What's In A Name (Ryder Blade FOTG RP v Valquist)

That is not a welcome name at Sprintex headquarters. Me, personally, I have nothing against the man – I am vaguely acquainted with some people he used to do business with at one point, but other than that our paths hadn't intercepted at all until about two months ago. 

Unfortunately for him, our first brush against one another did not happen in the best of terms: I had to sit there in my car, outside the arena, and watch helplessly through a tiny television screen as this motherfucker dismantled my project, my creation, my vehicle to even more money than I already own. This son of a bitch stomped Ryder so hard he broke more than his undefeated streak..he broke something else, something inside him. 

Since that match, the boys and I have had to be extremely careful when referring to...that person. If someone lets the name slip, Ryder goes into...I don't know what to call it. Shock? Trauma? Post-traumatic stress disorder? Something. Whatever it is called, it renders him useless. The kid starts shaking, or he runs off somewhere, or he curls up into a ball in the corner and rocks back and forth, or some bullshit like that. Good luck getting him to focus after that – hell, good luck even getting him to acknowledge anything. It would be more fruitful to try and teach a banana to dance – at least you could eat it once your patience ran out. With Ryder, there's nothing to do but sit there and come to terms with the fact that the rest of the day is ruined – whatever we had on the docket is not happening anymore. All because of that one name.

Valquist.

Needless to say, I wasn't too happy to find Ryder booked against this motherfucker again. At a Pay-Per-View – again. Right after Ryder just barely scraped by some nobody with a losing record a mile wide, on the same damn show where Valquist had a main-event slot. That tells me something – that tells me they want to use my creation as a stepping stone for this clown, something for him to stomp on a couple of times so they can have a justification when they give him a shot at the big gold. Their ruse isn't even that transparent – these guys may think they're all that and a bag of chips, but they're dumb as a ton of bricks if they think they can fool someone like me with something like that.

Regardless of all that, though, I've now got a huge fucking problem in my hands – how the fuck am I going to get Ryder focused enough to where he can at least avoid getting embarrassed by this sack of shit? The last thing we need is a re-tread of what happened at Nothing Else Matters (by the way, what is with these names for these shows? Christ!) So I have to find a way to get Ryder to shape up just enough to where Sprintex does not become a nationally-broadcast joke. God knows the kid's been trying his hardest to make us look that way, but that is not really his fault – under the same circumstances, I might have used similar tactics. No, as long as he keeps winning, I can't really complain. If he becomes a loser, though, my entire strategy goes down the drain. Which is something I can't allow to happen. I've worked too hard for this. Worked too long. Spent too much money, too much effort, too much time...

A loud knocking sound suddenly butts into my introspection, making me lose my train of thought. Dammit!

'It's us, boss.' Mike. I suddenly remember I called the two of them over. A muttered curse escapes my lips – this is the worst possible time for me to have to focus my attention on something not directly involving Ryder, Valquist, or the next VoW event. Still, it's too late to do anything but let them in now – if I'd seen the card a little bit sooner, I might have called off the meeting, but that's the breaks. 

I heave a weary sigh as I get up from my comfortably padded chair – my back cricking painfully in the process – and walk over to my office door. These boys better have their heads on straight – if there's one thing I'm not in the mood for today, it's repeating myself.

That's the first thing boss says soon's we're in the door. He's tryin'a front like he cool, but I know better. Been working with the man long enough that I can tell when he mad – and right now, he be trippin'. He's sitting back in his chair, tryin'a act all relaxed and shit, but his shoulders all bunched up and shit. The man be poker-facing like a motherfucker. Holding back like a bo—-

---uh, nevermind.

'Course, I'm the only one be noticing this. Kyrill wouldn't notice an emotion 'less it was inside a goddamn sandwich. He one dumb-ass mo'fucka. Not just 'bout no feelings, neither. Fucker's dumb about everything. For example - everyone knows when boss is like this, you better not ask him no questions or you 'bout to get chewed out. Kyrill, though? His mouth run faster'n his brain. That's why he can't never shut the fuck up 'less he's stuffing his gob with food. Ain't no food in there now, so guess what happens? Mo'fucker asks boss a question.

