The Father, The Son, and The Unholy Demon of Sobriety

[The Underdog]

The artificial light shining down on one of the car parks of the Smoothie King Center, New Orleans, cast an almost ethereal glow around the otherwise plain concrete surroundings. The haunting ambience was only exacerbated by the quiet that fell over the area, the only sound coming from the faint echoing of the IWF show still in full flow inside the arena.

The stillness and silence meant that two shadowy figures were thrown into even more obvious focus as they moved away from the huge building, heads bowed against the cold February air, hands thrust firmly into coat pockets. The two men, drawing closer to a plain-looking sedan, looked familiar in spite of their inconspicuous appearance. Dark overcoats were unzipped just enough to reveal black suit jackets and black shirts, and despite the fact that the sun hadn’t been seen in Louisiana for several hours, one of the men wore a pair of heavy-framed, jet-black sunglasses. The other man, however, despite being of almost identical appearance to his colleague, was notably without eyewear.

“I’m worried, Jim. Leaving behind those shades like that… what’s The Boss gonna say…?”

The man without the sunglasses spoke in a hushed tone, almost panicked. His head, meanwhile, was almost in perpetual motion, constantly turning left and right as if he expected the aforementioned boss to appear from behind one of the many parked cars at any moment. The second man, however, appeared much more relaxed, regarding his partner with a look which perfectly mixed amusement and pity.

“Relax. Peterson’s never even seen us. How could he possibly know that was us?”

The man broke into a satisfied smile as he unlocked the sedan with a click of a button on his keyring.

“Besides.” he continued. “Didn’t you hear that moron? He jumped to the wrong conclusion faster than some suicidal maniac leaping from an interstate bridge. He’s convinced Hawkhurst is the one trying to get into his brain, not The Boss. The guy is completely clueless, and is gonna be ripe for the picking when The Boss finally decides to properly embarrass him.”

The two simultaneously eased themselves into the vehicle, their expressions still a picture of contrast.

“I hope you’re right…” came the less-than-convinced reply from the still anxious first man. “Because I dunno about you, but I have no intention of getting on the wrong side of The Boss. You don’t know what he’s capable of…”

“I don’t…” the other man said slowly, starting the car and easing steadily out of the parking bay. “But I have a feeling that by the time he’s finished with Will Peterson, we’re all gonna have a pretty good idea…!”





********************************************************************************





With a swish, Jayson Jacques wrenched open the curtains, allowing the unseasonably bright sunshine through the windows, into the previously pitch black room and directly into the now squinting eyes of ‘The Underdog’ Will Peterson.

“Fuck sake Jay…!”

Peterson brought his left arm up to his face to shield his eyes from the blinding sunlight, whilst simultaneously tossing a nearby cushion in Jayson’s direction, aiming for his head. The big man swatted it away with a casual swipe, before turning and facing his charge with a stern look, hands on hips. Will squinted at Jay from his seated position propped up on the headboard of the hotel bead, apparently expecting a lecture. Jayson merely stared back wordlessly, causing Peterson to groan and scramble underneath the bedsheets, escaping Jay’s inexorable gaze like a misbehaving child hiding from a stern parent.

“You really are pathetic sometimes.” Jayson said bluntly.

Will could only let out another over-the-top groan from his self-imposed duvet prison. Jay perched himself on the end of the bed, looking out at the New Orleans skyline even as he spoke to Peterson again.

“Don’t make that stupid noise – I’m serious! You need to buck your ideas up. What happened to the famous Underdog intensity? What happened to the determination that got us through that decade of obscurity back home? You remember that don’t you Will? Bouncing from fed to pointless fed with no direction, no purpose… nothing… save for a strong belief that we would one day have the chance to make something of our careers… of our lives…!”

Jay glanced back over his shoulder at the mountain of covers behind him, which merely shrugged back at him. Jacques let out an exasperated sigh.

“And now we have that chance, Will! Paychecks are rising. Heads are turning. As far as I can tell, everything is on the up. And yet here you are, moping about in some shitty hotel room because of some stupid, petty misunderstanding with Dorian Hawkhurst…!”

“I don’t care about Hawkhurst…” came the surly, muttered reply from underneath the bedclothes.

