Meltdown XXI & Fallout 021 || Promo Thread

[Mandalorian]

Post promos for MELTDOWN XXI & FALLOUT 021 in this thread.

Deadlines:
The deadline for promos, to be posted in the promo thread, is Sunday 6th November 2022 at 23:59 Pacific Time (midnight, Sunday into Monday).
That is Monday 7th November 2022 at 03:00AM in New York City.
Or Monday 7th November 2022 at 08:00AM in London.
Or Monday 7th November 2022 at 10:00AM in Instanbul.
Or Monday 7th November 2022 at 18:00PM in Melbourne.

Mod Note:
As noted in the recent news post, no extensions will be offered on the above deadlines.​

 

[Rosie]

Under The Mask
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Prologue to a European Journey

“Choose Your Self-Representations carefully, for what starts out as a mask may become your face.” -Erving Goffman

Caesar’s Superdome
New Orleans, Louisiana
8:24pm Local Time
October 22nd, 2022
REC OFF

As Fantasy Wrestling Alliance anticipated “Lights Out” show continues in front of an enthusiastic crowd in the home of the New Orleans Saints, the view behind the scenes is a touch more chaotic, trying to keep the show running. Staff and attendees to FWA are running around backstage, discussing the plans for the rest of the event. The general area is open and is branded in the signature black, white, and gold of the 2009 Super Bowl Champions with their signature fleur-de-lis visible. The floor is a mix of grey carpet and concrete, depending on the area. Plastered on the walls are murals and pictures dedicated to the heroes who stepped onto the gridiron for the team, including Drew Brees holding up the team’s only Vince Lombardi trophy.

Standing out in the sea of men and women with FWA branded polo-shirts, suits, and security, and other staff is a wrestler whose appearance is always one to stick out from the crowd. Signature mask, with matching bra, tights, and arm-bands, we have Vampyra. She is still wearing her gear from the Secular Spooktacular match, brandishing a Halloween spirited mix of orange and black, and she did not leave the match empty handed. In her grasp is a black briefcase. The prize, a chance to compete for the FWA Television Championship in the near future. She is still catching her breath from her match, but otherwise appears to be in good spirits, showing a grin under her mask. Stopping as she walks, Vampyra takes a moment to let the moment breathe. She looks at her briefcase, her prize.

And a staff member bumps into her. A bald gentleman with headphones and a clipboard in hand, branded with a black FWA polo shirt. Vampyra drops her briefcase from the suddenness of the bump and turns around to look at the man.

“Watch it-” she says towards him but he doesn’t notice and continues on. Her look stands out, and yet to many here, she is invisible. The young masked wrestler sighs, rolling her eyes and mutters something under her breath in Japanese before walking down the halls of the Superdome.

Turning towards the visitor’s locker room which has been lent out to some of the wrestlers, Vampyra heads in to see it:

Completely empty. Much like any visiting locker room in professional sports, there is less pizzaz compared to the home team’s. The carpet is a plain grey with wooden stalls for the players against the wall, most of them with gear from wrestlers using them for the night. Against the far wall is a television playing the live feed of the PPV. Currently we are in the middle of Shawn Summers defending his Television Championship against Phillip A. Jackson.The challenger nails a bridging German on the champion and bridges for a near-fall.

Vampyra looks around, double checking if anyone is around before going to where she put her stuff. Sitting down in a chair, she sighs and has a small grin, looking at her briefcase. She talks to herself in Japanese.

“Now that is a better debut. I am one step closer to becoming a champion already.” She inspects the briefcase closer, “This might be one of the most important wins of my career so far-.”

She is interrupted by the ringing of a bell on the television. The match is over. Phillip A. Jackson rolls off the now former champion after his signature frog splash seals the deal and he becomes just the second television champion in FWA history. The official goes over to Jackson and hands him his newly won championship as his theme music begins to play. Vampyra continues to talk to herself in her native language.

“So that is what I will be up against? Finally, maybe it will be someone worthwhile?” Vampyra has a grin on her face, almost imagining her upcoming match. She leans back in her chair and takes a deep breath, putting the briefcase down. A moment passes and something in her expression changes. Glancing around the empty locker room, she feels a void. Something is missing. Or perhaps it’d be better to say some people are missing.

Taking the chin strap off her mask, she sighs and once again talks to herself. “This is a big moment for me, but there is nobody to share it with.”

The truth is? She is right. Typically used to the very heavily unit-based culture of her home promotion, there is almost always someone there to share in her triumphs and pick herself up when she is feeling down. She is in a new promotion. In fact, a new country. Even with a strong understanding of the language, she is more on the outs here. No Saori Suzuki or more experienced members of her group to offer her advice. No Ririko or Cali to share a laugh with. Vampyra is two matches deep in the company and the most interaction she has had with anyone outside of a match was three idiots in a boyband. No matter how good you are doing in the ring, there is something to having someone to talk to and, for the first time in her career, Vampyra is alone. Joshi looks around, and gets up from her seat and paces a bit. She gives another look around the locker room. Once again, nobody. Then, she glances out in the hallway.

Looking around, it is the same as before. Anyone near-by is too busy or not someone she would care to approach. Giving up, she turns around and begins to head back in the locker room. Grabbing the string on the back of her mask, she is about to loosen it, but then a knock is heard on the door. Quickly tightening her mask back up, Vampyra turns around and opens the door again. It is an FWA staff member. A Caucasian man, he has a pale blue dress shirt on and a dark blue tie. His dark brown hair is slicked back with an unhealthy amount of gel and has a properly kemp but bushy beard. There are total hipster vibes from him. He has a clipboard under his arm and addresses the wrestler.

“Vampyra?” The man asks and Joshi blinks, surprised that someone is here, before she composes herself and turns the sass up a bit.

“Well, I doubt there are many people here dressed like me… Yes.” She gives a small smirk and the gentleman grabs his clipboard and looks at it.

“I’m here to deliver a message from Jon Russnow and Cal Robinson. They want you to meet with them both at some point before we leave tonight. Not right now as-”

She interrupts him, knowing exactly what he’ll say, “I know, they are busy.”

Not deterred by Vampyra’s hint of attitude, he continues, “Yes. But they need to go over a few things. First they just need to confirm your paperwork is in order for our European tour. As an international talent, there are just a few more things to check, especially given your privacy. They told me it is important because the Television championship match you earned tonight will happen on the tour in Europe and I doubt you would want to forfeit that.”

Nodding, Vampyra acknowledges what the staff member told her.

“Thank you…”

The staff member looks down at his clipboard again. “And also they really want you at the London show to start off the tour. You likely won’t be in the F1 because you’re still new around here, but they think you can be a big part of this tour if you play your cards right. They have your first opponent penciled in as Sawyer Xavier for now, but nothing guaranteed.”

“Sawyer Xavier…” The name rings a bell as someone her friend mentioned to her before. A big underdog if there ever was, but aside from that and him winning a briefcase like her last year, nothing else. Her mind runs, thinking about this match and she is spaced out. The staff member, getting he won’t get a response, just puts his clipboard under his arm and shrugs, trying to end the awkward silence.

“So yeah. Just talk to them later on. At least wait a half an hour and one of them will probably be available. Take care.” and he turns around and mutters as he leaves. "Freaking weirdo..."

Vampyra looks off and watches him head down the hall. Her uneasy feeling from before returns. The Joshi turns around back to her place in the locker room and her phone begins vibrating in her bag. Digging inside, she takes out her phone which has a phone case with the design of the Pokémon “Gengar” on it though some of the paint on it is chipped and she knows who it is and answers, speaking English.

“Cali?” It’s her friend.

“HEY THERE, FUTURE TV CHAMPION!” Cali Hayama shouts on the other end before she laughs. There is a sheepish grin under Vampyra’s mask.

“Thank you, Cali.” She takes a relaxed breath, having some of her tension from earlier ease away.

“How’s America treating you?” Her friend asks, “Like we know in-ring wise you’re good because you’re you. I never had doubts about that.”

Taking a few moments to respond, Vampyra simply responds. “It is alright. I have a bit of culture shock. But I will learn, though I have a tour of Europe soon. They said my first match will be something you mentioned before. I believe Sawyer Xavier”

“Sawyer?” She thinks and hums. "At least it is a name I recognize. Should be interesting.”

“Any advice?” The masked-MAYHEM member asks.

“Uhh…” Thinking, Cali Hayama waits a few moments before giving a response not quite up to what Vampyra wants. “Look, I’ve only been part of a handful of shows with him. I’m not exactly going to be the leading expert on everyone in FWA even if I have seen them before. What I can say is this. He’s a high-flying guy, kind of like you… but not on your level. But I have seen him get some showcases in higher profile matches.” The Canadian mutters, “Although one of them ended with him getting chucked in a pool…”

“Anything else?” Pressing her friend for a bit more information, Vampyra adds, “You know how much I try to prepare.”

“Hmm…” Cali stalls for time. “Let me open another tab on my computer, I got the feed for Lights Out open too and I kind of haven’t been able to keep up enough so times like this, Google is your friend.” Vampyra can hear the sound of typing. Vampyra taps her foot, showing a lack of patience. Finally, Cali gets her information. “There! Yeah, I got his FWA match history open. Honestly, it pretty much supports what I said. The guy’s had a couple of championship matches here. I told you he won a briefcase in the Secular last year and that was for the FWA Gauntlet Championship… Man they have a whole list of defunct championships! But yeah, he needed his manager to get the distraction to get the briefcase, then he lost that title match.”

