“Here’s your cash for the day, Sil. Don’t go spending it all in one place.”
“Thanks, Leslie. Be in tomorrow!”
Apprenticeship at the Electric Rose came with certain perks. On top of the pay – which was admittedly sporadic at times – his mentor’s homegrown was absolutely choice. Accompanying the rumpled stack of bills pressed into his palm was a baggie with a few joints of Grandaddy Purple. Giving Leslie, a smiling woman in her mid-fifties with pleasantly craggy features and twinkling blue eyes, a little grin and a wink, he pocketed his spoils and made his way out the door into the mid-April sunlight.
Olympia was nice this time of year. The cherry blossoms still lingered in the trees, their sweetness mingling with the salt tang coming from the piers where fat, whiskery harbor seals congregated, the sound of buskers on corners playing their guitars or mandolins or even the occasional accordion, and window boxes bursting to life with nasturtiums and marigolds. Grey, dreary Winter melting to reveal the Spring slumbering beneath it. He plucked a cluster of vivid magenta rhododendron blossoms from a bush as he passed by, the sticky sap from it immediately clinging to his hand. Their brightness was worth it – a miniature bouquet of joy.
Part of his earnings for the day went into a sandwich from the local Subway, (‘Footlong sweet onion chicken teriyaki, toasted, no veggies, cheese, extra mayo please – hey, don’t judge me. And one of those sugar cookies. Thank you.’), before he began the trek home. The hike up 4th Avenue’s hill didn’t feel as arduous in the clement weather – no reason to waste money on bus fare. He made his way past the little mom and pop shops, the Ralph’s and the storage facility to the little RV park across from the lighting company. He’d considered saving up money for a bike, but he wasn’t sure how he’d fit it comfortably in the trailer. Leaving things out at night – even secured, chained up, and partially disassembled – was a dicey prospect. The park advertised itself as drug free, but that didn’t deter non-resident tweakers and their bolt cutters. The weed in his pocket? Honestly, did weed even count as a drug anymore in this state? Snagging the latest packet for his high school correspondence courses from the mailbox, Silvio unlocked the door to the travel trailer, entering as quietly as he could on the off chance she was asleep.
“Sil..?”
The voice, soft and reedy, came from the fragile shape curled up in the sleeping space situated at the head of the trailer amid blankets and body pillows.
Smiling and setting down the food on the kitchenette counter, the tattoo artist crept up toward the bed, settling on its edge and reaching out to take the hand of the frail woman resting there.
“Hey, mom.”
“‘Everything happens for a reason’. You ever heard that old adage?”
Silvio sits on the counter of his tattoo shop, dressed in a black button down, black jeans, and black converse. With his lanky build, he’s almost arachnid in appearance; a bit of, ‘will you walk into my tattoo parlour?’ said the spider to the fly. Behind him where there are usually samples of tattoo flash art hanging on the wall are only framed canvases in solid, unbroken black – a scattered mosaic of midnight promises and lightless thoughts.
“I fuckin’ hate it. It’s one of the cruelest things you can tell somebody when something bad happens in their lives. That there’s a lesson to be taken from trauma or damage; that you’re stronger after you’ve suffered.”
He spreads his hands and shakes his head.
“Bullshit. I hate that idea for a couple of reasons. First off, it lets people who have inflicted suffering off the hook. Y’know, the old, ‘If it wasn’t for me hurting you, you wouldn’t be where you are today.’ No. That’s not how that works.
“No one is stronger for having suffered. They are stronger in spite of it. Whatever was inside of you that got you through your darkest times has always been there, and whose revelation did not necessitate some horror to be visited upon you. It could have come about even more easily in an environment of love and support.”
Grinning a little, he looks at the camera, raising an eyebrow.
“And on a slightly related note, I believe I will die mad about what those talentless hacks Weiss and Benioff did to Sansa Stark; fight me.”
Silvio hops down off of the counter and circles around it into the work area of his parlor, approaching his usual chair and table, his cards already stacked atop it.
“Another reason that, ‘everything happens for a reason,’ attitude is bullshit is that it not-so-subtly implies that the person going through something terrible somehow deserved it, nothing could have been done, or that there’s a purpose behind their suffering. But y’know what?”
He takes a seat, black canvases arrayed behind him.
“Sometimes suffering is just suffering. There’s no purpose, there’s no divine plan, no conspiracy. It’s just bad stuff that happens to you. And I know a lot of people have a problem with that idea. How could something disastrous just happen? There has to be a reason, because then at least there’d be some kind of control.
“There’s not.”
Hands settled on the chair’s arm rests, he drums his fingers thoughtfully, taking a deep breath.
