Jud Kennelly vs Lex Collins

Chicago || March 13, 2013 (off camera)

"Don't like labels." Lex Collins stood at the window, feigning interest in the snow while trying to blink away the buckets of sand that felt like they were trapped under his eyelids. Sighing, he watched the cool glass fog with his breath.

Joel Bennett had begun these weekly sessions less than a month ago, expecting to hate Lex Collins. Instead, every week head been looking forward to poking at the guy, trying to chisel away another brick in the wall he was hiding behind. There were glimpses of vulnerability, of a deeply broken little boy behind that sarcastic veneer. "Help me understand, Lex. You're telling me you're upset about winning awards? There's nothing wrong with being proud of your accomplishments, Lex. That's a very healthy trait."

"So I'm unwell 'cause I don't–"

"That wasn't what I meant."

"I don't wanna collect trinkets. An' those that do aren't goin' my way. That's transitory shit, man. I'm not out for the quick pop, y'know?"

"What are you looking for?"

He fell silent again, chewing on his thumbnail.

"I'll tell you what I think."

Lex turned around, dark eyes narrowed on the doctor, "oh, yeah? Go on, then."

"I think you want to fill that hole inside you, the one you never really talk about but that we've been tiptoeing around the edge of for weeks – that's why you've created this fantasy for yourself. Out there, you're Lex Collins-"

"That's my name. So–"

"No 'so', Lex. No justification. Just tell me the truth without connection to a reason."

He chuckled humorlessly, shaking his head. "Alright. Fine." Eyes lowered, he shuffled his feet before turning back to the window. The footprints he'd left on the sidewalk were gone now, as if he'd never been there at all. The words came out before he could stop them. "Yeah. I wanna be a big name. I wanna have t-shirts an' endorsement deals an' I want people to do a double-take on the street. I want my name on a marquee. I wanna see my face on a poster. I wanna-" he bit his lip so abruptly he tasted blood, shaking his head. "Don't matter. Won't happen…"


Winnetka || November 3, 2013 (off camera)

He was still wearing his ring gear. His fists were still taped up, tacky with the dried blood of Angel Kash. He hadn't slept right in days. Couldn't remember the match at all. Mentally, he was still in London in front of that sold-out crowd, still feeling the impact of that Fordplex that had come out of nowhere. He'd had the match won and then it was over. Just like that, everything he'd worked and fought for over the last year was negated because he'd stopped short. He'd concussed himself on the goddamned glass ceiling. Another monster won.

Seventeen years of his life repeated in the blink of an eye. The title belt crashed into him, the leather leaving welts on his sweaty skin. It was so damned familiar. The only thing different was the crowd and their unfailing support. They'd screamed for him. It hadn't made a difference. Matt Ford walked out of the match under his own power. Lex had lost the biggest match of his career.

And now he was back here, camped out in his epic blanket fort like a child. It was the only place he felt safe, as irrational as it seemed.

The tape crackled as his hands closed into fists. He wanted to hit something again because the anger kept bubbling up, the hatred kept choking him with that bitter taste in the back of his throat. The headache was back, the pain jumping around his head randomly. The lights blurred as he squinted, closing his eyes as the vodka bottle hit his lips.

The cut above his eye itched. Imagining Matt Ford's bite transmitting disease like one of the zombies in The Walking Dead had been a diversion over the last two hours since they'd gotten home. He'd watched four episodes, skipping through parts that were boring, calling it research even though he'd given up on the show partway through the second season because it was so damned stupid. Maybe his face was going to rot off. Maybe he'd end up bat-shit insane just like Ford. Or maybe it was just itchy because he needed to take a damn shower.

The vodka bottle was almost empty when a hand fell on his shoulder. He tensed, eyes squeezing shut. "Come to finish me off?"

"What?" Hannah's voice came out soft, confusion in that simplest question.

His hands curled into fists, the crusty tape splitting, cutting into his skin. He couldn't dial back the resentment, couldn't tamp down the hate.

"I'm so proud of you, Lex. You stood up to Ford. You took everything he threw at you and you-"

"Lost."

"I love you."

