The Fall Of The Mentor Part 2

[The Rogue]

February 2001

I pull my mouth closed and bite my bottom lip. I need to break away from this moment. His gaze remains on me and I can’t take it anymore, so my head turns to the side, escaping eye contact. Is this really necessary? Why can’t I think of a different way to work this out? I’m so scared. I don’t want to… I really don’t. But watching him slowly kill himself; that is killing me. How can I tell him that though? Shit, this is harder than I thought it would be and I knew it would be hard.

Grace: Because it’s not, Tim.

Tim: What are you saying?

My heart skips a beat as fear and heartbreak really take effect. I quickly find myself coming back to the present and all the bad thoughts run through my brain and find themselves escaping from my mouth. Tim is frozen, in front of me. His face is locked in a look of disbelief.

Grace: We can’t do this. I can’t. Not with you constantly like this. Seeing you like this is not good for me, it hurts. You won’t do anything; just sit here all the time, staring at pictures as if you’re holding on, not letting him rest. He’s gone, Timmy, but you won’t accept it. You want him here more than you want me.

My eyes shut hard after I say this and I nearly place my hand over my mouth. I regret saying that last part. This is going to hurt enough. He glares at me through defiant eyes.

Tim: I want him here, is all. I miss my best friend. Wouldn’t you? Can you not understand why I am upset? The reason that I am is because my best friend is dead.

Denial. Nothing but denial. I know what is going on here so I need to spell it out for him. He doesn’t even realize the extent of what he is doing.

Grace: Not to you he’s not. You act like he is still here, right next to you. To you, he is here more than I am and it scares me. You’re not alive anymore; it’s as if the man that I am married to is gone and all that is left is this shell. How can you expect me to take this? If it was the other way around, could you?

Tim: I love you. You are here to me; believe me.

I feel a tear forming now, but I fight back the urge to cry. I want to believe you, Tim. Really I do. God, I’m so pathetic. Hold on, Tim, please… For me. He seems as though any minute the reality of the situation will hit him. It‘s as though he‘s teetering on the edge of comprehension.

Grace: How can I when I can’t see it; can’t feel it? You gave up your career because you were too scared to face the truth about him and now you’re giving up on me.

Tim: I’m not. Just stay around and listen to me before you make up your mind.

Pleading. His voice cracking with desperation. He is breaking down. This will make him worse, I know it; yet I can’t stop. I wish there was another way around this. Be strong for him. Tim, be strong for me. Nothing can make this harder than it already is.

Grace: My mind is already made up. I can’t stay with someone who does this to themself. You’re not even here now; you’re there with him, watching us have this conversation. You see him more than you see me. It’s not fair to lay that on someone you love. I can’t take it anymore.

I want to kiss him. I want to hold him. But there is nothing there now except a trembling shell. It is time for me to go. Get out before I change my mind. I feel my legs begin to move and I head for the door. As I pass through it and begin to walk through the halls towards the front door, I hear his emotional voice begging after me.

Tim: Grace, don’t go! Don’t leave me! No!

I want to pause. I want to go back in there and make things right, but it’s too late. I can’t take back what is done any more than he can. I want him back. I miss him already. I have been missing him for the past month. As I leave through the door, the rain pelts down against me, falling from the grey clouds above. That’s how I feel. My head is shadowed and my heart sits in dark clouds. I head for my mint green Pontiac, quickly opening the door before switching things on in a mechanical fashion. My mind is not here. I feel my hand shift the gears and my foot hit on the gas as I reverse off the drive, switching into first and then moving off down the road. I turn off onto a busy street and pull over by the side of the pavement. This is me; broken down. Tears begin to stream down my face. I can’t fight them back; no reason to. If things were simpler then I would still be there… With him. Oh, God! I wish there was another way.

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I stare at the woman standing in the doorway. She just looks at me, with an ugly expression twisting her beautiful face. She places a hand delicately on my chest, which I ignore. I’m still dumbstruck. Grace Adams, here. What the hell? Why is she… It was her! The phone call, the lipstick and the break in. It was all Grace. But why? Why would she go through all that effort? And why now?