“A phrase I prefer that I think better reflects reality comes from Michelle McNamara. ‘It’s chaos. Be kind.’ There is no great, unknowable machine that you’re a cog in. There’s no big plan. There is no meaning save what we create. And if that’s the case, why not try and be kind to those around us?”
Sighing, Silvio pauses for a long moment, leaning in to rest his forearms on the table, fingers folded together.
“I don’t know if the stories about Thor’s illness are true or not. But assuming they are, my heart goes out to the members of Insidious. Losing a parent to a terminal illness isn’t something I’d wish on anyone. I know Thor is a literal father to some of his group’s members and a father figure to others in it. I got my own feelings on the latter, but those can wait.
“You never get over the loss of a loved one in your life. That’s not how it works. Instead, you learn how to live with their loss; how to integrate that death into your life. It isn’t easy, and it’s not just the passage of time that will make it happen. You have to work at it; have to acknowledge it and find a way to live with it. And some days…someone will smile at you in a certain way or there will be a scent or a song, and the reality of your loved one’s absence will hit you like a slap. But if you put in the work, the sting of it fades, and the next time it comes, you’re better equipped to deal with it.”
He sits back, eyes briefly distant as if he’s miles away.
“It’s chaos. Be kind. Now, here’s the thing about that.”
Looking back to the camera, Silvio’s gaze has hardened, dark eyes bright, brow furrowed.
“Sometimes to be kind to one person or group is to be inherently unkind to another. For your father figure’s illness and everything that may come along with it, I extend my kindness. For everything else you have done to Carnage?”
Picking up his deck of cards, Silvio shuffles, ending with a loud snap of them against the wooden tabletop.
“I’m going to tear you a structurally superfluous new behind.”
“I brought a little Spring back for you.”
Perla Leon shifted beneath her blankets, looking to her son with a small smile as he revealed the rhododendron cluster with a little flourish, the brilliant blossoms cheerful in the dim.
“Tada!”
“Thank you, baby; they’re beautiful,” she murmured, dark eyes twinkling.
Her eyebrows and lashes had just started to grow back along with a stubbly shadow of dark hair that now clung to her scalp. Silvio had become an expert at applying eye-liner and brow pencil; something to help her reclaim a little normalcy and feel more confident about going outside where others could see her. The chemotherapy and radiation had stolen years from her; brown skin stretched against the jutting bones of her skull and clavicle.
“I’ll get them in some water. Got you a sandwich, too. Is the chemo still messing with your taste buds?”
She nodded, laying back into her bed as Silvio went about taking care of the flowers. “The doctors said it could take a month or two for it to wear off.”
“Nothing a bit of indica can’t help,” he assured her, plucking one of the joints out of the bag and retrieving his lighter. Crawling back into the bed, he helped her sit up, and placed the joint between his lips. Perla had had a hard time inhaling the smoke directly, and edibles could be too strong or take too long to kick in, so Silvio found another way to help her. Lighting up, he took a long drag, waited for a nod from her, then gently blew the smoke out for her to inhale. He could already feel the dreamy languor moving through his body; skin prickling, thoughts hazy, vibrant colors waiting for him just behind his eyelids. It wasn’t until he saw his mother begin to relax, though, that he ground out the smoldering end of the joint into a nearby ashtray and settled in beside her, taking one of her hands in both of his.
It was so strange seeing her like this. She’d always been thin, but now the flesh had wasted from her body as a result of the aggressive treatment she’d undergone. He remembered her dark eyebrows, thick lashes, and long, raven’s wing hair; the way her cheeks plumped and her eyes glittered when she smiled. It had all been stolen. For a while he just watched her, the woman she’d been before all of this beaming out at him from behind the withered features she’d been reduced to.
“…You’re sure,” he said through the fog of calm cast over his mind, “that you don’t want any more treatments? I can take you to the doctor any time. I just have to ask for the day or a few hours off at work – Leslie understands.”
“I’m sure,” she replied, reaching up to stroke his hair. “They’re not working anymore and I’d rather have the time with you than sitting in a hospital.”
“What if they’re wrong? What if they’re just giving up on you?”
He knew that wasn’t true. Silvio had been to every appointment, seen all the images, read all the literature the doctor gave them. In spite of the mastectomy, the cancer had moved to Perla’s lymph nodes and spread throughout her body. Whatever time they might have had to stop this had long since passed, and the unfairness of it all made his eyes sting. It seemed too cruel – dying of something made of yourself. Some selfish cluster of cells that screamed, ‘me,’ to the detriment of the body that sustained them.
Why did this have to happen now and not later? Later, when he was older; stronger. When he had more knowledge and more resources; after he’d had a chance to go to college and gotten a good job? Why now when he as a stupid high schooler without power or money? Why couldn’t this have happened later, when he might have been able to save her?
