FWA 'Lights Out' (2022) || Promo Thread.

[SupineSnake]

Post promos for LIGHTS OUT 2022 in here.

The deadline for promos, to be posted in the promo thread, is Friday 14th October, 2022 at 23:59 Pacific Time (midnight, Friday into Saturday).
That is Saturday 15th October, 2022 at 03:00AM in New York City.
Or Saturday 15th October, 2022 at 08:00AM in London.
Or Saturday 15th October, 2022 at 10:00AM in Istanbul.
Or Saturday 15th October, 2022 at 15:00PM in Melbourne.

A twenty-four hour extension can be requested in the card thread.​

​

 

[Rosie]

From Darkness
-------------------------------------------------------------
To Spotlight:

October 4th, 2022
9:21 pm JST
Aichi Prefectural Gymnasium in Nagoya, Japan

REC OFF

Behind the curtains and away from the live fans, we are in the backstage area of the Aichi Prefectural Gym in Nagoya, Japan. Supply crates are pushed to the walls of the hallway, the walls are predominantly white with wooden accents around and a hint of red from the local Nagoya Diamond Dolphins basketball team who play in the arena. The crates all have a matching logo on them, a white planet with a ring outlined in stars, written “COSMIC Joshi Wrestling” in between them. Down the hallway, an interview area is set up with media members, most of whom are wearing masks standing across from a backdrop which is predominantly pink with the company logo branded repeatedly on it mixed with sponsorship logos. Three ladies stand in front, one of whom looks to have just completed a match.

Wearing ring gear of long tights with an opening on the side, a black base with a mix of purple and a neon green trim. Her bra matches the colours and she has arm bands on her biceps with fingerless gloves. Her hair goes down to her shoulders and is predominately silver with a trim of black. Cali Hayama. The Sky Devil. The Slayer-Queen of MAYHEM and their main gaijin performer. Though having Japanese heritage, she was born and raised in British Columbia, Canada. Early in her career she was more known as a Twitch-streamer than a wrestler, she has found a new life in Japan while still making regular trips to her side of the Pacific.

To her left, standing taller than the others, is a Japanese woman with short black and red hair. She has a zip-up black hoodie branded with the MAYHEM logo and signature silver and rainbow trim. Ririko. The Crazy Ghost, Bad Apple, and young powerhouse of the team who is a bit hyper. Though she contrasts the other two greatly, with her very bubbly personality, it is a situation where opposites attract, or in this case, make a strong team. She has been the member of the team who has been in the group the longest, starting off at the same time as Vampyra. She had a competitive rivalry early on with their split into different units, but there was a respect. Upon Vampyra joining MAYHEM, the Bad Apple has proven to be a great friend and frequent tag partner of Vampyra.

Those two ladies are the predominant tag team partners of the third woman who just made her FWA debut back in America, Vampyra, who is also referred to as Vampiress in Japan. She wears her hoodie as well and keeps her signature mask on, a black and white colour scheme. The three are wrapping up a post-match interview and we overhear them speaking in Japanese. They are discussing some events which just happened. Vampyra’s voice carries as she speaks faster than we have seen in America, showing more confidence in her native language.

(Translation) “Tonight we created something special within MAYHEM! Yokai Death Squad. We will be the team to beat in all of professional-wrestling!” She shouts before patting Cali Hayama on the shoulder. “And Yokai Death Squad will be all over the world!”

The Canadian nods, taking off one of her gloves and speaking in Japanese, taking an extra moment or two between thoughts to make sure she has the right words. (Translation) “I got a measure of revenge tonight. I beat a former champion and the woman who took our Trio's Championships. This is not over. MAYHEM’s Yokai Death Squad will be champions again in one way or another.”

Excited at the thought of their trio having an identity within their main group, Ririko gives both her friends a hug. (Translation) “And whenever you two are busy in America, I will make you proud! But first, I should talk to management about making us some merchandise.”

Cali grins while Vampyra rolls her eyes, but can’t help but chuckle.

(Translation) “Should we really trust what you design?” She teases her larger friend who just grins. The three seem to be pretty close, trading barbs with each other and being able to laugh about it.

Looking at the camera, Cali tries to get their promo wrapped up. (Translation) “Keep watching us. We will shake up professional wrestling.” flashes up the MAYHEM “M” and both Ririko and Vampyra follow. Winking, Cali says, “System down,” before they walk off.

Going down the hallways of Aichi Prefectural Gymnasium, Ririko quickly splits off from the two of them to follow through on trying to get them some merchandise made. Someone hands Cali Hayama a bottle of water which she sips through as Vampyra follows. Looking at her masked friend, the Canadian speaks in English towards her.

“So, that was bold of you, declaring a sub-group within MAYHEM in front of the world with us part of it! Guessing appearing in America now has given you a little extra confidence, eh Vampiress-or should it be Vampyra now?” Cali has a sly smirk on her face, looking at Vampyra. The masked-wrestler glances to her side, looking away from her friend, and is perhaps a touch embarrassed.

“I think Vampyra may sound better. I might change it here soon.” She says in English, before trying to clarify with her friend. “But I guess with us having success as a trio, teaming before with Ririko, and now you more often, I wanted to make the team more…” Vampyra pauses to find the right word, “formal.”

Stopping in the hallway, Cali leans against the wall and motions for Vampyra to stop and chat. The Asian-Canadian folds her arms and continues to discuss her friend’s new exploits in America.

“I like it. It’s cool to give our trio a name.” Then, Cali shifts back to what she really wants to talk about. “I’m already seeing something change in you. Your English is improving. I honestly think you’re getting better at it than I am at Japanese. You’re also moving with more confidence in the ring. And don’t think I didn’t see you on FWA. Ya girl has two contracts, just like me? That’s awesome! I’m proud of you!”

Giving a small grin under her mask, Vampyra nods. “Thank you, Cali. You watched?”

Nodding, Cali responds, “Yep. I have a hint of history with one or two members in FWA so I keep up with them a bit and I saw you on Meltdown. Then you had your match on Fallout and I couldn’t help but smile the entire time. Badass new name, badass entrance, you sent that Boy Band reject back to the 90’s, you’re going to do great!”

Unsure of how to take the compliment, Vampyra grabs her left biceps with her right hand and looks down. Seeing this, Cali presses. “Hey, what’s up? How do you feel?”

Not looking at Cali yet, Vampyra explains. “My debut went fine, but I was disappointed at the competition. I know he was not ‘top-guy’ as you say, but just destroying an idiot like that isn’t rewarding-”

Butting in, Hayama adds, “But the guy deserved it.”

Vampyra can’t help but chuckle. “Yes, he did. His music was awful.” She continues, “-But I don’t think that beating someone terrible in two minutes does much for me. I need actual competition. I could have an unbeaten record but if it is all people who are wastes of space, then what does it really mean? I’d rather have some losses against good wrestlers who motivate me to beat them next time than walk over bad people.”

“Come on, wins are good,” Cali Hayama plays (Sky) Devil’s advocate.

“I want quality wins too.” Vampyra clarifies. “-In who I beat.”

“Well, do you know your next match for FWA?” Cali asks. “Maybe it can be a step up?”

“Yes… and no. It is a little complicated.”

Vampyra has a hard time describing what opportunity is next and instead searches in her hoodie pocket. She pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, looking to be a copy of an email. She hands it to Cali Hayama and tries to explain.

“There is an open invitation match for their next show and I can get a championship match, but I do not know who is in it, or even how to say the name. It is perhaps hard to show myself knowing how many people will be in it. It also has some strange rules. But getting a championship match early would be a way to lead to that showcase.”

Looking at the email paper, Cali reads it out, “Secular Spooktacular match…” She hums and looks through it. “Sounds familiar. Open invitation, seems to be a Halloween themed match, go figure, and you need to grab one of four “treats” on the corner poles. Each contains a title match for a different championship. Oh yeah, now I remember. Last year they called it the Secular Spectacular! I think a guy in AMA, Sawyer Xavier, won one of them last year?”

Speaking slowly, Vampyra tries to pronounce the match name correctly, “S-Se-Sec-u-lar Spook. Spook-tac-u-lar.” then she shrugs, “I’ll learn. But a match with poles? A ladder match is rare here already, but poles?! America is weird with their stipulations.”

Laughing, Cali hands back Vampyra’s paper. “I’ve seen what some of the Japanese Deathmatch scenes do. They have matches in saunas, rivers, exploding rings, and piranha pits.”

Thinking about those kinds of matches, Vampyra shutters, “I think I will settle for the ‘X’ rules match they do in FWA…”

Patting her friend on the shoulder, Cali Hayama once again snickers, “Hehe, yeah. I think weird match-types aren't exclusive to America. I get it, you have never done an ‘on a pole’ match before.”

“Well, you have been in a weird match in America before,” looking up, the YOKAI Queen tries to ask Cali for some advice. “You also wrestle similar to me. If there is anyone who can help, it is you. How do you approach them?”

“Are you talking about my AMA debut where they decided to bring the Bunkhouse Stampede back from the 80’s and I still won despite being 130 pounds and being in the ring with a 300+ pound guy?” Cali groans at the memory, “A match where rather than just throwing someone out of the ring they decide to be extra ‘hardcore’ about it and make it a huge-ass cage! Yeah, I think THAT is a bit more outrageous than grabbing something from a pole! But the biggest thing I learned from that is just despite whatever wacky rules you have to deal with, just wrestle your match as much as you can within them. I’ve competed with you long enough to know you’re the fastest girl around, you’re the smartest girl in the ring, and if they fuck with you, then you can give them a taste of their own medicine and THEN some!” Grinning, Cali adds, “You’re kind of where I picked that up from.” Before sticking her tongue out.

“You were too busy cosplaying beforehand. I think learning how to have a bite does one some good.” She points to the “fang” design on her mask, “It is a joke, Cali.”

There is a snicker from Cali before she just responds. “Exactly, you’ll do great!”

Tapping her cheek, Vampyra digests what her friend has said, and even her vote of confidence. After a moment, she nods her head, more sure of herself. “Thank you. I suppose I should announce my intent soon.”

“You have a way with that. I’m sure it’ll be great even in a second language.” The Japanese-Canadian encourages her friend more and Vampyra gives a small nod before continuing.

“People saw me in FWA. They know I will be part of it. There will be little doubt if I will compete in it or not, so why hide it?”

“Exactly. Maybe you watch from the sidelines during the match when needed, but show no fear, take the spotlight. You’re-” Cali continues her advice, but she looks down and Vampyra has a lightbulb go off in her head. She laughs, “Oh great, did I just inspire this mad woman in the mask… again?”

“Maybe you did,” Vampyra gives a sheepish look, “You will see,” Before giving one more statement. “I will not know others in this match unless they have courage to announce it like me, but it was what I wanted. I want to prove myself. If I can adapt to anyone who comes out and gets an opportunity to become champion, then FWA will take notice. Take notice of me, and the MAYHEM way. I can bring home gold to MAYHEM and Yokai Death Squad. Although we do have tag team prospects in your promotion, AMA, the more championships the better.”

“Agreed. That trophy case looks awfully empty right now…” Looking down the hallway, Cali motions for them to go. “Anyways, maybe we should head back to the locker room, maybe explain to Saori what you really meant by a ’subgroup’ so she doesn’t freak out.”

“And perhaps we can talk more about this match I have? I think you might be able to help?” Vampyra asks.

“I have no problem with that,” Cali says before leaning closer, “I’m sure I can help you get the dirt on a few names potentially in that match. Like I said, the guy who won it last year also wrestles in AMA, and I’m sure there are a couple people on the roster I have some experience or exposure to…” before she adds, “And if you want the book on one guy who’s a champion, I can talk to Alexis. Let’s just say she knows him better than anyone in FWA,” and she winks.

Laughing, Vampyra rolls her eyes. “You always talk about her! You’re going to drive me crazy with how much you talk about her! Let’s get going.”

Motioning with her hand, Vampyra leads her friend down the hallway and towards their locker room, getting their heads cleared before some big matches, confiding and talking to perhaps one of the few people who maybe understand Vampyra beyond the mask. Out of Vampyra’s hoodie pocket, the printed copy of the email flies out.

It gently floats before it sprawls out on the floor. The text is facing up.

“To whom it may concern,

Last year, we saw the first ever Secular Spectacular match-up, and that contest will make a return at Lights Out, but with a twist fitting to the Halloween season.. Four prizes will be housed at the top of poles on each corner, with their contents being guaranteed treats rather than tricks, as four championship opportunities are up for grabs! If a competitor is able to grab a briefcase, then they will receive a future championship opportunity for either the FWA North American Championship, the FWA Television Championship, the FWA X Championship, or the FWA Tag Team Championships with a partner of their choosing.

The field of competitors will not be announced, instead it will be open to those not otherwise scheduled for Lights Out in New Orleans. We are also anticipating potential new signees to participate, but nothing is confirmed as of this time. If interested, please message FWA management at the earliest possible convenience.

Sincerely,

FWA management”

October 6th, 2022
??:?? JST
???, Japan

REC ON

Fading in, we see a lone light in the darkness putting a spotlight on a familiar piece of paper. Another copy of the email which Vampyra referred to. The private information is blacked out, but the email is branded with the FWA logo at the bottom. The title reads “Secular Spooktacular Match” and the main body of the text reads the same message as before. Explaining the upcoming Secular Spooktacular match and how to enter.

The camera begins to zoom out slowly, showing a hint more of the room. It is dim, but we can see a light base colour on the floor along with dark lines intersecting to form a square. Small amounts of light outside of the one illuminating the page is starting to creep in. The light has a gentle and calming glow to it, not breaking the darkness entirely but merely enhancing the feeling of bliss. Then…

A mask is thrown into the main light with the email page. It is one of Vampyra’s masks. The signature V emblem on the forehead splitting both the holes for the eyes. The jagged “fangs” out of the mouth opening. The colours are a bit different than normal, with a half-black and white, a yin and yang like mirroring. Darkness and light exist together. Then we continue to zoom out to see the rest of the room.

It is a square room with shoji (paper windows) creating a divide in the room. Very little light shines through them, hinting that it is later in the day. Around the room is a collection of candles and some Halloween decorations. There are Jack-O-Lanterns with the all but iconic face with added fang designs. Cobwebs under some of the stands giving an appearance of age and adding to the festive and scary theme. Skeleton decorations are on the ground in a circle, laying limp. Scattered around are various parts of popular Halloween costumes. A witch’s broom and wand. There are false teeth, a sword (likely plastic), along with headbands of ears and more. On a mat in the middle of the room in front of the lone light shining from above, we see Vampyra sitting cross-legged, eyes closed.

In her proper ring gear, we can see her unique look has joined in on the festive colours, with a similar split to the mask she threw on the ground, except with a black and orange mix. Tied around her is a long cape which matches her general scheme. The presentation looks to be a bit more at home with how Vampyra sees herself rather than the last minute presentation we previously saw. This time, she has time to prepare. Showing a confident smirk, Vampyra speaks.

“What?” She gives a cold snicker. Opening her eyes we see their purple glow from her contacts. “We knew I was going to be in it. Why hide it? I don't need to when you already know I'm waiting in the shadows. So why rely on the element of surprise when there is no surprise? I am not scared of whoever may enter that match. Nor do I want to just go through the formality of sending a message to management. Here, in a setting which I feel comfortable in, I, the Dark Huntress, the Wicked Spirit, Vampyra announce that I will throw my mask into the ring of…” Vampyra slows down so she can pronounce the title of the match properly, “The Secular Spooktacular.”

Glancing to her side, Vampyra continues on. “It is strange to have a match with… poles, but who am I to ignore an early chance to be champion? This is after I had a debut match that I best describe as a light jog. It is healthy, but you will not become stronger by only relying on a light jog. Afterwards I cried out ‘Test me, FWA,’ and who would I be to run from one? This match may be an early opportunity to strike, escape from the darkness and go into the spotlight and a good huntress does not miss her chances.”

Holding her hand up, she puts up four fingers. “Four options. Four paths to create. Four chances to step out into the light. Four championships I can compete for, and every option is exciting. Perhaps…”

Putting her hands together, Vampyra crosses her fingers together to form an “X.” She smirks, “The X Championship? A challenge against a champion who has been raising this championship up to the point where he is fighting to become FWA World Champion? I am not much of a hardcore wrestler, but maybe I’ll develop a taste for blood? Maybe after a long time fighting such a style, the champion is tired and broken? If he wins a second championship, would the burden of both championships on his shoulder weigh him down? Wouldn’t it be so easy to prey on the injured and weak and pick up the pieces? That is even considering how strong a champion has been for some time. To be the one to finally dethrone him would put my name in FWA history...”

Moving on, her choice of words gives another thought. She gives a wondering glance to the side and puts her finger up on her cheek.

“Now that I think about it, I could also go for a new champion? One who recently became champion in what can be described by some as a heart-warming moment. It was unexpected and yet it felt right. It was the culmination of a story. Wouldn’t it be satisfying to crush that feeling and become FWA North American Champion, making the championship international in a way? Being the champion of North America and taking the championship to a new continent to raise its legitimacy?”

She shrugs, before continuing, “Or if I am interested in building a championship up, how about one still young? The FWA Television championship. It has only had one champion. He is setting a standard, but it is always up to the next person to raise it. A championship can raise an individual too, but a championship only becomes appealing when the right champion comes to make it important. Television Champion Vampyra does have a nice ring to it and I would love my first singles championship-”

Holding that thought, Vampyra gets a devious grin on her face and holds down… the MAYHEM ‘M.’ “Because we all know how I compete as part of a team. Of course, even if I came to FWA to be a singles competitor, I am not picky. It would only take one call and the FWA Tag Team Championships would find a home in MAYHEM, perhaps the best faction of women in the world. It will not be held by partners thrown together, or are threatened to be pulled apart by ego. The tag team championships would be taken care of by a true team.”

Putting her hands together, Vampyra folds them and rests her chin on them. Her voice keeps calm, an eerie feeling through the air.

“Not knowing what championship opportunity I will get is exciting. Truly some of the best treats are a surprise. That is no different than my opponents. Unless they are so brave like myself to publicly announce their entry, it will be part of my treat. Unlimited surprises. Who will be fighting for fame? Who will try to fight through the shadows? What hurdles will I need to overcome? We will only learn when we enter the match, but I see two extremes.”

Holding out one hand to the side then the other when appropriate, Vampyra shows her scale. “The familiar, and the unknown. I know of multiple people who would love to enter this match who are not scheduled that night. Some of them are perhaps used to being champions, or are just one step away from turning their wrestling fantasy into a reality.”

Closing her eyes, the Wicked Spirit takes a deep breath, finding her Zen in a space in which she aims for peace, “And that is your blessing and curse. Whether it is years or months, you have worked to craft this myth about yourself, one you hope is positive. You have expectations once you enter this match. But with expectations comes pressure. With expectations comes a target. People know what you did last year, or yesterday, but does that mean it will happen today? Maybe this time, there is someone there who knows your strengths and weaknesses. Maybe…”

Reaching down, she grabs the hand of one of the skeletons around her and pulls it up. The decoration’s ‘bones’ rattle. “There are some skeletons in your closet. There are mistakes that weigh you down, keeping you from your true potential. You will fight with that challenge with all your might, but it will be hard.”

Looking up, Vampyra raises the skeleton’s hand up, “As you reach high above, you've been here before. You know what you need to do to win. But this time…” Pulling the skeleton hand down with her other hand, she continues, “A hand from the darkness pulls you down. You fight it as hard as you can. But sooner or later,”

She tosses the skeleton down, shaking upon impact. “It pulls you under and you drown in the darkness. Your myth becomes damaged and what you knew before shifts. People will remember, and it will happen again unless you learn from it.”

Then, Vampyra gives a small smile, “But that is not my problem. I will simply pull you into the darkness with pleasure. But what about those surprises? That is where things get interesting. There are rumours of who may show up, but for now they are just that: rumours. I am also not as obsessed about that as most Americans.”

Scratching the top of her head, the Dark Huntress ponders, “Still, I wonder, what other new signings are there? Is it some independent star? A young international star like myself? Is there a veteran looking for a big break? Has FWA made amends with someone and we have a returning name? Or someone from another company looking to step through the door into FWA?”

The young Japanese star gives a chilling laugh, seemingly amused by the prospect. “But of course, I am not the one in control. I do not have,” Reaching on the ground near her, she picks up the toy magic wand and waves it around. “A magic wand that can make my opponents disappear. But what I can control is how I react. There may be someone walking down the ramp that I do not know, but I learn fast. The spotlight as the world stands in shock, a new name in FWA and they will have an advantage, one I do not have, a surprise.”

There is a pause. Vampyra, has her usual Shaking the wand, she motions with it as she has a mischievous look on her face, with an odd confidence. She adds… “For five minutes. You only have one first impression…” She drops the wand on the floor. “Then what? You are on the same ground as anyone else. Maybe you get lucky and sneak a briefcase before then, but likely not. If your only plan is a surprise, you are not worthy to be a champion. You become a joke. You will not even get to your spotlight because you will get lost in the darkness and you will suffer!”

Her voice echoes through the room, the volume raising without her realising. Once again trying to keep relaxed in her place of tranquility, the YOKAI Queen takes a deep breath before refocusing.

“But what about me? Where do I fit in this? I made my debut and two minutes is not enough to show the world what Vampyra is.” She motions both her hands to her side, picturing a large canvas. “If I were a painting, I would be hanging in a museum after hours. No visitors, nothing. The lights go out, and you sneak in with a flashlight. You want to see this piece of art and you can’t wait. Maybe it is nothing? Or maybe it is a life changing piece of work? You have to find out. Go up to this work and as you shine your light onto it, the battery dies and the light goes out.”

Putting up her left hand, she moves her finger and thumb closely together. “Just one moment, you saw a tiny glimpse of what she can be before she returns to her home in the darkness. Maybe you remember some colours and the motion of the lines, but you are unable to put it together. Only when the time is right, the lights will go on again and then she will have her spotlight. That is me.”

Pointing towards herself, Vampyra continues. “FWA only has a small showcase of what I can do. This match, with how many people may be part of it, that vision of Vampyra will only be revealed a bit more. The only person who knows what that picture looks like is me. I know my beauty. I know that I have what it takes to one day be champion in America. The…” Once again she slows herself down to properly pronounce the match’s name, “Secular Spooktacular, is a chance to see if I am ready to take that step now.”

Standing up, Vampyra grabs a candle and holds it in one hand, letting the gentle glow shine on her mask.

“For those in this match wishing to go into the spotlight, be warned! First you must fight through the darkness where I will be waiting. I will be watching carefully. You will be judged. Your mistakes will be exploited! When the time is right, I will strike and it will be an experience you never felt before! This is your only warning!”

Holding the candle up to her face, she blows it out and any light in the room quickly fades, enveloping it in darkness.

Moments later, one more candle is lit. On the floor, its shine only goes a short distance, but we see the spot in which Vampyra’s mask was thrown down. The copy of the email is gone. Instead we have a collection of traditional Japanese papers (washi) sprawled out on the floor. Each of them have a different Japanese character written in black ink on them. Together, they spell the final message Vampyra is sending.

"死が待っている"

And the light goes out again. This time for good as the video cuts away.​

 

[Dubb]

Chapter 7: Closure

"HELP!"

Jeremy could hear the cries.

He could hear the unsettling sounds of the water splashing. The once peaceful waters of Lake Quinta de Boa Vista were disturbed.

"JEREMY! HELP ME! JEREMY!"

Jeremy opened his eyes.

He found himself once again back at Back in Business XVI. He stood along the edge of the water on a bank of large rocks. He wanted to help. But his shoes were weighed down as if filled to the brim with cement. He was unable to move, he could only watch in terror.

In the waters, Krash and Randy Ramon's battle had come to its soggy conclusion. The two struggled amongst one another as Randy flailed in the water, caught in the grips of Krash. Jeremy can only watch as he witnessed his friend and hero going into the deep.

The splash haunted him. It was a moment he continued to see over and over again in his nightmares. Nightmares much like this one.

"HELP"

He kept hearing the cries from Krash.

"WHY ARE YOU JUST STANDING THERE! I NEED YOU, JEREMY!"

"I. NEED. YOU!"

Jeremy tried to reach out his arms toward the water, but he could only move in slow motion. He opened his mouth to call out to his friend, but no sound came from Jeremy. Instead, he produced just a muffled cough which increased in severity. It was as if Jeremy himself was drowning. He could feel the pressure building in his chest. In his lungs.

"HELP ME!"

"SAVE ME!"

"FIND ME!"

"FIND ME!"

"FIND ME!"

Jeremy dropped to his knees on the rocks, vomiting up the lake water from his own mouth.

And suddenly, it was silent. The murky waters were settled once again. Jeremy wiped the water away from his mouth, staring out into the darkness. I was empty. Completely empty.

But still, he could hear Krash's voice in the distance.

"FIND ME!"

= = = = = = = = = =

Three months.

It had been three months of that same nightmare.

Every single night.

But it was fueling the fire for Jeremy. Each night he heard those words from Krash. Each night he heard the pleas for Jeremy to find him motivated him to push forward another day. To keep his focus on what was most important. People continued to doubt his motives. Including some of the people who were closest to him.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Jeremy could still hear the frustration in Mr. Scorpane’s voice after the final Meltdown before Lights Out. “Give it up, Best. Krush is dead. You need to move on.”

Jeremy, not usually one to push the envelope with Mr. Scorpane, felt his frustration bubbling over. “Krash! IT’S KRASH DANG IT! You know that!”

Standing beside Jeremy was his faithful friend and tag partner, Big Bryan Baxter, who was doing his best to hide a laugh at just how unexpected it was for Jeremy to lash out at Mr. Scorpane like that. Mr. Scorpane’s face showed that he was not amused by Best’s exclamation, as he adjusted the suspenders on his brown leisure suit. “Growing a back bone, are we, boy?” Scorpane gave a stern stare at Jeremy, who began to regret his outburst.

“I…I’m sorry sir,” Jeremy stumbled, “it’s just that this means a lot to me.”

Scorpane’s serious face broke as he began to laugh and gave Jermey a hearty slap on the back. “Haha! No, don’t be sorry! I LIKE IT! That’s the kind of fire I’ve been wanting to see out of you for YEARS! THAT’S what I want to see out of you at the Golden Ticket match..”

“Golden Opportunity,” Jeremy corrected.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever it is…it’s a shot at that FWA Championship and THAT’S what you should be focused on. Not some dead friend of yours.”

“He’s NOT dead,” Jeremy said, once again with an unusual deepness in his voice.

“C’mon man,” Bryan Baxter finally chimed in, “it’s not like it’s hurtin’ anything for Jeremy to keep an eye out for the guy. It’s not affecting his matches…he’s still winnin’. He just pinned Uncle for the third time in a year…and goddamn man, he beat the fuckin’ champion in like five minutes!”

“Watch your mouth, Baxter…” Scorpane warned his other client, “let’s not forget who you are talking to and what I’ve done for you.” Bryan shook his head with some disgust but remained quiet. “That’s what I thought. And maybe you’re right. It hasn’t affected him…for the most part. But let’s not forget the match he lost because he thought he saw that little man..”

Mr. Scorpane was referring to the first Fallout after Back in Business when Jeremy was up against XYZ, a new friend of his who had also been very helpful in Jeremy’s quest. But on that night, Jeremy had lost to XYZ after Jeremy had mistaken a mustachioed cameraman on the apron as his friend Krash. Jeremy had taken his eyes off the ball ever so momentarily but XYZ had been able to take advantage and picked up the victory.

“And you also were on the losing side of that Jailhouse match…”

“Can’t hold that against him - that had nothing to do with Krash…or Jeremy for that matter. Jeremy could’ve beaten any of those guys one on one.”

“But, it was still a loss. And it was still a loss on the grand stage. Something Jeremy has not exactly had the best track record of…winning when it matters.”

“We won at Back in Business!”

“Yeah, against a couple of real tools. Not sure that’s anything to brag about.”

Baxter shrugged his shoulders, finding it hard to argue against Jackson Fenix and Nate Savage being complete tools.

“Look, fellas..I just want what’s best for Jeremy…and for you both. And not having your eyes on the prize is gonna hurt you when it matters most. Sure, Jeremy…you can win a non-title match with low stakes or you both are able to beat a pair of guys who were teaming together for the first time. But I want you to win when it truly matters. And, forgive me for the pun, but this is truly a golden opportunity for you. So stop fartin’ around with Krash and get you that briefcase!”

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Scorpane. I actually dedicated the match to Krash and I’m winnin’ it in his honor!”

“Uggghhhh, you gotta be kidding me! You’re not winnin’ it for him! WIN IT FOR YOU! Argh, I just can’t with you two.”

Frustrated, Mr. Scorpane stormed out his own office inside Big Bill’s Used Car Emporium. Baxter once again couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Don’t listen to him, man,” Baxter reassured his partner, “if there’s one thing you’ve taught me in the past year is to be true to yourself.”

Jeremy nodded his head, “I think Mr. Scorpane has a point, ya know. But I can’t give up on Krash. There’s still something I have to do before Lights Out.”

“You sure you don’t need me to come along?”

“No, I need to do this by myself.”

“Hey, I get it. Just know…you change your mind if you need anything…you know how to find me and I’ll be there lickedy split.”

Jeremy shared a laugh with his friend. “I know…” Jeremy paused for a moment.

“Everything okay?” Baxter questioned, noticing Jeremy had seemed to stop mid-sentence and was suddenly in deep thought.

Jeremy didn’t respond immediately, instead continued to think but then a smile crept on his face. “You still have that list of yours?”

Baxter’s face started to redden with some embarrassment. He wasn’t sure how Jeremy could’ve possibly known about his list. “W-w-what now? What list?”

“It’s okay,” Jeremy reassured his friend, “but we’ve all noticed you looking at it from time to time. Mr. Scorpane told me about what all you went through before we reunited…and…it’s okay, Bryan. I know there’s one name left on your list of amends.”

Reluctantly, Bryan reached into the pocket of his denim blue jeans and retrieved the folded up piece of composition paper. He had carried it with him for years since hitting the bottom of the barrel. He had gone through and apologized or made right with every person he had harmed, save for one. And the one name left on his list continued to be Jeremy, himself.

“Let me see that thing!” Jeremy reached over with uncharacteristic inhibition, snatching the list from Baxter’s hand.

“Hey man, what the fu-...”

Jeremy grabbed a marker from Mr. Scorpane’s desk. “You know, Bryan. Even I was doubtful when you showed back up in my life. I wasn’t sure if I could trust you. But over the last several months, you’ve been the picture of what a true friend should be. You’ve had my back at every turn and I’ve been able to count on you.”

Jeremy took the black marker and scratched his own name out on the paper.

“Consider me amended.”

Jeremy smiled as he handed the piece of paper back to Bryan, who was left speechless.

“There’s nothing you need to worry about anymore, my friend! Whatever happened in the past is just that. The past. You’re free now! You don’t need to devote all your time and effort to protect me. I want you to start worrying about yourself. You’re part of the FWA just as much as I am…and there’s a little match at Lights Out with your name all over it. Go make a name for yourself, too!”

Bryan was now the one acting uncharacteristically…as for once, the big lug was struggling to find the words to say. “Jeremy…I don’t…”

“It’s okay,” Jeremy interrupted with a kind smile, “you don’t have to say anything!”

“No…I just think that…I don’t think I can…” Baxter seemed to actually be protesting Jeremy’s actions, but Jeremy in turn misread the situation.

“Nope! It’s been decided! Don’t live your life by that list anymore! Now if you excuse me, I have a Lake to get to…”

Jeremy turned towards the door to Mr. Scorpane’s office. “Jeremy…” Bryan stopped Jeremy in his tracks. Best turning back around to face his friend.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“I…” Bryan was ready to get something off his chest, but it was his turn to stop in his tracks. He took a deep breath and then sighed, “just…be careful, okay?”

Jeremy smiled, “you don’t gotta worry about me!”

And with that, Jeremy was on his way for one last quest on his Krash Crusade.

A quest for closure.

= = = = = = = = =

“HELP!”

“JEREMY! PLEASE!”

“SAVE ME!”

Jeremy watched as the water of Lake Quinta de Boa Vista splashed up against the rocks he was standing. He could still hear those cries in his head from his nightmares. They weren’t really there and this wasn’t his recurring dream. No, this time, Jeremy was really standing there gazing into the dark, murky waters that many thought was the watery grave of Krash and Randy Ramon.

After three months, Jeremy had returned to the scene of the crime.

No body has ever been produced from the waters. Neither that of Krash nor that of Randy Ramon. But still, no body found means presumed dead.

Jeremy sat down on the rocks, his khaki pants now covered in a combination of dirt and mud that extended up to his torn yellow cardigan sweater. This had been a long and tenuous journey for Jeremy. Not just the journey he went on to get back to Lake Quinta de Boa Vista…but the whole three month long crusade to find his friend. His normally cleanly shaved baby face had been replaced with unstyled stubble. His eyes were read from a combination of stress and lack of sleep.

It would all be over soon.

Jeremy was convinced that he would find closure in the waters of the Quinta de Boa Vista.

