He saved the voice mail. He replays it to himself, as he sits alone, along a kitchen table.
“That was quite the little trick you pulled, Jacko, acting like your some hero or something, and here we thought we were making a deal to pay off your debt. Listen here, you little wretch, you know that sweet girl you took away from us? We want her back, and we are not stopping until we do. It doesn't matter what type of shit you have up your sleeves this time, Katie is ours, dead or alive. And the more you step in our way, the closer her fate will be that latter...”
Ages have passed. It's been lifetimes ago that Jack and Katie were a happy couple. It's been weeks since his transgressions with the mobster Baby and his crew led him to on suicide mission to recapture the girl he threw away. It's been days since she walked out again, leaving Jack puzzled with a threatening message. The rain has stopped, after all, which is a good sign, but it didn't bring back the sun.
A sinking depression comes over him, an unstoppable sense of destruction and unraveling. Despite the forces against it, no matter how strong and many, if something was inevitability meant to die, it will. It's a metaphor for life and something he's accepted on other subjects- not Katie, though. He refuses. Things do eventually crumble to the ground, given enough time and age, but still. Jack sits and wonders whether or not some of his actions, if not all, have sped up this internal death clock on his ex-wife, hastening her pace against the cliff side.
He's a complicated man, with simple mind frames. As much as it was a conflicted and confusing decision to leave her alone with no word or sign, it was an equally easy to come to her aid when Lady Luck turned on him and tested her survival against the mob's desire to hurt Jack.
He threw his elbow under his chin, sore, weakened, and frustrated that he's not the strong enough-type to finish the job, or, rather, prolong the job from naturally finishing itself. He's never been much of a fighter in the physical sense, and what poker player has? His wars have been battled in minds, with cards and percentages, struggling against another individual's intelligence and cunning. Even with his recent athletic adventure, he's never considered himself someone on the throwing side of the fist.
He recalled the countless beatings, roughing, and other forms of extortion, and, until recently with the evidence he buried in the woods not too far away, they have all gone sour. Maybe, he wonders, he just isn't lucky enough for fit the job description. You can't precisely be both a top-tier strongman and genius. Those type of accolades require extensive preparation, time, work, and persistence to achieve, and are pretty much mutually exclusive.
Sure, there are plenty of people who appear both strong and smart, that's really not all that uncommon, but Mensa scores and body-building medals, pinned to the same man or woman, may be near impossible.
But, to stop, pause, or slow, this -this natural progression of decay- is that what it takes? Jack runs his fingers through his hands, running dry on ideas and cold on heart. Holding up weight off the table was enough of a task to ask for. How was he expected to hold the fabric of time from passing by?
He exhales a deep breath of defeat, not moving an inch, playing his fight out in his mind. Within every scenario, every variety, and every possible chaotic spec of chance, he comes to the same soul-crushing outcome.
Maybe he's not the man, but who is, under such strict guidelines?
She has every right to be pissed, he thinks, after what he's done. If for not leaving her -if not for causing her capture and restraint- for not calling the proper authorities and putting everyone at risk, as amateurish as possible. To make matters worse, in the heat of the moment, taking her up on some more instinctual behaviors not that long afterward. There's a lot of reason behind Katie's sudden limit of bullshit, no one is disputing that. But how poor of a choice was it to give, the low, Jack Goddard the reasons to press forward, against Katie's infuriated limits and beyond what his body can handle, without the resources to do so?
It's a sick joke. He's but a single, broken, disaster of a man, he silently shouts. A single man who has already done more than he felt capable of doing, with nothing to show of it.
She left because his heart still lacked the life she desired. He wore the white knight armor well, but after the ball, the costume came off, and it was the same old wreck under the glitter and glam. Was it his mistake to take on that roll to begin with? If so, what compelled him to do it the first place?
He sits there, alone, pondering his mistakes, and anguishes the fact that he's an average, ego-less, man with nothing but a lucky poker face. And what shitty luck, that is.
A not-so impressing Toyota Prius rolls into the parking garage outside the TGW arena, jutting like a colossal coliseum, from ancient times, re-imagined, in the center of this modern cityscape.
It's the day of the big fight, with much of the media's attention focused on our sport for this moment. Among the standard True Glory taping vans, national and independent reporters are stationed around the perimeter, creating it quite the task to even arrive -well, in an ordinary unmarked vehicle, that is. Jack Goddard leaves the driver's side of the silver car, with bag in hand, and releases a deep breath at the streets of chaos and congestion.
Hardcore fans, crawling out of tents, beat The Wild Card to the building. The look of complete familiarity and excitement shows they must have been here for some time now. Jack, curiously, skips the normal back door entrance, goes around to the front. Tonight's fight will be a large one for him, not for the potential opportunities that wait for it's winner, but the spirit-sucking percentages when involving four random, different people. He walk towards the front, wishing to see the stage of the arena from another man's point of view. He wants to place himself mentally in a seat, envisioning the maddening frenzy of his match later on after the sun goes down.