'Whodat?' I can't help but laugh to myself. I taught him that – and every time he says it, he sounds exactly like a big fat Russian dude tryin'a sound black. It's fucking hysterical.

Boss, though, ain't so amused. He ain't blown up yet, but the way he talks to us next, I can tell we better not be pushing no luck.

'Oh.' I told you dude was dumb.

'Talk-talk or kick-talk?' This one's almost an intelligent question. Almost. 'You want us break arm? Break leg?' That one's almost intelligent too. Two for two. Holy shit.

Only the boss could'a gotten away with calling Kyrill 'greasy' to his face without the fat fuck smashing his face in with a knuckleduster. Trust me – I seen it. Punk-ass bitch probably still counting how many teeth he has left. The boss, though? Ain't nobody mess with the boss. You mess with the boss, bad shit happens to you. I mean bad shit happens to you. Even Kyrill ain't dumb enough that he don't know that. So for once in his life he brings his brain into gear long enough to keep his fat mouth from running - which means the next person who talks is me.

The boss thinks about it for a second. Then he smile all dangerous. 'Whatever it takes to give Ryder an advantage. If you can beat Valquist hard enough that they have to cancel the match, I'm not going to stop you...'

Wait, say what?!

'I do want him on TV, Mike', the boss says. I can tell he's starting to lose his cool; me and Kyrill better watch our asses before we get them chewed the fuck out. 'And that's why I can't have him turning into a vegetable every time this motherfucker's name comes up. We've got work to do. You boys know that. And we can't do any work if Ryder's not able to do what we want him to.'

Makes sense to me. I'm 'bout to say as much, but before I can even open my mouth, Kyrill cuts across again.

Boss ain't the only one groaning after that – for real, how does this motherfucker even know how to hold a gun right? Dumb-ass Russian! He lucky boss is in a good mood, otherwise he would'a had a new one ripped by now. Instead, boss just does kind of a facepalm and says:

Look...Kyrill...all that matters is...do whatever it takes to rattle that son of a bitch. Whether it's just talking or whether it's turning him into a human tub of ketchup. I don't care. Just as long as it gives our boy an edge. Capisce?' That's Eye-talian for 'get your dumb ass into gear' – which Kyrill does. He nods, and I swear that boy is straightening his goddamn tie. Fat fuck's acting like he 'bout to go on a date or something.

'Da, boss', he mumbles. Boss turns to me.

Kyrill gets that dumb look again, and I know he 'bout to ask a question, so I step in. 'It means if we fail everything goes to shit. Now shut the fuck up and let the boss finish!'

Boss is grinning – like, really grinning – after I say this. Makes me feel proud as a motherfucker. 'I was finished, Mike. I was just waiting for you boys to finish deciding who gets to be on top tonight and get a move on...'

This makes us both bolt for the door. I get there first, 'cause I'm way the hell faster than lard-ass Kyrill, and slip through before the fat fuck gets us both stuck in the door (it's happened before. Some real Looney Tunes cartoon shit. Moretti fuckers still want to give us shit about it six months later.) He ambles out behind me, digging in his pocket. Bet he's looking for that chocolate bar he didn't get to finish before we went in. Hungry-ass sucker.

He grunts something with his mouth full, disgusting fuck. At least there's one advantage to him having his maw stuffed full of chocolate - he can't talk back to me. I'm going to milk that for all it's worth – watch me.

Just as I expected, he starts ranting at me and giving me the evil eye. With his mouth full of food, though, all that comes out are muffled mmmm mmmm sounds. By the time he done swallowed all the junk in his mouth and can come at me properly, we inside the car and I'm in the passenger's seat. I give Kyrill this cocky-ass smirk, and for a second or two motherfucker looks like he want to strangle me. He could if he wanted to, but I know he ain't – this is just how the two of us work. I get to shaking my head and laughing:

With that, I turn the key, fire up the engine, and get us the hell out of Dodge.