“Silvio,” she sighed, squeezing the hands holding hers.
“Please don’t…don’t go. I’m sorry – it’s stupid and selfish, but,” he pleaded, voice faltering, “it’s not fair. I don’t want to be alone.”
“Is that what you’re afraid of, baby?” Perla said with a small smile, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair.
“You’re all I’ve got left.”
“And I’m not going to leave you,” she reassured him, running her thumbs lightly down the crests of his cheekbones. “I’m right here. Even when this body fails me,” she murmured, “my love for you won’t. You see it every time you look in the mirror.” His mother traced a fingertip along the tiny dimple in his chin and the seashell curve of his ear; so like hers. “This is my love for you.” Taking his hand, she pressed her own against his palm; fingers much smaller against his long, slender ones. “Even before we met, I dreamed of you. You are the greatest gift I have ever given myself, and I made you with all the love in my heart. I cannot believe that when I go, that love will go with me.” She cradled his face in both of her hands, one thumb brushing away an errant tear. “Not when it’s right here in front of me with a strong, beating heart and eyes like stars.”
“Mom…”
“Let me be selfish for a little while, Silvio. I know I have been and I’m sorry for that, but let me be selfish a while longer. Please.”
Scrubbing at his face with one hand, he let out a helpless little laugh, heart stinging. “Anything for you.”
“Anything? Well, I believe Leslie’s gift is doing its job. How about that sandwich?”
Snorting and laughing again in spite of himself, Silvio sat up and shook his head.
“Your wish is my command.”
“What is it about this company that keeps attracting cults?”
Silvio spreads the cards out before him in an arc on the table, deftly drawing six toward him.
“I can’t stand them. They prey on vulnerable people and give them the facade of family, exploiting them all the while. Buddy of mine and I dealt with one a few weeks back. Apparently y’all got pissed off about them stepping in on the little Jonestown-y niche you’ve carved out in this company, so after half of their members were already beaten, you decided to jump them and show off your collection of bondage paraphernalia.”
He gives an exaggerated shrug.
“Could work on the whole, ‘safe, sane, and consensual,’ bit, but that’s neither here nor there. Thankfully, you didn’t do it while Kohaku and I were still in the ring and saved yourselves from a solid-gold ass whoopin’. That was a smart move. Interfering with Adrienne’s match? Her first victory here at Carnage?”
Drawing in a hissing breath through his teeth and looking up at the camera, he shakes his head with a smirk and a raised brow, pity in his dark eyes.
“To paraphrase a too-clever Sicilian: You fell for one of the classic blunders! The most famous of which is, ‘never get involved in a hot dog eating competition with Zane King,’ but only slightly less well-known is this: Never mess with Silvio Leon’s friends.
“When I caught wind of what the WAR card was going to be, I wasn’t too keen on the two-to-three ratio. Granted, you folks don’t look like much of a threat. You’ve got AFH, a guy who could be the poster boy for bum-chugging, and Poppy, a lady who looks like what would happen if a washed-up YouTuber got possessed by a Spirit Halloween store. And then there’s Kyuubi, a woman with a ring entrance and persona so breathtakingly culturally appropriative and stereotypical, I’m shocked she doesn’t demand that they use a gong instead of a ring bell for her matches. If you wanted to be taken seriously, maybe instead of throwing a temper tantrum, you could have hired a competent stylist and Japanese language and culture consultant.
“Regardless, you’ve got years of experience working in your favor, and shown time and again you’re not above fighting dirty. You are undeniably dangerous, so I offered my services. Since Knox and Adrienne have agreed to let me join them, I imagine there’s some consternation back at the Insidious camp. I mean, now you’re opposite a woman who just beat your patriarch and took his lunch money, a former world champ you’ve got bad blood with who is madder than a bastard on Father’s Day, and me – a high-flying upstart who has successfully adapted to every type of match, partner, and opponent thrown at him so far. Gotta wonder,” he muses, plucking the first card from the spread, “how that makes you feel.”
Flipping over the card reveals a woman dressed in blue, a diadem on her head, seated between black and white pillars.
“The High Priestess. You feel like you have some deep, inner wisdom to share.” Rolling his eyes, he snorts derisively before looking at the camera again. “The whole, ‘we’re going to bring out everyone’s inner villain so they can understand themselves better,’ schtick, right?”
The next card he turns over shows a skeletal knight astride a white horse, holding aloft a black banner emblazoned with a white rose.