Jeremy reached back to retrieve a backpack he had carried with him for the journey. He placed the backpack in his lap before unzipping it to retrieve a bottle of water. He gulped down the water with desperation to quince his thirst. He tossed the bottle aside once it was clearly empty. Jeremy then returned to the bag and brought out a Ziploc bag containing a turkey and cheese sandwich. Feeling the hunger hitting him, Jeremy gladly brought the sandwich out and took a couple of bites.

While chewing on his dinner, Jeremy spotted something else in his bag. Something that he hadn’t put there. He investigated, reaching down to find an item wrapped securely in tinfoil. The object was labeled by a sticky note.

“Dearest Jeremy Best,

I know you wanted to conclude your quest on your own. Quite the admirable request for such an admirable man. I thought this might be helpful for you to find the answers that you seek.

Best of luck to you, my friend.

I’ll see you on the other side.

-XYZ”

Jeremy smiled. What a guy that XYZ. A true superhero indeed. Still wanting to do what he could to fulfill his promise to help Jeremy.

He unwrapped the tinfoil to reveal a pack of three chocolate chip cookies. Jeremy was surprised, he didn’t take XYZ to be much of a baker but perhaps this was the work of his pal, Big Al, instead. He proceeded to take a bite.

A slight grimace crossed Jeremy’s face as these chocolate chip cookies didn’t taste like any cookie he had ever had before. Perhaps these were the work of XYZ after all. Big Al’s cookies would no doubt taste much better than this.

Ah well, Jeremy thought, it’s the thought that counts and XYZ was no doubt very thoughtful in his actions.

Despite the initial taste turning him off, Jeremy found himself compelled to complete that first cookie…and then before he knew it, he had finished all three. He couldn’t figure out why he just had to have more despite that odd flavor.

Jeremy felt himself suddenly at ease. He leaned all the way back until he was then lying down on the bed of rocks. While certainly not the most comfortable of sleeping surfaces, Jeremy found himself easily able to relax as he stared up into the clear night sky. He found himself amazed at the beauty of the stars.

He could have laid there staring at the stars for hours. All night even. Truth is, Jeremy wasn’t sure how long he had been on his back staring into the heavens…he had lost all track of time and for the first time in a while, he truly didn’t care.

“Beautiful aren’t they?”

Startled, Jeremy jerked back up into a seated position before turning his head to his left where the voice had come from.

It certainly came as a big surprise to him that his friend XYZ was sitting beside him on the rocks. “If you think they look good from down here, you should see them up close. I’ll have to take you one day.”

“X? I thought I told you you didn’t have to come.”

XYZ smiled, “you did, Jeremy Best, you did. And I obliged as I said I would. I’m not really here.”

“Pardon me?” Jeremy rubbed his eyes to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. After rubbing his eyes, XYZ was gone.

Jeremy let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t going crazy after all.

“No, you’re not.”

Jeremy now darted his head to the right to find XYZ once again. Jeremy shook his head in disbelief.

“I’m…I’m not what?”

“Going crazy, of course. You silly goose!”

“I must be going crazy. I’m seeing you and you’re not here.”

“I see you enjoyed those cookies I packed you.”

Jeremy looked down to the ground where the balled-up tin foil that once contained XYZ’s cookies. “Wait a minute…did you…did you DRUG ME? Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God…X…I’ve never done drugs before…I’ve never even smoked a cigarette before. I don’t want to go to jail…”

A frantic Jeremy stood up and grabbed XYZ by the collar of his shiny green gape. “I CAN NOT GO TO JAIL, MAN!”

XYZ chuckled as he removed Jeremy’s hands from his cape. “Calm down, Jeremy Best. And please, hands off the cape.”

Jeremy moved backward, “Sorry…” he said sincerely.

“Besides, when you say it that way…you make me sound like a monster.”

Jeremy stumbled backward…the world around him started to spin. “So…you did?”

“Look at it this way. This journey you’re on, Jeremy Best, it’s not a physical one. Up to this point, we’ve only been looking for Krash in the physical form. That was the folly of our ways, my friend. That was why we could not find the answers we were looking for. For this is a spiritual journey. A mental journey. To find Krash, you’re going to look beyond the physical world. And those cookies…they were the nudge in the direction you need to do just that.”

“I don’t understand, I thought you believed Krash wasn’t dead. That he’s out there somewhere.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t. I’m not saying you’re going to be talking to a ghost…but there are forces in this universe that are hard to explain in words…and, well, you’ll just have to see them for yourself.”

The spinning was getting out of control, Jeremy could barely make out the last words from XYZ before he stumbled to the rocks. On his knees, Jeremy rubbed his head and eyes as the spinning came to a stop. But as he looked up from the ground, XYZ was nowhere to be found once again.

Jeremy got to his feet, looking in each direction.

“X?! X?!”

His friend had vanished just as quickly as he appeared.

The cold night air was starting to get to Jeremy. He could feel the chills running down his spine as the legs on his arms and legs stood up erect. Every sound in the wild was amplified.

Perhaps this was a mistake.

Coming here by himself.

Thinking he could finish this quest by himself.

Even beginning the crusade to begin with.

Perhaps it was all a mistake.

“SAVE ME!”

“FIND ME!”

The pleas from Krash once again echoed through the waters of the lake. Jeremy looked around the water and saw nothing. All was calm.

“Get it together, Jeremy,” he said to himself, trying to gather his composure. He thought back to some of the sessions he had with Dr. Dan Glitzer. He had mentioned breathing exercises. Jeremy racked his brain but couldn’t remember. Jeremy closed his eyes and just took in deep breaths one at a time.

Bubble.
Bubble.
Bubble.

Were Jeremy’s eyes deceiving him once again? From the middle of the lake, small bubbles began to appear at the surface of the water. Jeremy stood up with hope. Could it be? No, that wouldn’t make any sense…but nothing had made sense so far that night. Jeremy edged closer to the water.

The bubbles continued but they were getting larger and larger. “K-K-Krash? Is that…is that you?”

The bubbles, of course, did not respond. They just kept appearing and popping as fast as they had appeared.

Jeremy’s eyes focused on the center of the lake. He began to notice something starting to get closer to the top of the water. A shadowy figure was coming up toward the surface. While inconceivably hopeful, Jeremy quickly realized this was not the outline of a human’s shadow.

Breaking the surface of the water, a black slimy tentacle emerged.

The fear overtook Jeremy to the point he couldn’t even let out a scream. But unlike his nightmares, he was not frozen in place. He turned away from the lake and began to run as the tentacle seemed to be coming right for Jeremy. Running towards the tree line, the tentacle was too fast. It quickly caught up to Jeremy, wrapping itself around his left leg which sent Jeremy tripping to the ground.

“No! No!” Jeremy struggled against his captor, which began to drag him back toward the water. Jeremy used his right leg to kick at the tentacle. “Let go of me!” Jeremy continued kicking until he was able to break free!

Jeremy stumbled to his feet, but before he could start to run again, another tentacle had come up from the lake and blindsided Jeremy. It wrapped itself around his arms and waist, restricting Jeremy’s movement and effectively preventing him from breaking free.

“Nooo! Please! Let go!”

But the lake creature was not listening. Jeremy could only watch as the creature pulled him right back towards the lake. He first felt the water on his legs as his khakis became submerged with water that was soon up to his chest. The tentacles continued to pull Jeremy in and soon, much like his hero before him, Jeremy disappeared beneath the waters of the Lake Quinta de Boa Vista.

= = = = = = = = = =

Jeremy opened his eyes.

Darkness. All he could see was darkness.

The last thing he remembered was being dragged underwater. He remembered the water rushing into his mouth and his nose. He remembered struggling to breathe. He remembered the pain in his chest and lungs.

But now, wherever he was, was certainly not the bottom of the lake. There was no water in sight.

There was no color in sight either.

Just an endless black-and-white void.

“Well I’ll be damned.”

Jeremy recognized that voice. And he couldn’t believe his ears. Nor could he believe his eyes when he turned to face the source of the voice.

Jeremy was no longer alone in the void. Standing before him was the one…the only…

Former FWA Champion…

But it wasn’t Krash.

It was “Rockstar” Randy Ramon.

“Randy?”

“Congratulations. You found me. Oh wait, you weren’t even looking for me, now where you?”

“I mean…”

“Krash. Krash. Krash. God I’d rather be fucking dead than have to hear how much you are obsessed with that piece of shit.”

“Wait…are you? Does that mean…I am?”

“Dead? Hardly. Not you anyway. I’m just some manifestation of your guilt or something, probably. I don’t know. I want to get this over with.”

“Get what over with?”

“You want to find Krash, right? Well, it’s not that easy. Your journey is just beginning.”

“Are you…going to help me?”

“Why should I? You weren’t coming here for me, right?”

“We would’ve looked for you too. Krash would’ve helped us find you once we found him.”

“You mean the guy who, if I am dead, basically killed me and himself in the process? You think he’s going to want to help find me?”

“I mean…uhh…when you put it like that, I…” Jeremy stuttered over his words, genuinely at a loss in his guilt.

Randy Ramon burst out into laughter. “Hahaha - I’m just fuckin’ with ya, man. I don’t care! And if Randy Ramon isn’t dead, I’m sure he’s just fine not being found anyway! But anyway, that’s not what we’re here to learn now are we. I’m here to start you on your journey.”

“I thought I came here to conclude my journey…”

“Like I said, it’s just beginning. But first, let's explore this obsession you have with finding Krash. Take it from me, there’s not that much special about the guy…I certainly wouldn’t miss him if I was still around.”

“Because he’s my friend! Of course, I want to find him!”

“Cut the bullshit. There’s no one down here in the void that you need to impress with the ‘You’ve got a friend in me” song and dance. There’s more to it, isn’t there, Jeremy? The answer isn’t that simple. There’s always been a ‘Krash’ in your life, has there not? Someone you place on a pedestal. Someone you want nothing more than to be best friends with. And I’m guessing those feelings weren’t always reciprocated? Luckily for you, Krash was just too nice a guy himself to tell you to shove off.”

“If you’re asking have I always liked to have friends, I think everyone knows the answer to that question.”

“That’s not the question, Jeremy. The question is…WHY?”

The sound of lightning suddenly overpowered everything else in the void. Black and white flashes blinded Jeremy’s vision briefly but when he was able to focus once again, the void had turned into a hallway. Across the hall, an open door.

“Go ahead,” Randy instructed Jeremy.

Cautiously, Jeremy approached the door and peeked inside. The setting was very familiar to Jeremy.

He suddenly found himself in his childhood home. A small, single-wide trailer in rural North Carolina. A young seven-year-old Jeremy Best sat on the living room floor, mere inches away from a 32-inch box TV.

“Oh Mr. Best, you’re sitting way too close to the television. That’s very harmful to your eyes.”

The present-day Jeremy squinted in confusion. He turned to find that the vision of Randy Ramon had been replaced with the vision of another familiar face. Though one he actually had never met but spent much time with as a child.

Standing beside Jeremy was an older man, not dressed too similar to the way Jeremy would normally be dressed - light blue sweater with dress slacks. The familiar face was that of the wise old teacher from his favorite television program as a child, Boy Meets World - Mr. Feeny

“Mr. Feeny? I’m so confused right now…where’d Randy go?”

“The Spirit Guides take the form of what makes the most sense to you at the time. And my boy, given this current flashback, it would appear this is the form you’ve selected to be guided by.”

Of course, Jeremy Best would have loved to be spending time with the actual Mr. Feeny, this was all a bit more disconcerting. But he turned back towards the scene from his childhood as young Jeremy was in fact watching an episode of Boy Meets World on the TV.

“You spent a lot of time watching that television, didn’t you Mr. Best.”

“Sure,” Jeremy agreed, “but didn’t most kids back then?”

“Oh, sure, sure…to a certain extent. But they also spent time outdoors, playing with their friends. Where were you friends, Mr. Best?”

Jeremy was silent as he watched young Jeremy laughing at the antics of the main character Corey as he got into trouble alongside his best friend Shawn. “I had friends. Everyone was my friend. Sometimes they were just busy. So I’d watch TV.”

“Ahh, yes. Lots of friends can be made on the TV. Like Mr. Hunter and Mr. Matthews for example,” Mr. Feeny said as he referenced the aforementioned character’s surnames. “I suppose you also really enjoyed the show Friends, itself, am I right? A lot of people considered those characters their actual friends, or so I’ve heard.”

As the thunder rolled outside the trailer windows, Jeremy’s mother can now be seen walking out of the adjoining bedroom. The middle-aged woman has her brunette hair done up in a perm while wearing what is clearly the working outfit of a diner waitress.

“Alright hun, I gotta get to work,” Jeremy’s mother indicated as she grabbed her purse off the kitchen table. “You be good okay?”

“Yes, mother!” the young Jeremy cheerfully responds.

His mother looks back over at him with a smile, “now Jeremy, what have I told you about that television?”

Jeremy looks back, “Sorry, ma’am!” he said apologetically before scooting back away from the TV.

“Smart woman,” Mr. Feeny noted, referencing his own concern for young Jeremy’s eyesight earlier.

“You should really be getting outside and playing with your friends, anyway! How about tomorrow, you get out some. That Becky girl in particular always seems pretty fond of you and her parents are nice enough. Maybe I’ll give them a call.”

“That’s okay, Mom!” young Jeremy deflected, “besides, tomorrow is Saturday Morning cartoons!”

Shaking her head but also giving a chuckle, his mother walked over to him and kissed him on the forehead, “Whatever makes you happy. You stay inside tonight, it’s lookin’ like a rough night out there. I’ll see you after my shift in the mornin’.”

Another kiss from his mother and she was out the door. Jeremy paid no mind to the storm going on outside, he was too focused on what was happening on the television screen.

“So sad,” Mr. Feeny shook his head.

“Hey,” Jeremy began to get defensive, “don’t judge. My mother did the best she could with what little she had. And I was a good kid. She could trust me.”

“The television being your babysitter isn’t what was sad,” Mr. Feeny corrected.

Jeremy took a few more steps into the room, getting a closer look at his younger self. “Whatever XYZ gave me…has to be destroyed so that it can be never used by anyone ever again. This is too much.”

“You were always looking for the Shawn to your Cory, weren’t you?”

“What? I had friends. I told you this. Plenty of them.”

“Sure, sure, Mr. Best. You were a nice kid. People generally liked you, sure. But did you ever really find that one true friend?”

Jeremy remained silent as the thunder and lightning once again overwhelmed Jeremy, blinding his vision. When the light faded, Jeremy was no longer standing in his childhood home.

The new setting was the hustle and bustle of a high school hall. Eastwood High School to be exact. The place Jeremy spent his teenage years learning and building up his vast network of friends.

“This better not be the boy band story again,” Jeremy said to himself, recounting the time that he was tricked into performing a boy band routine by himself on the stage of a talent show.

No, this took place after that event. Present-day Jeremy watched on as teenage Jeremy opened up his immaculately organized locker and began to retrieve his Biology textbook, only to be interrupted by one of his so-called friends, Adam Stone. While Adam was one of the guys who pranked him, Jeremy had forgiven him and written it off as just some good-natured ribbing among friends.

“Heeeeyyyyy Jeremy, buddy! Pal!” Adam said as he leaned against the neighboring locker.

“Hiya Adam,” teenage Jeremy responded enthusiastically. “How’s it going?”

“Ugh,” a female voice responded, standing directly next to Jeremy. His Spirit Guide had now taken the form of a teenaged red-head in a sweater, skirt, and glasses. It was another one of Jeremy’s former close friends, Rebecca Vance. “I can’t believe you still even wanted to talk to that jerk after what he did to you.”

“Okay,” Jeremy admitted, “probably not my proudest moment, for sure.” Jeremy and Spirit Rebecca shared a laugh.

Back at the scene in front of them, Adam was coming to teenage Jeremy with a request. “Hey man, you’re still stayin’ with your rich, I mean…awesome uncle, right?”

“I am, yes” Jeremy confirmed.

“Cool. Cool. Cool. So like, me and the guys…we thought it’d be really awesome if like, we could come over and hangthis Friday night. I heard he has like a sweet indoor pool, right?”

Jeremy’s eyes grew wide. This was what he had been hoping for for so long! He nodded vigorously. “Yes!”

“Yes he has a pool or yes we can come over?”

“Yes! Double yes! Both! Absolutely!”

“Oh, dude, sweet! You are DA MAN, Jeremy Best.”

Teenage Jeremy couldn’t hide his braces from the fact that he couldn’t stop smiling. “So, who all is coming? You? Zack? Kimberly?”

“Oh yeah, definitely them. And probably like…oh, maybe all the senior class. Probably most of the juniors too, I bet.”

Realizing that this was more of an event than Jeremy was realizing, the smile started to fade. “Oh…so, like a party?”

“Yeah, of course! PAAARTAY!”

“Oh…I don’t know…I’m not sure my uncle will..”

“I mean, you’ll be there too! It’s gonna be legendary, Jeremy - and everyone will remember that you hosted the most kickass party of the year.”

Jeremy began to nod along with Adam, the smile now back on his face.

“So,” Rebecca said glancing over to present Jeremy, “how’d that work out for ya?”

Jeremy chuckled, “not great. Cops were called - my Uncle got home early and broke it up before 10 PM. The indoor pool wasn’t actually working at the time and the only thing they could use his big-screen TV for was watching Ken Burns documentaries. It went down in history as THE lamest party of the year.”

“That’s my Jeremy. Always seeking that validation. You find that person you want to be friends with more than anything in the world and you’ll literally do anything for them. And look at how it typically turns out. People end up using you and abusing you and then tossing you aside.”

Jeremy couldn’t respond and instead watched as Adam offered teenage Jeremy a high-five before walking off. As Jeremy shut his locker, he was approached by the actual Rebecca Vance from the past.

"What was that all about?" she asked.

“Well, actually…” Jeremy started but was quickly interrupted.

“Yeah, I don’t think I even want to know. That guy is bad news, Jeremy. How many times has he embarrassed you in front of the whole school?”

“It’s all for fun, Becky!”

“Yeeeaaahhh…real fun, I tell ya,” ‘Becky’ said with heavy sarcasm. “But hey, how about we catch a movie on Friday?”

“As fun as that sounds,” teenage Jeremy said regretfully, “that’s actually what me and Adam were talking about. I’m hosting a party on Friday now?”

“You? Jeremy Best? Hosting a party?”

“Don’t sound so shocked!”

“Just doesn’t sound like my Jeremy, that’s all.” Becky half smiled, trying her best to be happy for her friend while also trying to hide her disappointment.

“Well hey, you should come.”

“Thanks but naaah…not my scene. Just…watch yourself around Adam, ok? Ppplleeeease, for me.”

The scene before them started to get obscured by the darkness of the void.

“So oblivious.” Jeremy’s spirit guide version of Rebecca said with some frustration. “So much focus on one person.”

“Okay, so maybe my choice of friends wasn’t always great.”

“Again. Adam was NOT your friend, Jeremy! Do you not realize that by now? Sure he was super popular, and charismatic, Mr. High School Football Player Jock Guy…whatever, he was an asshole. But he had that particular charm that just drew you in as someone you just HAD to be friends with. And what did it cost you?”

“I like to think things turned out okay.”

Rebecca shook her head. “You have a funny way of remembering things.” She bit her lip, even as a spirit guide, still holding back. “But what about missed opportunities? Opportunities that may have been right there in front of you. People who you didn’t put all that attention on. People who maybe would’ve loved to be friends with you…or more.”

The present-day Jeremy leaned back against the row of lockers behind them with some surprise. He was finally starting to realize what she was getting at. Honestly, Jeremy had never really had much time in his life for anything beyond friendship. It’s the thing he valued most. But now, sitting here…looking into a vision from his past, he began to think about what else could be important besides friendship.

“Sure, things are okay for you now. You’re doing great in your career right? Mr. Golden Opportunity or whatever? Yeah, I have been following your career still. I’m a huge fan of yours. I always was.”

Rebecca leaned in and gave Jeremy a hug as the thunder once again began to grow louder and louder. The high school hallway became completely unrecognizable in the growing darkness. This Spirit Guide was starting to fade away, but not before he could hear her ask, “did you get my letters…”

The words echoed through Jeremy’s mind as the void lit up with white lightning once again, lighting things back up to reveal a third setting now.

Jeremy’s concentration moved toward the new scene before him. It was himself again…this time older but still in the past. He was sitting on a bench backstage at a wrestling show. Everyone had emptied out and it was just him, sitting in the darkness as a janitor turned off the lights. Past Jeremy reached up and wiped away some tears from his face.

This was a memorable night for Jeremy. One that he wished he could forget but would never be able to.

It was the night Bryan Baxter turned on him.

The night in question has been well documented in Jeremy Best lore to this point but in summary…Jeremy and Bryan were a successful team known as The Buddy System in the southern US independent circuit. That is until the two both ended up in the finals of a tournament to crown a number one contender to the World Championship, which ended with Bryan Baxter abandoning their friendship by cheating to win.

Jeremy wouldn’t hear from Bryan for years after this night. Of course, now they’ve become friends once again and mended their relationship including reforming their team in FWA.

But this was a painful night.

“God damn! I sure hate seeing a grown man cry!”

Jeremy shook his head knowing exactly who his new Spirit Guide was. To his right, present day Jeremy was standing next to his own agent, Mr. Bill Scorpane.

“Why am I having to see all this? What’s any of this have to do with Krash?”

“Open your eyes, boy! It has everything to do with Krunch! Look at that sad pathetic-lookin’ fella! That’s YOU!”

“Yeah…I know. I lived it.”

“No, I don’t mean that’s you as in that was you. THAT IS YOU!”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Look, Jeremy. Let’s face it…you set yourself up for failure. You paint unrealistic pictures of people that no one could possibly ever live up to. You thought Bryan Baxter was a great friend - loyal and true, RIGHT? You’ve seen it time and again…with that Adam guy you just relived too…hell, we both know its only a matter of time before Baxter shows his true colors again…”

“But…” Jeremy tried to interrupt, wanting to point out that he knew Baxter was different this time. He had changed his ways. He had been a true friend since their reunion. But, this trip down memory lane had Jeremy doubting his own judgment for the first time in his life. Each of his Spirit Guides had made strong points about how blinded Jeremy becomes by his own desire for friendship.

“And then, of course, there’s this whole thing with Krash. You thought it was perfect. You think of him as a hero. But you ask around enough people in FWA and they’ll probably give you some different opinions on the man. I’m sure Randy Ramon isn’t too fond of him, huh?”

“It’s time you face the music…people…suck. And people are always going to let you down. And maybe I don’t say this much…but damn, boy…you got somethin’ special. You’re good at this wrestlin’ shit. If you want to go out there and win the Golden Opportunity match…I think you’ll do it. You can be FWA World Champion. Hell, you already beat him once. There’s nothing you can’t do…but people are gonna get in your way. Here it was Bryan Baxter….he literally got in your way to that title…but right now, it’s this quest for Krash.”

Jeremy let out a deep breath as he watched the sad and lonely Jeremy in front of him. He didn’t want to give any credit to Spirit Scorpane’s words…the real Scorpane would say this type of stuff for his own best interest. Jeremy’s success was his success after all.

“Don’t you want to let it all go? Don’t you want to tell those other guys in the Golden Opportunity what you really think about them?”

“They’re all strong competitors…worthy of the match…it’s an honor to really..”

“No! God…fuck, Jeremy. That can’t be what you really feel. Surely you can’t feel that way about those guys from Executive Excellence. Gabby…Knox…Parr…they kicked your ass a few weeks ago only because they were threatened by you. You had just beaten their fearless leader…”

“Actually, the EE are all equals…there is no leader..”

“Get the fuck outta here. Do any of the others have the FWA Championship?”

“Well..I mean…no, but..”

“Then whether they like it or not, there is a hierarchy. But that’s not the point. The point is, you had just beat the champ and they are worried. They know what you are capable of. Danny ‘FUCKING’ Toner sure as Hell knows what you’re capable of. So they come out and do a number on you because they want to protect themselves. But don’t you want to call them out on it? Call them out for being the pussies that they are?”

“I mean…I don’t think I’d quite use those words…but, I guess that wasn’t cool of them. So yeah, I’m not happy about that at all. And I do kinda look forward to getting some payback on them!”

“Thattaboy! And how about that Devin Golden? What a nutcase! Guy thinks we’re all just figments of his imagination or something? How is this guy allowed in the building every week and not put in some type of looney bin.”

“I’m literally having a conversation with a figment of my imagination right now.”

“Haha! Fair enough! And Cryus Truth and Chris Peacock…guys you’ve never beaten before but they’ve been you…I know you have to feel the motivation to prove yourself.”

“Definitely! But I have no ill will towards either…”

“And that’s okay. Not exactly my approach to things, but you’re never going to see things the Scorpane way…but I’m sure I’ll never see them the Best way either. But all that matters is that those are the guys you should be focusing on right now. You're in a winner take all match...those two guys aren't going to go easy on you. They aren't going to take pity on you because you lost a friend. So let’s finish this off and put this Krash business to rest once and for all.”

“But wait..”

It was too late. The locker room faded away as did this vision of Mr. Scorpane. The thunder crashed once again and now it began to rain inside the void. Jeremy awaited another scene like the times before, but nothing was coming. Just louder and louder thunder and heavier and heavier rain.

The void grew smaller and smaller until Jeremy felt like he was being packaged into a box. That box quickly filled up with water from the rain. The water was rapidly rising to the point Jeremy once again felt the feeling of water rushing into his mouth and he could fill his lungs starting to swell again…

He pushed against the walls of the void, to no avail. He was tripped. He couldn’t breathe…

Jeremy began to fade…

Darkness.

= = = = = = = = = =

Coughing.

Violently coughing.

Jeremy found himself washed back up on the shores of Lake Quinta de Boa Vista, coughing up water as he knelt on his knees and elbows, down on all four in the grass. His clothes soaked from being in the water, Jeremy rolled over onto his back trying to catch his breath. He once again found himself looking up at the night sky.

“Need a hand, mate?”

Jeremy saw a hand extending down towards him from a blurry figure. His eyes still somewhat water logged from his trip into the lake Jeremy struggled to make it out, but he certainly recognized the voice.

“K….K…Krash?”

“Aye, mate! In the flesh…well, no not flesh exactly. Whatever these spirit things are made out of? Maybe a mixture of gas, light, and those little white particle things that show up in your photos sometime?”

Jeremy accepted the hand, tugging firmly on Spirit Krash’s arm to pull himself up. “I can’t believe it’s you!” Jeremy then pulled Krash in for a giant hug, tears now rolling down his face. Jeremy had clearly forgotten all about the fact that he was soaking wet from the lake.

“Oh my…” Krash said, startled at first by the soggy hug but then accepted the hug, patting Jeremy on the back, “there, there. It’s good to see you too, Jeremy.”

Jeremy reluctantly finally broke away from the hug, wiping his nose and sniffling. “Sorry,” he apologized for being such an emotional mess.”

“No need to apologize!” Krash reassured him, “but…you do realize…I’m not actually Krash, right?”

Jeremy nodded, “I know…still…can’t help it.”

“Okay, just wanted to make sure!”

Jeremy stood silently, taking in the sight of his friend. Moments passed with neither of them speaking as they just looked at each other in awkward silence. Jeremy just took it in because he knew this moment would be fleeting.

“I really wanted to find you,” Jeremy finally broke the silence with heart breaking sincerity.

“I know you did. And it’s quite appreciated, believe me.”

“So…is the real Krash…dead?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to that question either. But, what I can tell you…is that it’s okay to move on.”

“But if he is out there somewhere…if I could find him and save him…he probably needs help..”

“Let’s say Krash, err...me....uh, I am alive. What would I want? For you to be stressing yourself out? Living your life constantly worrying about him? Or would he want you to focus on Jeremy?”

“That. I’m guessing he’d want that.”

“Correct-a-mundo!”

“But, I just don’t know if I can just drop it. I’ve come this far…I just want to find out the truth. If he’s truly dead and gone…can’t I just get some type of sign?”

“Sadly that’s not the way these things work. But I’m not telling you to give up hope. Don’t you ever give up hope, Jeremy Best. Because you’re the one person I’ve met that I could count on for that. Don’t give up the belief that I’m out there somewhere. And if I am, you better believe we will see each other again one day. But it’s not your job to find me. I release you from any duty or obligation you feel like you had. So go…go be successful. Go win and don’t feel the guilt that you shouldn’t be out there wrestling right now. Go win yourself the Golden Opportunity…win yourself an FWA Championship…and then when I come back, we can have that dream match you always wanted and it can be for the belt.”

Jeremy wiped some more tears away from his eyes, “I’d like that.”

“Me too. Me too.”

“So what now? Can we just hang out for a bit?”

“Afraid not,” Krash said as his specter began to glow and fade. “Seems us Spirit Guides have very limited windows of life. Kinda sucks, huh?”

“Can I at least have one more hug before you go?”

“I thought you’d never ask. Bring it in!”

Krash extended his arms out and Jeremy needed no further invitation as he rushed in for another hug from his slowly fading away hero.

“See you again soon, my friend,” Krash said one final time before his vision completely disappeared into the night sky amid the hug with Jeremy. Jeremy closed his eyes, wanting to think that his friend was still there. That his friend had never left in the first place.

“Pardon me, señor?”

Jeremy was now standing by himself by the lake in the middle of the night, his arms wrapped around himself as if giving himself a hug.

“Señor?” A thick Spanish accent interrupted Jeremy’s apparent moment with himself.

“Sorry!” Jeremy said as he composed himself, turning around to wave to the man who had caught him in quite the unusual act. “Was just, uh, talking to an old friend.”

The man raised an eyebrow, noticing Jeremy was definitely by himself. “You on drugs, señor? I call cops!”

“No! No! Definitely don’t do that. Sorry, I should say...I was talking to a…deceased…friend of mine…” just saying those words brought a stabbing pain to Jeremy’s heart. “He loved this place and I just feel connected to him here, I suppose.”

The man seemed to somewhat understand Jeremy’s words. “You need leave,” the man said in broken English.

“Right, got it. Right away. Yes, sir!”

Jeremy grabbed his backpack and slung it back over his back. As he walked away from the lake, he gave a friendly wave to the groundskeeper that confronted him before picking up his pace, worried that the man may change his mind about calling the cops.

Deceased.

Jeremy used that word to get out of a tough situation. But he still didn’t believe it. He still knew Krash was out there. And one day…one day they will be reunited. But it wasn’t going to be today. And most likely it won’t be tomorrow or the day after that.

But one day.

For now, Jeremy’s future was clear. When Krash does come back…they would have the most epic match of all time.

And it needed to be for the FWA Title.

A journey that starts with Golden Opportunity.

And that journey was just beginning.
​

 

[Dubb]

Big Bryan Baxter in...

A Deal with the Devil



"Argh, I just can’t with you two.”

Frustrated, Mr. Scorpane stormed out of his own office inside Big Bill’s Used Car Emporium. Baxter once again couldn’t help but chuckle having witnessed an argument between Mr. Scorpane and Jeremy Best over the fact that Jeremy’s quest to find Krash continues while Scorpane wanted Jeremey to focus on the Golden Opportunity match. Jeremy didn’t often stand up for himself, but watching Jeremy show some backbone definitely brought a smile to Bryan’s face.

“Don’t listen to him, man,” Baxter reassured his partner, “if there’s one thing you’ve taught me in the past year is to be true to yourself.”

Jeremy nodded his head, “I think Mr. Scorpane has a point, ya know. But I can’t give up on Krash. There’s still something I have to do before Lights Out.”

“You sure you don’t need me to come along?”

“No, I need to do this by myself.”

“Hey, I get it. Just know…you change your mind if you need anything…you know how to find me and I’ll be there lickedy split.”

Jeremy shared a laugh with his friend. “I know…” Jeremy paused for a moment.

“Everything okay?” Baxter questioned, noticing Jeremy had seemed to stop mid-sentence and was suddenly in deep thought.

Jeremy didn’t respond immediately, instead continued to think but then a smile crept on his face. “You still have that list of yours?”

Baxter’s face started to redden with some embarrassment. He wasn’t sure how Jeremy could’ve possibly known about his list. “W-w-what now? What list?”

“It’s okay,” Jeremy reassured his friend, “but we’ve all noticed you looking at it from time to time. Mr. Scorpane told me about what all you went through before we reunited…and…it’s okay, Bryan. I know there’s one name left on your list of amends.”

Reluctantly, Bryan reached into the pocket of his denim blue jeans and retrieved the folded-up piece of composition paper. He had carried it with him for years since hitting the bottom of the barrel. He had gone through and apologized or made right with every person he had harmed, save for one. And the one name left on his list continued to be Jeremy, himself.

“Let me see that thing!” Jeremy reached over with uncharacteristic inhibition, snatching the list from Baxter’s hand.

“Hey man, what the fu-...”

Jeremy grabbed a marker from Mr. Scorpane’s desk. “You know, Bryan. Even I was doubtful when you showed back up in my life. I wasn’t sure if I could trust you. But over the last several months, you’ve been the picture of what a true friend should be. You’ve had my back at every turn and I’ve been able to count on you.”