No sooner has the word left the lips of Anthony Fasciano, M.D., than Ryder bolts upright in his chair. Where a moment ago he was slumped in his chair, looking relaxed and even slightly bored, now his face is contorted in a rictus of abject terror, a cocktail of conflicting feelings emanating from somewhere deep inside him and manifesting in the form of a piercing, primal scream. Several others follow, somewhat shorter in length than the first, but no less affecting, as Ryder's (or should I say Jacobs') cheeks become moist with tears. The man is crying. Whatever composure he displayed until now is utterly lost – and all because of that God-forsaken name.

Dr. Fasciano's – Tony's – usually professional expression betraying just enough puzzlement for me to know that he finds all this as weird as I do. He furrows his brow slightly as he mutters:

He turns to me.

I nod. He strokes his beard again, clearly still puzzled. 'If you don't mind me asking, what exactly is Val..'

'Shhhh!' I cut across him. 'For God's sake, man, do you want to make it worse?!'

I shake my head. 'It's a man. A co-worker of Ryder's. Someone he's...let's say, not too fond of.'

Tony nods. 'I see. And you brought him in to see me because...?'

This is going to take a while. 'All right...you know how Ryder wrestles for this company? Visionaries of Wrestling?'

I gesture to the corner of the office, where my would-be 'son' is curled up in a fetal position, working through his shock by rocking back and forth and letting the waterworks flow.

I gesture towards Ryder again, but Tony doesn't direct his gaze there; he's seen all he needed to see the first time around. Instead, he holds up a finger in my direction and walks around to his side of the desk to open one of the drawers. From it, he produces a small metal sphere dangling from a triangular structure. The sphere rocks from side to side on its string, which is tied to a small ring at the apex of the triangle, allowing it just enough space for the soft swaying motion. All of a sudden, with a gasp, I realize what that contraption is, and what Tony's going to do with it.

Gesturing for me to be quiet yet again, my personal physician walks over to the corner of the room and crouches in front of Ryder. Producing the odd-looking object from behind his back, he holds it in front of my project's face, speaking to him in a soothing tone:

Ryder nods, sniffling. Tony smiles warmly, though for all I know the warmth could be an act.

Ryder nods again, and I see his eyes beginning to follow the small sphere as it goes from side to side. Tony continues to talk.

Tony looks up at me inquiringly, and I am able to guess what he wants. I silently mouth the name of the company we're associated with, and Fasciano nods.

I see Ryder's lashes begin to flutter, as my creation drifts off to sleep. Well I'll be damned.

'Y...yes...' the voice is not that of Ryder Blade, youthful and brash, or Jordan Jacobs', confrontational and demanding. Instead, it's soft, no more than a murmur, and has all the neutral innocence of a child's. Tony grins, maintaining his pleasant, fatherly tone:

Then, he asks the million-dollar question:

Ryder comes up off his trance screaming the name of the man who caused him to be in this office to begin with. I can't help but give a small shudder, the cry having startled me, but Tony keeps his professional demeanor. He gently places his hands on Ryder's shoulders – even from here, I can see how tense they are – and helps him back down to a prone position. As he does so, he continues to drone soothingly:

'A meadow?' What the hell kind of new age crap... I start to say something, but Tony silences me with another wave of a hand. This motherfucker is really starting to get on my nerves. Still, there is nothing I can do but watch as he turns back to my creation and asks:

'Y-yeah', Ryder stammers. 'I'm in the meadow.'

'Good, good.' Tony nods his head slightly, I assume for his own benefit; it's not like Ryder can see it through his trance-like state. 'Now, in that meadow, I want you to picture a sheep. Can you see a sheep in your mind's eye, Ryder?'

'Excellent!' The good doctor is all but rubbing his hands. 'Are you afraid of it?'