“As expected.” Vampyra scoffs, “You said yourself, he is inconsistent.”

“He even got a Television Championship match the week before you debuted, but… you know, haha” Cali laughs. "Poor can't catch a break."

“Then I suppose I should not fail where he did…” The Wicked-Spirit leans forward on the bench and gets some of her thoughts off her chest. “Tonight, I won an opportunity to become champion early in this company and yet some people barely know my name. Should I really let what happened to Xavier happen to me? The man did not even appear tonight despite having a recent championship match. He is who FWA has for me? I do not expect to be in the F1 tournament with only two matches and there are plenty of big names occupied with it, but is he the best of the rest of the roster? This is not about only showing myself. Against him, it is the warmup to the largest tour of my career so far. I need to show what I am not. I am not inconsistent. I always want to be a threat. Sawyer appears to be a few bad losses from becoming an after-thought in this company… if he is not already. Now that I think of it, this match might be more important to him than he realises.”

Digesting what her friend says, Cali thinks on the other end of the phone before responding. “I’m not saying I disagree with you. Just looking on paper you’re right. I think you’re the more complete in-ring competitor. He’s wrestled for over ten years and yet people still see him as an underdog. If you’re ten years in and you’re still considered that, then I think you’re shit out of luck. Meanwhile you were wrestling since you were in fucking High School and you’re building a pretty good reputation for yourself.”

She then changes her tune, trying to keep her friend grounded. “BUT, an underdog can get upset, though not everyone will think of it as that since you're still new. FWA had this big brand warfare match before they removed their brand split and he got the winning decision for his team. Maybe it was luck, maybe people under-estimated him? Or finally he got shit to click. But remember, take him seriously. His record is a bit rough, but he ain’t no Backstreet Boy. He'll try to capitalize when you make a mistake. He’s a step up for sure.”

“He better be.” The Dark Huntress rolls her eyes and in a rare instance, she is not calm, letting out a bit of a rant. “In three days I have to fly eight hours to London and I need to be there early because FWA wants me to do some advertising with them. I do not want to travel alone all that way and have an uninteresting match. It was a boring debut. Tonight was better, but for every person who was good, I had multiple jokes around me! I want to not waste my time here! No Boy Bands. No dancing ‘Vampires,’ no Frankenstein, no hockey players…”

“Hey, hockey is awesome…” Hayama jokes, defending her Canadian pride before Vampyra continues to vent.

“I don’t have anyone here! I am here to compete and to get myself better. I want the best.-”

Trying to play “sky” devil’s advocate, again, Cali says, “And you need to work your way up to them,”

And yet it doesn’t stop her. “But I have a championship match coming up soon! How can I be ready if I don’t push myself further? What if I am stuck with the losers most of my time here because I am this five foot one woman with a mask from another country? Then FWA would become a waste of time! I will be away from my home all this time for nothing when I could have stayed home furthering my career, MAYHEM, and YOKAI Death Squad! I want this to be worth the effort!”

“Okaaaay, let’s take a deep breath here.” Cali, surprised by her friend’s reaction, gets her to calm her horses. “What happened to you saying you’ll be ‘patient’ and all that?”

Realizing​

she may have gone off a bit, Vampya finally slows herself down. She takes a deep breath and does something she usually does. She sits down on the ground, crossing her legs. She takes several long deep breaths in through her nose.​

“Good, take your mini-meditation.” Cali chuckles on her end of the phone. "Surprised you weren't in the middle of one when I called you."

Getting her heart-rate down a bit, Vampyra finally responds, “Maybe I have put a lot of pressure on myself so soon? Normally I have somewhere to voice my ideas. I guess I am not used to travelling this much alone.”

“I figured as much, and I get it” Cali, showing some empathy to Vampyra, gives her some advice. “Trying to compete in a second company across the pacific, now going on a European tour. It is a lot of effort for it on top of God knows what other stress you have out of the ring. You want it to be fulfilling. But don’t put too much pressure on yourself. You’re two matches in and have gotten a lot further than most would. Take that with pride! I honestly thought you'd find a way to sneak yourself in the F1 if you had more matches.”

“I need to push myself still,” She reaffirms her stance, “I am representing myself, MAYHEM, COSMIC Joshi, and most importantly YOKAI Death Squad here. If I am not a fair representation then what would that mean if Ririko, or Suzuki wish to tour America some day?”

Trying to get through to her friend, Cali Hayama thinks a bit, before opening up a touch to her friend. “I have that issue too. You’ve seen my rage post-match sometimes. Whenever I stream a competitive game I have to try really hard not to go overboard with my anger. I want to do well. But sometimes you need that moment to breathe and keep yourself grounded. You need people to keep you in check. Saint Patrick’s Day I had a very competitive match in Panama City, Florida where I lost. I made a mental error. Got distracted. I hesitated, and I lost. I was PISSED afterwards and then I had a bunch of people in my year, some praising what I did, others trying to tell me how I lost myself the match. It got under my skin You know what I did the next day? I went on a date for the first time since before the pandemic and-”

Rolling her eyes, Vampyra teases a bit, “I know this part This is the third time you have told me.”

“But, it was needed. I had a few hours just to enjoy company with somebody I cared about. I talked about wrestling when I needed to rant, but we talked about more stuff to get my mind off it. It cleared my head. I got to be myself. Not what I wanted people to see me as. Then I remembered when I first went to Japan. I had some feelings like what you are now. I got culture shock. I was putting pressure on myself to show I belong and to entertain people… except I was LOSING matches. But you and Ririko warmed up to me and we clicked. When I got a contract to wrestle there more, you let me stay in your apartment for a few months. Maybe you need someone there for you, and I’m not talking about a faction or unit. I can’t because God knows I’m busy enough travelling to Japan, running my Twitch and YouTube, my other wrestling commitments in the US. And I think I know who.-”

“I do not need a babysitter…” The masked wrestler scoffs at the idea, but Cali explains more.

“I have a friend who lives in London. We got pretty far back actually. Her name’s Kimmy, but we usually call her Cyber. In 2013 we played a lot of games together and she was kind of the one who introduced me to wrestling. She’s travelled around a lot and she just finished film school in the UK. She’s creative like you and she even did some editing for my channel before I had a more permanent video editor. She told me she got tickets to most of the FWA tour in Europe. Maybe it’ll be nice just to have someone to keep company? If not, she can at least show you around London.”

Taking several moments to digest what Cali Hayama has suggested to her, Vampya is uncertain. She is here for business. She is there to wrestle. Now her friend is trying to get another friend of hers to accompany her? Then, Cali says one more thing.

“I’ll put it to you like this, Vamp. You keep stressing out like you have been, it’s going to fuck you hard. You’ll burn out before the end of the tour. That’s how people like Sawyer are going to beat you. You over focus, psych yourself out, or your head runs wild with every possible scenario, and you fuck up. You know this. Why do you think half the time I see you meditating before your matches? Yes, focus, prepare like you can. When you face Sawyer you’re going to kick his ass. You got this. Then when you’re in the ring with Jackson, he’s going to realize how good you are and shit his pants before you take his Television Championship. Grand Slam champion or not, he’s not untouchable. You were there for me to ease me into being in a new company and a new continent. Maybe she can do the same for you? There’s nothing wrong with needing it.”

After the pleas from her friend, Vampyra has broken down and given up the fight. To calm herself, she takes a long deep breath. “Maybe you are right? Tell her I would like to meet her. Thank you.”

“When have I ever been wrong?” The Gaijin-Joshi chuckles and Vampyra gives some sass with her reply.

“Many times. I need to get changed. Take care.” Vampyra laughs and Cali signs off on her end.

“Sayōnara.” And Cali Hayama hangs up.

Looking around her locker room, Vampyra loosens her mask again, but instead begins to flip through her phone’s pictures. She has to go a decent way in before she sees a picture. It is of herself, Cali Hayama, and Ririko inside of a restaurant in Japan, although it is a bit aged. Ririko’s hair is longer, going down to her shoulders. Vampyra is without her traditional mask and instead has a cloth face mask on, one which we all got very used to in 2020 and beyond. Cali, strikingly, doesn’t have her now signature silver hair. Her hair is long and is a bubblegum pink. The three are all in street clothes and are all holding pop with a plate of sushi at their table. The three are enjoying each other’s company and Vampyra thinks back.