Jeremy took the black marker and scratched his own name out on the paper.

“Consider me amended.”

Jeremy smiled as he handed the piece of paper back to Bryan, who was left speechless.

“There’s nothing you need to worry about anymore, my friend! Whatever happened in the past is just that. The past. You’re free now! You don’t need to devote all your time and effort to protect me. I want you to start worrying about yourself. You’re part of the FWA just as much as I am…and there’s a little match at Lights Out with your name all over it. Go make a name for yourself, too!”

Bryan was now the one acting uncharacteristically…as for once, the big lug was struggling to find the words to say. “Jeremy…I don’t…”

“It’s okay,” Jeremy interrupted with a kind smile, “you don’t have to say anything!”

“No…I just think that…I don’t think I can…” Baxter seemed to actually be protesting Jeremy’s actions, but Jeremy in turn misread the situation.

“Nope! It’s been decided! Don’t live your life by that list anymore! Now if you excuse me, I have a Lake to get to…”

Jeremy turned towards the door to Mr. Scorpane’s office. “Jeremy…” Bryan stopped Jeremy in his tracks. Best turning back around to face his friend.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“I…” Bryan was ready to get something off his chest, but it was his turn to stop in his tracks. He took a deep breath and then sighed, “just…be careful, okay?”

Jeremy smiled, “you don’t gotta worry about me!”

And with that, Jeremy was on his way for one last quest on his Krash Crusade. A quest for closure while one might think Jeremy’s actions had given Bryan himself closure…it really was just opening a whole other can of worms.

= = = = = = = = =
​

“Don’t just stare at me, what do you think?” Mr. Scorpane demanded an answer as he sat in his office, Bryan Baxter sitting directly across from him. It was October 2021, almost a year ago to the date. “Chances like this don’t just grow on trees, big boy. This could be your chance.” “You know I want this,” Bryan confirmed, “more than anything in the world. A second chance and not just any second chance…a chance at an even bigger stage than before.” “So what are you waiting for? You said it yourself, not many people get to fail upwards but this is your chance!” Bryan looked over the papers in front of him on Scorpane’s desk. “I just don’t know if I understand the plan here. There’s no way Jeremy will agree to this. No way he’d ever trust me.” “Uhhh, have you met Jeremy? Are we talking about the same guy?” “I don’t think you realize how much I hurt him.” “You let me worry about him. We’ll come up with something that will earn his trust. I mean the guy thinks he just happened to get an invitation to join FWA and be part of the Lights Out Battle Royal. Yeah, because they just go around handing out invitations to join! I’m not the best agent in wrestling for nothing.” “I just don’t get what you need me for.” “Jeremy has all the talent in the world to be a star. And for some reason those fans absolutely adore him and they will in FWA too, I’m sure. But he lacks that killer instinct. His moral fiber is too strong to ‘do whatever it takes' to win.” “Oh, and if there’s one thing I don’t have, it’s moral fiber, right?” “Hey, you said it, not me.” “Hey, fuck you.” “Watch your mouth! Don’t forget who took you in off the street when no one else would.” “Probably because you knew you could use me at some point with Jeremy. Like I’m just some sort of chess piece in your quest for more money.” “Hey, Big Bryan Baxter isn’t as dumb as he looks after all!” “Hardy har har. Whatever, I’m going to get paid for all this right?” “Of course. More than you ever have before. You’ll be able to move out of your parent’s basement for real this time!” “Fine. I’ll do it.” “Haha, I knew you would! So just sign right here,” Scorpane used his pen to mark the line on the contract in front of Baxter, “and then all you gotta do is sit back and wait for my call. We’ll give Jeremy a few months to settle in before he realizes he might could use an old friend watching his back.” Baxter took the pen and inked his name to the contract. He could feel the butterflies in his stomach. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. He had hit rock bottom and pulled his way out but never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d get a second chance in wrestling, much less in the FWA. But he couldn’t help shake the feeling that he had signed a deal with the devil. ​

= = = = = = = = =
​

For the next few weeks, Bryan began preparing for his return to the wrestling ring. Ever since getting sober, he had been returning to the gym in hopes of having this chance but now that was real, he had been hitting it even harder. Bryan would get a call from Mr. Scorpane on Thanksgiving of 2021 letting him know the time was getting close. “We’ll need to meet sometime soon to go over the plan. I have some very useful information that’ll definitely get you back in the good graces of ol’ Jeremy.” It wasn’t until the end of the year that they finally met up, ahead of Jeremy’s Mile High Massacre Match. Bryan arrived at Mr. Scorpane’s office. “Mr. Baxter, I see you’re doing well. Someone’s ready for their big in ring return.” Baxter smiled at the compliment as he took a seat. “I’m not so sure what you need me for. Your boy is doing pretty well on his own. Three months into joining FWA and he’s already in the Main Event fighting for the championship. Seems like he doesn’t need me after all.” Scorpane shook his head, “Jeremy’s in over his head. He got lucky these past couple of months. He’s not ready for what he’s walking into and honestly, I’m more worried about him being him surviving that match. He may need you as a nurse more than anything. You don’t have your nursing degree now do you?” Baxter laughed, “That I do not. Maybe you’re right, but aren’t you at least a little proud of him for what he’s been able to do so far?” Scorpane shrugged, “eh, I’m proud of all the money he’s making me. That’s for damn sure!” “Guessing you are excited to make some off me too.” “On the contract I’m getting you? Eh, I suppose it’ll be a nice little bonus…I’ll probably use it to up my kid’s allowance.” “Isn’t your kid like 19?” Scorpane doesn’t dignify Baxter with a response. “So, you mentioned a plan? Something that would get Jeremy to trust me again?” An evil grin across Mr. Scorpane’s face. “Cutting to the chase, eh? I like it.” Mr. Scorpane reached under his desk and retrieved a small brown box “And I think you’re gonna LOVE this…hahaha.” ​

= = = = = = = = =

Baxter took a seat in the leather seat facing opposite of Mr. Scorpane’s desk, still looking down at the now completely marked-off list thanks to Jeremy. He knew what he had to do but he also knew that it was going to threaten the status of their revived friendship.

“I can’t believe your little buddy decided to go it alone,” Mr. Scorpane re-entered his office with a cup of coffee in his hand. He walked across the office and took a seat at his desk. “Maybe you were right all along. Maybe he didn’t really need you, huh?”

“Maybe not. But I definitely need him.”

Mr. Scorpane placed his coffee down violently on his desk, some of it splashing out onto the mahogany. “No,” he said firmly, “YOU needed ME. Don’t you EVER forget that.”

“How could I?” Baxter snidely remarked, “you certainly bring it up enough.”

“For good reason!”

“Look, Jeremy’s holding his own…he’s gonna go into the Golden Opportunity match and he’s gonna win it. He thinks I should still be a part of the show, and I think he’s right. I want a shot myself…so, if you could make the call and get me a spot in that Secular Spooktacular, that’d be awesome.”

Mr. Scorpane leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let out a hearty laugh. “Hahahahaha! That’s a good one!” Opening his eyes, Scorpane realized Baxter was not also laughing. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve had my fair share of success since joining FWA…”

“Tag team success. With Jeremy. Because of Jeremy, in fact. He wins IN SPITE of you.”

Baxter dug his fingers into the armrests of his leather chair. He wanted to reach over the desk, grab this asshole by his throat and beat the ever-loving shit out of him. But unfortunately, when someone has damning information on you, you are forced to not do things like that. So, Baxter bit his tongue. “Whatever, man. Look - I beat Philip A. Jackson by myself, right?”

“You’re bringing up some washed-up old man as your one actual singles match success?”

“Undefeated is undefeated. Look, just make the damn call, it’s not that hard and whether I win or lose, you get a piece of my check so, like…do your fucking job?”

Scorpane once again laughed, “that’s fine. For Jeremy’s sake, I’ll let you have your little fun at Lights Out. Little birdy wants to try and fly by himself…we’ll see. Hell, maybe you’ll surprise even me.”

“Hey, all I want is a chance to show what I can do.”

“Spooktacular, huh?” Mr. Scorpane glanced over the info on his laptop, “interesting possibilities. I bet there’s a strong chance you get to run into Jerkoff Fenix and Fat Savage again.”

Baxter smirked, almost salivating at that chance. “I sure hope so. I’ll always enjoy whippin’ both their asses.”

“And…is there a vampire on the roster now?”

Baxter shrugged.

“I guess the freaks really are coming out just in time for Halloween. Alright, well, I’ll make the call.”

“Thanks,” Baxter said with only half sincerity as he stood up from his chair.

Before he could leave, Scorpane had one last warning for him. “I know you think you and Jeremy are better than ever. And you are starting to feel like maybe you have a real chance her at something special in FWA. But don’t forget how you got here. Don’t forget what you had to do to get to this point. I can end you, Bryan Baxter. I can have Jeremy Best hating you…and without him, I promise you…you’ll be nothing. Just like before. Just like last time you crushed him. You’ll be out of a job. You’ll be back in the gutter where you belong. So this little defiant bastard attitude you want to have with me better drop. You want to be a champion in FWA? Fine. I will be by your side and help you do it. But you’re gonna keep playing by my rules.”

“Do you understand?”

Baxter paused with his hand on the door. Just tell him to fuck off, he thought to himself. Go to Jeremy, explain everything…he’s forgiven you before and he will forgive you again.

“Yes, I got it,” was what came out of his mouth instead, glancing down at the list in front of him. The list with Jeremy’s name now marked off.

He couldn’t mess this up. Not again. He’d come too far.

= = = = = = = = =
​

“What the Hell is this?” Baxter watched in awe and confusion as Mr. Scorpane dumped a box out onto his desk. There was a CD and several hand written letters on the desk that separated the two. “This is your ticket in with Jeremy. This is how you win back his trust.” Baxter picked shuffled through some of the papers. “With a bunch of notes? I don’t think I get it.” “You dimwit, try to keep up. Jeremy has a bit of a secret admirer it seems. He mentioned receiving a CD before his first match from someone that helped fire him up for that match against the Backstreet Boy…but he’s been getting these letters ever since. Here, take a look at this most recent one he got before this upcoming match at Mile High.” Baxter lifted an eyebrow as Scorpane found the one in question, handing it over to Baxter to read. Dear Jeremy, I hope this note finds you well. It's certainly been a while, hasn't it? I hope you've been receiving my little "gifts" lately. Maybe it's a little weird after all this time but I just wanted to let you know, I'm still out here and I'm still thinking about you. There's so many people in this world who may try to lead you astray or take advantage of your good nature - so I hope these little gifts can help keep you on the right path. Oh, where does the time go? Oh, how I wish things could have been different. But I suppose life has sent us on two completely different paths. I still hope that one day our paths can once again cross again. And who knows? Crazier things have happened - for the both of us! And, Jeremy, I really just want you to know how PROUD I am of you. No one would've ever thought little scrawny ole Jeremy would ever make it as far as you have in wrestling. But here you are...not only have you realized your dream of making it to FWA but just two months into your time there and you've got a shot at the World Championship! Jeremy F' N Best...you never fail to amaze me. And that's the thing...you've had so many times over your life been told you couldn't do something. And one of the things I've always loved the most about you is that you never let that get you down. I really wish I could say I've been your biggest supporter or the one who has believed in you the most...I can't. Because that's always been you. You've believed in yourself when everyone else wouldn't dare to. Which is why I want to make sure that you never forget that. Right now you're about to take on one of the biggest moments of your life and I know I believe in you - but, don't you dare...for one single, solitary second, stop believing in yourself. You got this. I'll see you soon. -B Baxter let out a deep sigh as he put it down on the table. “What a psychopath, right?” Mr. Scorpane laughed. “So Jeremy has someone who seems to care about him. I can’t really relate but good for him. What’s this have to do with me?” “It has EVERYTHING to do with you, Bryan. These letters…these gifts…they are all signed by ‘B.’ YOU are B. Bryan. Baxter.” Baxter still wasn’t understanding. “No, they definitely aren’t from me, dude. I haven’t sent Jeremy anything.” Scorpane reached over and smacked Baxter across the head. In a rage, Baxter almost reached over and took a swing at Scorpane, but his agent stepped back and wagged his finger at the big man. “Woooaahh there big fella! Easy boy. No, of course you didn’t. But Jeremy doesn’t know that.” Baxter’s eyes grew wide as he was finally starting to piece together what Bill had in mind. “From now on, I’m going to make sure I intercept these little letters before they make their way into his hands. Which is why I’m actually flying out to Mile High for the show…so that I can be there and make sure that he gets his next message. A message that WILL be written by you! And you’ll say you want to meet up with him, and I’ll encourage him to do so. From there, it’s on you to make him trust you.” Looking over some of the other letters from ‘B,’ Baxter was hesitant. “I don’t know…” “Do you want this or not? Do you want a second chance in this business? A chance at the big times? “You know I do. That’s why I’m here.” “Then, you know what to do.” Mr. Scorpane slapped a blank piece of paper along with an ink pen down in front of Baxter. “Get to writing.” Nodding in agreement, Baxter took the pen and began to jot down the letter that would indeed be hand delivered to Jeremy after his brutal match at Mile High. The letter that would lead Jeremy back to that civic center in North Carolina where Bryan Baxter would be waiting for him. The place where the Buddy System’s reunion would begin.​

= = = = = = = = =

Bryan Baxter walked in through the sliding doors of the Marriott hotel he was staying at for Meltdown. He just wanted a good night’s sleep before heading back out and preparing for Lights Out. He now knew he would have his chance at earning a shot at some gold here in FWA with the Spooktacular. But it wasn’t bringing him the joy he thought it would.

His deal with the devil weighed on his mind. Robbing him of any excitement.

Walking through the lobby, Baxter stopped in his tracks. He looked to his right in the direction of the hotel bar.

If ever there was a night he could use a drink.

It was this night.

Tonight should be a cause for celebration. The Buddy System won a big match against Uncle and Caesar. Bryan was heading for Lights Out with his own big match. Both he and Jeremy could walk out of Lights Out with guaranteed title shots. And Jeremy had officially forgiven him.

But it was all a lie.

He had spent all this time earning Jeremy’s trust. But it all started with one, terrible, very bad lie.

Bryan had battled his demons. Fought off the addiction and returned from being homeless to where he was now. But as he watched the bartender pour a shot of whiskey for another patron…he found himself slowly walking in that direction.

And so he had a seat at the bar.​

 

[Jimmy King]

The Funeral


“I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea.”

“I mean, you did kill the guy.”

“It’s not like I was trying to kill him!”

Jason Randall and his girlfriend Penny are walking through a cemetery in the middle of the day. Randall is wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, while Penny is wearing a black dress, both opting to wear black for this occasion.

Penny: “Do you think anyone else is going to show up? Did he have a family?”

Jason Randall: “I don’t know if he had any family, but I think Marcus and Micah will be here to pay their respects on behalf of the Nephews.”

Penny: “I can’t believe you’re talking to Marcus again.”

Jason Randall: “It’s not like we ever had a falling out or anything; why is it a surprise?”

Penny: “It’s just that he showed up out of the blue one day and wanted to help you.”

Jason Randall: “In my defense, I don’t remember the first time he tried to help me. The second time felt like something out of a dream, but it did happen.”

Randall and Penny stop at a tombstone that reads:
​

“Here lies Frodo.”​

There is no birth date or day of death, which Penny finds odd.

Penny: “That’s it? No birth date or day of death?”

“That’s all Uncle felt was necessary.”

The familiar voice of Marcus McClain walks up near them and behind him is his brother Micah.

Penny: “That seems a bit disrespectful, no?”

Marcus McClain: “Uncle felt like it wasn’t important enough to dwell on the past, whether he meant the date of birth or day of his death.”

Micah McClain: “It could be a case of no one caring about this fool in the first place.”

Jason Randall: “Are any of the other Nephews coming?”

Marcus McClain: “What do you think?”

Micah McClain: “I don’t even know why we bothered to show up.”

Marcus McClain: “To pay our respects to a fallen Nephew.”

Micah McClain: “As I said, it isn’t like anyone cared about him. He wasn’t even a Nephew for that long.”

Jason Randall: “To be fair, he was a part of the group of Nephews that was fighting against us in that match.”

Marcus McClain: “It doesn’t matter; yeah, he chose that side and paid the price, but the least we could do is show him the proper respect.”

Jason Randall: “It’s not like I was trying to kill him; it just sort of happened.”

Micah McClain: “You don’t have to make excuses; this fool knew what he was getting into.”

Jason Randall: “Where are the clones and Captain Fantasy?”

Marcus McClain: “The clones are off doing something for Uncle, and as for Cap? I don’t know.”

“I’m here.”

Captain Fantasy walks up to the group and looks down at the tombstone.

Captain Fantasy: “Marcus is right; the honorable thing to do is pay respects to the fallen. No matter what side he was on.”

Penny: “Do you wear that suit everywhere you go?”

Captain Fantasy: “What’s wrong with this suit?”

Penny: “Nothing, just curious.”

Penny is about to laugh but looks around at everyone else and does her best to stifle it.

Captain Fantasy: “Someone should say something; what about you, Marcus?”

Marcus McClain: “I don’t know what I would say; I hardly knew him.”

Micah McClain: “All of us here barely knew this man!”

Jason Randall: “I’ll say something; it’s the least I could do.”

The rest of the group nods in agreement as Randall steps a little closer to the tombstone.

Jason Randall: “Frodo, you weren’t long for this world, and for that, I apologize. I know it sounds strange, what with me being responsible for your death and all, but I genuinely feel bad about it. Honestly, I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s been at the back of my mind ever since it happened. I’ve never been responsible for someone’s death, so it’s been a bit of a shock.”

“I think of it as a wrong place, wrong time situation for you. Your heart was right, and you just wanted to help. You wanted to be a Nephew more than anything, so you only did what felt right then. I have no ill will towards you, and I have ill will towards you trying to fight me. Again, you were just doing what you thought was right, and what I did was an act of self-defense. I did not expect you to pay the ultimate price when I did.”

“I know I should be focused on my next match with Tommy Bedlam, but I just wanted to come here and pay my respects. I will also dedicate my match with Bedlam at Lights Out in your honor because it’s the least I can do.”

“In the end, you made the ultimate sacrifice, and your sacrifice will not be forgotten.”

A moment of silence falls over the group as Randall hangs his head low. Penny looks at Jason and notices how shaken up he is over this. She’s never seen this side of him before. She holds her hand towards him and returns the gesture to hold her hand.

Captain Fantasy: “Well said, Randall.”

Micah McClain: “Does anyone have a 40 we can pour out for him?”

Marcus looks at his brother and shakes his head while everyone else isn’t sure how to react.

===============

A few hours after the funeral, Jason Randall and Penny are at a local restaurant and joined by Marcus, Micah McClain, and Captain Fantasy.

Marcus McClain: “Jason, earlier, you mentioned that you’re facing Tommy Bedlam at Lights Out?”

Jason Randall: “Yeah, I am. I was responsible for taking him out about six months ago, and now he wants to settle the score.”

Marcus McClain: “Tommy and his boys are responsible for taking me about before you came back. After Chris Crowe beat me, he was joined by Tommy and James Douglas, and they left me broken and battered.”

Micah McClain: “Those are the fools that left your blood on that title. Maybe Jason should finish what he started with Bedlam and take that fool out for good.”

Jason Randall: “I don’t have anything personal against Bedlam, but who would I be to deny him the chance at some retribution?”

Captain Fantasy: “That’s a truly noble thing to do.”

Micah McClain: “Man, forget all that! Didn’t those guys take you out too?!”

Captain Fantasy: “It was only Chris Crowe that left me a bloodied mess if I remember correctly.”

Marcus McClain: “I’m saying that Jason should watch his back and be careful with Bedlam. Bedlam may have changed, but for all you know, it could be a ruse, and he could have one of his old running mates jump you, and it’s a two-on-one affair.”

Jason Randall: “It’s extreme rules match, so technically, it wouldn’t be against any set rules if that were to happen.”

Marcus McClain: “Yeah, but still, watch out for yourself. We’ll be watching if you need any backup, okay?”

Jason Randall: “I appreciate that, but I want to do this alone. There’s no real bad blood between us, but that doesn’t mean I like the guy, and I’m going to take it easy on him. I still want to beat his head in and win the match.”

“Bedlam wants a fight, and I’m going to give it to him, but it’s not going to be any ordinary fight, and he’s not going to be stepping in that ring with any ordinary man. He’s going to be in there with The Wildcard, and he’s going to learn why stepping inside that ring with me is bad for your health.”

Penny: “There he is, there’s that old Wildcard.”

Randall looks up at the ceiling and points at it.

Jason Randall: “This one's for you, Frodo.”​

 

[Jimmy King]

Secular Spooktacular


“Hey, do you guys want to hear a scary story?”

Jackson Fenix asks as he’s sitting near a campfire in the middle of the woods in an undisclosed location. Fenix is joined by Nate Savage, Hazel Knight, Kung-fu Karl, Jimmy Boom Boom, and Chase Green.

Nate Savage: “You don’t know any scary stories.”

Jackson Fenix: “I do, too, know scary stories. Well, okay, just one story.”

Hazel Knight: “As long as it’s nothing too scary.”

Hazel cozies up next to Jackson and clings to his arm. Jackson smirks and wraps his arm around her.

Hazel Knight: “Being out here in the middle of nowhere in these woods gives me the creeps!”

Jackson Fenix: “You don’t have to worry about a thing, babe!”

Nate Savage: “I’m surprised you agreed to join us, Hazel. Especially because Jax has been ignoring your calls and texts.”

Jackson Fenix: “Bro, really?!”

Hazel pushes herself away from Jackson and smacks him on the shoulder.

Hazel Knight: “That explains a lot!”

Jackson Fenix: “Come on, babe, I’ve been busy, that’s all!”

Hazel glares at Fenix and angrily crosses her arms.

Jackson Fenix: “Not cool, Nate, not cool, man.”

Jimmy Boom Boom: “When will we get to this scary story?”

Kung-fu Karl: “Yeah, let’s hear it!”

Jackson Fenix: “Calm down, keep your pants on!”

Fenix adjusts himself on the wooden log he’s sitting on while Nate begins to make himself a s’more as he roasts a chocolate bar and marshmallow over the campfire.

Jackson Fenix: “Okay, my story begins in a cabin in the woods….”

Hazel Knight: “Like that movie, Cabin in the Woods?”

Jackson Fenix: “Yeah, but this is not like that movie. We join a group of people in this story as they arrive at a cabin in the woods….”

Before Jackson can continue with his story, there’s a rustling noise in the woods that stops him.

Jackson Fenix: “What was that noise?”

Hazel Knight: “I don’t know; why don’t you go check it out.”

Jackson Fenix: “What? No way! I have a story to tell! Hey, Kung-fu goober, you go check it out!”

Kung-fu Karl: “Ah, come on, I want to hear the story!”

Jackson Fenix: “Do it!”

Chase Green: “I’m sure it’s just an animal of some sort roaming around, don’t worry, Karl, you’ll be fine!”

Karl doesn’t seem reassured but sighs as he reluctantly goes to search for the source of the noise.

Hazel Knight: “Are you going to continue with your story?”

Jackson Fenix: “Yeah, I was getting to it.”

Nate finishes building his colossal-looking s’more and happily begins to munch away at it when a scream in the distance startles him and the rest of the group.

Nate Savage: “What was that?”

Nate says through a mouthful of chocolate, graham crackers, and marshmallows.

Jimmy Boom Boom: “It sounded like Karl; I sure hope he’s okay.”

Jackson Fenix: “Oh, he’s fine, don’t be such a baby!”

Jimmy Boom Boom: “I don’t know about that; he could be hurt.”

Jackson Fenix: “I’m sure he’s fine!”

Another scream comes from the distance where Karl had gone off to.

Jimmy Boom Boom: “I better see if he’s okay!”

Jackson Fenix: “Seriously? Fine, Chase, go with him, so he doesn’t do anything stupid!”

Chase Green: “I’m certain it’s just an animal, but it could be an animal attacking Karl.”

Jackson Fenix: “If that’s the case, then quit lollygagging around and see if he’s okay before an animal eats him up!”

Hazel Knight: “Why don’t you go?”

Jackson Fenix: “I have a story to tell, and I’m here to protect you.”

Nate Savage: “Plus, we have that Secular Spooktacular match at Lights Out, and Jackson doesn’t want to risk getting hurt before that.”

Jackson Fenix: “Yeah, that too. Who knows what other freaks we’ll have to deal with in that match? I can’t risk anything!”

Nate Savage: “There’s that vampire chick.”

Jackson Fenix: “Yeah, and all she’s done is beat up some boy band dweeb, big deal! Everyone has beaten them!”

Nate Savage: "I think Bryan Baxter is in it too. We definitely can't let that moron win!

There are more screams in the distance from where the others went off to.

Nate Savage: “I think there’s more than an animal out there.”

Jackson Fenix: “You’re right; we better get out of here!”

Hazel Knight: “What about the others?”

Jackson Fenix: “What about them? I don’t want to stay here and end up like them!”

Hazel Knight: “Some man you are!”

Hazel begins to storm off, but suddenly she’s grabbed by something and vanishes into the darkness without a peep.

Nate Savage: “Where’d she go? What happened? She disappeared into thin air!”

Jackson Fenix: “Screw this; let's get out of here!”

Before they can go, several ghoulish-looking creatures appear before them. The animals vaguely resemble other participants in the Secular Spooktacular, like Vampyra, Sawyer Xavier, Roderick Vasyl, Andersen Vega, MDC, Akihiko Kawaguchi, Bryan Baxter, and others. The ghouls begin to creep closer and closer to Fenix and Savage as Fenix cowers in fear while Nate stands his ground.

Nate Savage: “Come on, don’t be a wuss! Fight with me!”

Jackson Fenix: “What if only one of us wins and comes alive?”

Before Nate can answer, the two friends are shrouded in darkness as the ghouls creep in closer and closer until there’s nothing left of the two friends.

====================

“That’s it? That’s the story?”

Cut to the present day, and we find Nate, Jackson, and the others sitting around a campfire.

Jackson Fenix: “Yeah, man, that’s it.”

Nate Savage: “What happens to us?”

Jackson Fenix: “I don’t know.”

Hazel Knight: “Why did the rest of us die, though?”

Jackson Fenix: “No one died; it wasn’t real.”

Nate Savage: “What about the Spooktacular match? Who wins?”

Jackson Fenix: “I don’t know, but I hope it’s one of us.”

Nate Savage: “Does it matter who?”

Jackson Fenix: “Not really.”​

 

[Tommy Bedlam]

Tommy Bedlam in:
8 Seconds > 3 Seconds

As Tommy climbed out of his truck at the 53rd Annual Sweetwater Rodeo, he had a noticeable limp. His match against Phillip Jackson had clearly left him a little banged up, but the fact that he had beaten the former FWA World Champion made the pain a bit more bearable. He stood by the truck for a moment, looking around the parking lot for his guest for the evening. Soon, his pocket buzzed, and he pulled out his cellphone.

“Hey, Rocco. You almost here?”

“Already here, kid. Walking your way.”

Tommy let out an audible laugh, as Rocco Sullivan made his way across the parking lot towards him. Rocco had apparently made the decision to really dedicate himself to the evening’s festivities. Gone was the designer suit and expensive dress shoes he typically wore. They had been replaced with blue jeans, a pair of shiny, rather loud ostrich-skin cowboy boots, a pearl snap shirt, and a cowboy hat that was clearly too large for the head that it rested on.

“What in the hell happened to you?!” Tommy’s laughter was obvious, but the target seemed to take it in stride.

“You told me we were coming to a rodeo. I thought I’d look like a dumbass if I dressed normal. Isn’t this normal for you people?”

“Well, we sure can’t have you looking like a dumbass, can we?”

Tommy tried his best to suppress his laughter, but it was obvious that he was much more comfortable in a cowboy hat and jeans than Rocco. At least Rocco got some points for trying.

As the pair made their way through the gate, it didn’t take long for some of the crowd to recognize Tommy. A little boy ran up to him, obviously excited to see his favorite FWA superstar.

“Tommy! Hey Tommy! Will you sign my hat?” Before Tommy had a chance to respond, the little boy had pulled his cowboy hat from his head, and held it out towards Tommy.

“I sure will, buddy. Wait, I don’t have anything to write with.”

Without missing a beat, Rocco reached into the pocket of his cowboy shirt and pulled out a pen. He handed it to Tommy, who bent over and signed the hat. In a matter of moments, Tommy was surrounded by kids, each of whom wanted him to sign something. His transition from one of the most hated men in FWA to a hometown hero had been sudden, and secretly, Tommy wondered if he was really capable of living up to their expectations.

After signing about two dozen autographs, the crowd dispersed, and Tommy handed Rocco his pen back.

“I’m really gonna have to get used to that.”

“You’ll be fine. Isn’t it better than people calling you an asshole when you walk into a restaurant?”

“Eh, by the end I had pretty much quit going anywhere. I started hitting up DoorDash in whatever city we were in and stayed in my room most of the time.”

“Don’t blame you. There were a lot of online rumors about you. Hell, I started some of them.”

Rocco slapped Tommy across the back, as they shared a bit of an awkward laugh. With their tickets in hand, they made their way into the arena. The smell of bulls and horses wasn’t something Rocco was used to. He let out an audible gasp and covered his nose.

“What? You ain’t never smelled real life bullshit before?”

“Most of the bullshit I’ve dealt with came from you.”

Damn, the old man was really on his toes this evening. Tommy punched in a quick text message and started looking around the arena.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Uncle Jimmy. He’s riding tonight. That’s why we’re here.”

After a few moments, Tommy’s phone buzzed. He pointed to the other side of the arena, as he and Rocco started making their way around the large, dirt-filled ring in the center. Some more fans who recognized Tommy shouted at him as he walked by, and a few of them even yelled for Rocco. While some wanted autographs, Tommy politely informed them that he had somewhere to be.

After a brisk walk around the ring, Rocco was complaining about the boots. Tommy informed him that it takes time to break those in.

“At these prices, these things should come broken in!”

Suddenly, a man in his early 40s let out a yell that drowned out the noise of the surrounding crowd.

“Well I’ll be damned! Looky here, boys! Future FWA Champion, Tommy Bedlam! What’d you do, son, come here to steal my spotlight?”

Tommy threw his arms around the man who was even larger than him.

“We both know nobody could steal your spotlight. Uncle Jimmy, this is Rocc-“

“I know who he is! Rocco Sullivan! The best manager you ever had. Whole lot better than that other sumbitch. Jimmy Bennet. Pleasure to meet ya.”

Uncle Jimmy threw a massive hand out toward Rocco, who went for a typical business-like handshake. He was clearly caught off guard when Jimmy pulled him in for a hug.

“You don’t shake your friend’s hand around here, buddy. This is the south! We hug!”

Rocco, clearly addled by the culture shock quickly pulled himself back together.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bennet.”

“Ain’t none of that Mr. shit, neither. I’m Jimmy. You’re Rocco. Say, Tommy ever tell you about the time I caught him dipping snuff out behind the barn?”

“No, I can’t say as he has.”

“Listen, he got scared half shitless. Tried to hurry up and swallow it ‘cause he thought I was gonna string him up. Got so sick, he blew chunks all over the back of the barn.”

“And yet, you still walk around with a dip in all the time.” Rocco gave Tommy a look of disbelief.

“He didn’t realize I wasn’t gonna do anything. Hell, I’m only 7 years older than him. I always considered myself more of an older brother than an uncle. I went straight out to the Grab-n-Go, and bought him a new can.”

“How old were you when all this happened?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Jimmy, how old was I? 12-13?”

“You was 12. I was 19, bout to turn 20.”

“So, you just bought a 12-year-old tobacco?”

“Hell, that don’t matter around these parts. He had bought the can he puked up himself. They don’t ID nobody at the Grab-n-Go. I got enough stories on this youngin’ to keep you up all night.”

“I’d love to hear them!”

“Fellas, we’re not here to talk about me. Say, Uncle Jimmy, what bull did you draw?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told ya. I got Cyclone.”

“Not the same Cyclone that…”

“The very same one! What are the odds of that?!”

“Jimmy, don’t try to ride that bull. You know what happened last time.”

“Damn straight I know what happened last time. He threw me off 2 seconds in, stepped on my ankle and crushed it.”

“And you’re not afraid that he might do that again?”

“Ain’t no way for him to do that again. My ankle is titanium now. Even Cyclone can’t break a titanium ankle.”

As he finished his statement, a woman a few years older than Tommy walked up behind Jimmy. She put her arm around his neck and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek.

“Tommy, I don’t think you’ve ever met Suzy.”

“I don’t believe I have.”

As Tommy took off his cowboy hat and extended a hand, he was immediately distracted by the tall, gorgeous blonde who emerged behind Suzy.

Suzy quickly threw her arms around Tommy’s neck, embracing him.

“I have heard so much about you! Your uncle sure is proud of the way that you came back from your injury. Said it gave him the inspiration he needed to get back on a bull.”


The words, which should have resonated with Tommy seemed to fall on deaf ears. Instead, he was completely distracted by the blonde in her late 20s standing behind Suzy. Upon realizing what was going on, Suzy turned around.