Grace: Leaving so soon? But we’ve only just been introduced.

Her hand exerts a small amount of force, pushing me back inside. Not knowing what else to do, and still at a loss for reasonable thought, I oblige and step backwards. She leads me to the kitchen table, forcing me down to take a seat. She’s smaller than me, but the look on her face says not to cross her. Plus having heard some things regarding her nature; it’s fair to say she’s not the same kind hearted woman that Tim married. I look up at her, taking in the blonde hair, and her slender five foot six inch frame.

Grace: It would have been polite to welcome me in to your home, Michael.

At hearing her words a surge of anger rushes through me and I finally find my voice.

Mike: Polite? Do you really want to talk about being polite? Breaking in to my home? Playing mind games with Tim and I? What the hell has gotten in to you? What’s your problem?

Grace: Timothy is a big boy. He’s been through a lot worse than just having his apartment broken in to. Like living… Here? This place is a bit small for a man of his tastes.

Mike: You think you know what you are talking about? I’ve realized what it all meant. The small apartment, the private gyms. He didn’t want you to find him.

Grace: You think you have it all figured out, don’t you?

Mike: Why come back? Why go through all this…

I feel a sting in my cheek as her backhand comes across it. I don’t give her the satisfaction of a wince or anything. I just stare at her. Loathing her. She made Tim into the mess that he is in now. She ruined him when he had nothing left to hold on to. And now, a decade had passed and she was still intent on ruining everything he had built himself. The left side of my lip curls up, causing her to strike out again, only this time I catch her by the wrist. I squeeze it slightly, before throwing it down to her side.

Mike: I would appreciate it if you minded your manners in my home.

Grace: How dare you talk down to me. Show some respect! I’m the Aunt of the woman you are boning!

Before I realize what has happened, I find myself on my feet with my hands clutching her side. She doesn’t look intimidated, her eyes meeting mine with a hateful smile.

Mike: Jessica is not your niece, you pathetic old woman! If you ever disrespect her again, so help me!

Grace: What are you going to do? Hit me? Please! You’re so pathetic! I know you wouldn’t lay a finger on me, yet here you are trying to act tough. Honestly. I can’t wait to watch the Supershow on Friday and watch you embarrass yourself by trying to win three matches in one night. I’d even bet that you won’t win one.

Mike: I won’t hit you. No. You’re right.

The moment the spit leaves my lips, I regret it. First due to the guilt, and then due to the pain passing through my testicles and the bottom of my stomach. Good shot, Grace. Then, laying writhing on the floor, a solid heavy boot crashes against my ribs. Tim has returned and presumably seen me with my hands on Grace. Trying to put the pain to the side so I can comprehend what has just happened didn’t seem to help me. It disturbs me that Tim didn’t defend me. Not that I wanted her hurt, but after all she had done to him.

Grace: Well, isn’t this a lovely surprise? Tim, I didn’t know you would be here.

Tim: Grace, what the hell are you doing in my home?

Grace: Here I was thinking Michael lived here. My mistake.

Mike: Not anymore. You two can live out your psychotic dysfunctional dreams without me here. I don’t need this right now. Especially with Friday just around the corner.

Tim: You need me.

Mike: For one, you just kicked me!

Tim: Yeah. You hand your hands on a woman. I thought that you…

Mike: You didn’t think, did you? Just like you didn’t think when you lied to me about helping. Or when you keep disappearing. Tim, you’re unstable. You’re unpredictable. And I can not trust you. The only way you can help me this Friday is by not being there. And I am going to talk to the management and see if I can make that happen.

Tim: You can’t just walk out on me like that, Mike. You need me.

I pick myself up off of the floor, slowly and carefully. The look in his eyes is one of confusion. His pupils are dilated. He probably has no clue what is going on. This won’t do. I turn to see the smug expression Grace is wearing. I have never in my life been so tempted to hit a woman. I brush past her, heading straight for the door. Grace tags along behind, leaving Tim on his own. I turn around to see her stalking me. Past her, Tim is sitting down, rubbing his head, presumably trying to process everything through the haze of drugs he has consumed.

Mike: Why are you following me?