​

Nearly Two Years Ago: Kyoto, Japan REC OFF In the locker rooms of the venue COSMIC Joshi Wrestling is using for its event, we see both Vampyra, then known simply as Vampiress, sitting down in front of one of the oak benches in the predominantly white room. She has her in-ring gear on, similar to what she has today, only with a black and neon-pink design. Legs crossed, she has her eyes closed and is trying to keep calm and relaxed. Rirko is lying down on the bench in her own world. In her gear as well which matches Vampiress’ colours. She has shorts, leg and arm bands that have tassels on them, along with a matching bra. She also has shiny knee pads, boots, and kick pads rounding out her attire. She playfully twirls her finger through her hair. All is calm until a loud bang is heard on the door and it opens, where we hear yelling in Japanese. “You stupid newcomer! How dare you cost us this match, again!? This is the third straight!” Going through the door, we see a taller Japanese woman in her gear. Her long black hair with Ombre roots goes down to her shoulder blades as she stands about Five foot 11. Her gear is a mix of Black and gold, one legged tights with tall boots and a matching bra that has straps that wrap around her arms which go down to her wrist band. This is Miss Fuka. The Female Skyscraper as she is known. The Elegant Brutalizer. A more veteran member of MAYHEM. Walking in behind her is a woman with a cast on her hand from an injury and she is wearing a hoodie branded with the unit’s logos and colours. Her hair is a dark brown and she has side-swept bangs. Miho Watase, a former two-time Intergalactic COSMIC Champion, the only person in the group other than the leader to have held that championship. Begrudgingly stepping in, we see a younger Cali Hayama. Her hair, as expected, is long and pink, but she has a curious attire. Going with a bit of a cosplay route, she has a white tank top bearing a pink Pokéball pattern. She has black shorts on, fingerless gloves, and a ball cap in her hands with a similar Pokémon inspired design. On her feet are sneakers with long socks that go up to her knee pads. Her Japanese is not quite as strong as it is now, but still at a comprehensible level. “Sorry…” She has a bundle of nerves. “I tried really hard,” Minho Watase, who stood at ringside during the match despite her injury, snaps back. “You threw a Poké Ball at your opponents to start the match!” Stuttering a response due to a combination of nerves and being rusty with her Japanese, Cali responds, “I-I distracted them long enough to get a pin.” Now Vampiress and Ririko both look up and see the argument in front of them. Being younger members of the group, they keep quiet, trying not to ruffle any feathers, but are uncomfortable nonetheless. “And you threw away the chair I had!” Miss Fuka, normally elegant and calm, showing rage, “They were about to use it on us!” “B-but ch-cheating is not how you should win a match.” Cali sheepishly responds, and if she had a shell, she’d certainly crawl in it like she was a Squirtle. Miss Fuka and Minho are about to yell more, but they are interrupted with a woman’s voice, booming with authority, yelling in Japanese. “Enough!” Stepping into the room we see a woman with purple hair, going down to her shoulders. She is a touch heavier than what you’d expect from stereotypes of women, though she is still in good shape. The woman has a MAYHEM hoodie on, unzipped over her in ring gear of long black pants with a purple trim and a matching bra. Saori Suzuki, the ‘Purple Rebel,’ leader and founder of MAYHEM. Fuka and Watase stop in their tracks and Cali, despite not being a member of MAYHEM at this time, even stops in her tracks. Measuring up the three, Saori paces. “Can you see that this young lady has been through enough tonight? I am not happy with the result either, but yelling at her when emotions are high will not get anything productive done.” Suzuki looks up at Miss Fuka and the taller wrestler nods. “She is not your normal partner and COSMIC put her in as a replacement because Watase is hurt. Have patience.” Turning to the young gamer, Cali, Saori Suzuki addresses the replacement and future MAYHEM member. “Cali… X. Is X your real name?” “I-It is Hayama, S-Suzuki. Cali Hayama.” Cali stutters in Japanese as MAYHEM’s leader puts her hand on her shoulder. “You can have your fun and games. There is nothing wrong with expressing yourself. But you should not lose focus of the match. You also need to understand. We at MAYHEM have a few words we live by.” Turning to Ririko and Vampiress she gets the attention of two younger members. “Ladies. Tell her what it is.” Nervously, Ririko shouts “Fuck the system!” in Japanese. Cali can’t help but snicker a little. “Close. You are right, we shake up the system... Though relax with your colourful language. COSMIC may fine you, again.” She turns to the masked wrestler. “Vampiress.” Closing her eyes, Vampiress gets her nerves under control and responds. “Do what you need to do to win. Level the playing field so your talent can shine.” Nodding, Saori Suzuki turns to Cali. “Your opponents tried to use weapons. They got in a hit behind the referee’s back earlier. Miss Fuka intercepts the chair and the official is distracted. There you give them what is coming to them. Understand?” Nervous and not wanting to upset the woman who has been putting up with her during this tour. Cali nods, keeping her mouth shut. Saori Suzuki, giving a small smile to try to reassure their foreign newcomer and pats her on the shoulder. “You will learn soon enough. Remember that for your singles match in two nights.” Then she turns to Miss Fuka and Miho Watanase, “You two. Something tells me that I need to even some odds in my match tonight. I could use some aid.” The two older members of MAYHEM, realizing they can maybe use the time to air out and not lash out at the new girl, agree and Saori leads them out. Feeling dejected, Cali Hayama sighs and goes over to the bench next to Vampiress and Ririko. She slouches over before burying her face in her hands, muttering to herself in English. “This is shit… This has been fucking shit! Why did I do all this in the middle of a pandemic too? I’m wasting my time...” Hearing what Cali says, Vampiress, who has yet to reveal to her that she speaks English and understands it, glares at her future friend. There is some empathy from her. She lightly taps Ririko’s shoulder and whispers in her ear. The Bad Apple of the team nods and Vampiress taps Cali on the shoulder, speaks to her in Japanese. “Hi.” Cali looks up and Vampiress smiles towards her. “Your cosplay is cool.” Cali looks down at her look and responds back to her in Japanese, “Thank you… Or are you just saying that?” Vampiress holds up her finger, giving a ‘wait one second’ hand gesture and reaches over to her back. She digs through and holds up her phone case. The same Gengar one as today, though in better condition. Ririko then goes through her own bag and pulls out a Nintendo switch with the iconic red and blue joy cons. Cali Hayama covers her mouth, trying to hide a big grin. “You are fine with us.” Vampiress smiles under her mask. “We know how it feels to be the younger ones. As for Fuka, Saori and Miho, they have high standards. They want the best out of us. So do not take it personally.” “Say, there is this place we like to go to after shows in Kyoto.” Ririko taps her feet on the ground, “Maybe we can show you and get some food? I’m hungry!” Vampiress rolls her eyes, “You are always hungry, Ririko. I love that idea.” Turning to Cali, she gives a comforting grin. “Are you in?” Cali Hayama, after having a rough debut tour so far, looks towards two girls who, much like her, are young in the wrestling world and have the world ahead, are maybe two people she can finally connect with. Different cultures, different native languages and yet, maybe they share some similar experiences? Maybe in this new country, she can find people to make feel at home? Trying to hold back tears, Cali Hayama reaches over and gives both of them a hug. Ririko excitedly returns a hug and Vampiress, not usually one to show as much affection, calmly pats Cali on the back and jokes. “Great, Ririko, another hugger like you.” And she gets a laugh out of both girls. Letting go of the hug, Cali Hayama smiles, “I’m in.” Nodding, Vampiress and Ririko both do a fist bump before holding down the MAYHEM “M” hand gesture. The masked Joshi looks, giving a wink at Cali and goes. “Shh, do not tell Saori that we let you in on it. Remember, you are not part of MAYHEM, yet.” And for the first time, the three share a triple fist bump and together, all do the MAYHEM “M.” ​

Looking long at the picture saved on her phone, Vampyra reminisces about that moment. The start of a friendship which has now expanded across borders. The beginning of what they now call “YOKAI Death Squad,” a slice of friends in a group that arguably saved her career, MAYHEM. 315 days as CJW Trios Champions, countless memories created with more on the way, and Vampyra herself going out of her comfort zone wrestling in North America and soon, a third continent, none of that would have been possible without that one moment. Now, she’s going to meet someone else thanks to that moment. Will it go well? Will it be a disaster? Either way, she now knows that she isn’t truly alone. Turning off her phone screen, finally Vampyra gets ready to change as this is where we stop our story for now.​

 

[SupineSnake]

MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[volume 93]
”FLUME (REPRISE)”

*****​

Caught the bus from New Orleans to New York and then the ship from there: Trans-Atlantic cruise liner, meaning lots of people, meaning I stay down below deck for as much of it as possible other than daily trips to the bar for beer or whiskey or both. Cabin is fine. Unremarkable but I've slept in far worse places, and at least it isn't in the air. Voyage is a little over six days and I run out of sniff on the third one. Didn't want to bring too much and risk a run-in with customs like the Black Widow thing in Hong Kong. Will be easier once in Europe and don't have to worry about commercial vessels and lots of people. No coke means more important that I stay below deck and don't let anyone bother me, don't bother them in return. Knuckle under and drink until I arrive in Liverpool. Pretty worthless city but an easy one to top up in so I do and get what I think will be enough to last me all the way to London but in truth I'll run out again in Leeds. Drink in Liverpool for the night but struggle to find anything that isn't full of people from Liverpool. Fortunately nobody recognises me. Short conversation with barman in a place called ‘Dive’ - which isn't really a dive bar but most places that call themselves ‘Dive’ or something like that aren't really dive bars - who asks me why I'm in Liverpool. I tell him I have a show in London and work out how many days it is and am pleased that it's still five away. Told Gerald and Uncle would meet them at the venue. No real plans but having no real plans is better alone. The barman at ‘Dive’ still doesn't understand why I'm here and honestly neither do I so I guess we have that in common. Tells me London is a long way away but it's really not but to him it probably is I imagine. Man in a grey suit buys me a drink but it's served in a watering can on a patch of AstroTurf so I don't drink it. He's not too offended and tries it on anyway, talking about the Beatles and Anfield which I find out is a football stadium. Barman has same topics in his conversational repertoire. Man in the grey suit wants to go home with me but I tell him I don't have a home and he's not interested enough to take me to his home so I leave …​

*****​

She didn't really remember saying goodbye to Gerald, which she must have done after the tag team championship defence, or boarding the boat, which she also must have done considering she was waking up in an unfamiliar cabin that was unquestionably below deck. By this stage, she was well-versed in the art of autopilot, and had the uncanny ability to guide herself to where she needed to be regardless of how many kilometres (or, in this case, seas) lay between her and her destination and how few of her wits remained available to her. Last night was one of those occasions. She had crossed the North Sea and now - when she emerged onto the main deck through a narrow, spiral staircase - was docked in the Port of Copenhagen. The sun was just showing its face, casting its light upon the Øserund Bridge and the city of Malmö across the bay. The deck seemed deserted, and it was only when she disembarked onto the harbour itself that she noticed a young-ish sailor busy securing the boat to its moorings.

