Message of the Mask Maker

He’s the last person I expected to meet in this smoky biker clubhouse in New Jersey, but he actually doesn’t seem out of place. Perhaps it’s the leather jacket, shades and bandanna that seem to fit the dress-code all too well, or maybe it’s his rough-edged nature that isn’t too far removed from the rest of the lost souls occupying this hole. Whatever the case, I’m face to face with another old friend, who’s smiling that eerie smile and shooting a look which speaks of days of suffering, horrors witnessed and bloodshed. It would intimidate ordinary people. To me, it’s business as usual with Brummy Midlandson.


He’s already greeted me, crushing my hand in the grip of a man who spends his current days living the outdoors lifestyle, with a fist that’s shattered many skulls, in what passes for his version of a handshake. When the feeling returns to my arm, I try to speak amongst the fog of cigarette smoke.


“So how’s it going, Paul?” I ask him, using the real name that only his closest friends would dare make mention of, “Retirement treating you well?”


Despite the fact that loud, incomprehensible death metal music is blurting out nearby, drowning the airwaves in its putrid sound, Brummy hears me just fine, and effortlessly speaks over it all in his always booming voice, his Birmingham accent still intact after all these years, “Yeah, it’s fine, mate. Still keepin’ myself active, though. Got a ring out back where I’m teachin’ my babbi a few holds, y’know. Kinda like the Hart Dungeon, Midlandson-style.”


Man, who would’ve thought it? The guy who was known for doing unspeakable things to his opponents in matches, the flaming table-breaking, barbed wire-wrapping, sledgehammer-swinging Brummy Midlandson, married with a kid. It was a lot to process when I heard it back in ’06, and it’s still hard to believe three years later. I could never have imagined a wild one like him to settle down, but here we are.


“Looks like the business still runs through your veins,” I tell him with a smirk, and nod towards the even noisier area of the clubhouse - a pair of double doors that lead to a raucous crowd surrounding a tattered ring, “You wouldn’t be here otherwise, would you?”


“Nor would you,” Brummy points out, a grin forming on his lips, “I got a feelin’ you weren’t just in the area, me ol’ mukka.”


“Well yes, I’d avoid coming into this place without a very good reason,” I assure him, and I’ve been occasionally looking around in case somebody felt like starting something without informing me ahead of time, “I usually don’t enjoy being around people who are as likely to stab me as they are say hello.”


“Ah, don’t worry about the Death’s Doormen,” Brummy insists, referring to the name of this particular motorcycle club, “They’re a bunch of softies, really.”


“Easy for you to say,” I laugh, “You’re not the one wearing a Super Mario T-shirt. I should really think about my attire the next time I come to a place like this.”


Seriously, I should. From the looks I’ve been getting, these guys don’t approve of me individually, or they really hate Koopa Troopas.


“So you come to watch for the love of the game?” Brummy asks, as we both decide to head to our inevitable destination, namely the small independent wrestling show being held in the main hall, “Or s’there something else on your mind?”


“The latter,” I answer honestly, as I try my best not to make contact with the hairy, sweaty fellows filling this establishment, “Chio Reto is going back to resolve some unfinished business in wrestling.”


“Looking for that special someone who’s eluded you all these years?” he gives me a wink to underline his meaning there.


“You’re the second person to link ‘unfinished business’ with that,” I say with an amused sigh, “Though I am looking for a fair few people. One of them is at this show.”


“And you weren’t looking for me? I’m hurt,” he mockingly comments.


“Not this time, I’m afraid,” and I take a look in the ring, but I’ve never seen the people performing before, “I need some advice before I achieve my goal, and this individual is the one I need to ask for it.”


“Awfully vague of you, squire,” Brummy notes, “Even for you, that is. Would you mind illuminating your chum as to this goal of yours? Perhaps I can help as well.”


I turn to him, and I feel rather stupid for not considering that myself. This is Brummy we’re talking about here. He’s been through all manner of furious battles himself, some of which against me. With the wars he’s survived, he’s just the sort of person to pick the brain of.


I motion towards a clear spot where bikers aren’t gathered, and he follows me over as I attempt to get what passes for privacy in this clubhouse.