“Then what?!” Jacques was yelling now; he spun round whilst leaping to his feet, neatly whipping off the covers previously protecting Peterson from the full extent of Jayson’s verbal onslaught. “What exactly is it that’s caused you to become so… so…” Jay could only gesticulate frantically in Peterson’s direction, clearly unable to put into words the frustration that his friend was now causing him.

Peterson didn’t react, still sat propped up on the metal bed frame, head bowed, eyes closed. Anger blazed momentarily in Jayson’s eyes, before he composed himself with a couple of long, deep breaths. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his chino trousers, pacing back and forth at the foot of Peterson’s bed.

“You don’t make sense, Will.” he said plainly. “You say you don’t care about Hawkhurst, yet he’s dominated your thinking when it’s come to IWF matters over the last few weeks - you’ve admitted that to me yourself. And I get it, Will, seriously, even though you think I don’t because I’m not a competitor like you. I can see exactly how he’d get under your skin, exactly why your ego and your infamous short fuse has been challenged by his words and his actions. But he’s no different from any of the long line of cretins and creatures that have gotten into your face or your brain in the past. You need to focus, Will. Focus on every way in which you are better than Hawkhurst, focus on everything that you can do to best him in your encounter on Sunday, and re-focus your mind on your ultimate goal of finally achieving some real rewards and recognition in this business!”

“I’ve told you, it isn’t Hawkhurst.” Will insisted, in a low voice which was dripping with the attitude of pubescent adolescence.

Jay scoffed, making a disbelieving sound from somewhere deep in his throat as he viewed Will with amusement, as well as a little pity.

“Fine. Suit yourself. I don’t believe you, but whatever. I still can’t understand what exactly it is that’s gotten to you though. It’s not like it’s those stupid religious ‘messages’…” Jayson makes a point of making the quotation points with his hands. “… that you’d convinced yourself you were receiving from good old Ma Peterson. Haven’t had one of them in a while, have you Will?”

The Underdog looked up at Jayson through sad eyes.

“Exactly.” Will said quietly.

Jayson couldn’t help himself, stopping his pacing and making another exasperated noise in his throat.

“It’s almost like you want to keep being pestered by her. Like you want her to persuade you to come back home or something…!”

The pair locked eyes, and the look on Peterson’s face told Jacques all he needed to know about how accurate his flippant statement actually was. He ran his right hand through his hair and shook his head, a defeated man.

“Fine.” he snapped. “Do you know what? Fine.” He pointed an accusatory finger at his moping buddy. “You’ve made your fucking bed, now you fucking lie in it.”

Jay began snatching up possessions somewhat randomly from the hotel room, his irritation clear to see. He pulled on his jacket, barely able to look at Peterson even as he continued on.

“You’ve got a match on Sunday with a man who, if you’re not at the very top of your game, will have no issues with putting you in a very different kind of bed – a hospital bed. A match you’ll need to prepare for, mother or no mother… manager or no manager…”

Jayson’s voice had dropped significantly, in tone and in volume, as he’d spoken the final four words, causing Will to turn round and look at him properly for the first time that day. Jayson, it seemed, though, had made his mind up. He zipped up his jacket wordlessly, making a point not to meet the gaze of his, now potentially former, friend and agent.

“You have a promo later to build a bit of last minute interest for your battle with Hawkhurst. Details are on the table.” Jay turned and fixed Will with a cold, steely glare. “Don’t expect me to be there to back you up.”

It wasn’t clear whether he was talking about the promo or the pay-per-view match, and Jay looked in no mood to clarify, wrenching open the door and stepping out into the corridor, letting the door slam shut behind him.

The Underdog turned his head slowly until he was facing forward and out through the window and at the horizon again… a horizon which was darkening rapidly as clouds closed in from over the Gulf of Mexico. Will sighed, repeating the first words he’d spoken that day, but in a very different tone that before…



”Fuck sake, Jay…”






********************************************************************************





The flickering screen of a dated television set illuminated the otherwise gloomy internal space, casting a pale glow onto the immediate surroundings and causing certain details of the apparently deserted room to become visible. The place appeared to be the lounge area of an old, yet impressively-sized house. The décor was simultaneously extravagant and dated, ornate wallpaper which had once been brightly coloured now peeling sadly, revealing the plaster and brickwork beneath. The remnants of a fireplace crumbled on one side of the room, a small pile of ash the only evidence of a fire that had long-since burned out.

