OD!SSEY - Part One

[D!]

THEN

December 19th to 20th, 2005
Evening to Early Morning
NAIT Gymnasium and afterwards

There is nothing. Just a heartbeat.

Lights up. Chris Casino is on the mat, squirming. Two blood-covered hands come into sight, and grab one of his arms. The knee of a pair of blood-covered jeans digs into Casino's back, twists the arm behind the knee, then pulls up the leg up in a single crab. The view rotates around; this mat is surrounded by a cage, and Casino is grabbing his hair in agony.

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The view shifts from Casino to the cage. Bruce Richards is climbing it.

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At the top of the cage, and those hands are pounding on Richards.

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The view drops down from the cage, turns around, and runs at Kyle Roberts in the ring.

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Chris Casino, with a steel briefcase, right into--

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Bruce Richards, moonsaulting right onto--

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Kyle Roberts picking the entire view up, and--

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Chris Casino's face as he lies on the mat, clutching the NAPW Title, and laughing.

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And the heartbeat gets slower.

And.

Slower.

A taste in the mouth. Copper. Batteries. A battery smell creeping into everything.

A buzz. A constant, atonal whine that buzzes and drowns out all sound.

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Then--

Khaos. In a different room. Just his head, right up close. Fluorescent lights. Bruised. Bandaged. Khaos. Sad, crying, but not saying a word.

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Khaos is gone. Wayne Wright has taken his place, and he has the same look on his face.

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Crusher.

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The Immortal.

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Technique.

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Someone unfamiliar. Long red hair.

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Axe.

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Diamond.

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Michael Johnston.

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Cameron Scott.

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Tiffany MacIntyre.

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Chris Casino.

Smiling, wearing the NAPW Title on his shoulder.

A glob of spit frees itself from his mouth, grows enormous, and covers everything.

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Nobody anymore. And the lights have been shut off.

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Ravager.

RAVAGER: Get up.

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The buzz subsides, and no sound comes to replace it. Lights down.

NOW

MUSIC: One day, you're gonna have to face / A deep, dark, truthful mirror.

January 19th, 2006
10:13 am
D!'s apartment.

Lights up. D!, leaning into the bathroom mirror, absent-mindedly splashes warm water on his face, staring at himself.

MUSIC: And it's going to tell you things that I still love you too much to say

He looks up to his forehead. The scar is still there, crooked, pink and puffy. It hasn't gone away today.

MUSIC: The sky was just a purple bruise / The ground was iron

The scar extends further than just the cut. Every spot on the skin where sutures were jammed in, there, too, is a piece of pink tissue.

MUSIC: And you fell all around the town until you looked the same

D! walks out of the bathroom and right to his stereo, which he turns off.

The apartment is your typical Whyte Avenue apartment--small. The space is divided up into "rooms" by painters who were given the instruction "Primary Colours" and then fed sugar water. Deep red for the living room, a welcome, sunny yellow for the dining table and entrance, through a door frame, a calm, blue bedroom. Every possible piece of space along the walls is supporting something--book cases, CD racks, DVD racks, boxes of magazines. Against one wall is a collection of various photos--friends, family, and some select members of the NAPW locker room. And one non-photo, a plaque in which we can only quickly make out the letters "MVP".

D! steps into the kitchen--yellow, but darker--and opens the fridge. On the door are more photos, take-out / delivery menus, and a hand-written Post-It that reads "PUT FOOD IN ME, CHAMP!" which goes so far as to suggest when it was written. He pulls out some Pow-R-Bars, a cold Snapple, closes the fridge and leaves.

At the entrance, he shoves the snacks into his messenger bag, slips on his leather jacket, and then grimly slides his green toque in place, over his scar. He uses his foot to rifle through freshly-landed mail right by the door . . . bill, bill, unnecessary credit card, bill, Rahim Jaffer, envelope. Envelope?

He kneels down to inspect it. A padded mailing envelope, manila, face-up and with no writing whatsoever. No address. No return address. Not even a stamp. D! shoots a look at his mail slot. It could have fit through there, easy. He looks back at the envelope.

Throwing caution to the wind, he picks the envelope up, and it doesn't explode. Or tick. Or seem to contain bees, for that matter. He squeezes the envelope with his fingers. Whatever is in there, it's solid and bulky, filling up most of the envelope.

He shakes the envelope, and hears only a slight rattle.

D! has things he must get done. He sets the envelope on top of a pile of incoming mail he's left on his dining table this past month, cinches up the messenger bag, and heads through the door.

The door shuts, adorned with a blue Post-It that reads "Have a Great Day! #####" with a feminine hand and a signature blurred digitally in editing.

Lights down.