Grace: I’m going to my car. Why? Is that illegal?

Mike: You really are something else.

I hear the disgust in my own voice, as she smiles and checks her face in the mirror to make sure she cleared all of my saliva off of it. As I pick up speed and hop in my car, I can’t help but feel the rest of the week is not going to be a fun one.

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I received the phone call from an emotional Jessica a little over an hour later. Though I had left a voicemail message explaining what had happened and which hotel to meet me at, she obviously hadn’t checked. She had just arrived back at the apartment, obviously.

Mike: Jess, where are you?

Jess: Come quick! Grace is here! Timmy is losing it! He’s trashing everything!

Mike: What?! That bitch!

Jess: Shut up! Don’t you dare call my Auntie a bitch! Just get home now!

Mike: Alright! Alright! Calm down. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Just get out of there! Don’t get in his way if he’s on one!

Jess: I can’t leave him! Just get here quickly!

I hung up the phone and hopped in my car, immediately heading back home.

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Crash! I felt it inside of me as I stepped through the door. Everything seemed upside-down. Tim’s voice was raised. I heard it even as I pulled up in my parking space. Jess was worried for a good reason.

Tim: HOW DARE YOU COME BACK HERE AFTER EVERYTHING YOU VINDICTIVE COW!

Grace: You know why I left, Tim. I thought you’d actually be glad to see me.

Tim: WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I EVEN GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE?! GET OUT, YOU COW! YOU FUCKING COW!

Grace: Manners, Tim, darling. There are ladies present.

Mike: Grace, just leave. You can see he doesn’t want you here.

Grace: What’s the matter? Are you going to spit at me again.

Jess: What?! You spat at Auntie Grace?

Mike: Come off it, Jess! She’s not your Auntie. After everything she’s done. After the things Michelle told you.

Grace: As if my sister would have said anything. You’re obviously just taking in the garbage that Tim’s fed you.

Mike: Funny! Tim hasn’t actually said two words about you in four years! You obviously still mean so much to him!

I swear, just for a second, that I saw a hint of anguish on her otherwise controlled, calculating face. Tim seemed to have stopped throwing furniture around and had approached me. I could see raw emotion piled up in his expression. Never had I seen him like this. Nowhere near this, even in the holding cell. I thought he looked like he wanted to punch me. It was crazy.

Tim: Grace. I do not care why you are back. You’re playing games with me. I’m not going to play. Go.

Grace: But you’re having so much fun.

Jess: Auntie Grace, please…

Grace: Jessica, darling. Drop the cute niece act. We both know what you actually think of me. You’re just like your mother. Picking some ruined idiot who has thrown his life away over your own blood.

Jess: He didn’t throw his life away.

Grace: Did he leave that part out then?

Tim: Grace. They know everything. Cut the bullshit and get out.

Mike: You heard him.

Grace: Tim, are you going to let him speak to me like that?

Mike: Do you think he’ll let me spit again too?

Timmy Brown’s fist crashed against the side of my head with tremendous force, causing my legs to give out from under me. I hit the ground hard. I think it was fair to say I was caught off guard. Jess was by my side instantly, ignoring the other two. I didn’t look up to see if he seemed regretful or not. I didn’t care. I had had enough. Ignoring the fact that I might be unsteady and slightly shaken, I hopped up to my feet grabbing Jess by the arm and headed for the door.

Mike: We’re leaving. You two can stay all you want.

I turned back to face them, but I didn’t take in their expressions. All I saw was red.

Mike: Bicker, kick the hell out of each other, make up, fuck and do it all over again. Be my guests. See if I give a toss. But Tim, however many drugs have rattled up you’re brain, I hope you can see clearly enough to see the venom in her fangs. One bite will fucking kill you. I’ll talk to you next week. I have more important things to deal with than your drug and alcohol abuse, Tim, and this… For lack of a better word, this thing.

Jess: Mikey!

Mike: Jess, we’re off.