“Oh, Tommy! This is my little girl, Randi! Well, I guess she’s not really little.”

“Randi. Pleasure to meet you.”

Tommy extended a large hand toward the gorgeous woman with his hat in his other hand.

“Oh. My. God. Tommy Bedlam! Mom told me that she was seeing your uncle, but I figured he was just bullshitting. You know how cowboys are.”

“Yes. Yes I do.” Tommy couldn’t hide the goofy grin that was plastered onto his face.

Inside, Tommy’s mind was racing. There was no way that a woman who looked like Randi really knew who he was. Surely, her mom had told her that she was dating a pro wrester’s uncle, and she had just Googled him.

“Listen, I watched your match against Phillip Jackson last week. That was un-fucking-believable.”

The girl certainly cussed like a cowboy. Tommy tried to get himself to stop being so impressed. She was probably just another “buckle bunny.” Hell, her mom was probably a buckle bunny, too.

“So, Uncle Jimmy, how did you and Suzy meet?”

Tommy asked the question in part because he was happy to see his uncle with a woman. He had taken his divorce a few months ago rather hard. He was also trying to determine if Suzy (and her daughter) were just a couple of good-time girls who liked to pick up cowboys at the rodeo.

“You probably don’t remember Suzy, but me and her dated back in high school. After me and that bitch got a divorce, I found her on Facebook. She was dating some guy, I shot her a message, told her that she should dump him, and we’ve been together ever since.”

So, she wasn’t a buckle bunny. Maybe Randi wasn’t either.

“Couldn’t you talk him out of doing this?” Tommy asked as he nodded toward the pens that held the bulls that were to be ridden.

“You know how this stubborn SOB is. Once he gets his mind set on something, there’s no talking him out of it.”

“Hey, me being so damn stubborn got me you, didn’t it?” Jimmy threw one of his arms around Suzy’s waist, picked her up into the air, and kissed her. “Listen, Tommy. Why don’t you and Rocco go with Suzy and Randi to watch the show?”

“Uh, I’m not sure where are tickets have us sitting. We can just get with everybody after it’s over.”

“After it’s over?!” What the hell was Tommy thinking?! If he could have kicked himself in the ass, he would have. Fortunately, Rocco realized the mistake.

“If we’re with the people who are with the cowboys, it doesn’t really matter what our tickets say, does it?”

“No, I guess it doesn’t.” Tommy shot a smile at Randi, who quickly responded with a smile of her own.

“Alright, folks. I’ve gotta go get ready. I’m up third. You all be over there cheering me on. I gotta get some payback against that damn bull.”

Tommy and Rocco allowed Suzy and Randi to lead the way to their seats. Tommy certainly wasn’t upset about the idea of walking along behind Randi. Her long legs paired with her barely-there cut off jean shorts were complimented perfectly by her boots.

“See, Rocco. That is how you wear a pair of cowboy boots.”

As the four Jimmy Bennet supporters made their way to a group of seats near the edge of the ring, Tommy made it a point to position himself between Randi and Rocco.

“Can we take a selfie? My friends will die if I post a picture with Tommy Bedlam.”

Tommy was not one for selfies. He had never taken one and hadn’t planned on starting that night. But, there was no way that he was going to tell Randi no.

“Of course.”

Randi held her phone up and quickly snapped five quick pictures.

“Jesus. How many of those did you take?”

“Well, I had to take a few so one of them would be good.”

“I can’t imagine you’ve ever taken a bad picture.”

Randi smiled a little bigger before scooting closer to Tommy.

“What’s your phone number? I’ll text you that picture of us.”

“325-409-1021.”

Within seconds, Tommy’s phone buzzed, and there was a message from a number he had never seen along with a picture of him and Randi.

“There. Now you have my number. Use it,” she said with a wink.

The rodeo started as most rodeos do. Barrel racing is a rodeo tradition, and the pretty girls riding horses as they whipped between barrels quickly captivated the crowd. Just before the intermission, there were 6 kids signed up for mutton busting. Mutton busting is a rodeo tradition in which small children ride sheep. It’s not particularly enjoyable, but the wives of cowboys’ love seeing their little ones out there following in their fathers’ footsteps. Randi clearly wasn’t that impressed with the show.

“So, you’ve got a big match coming up. Jason Randall. You think it’s gonna go any better than the last time you fought him?”

“Well, I sure as hell hope so.”

“I saw where Russnow made it a no-holds-barred match. Doesn’t that worry you? I mean, after the chair thing…”

“Eh, it just means I can use a chair too.”

“Why not fight somebody else? I don’t get it. You’ve only been back for a few weeks. You beat Nate Savage, you beat Phillip Jackson. You had never faced either one of them before. What made you call out the guy who tried to end your career?”

“Jesus Christ, are you some kind of journalist?”

Tommy wasn’t nearly as annoyed as he was letting on. He was rather enjoying the line of questions.

“Sorry. You probably don’t wanna talk about work. I'm just a big wrestling fan. Mom raised me on her own, so she worked two jobs most of the time. I'd sneak and set up late so I could watch. I never really grew out of it.”

“Nah, you’re fine. The whole Jason Randall thing is about payback. I wasn’t lying when I said I was going on a revenge tour. I felt like I was making progress when I got there-“

“You won a championship in your second match. You were doing great.”

“Then I got into business with Russnow, Johnson, Logan, Douglas, and Crowe.”

“Yea, even I was booing you by that point.”

“I hear that a lot. Anyway, things were rolling along, and then BOOM. Jason Randall puts me out with those chair shots. The next week, I had the match against Burr that I had no business in. Fucked my back up even more, and wound up out for six months.”

“So, you don’t think your career can really progress until you settle the score with Randall.”

“Exactly. I don’t hate the guy, but I want to fight him. It being an X-Rules match is just an added bonus.”

“Don’t tell me Russnow did that as a favor to you. You’re not back in with him, are you?”

“Oh, hell no. I think he just did it because it would improve ratings. People will watch me and Randall try to beat each other senseless, and the bloodier and wilder it can get, the better the ratings will be.”

“And once this match is over?”

“Then it’s over.”

“What if he wins? You know he may kick your ass again,” she said with a hint of a smile.​

“Yea, he might. I don’t need to win the match to get revenge. I just need to hurt him. But hey, it only takes three seconds, right?”

During the intermission, Tommy went and bought a round of beer for himself, Rocco, Suzy, and Randi. He got stopped a few times for pictures and autographs on his way back. He got in his seat and passed the drinks around just before the bull riding, the main attraction of the evening started.

The first bull rider of the evening, a man named Colt Johnson (a cowboy name if there had ever been one), didn’t put on much of a show. Within two seconds of the gate flying open, he had been thrown off his bull and crashed to the dirt. A group of rodeo clowns quickly sprang into action, doing what they could to distract the bull, a large white bull named Avalanche, so Colt could get to his feet and climb out of the ring. Women all around the arena swooned as Colt flashed a perfect smile to them, tipped his hat, and walked away.

The second competitor faired much better. Tommy vaguely remembered George Hawkins. The two had faced off in a couple high school football games, and both came from families who owned ranches. They were certainly never close, but it made Tommy feel a bit more at home to see another name that he knew. George had been riding in these rodeos since he was one of the kids doing mutton busting.

George came out of the chute on a massive brahma named Rocky. The beast lurched and jerked all over the ring as the timer that hung over the ring counted down. 8..7…6…5…George was going to do it. 4…3…2…suddenly, George was thrown to the ground with a violent thud. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath as George laid motionless in the dirt. Seconds felt like hours before he finally pulled himself up from the ground. He was obviously a bit battered as he picked up his once-white cowboy hat. He looked up to the scoreboard, saw that he had come up a couple seconds shy of the 8-second mark, but was pleased with the points the judges award him.

Finally, it was time for Uncle Jimmy. Tommy was somewhere between wanting to watch and afraid to see what was going to happen. Cyclone was the same bull that had crushed his uncle’s ankle. Even though Tommy wasn’t around for the entire rehab process, he knew that the process of getting back into riding had been a tough one. At one point, there had been so much damage to the nerves in Jimmy’s foot and ankle, doctors feared that he may never walk again. What were the odds of him drawing the same bull 14 months later?

The chute flew open, and Jimmy emerged, seemingly completely in control. The crowd was raucous, but Tommy didn’t hear any of it. He was completely focused on what was happening. Seconds ticked by, but each one felt like an eternity. Tommy glanced up at the clock above the ring. 7. Damn. He waited for what seemed like an eternity before he looked up again. 5. Holy shit. Was that thing broken?

Cyclone was known as one of the most vicious bulls in the local rodeo, but Jimmy appeared to finally have the beast’s number. 3 seconds to go. Was he going to do it? Was Jimmy finally going to pull it off? 2 seconds left. Would Tommy’s uncle, who had always been some combination of a best friend and a hero, finally win a giant belt buckle that he would probably never wear? 1 second left. It was happening. It was really happening. The buzzer sounded, and the crowd erupted. Randi jumped up and threw her arms around Tommy. He was more than happy to return the hug.

Tommy turned around and was greeted by a beaming Rocco.

“Holy fuck, kid! That was insane!”

How bout that? A city slicker like Rocco getting that into a rodeo? Tommy happened to glance back into the ring just as it happened. Jimmy had rolled off Cyclone and quickly bounced back to his feet. Just as he got near the metal rails that surround the ring, the bull suddenly turned back and charged at him. Jimmy, always willing to embrace the attention of a crowd, never saw it coming. A sickening crash resonated across the arena, and Tommy could hear Jimmy scream.

More rodeo clowns and event staff ran into the ring to lure Cyclone back into one of the chutes as a small ambulance drove into the ring towards Jimmy’s lifeless body. Suzy was crying, Rocco had gone from impressed to mortified, and Tommy was scared shitless. He dropped his beer and made a break for the ring. A security guard tried to stop him, but the 130-pound teenager who was making some quick cash was obviously no match for Tommy. Instead of trying to stop him, he simply stepped out of the way when Tommy shot him a glare.

As Tommy jumped into the ring, the EMTs were loading Jimmy onto a stretcher. They had already put him in a neck brace. There was blood coming from his nose and mouth. Tommy was certainly no doctor, but he knew that it wasn’t a good sign. Without asking permission from anyone, Tommy jumped into the back of the ambulance. One of the good things about being a big name in a small town was the fact that most people knew who you were. No one dared say a word to Tommy. He nodded to the EMT, letting him know that he would stay out of the way.

As the ambulance made its way out of the arena, Rocco, Randi, and Suzy all ran out of the building. Rocco didn’t know where anything in town was, so Suzy told him to just ride with her and Randi. They pulled out of the parking lot right behind the ambulance, Suzy’s emergency flashers keeping rhythm with the Jon Pardi song on the radio that no one in the car was listening to.

Tommy ran into the emergency room alongside the gurney, with Rocco, Randi, and Suzy close behind. A nurse told him that someone would update them as soon as there was news, and Jimmy was wheeled through two large double doors. The four accompanying guests grabbed four seats in the corner of the waiting area, and they waited.

The only thing that takes longer than eight seconds in a rodeo is waiting for hours in a hospital. Tommy wasn’t sure the hands on the clock were moving at all. Roughly two hours into their wait, a nurse came out and told them that Jimmy was being taken to surgery on the third floor of the hospital. She politely gave them directions to the waiting room there, and the cycle of waiting continued.

It was nearly 1:00 in the morning, and Tommy had had enough. He finally found someone who worked at the hospital and demanded an update on his uncle.

“Someone will let you know something when there’s something to know,” came the reply.

“Of course, they will,” Tommy mumbled to himself.

An older man appeared in the waiting room, with a small box in his hands. Tommy recognized him from the rodeo.

“Any word yet?”

“Nope. Not a damn thing.”

“Well, listen. I know this may not be much consolation, but can you give this to Jimmy when you see him?”

The older man extended his hand, and Tommy took the box from him. He flipped the lid open, revealing a massive, golden belt buckle.

“He won?”

“Sure did. Hell, he was the only guy who went eight seconds all evenin’.”

“Well, thank you. I’ll be sure he gets this.”

The older man walked away, and as Tommy looked at the belt buckle, he allowed his emotions to overtake him for the first time. He wasn’t usually an emotional person, and he damn sure wasn’t going to let Randi see him cry. Hell, even if Rocco realized what was going on, Tommy would be mortified. He put his head down.

“I’m gonna run and get us some coffee.”

He pushed his way through the waiting room doors and into the hallway and was suddenly overcome with emotion. Jimmy was more than an uncle, and now, after waiting for more than four hours, that fact was becoming all too real.

“Tommy. Tommy. Wait. I’ll go with you to get the coffee.”

Shit. It was Randi. Tommy tried to act like he didn’t hear her, but she was gaining on him quickly. Suddenly, he felt an arm around his shoulder, as he turned his head away to try to hide the fact that he was breaking down. The beautiful blonde whipped around in front of him, took his face in her hands, and forced eye contact. How could someone so small have so much power?

“Listen, it’s fine. You don’t have to be a macho man in front of me.”

Tommy nodded, chewing a hole through his bottom lip to keep himself from showing any more emotion. Silently, the two made their way to the hospital cafeteria where they got four large coffees. As they made their way back into the waiting room, Randi asked if there had been any update. Suzy shook her head, and Rocco struggled to stay awake in his uncomfortable chair.

They drank their coffees in silence as another hour ticked by. Tommy was starting at his phone, and Randi was starting at Tommy. Suzy was answering text messages, undoubtedly from friends of hers and Jimmy’s. Rocco had finally taken off the ridiculous cowboy hat and had gone back for more coffee.

Suddenly, an older man in a long white lab coat walked into the waiting room. His nametag read “Dr. Beckett.” He had a clipboard in his hand that he was looking at over the frame of his glasses.

“Is there a Tommy Bennett here?”

Tommy Bennett. No one had used that name in years.

“Yes sir. Right here.”

“You’re the next of kin for Mr. Jimmy Bennett?”

Next of kin? That sounded bad.

“I’m his nephew.”

“Well, that’ll do. Your uncle is out of surgery, and overall, I would consider it a success. The trauma that he suffered broke five of his ribs, bruised his liver, and completely destroyed his spleen. I removed the spleen, and I believe that was the source of the internal bleeding. The next 24 hours are going to be very critical, and I’m still concerned about the liver, but his body couldn’t handle any exploratory surgeries.”

“Can I see him?”

“You should be able to go back in a few minutes. He was regaining consciousness when I came out to speak to you all. Does anybody have any questions?”

“If there’s more liver damage, how will you know?”

“We will continue to do lab work while he’s in the hospital. He’s not going to be going anywhere anytime soon.”

“What does his spleen being removed mean?”

“It means he will be on insulin for the rest of his life. The spleen is the body’s natural way of producing insulin, which manages the blood glucose level. As long as he stays compliant with the medicine I put him on, he should be fine without the spleen.”

The doctor looked around the room providing an opportunity for anyone else to ask questions. When no one did, he nodded to everyone and made his way out.

Tommy took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. The clock on the wall said it was 2:42 AM, but it felt like he had been at the hospital for days. Within moments, a nurse appeared and told him that he could go see Jimmy.

Tommy made his way down the long, sterile highway towards room 228. He prepared himself for things to look terrible, so he was mildly surprised when he walked in the room and Jimmy was awake and looking around. Tommy shut the door behind himself.

“They bring my goddamn buckle?”

Tommy chuckled as he pulled the buckle out of his pocket.

“Look at that thing! That was just about worth breaking myself in half, losing an organ, and dinging up my liver. Hell, not like my liver needs a lot more damage.”

Tommy pulled a chair from the corner of the room closer to Jimmy’s bed and sat down.

“Hey, before you get too comfortable, you got a chew a man could get off ya? I spit my Skoal out as soon as I got on ole Cyclone, and ain’t had one sense. No idea what they did with my pants. Had a brand-new can in my back pocket.”

Tommy reached into his back pocket, pulled out a Skoal can, and handed it to Jimmy. He grimaced as he reached for it, but quickly displayed a satisfied look once he had the chew in his bottom lip.

“Hand me that bed pan.”

“You need to use the bathroom?”

“No. I need to spit.”

“You can’t spit in the bedpan, Jimmy.”

“Why the hell not? They want me to piss and shit in that thing. A little backer spit ain’t gonna hurt nothing.”

He had a point. Tommy handed him the bedpan, and he immediately dropped a huge wad of spit into it.

“Well, looks like you ain’t the only Bedlam on a revenge tour, does it?”

“I guess not.”

“Couldn’t believe my luck when I got to pick my own bull.”

Tommy wasn’t sure what Jimmy meant. Riders draw what bull they’re going to ride before the rodeo. They don’t pick them.

“What do you mean you got to pick your own bull?”

“I drew a wildcard.”

“A wildcard…”

“Yea. New thing they started about six months ago. Whoever draws the wildcard gets to pick their own bull. Everybody thought I’d pick Festus. He’s the oldest bull in the show. When I saw that big WC on my card, I took Cyclone.”

“Jimmy, why the hell would you pick a bull that almost cost you your foot?!”

“Because I wanted my revenge. Why are you getting in the ring with Jason Randall?”

“That’s different."

“Like hell. Listen, I ain’t no wrestler, but I guess cowboys and wrestlers got a lot in common. Both of us go from one town to the next, try to get ourselves killed, and just hope that we’re better than what we’re up against. You’re going up against your Wildcard, and I went up against mine.”

“Yea, and your wildcard damn near killed you.”

“And yours broke your back.”

“He broke some bones in my back, but I didn’t almost die.”

“Since when did almost ever mean anything? Did I die? No. Did I beat Cyclone? Yea, I did. You ought to be thrilled.”

“Why the hell would I be happy that I just spent the last 6 hours sitting in a hospital waiting on somebody to tell me whether or not you were dead?!”

Jimmy got a sneaky grin on his face.

“Because boy. Eight seconds is a hell of a lot harder than three.”

Tommy returned the smile and shook his head.

“You stupid son of a bitch. I guess you’re right. It only takes three seconds, right?”

With that, Jimmy was sound asleep. There was a bit of tobacco spit oozing from the corner of his mouth, but Tommy decided to just let it be. He made his way out to the waiting room so he could update everyone else.

“Looks like he’s gonna be alright. He’s asleep again. That medicine has him higher than a Georgia pine. He’s gonna be here for a few more days. The nurse told me that they would have him in a regular room by tomorrow morning. Suzy, do you think you’d be able to come by and see him tomorrow? Me and Rocco will probably leave early tomorrow and head on to New Orleans.”

"Of course.”

“Thanks. One of you can text me and let me know what’s up with him. He has my number-“

“And so do I.” Randi shot him another smile. Damn that smile.

“Yea, she does too. So if one of you can just keep me updated, that’d be great.”

“Actually, I won’t be here either. I just ordered a ticket for Lights Out.”

This girl was good.

“I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

“What? I have to be there to see my new friend on his revenge tour. I don’t think watching you on TV would be good enough.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what. Cancel that ticket and let me get you a better one than what you ordered online. Me and Rocco will make sure you have a front row seat.”

“For real?”

“Yea. And if you’d like, maybe you could just ride with us. I’ll handle your flight back to Texas after the show.”

“That sounds amazing!”

Tommy led the group out of the hospital, and they made their way towards Suzy’s car. She had already agreed to take Rocco and Tommy back to their vehicles at the arena. Tommy climbed in the backseat and expected Rocco to join him. He was quite surprised when Randi climbed in beside him.

Tommy knew it was important that he stay laser-focused on Jason Randall. Randall had certainly earned his reputation as “The Wildcard.” Russnow’s decision to make it an X Rules Match certainly wasn’t done as a favor to Tommy, and Tommy secretly believed it was done to make things more difficult on him. Giving someone like Randall access to weapons was Russnow’s way of letting Tommy know not to fuck with him.

None of that mattered to Tommy. If Randall, a man he respected, wanted to use chairs, tables, and whatever else he could get his hands on, Tommy would certainly go along with it. He had to make sure that he stayed focused on Randall. However, he wasn’t too upset about the idea of having Randi join him on the trip.​

 

[SupineSnake]

​

GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ are
[CTHULHU’S NEPHEWS]
in
”AFTERLIFE 1.0.”​

Raleigh, North Carolina. 2074.​

There are only a few guarantees in life. Unfortunately for us, death is one of them.

‘The Daredevil’ Gerald Grayson lived a very fulfilling life. In his younger days, he was known for his love of extreme sports. That love brought him to his next and greatest passion, wrestling, where he enjoyed a rollercoaster ride of a ten-plus year career. He won his fair share of championships, battled against bitter enemies, made friends that turned into family, and learned a lot about himself along the way. It was here he found the woman that would become his wife. Together, they would have five beautiful kids, twelve equally beautiful grandkids, and four only slightly less beautiful great grandkids.

Everyone hopes to live a life they can be proud of and Gerald did just that, until the fateful day that his impressively long and risk-filled existence caught up with him. Knowing his time was near, the proper arrangements were made in regards to the Daredevil’s assets for when that sad but inevitable moment would eventually come.

It had been a hard time for everyone after finding out there was nothing else the medical team could do for Gerald. It was quite dark to think that a machine was the only thing keeping Gerald 'alive'. Even more dark was the fact that, with a shell lying in his bed, those quotation marks could just as easily fit around the word 'Gerald'. After a month, the decision was made to pull the plug on said machine. It was a rainy and solemn Wednesday evening. Gathered around his hospital bed was Gerald’s wife, Denise, and their five kids, Daniel, Marie, Alexa, Jacob, and Zach. A lot of emotions were in that room that night: sorrow, fear, anger, and a lingering but abstracted joy for the long and fulfilled life that Gerald had led. When the doctor came in, the room somehow grew even more silent. As he neared the tube that would disconnect Gerald from this world and send him blissfully into the next, the doctor glanced at Denise for the go ahead. With tears running down her face, she looked to her children, who consoled her, then back at the doctor, giving him a woeful nod.

The machine let out an almost ceremonious beeping noise before being shut down by the doctor and the medical team, who didn’t overstay their welcome. At exactly 9:23pm, the Daredevil left this world and passed on to the next. Just like that, Gerald’s life was over, or so he thought.

And then, a subtle pop.

Gerald's ghost left his body and hovered above the shell. He looked down at his wife, his children… the happy and hopeful family that had emerged out of his and Denise's shared love. He smiled to himself. This was it. Not the championships. Not the wins. They all meant something, too, but this was it.

’Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched in some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so as long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away.’​

Gerald had read Fahrenheit 451 and a million other science fiction stories in his ninety and change years on the Earth, but now - looking down at his family from his ethereal perch - he really understood what the words meant.

“That took fucking ages.”

The voice came from above him, and, although thinner and more delicate than it once was, it was a tone that he recognised immediately. He turned around as best he could whilst still deciphering the physics of being a ghost to see Michelle glaring back at him with an air of impatience. She was also a spirit, and was also old, but maybe not as old as he was.

“What are you doing here?” Gerald asked, earnestly.

“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” Michelle replied. “Would’ve been handy for you to die first, tulip. My death sequence would’ve been more entertaining. Anyway, I’m here to fetch you.”

Gerald understood what she meant. He was to go with her now, as he had done so often as a young man. But, like Orpheus and Eurydice, he glanced back at his mourning family. They were still gathered around his shell… still clinging onto him. He found he didn’t want to leave.

“Can we not stay a little while longer?” he asked, hopefully.

"No," Michelle said, firmly. "I've waited a long time already."

Gerald sighed. Acquiesced.

"Where do we have to go?"

"I guess the concept is the same as your heaven," she began. "But I don't think they call it that here. Either way, it's up."

Gerald was no stranger to great heights, and nor was the sensation of flying as alien to him as it was to most other human beings. Still, he couldn't help but register awe as their spirits ascended through the stratosphere and looked down upon creation. To see the curvature of the Earth without so much as a parachute strapped onto him, and indeed to do so whilst experiencing true weightlessness for the first time, was a powerfully stirring thing that the old Daredevil breathed in readily. He wished to savour it. To remember it.

Michelle, on the other hand, had her eyes firmly closed and a pained grimace etched upon her face. It appeared that the lack of an aeroplane was not quite enough to alleviate her fear of flying.

Before long, they arrived at a single stratocumulus crowd that was perhaps a little whiter and a little fluffier than the others in the vicinity and hovered idly over the Horn of Africa. The Daredevil had expected to see the pearly gates, and was quite looking forward to observing their alleged magnificence, but was nonplussed to arrive at a single door that reminded him more of the entrance to a speakeasy. Michelle gave it three sharp knocks, and a few moments later it opened slightly ajar. A furrowed brow and a bristling moustache appeared through the gap.

"Ah, you're back!" the voice said, with warmth and kindness. "And you brought a friend!"

"Is that…?" Gerald began, but before he could finish asking the question it was answered for him. The Moustached Maverick himself stepped out of the doorframe, a broad smile on his somewhat pallid face. The first thing that Gerald noted was that, despite Michelle being how he remembered saying goodbye to her at the harbour when she was a little over sixty, and he himself being as he was when he passed at the age of ninety-something, Krash was still young. Pale and deathly, most certainly, but otherwise in his prime and precisely how he'd appeared on the night of Back in Business XVI.

"Yes, it's me!" the White Wolf started. As he spoke, he lifted both of his arms into the air and a few litres of lake-water spilled out of his sleeves. Only then did Gerald realise that the Maverick wasn't a ghost in the traditional translucent sense, and seemed reasonably solid even if a little gaunt. "Your good friend, Krash. And by your, I'm talking about both the royal you and you specifically all at the same time. They call me Saint Krash now. The guardsman on the door."

"Well, guardsman," Michelle interrupted. "I've done what you asked. I waited for him. Can I come in now?"

"You couldn't come in before?" Gerald queried.

"Something about dubious moral convictions," Michelle started, before shrugging her shoulders and trailing off.

"There's a separate place for the bad guys," St. Krash said. He whispered the last three words whilst pointing with an index finger towards the ground. Or he would've done, if cloud had ground. "But yes, everything appears to be in order. Now that the Connection has reconnected, I see no problem in welcoming you. If you'll please follow me, and close the door behind you."

The duo followed St. Krash up a long, narrow corridor, and as they ventured deeper and deeper into the stratocumulus they experienced yet another strange and new sensation: that of their weight returning to them. By the time they reached the other end of the corridor and another door not dissimilar to the first, their feet were planted firmly upon the ground again.

Heaven was much bigger on the inside. In fact, when St. Krash opened the interior door, revealed within was a large skyscape made up primarily of cumulus clouds, but with clusters of altocumulus and a floor of stratus. The three of them walked down a path signposted as Altostratus Street that snaked across the sky towards a great city of glass buildings that climbed up through the clouds.

"So, what do you want to do today?" St. Krash asked, as they reached the boundary of the sky city. "The Big Guy has assigned me to show you around, and we can do almost anything you'd like to. Maybe you'd like to go to the Nephew Compound? With the rate at which Nephews have been killed off and more created over the last fifty years, inhabitants of the Compound make up fifteen to twenty percent of our population. Lots of old faces to see there. Or maybe you'd like to see your brother, Gerald? Remember him? He lives on Nimbus Auxiliary with a bunch of other semi-familiar figures you may or may not recognise. Good pizza on Nimbus Auxiliary."

"Can we go and meet The Big Guy?" Michelle asked.

"Who's The Big Guy?" Gerald enquired, whilst craning his neck in a futile attempt to take in his surroundings. "Like, the Boulder? Or Stu Grimes?"

"I doubt it's literally a big guy," Michelle mused.

"You can't meet him yet," St. Krash interrupted. "You only just got here, and he won’t see visitors on their first day. But there's plenty of other things to see! How about Ollywood?"

Krash pointed to a series of large, pink, block letters that were mounted on a distant rolling cloud that resembled a snow-covered hill.

"That's sort of like our celebrity wing. Someone stole the H. You could hang out with Tom Jones or Julius Caesar or Eric Bana, if that's how you'd like to unwind."

"Eric isn't at the Nephew Compound?" Gerald asked.

"Only when he's cleaning it," the Wolf continued. "Or there's the Ryan Hall of Records. We've just finished archiving. Lots of stories that needed to be told in there."

"That sounds perfect," Gerald declared, all of a sudden. "I've wanted to relive the Fall of '22 for nearly five decades now. I knew it was important at the time, but… not until afterwards did the gravity of it all really hit me. What it all meant. Let's go there."

"Come on, Gerald," Michelle began, with a roll of her eyes. "You only died an hour ago, and already you want to start traipsing through the past? I didn't wait decades for you to get into heaven so that I could study tape. Strategy and analysis are earthly concepts, tulip. And so are the tag team championships."

"Tag team championships?" the Saintly Wolf interjected. "I could tell you a thing or two about the tag team championships…"

"Let's just go to the Compound. Quiet will know the score here by now."

"Considering you needed me to get here in the first place, I'd think you'd be more accommodating toward my wishes," Gerald said, whilst folding his arms stubbornly. "We're going to the Ryan Hall of Records."

They did just that. Standing next to the door was a huge guard in the regalia of a Roman Centurion, which - unbeknownst to our protagonists - was bequeathed upon to him by his best friend in a previous life. As the trio approached, the large man lifted the visor of his helmet, which allowed water from the North Sea that had pooled there to spill out and escape through the clouds.

"St. Krash!" he bellowed, as the Wolf reached him with a sturdy handshake. So much water was spilling out of their respective garments that a puddle was forming between them. "And you've brought the new arrivals! Come to see the Ryan Hall of Records? Maybe you'd like to rewatch Fallout 013? Always been one of my favourites."

St. Stu opened the door to the Hall, and he and Krash followed after the Connection as they made their way inside.

​

Before long, the pair were settled on an old but comfortable couch within the main chamber of the Hall, which had as its dominating feature a huge flat-screen television that hung from one of its walls. Everywhere else in the chamber, and indeed in the Ryan Hall of Records as a whole, the walls were lined with bookcases crammed full with betamax tapes. These tapes chronicled the long and storied histories of the organisation Gerald and Michelle had called home for a good portion of their lives. Gerald seemed to be comforted when surrounded by this tapestry of interwoven stories, and upon gaining entry into the Hall he’d spent some time reading the hand-written information on the spines of the cassettes. Michelle, on the other hand, looked upon the archive with dull and passive eyes, and yearned for the debauchery that she felt sure Quiet would be throwing himself into in the Nephew Compound.

But instead, the pair were settled on an old but comfortable couch within the main chamber of the Hall, as St. Stu prepared the first tape for the projector and Krash equipped them each with a tall glass of homemade lemonade.

​

[XIX]​

Aka Yurei: "Where's your boy?"​

Michelle shrugs.​

MvH: "Bathroom, or something. I don't know. We aren't tied at the hip. But there's one thing we are of one mind and body on..."​

Von Horrowitz takes a step towards the two and taps on Reagan's belt, her sly smile still in place.​

MvH: "Gerald wants those belts, and I want to give him what he wants."​

“Ah yes, a confident Dreamer. I remember this well,” Gerald noted with a grin. Michelle looked in his direction as the two shared a nod.

The clip continued to play, Gerald’s demeanour shifting as their Lights Out ‘22 opponents came into greater focus.

​

[XIX]​

Reagan Cole: "Sure. This is for Gerald. Not for Danny, in the slightest."​

Michelle stops in her tracks, turning around to Cole with a cocked eyebrow. She doesn't respond, but her facial expression suggests she wants elaboration or clarification. It's Reagan's turn to smile, now that he has her on the backfoot.​

Reagan Cole: "The boys all know about Danny's daydreams, Michelle. Yours too, bud. You know about the F1, as much as I do. And you know this is your ticket to entry. Your pathway to Danny."​

Cole takes a step forward, emboldened.​

Reagan Cole: "None of this is about Gerald, it rarely is about Grayson these days if we’re being honest. It's all about you and Danny. At least in your mind."​

“They tried to throw you off by bringing up your World Title aspirations? That’s an old line… and predictable,” Gerald said whilst looking at Michelle, holding his cheek in his hand. He turned back to the screen to observe the rest of the clip. “Can’t say I blame them… after what happened with Bell…”

“Again, Gerald?" Michelle rolled her eyes. “Still not over all that? Even with another half a century to process it all?”

“I’m just saying, it’s a good point. Even if a tired one. You can’t tell me Bell didn’t divide your attention between her and the tag team championship match we had against Golden Rock.”

The memory stung as if it happened not too long ago. It was difficult to believe it had been fifty four years, now.

"Tag team championships?" the Saintly Giant interjected. "I could tell you a thing or two about the tag team championships…"

On the screen, Reagan Cole summarised Dreamer's character and concluded that she only wanted to win the tag team titles so that she’d be a shoe-in for the F1 tournament. Gerald shot Michelle a questioning look: one that suggested he saw some truth in Reagan’s words. She returned his gaze with a glare of her own as the big screen fizzled out like the end of a home video.

“Well?” Gerald questioned.

“Well what?” Michelle instantly retorted.

“Was he right?

“Seriously Gerald? Even at this point in our lives you doubt me?” Dreamer said, flashes of annoyance in her tone.

