who believed he could save their fortunes; every conceivable complication that had resulted from his return to wrestling charged through his mind, giving him a fresh perception, giving him a new meaning and understanding of the world around him.

Was it his fault for returning when he could have remained a Wrestling Coach, properly tutoring those who wanted to enter the industry with delusions of grandeur? Should he have been more cautious and wary of how the landscape had gone unchanged, leading to matters that were reminiscent of his stints in various other wrestling companies? Should he have avoided Joanna Thade, Cera… the wrestling business all together?

Matt’s face reddened with passionate anger.

No, he internally answered. They were to blame. They were the ones who had butchered and sabotaged this once-beloved industry. They were the ones who continually developed psychotic, disorderly, egomaniacal and attention-seeking individuals, feeding them to the machine as if they were mass-produced in a factory governed by the values of greed, lust and general masochism. They were the ones who turned a blind-eye to Cera’s suffering, only to change their tone and eulogize her passing with sweet messages that were laced with hypocrisy. They were the ones who ignored his guilt-ridden state after that tragedy, treating him as just another spoke on the wheel that could easily be replaced if he were to silently disappear.

They were the ones who broke the barriers and exposed the monster within… and now they would all witness the cause of their self-righteous machinations.

If this is how they wanted to play things, then he would join their little game.

And in time, he would be the game, giving them poisonous quantities of his own medicine until they played by the rules that should have gone unbroken from the very beginning.

His eyes opened again. Without telegraphing his intentions, he struck the nearby closet door with his cane, brutally forcing it off the hinges and watching it cave into the storage gap beyond. Pain shot through his neck and arms, but he did not care about the sudden agony. All he cared to think about was how this aggressive choice had hardly appeased his frustration. There was so much he had suppressed, so much he needed to ventilate.

As he ignored the nostalgic artefacts that defined his legacy and gingerly limped out of the room, tenderly feeling his neck brace to make sure it was aligned correctly, he knew exactly what to do.

All he needed was time.

Time to work out the final nails that would be driven into the coffin of his long-time nemesis.

Time to formulate the game-changing plans he had in store for anyone that antagonized him.

Time for everything to fully shift and rejuvenate the fractured circle once again.