First, going around to the front steps, he'll have to worry about getting through the doors past dozens of crazed True Glory fans, anxiously waiting for any sign of their favorite superstars. Jack walked forward, expecting the worse, and received a bit of bittersweet luck -no one recognized him. Recognized maybe isn't the right term, as he was in to disguise or farce, throwing their perceptions off. They clearly either didn't know who Goddard was or didn't care one ounce.
Wow, he thought, easily reaching out and touching the front door release bar. He expected something else of a greeting for even being labeled as a participant in tonight's number one contender match. Hey, who knows, this unknown shadow could actually be the number one man after a lucky win tonight. Doesn't that deserve a little notoriety? ...No?
“Identification, please,” a bald strong-arm in a staff shirt orders, blocking The Wild Card's stride through the arena's corridors.
Jack pauses, looks into the eyes of the man, and kind of expects something else. From a staffer, Goddard expects this man to have seen him before, coming and going, stretching in the back, or, hell, at the very least, performing in the ring. The staffer doesn't budge. He just holds out his hand impatiently.
“Identification?” he repeats.
“Look, I work here,” Jack quickly replies, releasing his gym bag off his side. His black bag reads a giant 'WC' followed by a spade symbol, but the professionally-done prop doesn't deter the security guard his peace of mind.
“Well, if you work here, you have I.D.” the bald man grunts, remaining in the way.
“Listen,” Jack starts, finding a lack of words over such an unbelievable pair of scenarios. He digs deep and finds a single pearl of self-pride. “I am Jack Goddard -The Wild Card, Jack Goddard. I am in the fatal four-way tonight. In fact, I've been working here, since like, December.”
The staffer's eye squint, as if he was closely examining the man against his claims.
“No, sorry, I still need some identification,” he blurts, growing a tiny bit of sympathetic.
“You've got to be shitting me!” Jack roars, running not on an ego but what he felt was something he deserved. “Look, that's my picture on that poster behind you -fatal four-way with Bull Kegan, Natasha Molotov, Livewire, and Jack Goddard!” Jack pushes slightly to the side and approaches the poster, as if to literally show a child it's mistake.
“That's not you, that's Bull,” the guard informs, and, as Jack turns and inspects it for himself, he realizes he's correct.
“Mother-fucker!” Jack shouts, slamming his open palm against the center of the poster. “I can't believe this.”
The staffer turns to a microphone clipped to his collar and presses it on.
“Yeah, I have an unidentified man here, and he's starting to get rowdy...”
“I am not getting rowdy,” Jack answers, turning away from the wall. “It's just a strange feeling to have worked here for two months, and no one knows you. Sure, motherfuckin' Bull Kegan gets his dumb-looking smile in print, but I can't even come to work without being hassled! We are in the same match!”
The guard marches up to Jack's face, seemingly immediately upset. “Listen here, buddy,” he snarls, showing equal parts rage and pain. “You can give me shit all morning long, if you want, and I wont care, in fact, that's my job, but the moment you say one bad thing about
The Bull and we will suddenly have a problem. That man is a hard worker, a superstar, and everything you wish you were!”
“Fuck! Okay,” Jack replies, dropping out of the conversation, and looking over the man's shoulder. “I fucking get it. Bull Kegan! Whoopie-do!” Jack steps around the indignantly upset man, and slinks over to his bag on the floor. He reaches down and picks it back up. A nasty, sarcastic tone overcomes him. “Listen, cancel the call of your buddies. I'll leave. I'll just wait in my car until they announce my name to the ring.”
The bag rests over his shoulder, and the man behind him remains quiet -obvious too hurt about all the awful accusations Jack had to say about his idol. Jack moans again, looking back through the brightly-lit glass front doors, from where he first walked to easily through. As depressing as a feeling it was to not get noticed the first time, he imagine adding a second go to the already towering compost of human waste from what he now only suspects to be from Shit On Jack Goddard Day. He pushes the door open, and closes his eyes, hoping to retain just a single pearl of self-pride. … … … Oh, shit.
He gives up, hits the front doors open, and is greeted by the sun alone. Turning the negativity around, he finds a bit of solace being a nobody. “Well, I definitely found the right place to be if I don't ever want Baby to know where I am.” The fans outside cock their heads to the side, completely oblivious to any part of Jack's background -any part.
Despite his poor attitude, he remains steadfast walking back to his car in the garage, trying not let much else get to him before the big night. But, as today is going, maybe it's more of a factor to just be alone before anything else goes wrong.
“Hey, wasn't that Katie's ex-boyfriend?” one fan asks another, as Jack walks by. The other looks over The Wild Card and shrugs, unknowingly. “I wonder what he's doing here.”