"Morning," he said, with a cigarette perched between his pursed lips. His accent was German and thick. "You seem a little more with it this morning. A good sleep?"

She nodded, stretched, and looked at her boat for the first time, unless you counted the photographs she'd seen when exchanging emails with its captain. It wasn't as large as some in the harbour, but given that she was the only quarry it was more than enough. It was to be her home for the next three months, and therefore needed to be small enough to negotiate the Main Canal in Central Germany whilst being swift enough to span the seas at the beginning and end of her journey. Its sails were furled and its steam engine, which would remain dormant but for the passages upon the open seas, was powered down, the only soundtrack to the scene the gentle rolling of the wind and the intermittent whistling of birds.

"Have you seen the captain?" Michelle asked the sailor, who was still engaged in winding a thick length of rope around a bollard.

"Whenever I see my reflection in the water," he answered, before flicking his cigarette end over the edge and onto the jetee. Michelle stamped it out for him. "Welcome aboard, Frau von Horrowitz."

She nodded absently at the banal greeting whilst her eyes traced over the inscription on the bow: S.S. Sisyphus.

“What does it mean?” she asked, nodding at the ship’s name. The captain stopped in his work for a moment to regard his own vessel.

“Not one for Greek mythology?” he replied, with a smile.

“Something Roman would’ve been more appropriate,” Michelle said. The captain pulled a face that suggested he didn’t understand her thread. She was pleased with this: he clearly had no real idea as to her business on the ship, given that he didn’t understand her reference to Caesar, and she would endeavour to keep it that way.

“Aren’t we finishing in Athens?” he asked. She got a sense that he enjoyed answering questions with questions. “Sisyphus will do fine.”

“Who was Sisyphus?” she went on with her enquiries whilst retrieving a pack of Camels from her pocket. She'd slept in her clothes on the passage from London, and the packet had become crumpled in the process. She straightened one out and tapped it against the box to level it off.

"He was the trickster," he answered. She found him to be elusive, and wasn't sure if she thought much of that. "The master thief."

"But what did he do?"

"Lots of things," the captain said, whilst returning to his ropes and the process of mooring. "Fathered Odysseus, by some accounts. You've heard of him, I assume? Good. And fathered some more sprogs with his niece whilst plotting to steal his brother's kingdom. That scheme didn't work out too well for him, though. The best laid plans, et cetera. He's probably most famous for cheating Death, though."

"Cheating Death?" she repeated. It seemed appropriate that she'd chanced upon the most literary-minded seafarer in Northern Europe. "How?"

"Thought that might interest you," the captain said, with a knowing chuckle. "When Thanatos came for him and put him in chains, Sisyphus asked how the herald's bonds worked. Thanatos granted him his wish, given that he'd been instructed to take the poor soul so early, but Sisyphus tricked him. He chained Thanatos himself up and returned to the Overworld, where he continued to live to a ripe old age."

"Happily ever after," Michelle mused, in-between drags of her cigarette.

"Not quite," the seaman went on, with a knowing smile. "With Thanatos in bonds, nobody in the World could pass to Hades. Ares grew bored of his endless battles, judging his wars less fun if none of his enemies died. He found Thanatos and broke his chains, and then Sisyphus was taken to Hades for real. And there he was punished, by being forced to push a boulder to the top of a mountain. When he would approach the peak, the rock would roll back to the bottom again, and his toil re-started."

Michelle said nothing for a moment. She didn't know this story, but she had read about Orpheus, who sang for Hades and Persephone to win back his wife's soul from the Underworld. In this story, whilst Orpheus sang, another man - ostensibly Sisyphus, she now knew - paused in his endless toil, sat on his rock, and listened, moved by the beauty of the song. She wondered how many times Sisyphus had approached the peak in the centuries since he was first punished, and if at this moment - as she stood on the dock and learned about him from her captain - he was closer to the base or the summit.

"Going to the city?" the captain asked. Michelle nodded. "Be back by midnight. We'll have to lift anchor in the early hours, if you want to reach Rotterdam by dawn. That's still your plan?"

"That's still my plan," she confirmed, and then took her leave.​

*****​

… Most places in Liverpool close at one or two, places open later than that are reprehensible. Head to a park but it starts to rain so I wait at the train station until it opens after finding a store that'll sell me alcohol at any time of the night which is this nation's saving grace. Meet several groups of students who ask me if I'm okay, who don't think I should be waiting by the station on my own. Some even ask me if I'd like to join them but I say no and I think they worry that I think they're out to get me but I explain that I'd rather be on my own and that makes them leave. Train to Manchester and don't try to sleep because it's short. Everything is close together here especially in the north. Manchester is slightly better than Liverpool but not by much but the people at least are more prone to leaving you alone. Hate cities where friendly people are sold as a plus-point. Go to the library and read some of a book about Wigan Pier but it's not interesting and eventually I just sit quietly in a corner and then head to the cathedral for a joint until the sight of the police moves me along. Out of the city slightly along the canal until I find a place called ‘the Yeoman's Arms’ which is full of old men who don't work anymore drinking lukewarm beers which is what English people like to do. Sign in the toilet that reads 'drug users will be prosecuted' which seems like more of a challenge than an admonishment so two more big bumps in the toilet that send me a bit sideways and I admonish myself for lack of self-restraint and fear I'll run out by the time I get to Leeds. Also admonish myself for using the word admonish twice in the same sentence. In two consecutive sentences now. Walk back along the canal and stop for a joint but there are no benches which I guess is to stop people stopping here for a joint. Feel a touch light-headed and worry I'll fall in and then hope I'll fall in and then walk back to the city centre and consider going to the library again but it's dark now and they're closing the library and the skateboarders are outside the building practising tricks and it reminds me of that time I saw skateboarders outside of the library in Madrid. Watch them for a while and smoke three cigarettes, make my stomach feel weird. Spend the evening in a bar called ‘the Castle’ which is fine and quiet until a band starts in the back room but the band isn't bad so I spend eight pounds on a ticket to go see them …​

*****​

Copenhagen was one of the few major cities in Europe that Michelle had never been to before, and she was unsurprised to find it choked with people. Most major cities were unbearable for this reason. An unreasonable proportion of them seemed to be riding bicycles, and an equally unreasonable proportion of this subset were intent on mowing Michelle down on them (or at least barraging her with incessant, pre-emptive bell ringing). She had been in Copenhagen for around half an hour before deciding that she didn't care for Copenhagen.

She was pushed along by a steady stream of people in the general direction of a pedestrianised area that ran along the seafront, and before long she found herself sitting a few metres away from the Little Mermaid, upon a bench that was positioned at the top of a staircase. She looked down at the statue and the steadily revolving crowds that approached, took a photograph, and then departed. This didn't hold her interest for very long. She was mainly curious about the flock of geese assembling around the base of the statue and a solitary osprey perched in an adjacent maple tree. She lit a cigarette, opened a beer, and longed to be a bird.

“Du kan ikke drikke her.”

A male voice interrupted her malaise before she could really get invested in it. She took a sip from her beer and placed it down next to her, before glancing up at the patrolling policeman addressing her in a language that she didn’t understand. She shrugged in response.

“Français? English? Deutsch?”

“Any is fine,” she said, in English. “Just not Danish.”

“You can’t drink here,” he said, nodding at the tin in her hand. Then, he just loomed.

“Okay, I’ll just finish this one,” she responded. It was a statement rather than a request. The cop continued to loom, casting a short and stubby shadow over Michelle. “Is there anything else?”

“Don’t open another; there are children here,” he said, before walking on down the path. She looked around and observed that there were children here. Perhaps that was an unrelated statement. She watched him plod away, finished her drink, and dropped the cigarette into the empty tin. Then, she opened a second can.

The solitary osprey, who seemed to be alone but not lonely, had begun to fly in wide circles above their heads, and for a while Michelle thought it was preparing to swoop towards the sea in search of its lunch. The thought of it made her hungry, and she couldn't put her finger on how long exactly it had been since she'd last eaten. Eventually, though, the hawk decided to instead fly towards the group of tourists assembled on the walkway and perch upon the railing that separated them from the Mermaid. She surmised that he'd found nothing worth lunging for during his orbit above the water, and had decided to test his luck with the people. Some of them greeted him with intrigue and curiosity, particularly a young Spanish boy, who hesitantly walked towards the bird and held out an empty hand. His attempts at ingratiating himself with the bird were cut short by an American couple, who shooed the creature away with fat, uninterested digits.

"Can't be too careful with hawks," she heard the American man saying to his equally grotesque partner as they waddled past towards the statue.