"Don't." His voice came out firm. "Not deservin' of that."

He leaned against her as she helped him to his feet, pushing away from her to go up the stairs, his other hand trailing against the wall like it always did. Once they reached the top, he murmured something to himself that nearly broke her heart, "I wanna be a winner, Han. Just once."


Las Vegas || January 24, 2016 (off camera)

The slip of paper in his hand was soaked with sweat already, the ink blurred, staining his palm. The hood of his BRUTAL Apparel hoodie was halfway covering his face as he slouched down against the wall a few feet from the gorilla position, wedged between two of the rolling road cases. A sea of movement flowed back and forth in front of Lex Collins, from talent to technicians – to his exhausted eyes they were like a blurred time-lapse video of some storm rolling in. Invisible, he was the calm center with Rancid spilling into his ears, Tim Armstrong's vocals keeping him locked in the here and now while he concentrated on breathing in and out. The tape was already on his hands under the fight gloves, that little extra tension and flex as he curled them into fists – he'd done that before they'd even left the comped room at the Luxor, running late, of course, because he'd been desperate for just a few more hours of sleep to try and banish the jetlag. It hadn't helped much.

The number stared back at him unchanged. He was starting the match against a legend. The sea of movement blurred more when he blinked, becoming a body of water, becoming Lake Michigan, the black box beside him a weatherworn post and it was déjà vu all over again. It was the summer of 2013 all over again.

His fingers gripped his left wrist, opening and closing his fingers as though he expected to feel that skip, to feel the twinge in the joint as he rotated his left hand. Everything was good. Everything was fine. It was alright and it was 2016. Knees up to his chest, he rested his forehead against them, still breathing as slowly as he could.

The scrap of paper with the number on it fluttered in the wake, disappearing from sight amongst the waves only he could see. There were faces in the water and that reminded him of the cover of that Clive Barker novel that Hannah had lost back when they were in high school – The Great and Secret Show. Funny he should be thinking about that now, but it was stuck in his head and his lungs were burning like they had when he'd gone too far, too deep looking for Vic – his father's – urn. The air felt heavy, like the water had that day and his hands were so tightly fisted the gloves and the tape were cutting off the circulation.

Can't do this. Can't. Can't go out second. Not good enough–

There was soft pressure against his arm, just a bump and then a sigh before a familiar voice whispered his name. Claire.

"Lex."

He dragged air into his lungs and now the sea was just people again, familiar faces going about their routine. Turning his head, he almost choked on the word like his lungs were full of water, "hey."

She was smiling, nose crinkling as she reached out to touch his knee. "You're going to make me so proud out there… you always do."


YouTube posting (video, publicly listed)

"Sometimes," his voice is soft, slightly raspy, "the end of somethin' is the beginnin' of everythin' – I typed that on Twitter a bit more'n twenty-four hours ago. It's still in my head... rattlin' around."

Lex Collins sits on the floor, his profile visible in a pitted and dusty mirror. He sighs, picking up a strip of shiny metal from the floor in front of him. Two more sit on the floor in front of him, both more warped and scuffed than the one he keeps turning over and over between his fingers. It's a sort of modified coin trick, rolling it across his knuckles before flipping it into his palm, caught by that hitchhiker's thumb of his. Over and over, the letters that spell out the name LEX COLLINS blur in and out of focus.

"I guess it's funny, y'know, in retrospect. You chase somethin' long enough an' it's hard to stop, hard to reconcile the guy you were when you started with who you've become on the journey. The more things change, the more I feel like I'm this constant, this stubborn dickbag who can't bring himself to change. All these years doin' this gig an' I'm still shit at social interaction... not sure that's a revelation or not at this point, but I feel like I gotta paint a picture 'cause we're not really personally acquainted. Mean, 'fore signin' on the dotted line for All Star Combat, had no idea who you even were. Couldn't find much about you onine – figured I'd be honest."

The nameplate slips and clatters to the floor in front of him. For a few seconds, he stares at it before shaking his head, glancing at his reflection instead.