“Everything they said in that clip is factual, Michelle. I’m afraid to say it, but Lights Out ‘22 was just… history repeating itself,” Gerald stood from his seat, putting his hands in his pockets, looking to Michelle to respond.

“Let me tell you about history, Gerald. For the longest time, I used to sit back and accept that history was destined to repeat itself. But I don’t think that anymore. History is meant to be changed. And if not us, who? That’s the attitude we should have had in ‘22. The way we should’ve looked on the Ghouls’ weak reign. I might be stubborn, but I’ll learn a lesson, eventually.”

“At least you know you’re stubborn,” Gerald said nonchalantly. Michelle stared a hole through him, which Gerald tried to hide from.

“You were never one to pick your battles, huh?”

“One rarely needs to pick battles at all, if things are set up separately from the start,” Gerald said, sitting back down, as St. Krash signalled for the next clip to be shown. St. Stu began to busy himself with the next betamax tape. “I’d like to think it was one of the things that made us work.”

Michelle said nothing, slouching into her seat, wanting to be anywhere but where she was at that exact moment.

​

[XX]​

She grabs Cole and drags him up onto the top of the table, before hooking both of his arms…​

Anzu Kurosawa: "MvH is looking for a double arm underhook DDT here, and Reagan Cole is in no position to defend himself."​

Rod Sterling: "But what's this?! Gerald Grayson reappears, and he drags Cole away from von Horrowitz and the table!"​

GG allows Cole to slump to the floor before turning back towards Michelle, who is still standing on top of the table and is looking down at her partner with a look of annoyance on her face. She fumes at Grayson, spit appearing from her lips as she says…​

MvH (off-mic): "… the fuck?!"​

“Reagan Cole better have thanked you at some point in your lifetime after you saved him from… whatever I was going to do to him,” Michelle suggested. Now that she thought about it, she couldn't quite remember what she had planned for Cole in Vegas.

“Now that I think about it, I don’t think he did. Ungrateful doesn’t even cover it.”

​

[020]​

MvH steps up onto the apron on one side of the ring, Maid of Death and NOE-I doing the same but on other sides. Dreamer has a smile on her face, whilst the other two women look focussed on the task at hand. Michelle seems to be the only one getting any enjoyment out of it.​

The fans have been booing freely up to this point, but there’s a positive pop when Gerald Grayson appears on stage, just as the three women climb up onto the apron. He strides down the ramp, getting Michelle’s attention when he’s at the bottom of it. Dreamer glances between her tag team partner and the champions, still stood side-by-side in the ring.​

Gerald Grayson (off-mic): “This isn’t how I want to do this…”​

Michelle thinks about this for a moment whilst maintaining eye contact with Gerald.​

Gerald Grayson (off-mic): “Please, just this once… we do it my way…”​

The two sat for a moment in stoney silence as the clip ended.

“We had a lot of issues back then, huh?” Gerald said eventually, smiling to himself after the memories they just watched. He proceeded to put his hands on his head, almost surprised that he put up with so much, before letting out a sigh. He turned to his right and met the eyes of Dreamer, who didn’t back down. He was smiling. “That was a lot of fun.”

“Which part?” Dreamer questioned.

“Well, seeing you hit Reagan Cole with a chair, first of all. I regret stopping you from carrying on now,” Gerald said, chuckling as the Connection shared a laugh. “But the whole thing we went through in FWA. Fun times. Really fun times…”

Gerald paused, reminiscing about the past. His smile turned into a frown as his eyebrows furrowed.

“It’s difficult to hear them talking to you that way,” Gerald said, looking at Michelle apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s no big deal –”

“No, it is,” Gerald cut her off. “People don’t see that you’re actually a good person. We wouldn’t have been a tag team for long if you weren’t.”

Michelle just shrugged.

“They don’t understand that not every tag team works the same way,” Gerald paused. “But when it came down to work, we worked our asses off in all aspects… and we did it together. We trained. We watched film. We talked strategy. These are just some of the things we did to prepare for our matches. But no one knows that.”

“It’s not a big deal, Gerald,” Michelle said. ”And we can probably stop doing all of those things now that we’re dead, you know?"

“It pisses me off so much that people discredit you for not being a team player.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve heard worse,” Michelle said. ”So have you.”

“No! You’re a good person, Michelle!” Gerald stood from his seat, startling everyone. “You were there for me EVERY TIME. Even when I didn’t know I needed someone, you were there. You weren’t just there for me, you were there for my family. From Daniel’s birth to Zach’s birth, all of my kids’ first days of school, even when Denise and I had problems… you were there.”

Dreamer gulped.

”Even with eternal life, I don’t have time for this, Gerald,” Michelle quipped, attempting to cut through her partner’s melodrama with humour. ”You’re in a minority of one, tulip. You said it yourself: nothing that Reagan or Aka said was untrue. It doesn’t really matter what you want to do. It only matters what you end up actually doing.”

Suddenly, the doors to the Ryan Hall of Records burst open. At the doorway, St. Stu fell to the marble ground with a withering groan. The culprits were clear as day: the Spirit Walkers, Aka Yurei and Reagan Cole, stood either side of St. Stu’s body.

“STUUU!!!” St. Krash exclaimed, falling to his knees in despair next to the felled giant. "Oh, it's just a flesh wound."

“Aka? Reagan?” Gerald squinted his eyes in question. Meanwhile, Michelle stood from her seat and balled her fists, ready to throw hands.

“Why are we here, St. Krash?” Aka questioned.

“We don’t belong here. We belong up there at The Big Guy's side. We didn’t use a chair as a weapon on a fellow competitor, who still to this day can feel the effects of the chair shot, like someone over there, standing next to Gerald Grayson,” Reagan said, his insinuation clear.

“Hey, fuck you!" Michelle began, with a healthy amount of indignation. "You want to come here and cause a fuss? Here of all places? I wasn’t the best person on earth, but even I’m smart enough to know not to start anything in the afterlife. But if that’s the route you want to go, Reagan, let’s go!"

“No, this is not the way,” Gerald said, looking at Michelle. “I was right before and I’m right this time. This isn't how I want to do this..."

A lengthy and uneasy silence descended, during which St. Stu climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. St. Krash, meanwhile, observed the situation and sensed that the tension might spill over if not for a timely and measured intervention.

“How about chess?” the Wolf suggested. “Chess is big here.”

“Fine, anything,” Michelle said, whilst folding her arms and shrugging her shoulders. “If you win, we’ll leave this place and head downstairs. Have a beer in the Banned Bar with the redacteds. See how many masks James Sync is wearing now. But… if we win, you’ll leave us the fuck alone. We’ve watched a fair bit of your tape today, and I’m sick of the pair of you.”

“We’re the white pieces,” Aka demanded. “Fetch the board, Stu.”

A few moments later, the quartet was seated around a table, Aka and Reagan behind the white pieces and the Connection across from them, commanding the black. Gerald wasn’t one for chess, really, and so hung back slightly and placed his faith in his tag team partner.

“Timed?” Michelle asked.

“What’s your rush?” Aka said. “You’re infinite now. Classical.”

"As you wish."

​

Aka was forthright in taking her opening move, and then sat still with a focussed look about her. Reagan seemed to be taking on the Gerald role in the partnership, sitting further away from the board but monitoring his teammate for any sudden changes in demeanour or countenance. Michelle carefully observed the aged Aka in front of her: her brow was wrinkled by years and furrowed further by focus. Michelle smiled at her useless endeavour.

"Gerald?" she said.

"Michelle?" he replied.

"You think they call Saint Sulley St. Saint Sulley here?"

"I doubt he's up here…"

"Well, I'm here. Don't rule it out."

​

“You’re barely even focussing,” Aka said, when Michelle had moved her piece and begun to stare about herself absently. “Same as ever. Death hasn’t changed you.”

“Just worry about your own game,” Michelle replied, with a slight smile. Aka wasn’t wrong, though: Dreamer’s focus had been drawn away from the game and onto St. Krash, who was whispering into a headset a few paces away from the action.

​

“It’s like everyone always tells you,” Reagan interjected, remaining aloof from the game with his arms folded. Despite this abstraction, he still felt his analysis worthy of voicing. “Your mind is too clouded. Too frantic. You can’t win this way.”

“Is that so?” Michelle asked, though she wasn’t really listening for a response. Instead, she watched St. Krash reapproach their board whilst absently groping for her bishop. She spoke to Aka without looking at her. “A knight on the rim is dim. Do you even know how to play?”

Aka only scowled as Dreamer slid her piece across the board.

​

“Who was that?” she queried of the moustached saint. The Wolf now loomed over them again as he re-examined the board.

“Barely even focussing…” Aka repeated. “She’s the black pieces and she’s barely even focussing…”

​

“That was The Big Guy,” Krash said, ignoring the Ghoul’s complaints and addressing Michelle’s question. “He said he’d be happy to meet the winner of this game in the treehouse. Unheard of, really, considering it’s your first day here. But who am I to argue with The Big Guy?”

“They’re not going to win,” Reagan argued.

“I think they’re probably going to win,” the Saintly Wolf offered, as von Horrowitz reached forward for her queen.

​

A bead of sweat formed on Aka’s forehead. Michelle yawned.

“Zero hubris,” Aka said. She sighed deeply whilst making her move. Defence was all she thought of, and it blinded her to the real attack.

​

“How far is it?” Michelle asked whilst standing from the board. Gerald reached over to make the final move. He didn’t really know the rules, but had seen Michelle play often enough to finish the sequence.

​

“Checkmate,” he said. Aka’s eyes scanned the board, her indignance taking a turn towards rage.

“Did you cheat?” Aka asked. The Connection were already following St. Krash out of the Ryan Hall of Records.

​

Gerald seemed to have an extra spring in his step as he and Dreamer followed the Saintly Wolf and the Saintly Giant up Altostratus Street. The cloud upon which they walked was perennially dampened by the two waterlogged guides that went before them, but the Daredevil still felt buoyed by the events in the Ryan Hall. Dreamer fancied that her partner found closure in their chess victory: closure that was denied to him five decades ago. She didn’t want to burst his bubble, and so let him continue in happy ignorance. Aka and Reagan were only the first obstacle, even if the road had already been a long one to even reach this point. More challengers would begin to circle soon enough.

Before long they arrived at the base of a great tree whose roots delved into a particularly sturdy cumulus at the end of Altostratus Street. Around its thick base wound a staircase, which the party promptly began to climb. Occasionally they would stop at a viewing platform to look down over the sky city as a whole: a sprawling metropolis, bustling with alumni. Dreamer sighed, and lamented the prospect of an eternity here. But, as was so often the case in life, she had dug her own grave.

At the top of the staircase they came to a large treehouse that had been built with glass in the highest branches. It wasn’t guarded, and a bright light emanated from within. Now that they were here, the Connection hesitated to go any further. The Saints turned towards them when they reached the door and noticed that their guests hadn’t followed.

They opened the door, white light spilling out and dancing amongst the tree’s golden leaves. It was Gerald who steeled himself first, marching through the doors and disappearing into the brightness. Only at the sight of her partner accomplishing this did Dreamer find the nerve to do the same.

Inside they found the light’s source. At the end of the room, seated in a meditative position on a raised platform, was a figure in a long, white robe. He looked as though He was deep in prayer, or at least in thought, and that He was blissfully unaware of the presence of the newcomers.

Michelle and Gerald waited, more out of awe than patience.

Eventually, when He was ready, the figure stood up, and as He did gallons of dirty lake-water spilled out of the folds of His long, white robe. Around His head - pale from His premature drowning - was a sodden red bandana, and when He turned to look at them He did so with sad and cold eyes.

"You?" Michelle asked, somewhat dismissively. "Why you?"

The Saintly Rockstar smiled.

"This place exists only in one of your consciousnesses, or perhaps an amalgamation of the two. I am here because I handed you one of your two defeats, and the bigger of the two by some degree of magnitude. The other came courtesy of St. Krash, here. Whilst St. Stu never faced you in the ring, you stood aside so that he and his Roman friend could address other concerns. The business with the Ghouls perhaps would never have happened if not for him. That is why I am here. Why each of us are here."

There was a pause as the duo bathed in this saintly figure and the bright light that sprung forth from him. It took Michelle’s voice to break the spell.

“You mean that all of this,” she began, whilst gesticulating in the general direction of the sky city below them. “Was to teach us a lesson about the tag team championships?”

"Tag team championships?" the Saintly Rockstar interjected, with a cunning smile. "I could tell you a thing or two about the tag team championships…"

“We all could,” the Wolf spoke up from behind them. He placed a hand on Gerald’s shoulder as he went on. “I was once like you were, Daredevil: constrained by my own sense of morality, but indebted to or enraptured by another without those same bonds. Only when I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb, so to speak, and gave myself up entirely to this other, did I achieve what you have now set out to accomplish. It is up to you whether it is worth this price.”

“I disagree,” the Giant said, whilst stepping out of the shadows to join the dialogue. He had his arms folded, and seemed to look at the Wolf reproachfully. “I know the sort of relationship you speak of, Krash, for the bond between Cornelius and myself was not dissimilar. But… you’re right to not sacrifice who you are and what you believe, Gerald. You shouldn’t throw yourself in, but rather continue to drag Dreamer from the darkness. This is the way to the gold and to the light.”

The Daredevil seemed conflicted, the contrasting advice weighing on him. He looked to Michelle for help. She reached out with her hand. The Rockstar spoke again before he could take it.

“How you conduct yourself in the ring,” He began, carefully. “Is irrelevant. The path to success can be paved by betrayal or by righteousness. But you must learn from the mistakes of your past. It is a shame that my partner cannot be here to tell you the same. Even if our own relationship is soured, he would agree with me on this point. But he is downstairs, with Alyster and Cornelius, where old rivalries no doubt still rear their ugly heads. You didn’t lose to us fifty four years ago because Michelle cheated too much. Nor did you lose because Gerald didn’t cheat enough.”

“Then why did we lose?” Dreamer asked, when the Rockstar paused and seemed to require prompting.

“You lost because of your obsession. With the sea, as you used to call her. And now you begin down the same road again, at the end of which lies only defeat. A different obsession, but an obsession nonetheless. History repeats itself. Time is a flat circle.”

The Connection remained silent for a few moments, processing His words. Gerald’s hand finally found Michelle’s.

“Isn’t all of this in the past anyway?” Michelle finally queried. “What’s the point in re-hashing it now, half a century later?”

“No,” the Saintly Rockstar said. “This is just a dream.”

Suddenly, the until now serene bright light flashed in anger, and lightning blinded Michelle and Gerald. The roar of thunder turned into a baying crowd. The bright lights now hung from the edge of a coliseum.

Across the ring were two figures. Not the Wolf and the Prodigy, nor Mile High's Bane. Just a couple of ghouls.

The opening bell rings.

 

[AON]

Ah, nature.

From the rich brown earthen hues of the forest grounds to the sweetness of the blue-white sky, the forest is a three-dimensional wonderland for those willing to absorb the lights. It is a place of ancient souls, of the creatures who dwell with the sweet sounds of moving water and bird songs. Somehow this is more home than our actual homes.

The camera zooms across one of these majestic landscapes; it's autumn, and the forest floor was absolutely coated with leaves, red. Orange. Browns. The seasons may be harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers yet rendering them all the more beautiful. The trees surrounding us have the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that might remind the viewer of gently lapping waves; even the moss colour is kelp-like. If you were to put your hand against the tree, it would feel soft and damp, yet your fingers would come away dry. The tree branches were several tall houses, reaching towards the golden rays of autumn where the bird song comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and singing working together as any improvised melody.

Tell you what; This is unconventional, but it's been a tough time for us all in a world where everyone seems to be increasingly insane or angry, so why don't we all just enjoy the lovely peaceful silence for a moment?

*Deep breath in*

........

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT-!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A harsh, grating, impossibly loud hum cut through the tranquillity like a knife as the giant oak tree began to shake and simmer noticeably before very slowly it began to tilt to the side and-

TIMMMMMMMBBBBBBBBER.

WHAM-!

With an all-encompassing THUD-! The mighty oak tree slams into the ground, the base of it staying where it is, but the vast majority of the tree is now lying in a useless heap.

And with the tree no longing blocking our collective view, we can now see exactly whose responsible, as we see standing behind the ex-tree two ....well...They are technically men, but with how tall and large they are, it would be more fitting to refer to them as monsters or even man mountains, their massive frames blocking out the sun, clad head to toe in matching flannel, and both looking totally identical to each other, the only difference between the two is the fact that the one on our left has a massive chainsaw slung over his shoulders like it was a toothpick. (It's worth pointing out that the one with the used chainsaw was busy taking off a pair of safety goggles because no matter how big and tough you happen to be, only a fool would ignore basic safety measures. A gosh darn fool!)

They both regard the fallen tree with no small amount of satisfaction, both seemingly out of breath but enjoying themselves nonetheless; they both share a fist bump with two fists bigger than most people's heads before the one with the chainsaw makes a move towards the discarded tree and the other finally making his way towards the camera, pointing at the man behind the camera, seemingly asking the person behind it if the camera is rolling before speaking in a low growl of a voice.

Dan Lupone: "As you probably guessed by now, me and my brother ain't ones for big introductions; you see, we ain't like other wrestlers; I guess you'd call us old school. We ain't got time for those Twitters, your youtubes, tik toks or whatever. We ain't got a "brand", or whatever the hell people are so obsessed with these days."

Doug Lupone:"I once got a tweeter, but it flew away...."

Dan freezes, blinking as if trying to maintain his grip on reality and trying to decide if his brother actually said that before eventually he turns around to his brother, working on the tree.

Dan Lupone: "Seriously, Doug?"

Doug Lupone:"What?!"

Dan Lupone:"You've never told a joke in your life, and you wait till we gotta introduce ourselves to the wrestling world to cut the goddamn lamest joke I've ever heard in my life?!"

Doug just shrugged.

Dan Lupone:"Guess, that's just why people like me better, because of comedic timing and supermodel good looks.

Dan briefly vanishes off-screen as he leans down to get a rock to hurl at his brother.

Doug Lupone: "Man, shut up!"

Doug smiles and shows his brother his favourite finger, not the index, not the ring finger, not the pinky, which incidentally is my favourite finger before Dan turns back to the camera.

Dan Lupone:"The point is, when we signed on the dotted line for FWA, the big wigs offered us a chance to go over to FWA studios, film a promo, and they edit it up and make it all snazzy looking like they do with everyone else, but with all due respect, that ain't how we do things.

Dan points behind him at his brother's work.

Dan Lupone: "You see that? That's a full-time gig, there ain't a lot of us Lumberjacks left, and we live in cabins in the heart of the Yukon; we ain't got the time for any of that stuff, you just find a cameraman, you send him to the Yukon, and we'll do the rest. We ain't ones for fancy words or smooth talking. We don't mince words. What you see is what you get and what you see? Dan Lupone, Doug Lupone. The Lumberjacks and there are two things we do better than anyone else; Cutting down trees and breaking knees."

Doug Lupone: "That's either the best thing you've ever said or the worst."

Dan Lupone: "Either way, They'll probably put it on a t-shirt."

While they were talking, Doug finally decided to stroll on over to his brother with the chainsaw resting on his massive shoulders, wiping sweat off his brow as he shared the promo workload with Dan.

Doug Lupone: "I think it's fair; we ain't winning any beauty contests any time soon; you're not going to see any shooting star presses from us; hell, I would even hesitate to call us wrestlers; we're fighters. We're in the business of the best brawls this side of a hockey rink. We're in the business of fights! And business is a-booming!"

Dan Lupone:"I could do a shooting star if I wanted to; we just never got around to it."

Doug quickly throws a jab towards Dan's shoulder.

Doug Lupone: "Jerk."

Dan Lupone: "Hoser"

Yep, they're brothers,

Dan Lupone: "When you talk about fights, you talk about mayhem; you talk about bodies flying everywhere. You talk about chaos everywhere you look. You're talking about the Secular Spooktacular."

Doug Lupone:"God, it's really hard to say that name and take it seriously."

Dan Lupone:"Maybe, we're not meant to take it seriously; maybe people think this is just going to be a "Fun" match, with a lot of whacky and zany Halloween hijinks, trick or trick and all that bullshit, and you know what? It might be. It might be hysterical. People in the crowd might be laughing their asses off....but that's going to be until WE get in the ring. When we get into the fray? Then it's going to stop being fun REAL fast. Because we ain't here to play games. We ain't here to make up the numbers. We're here to do one thing and one thing only. To win those tag team titles and cut through everyone that stands in our way."

Doug Lupone:"So, that's why we're here, that's why we're doing this video because we want to let every single person that is looking to enter the Secular Spooktacular. Friend or foe. Nice person, or asshole. It doesn't matter to us; all that matters is you're an obstacle, you're in our way, and what do we do with things in our way?"

Doug shifts the chainsaw off his shoulders and gestures to it for the camera.

Doug Lupone:"Take the saw to em, cut em down and introduce them to the chipper."

Dan Lupone: "....And people may not like that, they might call us bullies, they might not like how we beat down much smaller opponents, But this is the biggest wrestling company in the world, and this is our debut; you throw in a shot at those belts, and hey; It doesn't matter if we respect you, it doesn't matter if we want to get a beer with you after the show, all that matters is-

Doug Lupone: "You're going into the wood chipper."

Dan Lupone: "That vampire chick? Cool mask, a great high flyer."

Doug Lupone: "She's going in the wood chipper."

Dan Lupone: "The Undisputed Alliance? Probably the most well-established tag team in FWA."

Doug Lupone:"They're going into the wood chipper."

Dan Lupone:"..And I could go through the entire roster, but you get the idea; If you stand in the way of The Lumberjacks and the tag titles?"

Doug Lupone:"You're going into the wood chipper."

Doug points one big massive finger with his free hand to underline that's exactly what'll happen to you...YES...YOU.

Dan Lupone:"Because that's how it has to be, we're here to rock the tag team division to its foundation, to cut down the forest of tag team wrestling and use it to build something else, something better, and the best way to do that? Is to get that tag team case.

Doug Lupone: "Granted, sure, we ain't gonna turn our nose up at one of us getting a shot a the North American Championship or The X-Fly Championship. Last I counted, there were two of us in this match. Two Lumberjacks, two cases. But that's just Maple Syrup on Canadian flapjacks for us."

Dan Lupone: "Look, we could go on and on and tell you all the reasons why we're the best and why we're going to run through this match. But we ain't talkers. We're fighters. We let our actions do our talking, so you know what we say?"

Doug Lupone: "Buy the show. Watch Lights out, and just SEE what we do to EVERY single person to anyone who steps to us; watch us DESTROY the competition. Watch us bulldoze every damp person in that ring and then tell us.....we can be stopped.

Dan Lupone: "Because it basically comes down to this;

We are bigger.

We are badder.

...and we got a chainsaw."

And with that, Doug and Dan share a "cool brother" fist bump before Doug puts the chainsaw back on his shoulders, and The Lumberjacks walk towards the fallen tree

They had work to do.

 

[WelshyBOI]

The Road to Self-Destruction


​

30th September 2022
Newark, New Jersey
Andersen Vega’s School of Bastardry
…and Wrestling​

Ah, gym life. The sounds and smells of sweaty people giving it everything they’ve got, with the hopes that one day they could be as successful and badass as the man that owns the building they’re currently flooding with their liquid body odour.

However, we don’t get to see these aspiring young talents at work, for the scene opens inside a cramped little office space. At the back of the room, there sits a desk that houses on which an old computer sits, keyboard, mouse and screen included, with a cluster of papers, junk food wrappers and pens covering most of the rest of the table. Screwed onto the front of the desk is a silver plaque that reads “Manager”. The room also houses a small trash bin that looks to be the only item in this office that doesn’t have any trash, and a worn two-seater couch.

A balding man with aged features and an unkempt, stubbly face sits with his feet up on the desk. He looks handsome in his own, rugged way, despite the apparent lack of effort he puts into grooming his face. He has, however, put at least some effort into his wardrobe, seemingly not wishing to look like a full-blown vagrant. He’s wearing a black, long-sleeved button-up shirt with the top two buttons undone, an expensive-looking silver watch, dark blue slim-fit jeans, and a pair of black/white/red Jordans. He looks presentable, even if his office doesn’t.

As the seconds tick by, the aged man just sits casually at his deck, reading some paper documents in his lap, looking as though he’s unaware that he’s being recorded…that is, until a voice from behind the camera perks up.

“Uh, Mr Vega?” the disembodied voice asks nervously, “You know I’m recording, right?”

“I’m well aware, dipshit. I’ll be with you in a minute.” The man, seemingly named Mr Vega, responds in a bored and annoyed voice.

“Uh…my name’s Kyle, sir.” The cameraman responds, sounding a little insulted.

“I didn’t ask, and there’s a reason why,” Vega retorts, sounding increasingly annoyed as he continues to stare at the documents, “you wanna hazard a guess as to what that reason is?”

“Uh…I dunno, sir…” the cameraman admits, “because you don’t care?”

Vega chuckles. “Good answer, kid…now, if you don’t mind, keep the camera running and keep your oversized Twinky hole shut. I’m tryna read.”

“What are you reading?” the cameraman asks, clearly not understanding what Vega meant by “keep your oversized Twinky hole shut”.

Inhaling a deep breath and sighing it back out in annoyance, Vega responds. “My FWA contract…now, please, shut the fuck up.”

“Okay…sorry, sir.” the cameraman responds.

Vega’s eyes leave his FWA contract for the first time since the video began as he glares towards the camera, indicating that he’s about to do something he probably won’t regret later. “I swear to god, if I hear your voice one more time, I’m gonna reach down your throat and rip your voicebox out…understand?” Having made his point, Vega’s eyes return to his contract.

However, perhaps instinctively, having technically been asked a question, the cameraman answers, his voice a little shaky. “Yes, sir…sorry, sir.”

Vega shakes his head in disbelief as he stares at the ceiling. “What the fuck did I do in my life to deserve this dickhead?” he asks to himself, in a voice that sounds unequivocally DONE with this interaction.

“Well…there was that one time where you hit Alice Xander in the head with a baseball bat so hard that you ended her career.”
Vega takes his feet off his desk and turns his entire body to face the camera with a shocked and accused look. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa…Alice Xander was a fucking dude, alright! I ain’t no fucking woman beater!”

“You bullied Jack Rogue for weeks on end, ended up winning a match with his contract on the line, used him as your slave with the threat of being fired and unable to wrestle anymore, and abused him so much that he ended up going insane. He needed months of therapy before becoming a semi-normal person again.”

“He was a pasty, ginger dweeb! He was never normal!” Vega says before adding guiltily, “besides, I did apologise.”

“Not to mention that during your last run, you repeatedly assaulted Reagan Cole and ended up hospitalising him after a baseball bat assault.”

A dreamy grin forms on Vega’s face. “Yeah…that was fun.”

“And there was that time…”

Before the cameraman can continue his listing of Vega’s various misdeeds, Vega interrupts, trying to get back on track. “Alright, that’s enough…we’ll be here all bastard year if you carry on listing every heinous act I’ve committed. How do you know all that shit anyway?”

“I’ve been watching you since I was a kid. I used to love watching the good guys beat you up!” the cameraman chirps, “Like when Reagan Cole returned after you hospitalised him and ended up making you tap out…”

Slamming his fist on his clutter-filled desk and causing an empty soda can to fall to the floor, Vega interrupts. “THAT’S ENOUGH!” after a moment of intense silence, he continues, “Now, I’m gonna finish reading the last two lines of this contract, and then I’m gonna sign it. After that, I’ll officially be a member of the FWA roster. Upon becoming a member of the FWA roster, I will then use the platform that your camera provides to cut a promo, hyping my imminent return and hell, I may even tell you where, when and how I’ll return. However, until I’ve finished reading the last two lines of the contract, the other shit ain’t happening, so shut the fuck up and LET ME READ!”

After another couple of moments of Vega glaring at the man behind the camera, he then turns back to the contract.



Having finished reading his contract, Vega finally puts pen to paper, making him the newest edition to the FWA roster. He tosses the pen between a Burger King wrapper and a banana peel. He then slots the contract into a brown envelope before sealing it shut and places it back on the trash dump he calls a desk. Lifting himself off of his chair, Vega can finally begin his first piece of business as an FWA wrestler.

“Come, dipshit…let’s take a walk around,” Vega says as he walks out from behind his desk and towards the partially-open door to the gym.

“M-my name’s Kyle, sir.” the cameraman reiterates.

“I thought we made it clear that I don’t give a fuck what your name is?” Vega responds, a smarmy look etched on his face.

The cameraman, for the first time, doesn’t respond.

Reaching the door, Vega looks at the cameraman with an impatient glare. “Get the door, dipshit,” he says, his hands indicating where it is as if he thinks the cameraman may be too stupid to know what a door looks like, “Come on, I haven’t got all day!”

“Sorry, sir,” the cameraman says as his hand reaches out from behind the camera and pulls the door open, allowing Vega to walk through without thanks.

Following Vega out of his office, we are given our first look at the gym itself. The walls are adorned with a plethora of wrestling memorabilia, such as trophies, championship belts, and marquees that all feature the name and likeness of the man himself, although he looks quite a bit younger in most of them. Despite being displayed with apparent pride, the trophies and championship belts seem to be scratched and dented, and the posters look worn and dusty. Ignoring the fact that the place looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in a while, it at least looks well-equipped, with weight benches, treadmills, rowing machines and punching bags of multiple varieties in various locations throughout, along with two full-sized wrestling rings.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to “Andersen Vega’s School of Bastardry…and Wrestling”.” Vega says, a prideful grin on his face, “where aspiring young bastards and bastardettes alike come to find out if they have what it takes to make it in this harsh, unforgiving, vindictive, absolute bitch of a world that we call “Professional Wrestling”.”

Pausing a moment, Vega glances at several aspiring “bastards and bastardettes” as they go about their workout routines. The gym looks decently attended, with about a dozen or so people scattered throughout. “I bought the place in twenty-eighteen as sort of a project for myself after getting out of rehab,” Vega says, his face taking on a reminiscent look. “The place was as battered and broken down as I was. I thought that if I poured all my energy into fixing the place up, it’d help take my mind off of wanting to chase another high. It worked, too….” he says, as he begins to wander slowly around the place he rebuilt. “I haven’t so much as looked at a bottle of whiskey or a line of cocaine since. I’ve kept well away from anything I used to chase that oh-so-addictive high,” he pauses a moment, a brief look of regret forming on his face, “...until now.”

Continuing his wander around the gym, he makes his way to the closest of the two wrestling rings, where two young adults look to be practising their chain wrestling, stopping a meter or so away, watching them as he continues. “See, I’ve had so many addictions in my life. Alcohol. Cigarettes. Weed. Cocaine…I’ve beaten them all.” he says, looking on as the smaller of the two wrestlers escapes a headlock by raking his opponent’s eyes, causing a brief prideful smirk to form on Vega’s face, before it quickly dissipates as he continues, “Well, at least I thought I did….”

As the larger of the two wrestlers is thrown to the ground by the younger, struggling to fight back after being temporarily blinded, Vega resumes his monologue. “The most debilitating drug that I’ve ever come across…the one that I always seem to return to,” Vega turns his head to face the camera, a resentful look in his eyes, “...is you.”

Turning his attention back to the action in the ring, the larger wrestler has recovered somewhat from the underhanded attack on his vision by his slighter rival. He lifts himself and his opponent off the canvas and executes a back-body drop.

As he watches the action, Vega continues. “You people provide the single biggest high that I’ve ever had the unfortunate pleasure of falling victim to,” he says, his resentful expression returning. “To walk out from behind the curtain to an ocean’s worth of people, all screaming my name, whether it be in adulation or abhorrence…it’s the single most exhilarating feeling ever created.”

As the larger wrestler continues to dominate in the sparing session, Vega grows disinterested and decides to continue his slow journey around his wrestling school. “But what’s worse is that with any other drug on the market, all you have to do is buy it and use it, and if you truly want to, you can stop…but to acquire the drug I’m addicted to above all others…you’ve got to sign a contract.”

Manoeuvring his way past several swaying heavy bags as a few potential future stars unleash their fury upon them, Vega finds himself approaching the wall at the farthest end of the gym. The wall contains the fruits of Vega’s near thirty-year labour. What amounts to 14 different championship belts and two trophies from various wrestling promotions are displayed all along the wall on several shelves, along with a metal plaque that contains the date/dates in which he won each title.

Looking at the quite substantial amount of gold and silver on display, Vega continues, “Not ten minutes ago, you witnessed me signing a contract…one that sees me tied to the FWA for the next few years. An agreement that stipulates that I must inject myself with the drug that you people supply on pretty much a weekly basis.” Vega shakes his head, a dejected look on his face. “Should I try to bail out of that contract, the FWA has every right to take legal action…hell, I’m no better than they are,” he says, as he gestures to his dozen disciples, “I’m training these poor motherfuckers to get into a business that I know will likely eat them alive, and I charge them for it….”

Turning around to face the camera, he continues, his wall of accomplishment becoming his backdrop, “also, I get 20% of anything they earn as part of their contracts with me….” Vega says, a momentary shit-eating smirk forming on his face, giving us a glimpse at the ruthless bastard whom those who know him have learned to be wary of. “But, that’s just the business that we all love,” he says nonchalantly, “it’s legal slavery, and I’m as guilty as anyone else.”

