Des Moines, Iowa.
The Devil's Own MMA Academy.
A locker room. He should already be on the road. It is in his routine to arrive a few days earlier than everyone else to get the vibe of the area. The city. The arena. But this time, Marcus Mancuso was a few days later than he would have liked.
But it wasn't without purpose. Not this time. It wasn't accidental. It was a carefully plotted out part of the strategy. Avoid contact with the world of Professional wrestling at all costs. At least until he was contractually obligated to be there.
Why?
Because somewhere around Quebec City, Quebec, HE was there.
The Cog.
And Mancuso was absolutely certain that Cog's very particular brand of theatrics and mind games were with him, and right now he needed the levity of normalcy. Of regular people. Sunday, September 12th would be the day to deal with the madness. Today was the day to be real.
"Marcus?"
The voice snapped him from his coma-like train of thought. Out of either habit or the vague chance The Cog had brought his mental defectiveness out to Iowa a few days before their showdown, he spun around quickly, and very ready to strike.
"Ian?" Sure, they were business partners, but a face-to-face meeting between the two was rare. Ian spent most of his time in the Southeast, while Marcus was mostly on the road with the WWA, letting his dad handle the day-to-day operations of their jointly-owned gym. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I was about to ask you the same thing?" Ian said through his serpentine like grin. "Actually, I knew you were here. Max called me."
"He did?" At first there was a breif second of anger that rushed to his face. There were rules here. Ian was about as manipulating a person as there ever was. Once Marcus signed the contract with the WWA, he and Ian agreed that under no circumstances would Ian be involved in Marcus' wrestling career. Ian could see the blood flush Marcus' face.
"Calm down. He just thought maybe you wanted to talk."
Ian gave an uncharacteristic friendly pat on Marcus' shoulders.
"He said maybe you were a bit frazzled. That maybe you had let The Cog get to you. That isn't like you, man, what's going on?"
The question was legitimate. marcus had been cool and collected throughout his lifetime, almost to a fault. But not now. He was wound up tighter than a spring, and it was starting to show.
"Ian, I'm going to fuck him up. Bar none. Hands down. I'm not leaving Canada until I've splattered his blood across all four corners of Quebec."
A smile crossed Ian's face. Suddenly he liked this version of Marcus. It reminded him of...him. He nodded understandingly. It made Marcus sick.
"Cut that shit out, Ian. I'm not like you, and I'm not like him."
"Are you not?"
"No."
"You sound like it, and that look on your face tells me that you are EXACTLY like us. Both of us. The Cog and myself, so take a second and drag yourself off of your high horse."
Marcus slammed his boots and gear into a nearby dufflebag. For that brief second, he knew Ian was right, and it made his stomach knot, and as hard as he tried to hide it, Ian read him like a book.
"Makes you sick, doesn't it? Listen kid, All I've heard from you all week has been The Cog this, and The Cog that. You've fallen right into his trap. None of you, not Shaman, not Colby, not you, are even THINKING about the other people in this match, only The Cog. He has made himself the focal point of your collective fury, and it plays straight to his hand."
If anyone would know about something like that, it would be Ian. He made a highly decorated career out it.
"You need to calm down, and remian focused on the big picture, not the bright shiney piece that grab your attention. Have you ever looked at a Picaso painting? To truly admire it, you've got to pay attention to the small details in the background, not the feature itself. If you don't start focusing on what Korver and Shaman can do to you IN ADDITION to what The Cog brings to the table, then you've already lost."
Marcus took a deep breath. And gave a subtle nod.
"Marcus, just do what you do. Play your game. Force your will onto the fight. A fight is all about breaking someone else's will and forcing your own. Right now, The Cog has this match in the bag, and he has done so in brilliant fashion. Listen, I got a plane to Nashville that I need to catch. Good luck."
The distinct smell of Cuban cigar smoke trailed two seconds behind The Prototype. As many times as they have disagreed, it was this very moment that Marcus was glad to have such a slimey bastard of a friend. He smiled. And picked up his cell phone, adeptly mashing a few would be buttons on his touch screen.
"Dad, have someone pull every match of Korver's and Shaman's in the last three months and burn them to a DVD. I need to watch them on the plane."
With a quick thumb press, he call was finished. The mystery of the Cog had finally been solved. Someone like that, HAS to have people follow him into his descent into whatever realm of madness he was going. Shaman may follow him, and even Korver. But now, Marcus was going to beat him at his own game, by simply not playing it.
**********************
Cog, you've eluded me at every turn. You've managed to escape week after week, show after show.
And Shaman, you've hung on to that US title by the skin of your teeth more than any champion I can remember.
You both need to realize one thing.
At Meltdown, you can run, but there is no more hiding. There is no more escaping. There are no more games. Just you two, Colby Korver, and myself.
Sooner or later, you're both going to have to deal with the consequences of the wheels you've both set into motion.