Revolutionary Road

"Go get'em, Kid."

That was all he had to say, all he was able to force out. Back in the world of the waking, but not back in action, and really, I don't think he'll ever be the same.

Jomatran worked his contractual voodoo and now Piter's out and I'm in. The Buick Century I've been driving since I went pro eases up toward the triple digits as I roll down the Mass Pike. 85. 90. The engine's insistent purr eggs me on.

"What?" I find myself saying, realize that I'm not alone. Blood pounds in my ears against the thin fabric of my battle face, but I hear it clearly: "What?"

"Jesus, Kid, slow down. New Orleans isn't going anywhere."

Kyle. Childhood friend. I can't remember when he started calling me by my nom de guerre so casually, but it's been a good few months we've been traveling together like this. The setup in Vegas didn't work out; changed some minds, changed some lives, and just kept on keeping on.

I didn't tell management I was leaving. They still haven't called. Everybody wins.

Kyle fidgets with the camcorder in his lap. "I still can't believe this is happening. Like, really, you know?"

I nod mutely, let the mask do the talking. At this rate, it'll be another twenty minutes until we hit Connecticut. Another twenty hours to the Big Easy.

"I mean, it's like, I always kinda felt like you and I were different, you know? Back in Parma Heights?"

Ohio seems like a distant memory, now. The sort of dream you're not supposed to wake up from.

"I remember the first time I saw you in the mask, I thought you looked ridiculous. Now..."

"Now what?"

"Well, now I'm not so sure."

We tear down the I-90 in relative silence, the protestations of the Buick the only soundtrack I need.

Kyle's been with me on this for a while, now, practically since it all started. He gave me rides to the old school in Dayton, covered for me with my mom. I killed myself out there for fifty people on a good night, and he helped me believe it was worth it.

But it all paid off, right? OWF. Big time promotion. Shit, just having a real contract, a piece of paper clearing me to wrestle and none of that developmental jive... gives me chills.

Of course, Kyle handles most of the negotiations and the media end of things. It's just as well. If I'd been the one talking to CJ, I'd be doing this for free.

It's funny, you know? How much two, three seconds can change everything. Just that little bit of freefall, and it's all different.

Piter's in the hospital, and I'm in the big time.

We're a good ten miles down I-84 when it all begins to boil over. I feel it coming, try to ride it out, but it's no good. I'm on the shoulder, falling out of the car and I barely get my mask up before my lunch flashes before my eyes. Kyle bolts from the passenger side and drags me into an overgrown ditch, farther from the highway.

"What the fuck is going on?" He asks, so matter-of-factly, like he just wants to know what time it is.

I try to stand, but my knees give out. "I can't do this..."

"That's not what you told me."

"Just- can't..." I roll onto my back and stare up at the picturesque autumn sky.

"That's not what you told CJ."

I roll again, push to my hands and knees and hang there, suspended, like rain drops in a strobelight. "I'm not- not ready for..."

"That's not what you told Piter."

I'm on my feet. "Get the camera," I say, my voice raspy and distant.

The hardness is gone from his face, his voice, replaced with concern. Poor Kyle. Good cop and bad cop all rolled together into one confused kid on a New England highway. "Look, let's just go, I can drive and-"

"Get the camera."

We fade in on an indeterminately rural stretch of tall grass and evergreen, framing a young man in a starred and striped luchador mask. He stands tall, resolute against the cold in a T-shirt and jeans.

Freedom Kid: Greetings and salutations, all of you loyal OWF fans out there. I'm the Freedom Kid, and I don't think we've been properly introduced. Maybe there are a few things you want to know about me. That's understandable. After all, without knowledge there is no freedom. First, though, there are a few things I'd like to know about you.

The Freedom Kid jams his hands in his pockets and hunches over a bit, his breath readily visible even on the lo-res video. He straightens up again and resumes speaking.

Freedom Kid: Are you ready for a change? Do you feel like your government exists to serve the needs of other people, people you've never met? Do you feel like your legislator doesn't represent you? Do you feel like theistic polemics against ten percent of the population has no place in federal politics? Do you think that your country is on a downward spiral? Are you too afraid to get up and do something about it?

He blows on his hands, rubs them together, and then launches right back into his speech.

Freedom Kid: The system has failed. Our leading politicians are playing their fiddles while Rome burns. We're at war in a country most of us will never see, with people most of us can't recognize, for reasons most of us will never understand. We're at war with the chemicals people choose to put into their own bodies. Over a thousand Americans have died in the first war, and nearly two million of us are casualties in the latter. Elections are useless. The puppet on the left hand and the puppet on the right hand are both controlled by the same person. I know it. I'm telling it to you. And now I'm on my way to the shell of New Orleans, and I'm not afraid to say it. I'm looking to start a new kind of army. All I need... is you.

The young man points directly at the camera.

Freedom Kid: So come one, come all. Come for the wrestling, stay for the recruitment drive. Whether it's the United States government or the New Four Horsemen, I refuse to let the needs of the few outweigh the needs of the many. Now come on, OWFites. Climb up to your rooftops and