Her Aunt Maude had told her Hans Christian Andersen's story when she was a young girl. She hadn't been particularly enamoured with it the bulk of it, but certain elements - particularly the themes of envy and unrequited love - she felt a natural connection to in spite of her tender count of years. Age and experience would later validate a lot of the thoughts she already had on such concepts, even if they were developed through abstracted observations of her family and her peers. She would later learn that Andersen wrote the story - where a mermaid gives up her voice to trade her tail for legs in a fruitless attempt to ensnare the prince she loves - in reference to his own love for a friend who was about to marry a girl he deemed unworthy. Michelle could empathise with this: her own life had eventually become a series of hunts, each more futile than the last. Even those that could objectively be deemed successes by the time of their conclusions, like the dalliances with Bell Connelly, Chris Kennedy, and Mike Parr, quickly became utterly pointless when a new trail presented itself, leading to a new hunt. The fruits of her labour were invariably spoiled.

But her empathy was stayed when she considered the tame, tepid reaction, of both writer and character, towards the reciprocation (or lack thereof) of their passion. Andersen decided to write a story, and ended up alone, unfulfilled and unhappy when Thanatos presented himself. His mermaid refused the knife, offered to her by her sisters, and delivered her love - who treated her as though she were little more than a pet and a plaything - into the arms of another. Then, she would burst into seafoam, to be carried away on the back of the wind.

Despite her own insufficiencies and the long list of disappointment that still clung on to the edges of her mind, at least she'd never pathetically acquiesced when her quarry expressed disinterest in being caught. Never had, never would. Her disappointment in herself was outmatched only by her disappointment in others.

The hawk was circling again. Circling, not howling. At first, it hovered close to the surface of the water, but always at the westernmost point of its circle it would hover above the land, its eyes fixed upon the smattering of people still (rather flippantly) regarding the Mermaid’s statue. The geese were less interested, going about their business in the bay, drifting further and further from the shore. She identified with both species: the geese for their gently increasing and self-imposed abstraction from the shore and the tourists, and the hawk for its intriguing inability to remain entirely aloof from them despite it being entirely within its power to do so.

After a half-dozen more wide and high circles, the hawk eventually came to rest on the Mermaid’s shoulder. The tourists stopped taking photographs, and some of them seemed perturbed by the imposition upon their shot. It escaped them that this variant would make their photograph infinitely more unique and interesting than the millions of replications taken before they reached this perch. This current cohort stared with passive eyes at this unwanted interloper until the most daring amongst threw a handful of M&M's (may have been skittles - difficult to say) in the bird's direction. The osprey wasn't hungry enough, and flew away from the dispute.

As she neared the end of her third can she noticed her policeman friend on the seafront pathway. She threw her empties into her rucksack, lit a cigarette, and then took her leave.​

*****​

… The band in Manchester isn't bad but the room is very small and there are too many people in it so I go back to the bar and listen through the wall instead. Bar closes at two and go to the train station to watch a steady stream of people leaving the city to head back to the provincials and tell mum and dad what a great night they've had in the city and mum and dad worry that one day soon they'll move to the city and they imagine Christmas with just the two of them and remember how much they hate each other. Police harassing drunk students and then a homeless man who just wants to sleep on the pincic benches they have by the station there until some of his friends arrive to take him away to whatever part of the city is deemed acceptable for him to sleep in by which time it’s getting light but it starts to rain again like it always seems to here. Get the first train to Leeds but don’t stay there for long just long enough to get some more coke and then towards Sheffield but stop first in a place called Bamford because the name sounds familiar and when I’m there I remember why but I can’t remember where the hill called the Octopus is and the memories of Esteban aren’t firm or clear enough for me to search for him or where he used to live and I assume he doesn’t live there anymore considering how we said goodbye and there’s probably a new master of the house there now and I imagine he’s not as interesting as Esteban was. Back on the train to Sheffield and straight to the cathedral there for a joint until a security-ish type pushes me along but fortunately he doesn’t smell the joint or doesn’t know what joints smell like or maybe the protestants are okay with joints now but I don’t question it too much so leave when he asks me to. Buy another six Heineken and find a field nearby that has a skatepark and a children’s playground where I drink the six Heinekens and smoke the rest of my packet of Camels. Cigarettes hideously expensive here but I remind myself that I have more money than I could spend in a lifetime given my lifestyle so I buy three packs and give one to a homeless man outside the shop who looks at me like I’ve just saved his son’s life or a better metaphor because if this man has a son I imagine they’re estranged by this point but either way he’s pleased with the gift. In a bar named ‘Park’s Corner’ I meet a girl whose name is Lauren and she’s beautiful but also sort of vapid and she talks about where she wants to live when she’s retired mostly as if this is the main object of her thoughts and she wants to fast-forward through the good parts of her life or the bad parts depending on your perspective on this. Lauren is younger than me but not by very much and eventually I ask her if we can go back to her place and that I haven’t slept for I think two days now or is it three it might be three but could be two I’m not quite sure but she tells me she’s not into girls and that she’s sorry to have wasted my time. I don’t think she really is that sorry to have wasted my time but most people waste my time so she’s not really that special but I don’t tell her this but really I don’t say anything more of note to her and soon she’s bored of the lack of conversation and so she leaves. Drink a couple more on my own and then finish with a whiskey which turns my stomach so another bump in the toilet to settle that and I think about getting a hotel for the night but the trains are still running so I get one of those instead but can’t sleep so stare out the window but it’s too dark dark dark dark to see anything so I close my eyes but I can't see anything then either …​

*****​

Some of the old, dilapidated buildings that surrounded the central square in the Freetown were cordoned off for the use of the Fantasy Wrestling Alliance, and Michelle changed and prepared (as best as one with a frazzled mind and a black heart can) in the room specified for her. Afterwards she took a quick walk around the commune itself, and was pleased to find a small part of Copenhagen that didn't make her feel physically sick or overawed. It was teeming with people, just like the city itself, but somehow she felt more affinity towards the locals there than the armies of tourists existing around it. And most people she saw were locals, save for the few dozen that had come as guests of Russnow or Jean-Luc. This second group of people stuck out like sore thumbs, clear anomalies amongst people who seemed like they belonged. Michelle wondered what that was like.

She walked down an alleyway and perched on the curb at the side of the pedestrianised and cobbled road, where she lit a cigarette and stared back towards the square. She could see the ring, around which a number of crew members were hurrying and scurrying in preparation for the show. Her alleyway was quieter, and she felt happiness in her abstraction. The only other occupants of her sanctum were a pair of young men, both bearded, one with long hair and the other bald, who were passing a joint back and forth between themselves whilst they spoke in their alien, frantic tongue.

Dreamer was hardly even bothered when these two men instigated a conversation with her. Dialogue with strangers was quite common in her rather mundane life, but she made a point of not conversing with those who would call themselves fans. The men - Michael and Lars, she learned during the conversation and forgot promptly afterwards - were here to see the show, and they inevitably knew who she was. But she found herself willing to forgive them thanks to the peculiar feeling that had gripped her whilst wandering around the Freetown.

“When do you fight tonight?” the bald one, Lars, asked, as he passed her the joint.

“I don’t know,” she said, truthfully, and with a shrug. She knew that she wasn’t in the main event or the opener, and the matches in between those were difficult to differentiate.

“And you’re prepared?” Michael asked, whilst staring up the alley towards the ring. “You’ve figured him out?”

“I’ve been able to think about little else all week,” she replied. This time, she wasn’t being anything close to truthful. Her mind had done its best to think about almost anything but Cornelius Aurelius Caesar, a man she’d had little contact with throughout his short time in the FWA. There was, of course, that time when she’d agreed to postpone her tag team title shot so that the Roman and his Giant friend could deal with Stocke, Lynch, and Hughes, but this wasn’t done out of a favour to the then-newly crowned champions. Michelle had her own concerns: namely dethroning Nova Diamond and winning her second FWA World Championship. Gerald should have had the same priority, but - as her decisions generally did - that choice only served to force another schism between them. They were only just recovering now, and even the belts themselves didn't convince her that they'd fully succeeded in these reparations.

The only time that she'd contemplated Caesar since leaving New Orleans was when she'd stood on the docks in Copenhagen for a brief conversation with the captain that morning. Their dialogue on Sisyphus had brought to mind the Roman's toil, as well as her own, over the past handful of years. At first, she'd considered whether Caesar was the man or the rock: whether he had been pushed up the mountain by his giant of a tag team partner and, after they had reached the precipice, promptly rolled to the bottom again. Reincarnation itself, she thought, was something resembling Sisyphean punishment, in that one must suffer through the ordeals of life ad infinitum rather than only once. She imagined dying and being returned to the same world in a different body, thousands of years in the future, and shuddered at the thought. She found that she understood very little in this world, her world, and the thought of losing even her fragile grip on its edge was too much for her.

In reality, Caesar was neither Sisyphus or his bouder, and neither was she. Real life refused to be neatly boxed into such a restrictive, ancient metaphor. The Roman’s toil - as well as her own - had been spawned out of ambition, which was also true of the Greek, but the parallels were thin thereafter. If anything, her own journey featured more of the darkly comedic tedium that plagued Sispyhus in Hades: her life was a series of similar movements, each looping towards the same disappointing end point like an osprey creating concentric circles overhead, repetitions and variations upon the same uninspiring theme. She greeted her failures with a pig-headed stubbornness, as if this time the boulder was hers to tame, the peak was hers to reach.