“I’ve got a pair of battles ahead,” I tell him when I feel comfortably distant from the loud and unpleasantly-smelling men, “Both of which related to wrestling. Come to think of it, your expertise in these matters might be helpful.”


“Glad I can be of service,” the big man says with a fake bow.


“Firstly, you’ve heard about Soudouki, right?” I ask, getting right down to it.


“Your ol’ flame? Yeah, I know. She buggered off with another bloke, the uncivilised trollop that she is.”


I grimace at the memory, as it comes rumbling to the surface. “Yeah, that,” I affirm when I shake off the feeling in my stomach, “Being that you’ve been through your fair share of shaky relations, leading up to your current stable situation, I imagine you know what it’s like to deal with that kind of situation.”


“Oh, that’s right mate, just make me out to be the world’s worst romantic, why don’t you?” He half-laughs back, before adding, “But there’s a chance of that, sure.”


“Well, I feel as though I need to meet with her. For closure, you know?”


“Ah, right. You’re mental, then.”


I give him a funny look, and can’t help but chuckle, “How so?”


“A woman walks out on you like that; you just leave her out to dry, skip. You go back to her; she’ll take it as a sign of weakness and will walk right the fuck all over you. Not ideal.”


“Well it’s not like I want to go back to how things were, by any means,” I clarify, “I just want to talk things over. It feels unhealthy to leave it how it is.”


“Only unhealthy thing here is the fact that you even want anything to do with her now. She leaves, you forget about her. That’s the only logical option if you ask me, which you did, so that’s what I’m tellin’ you.”


I’m not a hundred percent convinced on Brummy’s perspective, but he does make a valid point, “Alright, I’ll bear that in mind.”


“Yeah, you’re still gonna go and do it anyway though, aren’t you?”


“You know me too well.”


He gives me a serious look, “Just be careful, alright? When a woman thinks she’s got you under her thumb, she’ll crush every last bit of life out of you. You should never willingly allow one to do that, you hear me?”


“God, I can tell you’re married.”


We both can’t avoid laughing there. His serious face cracks away, “Too right, too right.”


When his smile drops, he follows up with, “I can see why you’d call that a battle. And considering who the concubine in question is the connection with the biz is understandable. That said I hope the other issue isn’t about girls.”


“Not in the least, you’ll be pleased to hear,” I reassure him, but Brummy still indicates to the bartender that he requires a beer. Some things never change.


After he’s received his less-than-frosty bottle, I tell him the rest, “I want to make a name for myself in pro wrestling, even if it’s just for one night. I want to be a top guy.”


“Like you never were?” he asks, popping off the cap and gulping back some of the booze, before wincing in distaste, “Ugh, weak American shit.”


I’ve had this discussion before, but I have a feeling I can get through to Brummy a little easier, “I still feel inadequate. It’s a pride thing, I suppose. It’s like I can’t look back on my career with a clear conscience unless I gave it my absolute all, and worked my way to that point.”


“Ah, feelings,” Brummy comments, “How little I care for them. I was never the number one guy either, at least not in the companies we found mutual employment, but I think I left a trail of broken bodies that will make sure people’ll remember me.”


“Maybe you’re okay with all that, but not me. It’s been bugging me, underneath the surface for a long time now. I never had that big main event, not where it mattered.”


“Just tell me the real deal, Christopher,” he demands with narrowed eyes, “What is it you want?”


I take a deep breath and say it out loud for the first time.


“I want to take on the Reaper.”


If Brummy was still drinking his beer, I think he would have spat it out by now. His narrowed eyes have become wide and his voice is several decibels higher from disbelief.


“The Reaper?! You mean, the big one?”


“The only one. David Shand.”


“Why the buggerin’ hell do you want to fight him? Aren’t you mates?”


“We are, but the fact still stands. He’s always been the big dog. There have been guys trying to dethrone him, people like Verona, like Arnold, Giznap... the list goes on. None of them truly succeeded. When you fight the Reaper, you’re on the marquee. Your name means something.”