“In due time, regardless of whether they make it in this business or not, these young men and women will end up in the same sinking life raft that I find myself clinging on to,” he says, his smirk returning. “They’ll get to the point where their bodies have broken down, and they can’t physically compete with their far younger adversaries, and they’ll get beaten to a pulp every week, but they won’t be able to stop…just one. More. Drink….”

Chuckling to himself, he continues, “and, at some point, they may wind up rolling past my lifeless body as they travel this road to self-destruction. And I’m left wondering…how many bodies will I leave in my wake?”

And with a shit-eating smirk plastered on his face, he says, “at least nineteen, I reckon.” And as the scene begins to fade, Vega winks, a look of malice in his eyes.

 

[PheTomenal]

This production was funded by the WS Network and FWA Films.

We open to a black screen. White text fades into the picture and we see the below on screen.

Pro wrestlingxTelevision - A documentary by Phillip A. Jackson

“I hate television. I hate it as much as peanuts. But I can't stop eating peanuts.” - Orson Welles​

We fade into a hallway, laminated wooden flooring as the camera zooms out of the hallway we can see a few cupboards and we can hear shoes bouncing off the wooden floor as the scene opens. The legs walk into frame and it pans up to Phillip A. Jackson. Jackson is in a hallway where they have set up televisions from various eras. There is a black and white television, the first models of colour television, a television from the 90s, a flat screen on the wall and a tablet round things off. Beyond the tablet desk there is a picture on the wall, we cannot make out what it is as it is covered by a curtain. Jackson stands in a navy suit with a white shirt, his top button undone with no tie.

I have a lot in common with a technology. It sounds weird, but hear me out. This technology is television and the video will demonstrate why my journey should finish with being a champion of television. To some, it is just a box that show mindless nonsense, to some it is a vital cog of society and to other it is a dying technology. However, my industry is ruled by television. It is beating heart that if removed will kill every single business but it is not just my business that is ruled by it, our societies are ruled by it. The USA, Japan, Australia, The United Kingdom, South Africa, Brazil...I could go on and on. It rules the world. It is something that allows us to look into the future, at what we think our world will become, it allows us to keep abreast of the present, a representation of our current times and it allows us a peak into history, and a look back to our past. What has changed? How far have we come? Why were they racist back then? All that jazz but that's not what I want to focus on. The things we see from the days of old are the timeless classics that ruled their time. That is all that we see. Just like in 30 years when the classics of our time are all that remain. Icons of those shows remembered forever, that's not always a good thing, especially if they are a British television host from the 70s.

Jackson winces and lets out a smile. He shrugs jokingly.

Mostly though television stars of yesteryear are beloved. Just like in show business television is the lifeline to professional wrestling. It is a have and have not world with television. It the defining feature of world class wrestling and everyone strives for a deal. Every promotion and every wrestler needs it to thrive. All these companies flogging themselves to get a TV deal is pathetic but it is necessary. I get it. It's an interesting relationship what is more important to a wrestling company, a superstar or the television deal. Television, is the difference between a bingo hall and a superdome. It is the difference between being a cult hero and a star. It is the very foundation of which success in this industry is measured. It is no surprise the companies in this industry bend over backwards to satisfy sponsors.

The lifeline:

At the mention of sponsors, adverts new and old start to play in silence in the background on the screens of the television. Jackson watches away at the adverts as they begin playing. They are on a loop. Jackson turns up the volume of the modern television.

“Consult your doctor about”...

“This production was funded by”...

“FWA Fallout is bought to you by”...

“Proud sponsors of....”

Jackson slowly lower the volume of the flatscreen tv that was playing the adverts.

Why are companies held hostage by sponsors and TV companies? Money. It is the lifeline that fuels industry. It is success. It is the standard. It is what keeps the lights on, the ropes attached and the wheels turning. Every single show on television, every single wrestling promotion on television is held to ransom to a degree by men in suits who have more money than sense. They all have visions and ideas.

It compromises the purity of the art. Wrestling is a dirty business, everyone knows that. There is politics, there is deceit, there is lies, there is affairs. Just like most of your favourite TV shows but here you don't see that. You don't see the dirt under the carpet because the money men don't care. They just want to see what you see. That money, that drive to stand out leads to the poor behaviours and dramas you hears whisper about. It is impure. It is horrible and it is not something I am involved in willingly but what would we be without them?

Nothing, that's what we would be. We would still be a wrestling company floating around regional gyms, arenas or whatever venue would take us. We would be nothing but what we have is capacity crowd at one of the most historic arenas in the world. The money allows us the platform to become stars. To showcase ourselves on television for the world to see because this is what is keeping us alive.

The adverts continue to play, but they begin to accelerate and speed through, they now have very brief clips of television shows between the adverts that are much shorter than the adverts.

Can't trim the fat:

Television isn't the be all and end of an actors career. They want to be movie stars, that's where the money is. Television for actors is the beginning. Television for a pro wrestler and a pro wrestling company is a platform to stand on and be seen. It is our biggest outlet. Television for the masses, is an addictive means to consume. It can be the third parent in a household. It can be a curse the plagues us. It makes people fat and lazy, spending all their time staring with empty minds as they peddle all sorts of crap to a captive audience. I hesitate to call the human, lifeless husks that used to have live but are you surprised?

Jackson motions back to the adverts that continue to play in the background

It promotes the duality of consumerism. Every great company used to be held hostage by television it was the liveblood of industrial success and pro wrestling was not different. They sit on their asses for hours and hours watching endless crap. It somehow manages to cast an enticing spell on people. It reels them in and takes their souls. The control it create defies all human thought, how can a screen control us. It tells them what to buy, what to think about the world or celebrities or politicians. It keeps people hooked through saving things for later, cliff hangers and dramatic plot twists.It is a one way control. The internet, you can at least be heard but television doesn't speak back. It rewards those who they want to be great and punishes everyone else.

Only the very best in this business can brag about television deals, not streaming deals, television deals. Just like in the business, only the very best get screen time. Only the very best are seen week after week on television. That's the negative of the money. It encourage people to get lazy and that is no different in this industry. It makes people complacent, lack the desire to improve because they end up in a weekly show that has a tv deal. There is a grind to it, a grind that takes a while. A grind that I am still getting back up to speed with. Just because you're on tv doesn't mean you've made it. It isn't the be all and end all of careers. I want to bring this company to the golden age that it experience when I ruled this world. I want this company to be hard working, hard hitting and pure. It is what the people want. That is my mission. My purpose. It is what is driving me. The purity I want to bring to FWA will help form the much promised, new era of television. What does that mean? You'll just have to wait and find out.

The adverts finally cease and Jackson is relieved. The screens remain black. Jackson presses the remote with no luck...

Stupid thing...should have bought a BLEEP brand television

"we will need to censor that...we can't mention the brand"

Just cut this p-

Slow Start to Golden Age:

It wasn't always an easy road. Like everything new, it was consider a fad. It would never overhaul the existing dominance in the media market. It was never going to touch radio, or newspapers as the primary source. “People will soon get tired of staring at a plywood box every night.” those were the words of Darryl Zanuck, a huge player in Hollywood. It was said out fear because this new technology had taken a chunk out of his precious movie industry. Stars were now becoming accessible in every home in the country and he was soon making appearance on the plywood box he denounced previously. It plugged away and slowly but surely it took over. Home by home, viewer by viewer it stole the monopoly of the film industry and morphed into something accessible, relatable and became the topic to discuss.

The FWA should have someone who represents them, who is a star, who has been down the path of struggling. I had a long, slow start to my FWA career. I went away from FWA. I grew outside of this company, in a smaller company called LOW. I became their greatest of all time. I ran it, I owned it, I did everything but I wanted to have my own plywood box. I need to scratch my itch, failure was not acceptable in mind and I grovelled back to FWA. I humbled myself to get back in. From my debut to being a success it took my years to go from a disgraced, unreliable wrestler to being a world champion. I don't shy away from the hard path. I don't shy away from taking on the established hierarchy. I came back into FWA when legends were dominating but they were dying out. The early days of my career in this company saw a changing of the guard. We moved from a main event scene dominated by tired, old legends to the new era of FWA. A main event scene completely refreshed by something new. A group of young wrestlers who changed everything, Ryan Rondo, Shane McLean and Phillip A. Jackson. I've been apart of the change, from humble beginnings I reached a golden age along with FWA.

They should have me.

The Change:

Jackson places the remote back down in front of the flat screen TV.

But all of that is over now.

Jackson picks up the tablet. ​

Television is being replaced. Piece by piece. The dominant era it once had was over. However it still has a place. It is still important but the magic is gone. Things are spoiled. Things are set. We are now in a fluid world. On demand streaming reigns over the world. This little device does that. It is a constantly moving world, there is no room for standstill. Tablets, phone and laptops let that happen. Time is not stopping for what used to be. Sound familiar? It is a tale that never stops. The established replaced by the new and interesting. Phillip A. Jackson replaced by younger wrestlers. It is a never ending cycle and the guys at the top now will see this in action very soon. Even still, television and wrestling has and deserves stars. The internet has “personalities” and “influencers” these are nothing achievements because there is no skill needed to do it and it is meaningless because they contribute nothing but attitude and ego. Stars, real stars,, are just more. They are held in higher regard, pillars of society because they worked hard to be the top of their craft, the pinnacle of entertainers. Many of them great men, but only one star stands out to me. That man is of course, Phillip A. Jackson.

Jackson allows the tablet to fall out of his hand and smiles as he does so. ​

I worked my ass off to be a star. It is all I ever wanted. I didn't need the internet, I didn't need movies. All I needed was a platform on television to be great. I became a star through whichever 4 sided viewing you wanted, the ring or the television. I popped on both. That skill is what the industry thrives on. I am not an internet personality. I don't care about the world beyond because my stage is wrestling on television. You can call me stubborn, stuck in the past or behind the times and that the way I deliver things is a bygone era but to me it is vintage and classic. I've rebooted after 3 years away. Fans would clamour for my return but the second I come back they criticise. I'm stale and old and boring and I don't change. Am I like one of the many television shows that ruins themselves with the ending? Or one where the fans are relieved it is over because it had been stinking up the place for years before it finally died? Is longevity a choice? For the most part, no. They are demanded by sponsors at a series level but longevity for the technology is admirable. It has had generation defining moments. It has witnessed everything, it is our eyes to the world. Just like I have been in this business a long time. I have had career and era defining moments, like the Golden Opportunity cash in on Chris Kennedy, my mentor and friend. Just like those in control, they have erased it from history. I have seen what FWA used to be. I have seen it move networks twice. I am the glimpse into history and I am the eyes to the world for all these upstarts in the company. Speaking of which...

Jackson finally takes a step to the hidden picture and pulls the curtains open to reveal a vandalised picture of Shawn Summers. There is red writing underneath with “Der Boring” written where it should say Der Bastard. Jackson smiles, he finds it funny.

Summers over:

This will not be the first Summer I've finished in my career, so be warned Shawn. Ask Shane MacLean about how his the “Summer of Shane” ended. Since none of you will know how that summer ended, it ended with me wining the FWA World Championship for the first time, ruthlessly ending the “much loved” reign of Shane MacLean. It propelled me to stardom. Shawns summer is over, and it will end with me holding the FWA Television Championship for the first time. Like a perfectly woven television series, it all aligns and culminates in the happy ending we are all waiting for. A reboot that turns itself around from sinking my legacy to enhancing it. Like Television, I am not on my deathbed. I am in a new age that has changed.

Unlike Television, I can speak, I can adapt and I can take on the problem head on. My problem will be standing across from me in the square that made me. It will be looking me in the eye and a man who cannot lead, will try and defend against me. The question becomes am I Darryl Zunuck of wrestling? Am I seeing a new generation pass me by and move the goal posts?

To a degree, that's true but I am still a star and stars are what keep people coming back, they keep people tuning in. The desire to replicate is the driving force and in FWA, everyone would want my career. Everyone would want to be Phillip A. Jackson because I am a star, even to this day. It is not as bright as it used to be but my name, my stories and my accomplishment cast a long shadow through the halls of FWA. People shake my hand, I do not shake their hand, if you catch my drift. Shawn, you can only hope to be that right now. You have a strong start, I can't deny that. The first ever Television Champion, you should be proud but this company needs better. It needs a star to add prestige to the belt.

You've made your history, you did what you wanted to achieve but now, it is time to help build the image of the belt. The FWA needs a star with a new title, now more than ever. Everything is changing. Everything is different and is new but you need your foundational piece to be the new face of it. I have grand vision for what I want to do with the belt. I have been denied the new era of television previously, this time it is one on one. I foolishly looked beyond Tommy Bedlam last week because my sole focus is on you Shawn and has been for a while because you have no style. As the picture so helpfully says, Der Bastard is Der Boring one. Strong Style is overrated. It's boring just like Japan. People don't tune in to watch you slap the crap out of people and be relentless. They watch for the show. They want to be entertained and see stars not see someone super aggressively attack and attack and attack. Like everyone else, the world needs variety. Do you know what kills television? Seeing the same thing over and over and over. It works in very few cases. That's why the Summer of Shane was a defining moment in FWA history because it represented the change in FWA. The summer of Shawn represents the same stale bullshit they have seen before, all you have done is allowed the leaves to fall from the trees and for everything to start dying and decaying. Television needs showmen. It needs entertainers and it needs a champion that represents those values. I'm protecting the FWA. I'm ensuring that you do not sully the name of the belt you carry. I am cleansing this world to ensure a brighter and better future carried by the biggest name in FWA history, Phillip A. Jackson, the cleanser and the bringer of the new era of television and mark the date because this will be just like July 27th 2014, because summer is over.

Jackson stares down the lens as his face appears on all the television screens, following by “new era is coming” flashing between frames of Jackson. The credits begin to roll on the documentary/video.​

 

[Comeback Kid]

Shawn Summers in
JOURNAL​

---

September 19, 2022
Oslo, Norway

Dear Journal,

My alarm went off at 4:45 like it does every morning but I couldn't will myself to get up. It seems every Monday through Friday I play this little game of waking up to turn off the alarm that is supposed to wake me up so that I can start my day. I always seem to start my day about 30 minutes after the time I intended. Wouldn't it be smarter for me to set my alarm for 5:15 since that's the time I always end up rushing out of bed to start getting ready? I had chosen 4:45 as my alarm time because I had these ambitious dreams of waking up in the morning and getting a workout in before getting started with my day.

I hadn't worked out since a week or two before Back in Business. My body was beginning to show it. When I got out of the shower at about 5:30 I toweled myself off and took a glimpse at my reflection in the mirror. I was starting to develop a huskier figure. Areas that were once defined had grown plump and hung out further than they did before. I couldn't stand to look at myself for too long because I was nothing like the man I thought I was. Who was I? I wasn't Shawn Summers, Der Basterd, or The God King.

I couldn't bare to look at the unfamiliar man that I saw in the mirror so I tried to busy myself and preoccupy my mind. I gargled Listerine, brushed my teeth, and looked through my closet for something to put on. I grabbed a black pair of jeans and tried to put them on but stopped just as they got around my thighs. I felt myself struggling to pull them up so I immediately pulled them down and tossed them to the side. I had started a pile of jeans and shorts that were starting to become too tight for me to fit into. I had thought about throwing them away but I keep telling myself that I will be able to fit into the soon. I settled for a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt.

I hated wearing those sweatpants today. I hated that sweatpants had become part of my wardrobe. Each time I put them on I was reminded of what Karl Lagerfield had said about them.

"Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life so you bought some sweatpants."

I think about that quote each time I put those damn sweatpants on and die a little inside. He was right. I had completely lost control of my life, and that wasn't even the saddest part about it all. The saddest part was that I had no idea how to fix it. I had no idea how to regain that control and get back to being the man I used to be.

I sat in the cafe of the hotel I'd been staying at for most of the morning. I tried to set up meetings, respond to emails, and craft a plan for myself going forward, but I found myself becoming distracted. My mind wouldn't sit still and focus on one task. I didn't use to be like this. Why had I started to be like this? I don't know.

By the evening I had gotten little to nothing done and I returned to my room where I sat on the balcony. The sunset here was beautiful. For a moment I forgot that would have to be going to work again. I don't want to go back to the states. I don't want to deal with the whole Jackson thing. Defending the championship is my least favorite part of being a champion. I sometimes wish I hadn't won the title so that I wouldn't have the stress of having to continuously prove that I'm one of the best. I'm not afraid to admit that I'm not the best because the best is either holding or within proximity of the world title. I'm not even close to that. By championship value, I'm at the very bottom. My title holds little to no meaning and is often forgotten when people talk about the titles. I hope that one day this changes.

They will be expecting me to answer PAJ's challenge and to be honest I still have no idea what I'm going to say. Why should he get a championship opportunity? Is it because of what he used to be? It must be because it can't have anything to do with who he is now. PAJ is a disappointing caricature of the man that he used to be. It's crazy to think that HE used to be considered one of the best in the business. It's crazy to think how trash the business used to be.

September 24, 2022
Austin, Texas

Dear Journal,

I accepted PAJ's challenge and I still don't know why. I went back and forth weighing the decision but ended up agreeing to his challenge. I didn't come to a definitive decision until I saw that he had lost to Tommy. That loss solidified for me that PAJ was nowhere near the competitor that he used to be. Facing him in his prime would have been a challenge that I would not have looked forward to. Or maybe I would have looked forward to it. I don't know. From what I've heard PAJ is still the same man that he was before he left. Maybe that's the problem?

The FWA that PAJ left and the FWA PAJ returned to are two very different companies. I guess that would make him two different competitors by that same logic. In the FWA that he left, PAJ was considered a top-caliber wrestler who had a secure spot in any main event that he wanted to be part of. However, in the FWA that PAJ returned to he is barely able to get past the opening bout of the card. The talent in the FWA has evolved and adapted to become more athletic and talented than PAJ could ever hope to be. The things he used to be able to do just won't cut it here. I wanted to show him that when I came down to the ring tonight. I wanted to make a bold statement to him.

I want to make an even bolder statement at lights out. I want to end the career of Phillip A. Jackson. It sounds harsh when to say/write that but I truly think that I would be doing him a favor. He's tarnished his legacy with this "return" and I do not believe that he is capable of realizing the damage that he is doing to himself. He's got too much pride to admit that returning was a mistake. I can respect that. However, sometimes you need to swallow your pride and if anyone is incapable of swallowing their pride, it's him.

I looked out into the crowd as I walked to the back and I could have sworn that I saw Noah. I don't know why I'm trying to lie to myself. I KNOW that I saw Noah. He was there and he wanted me to see him. It's part of his mind games. I know him so well.

I haven't said or written about it but I don't feel bad for what I did to Noah and Eli. I'm not afraid to admit that what I did was fueled by jealousy to an extent. Noah's run in the Tag Warz tournament was everything that I wanted my FWA career to be. He was so calculated and focused in the ring. The way he was able to encourage and bring the dog out of those New Breed boys pissed me off. That entire Tag Warz tournament shit was Noah's way of giving me a giant middle finger. Every match. Every move. Every strike was Noah's way of letting me know that he was better than me. He could be in charge whenever he wanted it. He just let me think I was in charge because he was loyal to me.

I'm not loyal to anyone but myself. It's how I was raised. Your friends will stab you in the back and your family will stab you in the heart. That's what my dad used to say. I find myself missing him more and more as the years go on. He would have been proud that I set Noah and Eli up. He would have preached to me about the dangers of the resentment that Noah had for me because of the New Breed. Noah would have betrayed me sooner or later. Noah knew too much. Eli knew too much.

At times like this, I'm reminded of the lyric from a Beyonce song.

"Me, myself, and I is all I've got in the end. That's what I found out. And there ain't no need to cry I took a vow that from now on I'mma be my own best friend."

It resonates with me now more than anyone could know.

October 20, 2022
Dear Journal,

It's media week and I absolutely hate it. I get asked the same questions repeatedly by "journalists" who haven't an original bone in their bodies. It's a stretch to even call them journalists. The standards that we hold for people to consider them professional at what they do are extremely low nowadays.

One of the journalists complimented me on performing a 180 after my loss to Michael at Back in Business. I was proud of the amount of self-control that I had at that moment. It took everything in me not to cave his head. I hadn't thought about my match with Michael since it ended. I didn't want to relieve that moment. It was truly the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.

I still haven't fully recovered from everything I took in that match. My body aches every day and I try to tell myself that that is the reason I have a hard time getting out of bed when my alarm goes off. The truth of the matter is that I believe I may be depressed and possibly have been for quite some time. The depression has impacted me both mentally and physically.

I stepped on the scale this morning and saw that I had gained 20 pounds. Normally, I would have been happy to have gained so much, but I was all too aware that it was not from added muscle mass. I vanity search myself on social media and have yet to come across anyone discussing the weight gain I've experienced. I don't think my ego or self-esteem could take another hit like that.

I'm scheduled to do a podcast tomorrow and I know that they are going to want to know my feelings going into the title defense at Lights Out. Truth be told I haven't really given the match any thought after me and Phillip's confrontation on Fallout. Why do I need to give it any more thought than that? In that confrontation, I saw everything I needed to see. What type of man would allow another man to storm the ring after he suffered a humiliating loss and press a championship belt against his face? I wouldn't have let that happen. I honestly was surprised that he even let me get that close to him. I gave him multiple opportunities to show me and the world that he was a viable challenger for my championship and he just stood there and shouted petty insults. Phillip has proven himself to be such a disappointment.

I often wonder if he knows how much of a disappointment he has become. I wonder if he realizes how he has become a joke. I bet he's off somewhere shooting a "promo" to post on his Instagram where he's just screaming at the camera about a bunch of nonsense and trying to get in every zinger he can on me as he would do in the days of yesteryear. Nobody wants to see or hear that shit. My God, he's such a fucking loser.

October 22, 2022
Dear Journal,


I'm better than Phillip. That's not a statement that is a fact. I've asked myself multiple times if I am overlooking him and to be perfectly honest with myself I have to say that I'm not. His accolades mean nothing to me because they happened when the bar was so low in the industry. When we talk about legends his name doesn't get brought up. He's no Belle Connelly. He's no Devin Golden. He's no Chris Kennedy. He's just...Phillip A. Jackson. I would hate to be him at this stage in his career. He's both an afterthought and a joke.

I feel as though tonight it is my duty to put him out of his misery. It's the least that I could do for him. Someone has to show him that he isn't championship-caliber anymore. Someone has to stop him from trying to prove himself in the F1 Grand Prix. I have to hurt him tonight and I have to end his career. What choice do I have?

If I let Phillip beat me then what do I do? What is the point of Shawn Summers continuing to compete here in the FWA? If I lose this championship what is there for me? This championship means more to me than anyone could ever know. This championship is like a representation of my heart. What happens when you take away someone's heart? They die. That's what I feel would happen to my career if I were to lose this championship now. It's the only thing that is keeping my career going. Without it, everything is over. I'm not ready to give up everything I've worked for. I'm not ready to allow Phillip another chance at glory.

When's it going to be my chance to strive for glory? When's it going to be my turn to have that happy ending? They took that moment away from in CWA and I can't let it happen again here in FWA.

 

[AON]

The video loads to a view from the middle of the ring. In the background, there is a stadium utterly void of energy and life. Thousands of seats have been lined up, but not a single soul is there to fill the space. However, in the forefront of the scene, there is a person in view sitting in one of the corners. It doesn't take long to figure out the identity of this person; the signature bright red hair quickly reveals it to be The New North American Champion, Lizzie Rose. She was dressed in her usual ring attire of a Brooklyn Dodgers jersey and cap combo, seemingly covered in sweat and heat. Beside her? The gleaming, sparkling, simmering Golden plate of The North American Championship belt. There is absolutely no sound in the lonely building, or rather, no sound but the laboured breath of Lizzie herself. Wearily, she pants, loud and heavy. Her arms lay lazily, listlessly on her knees, and her head is bowed down, bringing her flaming locks pouring over her face from her baseball cap, blocking it from view. Each thick breath has a noticeable effect on Lizzie's posture. Her body fills with each inhale, and fades with each exhale. Sweat drips off the edges of her hair, the bottom of her chin, and the tips of her fingers like she just went ten rounds with Mike Tyson; slowly, she raises her hand, fighting against her weariness as if it has added hundreds of pounds to its weight. Against her fatigue, she brings her hands up, sweeping her hair away so the camera can see her tired, pained face. With mouth agape, she greedily sucks in every breath she can, forcing the oxygen in to revitalise her enough to at least move through the pain and the ache. After spending a few more seconds recollecting her energy, she looks up at the camera through groggy eyes, forcing words between each panting breath to speak.

"So, Um., yeah...THAT happened

She nods idly to the title belt beside her, her tone casual and neutral. She shrugs her shoulders, almost bemused.

"I mean, I guess I've had worse days, you know?"

Almost before the last word was out of her mouth, her shoulders started shaking as she abruptly exploded in laughter, seemingly out of nowhere; she just continued laughing to herself for a few moments before finally being able to choke out words.

" I'm sorry, just-This is really funny. Can- Can we all just acknowledge that this-?"

Lizzie starts gesturing wildly with her hands to the title beside her and back again.

"This is hysterical! Lizzie Rose, North American Champion. The first-ever Female North American champion and-

Once again, the laughs overtake her as she starts shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, I can't. I just can't..my sides...I can't breathe..."

She just keeps laughing uncontrollably for a few moments before she forces deep panic breaths and calms herself down until her laughter turns into a chuckle before lapsing into contemplative silence and speaking again somewhat bashfully.

" Soooooooooo...ummmmmmmm...I know this is going to sound weird from someone who just won the second-biggest title in wrestling. The first woman ever to do it...did I mention that, by the way? But I've- Um... I've never claimed to be a good wrestler. My journey has been a-typical; some wrestlers have two generations of wrestling behind them or just have a natural gift for it and say, "They were born for this; they were born to be a champion.." I was never one of them; four years ago, I didn't even know how to run the ropes; I wasn't born to be anything but a loser working in a pizza place in downtown Brooklyn.

She pauses to wipe some tears from her green eyes.

Some wrestlers have travelled all over the world for decades, learning their craft and hustling to get on a stage like this; the only reason I got on anyone's radar is because of a news report on wrestling in New York, they interviewed me as a fan, and I guess people found what I said...I don't know...Funny? Endearing? Silly? I still don't understand it, but I started getting jobs at wrestling events. When I got into FWA Ground Zero, I was surrounded by guys like Chris Peacock and Reagan Cole, all these guys who were names even before they got into FWA. I had a year of training under my belt, and I was only on the show because of a viral campaign to do it; they wanted to drop me as SOON as it was over, but Gabby insisted I got on FWA TV. My point is; From day one, I was surrounded by wrestling claiming that they were the next STAR of FWA, that they're the best, and they'll do this and do that, but to be honest with you guys? I was just happy to be there, I couldn't believe my luck. Still can't. So I didn't feel right making that kind of claim; I'm not the fastest, I'm not the biggest, I'm not the most charismatic. So when they shoved a camera in front of my face for the first time, I could only promise two things, One?

Lizzie held up a lone index finger and then pressed it against the mat, jabbing it repeatedly to underline her point.

"I love this. I love professional wrestling, the stories, the wrestlers, and the fans. The sights. The sounds. Every single beautifully painful piece of it, this? This right here? This is my passion, and you guys are my people. And two? I was going to get beat up a lot but win, lose or draw; I would always give you everything I got and would...ALWAYS do my best, and um-yeah..."

Lizzie tilts her head towards the belt which now bears her name.

"I guess things kinda snowballed from there"

She trails off again, clearly lost in thought.

"Sorry, I don't mean to be smug, but-"

She stops herself and shakes her head.

"Actually, you know what? I'm not sorry."

Abruptly she stiffened her posture, reeled in her newly won belt, and lovingly pressed it against her chest.

"From the day I decided I wanted to do this, I have been mocked, laughed at and bullied. I've met trainers that would rather burn down the gym than let me near it. I've spoken to teachers that said I didn't have the talent to make it in the business. I was locked out of the dressing room because the other girls didn't want to share with a "meme wrestler". I was abandoned and crushed by my hero, who didn't think I belonged in this industry. So the mental image I had of all those people that tried to crush my spirit collective look of horror watching little Elizabeth Rose from the slums of Brooklyn get handed the North American Championship...

Lizzie closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in and then out again, really taking her time to savour the thought like it was a fine wine.

I'm not going to lie, that feels good. That feels really good.

Her eyelids flutter open again, and she smiles.

They can't take it away from me. From now on, no matter what anyone ever says or does to me...I belong. That's all I ever wanted...

... "but that was the easy bit."

The smile vanishes off her face as she adjusts the belt and holds it out plate front before her.

That's the catch, isn't it? Because if we're all like...REALLY honest? Just because I have the belt doesn't make me a champion. I've got to earn that right; we all know there are a hundred wrestlers who held this belt but couldn't handle it. That no one can remember. Time has washed their names off the title. Because they couldn't handle being the hunted instead of the hunter, they scrapped, clawed, and worked their fingers to the bone to get this, but when it came down to the actual work of a champion...they crumbled."

She stares at the belt in front of her before she looks at the camera.

"You all think that's going to happen to me, don't you?"

She tilts her head at the camera as if expecting an answer.

That's alright. If I was anyone else, I wouldn't think I could handle this either, and I gotta admit there is a part of me that just wants to sit back and take the pats on the shoulders, take it easy and enjoy the moment.

She considers it for a moment before shaking her head.

"...No. I mean, for one thing, This ain't my title. At least not only my title. Last May was the last time FWA came to the world's greatest city: Brooklyn. I got into that ring and made a promise to my city, my home. That one day we were going to be champions, and I'm so proud to say I didn't break my word. This is OUR belt. This title belongs to my streets, my town, my home, everybody that took me into their hearts and supported me, who I'd be NOTHING without. I finally, FINALLY get to repay that debt I owe them, and I ain't EVER going to let them down. Let's be honest; Me winning this belt? We're already in crazy town. So let's push it. Let's see just how far I can go with this, and that's my goal with this belt. Not to be defined by it but by me defining it! When you think of the North American Championship, I want to make it impossible not to think of me. I want to be the standard that every other North American champion is compared to. I want twenty, thirty years from now, I want people to look at the north American champion and ask, "Man, they're good, but I wonder what would happen if she had to face Lizzie Rose..."

She nods her head a little as if letting herself breathe with these ideas before she bashfully smiles at the camera as if embarrassed by how lofty her ambition is

Big ideas, huh? But in the short term, I'd settle for beating Johnny Johnson and getting him out of my life for good. Because even those this belt isn't on the line. Something else just as important is.

She takes a moment to sigh and runs her hands through her hair.

I have been doubted, overlooked, and laughed at for my entire carer. No one in their right mind ever thought I could seriously do this, and I like to think, winning this belt? That shut a lot of people up. But at the same time... I know if I lose against Johnny Johnson? Then I didn't earn this belt. It was a fluke. It was blind luck. If I lose TWICE to Johnny Johnson on the same night? Then he's the uncrowned champion. He's the one people think SHOULD be the champion, and I have to deal with him trying to bully me and putting me down for another few weeks. All those doubts are going to come rushing back into my life.

She even shudders a little at the thought.

But if I win? No one can deny who I am, not even Johnny Johnson; plus, Bonus; I kill off any claim he has to the belt once and for all and get him out of my life once and for all...which, honestly? I seriously need, I'm living in constant fear of eating lunch or walking down the street, and he just pops out of nowhere like a preppy whack-a-mole to scream in my face about how I'm "nothing" it's like "...Johnny... We're the only two people in the room. Why are you yelling? Like chill out; you're going to give yourself a migraine. He's a close talker, you know? At the last Fallout, where he was yelling at me for...existing...I guess....; I could see all the veins in his forehead getting bigger and bigger and his face getting redder and redder like he was slowly turning into Johnny Johnson, the human tomato. I legit thought his head was going to explode like when you shake up a coke bottle...just KA-BOOM. And don't get me started on his spit-talking.

Lizzie frowns and touches her face a few times as if she can still feel the spit from Johnny. Gross.