The Roman, on the other hand, was ready to walk away from the climb completely, after his own personal boulder had slid out of his grasp for only the first time. He was brought back for other reasons than his own ambition. Loyalty to his deceased friend, who - through nothing more than his colossal scale and his own tale of woe - felt like something straight out of mythology himself. Perhaps it was revenge: a far purer and unadulterated motive. But, either way, Michelle was unsure if the same ambition that had first caused Caesar to lay his hands on the rock and start pushing was truly there. She considered the fact that, at this current moment in time, her own ego was larger and wilder than a man who claimed to be the reincarnation of Julius Caesar himself. This thought made her smile.

"You always smoke before a match?" Lars asked, as he reached over and took the joint from between her fingers. She had retreated into a malaise, and wondered how long she'd been silent and lost within her thoughts. Not long, she imagined.

"Never," she said, with a shrug, and then took her leave.​

*****​

… Get off the train in Birmingham and head to the first exit I see but there's loads of pigs there and some of them have dogs so I head back into the station because I still have lots of the Leeds coke and a tiny bit of the Liverpool coke in my rucksack. Finish the Liverpool stuff in the toilets in New Street Station by gumming the bag which is disgusting and makes me wince and my stomach turns a bit but the fresh stuff levels me out and I leave through a different exit and there's no pigs. Find a hotel in Birmingham that has smoking rooms but sleep is still beyond me so I sit by the window and smoke half a pack of Camels and drink a bottle of cheap wine I got from the hotel bar that tastes a bit like vinegar and I remember they love that shit here. It gets light so I go out into the city but find that you can't buy booze from a supermarket here until ten thirty so head to the park for a few joints using my backpack as a pillow under an oak tree that's shedding its leaves and manage a couple of hours of dozing in and out of consciousness until the park fills up with children and there's too much noise so I get some breakfast but can't manage more than a bite or two of dry toast and then fall asleep in my uncomfortable chair until an old and sort of grotesque woman with a hideous accent wakes me up and moves me along and tells me where the nearest bar was which was actually quite helpful even if she meant it as an insult so I thank her and then I'm on my way. There's no sign in this bar telling me that 'drug users will be prosecuted' which almost seems like an invitation and mother taught me it's rude to turn down an invitation mustn't be rude must keep up appearances must be a lady must be a human things take a turn here the Leeds coke is pretty strong stronger than the Liverpool coke and soon enough the world is spinning or I am spinning one of us is spinning and I can't be sure which one must hold on can't let go grip is loosening stomach is tightening can't remember Birmingham can't remember train to London can't remember anything in London except the man in Trafalgar Square who tells me I look just like his daughter but I look like a monster sunken eyes flared nostrils pale skin wild hair his daughter must be a monster too maybe his daughter doesn't look like me it's difficult to understand what people really mean …​

*****​

Michelle returned to the S.S. Sisyphus at a little after midnight, bruised and battered and maybe beaten, but with a much better opinion of the city now that she'd seen the best part of it. Of course, the Freetown wasn't really part of Copenhagen at all, but the fact that it was allowed to exist via an uncomfortable and unsteady agreement was something that made her smile. Or would've done, if her aching muscles were capable of anything other than climbing into bed and laying down on top of her covers. She remembered to take her half-packet of Camels from her pocket and threw them down onto the bedside table next to her. Then, she closed her eyes, the world already a blur, giving up on her as she gave up on it.

The last thing she saw was a small, curved crack directly above her on the ceiling of the cabin. It was a little longer than a banana and roughly the same shape. She tried to reach towards it, so as to feel the rough edges of wood on either side of the chasm against her fingers, but she was too tired.

She took her leave.​

 

[Dubb]

BIG BRYAN BAXTER

in

FEAR​

It was a dark and stormy Halloween night in rural Hickory, North Carolina. Big Bryan Baxter had stopped in to spend a couple of days with his parents before heading overseas to Freetown for Meltdown.

With his parents going out to a Halloween party, Baxter had the whole house to himself, though he chose to stick to his old stomping grounds… the basement.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Baxter waited patiently for the popcorn to finish popping in the microwave so that he could settle down for his annual Halloween tradition. He didn’t prefer to partake in Halloween parties, not anymore anyway. Too tempting for him. Plus, any of his old friends in the area definitely weren't inviting him to any more parties.

No, Baxter instead spends his Halloweens with horror movie marathons. Already loaded up in the DVD player downstairs was The Shining. He just needed his popcorn to finish popping so he could actually enjoy it.

A loud rumble of thunder came along with a bright flash of lightning.

Beeeeeep. Beeeeep. Beeeeep.

“Finally,” Baxter said to himself as he opened up the microwave and pulled out the buttery bag of Orville Redenbacher before making his way to his parents’ floral Colonial-style wingback sofa. Placing his bare feet up on the coffee table, he grabbed the remote and hit play.

Darkness.

“Maaaaaaaaannnn, Are you fuckin’ kidding me!” Baxter shouted out in frustration.

Just as he settled down for his evening of movies… the power had gone out.

“MA! THE POWER!” Baxter shouted out before remembering he was home alone. “Ugh,” he said, exasperated before slowly getting back up off the couch. He stumbled in the darkness, stubbing his toe on the coffee table along the way.

“SON OF A BITCH!” he exclaimed, now hopping on one foot in the darkness.

Using the lightning flashing from outside to provide some visibility, Baxter found his way to the basement’s mini kitchen, pulling open one of the drawers and scrambling through it until he found a flashlight.

Using the flashlight, Bryan searched the basement, looking for his cell phone. He wasn’t going to let a little storm and power outage ruin his night. He’d just load up Netflix on his phone and continue his marathon that way.

Bryan found his phone on the counter, flipping it open.

First, he checked his messages.

Nothing.

The disappointment was apparent on Baxter’s face, even through the darkness. He had left Jeremy several voicemails and text messages, which continued to go unanswered. He hadn’t seen his friend since Lights Out and Bryan really wanted to talk to him. There were some things Bryan wanted to get off his chest.

“Come on, Jeremy…”

Sighing, Baxter resigned back to the couch and prepared to load up Netflix…

Loading…

Loading...

Loading...

“Goddamn shitty service out here in the boondocks,” Baxter thought to himself. But wait, he noticed that it wasn’t just bad service…he had zero bars of service.

First the power. Now the wireless service.

“Well, tonight is officially fucked.”

The thunder rocked the walls of the house as Baxter got up once again, beginning to pace around the basement. He needed to do something to get his mind off the guilt in his head. He should be excited about entering the F1. He should be excited about his upcoming North American title shot…

Instead, all he could think about was that he didn’t deserve any of it. He had finally earned Jeremy’s forgiveness, but he knew the way he earned his trust was through more deceit from his deal with Mr. Scorpane.

Baxter looked through the cabinets and found a few old wax candles along with a pack of matches. He headed over to his old office desk in the corner of the basement, placing the candles around and lighting them.

Baxter noticed his journal. His AA meetings had given Baxter an appreciation for writing out his thoughts and feelings. It may sound sappy and it’s not something Bryan would ever admit to anyone, but the letters he had to write to the people he’s wronged in his career actually worked. He didn’t do it often, but he still will utilize writing to ease his mind.

Bryan opened up the journal and grabbed a pen. His mind began to think about Meltdown, and specifically his opponent, Gerald Grayson. Bryan began putting the pen to paper.

= = = = = = = = = =

You call yourself a daredevil.

So what? You like to take high risks. You jump out of perfectly good planes just for the fun of it?

You think that makes you fearless?

Nah, Gerald, I hate to be the one to break this to ya...

But you don’t know the first damn thing about what it means to be fearless.

You have it made in the shade right now. After all, you just got yourself some gold! You’re the FWA Tag Team Champion, well one half of the champions anyway. You’re on top of the world! What could you possibly be afraid of?

Let’s face it, Gerald… we do have some things in common, don’t we? And I don’t just mean that we’re both from North Carolina or that we’ve both had the chance… nah, the privilege of teaming with Jeremy Best (but let’s face it, only one of us can truly call Jeremy a friend) in the past.

Right now, when people look at us… when they look at The Buddy System… or when they look at The Connection… they look at us and they see “the other guy.” I’m man enough to admit that I’m the “other” member of the Buddy System. He’s the reason I’m here. I’d lay down my life for Jeremy because I owe that to him.

But what about you Gerald? Can you admit to yourself and everyone else that you are just “the other guy” on the team?

Or… are you afraid?

As I sit here, it’s the week of Halloween. Funny timing I suppose to be rambling on about people’s fears.

But real fear isn’t about witches, goblins, zombies, and vampires. After all, none of those things are even… real… to begin with.

Let’s talk about real fear, Gerald.

What are the things you should REALLY be afraid of?

THE FEAR OF BEING ALONE.

For some, this is the fear of not being loved. Perhaps spending your entire life without that one special person you are going to spend the rest of your life with. But in our case, Gerald, it’s about stepping out of another’s shadow and being alone. No safety blanket to turn to and tag in if we need the help.

This F1 tournament is by far the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me in my career. And I’m not gonna bullshit anyone, it’s fuckin’ scary to think about. But I also know what it’s like to be alone. Yeah, I’ve been in Jeremy’s corner since I got here… but I’ve spent the better part of the last decade on my own. I know what it’s like to have the woman I love realize what a piece of shit I used to be and walk out that door and NEVER come back again. To have your own family want nothing to do with you. I was kicked out of the house by my own parents.

I don’t have many friends and the ones I did have, I burned just about every bridge possible. I am lucky to have been forgiven by Jeremy and, of course, Mr. Scorpane who helped me out at my lowest point and paved the way for my return to wrestling.