A rustling movement draws attention back towards the centre of the room, where a high-backed armchair faced the old TV set. In it sat Will Peterson’s father, wearing a familiar smug expression as he viewed the televised events of the last IWF show, which, it can now be seen, is being shown on the washed-out screen. Mr. Peterson chuckles quietly yet sinisterly as he pauses and rewinds the tape, pausing again to show the confusion and anger on his son’s face as he walks into his locker room to a scene of complete demolition and destruction.

“Yeah… not quite looking so cocksure now are you son?” Peterson’s father growled. “Not quite so confident that you’ve got it all figured out, are you?”

Another press of the remote resumes the action, Peterson’s father barely aware of what is happening on the screen before him as he stares out with glassy eyes that are nonetheless filled with intensity and bitterness.

“You have disrespected me and ignored me for the last time, boy, and it will soon be time for you to come face to face with your biggest demon… but I think we still have time for a little more fun before your day of reckoning...”

At this, Peterson Sr. pulled out a cell phone from his pocket, quickly cycling through the contacts, brow furrowed. Eventually, as he reached the one he was looking for, his face broke out into a toothy, malicious smile. He tapped the ‘Call’ button and brought the phone up to his ear, still smiling. After a few seconds of dial tone, a voice could be heard faintly on the other side of the phone.

“Spencer! It has been too long my man! What…? Six years? Jeez… time flies eh? Hehehe… yeah…? Well of course I remember Beaver! Those chubby cheeks got him into plenty of trouble eh? And you know I’m not talking about his face…!”

Mr. Peterson and his unknown contact shared a few seconds of raucous laughter.

“Stop it… stop it! Listen, you know I could sit here and reminisce all night, Spence, but I did actually need something from you. Haha… hmmmm…? Well fuck you! Let’s call it me finally calling in that favour from Blackpool, shall we…?! Yeah, I didn’t think you’d have forgotten about that one…! No… no, it’s nothing like that. I just need a guy, one of your many reliable contacts. Yeah… yeah you could say that… let’s just call it somebody who needs to be made an example of. Yeah… yeah actually it is what I was messaging you about a few days ago. What’s that… you know just the guy? Mmm-hmm… yeah… HA! Well that just sounds perfect, Spence! How could anybody ever doubt you? So you’ll make it happen, yeah. Haha… with pleasure! Let me know, yeah? Sure thing… great… catch you later fella…!”

With that, Peterson’s father ended the call, placing the cell phone back into his trouser pocket and settling back into the armchair, a smug, satisfied expression spreading across his features as he returned his gaze to last week’s episode of Sacrifice.





********************************************************************************





“The Underdog” Will Peterson stepped through the doors of a small yet slick-looking studio building, looking unsure of himself as he gazed around at the empty reception area. He sidled up to a glass desk, still gazing around for any signs of life, before looking down at the desk itself. He spied a golden-coloured bell, classically designed, the kind usually reserved for getting the attention of reception staff at hotels up and down the land. Will gave the bell a sharp ‘DING’, before leaning somewhat awkwardly against the nearby marble mantelpiece. Barely a minute had passed before a petite blonde woman rushed hurriedly around an unseen corner and into view.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.” she said swiftly, glancing down at a clipboard held in her right hand, looking flustered. “Ahh, you must be my three PM. Will Peterson, I presume?”

Will nodded.

“Excellent!” The woman’s face broke into a rehearsed smile as she took in Peterson’s rather uncomfortable stance. “No need to look so worried, Mr. Peterson. You do this every day, am I right?”

“Actually…” Peterson began slowly. “… this is my first ever ‘proper’ wrestling promo.”

The studio employee regarded Peterson with a look of surprise.

“No way! Mr. Big Shot, a well known performer like yourself; I’d have thought all of this would have been second nature to you by now…!”

“Yeah… well… haven’t always been the well-known, famous big shot…” Will mumbled. The employee barely seemed to notice.

