Quest for a Name

At the end of the Caffrey-Tarrasque match at Supremacy, Tarrasque stubbornly walks backstage while the fans cheer him on for his courage. He limps heavily from his sprained ankle, barely able to put any weight upon it. The feeling of his head being held high doesn’t last long as he gets to his dressing room where Alex Johnson lies in wait.

Johnson: You lost.

Tarrasque gives him a murderous look, sitting down in the chair in front of the vanity table and sits down. He brings up his foot to take the boot off and rub his swollen and bruised ankle. The look goes unnoticed by the angry Alex Johnson.

Johnson: How could you lose? If you would have been getting ready for this match instead of daydreaming the fuck away, you might have done better!

Tarrasque: Me trying think. What me name?

Johnson: Your name is Tarrasque! How stupid can you get? I call you Tarrasque every single fucking day.

Tarrasque shrugs his massive shoulders as there is a knock at the door.

Johnson: Enter.

A medic comes into the room with an ice pack. He looks at Tarrasque almost apologetically.

Medic: I just thought that you might want me to take a look at that ankle and that you might need this.

Tarrasque motions to his ankle and the medic pokes at it, bringing a slight hiss of pain from Tarrasque. The medic places the ice pack on the ankle, bringing about a sigh of relief.

Medic: Looks like a pretty serious sprain. You sure you going to be able to compete in the SWAT rumble?

Tarrasque: Me say-

Johnson: He’s too badly injured. I won’t represent a sure loser in a one off match. Tarrasque needs to heal before he steps into the ring again.

Tarrasque snarls at Alex, who nervously swallows hard. He looks back to the medic.

Tarrasque: Me heal fast. Me going win rumble so me can beat Jonnie Valentine. Him used be me boss in Hardkore World.

The medic looks like he’s full of shock and awe.

Medic: You used to work for “Probably Better than Your Mother” Jonnie Valentine?

Tarrasque Raises an eyebrow while looking at the medic.

Tarrasque: Him was “Hardkore” Jonnie Valentine then.

Medic: Oh. Now he changes his nickname thingie with every show. I just made that one up.

Alex Johnson stands up and walks to the door. He opens it up and motions toward the opening.

Johnson: Ok. You’ve examined the beast’s injury and iced him. Leave.

Medic: You going to be alright, Tarrasque?

Tarrasque slowly nods his head, a motion that the medic mimics as he leaves the room.

Medic: If you need anythin-

Alex slams the door closed in the medic’s face, cutting off his words.

Johnson: Where was I? Ah yes. You are a lazy piece of shit, Tarrasque. You spent your time dreaming about what your name is, when it’s clearly Tarrasque, instead of preparing for Caffrey. Now, you’ll face him again in the ring at the SWAT Rumble. All you’ll have to do is throw him out of the ring. You fucking think that you can do that one little thing?

Tarrasque pounds his chest with a grin.

Tarrasque: Me can throw him into crowd from middle ring!

Alex puts his hand to his head, wiping down the side of his face in anger.

Johnson: It was a fucking yes or a fucking no fucking question, you dumb beast. Can you fucking throw that mother fucker out of the ring?

Tarrasque blinks, knowing that he had answered the question in his own way.

Tarrasque: Yes. Me throw them all out.

Johnson: Good. Stay off of the turnbuckles. You don’t need to climb up high for someone to push you off to send you to the concrete floor and defeat.

Tarrasque: Me been thinking.

Alex cocks his head for a moment while looking at Tarrasque, shocked.

Johnson: You? Thinking? Whatever could your little mind be conjuring?

Tarrasque: Me no like you.

Johnson: So? I hate your fucking guts, but I have to fucking put up with your stupid ass.

Tarrasque: No.

There is a knock at the door. This time Tarrasque grins.

Tarrasque: Enter.

The door opens slightly, but Alex Johnson presses the door closed.

Johnson: We don’t need company while I’m trying to figure out what the fuck you’re up to.

The door slams open, nearly knocking Alex Johnson down. He takes a seat as Marcus Anderson, child of the late “Brain” Allen Anderson, walks into the room.

Johnson: What the fuck are you doing here?

Anderson: I am taking over for you. Isn’t it pretty obvious?

Alex Johnson stands up, getting into Marcus’ face.

Johnson: I told you that I have this, mother fucker.

Anderson: Let me put this in a way that you understand.

Marcus knees Alex in the crotch and hits a lifting reverse sto, the same finisher his father used as a wrestler so very long ago, in the middle of the dressing room. Marcus stands up, walks over to the vanity table where a phone sits, and dials security.

Anderson: I’m sorry to be such a bother, but can you remove Alex Johnson from the arena? He no longer handles Tarrasque and had to be dealt with.

It’s mere seconds before two security guards come into the room and pick up the stirring Alex Johnson. He wakes as they drag him away.

Johnson: What? Wait! You haven’t seen the last of me, you mother fucker! I will have vengeance!

Marcus closes the door with a happy sigh. He turns to Tarrasque with a smile.

Anderson: It’s been such a long time since we played in the yard, Tarrasque. How are you?

Tarrasque grins, pulling the ice pack off long enough to show off his bruised and swollen ankle.

Tarrasque: Me sore. Me losed.

Marcus pats Tarrasque on the shoulder with an encouraging grin.

Anderson: It’s alright. We’ll get him next time, right! Now. When you called me on the phone to come and take Alex’s place, you had something you were trying to figure out. Something your meditations isn’t reaching.

Tarrasque smiles large. It was a relief to have a handler where someone understood what his meditations meant. What it meant for him to be reaching into the Akashic Records. Something Alex Johnson either didn’t understand or even cared to try to understand.

Tarrasque: Me want know me real name. Not Tarrasque, but real boy name.

Anderson: Well...I don’t know your real name. Father never shared that info if he knew it. Though, there are some records at his office for his Tentare Corporation holding company in San Diego. We can go there to look.

Tarrasque frowns, not wanting to take the time to look into the Akashic Records so he thinks and thinks of the correct phrasing for his question.

Tarrasque: Did Armand not buy you daddy’s stuff?

Anderson: Good! You know a lot more than you seem to know, don’t you! Yes, my father sold his holdings to Armand, but Armand sold them back to me for pennies on the dollar thanks to urging in exchange for helping him go free from prison. Let’s ice that foot and we’ll leave for California once the show is finished. In the meantime, let’s get you something to eat. I remember that fighting builds up an appetite.

Tarrasque grins, a little bit of drool coming off of his chin.

Tarrasque: Me like!

The next day, Marcus Anderson and Tarrasque are in the main office of the Tentare Corporation, a holding company for all of the late Allen Anderson’s corporate holdings. Marcus sits at his father’s desk and looking through computer files while Tarrasque is sitting across the desk from him and is looking through a paper copy of his personal file. He looks at the pictures in the file of himself for he does not remember how to read.

Tarrasque: You find me name yet? Armand called me Darian Hightower. Me no think that me name for real.

Marcus nods, having already looked at the file that Tarrasque is looking at.

Anderson: I’m seeing a reference to that in the form of an alternate name for you if Tarrasque didn’t stick, but it did. Let me see. You were created at some mythical research facility known as Twilight. Did you see a lot of sparkling vampires there?

Tarrasque blinks, plainly confused by the reference.

Tarrasque: Me see...what? Me no know.

Anderson: It’s fine, beastie. It says you were taken from your home, but it does not say where. I don’t know where you’re from or what your name is beyond Tarrasque.

Tarrasque: Me think me Canadian, but me not know where in Canada.

Anderson: Well? That’s a start. I called Parsons while we were on the plane ride here. He knows of a guy to get in contact with that can help us. Someone with much better detective skills than me.

Tarrasque: Who that?

Anderson: You’ll see, man. Until then, you hungry? I can eat.

Tarrasque: You eat with me?

It was an eager question, no one had ever eaten with him since Allen Anderson. He had been treated as a glorified pet by everyone since the Andersons had treated him like family. It was a welcome sensation.

Anderson: Of course! Why wouldn’t I?

Tarrasque comes around the table and wraps Marcus in a big bear hug. Marcus feels some popping sounds in his back and he gasps for air.

Anderson: I do need to breathe though…

Tarrasque releases Marcus with a chuckle.

Anderson: Alright. Let’s go.