I'm in a different place now but yeah, it's still a little scary to go out there without Jeremy. But that's the type of thrill I'm seeking. I don't need to be doing stunts on a motorcycle... I just need this.

But when I look at you, Gerald, I see a man who is also afraid to be alone. But it's a different type of fear.

You seem like a nice enough guy. Jeremy spoke highly of you, anyway. And from what I’ve seen, I’d definitely rank you higher than some of the other people Jeremy has rubbed shoulders with in FWA like Jackson Fenix and Nate Savage. And yes, I realize that's a low bar and probably not much of a compliment to you, but it is what it is.

For a guy who seems to be at least somewhat of a “good” guy, you have perhaps even more bad choices in friends than even Jeremy has had to this point. Well, I mean… besides me, of course. But you surround yourself with a group like the Nephews… because you are afraid of being by yourself. And obviously, that’s the type of thing Uncle and the Nephews prey on. They bring you and you’ve found yourself part of something. And you have this friendship with MvH… but now you find yourself… relying on that more than anything. Falling back on it because it’s what’s safe. It’s what you know best.

There's comfort in the familiar.

I know a thing or two about that. For me it was never friends or joining a cult or anything… even at my lowest point I was strong enough to know those scams when I saw them… for me, it was the bottle. Beer. Whiskey. Vodka. Whatever I could get my hands on really. I knew the amount of alcohol I was consuming wasn’t good for me. I knew better. But nothing else helped. No one else was there for me.

I needed it. Because…

I was afraid.

Afraid of what my life looked like without it.

I imagine that's how you feel right now.

Gerald Grayson, the Nephews… but specifically, MvH, is your drug of choice. You’ve become addicted to that partnership. It’s brought you a feeling of euphoria. You are on top of the world because of her. But now… you’re stepping into the F1 and going solo. When you step into the ring with me…

You’re going to be alone.

= = = = = = = = = =
​

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Bryan was interrupted in his writing by the loud knocking coming from the front door.

Someone was actually out in this weather?

Surely it wasn’t any trick-or-treaters. His parents lived in the middle of nowhere and usually, no one ventured out this far to trick-or-treat. Not to mention it was almost 10 PM and with that storm going on… no parent in their right mind would have their kids out in this.

Or anyone in their right mind.

It is Halloween…Bryan began to think about the possibility of some slasher-inspired killer smashing his way into the house with an axe, coming in to brutally murder him.

And just when his career was really starting to get interesting.

CRASH.

“Shit..” a startled Bryan said as he got up, grabbing his flashlight before carefully heading up the stairs, exiting the basement. The basement door led directly to the front of the house, where the knocking was coming from.

Bryan nervously opened up the front door.

No one was there.

On the ground, a flower pot had fallen from the window seal and smashed across the wooden front porch.

“Damn kids,” Baxter said, shaking his head. Or perhaps it was just the heavy winds that knocked it over.

Baxter breathed a sigh of relief, realizing it was probably just the storm.

He returned to the basement.

= = = = = = = = = =

THE FEAR OF FAILURE


You have had so much success in The Connection. What if… you go into the F1… and you lose.

Can you handle that type of failure?

Because right now, it feels like you’re unstoppable. Unbeatable. You're at the top of that mountain, looking down on the rest of FWA. I know that feeling. It’s un-befucking-lievable, I know.

But also believe me when I say it can all come crashing down on you in an instant.

And failure has a way of being contagious. It spreads like a weed… rooting its evil vines deep into each and every aspect of your life. Choking the life out of every ounce of happiness you may have once had or could possibly have.

If ever there was something that it’s logical to be afraid of, it’s failure.

And I don’t think that’s something you can handle, Grayson.

You seem like the kinda guy who has always had things the way you wanted them. You like the company of others and like to blend your way into a group of friends, like the Nephews. Your parents probably gave you what you wanted in life… providing you with dirt bikes and all the extreme sporting equipment you could want…am I right?

I’m not sure you have ever… TRULY… SEEN what… REAL failure looks like? Have you?

And I don’t mean losing a match here or there. Well do that. No one is perfect. Even your friend Michelle loses from time to time. Losing is just part of the business. It’s gonna happen.

But I mean… the type of failure that feels impossible to come back from. A mountain that not even you could scale back up. Like jumping out of the plane with no parachute. That feeling of truly hitting rock bottom.

Because if you had, you’d know exactly WHY you should fear failure.

I know what that looks like. I’ve lived it.

I know what it's like to be up high on that mountain, feeling unstoppable, only have it all come crashing down. And it didn't stop with wrestling. I’ve been kicked out of every home I’ve ever lived in. I’ve spent nights in cars, shelters, cardboard boxes, park benches… I’ve known the desperation of where my next meal is going to come from.

Failure became what defined me.

It’s the type of failure I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not you… not even Nate Savage or Jackson Fenix.

I am not going to fail this time.

= = = = = = = = = =
​

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“Fuck!”

Baxter was just going to ignore it.

Some teens are probably trying to play some pranks.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

They’ll go away eventually.

= = = = = = = = = =

THE FEAR OF LOSING YOURSELF

So we’ve faced our fears of stepping away from our tag partners… stepping away from our safety blankets and our comfort zones… we’re committed to taking part in this F1 Tournament.

We know that failure is waiting for one… or perhaps both… of us in this tournament. But we’re going to do it anyway.

Why? WHY? Why would anyone put themselves through this type of physical… AND MENTAL… anguish that is this F1 tournament? Look at the big names in this tournament… Danny Toner… Michelle von Horrowitz… Chris Peacock… Alyster Black…

Then there’s us. “The Other Guys.”

Do we belong among the big names in this industry?

I think a lot of people probably say no.

But we’re here and we both have a point to prove. We both want to win. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t be here, now would we? Of course not.

The question you have to ask yourself, Gerald, is what are you willing to do to win? How far are you willing to go to avoid failure?

I’m trying to be a better man. I know a lot of people don’t believe me. A lot of people look at me and think I only came to FWA and reunited with Jeremy to try and leach off his rising star. A lot of people think I was just using Jeremy.

And yes, I’ve done things… I’ve done things I’m not proud of in my career. And I would’ve done damn near anything to get back into this business… and, at the lowest point in my life… I maybe did do just that. I’ve made a deal with the devil, all because I wanted another shot.

But I’ve also learned a lot in my time back with Jeremy and honestly, once I was here… all I wanted to do was what was best for him. I never intended to go off on my own. Singles championships were not on the agenda.

Jeremy gave me his blessing… he wanted me to have that chance.

Again… failure is not an option. So, once again I find myself questioning myself… looking at myself in the mirror… and wondering… what type of man do I want to be?

Right before Lights Out… I almost lost myself.

It’s something I’ve certainly been afraid of. And still am.

Maybe I’ve been lying to myself all along about who I really am. Because as I sat at that hotel bar, just days before the PPV… I found myself hypnotized by the bartender pouring shot after shot after shot. I wanted one. I could've had one. Who would've known. I could already taste that beautiful burning sensation in the back of my throat.

But on that night, I stayed strong. I didn't lose myself.

I’ve talked about our similarities, Gerald…but trust me when I say this, you should be afraid of losing yourself.

Much like Jeremy, you want to do things the “right” way. I’ve seen you with MvH, you’ve been trying to convince her that there is a right or wrong way to win much as Jeremy has tried to do with me.

At Lights Out… I too had the chance to choose how I wanted to win. I thought about the words I’ve been hearing from Jeremy over and over again… and I chose the so-called “right” way. And hot damn if it didn’t pay off.

But I dunno…

Because I really want this. When I look in the mirror… the man I want to see staring back at me…

Isn’t that fat piece of shit I was four years ago.

I want to be a winner.

And as much as I’ve tried to fool myself otherwise…I’m not the man of high morals like you and Jeremy. I am going to do what it takes to win.

And that’s not me “losing myself.”

That’s just me being myself.

If you're gonna beat me or make it in this F1 Tournament, you may have to face that fear... you may just have to forget about those morals of yours.. and do whatever you have to do to win.

Can you do it?

= = = = = = = = = =
​

Baxter sat up from his writing…

The storm was starting to let up. The thunder was now just rolling in the distance.

All was quiet.

Perhaps, just a little too quiet for Baxter.

The knocking had stopped. Apparently, the kids had given up. Baxter laughed to himself…typical kids these days… can’t even follow through on a good prank.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Spoke too soon.

The knocking was louder and faster…now from the back door.

Someone really wanted to get in.

Baxter kept ignoring it and went back to writing.

= = = = = = = = = =


THE FEAR OF BRYAN BAXTER

That’s right.

Be afraid, Gerald.

Be really fucking afraid.

Because the biggest fear you should have this Halloween is Big Bryan Baxter.

And it’s certainly no trick that you won’t find any treats in the ring with me on Fallout. You’re going to find out that stepping into the ring with me is NOTHING like stepping into the ring with Jeremy Best.

I mean… yes, the outcome is going to be the same. You’re gonna lose again.

But much like you, Jeremy is a nice guy. He took it easy on you.

You’re not gonna get that from me. I’m not here to make friends. Not anymore. I already have one of those and don’t need any more. So I’m not afraid of what happens to you in that ring. Stepping into the ring with me will be more dangerous than any of the extreme sports you’ve done in your life.

But… all that said, you probably won’t be too worried about it.

After all...

Gerald Grayson is a daredevil.

He’s fearless.

But the thing about fear, Gerald...

Is that a little bit of fear is actually healthy.