I didn’t need to drag her to the car, she followed willingly. But I could see she was torn. That unconditional love for family, the real strong bond she had with Tim, and her true love with me. I was glad that she followed as I couldn’t leave her in that mess. Hopefully he’d sober up and calm down eventually. Hopefully whatever her game plan is comes to light and we can all expose her and get her gone once and for all. Wrestling had enough dramas inside the ring without all of this outside of it. However my mindset was, whatever I felt I needed to do before the show; I still wanted to give all of my opponents one last piece of my mind.

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The scene opens in a small hotel room, with neutral coloring. Michael Tomkins stands by a wall, wearing a grey Armani suit. The necktie is loosely fastened, and it is clear from his expression that it has been a long day for him. He stares, grimly, at the camera before slowly removing the jacket, to reveal the white shirt underneath.

Mike: Time is ticking away until the biggest night of my career. My life is littered with distractions. Things like Sam Roberts thinking my name is “HOPKINS.” I guess I can forgive you that discrepancy, Sam. After all. I am the unheard of new kid. Until I step foot in that ring on Friday, I am nobody. I’m the guy whose mentor helped him win his first two matches. I’m the guy that has been told he can’t go it alone by everybody concerned in his life. Tim told me I need him. I can’t win without him. His dis-Graceful x-wife told me I won’t make it past the first round, against Scott Reave. The Harvard Connection, of all people, commented on my underhanded methods, using my “father figure” to win my matches. And even Blaine Harrison had to comment on “my way” of doing things. All of these comments and opinions are trying to work their way inside my head. Am I succumbing to them? Is it all taking effect? Could it be true that I stand no chance in hell at being the first ever Champion? Time will tell. Maybe I’m starting to lose the faith that separates me from every other rookie ever to set foot in that ring. I don’t know.

Mike reaches up to grab at the necktie, yanking it away from his throat before undoing the top button of his shirt.

Mike: You see me standing before you, suited up in a fine Armani suit. It wasn’t my money that bought this. I didn’t obtain it through anything that I have done. Tim Brown bought it for me. He said wrestlers had to know when to be presentable. True class had to represent itself in such ways. The words now that seem as if they were a ghost-like memory. Is it really “class” when nothing I have has been won by my own means? I have no money which is my own. My wins were a gift from Tim. My entry into the tournament, the company itself and America were all off of his back. Off of the “Electric” Timmy Brown’s merit.

Michael Tomkins then grabs a handful of his shirt, tearing it off of himself. Now bare-chested, he seems slightly more comfortable.

Mike: And now, you see the rookie exposed. A good body, 225lbs last I measured. Fit. Energetic. And full of something else that we can’t measure by number. Spirit. The one thing that has always set me apart. My belief in myself is always mixed with a never say die attitude. Potential and skill meet each other on any given day, and I live up to my own hype. That’s my promise. If there is a chance for me on Friday, then I will take it. And I will do it on my own, without the help of anyone that will not let things happen my way. No cheap victories. No tricks. Just the Raise-The-Bar-Superstar doing his best to win three matches in one evening. Three matches starting with Scott Reave. The same Scott Reave that I defeated on my debut, thanks in part to Timmy Brown’s distraction. Now that has to hurt Scott. The fact that he didn’t beat me. If we all face facts for a minute, Scott is a guy that doesn’t always play by the rules. He will take whatever shortcut he can to give himself the advantage. Despite that, he didn’t beat me. And if I know Scott Reave, and you have to assume I do seeing as I beat him, he will be steaming. The fire that I questioned last time I spoke has to be threatening to reignite making him a strong contender for the Title… If he can get past me. The main blockade through three rounds of the Chase For The Crown tournament. I wonder how he feels about that. I wonder how much it is eating at him that his perfect run was ended by me. Because I know that he won’t see Tim’s distraction as a cheap victory. He will be gutted that he fell prey to Tim’s tomfoolery. And that is a thought that pleases me. I am amused by the fact that I know Scott Reave has got to be pissed off because, despite giving me everything he had, I got the win. Now I will forget that for a second, because let’s face it, I had help. I will forget the fact that I have won two matches, one of which was against Scott. Let’s just dwell on the fact that no one has beaten me. That is something no one can deny. Ignoring the fact that my defeating them was questionable, they didn’t defeat me. No one has. I’m 2 and 0 in Frontier. I faced two of the biggest names in the company and kept my undefeated streak going. And come Friday night you can guarantee I am looking to keep that streak alive.