Here I am broadcasting my competitive promo from the comfort of my car. Please understand, if it seems like I lack any energy or pizazz with what I am saying, please remind yourself I have a steering wheel in my way. In your car, you must be wondering, that's a weird place to stay, isn't it?
Yes, I thought so too, but, considering the obvious take on me in this business, I have a feeling anything else is just too much of a gamble. And I find this whole situation, the contending jobber, rather hideously funny, if it was only targeted at someone else. Here I am, moderately successful in this career, nudging my way up the ranking ladder, only to find out the ladder is on the wrong wall.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not hating on any other superstar. I am sure whatever exposure these men and women get, they deserve. But, I guess I just don't understand whether this type of sport prizes their top-tier performers or their highest rated personalities. I guess, not being privy to the introduction newsletter, I don't have the sense to choose one or the other. But, of course, thinking over it just slightly, how can it hurt being a better performer than everyone else? If nothing else, it's self-satisfying to drop t-shirt sales for superstars when you catch them in a big three-count in front of all their fat-wallet fans. And really, the more I argue about all this, to myself, the more I feel hypocritical towards my original intentions.
As I perpetually find I have to introduce myself every time I speak, the chore of doing so overcomes the real reason I am doing this. It's funny actually. I may be the only guy under these light who didn't have some divine calling to this sport. I came here out of necessity, for safety, from the life I am constantly trying to escape.
I suppose this method could be argued, but I won't get into it, because life is a gamble and nothing, absolutely nothing, is guaranteed, one way or another. If I wanted to be a nobody, vanishing off the trail of my pursuers, I could have joined anything else that didn't have a weekly telecast. But where's the invulnerability that celebrities get in that? You have to admit, popular athletes, movie stars, and politicians get a certain red-carpet treatment that just keeps everyone else past arms length, and maybe, over losing a trail I may find I can never lose, that's what I need. On the other hand, being a nobody works just find too, for the moment, but I really don't need to get my face pounded on a somewhat regular basis to be a nobody anywhere else.
So, as you can see, I am dancing between the lines of my intentions and desires, trying to suit my needs at every aspect, and it's not really an easy task at any point.
And, this time, my stupid little dance has gotten me past the nose-bleeds, in the parking garage, where I can say isn't the best place to prep for my biggest match, thus far. It doesn't bother me, per say. Really, none of this nobody cares shit bothers me, it's just when it becomes an unknown factor to what I already have to consider, it's quite the bother. But then again, I am a man, and, when I do things right, I would like a little more recognition than, let's say, none.
But, then again, why should anyone? I am nowhere as flamboyant or intriguing as any other of the egomaniacs in True Glory, so I guess I have already lost the fight. I am just plain old, ordinary Jack Goddard -a man with not a lot of strength or skill, or anything to lose. The Wild Card isn't the type to go on like this, ranting like a self-absorbed moron, proclaiming an early victory before the opening bell is even rung. He's not even the type to speak much about any of his opponents, so I hope the 'I don't know you or care' reply doesn't run too old, because it's synced up for a looping repeat.
But what I will say The Wild Card is, past the noted obvious lack in skill and strength, is a chaos factor. He can be anything between the lowest deuce and the almighty ace, no one can beat an ace. While others assure nothing but certain victory, regardless of their opponents or win conditions, I'm not that far up my own posterior. So when you need a breathe of
fresh air, let me let you bowing out knowing this participant in the fatal four-way may not be the strongest, smartest, fastest, or smoothest, but I can never be counted on to be predictable. And although I can be a flopping deuce or a barn-burning ace on any given opportunity, we are assuming I only need the four highest cards in the deck to win, and, despite their -oh so accurate- personal accounts, they might not be as good as they say. I might in fact have more cards in the deck to use.
To my opponents, again, I really have no idea what you are doing on so many damned t-shirts, or what the hell you are all about, and, frankly, I don't care. None of that is any of my business or really anything I need to concern myself, as one, stupidly lucky bastard. I may not be the most popular or coolest pair of fists on this cute television program, but if this wreck's arms are raised after this bout, I may find I might not have to introduce myself too much more.
I'll be signing autographs off the trunk door of my Prius in the parking garage, and everyone, even from the locker room, is invited. I'll say...
“Hello, friends, I am Jack Goddard. You might have seen me tirelessly climbing this shit-pile, if your heads were anywhere but up your assholes, but that's okay if you don't. I'll forgive you, because I don't have blazing red hair, a loud voice, or my name plastered on a pervert's paradise worth of jail bait. I am a fighter here, and anything beyond that is sub par. So, relay my apology to Natasha, Livewire, and Bull, because I am coming to serve all the cool boys and girls one giant, heaping, dish of bad luck.