“Nothing to worry about, sir, we’ll talk you through all of the ins and outs of it if we need to, though I’m sure you’ll pick it up no problem.”

She turned away and made to head around the corner from which she’d appeared just moments before, before stopping upon realising that Will Peterson had not followed. She turned her head and flashed another bright smile.

“Please, do follow me Mr. Peterson. It’s time to put those thoughts in your head onto film for all of your fans to see and hear…!”

Will chuckled lightly, muttering under his breath as he followed his guide around the corner, and into ‘Studio 2’.





********************************************************************************





The camera fades in to reveal a mock-up of a grey, cracked desert road, travelling from the immediate foreground through to the rear set wall, giving it the impression of disappearing far into the distance. A huge amount of sand lies beside the asphalt, along with a variety of other paraphernalia; the occasional cactus sits slightly askew, whilst a mockup of the cranium of some long-dead animal sits alone on the other side.

The camera pans up to reveal “The Underdog” Will Peterson, leaning against a bright yellow diamond street sign, with black text; the camera zooms in closer to reveal the lettering of IWF’s upcoming pay-per-view, DANGER ZONE[/B]. As we see the words, ‘Dangerzone’ by Psychostick fades in, the volume increasing with every beat.


“Revvin’ up your engine
Listen to her howlin’ roar
Metal under tension
Beggin’ you to touch and go

Highway to the Danger Zone
Ride in to the Danger Zone.”


“And here we are, Dorian. Two lone riders, barrelling into Danger Zone.”

The camera cuts back to Peterson, who stares back, a look of intense determination spreading across his features.

“After weeks and weeks of complete confusion, wars of words and blatant backfighting, it’s time for us to enter into not only the danger zone, but our own personal world of ego and one-upmanship.”


“She got you jumping off the deck
And shovin’ into overdrive.”


“And how quickly our little situation has flew into overdrive, eh Dorian? They say time flies when you’re having fun. Well… I certainly wasn’t having fun when you were costing me my first shot at true glory within the wrestling world. I certainly wasn’t having fun when I was having to listen to you turn the tables and claim to anybody that would listen that you were the one who was screwed. Yet all of that seems like it happened only yesterday. I mean… my my… how far we’ve come in such a short space of time, Dorian.”


“You’ll never know what you can do
Until you get it up as high as you can go.”


“An appropriate little ditty, this, don’t you think Dorian? Because as intensely and wildly as you and I brawled just a couple of weeks ago, I feel like there is still an air of mystery around just how far you’re willing to go in order to prove to me, all of the fans, but most importantly of all, yourself, that you have got what it takes to beat me one-on-one, mano a mano.”


“Out along the edge
Is always where I burn to be”


“I can’t help thinking that you’ve played your cards close to your chest, Hawkhurst, deliberately keeping a low profile… sitting, watching, waiting on the edge. You’ve picked your spots, sure… usually sneaking around like a snake behind my back to gain that vital edge. But what will happen when you enter the danger zone, Hawkhurst, and the spotlight is thrust upon you, the pressure and the weight of expectation pushing inexorably down onto you, just too much to bear.”


“The further on the edge
The hotter the intensity.”


“You’ve felt pressure and hardships before now, Dorian, I understand that. But the trials and tribulations of whatever shady past life you’re trying to move on from will be nothing compared to the complete examination of your wrestling ability and mental state that awaits you in the Danger Zone on Sunday night.”


“Highway to the Danger Zone
I’m gonna take you
Right into the Danger Zone
Highway to the Danger Zone
Right into the Danger Zone”


“Have a chat with those demons, Dorian, and tell them they need to take a much needed vacation. Heed my words, Hawkhurst – you’ll need to be free of all distraction and diversion before you step into the Danger Zone. You’ll need to prepare yourself… prepare for hazards… prepare for dead-ends… and prepare yourself for a monumental collision.”

Peterson flashes a final look into the camera, before stepping off the asphalt and out of sight altogether. As the final bars of the song fade out, the camera zooms in to the image of the never-ending road, seemingly stretching infinitely out before each and every viewer.



“It’s gonna be a long, hard road ahead, Dorian…”