Michael pauses to pick up the torn shirt from the ground, holding it up to the camera.

Mike: This is me having a stab at a metaphor. Shirt is torn. Ripped. Not what it was.

Tomkins proceeds to throw the rag of a shirt away, off camera.

Mike: That’s you, Scott. However; you have the potential to change. That starts with me. You’ll need that fire. So bring it. Give me everything because when I beat you one more time, with no outside interference, no one will question why I am in this tournament. So when Jacques or Chandler face me in the semi-final, people might start believing that the kid could pull off an upset. The underdog is now a threat. He’s the wildcard that he says he is. The fans will start believing in him. They’ll all get hyped up. You’ll hear roars of his name rushing throughout the crowd… “Tomkins… Tomkins… Tomkins…” And I will give them something to cheer about. If I face Mercier, then it will be pride against pride. Rookie against Rookie. And we’ll see which of the two has the most gusto. And if it is you I face, Jacques, then I feel sorry for you. Because I have a lot of pent up frustration that is dying to come out. That’s why this tournament is perfect for me. Do you know why? Because one match just won’t cut it. After I have kicked Scott Reave’s ass up and down the ring and claimed my first three seconds, I’ll be aching for some more. So from the moment that bell rings, I’ll be on you like a bull that has seen red. I’ll be dishing out so much hurt that you’ll be glad when the end bell rings and the match is over. And if Chandler Scott is somehow the guy I face, well then after what happened on the last Wednesday Weekly Combat show, that frustration will be laid out on you tenfold. You are a disgrace. Jared James and Blaine Harrison had a fantastic match which finished unresolved because of the Harvard Connection. You and your boy Preston Blake attacked those guys, which caused me to have to get involved. The show went off the air in an all out brawl that I would have rather not have happened. Both of you need to know your place at the bottom of the pile, even below the rookies. Why? Because that’s all you have earned. And if by some miracle I see either one of you in this tournament, I will know that you have done something despicable to get there. And no sin goes unpunished. The Raise-The-Bar-Superstar will pass judgment on the Harvard Connection on his way to the top. And then we’ll see who is better than everyone else here. We’ll see who the pinnacle of the FGA is. And I’d bet everything I own that it won’t be either of you two.

Michael pauses, his breathing having grown somewhat out of control. He takes a moment to calm himself, before continuing.

Mike: And to Preston and the other three gentlemen that I might face in the Championship match. I concede that the fire burning due to the week’s frustrations will be exhausted by that point in the evening. Two ass kicking’s will be sufficient enough to exercise my frustration. But then circumstance will take over in me, as I am sure it will with either one of you. Whether it be Jared or Jack. Blake or Blaine. Let’s get one thing straight, shall we? Michael Tomkins is here in Frontier to be the very best that he can be. The Rogue is capable of great things. And at this point, he sees nothing greater than the Frontier Grappling Arts Heavyweight Championship gold resting around his waist. So I don’t care if it’s Preston Blake connecting with my left boot. It makes no difference if it’s Jack Flener Harbinging a “Taste of Greatness.” Nor if Blaine Harrison’s “Metal Heart” gets “Defected.” And so be it if Jared James’ winning streak sees “The Finishing Touch.” Friday Night, three individuals out of a possible seven will see that it takes just three seconds to win a match, just three. And for a record breaking three times in one night you’ll see that they will ALWAYS belong to me. And this won’t come as that much of a shock to any of you. Ask Jack Flener. Ask Scott Reave. They’ll tell you. They’ll make damn sure you know that when you’re dazed and confused. When you’re staring up at the lights. When you’re out on your back. You’ll hear a name. You’ll see a man holding up his arms in victory. Make no mistake in knowing that the guy standing above you celebrating his conquest is I. Michael Tomkins. And you’ll know who owns three seconds on your wristwatch every time you get in the ring with him.

The FGA logo crosses the screen before the hotel room, along with Michael Tomkins, fades into nothingness…

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