Ryder actually laughs, which I did not think was possible in a trance. 'Scared? Are you joshing me? It's a sheep! It's like, the lamest animal in the history of animals!'

'That's funny...' Tony affects a pensive tone, but he is obviously play-acting. 'I thought you'd be afraid of it...'

'How come?', my creation retorts.

Here, for the first time in a long moment, Tony makes eye contact with me. A slight smirk indicates this next part is important, so I lean forward and pay attention. With a slight acknowledging nod of the head, my physician friend turns back to Ryder and drops the bombshell:

For a long moment after Ryder is done talking, neither myself nor Tony say anything. We just sit there, flabbergasted, not quite able to take in the fact that this son of a bitch – Ryder, Jacobs, whoever he was in his dream world – just gave us the equivalent of a video.

'You're good', I tell Tony, switching off the camera function on my phone – Tony gestured for me to start recording as soon as Ryder started talking, so I caught pretty much all of what just transpired. And I'm fucking glad I did.

'I know', Tony nods. Smug bastard. As I step forward to shake his hand, he delivers one final recommendation to me:

Sound advice, but not something I can necessarily afford to do. On second thought, I guess maybe if we cut back from three shakes a day to just two, we might be able to get through at least the next week. For the sake of humoring Tony, I nod. He seems satisfied, so I'm satisfied too.

Once he has my word that Ryder will not be given quite so many milkshakes – however much my word on that subject is worth, you be the judge – the good doctor wakens my 'son' from his therapy-induced state. Ryder comes to visibly confused, looking all around him as if he's not quite sure where he is. Tony, however, completely no-sells his disorientation, instead simply asking:

'Woozy...' he grabs his temple, still looking around. 'What just happened?'

I brace myself for an hysterical reaction – but it does not come. Instead, Ryder merely scratches his head again. 'The old dude? From VoW?'

To my continued surprise, Ryder chuckles. 'Afraid? Of Old Man Valium?! Get a grip, doc! I'm the Undisputed Champion of Cool! I'm not afraid of some ninety-year-old lamer!'

Tony shares another meaningful look with me as he retorts: 'Good. Your Dad and I both knew you weren't afraid. Not really.'

The doctor holds out his hand for Ryder to shake, which he promptly does. Then, once a few final bureaucratic procedures are out of the way, he declares the session officially over.

Less than five minutes later, we are in the car, Ryder fully back to his exuberant, excitable 'self'. As he busies himself with a cellphone game in the back seat, I use my own phone to text Kyrill and Mike some instructions. There's only one thing left to do at this stage, and it's high time we started planning out how to do it.

We catch this guy in the parking lot. We're lucky enough that the dumbass parked somewhere out of sight; I bet he was just tryin' to lay low, slip by unnoticed, you know? Lotta celebrities do that. Unfortunately for him, he done goofed.

As he looks up at us – he's smiling, the sorry-ass fool! - I give him a once over. He's big, bigger 'n' me, but he's no match for the two of us. Especially with what Kyrill's hiding in his pocket. Naw, this one should be quick 'n' easy. My favorite kind.

'What can I do for you gentlemen?', he asks, still being all friendly and shit. Ain't until he sees Kyrill that his eyes widen and he starts to sweat. Now he's worried. Now he knows he's in the shit. Too bad it's too late to stop it now. Sucks to be you, buddy.

As the lump in our boy's pants gets heavier and heavier, I look over at Kyrill beside me. I can tell he's enjoying the shit out of this. He's doing that grin he does whenever he's about to fuck somebody up, and he's cracking his knuckles. Then he reaches into his pocket and brings out the knuckleduster, and I know that's that. I told you 'bout this dude and the knuckleduster...

Valquist seems to know shit's about to go down, too. His eyes are all over the place, going from the brass knucks to the door – there's no security there, we made sure of that – and then back to Kyrill, whose smile is getting broader and broader. Then, my Russian homie seals the deal, by saying those words nobody who's ever dealt with Boss ever wants to hear coming from his mouth: