The Return
“Look, man, we were going to pay the money, right, John?”
“Yeah, we were going to pay; we didn’t want any trouble to come from this, honest!”
The two voices come from two men tied up to chairs. The location of this room where these men are tied up is unknown. Who they are speaking to is unknown at this moment. John, the bigger of the two men, speaks up again.
“Are you listening to us? What’s going on, Timmy?”
“I don’t know, man; he’s just been standing there without even moving. He got that phone call, and then he just stood there. Hey man, can you let us go? We’ll pay the money!”
The man that Timmy and John are referring to has his back turned to them as he leans against a table. Various tools are scattered on the table in an unorganized mess. It’s unclear what those tools are there for but whatever it is can’t be good for Timmy and John if we were to guess anyway.
Right, Mr. Narrator. Listen, I’ll take over here. See that guy standing at the table with his back turned to those two goons? Yeah, that’s me.
I’m Jason Randall, or most know me as “The Wildcard.”
I was roughing up these two schmucks when I got a phone call that I wasn’t expecting. I wasn’t ready for that call. I knew it would come eventually, but I still didn’t know when, so to say that it caught me by surprise would be an understatement. I’m in what you would call a dilemma. A predicament. A pickle. Whatever you want to call it. I have a decision to make.
These two knuckleheads behind me not shutting their yaps aren’t making this any easier for me either. I glance over at a wrench laying on the table and think how good it would feel to whack that right across their heads. That’ll shut them up, and I can think. It would probably kill them or at least give them brain damage. As much as they’re driving me up a wall right now, I don’t want to kill them. I can’t have that hanging over my conscience. Besides, all these guys do is owe some money, and I was ordered to keep them alive enough to cough up the dough.
“Hey man, are you okay?”
Yeah, Timmy, I’m fine. I should have kept that tape over your mouths, and I wouldn’t have to listen to your incessant yammering, and I could think.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
I turn around and walk towards them, specifically Timmy, and I land a hard fist right across his bottom lip.
“Aw shit, man, I said we’ll pay; we don’t want any trouble!”
He says as he spits out some blood on the floor.
“Yeah, we didn’t want it to come to this.”
"If you didn't want to come to this then why haven’t you paid? Do you realize who you owe this money to? The D’Amico family doesn’t like to be toyed with."
“We were trying to come up with the money, that’s all!”
"Why did you make a bet in the first place? Don’t answer that, okay? Next time, don’t bet if you know you can’t pay immediately, especially if it’s a bet where Angelo D’Amico is involved. He’s not the kind of guy you want to get on the wrong side of."
John nods as if he understands, though I’m not sure if I got through to him. I glance over at Timmy and give him another forearm across the jaw.
“Understand, Timmy?”
“Yeah, I understand, damn!”
“Alright, good. I don’t want to have to do this again. Hell, there might not even be an again if you screw with Angelo because he’ll make sure that the both of you wind up with bullets between your eyes, so if I were you two, I’d think twice before doing something like this again. You won’t get off so easily next time.”
“We got it, man; you can trust us. I tried to tell John that we shouldn’t get involved with The D’Amicos, but he didn’t listen to me.”
“Don’t try to pin this on me!”
“Both of you shut up.”
I land a right across both their jaws for good measure.
“Damn, man!”
Timmy spits out more blood and shakes his head.
“Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, what was that call about?”
I look at Timmy as he asks me this, and I laugh.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
I shrug my shoulders and shake my head.
“Well, that was a call from the FWA. Have you ever heard of them?”
“Yeah, my nephew loves that stuff!”
“Yeah, well, I used to be featured on their shows pretty regularly.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re The Wildcard. You almost had your eye gouged out by that Knox guy.”
“Yeah, and then he tried to kill me and end my career. Well, to be fair, I thought he did end my career. Anyway, that call was them asking me if I’d like to make a return at their next show in Texas and team with some guy named Reagan Cole.”
“Are you going to do it”
“I don’t know yet. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet.”
“How do you know? You don’t know if you’re ready unless you go through with it.”
I shake my head at John and laugh at him.
“I don’t know; I don’t even know if the fans will remember who I am. It doesn’t matter because I’m not doing it.”
“That’s it, you’ve made your decision?”
“It doesn’t matter, look, I shouldn’t even be having this discussion with you two knuckleheads! I’m going to untie you, and then you two scram and go pay what you owe, got it?”
They both reluctantly nod before I untie them and let them go. After they leave, I grab my phone and make a call.
“Mick? Yeah, it’s done. Timmy Medlan and John Duplass will pay the money.”
“Terrific news, Randall, terrific! Angelo will be pleased to hear that. Hey, I got one more job for you, though.”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“Well, Joey got into some trouble, and these two stunads witnessed it, and we don’t want them squealing to the police and causing any more trouble for Joey.”
“I’ll handle it; any idea where these guys like to hang out?”
—-----------------
A few hours later, I find myself at some seedy bar in downtown San Diego, and I scope the place out before I see these guys that Mickey told me about.
There's one guy, Darian Finch. Big, burly-looking bastard with long hair. It kind of looks like Thor from those Marvel movies.
Then there’s the more diminutive guy, Von Hughes. By the looks of it, he isn’t that bright and likes to run his mouth.
I find a seat next to them and order a drink at the bar. I get my drink and gulp as I listen to them without making it evident that I’m listening.
“Big Man, we got to tell them what we saw! I mean, can you believe it? Joey D’Amico, younger brother to Angelo D’Amico, killed that guy in cold blood, right in front of us!”
“I’m not so sure we should do that, Von. The D’Amico family isn’t one to mess with.”
“Pfft, yeah, right. You watch too many movies, big man. The D’Amicos won’t do a damn thing; trust me on that.”
I polish off my drink and turn to Von.
“Hey, it’s none of my business, but I’d listen to your friend if I were you.”
“Hey pal, you’re right about one thing, it isn’t any of your business, so if I were you, I’d shut up and keep to myself!”
I throw up my hands in defense, hand some money to the bartender, and exit the building. I sit in my car and wait for these two. This will give me some time to think about whether or not I want to go back to FWA.
Do I want to go back? I’ve thought about it. I’ve played it in my head about a dozen or so times.
Would the fans even remember me? I mean, I haven’t been gone that long, about a year and a half. Not as fresh on people’s minds. Things have changed since I’ve been away—different landscapes. There are two shows now, not just the one: Meltdown and Fallout. I’d be heading to Meltdown if I do decide to go back.
It’s a tag team match. Can I trust this Cole guy? I’ve done well in teams before, whether with Josh way back in the IWO or Jake back in PWF. I don't know much about Cole, but from what I'm reading about him, he hasn’t had the best of luck with tag team partners in FWA. His last partner is someone I knew, Marcus McClain. Marcus was a good guy. It’s a damn shame what happened to him. He could never catch a break.
The same thing won’t happen to me, though; that has happened to this Cole guy’s other partners. That is if I do decide to come back.
There are two other teams in the match. Deathswitch Initiative, I guess those are the guys that took out Marcus. What kind of name is Deathswitch Initiative anyway? It sounds like the name of some shitty nu-metal band.
Then there’s The New Breed. I remember those guys; they ran with that Mike Parr guy. I can’t believe that they’re still kicking around. I would have thought for sure they’d be let go or something. At least they’re on their own and not taking orders from Parr anymore.
What would Penny tell me to do? She’d say to me to do whatever makes me happy. She just wants me to be satisfied. Would this make me happy? To be honest, I have kind of missed it. The thrill of it all. The sound of the crowd when my music hits because they know that they’re about to see me kick the shit out of some sorry sap.
You know what? I think I know what I’m going to do.
Just then, I see these two guys walk out of the bar. I see them making their way over to their car as I exit my vehicle. The smaller of the two, Von, is still going on about Joey.
“I still can’t believe it, though, big man, we gotta say something!”
Von keeps on walking ahead, unaware that I just momentarily laid out his buddy. He turns around, looking for him.
“Darian, you there big man?”
“Hey, you know what they say about snitches?”
Before he can respond, I grab him from behind in a sleeper hold. He manages to slip away and make a beeline for his car. He’s shaking as he’s trying to put the key in the door and drops the keys just as I tackle him up against the vehicle. I drove a few forearm shots to the face before slamming him face down on the hood of the car. He remains on the hood, motionless when from behind the big bastard gets me in a sleeper hold, but I fight back with several elbows to the stomach forcing him to let go. Then a kick to the gut before I throw his head right through the driver’s side door window.
Von tries to get one up on me, but I counter that and drive his head into the hood repeatedly until I feel like he’s had enough. After a few labored breaths, I lean down to Von, who is bleeding from the nose and lips.
“Snitches get stitches. It’s like I said, you should have listened to your buddy there, but he’s knocked out now, so you can’t. Forget what you saw with Joey D’Amico. You didn’t see a thing, got it?”
He doesn’t respond immediately, so I slam his head on the hood once more.
“Got it?”
“Yeah, man, we got it. We won’t say a thing!”
“Good.”
I let him go, and he slumps off the hood onto the ground as I walk back to my car. Before I drive off, I get my phone out and make a call.
Hey, is this Jon Russnow? It’s Jason Randall. I’ll be in Texas for Meltdown. I’ll take you up on that offer.
I hang up the phone and dial another number. It goes straight to voicemail.
“Hey, I don’t know if Russnow gave me the right number; at least I hope he did. Anyway, this is Jason Randall. I’ll be your tag team partner at Meltdown in Texas. I know you haven’t had the best of luck with other partners but trust me when I tell you that you don’t have to worry about that with me, okay? We’re going to kick the shit out of those Deathswitch bozos and New Breed and win this Tag Warz thing, whatever it is. We can probably talk more when I’m there in person, but I just wanted to touch base and let you know what’s up. Yeah, I’ll see you there.”
I hope FWA is ready for The Wildcard. I know I am.