"But he does have one thing over me. A two out of three falls match plays right into his hands. It's not a normal match, it's kinda three matches one after the other, and I can say a lot of bad things about Johnny Johnson, but I've been in the ring a few times now, and I know first hand he's good. He's a second-generation wrestler. He's been around wrestling since the day he was born, his father taught him everything he knows, and he's more experienced than me. When it comes to wrestling three matches in a row? I have no doubt in my mind he can go a full hour and find another gear, Me? The longest match I've ever been in is Fallout in that triple threat match, and to be honest? I'm STILL feeling the bruises from that. I've never had to pace myself to that extent. I'm about to enter a world I can't even begin to imagine. This is the biggest test of my stamina, skill, endurance, and will to win. So, when we're fifty minutes deep and he has me in some kind of hold...Well.. that's where the whole "Let's all doubt Lizzie Rose because she's not a good wrestler" thing comes up again. But... That's ok. That's fine…In fact, that's more than fine. Because you want to know the good thing about constantly sitting under a tree of doubt and insecurity? You learn to work with it. You deal with it. You learn to weaponise it. Doubt is a friend I always carry on my back wherever I go, and I thrive off it because where there is doubt? There is something to prove. I realised to win this match. I need to level up. I need to change gears. Change everything. I need to be TOUGHER. FASTER. STRONGER. I need to double down on everything I've been doing up until this point. I need to run until it feels like there's battery acid going through my legs. I need to punch and kick bags into my limbs, LITERALLY turn into jelly and then throw like a million more. Sooooo…. On the day I found out about this match? You know what I did? I immediately got on the first flight I could book and made my way to the Caesars Superdome in Louisiana as soon as possible. Every day since then, I have been in this ring, practising and busting my ass off just to make sure that I am ready for our big date night. I got here on Saturday, got in this ring, and bruised myself on these ropes and turnbuckles. The day after, I kept going until I lay motionless on the mat with the worst headache of my life. I kept it up the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that. It is currently Thursday, and you know what? I've been in this arena so much this entire week that I don't even sleep in a hotel. Seriously That's not a joke. I just sleep in a sleeping bag I set up in the locker room, so I'm ready to go right when I wake up. From sunrise to sunset, I'm here, working, sweating, and sometimes bleeding all over this building, and I wonder, where are you? Are you getting ready, Johnny? Are you preparing for this match as much as I am? I don't know a lot about you, I mean, besides the fact you really need to invest in a yoga mat, but I can guess you're in the best private gym money can buy, that or yelling at the woman at the checkout deck until she cries for not giving you correct change... I dunno. But...hey...you wanna see what I've been up to? Huh?

...Lizzie pauses for a moment, her head tilted, a good-natured expression on her face, almost like she was giving Johnny space to answer her question. Despite hearing no answer, Lizzie forces herself upon her feet, and she picks up the camera before her. Quickly, she turns it around to show off the rest of the ring and all of the tools she's been using to train in it. Off in the opposite side of the ring is a large, red, rectangular training pad situated against the turnbuckle. There are huge, penetrating dents in it, as well as various tears from its sides and corners where the stuffing is starting to seep through as if it was forcefully being squeezed out. In a large cardboard box near the side, there are various metallic objects resembling weights. Some of them are simple dumbbells, some are of the larger kind, and for whatever reason, there seems to be a large collection of hollow steel pipes as well. Yet right in the middle of the ring is the most striking object: a disfigured mass of limbs and plastic body parts that were once a serviceable mannequin in a former life but now looks like nothing more than an imitation of a victim who suffered from a one-hundred-mile-per-hour car crash. As Lizzie moves the camera around to show off the stuff, her voice narrates from behind the lens.

"You see this? This is what I've been working with this whole time. Well, not these specific objects exactly. You'd be surprised how easy it is to break a mannequin in half with a couple of suplexes, and I'm pretty sure the guys in the back are starting to get kinda creeped out by how many times I've had to ask for a new mannequin to use for my training. That training pad in the corner looks pretty beat up too, and I think that'd be the seventh one I've gone through this week. Sixth ... seventh. ... I've lost count. But yeah, what you see before you? This has been my whole week. Aside from eating, sleeping, and personal hygiene, this is literally all I've been doing since I got here. I'm pretty sure some guys and gals are worried that I've been doing too much. Every day, I come out here to this ring, and I throw dropkicks against that pad until my legs are too numb to jump anymore. I lift those weights until it feels like my arms are about to fall off. I practice my moves against these mannequins to the point where I'm pretty sure if I was against living people, I probably would've killed at least two dozen of them by now. I'm out here so much I think I might actually be getting in the way of the stagehands' work. After a few hours, they kick me out. They tell me SHOO, like a stray cat who's made her nest in the ring, but when they do that, I just carry all my stuff to my locker room and continue there. Even then, people still ask me to stop because they hear the noise and they think that I might actually be killing someone. The funny thing is, they know I can't kill any mannequins since they're not alive. I think you might laugh over the fact that they called in the company doctor to make sure that I don't overwork myself and die from exhaustion before our match. But you know what? I don't care. Because I'm just like the 90s, I'm never going to die. But hey, you're welcome to try. It's do or die for me. I need to shut you up once and for all. To continue rolling. To send a message to the world that this rave is only getting started, and this is my only shot at doing this. To prove you wrong. To make you eat your words because if you win? If you beat me with no help. No issues. I'm only further validating those doubts; Maybe I'm proving all those people that say I don't deserve to compete at this level. You don't need this, Johnny. You don't need to validate yourself to anyone. So you better believe I'm never going to let what happened when you cheated me out of the title EVER happen again.

The camera is turned back around so Lizzie can film herself again as she retakes her place sitting in the corner like the world's worst MVH impersonater

Oh, but don't get me wrong, I KNOW what you can do. I KNOW you can beat me within an inch of my life…..I know you can beat me; I think 99% of people expect YOU to beat me….So that's never in doubt….But the question is...Do you have what it takes to beat me? Because you tried before, didn't you? You tried to injure me; you couldn't do it. You cheated me out of the North American Championship, and I ended up with it anyway. You've tried to kick me while I was down and make me lose my faith in who I am, and I'm still here...So here's your chance to prove that YOU have a killer instinct, and I don't. That's your whole point, right? That you're so big and strong and I'm as soft as a marshmallow?

Lizzie nods her head repeatedly, her tongue stabbing the side of her cheek, almost thoughtfully pursing her lips, chewing the idea over in her mind

C'mon. Let me show you something?

Wearily, Lizzie grabs the camera again and stands up. As she gets up and turns, she looks down at the crumpled, crippled mannequin and walks forward. She doesn't get very far, though, as her foot audibly hits a dumbbell, and she trips, falling straight to the mat as the camera lands on the mat. Painfully, she crawls over, fighting against the pain towards the mannequin, which is now closer to her than the camera. With its head in her hand, she holds it up to the camera lens as best she can to show off a name she had written on it. "Johnny J." it read. Once enough time passes for her to be satisfied, Lizzie pulls herself up to a sitting position, leaning over to the camera to readjust it so it can get a better view of both her and the mannequin before she continues.

Johnny, say hello to my sparring buddy. …Well, my, uh… eighth sparring buddy, I think. I know it doesn't have a name or even a gender, but in my head, I've been referring to it as 'JOHNNY J'. Is that creepy? Well, this person's been standing it for you, so I figured it'd be appropriate. I know it's nowhere near as skilled and experienced as you are, but hey. It's hard to find good help that'll let you beat them up all week, you know? Anywho. This might be weird coming from a girl who's a wrestling champion, but I'm not an aggressive person. ..I don't hate you or anyone I fight. When you wrestle? You're meant to focus all those aggressive feelings towards someone and kind of…... weaponise them. You know? But I have no real aggression to draw on...but you know what I do draw on instead; Passion. Hope. The NEED, I have to win….and I just let that take over...and you can see what happens when I do, especially on nights like Lights Out. And you might have me beat when it comes to that ruthless killer instinct...but when it comes to sheer force of will? I can look you square in the eyes and say; No one can match me when it comes to pure will. No one on the planet can match me. I can move mountains. I can part the seas. I can reunite the spice girls. And I can, and I WILL beat you.

Lizzie then playfully pats the mannequin on the chest while smirking at the camera.

I know I said this mannequin was only a stand-in for you, but remember what it looks like because once Lights Out rolls around, it will be you, and there's nothing you can do to stop it."

Once again, Lizzie leaned over, picked up the camera and forced herself to her feet one more time just to look at the mess she had made. The torn pad, the bent weights, the broken mannequin, it's a wonder just how hard Lizzie has been training this whole time and if she really intends to train anymore. Her somewhat wobbly posture implies that the effects of her training is really taking their toll on her body, but never has she allowed the pain and ache to restrict her. Once she manages to steady her camera, she continues once again with her speech.

"Johnny, I want you to pay very close attention to all of this. The whole reason I made this video in the first place was so you can see what's in store for you once Lights Out comes…..Those dents in that pad? I've made hundreds of those and kicked the stuffing out of several of them, and why? I did it just to make sure that when I kick you, you won't be able to get up. That mannequin? Do you know how many of these I've slammed into this mat? Can you guess how many concussions they must've suffered in just these past couple of hours I've been here? I would guarantee you if this guy were an actual person? He'd be dead right now. You see all this damage before you, and you know what? Do you want to know the crazy thing? I'm not even done yet. It is only the middle of Thursday, and I've got three more days to go before our match, so that's three more days of making sure that I am strong enough to put you down for good. Because I HAVE to prove I belong with the best this company has. I have to prove I've earned the right to wear this belt, and I will sing Mambo Number. Five before you take that away from me. I'm going to beat you; I've proven time and time again that I can handle anything you can dish out and come back for more. Plain and simple, this isn't a choice for me. What I'm doing right now isn't out of malice. It's out of desperation. This is my one shot at getting rid of the voice of doubt in my head. From now on, I won't give people a chance to doubt me. I won't allow people to say that I don't belong anymore; I hope you realise sooner than later that it will be completely useless. Try anything you want, it doesn't matter, because I WILL NOT LOSE TO YOU. You can break my arm, and I will still reach out to grab you. Break my legs, and I will still stand up to chase you. You can daze me, knock me out, hell, even kill me, and I WILL STILL GET UP. I'm dead serious about that too, Johnny. Go ahead and try to kill me. Even if my brain no longer functions, my soul is far too driven to fade away that easily; as long as I still have two working fists, that all I need. Johnny, and if you don't believe me, just look at what I've done! All of this broken equipment? Do you know exactly how hard it is to break this stuff? Do I need to remind you that I've needed several of these things replaced? Do I also need to point out that I've barely been able to stand during this whole video? I've put myself through so much torture just to prepare myself for this, and my week's not even over yet, so what could you possibly do to stop me? If I can do this all week nonstop and still be standing against you at Light Outs. What makes you think you can possibly do anything to beat me...TWICE?

With that, Lizzie turns the camera around to focus on her sweaty, tired face. Though she isn't panting anymore, she is still clearly breathing heavily, though it's hard to tell how much of that was because of her hellish training or because she got too into her speech.

"Johnny it's one thing I know about you is how you think you're better than me. That you're better than most people. I'm pretty sure you haven't even listened to a word I've said, and there's a good chance you've even closed this video after the first few seconds. If that's the case… then good. Go ahead and do that, don't take me seriously, but I WILL BEAT YOU; it'll just be your own fault that you didn't listen to my warnings. But if you've gotten this far in the video, for whatever reason, then I want you to listen up. If you haven't been paying attention at all, then at least listen to this: Why do you deserve to win? Why do you deserve the "W" more than I do? To prove how big and bad you are? To fluff your fragile ego? To stop your self-hating for even a day? I want you to think about this long and hard, and I mean really think about it because the fact of the matter is this. Once Lights Out comes around, if you still don't have an answer by then, don't even bother showing up. I have too many reasons to want this and too many reasons why I'm going to beat you. Can you match my conviction? If you can't even think of even one good reason why you want to beat me..... you've already lost Johnny.

Lizzie places the camera back on the ground with an overly calm expression. She then walks over to the crippled mannequin one more time before glancing back at the camera.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta get back to my training...

Lizzie Rose shifts her gaze back down to the mannequin after that, lifting it up with a grunt. She then holds it in front of her, facing the camera, before she grabs it from behind. As its legs part across her waist, she lifts it up in a familiar position and slams it down with a German suplex… right on top of the camera!

*CRASH*

*BZZT*

 

[Oz]

UNCLE & NEPHEW

*****
​

“The funny thing is: I don’t even think I can blame you bunch for being historically illiterate in this situation ... as hilarious as I find my predicament to be.” Caesar sighed, stuck in his place. Hands and feet bound, not even given the privilege to sit down.

“It’s not like it’s your history so you wouldn’t have any motivations to draw conclusions from what happened in my past.”

“Shut the fuck up.” was the only reply he was given. It came from the black helmet.

Silence followed. It continued to follow the usual pattern now. Caesar trying to initiate conversation to get more information about whatever the hell was going on, only to be shot down instantly to let silence consume the atmosphere in this little rinky-dink spaceship until it was time for this damned loop to iterate again.

Still, persistence is the key to many doors.

“Cute ship, by the way. About time you take it to a space cleaner’s.”

This finally causes the revealing response he’s been trying to bait.

“Oh, so you think you have the right to trash my ship just because you happen to travel regularly on a much fancier one, don’t you?” ranted the gold helmet.

Don’t let the word ‘gold’ fool you about that helmet’s appearance, it’s more like a Devin Golden gold. Rotten. Well, the proper term is rusty when it comes to metals, but the idea shouldn't be hard to grasp there. And no, nothing Caesar sees gives him the idea that his kidnappers are any rich.

“I swear, someone should eradicate all you stinking Nephews off the face of the fucking multiverse!” the gold helmet finished, trying to hold himself back from a fit of rage.

He called Cornelius Aurelius Caesar a Nephew. After what happened at last Fallout. It took serious dedication to the plan he was trying to craft on the spot to not laugh right there and then. In the end, it wasn’t hard for Caesar to get them to spill further. The situation made more and less sense at the same time.

Mistaken as a permanent-Nephew after that Giant Rome expedition, kidnapped by a trio of space pirates who were very down on their luck and wanted to ransom him back to Uncle. So funny that it hurt.

“The fuck are you laughing at, Nephew?” the silver helmet now asked.

“How much did you set the ransom as?” Caesar asked in between his chuckles.

“Why does it matter to you?” The silver asked back.

“I’m just curious to know how much am I worth in the eyes of an average space pirate? I mean, there are a collection of Nephews other than yours truly. Would you demand more if I was, lets say, that Avatar girl or Harry the Sane Wizard?”

The trio of pirates looked at each other before the gold one sentenced Caesar as crazy, not giving a straight answer. Thankfully, the silver one came to the rescue on that front.

“Twenty million space credits. That’s what we’re going to ask from Uncle.”

“Why did you even tell him?” the black helmet sighed. Facepalmed, even.

“Nobody cares about the Avatar girl.” the silver continued regardless of the stares of his fellow space pirates. “But Harry would be at least forty million. Doesn’t he do magic and shit?”

“Shut your fucking mouth, man!”

“Guys, fucking come on. It’s not like he’s going to be able to do anything about it. We’re going to be filthy rich off his back, least we can do is to indulge him a bit.”

Caesar was very much not amused by that number. He wasn’t an expert on space economics but to be told that he has less value on the market than an actual Nephew was a direct punch to the dome of his pride.

“Since you were so nice to me by answering my questions, I’ll let you guys let in on a secret. Uncle is desperate. He’s lost Nephews left and right recently. He can’t afford to lose another. He started recruiting but I was the only one that joined. I’m the newest and freshest Nephew. Just imagine the humiliation he would suffer if he lost his most recent Nephew just recently after he had recruited him. Of course, all that makes me even more valuable than you initially had assumed. I’d ask at least fifty million space credits for. Just saying, you can have a lot more to gain from this situation.”

The black helmet once again turned his covered head away from Caesar, continuing his stance of not indulging. The silver helmet kept staring at him in accordance of his willingness to indulge. The gold helmet however, his head slightly turned towards him. Caesar guessed the color of his helmet reflected his primary desire, even though he didn’t know if space credits were physical let alone their color.

“It’s not every day a hostage tries to negotiate his ransom up, eh?” the silver one further planted the seeds into gold’s mind.

“He’d definitely pay it. No questions asked. Money is nothing to Uncle. All he cares about is the safety of his dearest Nephews.” Caesar continued his instigation, very much encouraged by the silver helmet’s words.

“Fifty million, guys. Think what you can do with fifty million space credits. You can fix this ship ten times over or even get a bigger one. I’ve been on rides inside CowNephew Octobop and let me tell you this much, with fifty million, you can get something that will put Octobop to shame.”

“Are we really going to let him manipulate us like that?” the black helmet snapped.

His pleas fell to deaf ears much to Caesar’s pleasure.

“It’s not exactly manipulation if he’s telling the truth, is it?” the gold helmet commented.

"Not you too!"

“Sure, I have ulterior motives myself. Obviously I’m not trying to make you guys richer on the account of my big friendly heart. I gain prestige within the Nephew ranks as well.”

Cornelius lied as easily as he breathed. He used to be a career politician, after all.

“The Nephew who was worth fifty million space credits! Imagine how big of a deal would that make me!”

“Don’t get too cocky. You still got kidnapped, didn’t you?”

“I’ve been a Nephew for less than a month, my good space pirate friend. Before that I was simply a man who tried to adapt into modern Earth technology after living an entire lifespan in the ancient times with no electricity. So, it’s not exactly hard for advanced space technology to kidnap me.”

If Caesar’s hands weren’t restrained, he would’ve shrugged.

“Plus, no Nephew is perfect. Michelle squandered all her momentum from breaking Kennedy’s streak, Gerald is a naive fool, Thomas West got knocked the fuck out in the main event of Back In Business, Harry still hasn’t perfected his Patronus or whatever the fuck that is, The Avatar is still green, Maid is too overprotective of her, so on and so forth. I can go on if you want to but I think I make my point perfectly here.”

“Okay, fine, fuck it. I’m game with the plan. Fifty million it is. If this is all a plot then you're going down with us too, Nephew scum. Life is too short not to kill Nephews.”

Space pirates were as easy as ancient Mediterranean pirates, it seemed. Caesar looked forward to the rest of this journey.

*****​

If you were staring at this scene completely blind, ‘hostage’ would be the last word in your dictionary you’d use to describe Caesar. Throughout the remainder of that day (or at least what Caesar perceived as day, it’s hard to measure things like that when you’re in outer space and everything is blackness with white stars sprinkled on it) the Roman general managed to negotiate his restraints away, shared a few drinks with his captors, beat them in a weird four-dimensional board game, read them some of the speeches he’d prepared about the potential F1 Climaxx campaign he’d have, called the space pirates illiterate when they didn’t have the most glaring reviews.

Fun times overall. However, everything was done on a purpose. Caesar was purposefully trying to repeat what has happened years before. He wasn’t the bold and brash twenty-five year old on his way to Rhodes to study oratory anymore. The young Julius had managed to integrate himself into his own kidnappers, a group of Cilician pirates quite easily. His natural charisma surpassed Cornelius’ own, that much was certain.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He was threatening them by having Uncle come and rip their limbs apart with his tentacles, the very same Uncle who was going to face Caesar at Lights Out. He wasn’t worried about not making it back to Lights Out. He saw no probability of dying in this scrappy spaceship inhabited by three goons. Yes, Caesar was bluffing to the extreme, he didn’t know how he would get back at them like he had been claiming for the last couple of hours. He didn’t know if Uncle would even hear of this incident, let alone do anything if he’d done so. His chances depended very much on variables.

But this was no gambit. No, Caesar was merely following the script written thousands of years ago, reprising his role.

It was hard to take a look at what he’d achieved during his entire life when he was still the head of Rome. Responsibilities awaited, not a single minute passed without him having to concern himself with the newest schemes, latest affairs between friends and foes. Public lynchings, political chaos, counter-propogandas, increasing demands from army veterans. Everything stacked on top of each other and Gaius Julius Caesar barely had the time to see the grand picture. The changing of the scenery caused by him and him alone.

He was a fucking legend. The greatest Roman ever. One of the most famous people in history. Won wars, bagged Cleopatra, raised an heir of a nephew that turned Rome into a proper empire. He’d done that by being precisely who he was.

Cornelius couldn’t fucking do all of that. If Uncle came knocking, told him that he would drop him back into his original time so that he wouldn’t be a bother to him and his loony troupee anymore, then kept his promise … Cornelius couldn’t even do the quarter of the things Julius had done. And it’s all because he was acting like Cornelius. He didn’t have to be.

Julius achieved greatness by being Julius and now his remnants were trying to be Cornelius.

It was a stark realization he came to when Uncle sprayed him with the pink mist instead of re-enacting his death with brass knuckles. Uncle didn’t want Cornelius to channel into the feeling of being stabbed over and over and over and over and over again. He didn’t want Cornelius to realize that he still had Julius inside of him. He’d called Cornelius ‘dictator’ and ‘general’ over and over again to make sure Cornelius still thought he was all of that.

But he wasn’t. Julius was. Cornelius was just a professional wrestler. A professional wrestler was no threat to Uncle. He’d gained his career out of being a gimmick and devouring fists, he’d eat Cornelius the professional wrestler alive. But he was a sloppy leader. A leader who couldn’t win the world title before his underling did. A leader who let his Nephews die for nothing.

In a wrestling ring, Uncle J.J.JAY! would defeat Cornelius Aurelius Caesar soundly. In a battlefield, the Nephews would be crushed by Gaius Julius Caesar’s legions. Yet, it was a wrestling ring they were scheduled to fight. That’s why it was better to follow the path he’d paved in his past life instead of digging his way into a new and uncertain one.

In battle, you hid your weaknesses and played to your strengths. For the time being, Cornelius was weak. A man struck with grief, a man had fallen to the numbers over and over again. Julius was strong. He’d reflected on his past actions time and time again, about how cruel they were, about how they lead to other people’s ruination. He didn’t like doing this.

But it was the only way.

Uncle had to find the greatest Roman in history against him. He had to face one of the best generals of all time. The man whose legend shaped the course of the history had to come and teach Uncle how meaningless the scope of all the space he occupied was compared to Julius’ contained legacy. Uncle went to different planets, different galaxies, burned distant civilizations, oversaw the ruination of many cultures. But they meant nothing in the grand scheme of things because Cosmic Horror stood for nothing but his own amusement. Neither did his many Nephews. Jay needed to learn that all his adventures were empty, all for naught, meaningless, convoluted, not affecting anything.

When they came face to face, Jay needed to understand that when Julius did things, he did them directly and in a meaningful way that would last forever.

Uncle J.J.JAY! needed to know that despite all his efforts, the actual dictator, the actual general, the man, the myth, the legend was alive again and would step into his own Superdome to conquer Uncle’s makeshift empire.

It was as simple as that. Cornelius would die, Julius would live.

That’s the path he needed to follow and that was the path that guided his tricks against these space pirates. Do what Julius did to those Cilicians and let history repeat itself.

“I’m tracking the signal, captain!” he heard from the command room of the ship. It was the silver helmet, Caesar recognized from the voice

He got up from his uncomfortable bed in the back of the barracks. The ship didn’t even have prison barracks so they let him sleep in the tiny guest room. His burning ambitions had kept him awake thus far and sounded like he wasn’t even getting any peace even though he had come into a conclusion with his own changed mindset.

“For Jupiter’s sake! All that fucking noise. What part of ‘Do not disturb me’ have you not understood, you filthy mongrel?” Caesar barged out of the room, yelling at the space pirates as if he was the actual captain of this ship instead of a mere prisoner. He was greeted with a collective trio of grins.

“We got a signal back from Uncle!” the actual captain, the gold helmet, proclaimed. “They’re agreeing to pay the ransom! We’re going to be fucking rich, son!”

For a second, Caesar’s face shifted into displaying his surprise. An uncertain smirk followed, the man himself was unsure if it was born from his desire to act as if everything was just going with the plan or the fact that Uncle would actually pay fifty million space credits for him.

*****​

After much groaning, clunking and howling, the unremarkable spaceship carrying a very remarkable hostage landed on the dark grey soil of the unnamed planet. The rusty gates took some time to open, drawing the ire of the black helmet as he and the golden helmet slowly exited the ship. Even though his frustrations almost caused him to kick some parts of the ship completely down, the black helmet was eventually subjugated by his captain’s gaze. Which was hidden behind the helmet obviously but Caesar guessed he understood how the captain was trying to warn him with his eyes by his posture or something like that.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

Behind the two emerged the man who had built a strange rapport over them throughout the flight. Of course, said rapport included mocking them, berating them, insulting them, threatening to come back and crucify them but in the eyes of those pirates, he was an entertaining hostage that would make them loaded beyond belief. Someone fun to be around. Cornelius Aurelius Caesar had played his part to perfection so far and all that was left to him was to deal with the happenstances that occurred.

Unfortunately, that might’ve been the most difficult part of this whole ordeal. Uncle was a lot of things but an amateur he was not.

“Are you comfortable with the shackles?” the captain asked, the very same captain who slapped the same shackles on him without a second thought during his abduction.

“It doesn’t matter.” Caesar replied before turning to the black helmet. “You got the blindfold?”

Caesar received a nod from him and replied with his own, giving him the confirmation to go along with it.

“Why do you even insist on this? We already received the money, Silver transferred all of it to a third account, we got all of it. Surely we don’t need to keep you like that.”

Caesar, however, disagreed. His steps guided by the black helmet due to a lack of vision, he gave his reasoning.

“I appreciate the compassion, Goldie. But you just can’t be seen in front of Uncle being walked over by a supposed prisoner, no? I bet you have his respect tenfold by managing to capture one of his nephews and getting fifty million space credits for your effort. If I don’t look the part, not only will you lose some of that respect but I will look suspicious too.”

The captain shrugged, not that Caesar could see that.

“Your decision, Cornelius.”

That it was.

They continued to walk on the barren planet. From what Caesar did see before getting blindfolded, it was not a place Uncle would choose as a destination for such a thing. Too boring, too lifeless. Maybe he just wanted to dispose of him right here and let nobody else find the body. Even though Uncle made very clear that he wanted to get him at Lights Out and nowhere else, it was still a small possibility. Everything, and by that Caesar meant everything was possible in Uncle’s world. That’s why he had the black and gold helmets as back-ups to buy him at least some time. Silver also awaited at the ship in case something went wrong. Even though they were massive goobers, they were also still space pirates.

So they walked, the captain tracking the exact coordinates that were sent to the ship. Caesar didn’t know the specifics so he kept on walking. He was simultaneously looking forward to and dreading the prospect of facing Uncle again under such circumstances. He had a lot of questions to ask, maybe he had some to ask Caesar too. About how he refused, about how he kept to his principles, about how he could reject being a part of such a grand empire because of the ghost of a fallen friend. Or not, Uncle wasn’t the type to ask many questions. Not that he was ‘a type’, he was anything but a type. He did things for his own reasons and that was it. He didn’t understand anything else, he didn’t even try to look at things outside of his own perspective. Maybe his strange perspective was such grandiose in his own Uncle-esque way that he simply was unable to look outside of it because he never know how to look or where to even start with.

Caesar didn't fully understand Uncle and Uncle didn't fully understand him. A matter of principles. Caesar’s rigid Roman principles, his sense of honor was infinitely incompatible with Uncle’s ever-changing ones, the Cosmic Horror was beyond comprehension as a concept itself so why wouldn’t his code of conduct be like that?

Stu was a casualty he was too weak to prevent, while all those Nephews died fighting Uncle’s fights. Their griefs were not the same, they couldn’t ever be the same. Cornelius loved Stu like a brother, he was his best friend, the closest thing he had to family. Comparing him to his disposable Nephews was one of the biggest insults Caesar has ever heard in his two lives and he had to endure all of that specifically because of his grief. Specifically because he thought Uncle could understand and relate but no, he didn’t, he just kept taking shots at him and expected Cornelius to laugh along at Stu’s weaknesses because strength was the currency and weaknesses were a laughing matter in his cult of insolence. Uncle assumed Cornelius would just abandon that weakness and join his strength because that was objectively the most logical thing to do. But Uncle assumed wrong.

So did Caesar, in a way.

Caesar assumed the best from the charismatic cult leader and Caesar also assumed wrong. Uncle couldn’t love anyone like Caesar loved Stu. Uncle couldn’t love like a human could love. You could put Cornelius or even Julius in those cosmic adventures and let him do this thing. It didn’t work the opposite way. You couldn’t put Uncle in human situations, he proudly wore his distance from humanity in his sleeve.

“Well, well, well. Looks like you’re back to me, General!”

His blood froze at hearing his voice.

“I want the man I paid fifty million for to look at me, gentlemen, so you’d be doing this Cosmic Horror a great service if you could unwrap his present.”

Caesar didn’t see the black and the gold helmets staring at each other before indulging in that request. But after that, he could see again.

He could see Uncle staring at him again.

“Hello, Uncle.”

Uncle took his steps at him and then … he hugged Caesar. Caesar had to wipe the surprise from his face quickly.

“Believe me, Dictator, we have a lot to talk about!”

After the Cosmic Horror broke the hug, he felt black helmet’s hand gently squeezing his shoulder. It was the pirates’ sincere way of saying goodbye to him, the greatest prisoner they ever had, the memory they would never forget. Should Caesar follow to continue the old script then he would come back and crucify all three of them.

A script that was currently on hold while its antagonists slowly left Caesar’s side.

“You did it again, you magnificent bastard.” Uncle was laughing to himself. “You get kidnapped by pirates, you get them to increase your ransom and you befriend them. What year is this? 75 BC?”

Caesar just stared at The Cosmic Horror with increasing surprise. Now that the pirates who thought he was still a Nephew were gone, there was no need for Caesar to pretend he was.

“I thought you didn’t know Roman history, Uncle?”

This caused another hearty laugh from the man.

“Me? Not knowing Roman history? One could argue that I am Rome itself … as much as you.”

Reaching a button on his space utility belt, Uncle pressed it. It emitted a strange beeping sound but what was stranger was how he literally transformed into a tall, white man.

“I should apologize for deceiving you like that. I’m not Uncle J.J.JAY!! I don’t even think he knows about your kidnapping.” the man admitted.

“Who the fuck are you then?”

“I was born as Gaius Octavius Thurinus ... but I am most-widely known as Imperator Caesar Divi Filius Augustus, first Emperor of Rome. However, you know me better as Octavian.”

Octavian smiled, a small tear appearing in his eye, mirroring Caesar’s own reaction.

“Like I said, we have a lot to talk about ... uncle.”

*****​

The first fifty-five years he’d lived, from his birth to his assassination, Caesar had never even considered the possibility of travelling to space. He was Rome’s head priest at one point, the Pontifex Maximus, thinking that mere men could reach the domain of the gods would be blasphemy, punishable by death according to the magnitute of the offense. Then, for thirty years, he lived in a world where humans had not only invented the means of travelling in the sky, but they had also gone far beyond that. At first, Caesar thought they were defiling the domains of Diana and Hecate. He soon found out that it was how things were now. Times have changed and so much has also changed with them.

He’d lived eighty-five years only thinking and dreaming of such prospects. But the last month alone had given Caesar two space adventures and the opportunity to travel in three distinct spaceships.

The less said about Cownephew Octobop, the better. The weird squid motives, (Lovecraftian was the word for it, Caesar had come to learn), even weirder personal belongings of his vast collection of Nephews, an openly hostile artificial intelligence guiding the ship. It was big, it was fast, it was advanced. But it was very Uncle. Then came the small ship of the pirates, which Caesar hoped would be improved with their newly-found fortune. It was a miracle the thing was functioning. But it was a lot warmer. In a metaphorical sense, obviously, they couldn’t afford proper heating.

And now, Caesar found himself in his own nephew’s spaceship. Words could not describe how grand of a ship Octavian had put together. Caesar was glad he’d kept his ransom at fifty million instead of going even higher because from what Caesar has interpreted from everything he saw around him, Octavian could afford so much more and would probably give it all for him.

“I’m not surprised that you thought you would be the only one to get reincarnated. You wouldn’t be you without that trademark arrogance of yours, uncle.”

The uncle and nephew duo remained seated in front of each other. It smelled fresh air, the unpolluted air he remembered from the ancient world. Around them were a vast garden that Caesar could only compare to legends of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Colorful flowers he remembered from the ancient world, vines beautifully surrounding marble statues. Big and elegant fountains, aquaducts, all working to irrigate the soil. Caesar was simply in awe. Octavian had such a vibrant and alive ecosystem contained all inside a ship that travelled inside a big void that was outer space.

“So, what do you want to do with them?”

“With whom?”

“The pirates.”

“Can anything even be done about them? They must’ve been far away by now.”

A smug smile appeared on his nephew’s face.

“Are you going to continue to underestimate me, uncle? I’ve shown you my ship, what I have should be simply a reflection of what I’ve done and what I could do. I can easily track them down and let you crucify them should you choose to do so.”

Caesar’s eyes averted from Octavian’s ones as they shifted to stare at the grass they’d been sitting instead. He did threaten them, tat was true but he simply did it to repeat his own history, to do what Julius had done by acting like Julius. He was a free man again and now he had the choice Julius once had. Mediterranean Sea was big but not big enough to have incidents like that without your reputation being on the line. If Julius Caesar wasn’t a man of his word when it came to those pirates, then his legend wouldn’t be what it was today. But space was bigger, it was infinite. It was an isolated incident in the small corner of an infinite domain, contained between people who had no significance to nearly everyone else that inhabited the vast universe. There was no reputation on the line.

“Let them pass, nephew.”

It was Octavian’s turn to be surprised now.

“That's very unlike you.”

“It’s been millennia since we last talked, Octavian. I died and was reborn as a new person. So did you, apparently. I’m not going to judge you as the man I knew in Rome, so you shouldn’t either.”

“I understand.” Octavian nodded. “Still, I missed you so much, uncle. I made it my life’s mission to avenge you. Brutus, Cassius, all the others. I’ve watched them die, one by one.”