“Right,” he laughs, tapping the card. “Because it looks like what you want is change. That’s what the Death card means in this place. You claim you want to change all the wrestlers here into dark, twisted versions of themselves for their own good. You know why I think you want that so much? I think you want to try and prove that everyone is just as rotten on the inside as you all are so you don’t have to feel guilty about the heinous stuff you do. Give them a hard time here at Carnage, and hope somehow they’ll be looking at themselves through a mirror darkly. Well, I got news for you guys. If a few bad days at work cause you to completely abandon your principles and plunge irrevocably into mustache-twirling villainy, you probably weren’t a great person to begin with. So, what do people who supposedly revel in the dark side fear?”
The illustration on the third card Silvio turns over is of a crowned man in red and green robes seated on a stone chair. In one hand, he holds a scale, and in the other a sword.
“Justice.” Smirking, he looks at the camera, shaking his head. Leaning forward, his voice drops into a soft, velvety tone as if confiding with the viewer. “I think you all know what you’ve started and how you started it wasn’t right; wasn’t just. And maybe, you thought, there’s going to be some retribution for it.” Leaning back and spreading his arms, he says, “You’re definitely not wrong. You challenged the entire roster to, ‘bring it,’ and I gotta wonder if you really considered what the consequences would entail when, ‘it,’ was finally, ‘brought.’”
Turning over the fourth card shows a young man dressed in a blue tunic and red leggings hung by one ankle from a tree branch.
“This is what you have going for you – the Hanged Man. This is interesting, because this card represents limbo and indecision; a transitional period. You know what I think this is?” He looks at the camera again, holding the card up with one hand and gesturing to it with the other. “I think this is your out. All this Insidious stuff at Carnage is just starting, but you don’t have to keep going with it. Leave. Get out now. Maybe you’ll still take your knocks at WAR, and Hell – you might even win. But that could be the last of it. None of this has really genuinely taken root here yet. Take advantage of that before the sunk cost fallacy really begins getting to you. So, if the nebulous nature of this point in time is what’s working in your favor, what do you have going against you?”
The penultimate card to be turned over shows a child crowned in flowers riding a white horse, a sun shining above with a serene expression.
“Owch. The Sun. Joy, fulfillment, good fortune. Now,” he muses, tapping the card, “there’s a couple ways we can interpret this. This could mean that any success for you is going to be delayed. Not a great portent for you at WAR. Both my partners and I have had a string of victories in our past few matches. Winning isn’t everything, but it does boost morale. Maybe the confidence that comes with our recent successes will be the thing to put us over the top. In my past couple of readings, this card keeps coming up for me – kinda becoming a personal totem. If that’s the case,” Silvio chuckles, looking to the camera and giving it a wink, “maybe I’m going to be an especially nasty thorn in your side. Let’s see how this ends for Insidious.”
Flipping the last card over shows its illustration to be of an old man in grey robes, a snowy beard trailing from his face. In one hand he holds a staff, and in the other, he holds aloft a shining lantern.
“The Hermit. This is going to end with you three needing to do a little introspection and reflection on your actions. I’d say after your match with Adrienne, Knox, and me at WAR, you’d do well to think about aligning yourself with a guy who, as far as I can see, is training up some kind of child wrestler army.”
The last words are spoken with a note of steel typically absent from Silvio’s voice, his eyes hard and bright, posture rigid.
“Came across some real interesting items in my research. Before you go telling people how they’re secretly evil and need to embrace it, how’s about you have a long, difficult conversation with yourself about how okay you seem to be with indoctrinating children? What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s one thing to convince an adult wrestler to do a few more chair shots or low blows or some other nasty shit in the ring; embrace their evil side, or whatever stupid, edgy, grim-dark bullshit you’re peddling. It’s another entirely to take a bunch of kids – two of whom are Knox’s – and indoctrinate them into your weird ass cult. I don’t care if Thor’s your blood-related, lawful, or surrogate father. How was, ‘brainwashing kids,’ not a deal-breaker for you three? If Matt, Adrienne, and I can show your congregation just how fallible and fragile you all really are, and maybe convince some of them to leave, I see that as a lot more important than adding to our, ‘win,’ column. You do not mess with kids.”
Taking a deep breath, his frame relaxes, and he sweeps the cards back up into his hands, shuffling them as he attempts to calm himself.
“So, all this said, how are my partners and I going to do in this match up?”
Spreading the cards out again in one smooth motion, he considers briefly before drawing a card toward himself and flipping it over. The illustration is of a crowned man with a stern expression seated on a stone throne adorned with carved ram’s heads. He is dressed in red robes and holds a scepter in one hand, a golden orb in the other. Silvio grins, picking up the card between his fore and middle fingers.
“The Emperor. Stability, power, realization. I’d say this bodes pretty well for our trio.”
Kissing the card and flicking it at the camera, Silvio’s voice continues as the scene fades to black.
“See you at WAR, folks.”
oracularmysteries 