"Shades of who we were. That one was my first big one – milestone moment at the end of 2013. I walked out on Full Throttle Wrestling. I took a chance in this reboot of a place in Louisville. Nice little tournament to crown their first champion. Came down to me an' a guy named Max Sato. I pulled off the upset. I walked out of that glorified community center feelin' like I just headlined Madison Square Garden, feelin' like king of the world. I held it for 184 days – uncontested, undefeated. Had my first taste of the big time an' I was hooked. It's been a long road since then. Lots of pitfalls. Not gonna expect you to go back an' listen to all these little rambles of mine or watch those awkward-as-fuck videos of me twitchin' like some spaz, tryin' not to trip over words. Nah. We're gonna do this the old-fashioned way... the respectful way an' I'm gonna hope you're not the kinda guy with that clouded up lens who's gonna twist it all up so it's fuckin' purple monkey dishwasher shit by the end. If you are... apologies in advance, I guess... 'cause you're not gonna like a damn thing I say from here on out."

He picks up the bent one next, bouncing it on his palm.

"This one... there's more of a story to it. One that still has jagged edges, even now."

He closes his fist around it.

"This one came from the SCW Vegas Championship – found it in the trash backstage after I lost, after Tarja Harrison sent me crashin' down off my pedestal. An' I suppose it's fitting how warped this one is 'cause those last few months in Vegas, they twisted me up real good. I walked out on the heels of that loss. I told myself it was another Matt Ford moment. Another prick disrespecting the time and effort I put in – wasn't that. It was me. It was always me."

He pauses for a jaw-cracking yawn that he doesn't bother to cover up.

"It's a little after three in the mornin'. I should be asleep instead of dwellin' on all the might've-beens. Sometimes it's hard to see the beginnings through the rubble of that ending. Where we go from here's kinda all up in the air. I dunno what the next few months will bring. I do know I have opportunities presenting themselves at every turn – not about to disrespect any of them. I just..." he chuckles sheepishly.

"According to social media, I'm a big thing now. A household name. People I've never heard of are fans, following my career, hoping I find my way into the winner's circle, lay a beatin' on that James Raven dickhead – all this surreal shit. An' a big part of me is still that guy from 2013, walking out of that arena in London with my head hung low, shamefaced. Still feel like I haven't earned it even though I can look in the mirror any time I want to an' see the damage lookin' back. I can count the scars, relive all the memories. I can catalogue the injuries, I can hear the echoes of the crowd like that seashell roar in my ears. That's reality. I don't look at this an' see some portrait of perfection."

His eyes dropped to that bent scrap of metal again.

"We're not echoes, or opposites here. This ain't no Dorian Gray portrait, showin' off the taint of all my mistakes while I go on unblemished." There's a flash of a crooked smirk before he drops the metal again, letting it clatter against the others.

"Just wish I could figure out how to keep the voices from gettin' through. I mean... people say if you don't give a rat's ass about the fans, you're a bullshitter 'cause they're the reason we even exist. Not them. Just... the stupids, y'know? The ones'at say you're not good enough... you're not..."

He sighs.

"Mean, the fans... God, I fuckin' love 'em so much – gravy when they cheer – an when they go bananas over me kickin' ass? When I throw Bricks an' it's so loud I can't hear myself think? That's... guess if that was all this job entailed, that'd be aces, y'know? But it ain't an' nine outta ten, I'm like the human equivalent of the ant under a magnifying glass – either some real weird scrutiny or ready to be roasted for the amusement of others. It makes me feel weird. An' I spent the first half of my career committed to the practice of being unknown and invisible an' now they're yellin' at me on the street. A long time ago, I said I wanted that. Careful what you wish for. I guess that's the cautionary tale here."

He hesitates for a second.

"Every choice changes something. Every action has a reaction. Physics, right? There's always another side, even if you can't see it an' nature abhors a vacuum. We're more like trees, growing outward an' I fear if you cut me open there won't be rings of knowledge an' experience but just his big black void of nothingness. I don't want it to be all for naught an' I can't help wonderin' if it ever get any easier?"

There's a little hint of desperation in that question.

"Somehow? Don't think so. Not for me."