Caesar smiled this time. He knew.

“I’ve read all about it.”

Octavian’s own smile turned uneasy after hearing that, as if Caesar was bringing up an uncomfortable subject.

“You’ve read the history books, I assume.” Octavian said, scratching the back of his neck. “You and I both know that those aren’t the most reliable sources. History is written by the winners.”

“I’d say it’s written by the writers.”

“I can’t see why both can’t be true. I had the most amount of first-hand sources directly written under my orders. Of course, not everything I had them write was true. I’m not even talking about the omissions.”

Caesar didn’t respond. He figured Octavian had something to share so he simply let his nephew do so.

“The thing is, I didn’t know what to do after you died. I was drowning in my grief when word reached me about what was in your will. I was your successor and it was like yet another world of responsibilities being dumped on my shoulder. You taught me everything but I was too messed up to step up. I dumped everything to Agrippa. He did everything behind the scenes while all I had to do was to look good to the people. He commanded my armies, he built my aquaducts.”

Reaching out with an arm, Caesar put a hand on his nephew’s shoulder, lightly squeezing it.

“We’re rulers. We rule, men follow. I haven’t been in the most mentally healthy headspace myself after losing Stu.”

“I’ve heard about your giant friend. My condolences, uncle.”

“Thank you. It’s been hard. Ever since he was pushed into the deep waters, I’d been trying to get back at those who were responsible. It’s a pursuit I don’t think I can abandon now. But it’s also a pursuit that left me quite desperate. I didn’t want to attempt to take revenge blindly, as it’d already cost me. I’d searched some help and found myself in quite the situation.”

“We’re aware of Uncle J.J.JAY!! and his Nephews. We haven’t had an actual intereaction with them yet but we’re aware of their threat nonetheless.”

“Good. You should be aware. You should prepare like you’ve never prepared for a foe before. Those people are not your regular civil war faction, barbaric civilization or even a space pirate gang.”

“I value your advice greatly, uncle.”

Caesar let out a sigh. There was an awkward silence in the room now.

“You’ve always been a smart kid, Octavian. You’ll know what to do. I don’t know how your reincarnation came to be. I don’t know if you were born again on Earth and then went to space or was born to a distant human-like civilization in a distant planet … but you managed to have this ship. You managed to build this garden. You managed to grow your wealth to a point where fifty million space credits were mere chump change to you.”

“We can continue to share this. You don’t have to go back.”

Caesar raised an eyebrow to that.

“What do you mean?”

“Uncle, we’re two of the greatest Romans in history. You changed it and I made those changes permanent. Julius Caesar and Augustus. Uncle and his nephew. We made Rome the biggest civilization together. Just think what would happen if we work together to command this ship. It won’t be just two of us either! I haven’t found many like us … but Agrippa is here as well! We can be the Third Triumvirate!”

Caesar looks thoughtful again upon hearing about the Triumvirate. He remembered how he tried to recreate it when Executive Excellence didn’t offer him a spot. That led him and Stu getting threatened by that slimy Jean-Luc before the honorless bastard Knox did what he did.

“Uncle spends more time out here than he does in the wrestling ring. We can beat him together here! In his own game! Him and all his stupid Nephews eradicated by the might of Rome! Think about it uncle, it would be glorious!”

“Octavian …”

“You can take your time, uncle. I don’t need an answer now.”

“No, my nephew, I’m not going to make you wait.”

Octavian’s eyes opened wide. Caesar was going to give his answer right now.

“You kept Rome alive on this ship and I couldn’t be more grateful for that. I’m proud of you for everything you did after I died and everything you did after you were born again. But I’m sorry Octavian, I can’t accept that offer. I can’t abandon my own life.”

Caesar almost couldn’t bring himself to look at Octavian’s heartbroken expression after his refusal.

“But the life you can live here … that would be so much better! Are you going to continue being a regular man in a world that passed both of us by? We are rulers, uncle, you said as much. We rule and men follow. Gaius Julius Caesar can’t spend his life being a mid-card wrestler while living an extremely mundane life!”

“I thought you wouldn’t understand, Octavian. It’s alright. I understand you. You died as an emperor and when you were born again, you crafted all this instead of living that mundane life yourself. You haven’t changed much and I’m glad that’s the case. But I’m Cornelius Aurelius Caesar. As much as Julius as I try to be, as much as his footsteps I try to follow … Julius died. He got stabbed and bled and died. I am who I am now. Maybe I won’t endure any hardships if I stay in this ship. It will be the easier path. But it’s not just a planet I’d be abandoning. I’d be abandoning my job and my plans. I’d be abandoning … certain people.”

Stu. Atilla. Zehra. Names and faces flashed through his eyes.

“Sure, things might not work out for me. Uncle Jay might humiliate me in the middle of the ring. I might never see Stu again. I might be hurt over and over and over again. But that’s the thing, Octavian, I’m not scared of being hurt like a human would. I’m not scared of being a human. I can’t hide all those small intricacies behind the curtains of a spaceship while I go around the universe and let others stand for everything I can not.”

“I-I really don’t understand.”

“I value the things I have in my life too much, be it small or large. I’m sure you do too. My nephew, I’ll always love you but my place is on Earth. Not in space.”

After a long silence. Octavian gets up and hugs his uncle. Come to think of it, he’d felt the crumbness of Octavian’s familial warmth even when he was disguising as Uncle. But now, it was family.

“Come and visit me frequently. I’ll do the same too.”

“Of course, uncle.”

*****​

He was in the domain of the gods and now he was descending back to Earth. The blue seas and the green land approached, but in reality it was his pod that was approaching his world. Caesar took in the scenery. People tended to write off the Earth and humanity by pointing out how smaller they got when one rose higher and higher, as if that invalidated everything that went on in that small scale.

Cosmic Horror was the fear of the unknown. The space was endless, so were its possibilities. You didn’t know what could appear. Caesar had seen the fall of a giant civilization, he had been kidnapped by space pirates and he was reunited with his own nephew before having to turn his offer down to stay.

Fear was not necessarily a human emotion. Every being with conscience experienced fear. Every being experienced fear of the unknown.

Caesar thought that the Cosmic Horror himself had his own fears. Uncle feared the simplicity of humanity so much that he tried to cover all of it with his cult and over-the-top Nephews and his grand adventures that broke space and time.

Still, Uncle is Caesar’s greatest opponent to date and he knows that he’s gotten into this all by himself. This wasn’t solely about Stu. Stu didn’t care about the words of a man who badmouthed him while he remained in a coma. The giant made self-deprecating jokes about himself that were far harsher than anything Uncle had said about him. He was past that.

He wasn’t going to fight Uncle for Stu. He was going to do it for himself.

He and Uncle were simply two men of two different worlds. In Lights Out, those two words would clash, collide and crash. Maybe Caesar would break, maybe he would break him. He had to wait until the day of the show to find that out.

But after that, they would continue on their paths, leaving all of this behind, allowing Caesar to pursue justice for Stu. Justice for once and for all.

 

[Cyrus Truth]

Exile Chronicles (Volume 5)
Chapter 8: Solving the Puzzle

“When talking about the Golden Opportunity Match…you can’t think of it like just another contest, you know? Normal conventions about victory don’t apply when you’re inside that Chamber.”

We find ourselves in a museum of sorts, within an exhibit on classical era ancient Mediterranean civilizations. Various artifacts, vases and mosaics line the walls and rest in reinforced glass cases to be seen, admired, but never touched.

While the exhibit itself is full of treasures and artifacts, it is remarkably devoid of people. Looking out the nearby windows, we see that the sun has nearly set and that night is swiftly approaching. A lone security guard walks in, doing his rounds and making sure that the exhibits are secured and that the museum is unoccupied by any would-be observers.

However, he’s not doing his job particularly thoroughly, as the camera pans up to a nearby balcony installed at this museum to allow patrons to get a wider view of the exhibit itself. We see the feet of a well-dressed man, black shoes perfectly polished. We see his black peacoat, draped over his shoulders, his flawlessly pressed red dress shirt and black tie. And we see his hands, weathered and grasping as he rests them on the balcony’s bannister. The only thing we don’t see is his face.

Unnoticed by the security guard, the figure just stands there, surveying the exhibit. The guard, satisfied with his less-than-stellar ability to perceive anything out of place, heads off and turns the lights down low. The bright lights are dimmed, but not turned off completely. And there’s still small spotlights on the most valuable artifacts, to keep them well-illuminated as a means to keep an eye on them.

But it’s clear that the guard is closing up the museum, despite the fact that there’s at least one individual looking out over the exhibit that likely shouldn’t be here. And as before when we started this scene, we hear that voice, speaking from beyond this exhibit.

“Traditional matches, even multi-man matches, are usually fairly straightforward. But the Chamber…I don’t know. Something about it throws a lot of what people think they know about how to approach a match out the window. Maybe it’s being confined in steel, maybe it’s the nature of not knowing who’s entering the match at any given time. Or maybe the prize of a Golden Opportunity changes the mindset and makes people do things they normally wouldn’t do. Either way, a Chamber match is less a match and more of a puzzle, a conundrum that requires you to look at all the pieces on the board and see how they fit together. It’s something that’s taken me a lot longer to realize than I’d care to admit, but here, in this moment, I’m beginning to see that, in order to succeed and even have a chance of winning, you have to set aside what your instincts are just for a bit and look at the puzzle in its entirety.”

As the voice says that, our focus shifts back to the exhibit floor. There, sitting on a dais apart from all the other artifacts, surrounded by velvet ropes, is a small golden box:

The box, on first glance, looks to just be some kind of treasure. Beautiful and intricate, sure…but as the camera pans around it, we start to notice other details. Small buttons, sculpted lines that appear to be levers, and various other mechanisms built into it. This box is, upon close inspection, a puzzle box, designed to house something of great value if someone is clever enough to figure out how to open it.

There’s almost this…aura, this mysterious presence surrounding this box. Oddly enough, it’s not enclosed in a glass case unlike everything else in this exhibit. If someone wanted to, they could just…reach out and grab it.

And as the voice speaks, we hear footsteps slowly approaching.

“It should go without saying, but allow me to make it abundantly clear. When I talk about the pieces to the puzzle, I’m not just talking about the Chamber itself. I’m not talking about the rules or the rotation or any of that nonsense, because if nothing else, the Chamber in and of itself is consistent. What isn’t, and what makes this a true puzzle, is the individuals who enter it, hoping to claim the Golden Opportunity for themselves.

“A lot has changed in FWA since the last Chamber match, where Nova Diamond managed to claim the Golden Opportunity, cashed it in on Devin Golden and caused him to spiral into his current state of oblivious madness…and then proceeded to drop it to Michelle von Horrowitz in one of many, MANY title changes in the cycle between Back in Businesses. There was a separation, a battle, and now a new era under one umbrella. And a faction that should’ve stayed in the garbage bin of history has been reborn, with a champion at its head desperate to validate his claim at being the very best.

“In times like these, a Golden Opportunity is even more of an attractive prospect. With the field of potential World Champions as wild and vast as it’s been in years, even those who’ve not held World Championship gold in years, and many who haven’t held it at all, are practically salivating at the idea of a championship match on your terms, whenever and however you want it. The only question is…

“...are you capable of solving the puzzle in order to claim the prize?”

The footsteps get louder as we see a shrouded figure walk…or rather, stumble? Either way, their movements are jerky and erratic, and while their face is shrouded, we see their lips curled into a manic smile.

The figure approaches the puzzle box and caresses it with a brush of their fingers covetously. They tilt their head, as if admiring it…but making no moves to try and solve it.

“There are those in the Chamber who enter it with the thought that their experience, their pedigree is enough to solve the puzzle and emerge victorious. And there is some merit in having vast experiences with a variety of different match types. Especially if you have the championship legacy to back up your experience.

“But, having been a champion and having experience in not just any match type you could possibly think of, but in Chamber matches especially? Leaning too hard on that is a mistake. I should know better than most. Experience, and more importantly, the confidence that comes from experience leads to tunnel vision. You know what to expect, you know what you’re capable of, but in a match like the Chamber? Being blind to your surroundings is a death sentence. Not thinking clearly and paying no heed to your opposition and how they interact with one another is the surest path to defeat and disappointment.

“And if you’re the type of person that’s just…detached from reality and completely ungrounded? Well…”

The figure snatches the puzzle box and starts to mutter something. It’s indistinct from the position of the intruder on the balcony and, by proxy, us…but it’s utter madness. It’s delusional rambling that talks of “being the hero,” “reclaiming what was stolen,” and long drawn-out words and sentences that serve to underline this figure’s madness.

“If you step into the Chamber thinking that you’ve already won…or worse, that you’re destined to win? You’ll never solve the puzzle…and you’ll end up dead.”

As the figure twirls and moves to music that only they can hear, the box shudders in their hand. Shouting in pain, the figure drops the puzzle box as it vanishes in a flash of light and returns to its podium. The shrouded lunatic clutches their hand in agony, where a perfectly punctured hole is seeping blood…but blood that turns to ash and dust. They try to shout, try to say something in frustration and annoyance, but all that comes out of their mouth is more of that dust.

“Whatever respect I have for Devin Golden as a competitor and as a former World Champion? While I don’t deny his desire to be World Champion again, the Truth is…his head is not in the game. It hasn’t been since Nova Diamond took his World Title, and isn’t about to return anytime soon. It’s a shame to see one of the few men in this company I admire reduced to a droning fool living in a fantasy world of his own creation, but that’s all that’s left of Golden. He’s coming into this match thinking that destiny will carry him forward. And it’s going to destroy him.”

The figure screams, but no noise comes from their lungs as they dissolve into dust, having been destroyed due to their own perception of what was and ignoring the dangers.

Not long after, another figure approaches from the bowels of the museum, this one with a bit of a spring in their step and humming a rather cheery tune. At first, they enter the exhibit and just take in the entire assortment of relics and artifacts, paying no heed to the puzzle box.

“Still, I’d rather take experience over ignorance when it comes to the Chamber. Approaching this match without even the slightest bit of foresight into what this match can do to you is akin to walking into a meat grinder thinking your bones and flesh weren’t going to get absolutely pulverized. Sure, you might have participated in some brutal matches, you might have faced and maybe even defeated some of the best, but there comes a time where you’re going to run into a situation that you can’t possibly just skate through and have to take seriously.”

The figure finally sees the puzzle box, tilting their head admiringly at it as they bound up to it. Unlike the first figure, this one does start to play with it, moving levels and buttons. At first glance, one could be mistaken for thinking they’re trying to solve it…however, as this continues on, it’s obvious that their mind and heart aren’t really in it and all they’re doing is wasting time fidgeting with the puzzle box. There’s no devotion, no focus on the task at hand. It’s almost as if this figure is just here wasting time until they can move on to some other objective.

“To survive in the Chamber and to even stand a chance at taking the Golden Opportunity, there can be no delusions of what’s about to happen. You have to respect the match and what’s going to happen to you and your opponents within its confines. Throwing that many bodies into one ring surrounded by hardened steel, and having them fight for one of the most powerful prizes in FWA leads to destruction and suffering unlike most other matches. And more importantly than any of that? The Chamber requires your undivided focus and your unrelenting willingness to suffer, and make others suffer in turn.

“I have nothing against Jeremy Best. The kid is a hell of a wrestler and, quite frankly, a necessary counterbalance to men like me. But…he’s no killer. He doesn’t have a vicious bone in his body. We’ve seen him in Mile High struggle against men who were absolutely vicious and cruel, even if they normally weren’t. And I’m sorry…but to be the World Champion? To be the man who stands at the top of the mountain as the very best in the business? I don’t care how much of a saint you are…you’re going to have to learn how to be a monster to protect what you value.

“And let’s be real…Jeremy might want to be the World Champion…but he’s made it very clear that what he really wants is to find a man who doesn’t want to be found. He’s shown that he’s not ready to move on from that. Combine his obsession with Krash with his kind attitude, and throw all that into a Chamber match surrounded by a pack of starving, feral wolves all fighting one another for a hunk of meat?”

The intruder on the balcony makes a dismissive *tsk* noise as if to accentuate his point. The figure near the puzzle box, seemingly done playing with it and getting nowhere in solving it, decides to ignore it and the potential prize within. They simply walk off, humming a cheery tune, completely ignorant of what they might have given up because they didn’t have the guts or grit to continue pressing forward.

After that figure walks off, a new figure enters the scene. Like with the others, we don’t see their face in their shrouded cloak. This one, however, doesn’t seem completely oblivious. They seem…focused. They seem to understand what they’re here to do and what it is that they’re seeking. As they approach the puzzle box, they look it over closely as they begin to work on actually attempting to unlock it.

“If the only people that entered a Chamber Match were delusional former champions and oblivious, carefree never-champions, the results of a lot of Golden Opportunity matches would be quite different. That being said, there are definitely those who enter the match knowing what’s at stake and what’s going to be required of them to acquire it. Anyone who’s ever won a Golden Opportunity within the Chamber’s confines have to have that understanding at the bare minimum.

“Granted, that’s not enough to completely solve the puzzle and emerge victorious. If it were, there would be a lot more worthy Golden Opportunity victors throughout history…and trust me, we’ll get to that. You can have all the foresight and killer instinct that you want, but even that will only carry you so far when those pods start opening and people start swarming you. Ultimately, the most important virtue that I’ve found that someone has to have in order to survive a match like this? It’s not skill, or strength, or speed or even wits. It’s the willingness to suffer, and the ability to survive…”

The third figure is trying their best, furiously working on the puzzle box to try and make some progress. However, they're rushing, and much like the first figure, they find themselves pricked by the puzzle’s traps, jabbing them repeatedly. They don’t dissolve like the first, but it’s clear that they’re getting more and more agitated.

“Chris Peacock…it might be unfair to discount him just because he wasn’t around for the war between Fallout and Meltdown. Then again, is it? Peacock in spite of his rather stupid gimmick has proven, time and again, to be one of the best competitors on the roster. He is relentless when there’s gold on the line, he comes from an interesting pedigree having been mentored by a former World Champion in Randy Ramon, and if nothing else? I can’t say that he’s a fool or a delusion shadow of his former self.

“What I CAN say, though? As much of a name that he’s made for himself competing in X Rules style matches…Chris Peacock is missing that extra edge that all great champions need. To be quite blunt? Chris Peacock is soft. And I’m not talking about physical toughness, although I could argue that his record in those hardcore matches is spotty at best considering he’s been made a fool of by JJ and the Nephews, of all people, which tells me that he’s not nearly as much of a hardcore badass as people make him out to be.

“No, I’m talking about mental toughness. That facet of a person’s psyche that ignores pain, ignores the threat to one’s well-being, dismisses the very concept of difficulty and even impossibility and makes the decision to push forward. Chris Peacock does not have that. Hell, he WON against Devin Golden at Back in Business, and what does he do? He decided to walk away while the rest of us were at each other’s throats. Chris could’ve done anything with that momentum, could’ve made a stab against that scared wannabe tyrant Danny Toner. Hell, he could’ve decided to stand up for Fallout and fight against the Meltdown invasion and I would’ve had a smidge more respect for him.

“But…he did nothing. Because Chris Peacock, for all the talent he has? He coasts. He takes his foot off the gas because he’s afraid of the speed that’s required to run through the walls between being a good wrestler and being a goddamn legend. Comparing him to the multitude of wrestlers who’ve had to struggle and suffer for what little scraps of glory they’ve been able to grasp for is like comparing a rusted Volkswagen van to an Abrams tank.”

The figure curses out loud and slams their hand on the dais, causing the puzzle box to shudder, but not fall. They raise their hands to eye level and we see a multitude of puncture wounds from the puzzle box’s needles. There’s a series of expletives, growls, and general sounds of frustration and dismay at their inability to solve the puzzle…or perhaps, just perhaps, it’s the sound of a person who thought that they’d be able to waltz in and just get the prize, and is utterly disgusted by the fact that it’s not easy.

“The Chamber will take everything from you. There’s no escaping it. And if you can’t accept that fact, you don’t deserve to compete in it. And if you do? It will eat you alive. Only those who accept that danger and are willing to give everything to claim the prize can possibly stand a chance of arising from the ashes of oblivion with the Golden Opportunity in hand. If you’re the kind of man who’ll walk away from a victory and choose not to fight in a war for the very heart and soul of the business that made you relevant? Then the only purpose you’ll serve in that match is as a sacrificial lamb to the bloody demons that call such a hellish structure home.”

The figure scoffs and walks off, clearly having given up on solving the puzzle and deciding to cut their losses. However, as they disappear down the darkened hallway, we hear the sound of a body falling to the floor in a heap. As the camera moves, we see this third figure having collapsed, likely due to the poison from the needles. It’s tragic, if not a little pathetic. They had spent the time trying to solve the puzzle, gave up when it wasn’t an easy win, and died ignobly anyways.

But, the figure is disrespected even further when we see a dainty foot just step onto the corpse and walk over it. As the camera pans out, we see three more shrouded figures walk past the dead body, seemingly unconcerned about it and, quite frankly, completely disrespectful to the dead. This new trio seem awfully chummy with one another as they approach the puzzle box and loom around it, inspecting it and chattering among themselves, sounding rather confident about their prospects of gaining the prize within.

The figure in the balcony, seeing this, clicks their tongue derisively as they continue to speak.

“Given everything I’ve said about the Chamber and what it takes to survive even long enough to solve the proverbial puzzle, I can’t say that the idea of teaming up with others to boost your odds is surprising. It’s not a new strategy, by any means. Hell, even before the official war between Fallout and Meltdown, the Fallout wrestlers in the last Chamber match had themselves a temporary truce to eliminate the sole Meltdown representative. I don’t know if this was brand loyalty or a group of wrestlers doing everything they can to eliminate a threat, but my earlier point stands. Sometimes, wrestlers don’t want to or aren’t brave enough to trudge ahead through the proverbial field of barbed wire and landmines on their own and put their faith in others and hope that they don’t stab you in the back before you can slit their throats.

“Even I’ll admit…there are times and places where cooperation and teamwork are essential. Meltdown proved that when they emerged victorious in the Jailhouse Blues match at the Anniversary Show. But the Chamber? Where only one person can emerge as the winner? I find the prospect of alliances not only distasteful, but ultimately self-destructive.”

As the intruder says this, we see the trio of figures working on the puzzle box. As if to prove the point of our narrator wrong, they are making some progress in sorting out the puzzle’s solution. They’re working together as one…

…but, there’s a moment. It’s brief, barely noticeable if you weren’t looking hard enough. One of the figures, their face shrouded by a cowl like all the others, gets a glint in their eye that we’re able to see through the shadow. The glint of someone who knows the power of the prize within…the glint of greed.

“Executive Excellence is full of shit. I know this isn’t some earth-shaking observation, but I think it’s important to note just how deep their shit really goes. Gabrielle Montgomery, Mike Parr, and Kayden Knox are three bottom-feeders that think that their alliance and association with Danny Toner and the World Title make them better than what they are. And sure, if you were simply judging them by their championship successes as of late, you might be mistaken for thinking there’s some Truth in that assumption. But as I’ve stated with the most recent slate of World Champions, simply winning gold is not enough to make you a legend. In the span of weeks and months, all three of them won gold and immediately lost it.

“But their own delusions of grandeur aren’t what I’m calling bullshit on. No, what I’m calling out is this ugly, obvious lie that they see themselves as equals. That they and Danny Toner are one and the same, that there’s no hierarchy among them. They are a UNIT, they say! It doesn’t matter which one of them is the World Champion so long as Executive Excellence controls the title. And this match, this Golden Opportunity is simply just to make sure that the title stays with Executive Excellence. A ‘contingency’ to ensure that the power remains with them. And that there’s no real ego among them.

“I know these three. And I know that they’re all a bunch of liars trying to delude themselves and the rest of the roster. Honestly, I’m more disappointed in how terrible the lie is than the lie itself…”

As if on cue, the figure with the glint in their eye stops the other two. While we don’t hear the conversation clearly, the snippets we do get seem to say that this figure is claiming that they’ve solved a similar puzzle before and should be the one to claim the prize, because they know what to do with it.

One of the other figures, a bit more domineering than the third, gets in their partner’s face and tells them that they’ve had a chance and blew it, and they should be damn grateful that their association gives them a chance to even get close to such a prize again. The first counters by saying that the second has had their own chances to claim a prize like this and has failed time and time again, and should be satisfied with the lesser treasures they’ve had and haven’t been able to keep their hands on in the first place.

All the while? The third figure just stands there, arms crossed. While we don’t see their face, their body language says volumes…they’re boiling inside from being ignored.

“I know Gabrielle better than anybody in this company. Gabrielle lies. She lies to her teammates, she lies to the fans and the rest of the roster, and more pathetically? She lies to herself. This is a woman who achieves things, fails to follow up, and then retires when things become difficult and unretires when there’s a chance to return to the spotlight, especially if it gets her closer to the World Title. She can say all she wants that she’s a team player, but we all saw who she was in the last iteration of Executive Excellence. When there’s a supergroup with her in it, she absolutely can not tolerate not being the centerpiece. And that simp Toner is too much of an idiot to realize that Gabrielle can and will drive that knife through his back if she gets her hands on the Golden Opportunity.

“Mike Parr is also someone I’m all too familiar with, and while I’ll admit that I have a touch more respect for him than I do Gabrielle? Siding with Executive Excellence proves what I’ve said about him for years. Mike Parr is a good wrestler. At times, he may even be great. But his reach has always, ALWAYS exceeded his grasp. I hold the North American Championship with all due respect, but ultimately the World Title is the championship that stands above them all. And Parr has had his opportunities and fallen short every time. You want me to believe that, having lost the North American Championship to Lizzie Rose and having the faintest hope of securing a World Title match right in front of him, that Parr isn’t plotting to use it? To silence the doubters and finally, FINALLY be the man?

“But…ultimately the one out of that trio that’s likely the most devious is Kayden Knox. You hear him talk about being the Executive Excellence member that’s being written off as a potential winner of the Golden Opportunity. But that’s a lie. Or rather, it’s a misdirect. The only people that are writing off Kayden Knox’s chances and credentials are Kayden’s teammates. Gabrielle is an egomaniac that doesn’t mind Kayden’s presence so long as it helps her get what she wants. Mike Parr cares only about Mike Parr. Both of them believe that, if one of the Executive Excellence idiots is going to win Golden Opportunity, it’s not going to be Kayden. No, no…Kayden’s just there to assist the ACTUAL winner. He’s a barely has-been champion with none of the pedigree of his two teammates, and he more than them should fall in line.

“Bottom line? Executive Excellence can put on this persona of being one unit with one goal. But with a prize like Golden Opportunity? They’ll clamor over one another to claim the victory. They’ll devour one another and fail to solve the puzzle. And when the pressure is on…”

*THWACK!!!*

The third figure, the one who was being ignored, cracks the first figure who had started this argument in the head with a club, cracking their skull and sending them crashing to the floor, wallowing in a pool of their own blood. The second figure is shocked by this, but doesn’t have enough time to process it as the third drives their knee into their gut and, while they’re doubled-over, brings that club down HARD on the back of their head. It’s impossible to say whether they’re dead or not, but the damage is done and the third figure grabs the puzzle.

However, they weren’t paying attention. Their thumb slips and triggers a gas trap, causing them to sputter and cough. We see blood trickle down their chin even through the darkness hiding their face as they clutch their throat fruitlessly. In their recklessness and due to their jealousy and greed? They collapse to the floor, gasping for air as they stop moving.

Our narrator, the intruder observing this farce in the balcony, sighs as we hear him turn on his heel and walk. It takes some time as he passes by the body of the Half Hearted, past the ashes of the Delusional, and over the bodies of the Avaricious trio. The one that simply walked away to some other pointless endeavor, the Fanciful doesn’t even register as our narrator approaches the puzzle box.

“I’ve reached the end of my patience. I’ve seen what lesser warriors have done with the opportunities that I’ve been denied for so many years. And what few opportunities I’ve had, I’ve made the absolute most of. This Chamber match is my third in as many years, against foes hungry for something not a single one of them were ready to swallow. Every single one of them is going to be destroyed, either by my hands or due to their own reckless ambitions being denied them by their hubris and the terrors within that steel structure. I want what I lost so long ago, what I’ve never had a real opportunity to reclaim. And I want to ensure that Danny Toner and anybody who supports him pays dearly for what transpired at Back in Business.

“So fuck any of my opponents. I’ve waited long enough. And I’m going to solve this damned puzzle and claim my prize, regardless of what I have to suffer to do it.”

The intruder gets to work.

His hands are swift, but not so swift as to be reckless. Levers are flipped, buttons are pressed, pieces start to move and rearrange with every move that the man makes.

It’s not without its perils. Several needles jut out and stab him, presumably with the same poison that claimed one of the others. But unlike them? The intruder doesn’t stop. He doesn’t give up. Doesn’t walk away despite the pain, despite the fact that the poison is coursing in his veins.

It doesn’t matter.

Not when he’s so close.

Not when he’s made such progress in solving the puzzle.

Not when the prize was SO CLOSE.

The stress, the pain, the ever-encroaching specter of death is always there, and continuing to encroach. But just when it seems like his body and soul are about to give in…it happens.

*CLICK*

The puzzle box shifts and reconfigures. The pieces spread out, and open to reveal the prize within.

It’s a small thing. A small stone that would be completely unremarkable were it not glowing softly. However, as the man grabs it, the light grows brighter…and the wounds, the poison…everything he’s suffered to claim it? They vanish and the man is restored, with no signs of ill effect..

This light…it’s everything. It is…opportunity. It is hope. It is salvation from the turbulent seas of strife that brought him here.

And as the man raises the stone to eye level, we see the hawkish, hungry eyes of Cyrus Truth looking back at us, clenching that stone and that light as if it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

“Disrespect my name if you think it’ll keep you relevant. Try and lie to the world if you think it’ll keep you alive. Ignore the dangers of stepping into that Chamber with a man like me if you’re cocky enough to think that it won’t end badly for you. I’ve been patient, waiting for the time when I could return to the place where I belong. I’ve watched as you all have taken the opportunities presented to you to chase the World Title and inevitably waste them due to your own weaknesses, deficiencies, and arrogance. And quite frankly, I’m tired of having to enter this Chamber year after year after year and watch this Golden Opportunity slip through my fingers.

“I made a promise…or perhaps you could call it a threat. I said I would make Fallout suffer for their act of secession. And with the team I had at the Anniversary Show, I did. I also said that I would rip the heart out of Executive Excellence, beat the shit out of Toner, and become World Champion again. Now, whether Toner wins or Alyster Black manages to finally win the big one? The World Title is the goal. And I would say that I feel bad about anybody who willingly chooses to get in my way, but when I see the faces that I’m going to fight in that Chamber? Any empathy gets thrown out of the window.

“Executive Excellence can call themselves a team, Devin Golden can think that it’s his right and privilege to have another shot at the World Championship, and Chris Peacock and Jeremy Best might think that this Golden Opportunity is theirs for the taking. Every single one of them is living in a daydream. And I can hear them crying foul, spewing their garbage and saying that I’m just beating my chest and howling at the moon, and that I’m not anybody to take seriously anymore.”

Cyrus opens his hand, allowing the stone to glow brighter and illuminate his entire face. This is not the face of a madman. This is not the face of a dreamer, or an arrogant fool. This face? This is the face of a man whose soul is forged out of iron, whose will is sharpened steel.

This is the face of a man who’s broken through a wall, and sees the light at the end of the Road.

“In that Chamber? On that night? It’s Lights Out for your ambitions. Because I am going to do whatever it takes, suffer whatever I need to suffer, endure whatever you think is going to be enough to stop me in order to claim the Golden Opportunity. Look in my eyes. You know I’m not lying. I never have, never will. Tell me to my face…that I can’t. That I won’t. That you’ll be the ones to stop me.

“And if you do manage to gather enough courage to say that? Be prepared to make peace with whatever god you worship. Because I’m going to send you to them for judgment, and use your bodies as the ladder to climb back to the World Championship. Cyrus Truth may have never left FWA…but at Lights Out? The King returns, and every single would-be usurper that has the misfortune of occupying that Chamber with me is about to get ousted from their pretenders’ thrones…”

There’s a feeling in the air, a buzz when Cyrus speaks.

Cyrus Truth has not been the World Champion for three years now. Aside from a fleeting moment during Krash’s gauntlet that eventually resulted in Devin Golden’s most recent reign, Cyrus has not even gotten close to reclaiming it.

All those years, grinding and waiting.

All those years, having to listen to people tell him that he’s not deserving of a shot, that he’s past his prime or never was a worthy World Champion to begin with.

Every single bit of disrespect, every time that someone on the roster has written him off as irrelevant…all of it, Cyrus has suffered with dignity, silently and patiently holding his tongue.

From the looks of things? Cyrus is done suffering in silence. Cyrus Truth is absolutely done with waiting.

He said it himself. Golden Opportunity isn’t just a free title shot. For The Exile, it’s salvation. It’s the beacon of hope that will bring him out of the darkness and back to where he belongs.

…and may the gods have mercy on anyone who wants to stand in his way.​