Brummy wags his finger at me, as if reprimanding a dog, “That’s how you’d make a name for yourself? Throwin’ yourself in the firing line of David bloody Shand? You’re lucky he’s retired! I’ve seen what he did to the guys he faced off against! He gets into their heads! If you’re lookin’ for inner peace, going after him is the last thing you want to try!”


Even Brummy, after all the terrible things he’s done to his opponents, seems to be disgusted by what the Reaper has done in the past. That says a lot.


“Yeah, he’s retired, I know,” I respond, “We are friends though, like you pointed out. I was hoping he’d make an exception. Perhaps he’ll understand what I’m going through, and why I need this.”


“Once again I have to disapprove. Forget about this, alright? Just go visit one of your fansites and see what all your geeky followers think of you, and let that be enough. Don’t even contemplate going after Shand. Comprende?”


“I appreciate the sentiment, Paul,” I tell him, “But I really need to do this. I think it can work out. I just need to be prepared, mentally and physically. That’s why I came here to talk to him. He actually told me to watch his match tonight, hence meeting up here. I’m sure he’s got something in mind.”


Brummy finally puts two and two together. “The only person mad enough to encourage you to do this... it’s him, isn’t it? I had a feeling that’s why you came here. He’s in the main event, I believe.”


“Yeah.”


He shakes his head, “You are stark-ravin’, I tell you. And so’s he. No feckin’ wonder it’s him.”


Brummy lets out a deep sigh before saying the next sentence.


“Fine, if this is the path you’re taking, so be it. I’ll tell you all I know on the subject.”


I was surprised to see Brummy click on exactly what I needed to ask about. He’s certainly a lot brighter than he looks. He proceeded to tell me all about his cousin from New Zealand, the twisted Midlandson from behind the mask. Darkside. Donning said mask, the man was able to commit horrendous atrocities to those he faced. He even put Brummy to shame. With that facade in the way, he felt free to allow his true, animalistic tendencies to run riot without a shred of guilt. It was exactly why Brummy recruited him for his highly destructive stable, the BPA. In time though, Darkside proved too horrific for even his cousin to endure, and had to send the beast packing, at least until he regained some stability.


I remembered Darkside from the early days. I didn’t realise just what drove him to act like such a demon, though. Even Brummy didn’t understand his motivation, just the catalyst that brought it all out. The mask. That shameless, non-judging, uncaring mask.


“Zacconi is much the same way, isn’t he?” Brummy asks after explaining, mentioning the man I’m looking for by his surname “Using that mask to really let loose. It’s not about hiding his identity, ‘cause we all know his name. But the feelin’ is all the same. I just know it.”


“Yeah,” I confirm, “That’s what I thought as well.”


“You want it too, don’t you?” Brummy questions me point-blank, “That relentless fury. To let go of inhibitions, like.”


I nod. “It’s the only way I can reach my potential.”


“So, what? You’re going to ask him to make a mask for you?”


“In a manner of speaking,” I say with a smile, and I hear a new track playing from the hall. Sounds awfully familiar. “It’s time. Wanna go take a look?” With that I walk over to the doors.


I can hear Brummy grumbling as he reluctantly joins me, “You’ve lost the plot, I swear...”


I peer into the hall where it’s all taking place. The bikers let out a collective grunt of appreciation as a man steps out from the makeshift entrance way. There he is.


Clad in green, in a martial arts-inspired gear, is Orland “The Dragon” Zacconi. Much to my surprise, where once was a large mask that obscured the majority of his once-battered face, is now a much smaller one that merely covers his eyes and the top of his nose. His visage is very visible, and has apparently healed from its previous state that warranted the mask in the first place.


And before I can wonder if the new mask indicates change, he proceeds to beat the living hell out of his opponent, much to the approval of the bloodthirsty bikers surrounding the ring. He leaves the poor man picked to fight him as a broken shell of his former self, and leaves again without so much of a raised eyebrow.


Brummy, who could be accused of exercising great restraint through his career compared to the brutal strike-fest exhibited by Orland in that ring, turns to me with a look of disgust on his face.


“That’s what you want to be like?”


I smile again, “That’s exactly it.”


Message received loud and clear, Dragon.