Fear is what drives me.

Am I afraid of being alone again?

Am I afraid of failure?

Am I afraid of losing myself?

You better fucking believe it.

I’m afraid that Jeremy will see through me. Afraid that he will realize I’m still the bastard that stabbed him in the fucking back.

I’m afraid of letting him down.

I’m afraid that going out on my own is just gonna send me back to that rock bottom.

That loss after loss that I might have in the F1 will send me running back to the warm embrace of alcohol.

ALL THAT FEAR…

IS EXACTLY WHY I AM NOT GOING TO LOSE!

Because I CAN’T.

I REFUSE.

I refuse to be back on the bottom once again.

= = = = = = = = = =

​

Bryan sat the pen down on the table, closing up his journal.

It was once again all quiet throughout the house.

Getting up, Bryan took the flashlight and once again slowly made his way up the stairs. Once on the main floor of the home, Baxter anxiously peaks through the blinds out to the front porch. He could hear the rain but that was about it.

Feeling braver, Bryan opened the door, shining the flashlight onto the porch.

“Anyone out here?”

No response. It appeared he was by himself.

But as he shut the door, he heard the unmistakable creaking of the back door opening.

He heard footsteps...

Someone was in the house.

Bryan turned off the flashlight, inching his way towards the living room where Baxter grabbed a fire poker from the fireplace, hoisting it up in the air like a baseball bat, ready to defend his parents’ house from the Halloween intruder.

The steps were getting closer…

The intruder made their way through the house. The footsteps were getting louder.

Louder...

Closer...

Closer….

Baxter tightened his grip around the fire poker, preparing to strike.

A figure in a yellow raincoat stepped into the living room.

“AHHHH!” Baxter screamed.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” the figure screamed as Baxter swung the metal stick at the intruder, striking him across the shoulder.

“OW! Bryan! It’s me!”

Wait, what?

“Jeremy?!”

The intruder pulled back the hood of his yellow raincoat to reveal Jeremy Best. Baxter’s friend and partner, completely soaked from being out in the rain.

“What the fuck man?!”

“Sorry! So sorry! I have been trying to call you but it kept going to voicemail!”

Baxter leaned over, catching his breath as the anxiety of the situation started to settle.

“Jesus man…you almost gave me a Goddamn heart attack!”

“Gosh, I didn’t mean to startle you, Bryan. I kept knocking but I remembered your mom keeps a key under that little frog statue…”

“Nah…it’s okay dude, I am glad to see ya. Here, let me get ya a towel.”

Jeremy thanked Bryan before removing the wet jacket and hanging it up on the nearby coat rack. Just as Bryan was retrieving a towel, the lights in the house came back on.

“Thank God!” Bryan exclaimed with joy before handing Jeremy the towel.

Jeremy ran the towel through his hair. “So, your messages said you wanted to talk. What’s up?”

Bryan felt his stomach tie up into knots. “I, uh…..well, I am about to watch some movies… wanna join?”

“Absolutely! Sounds like fun!”

“Sweet. Let’s do this!”

As the pair headed back downstairs to the basement, Bryan breathed a little easier.

He knew he wanted to come clean to Jeremy. He’d tell him all about Mr. Scorpane’s little plan. Eventually. But not tonight. Tonight he just wanted to enjoy some time with his friend.

 

[SupineSnake]

GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
are
[CTHULHU'S NEPHEWS]
in
"THE BANDIT QUEEN.”
part three: drunken master.
previously: part one || part two.
music.

*****​

September, 1876.
The American Midwest.​

​

*****

ONE.​

Autumn had taken hold of Lonehill. The orange and brown leaves were falling from the trees and cluttered the town’s narrow streets, through which Meg steadily trotted, the echoes of her iron hooves against the cobbled stone whistling in the Sheriff’s ears. There were times when such a sound would be like birdsong to him, but today it only served to amplify the busy nature of the million and one thoughts already echoing in his frantic mind. Meg was concerned, too. She let out a short, shrill whinny as the Sheriff tugged gently on her reins to turn her towards the right, the horse registering her dissatisfaction with the day before acquiescing to his command. The Sheriff stroked her neck as a symbol of his gratitude.

Meg was grateful to be left in the stables, where she cantered towards Gate and joined him at the water trough. The Sheriff watched the mare nuzzle the stallion, content now that the day was finally over. When he sensed that he was dangerously close to envying the horses, he had to turn away.

The stack of paperwork remained where he’d left it on his desk before his evening sojourn to Montgomery's Saloon. He didn’t recognise the woman behind the bar there. It seemed to be someone different each time he went in, nowadays. Gone were the days when Ms. Montgomery served the ale, even if her name still remained above the entrance. It was said she’d moved north, and had shacked up with a few bandits near Deathpool. But that was just rumour. Lonehill was full of rumour.

Much of the paperwork related to the men he’d seen in the Saloon tonight. They were all known faces to the law, which Gerald was the meagre town’s meagre representation of. He couldn’t remember if they’d already descended upon the tavern when Ms. Montgomery finally took off, or if they'd set about defiling it once she'd left. The railway line she’d once dreamed of was built three years ago, but the only custom it brought through were profiteers and even shadier types. The Saloon was a hotbed for bandits, now. Gerald knew it. But in most cases he was a long way from proving it.

He poured himself a glass of lemonade from a jug that Harry, his Deputy, had left for him on his desk, and picked up the first document in the pile. It related to a well-known philanthropist who had gone missing from the town a couple of months ago. Gerald was no closer to finding the cause for his disappearance, but the sudden elevation of Triple B - who’d been the philanthropist’s right hand man, despite a well-documented past within the shade - was unmistakable. B’ was at the Saloon tonight, like he was most nights. The Sheriff fancied his own ambitions were B’s primary concern for now, and old habits die hard.

The lemonade was good, but the news was bad. The Old Man was back in Lonehill, too, and although he was no longer the force he was when he’d first held pull in town, he’d recently come into some unexplained gold and was - by all accounts - setting his sights on more. The lawman had been keeping a close eye on Peacock, too. Four years ago, the Dancer had been an entertainer in the Saloon, but since Ms. Montgomery left town and Randy was drowned he’d put himself in the middle of every story. Gerald sensed he was on the verge of something real, and he didn’t much like that thought. Verdad, too, had grown in prominence since Michelle left town. She had his number, but each day that she was away the elder statesman grew bolder, his fear of Dreamer increasingly remote.

And then there was Liz. Gerald had heard stories about who she was in the north. The wife of some working stiff, but with ties to some bandits there, some of whom were tied up with Dreamer. His Dreamer. The thought of the name stirred something in him. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and groped for the gold Sheriff’s badge that lay amongst the rest of her belongings. She’d left lots behind. Even her horse. Gate still waited patiently for her, unsaddled and unused. One of the townsfolk sold her a mule that she’d been seen riding north on. He’d taken her responsibilities, but not the badge. That still waited for her.

Gerald picked up the pile of documents from his desk and placed them in the second drawer, before returning the badge to the first. All except for one document, which had eluded his hands when he’d grasped for the pile. It concerned a man who hadn’t been at the Saloon when the Sheriff visited earlier that night, unlike the rest of the town’s petty bandits who sipped ales there whilst planning their next scores. A newcomer to Lonehill, even with the town’s relative notoriety for transients.

Nobody lived in Lonehill for long. Except for Gerald.

The man in question went by Mr. Vega, the owner of the local bank. The Sheriff didn’t know much about him, other than his reputation for ruthlessness, particularly with those who spent invariably short periods of time in his employ. There were also whispers about an anonymous Gunslinger, and suggestions that his involvement in recent skullduggery was somehow linked to Mr. Vega’s sudden wealth.

It was too much for one mind to wrestle with.

He looked down at the Sheriff’s badge in the still-open top drawer, which was placed next to a half-finished bottle of bourbon. Also Michelle’s. He was sure she wouldn’t resent him a couple of swigs. God knew he’d earned it. He closed his eyes, shook his head. Reached for his lemonade.

When the glass was empty, he collected an adjacent inkpot and a piece of paper. A single letter had already been scrawled at the top:

M,

It was the start of a letter that he’d been shaping up to write for a few weeks already, but he’d got no further than this one-character address. But tonight felt different. He was too loaded with hopelessness and fear to remain idle. Surely.

These four years without you have been difficult. I have remained in Lonehill, and have pretty much remained the man that I was when you left. A deputy doing a sheriff’s work. I wait for you, as the sharks circle in Ms. Montgomery’s Saloon, having chased the dame from the town. Another heel gathers his strength in Lonehill Bank, and they say his gold funds a bandido whose name and face are not even known to me. The law is blind here now. The law is blind without you.

He paused, the words not easy for him to find. He was unsure of himself, as he always was.

We need you. I need you.

G.

He would ask Quiet to set out and find her that night, feeding him a whispered name of a rumoured town, and then retiring to a restless sleep.​

*****

TWO.​

Deathpool was named for the narrow but deep pond just to the north of the town, where the water was black and viscous, and where a half-dozen people and half a hundred animals had lost their lives since the first tavern opened up there. That’s what Deathpool was known for: booze and sleaze and debauchery and death. And for the bandits, who were of course drawn to such a place, devoted as it was to revelry. They came in large numbers, and a lot of the time they stayed.

It was here, so they say, where the man they called West first but his fist through Dreamer’s chest, before taking the coveted green-gold jewels from her person and then promptly losing them to the handsome man. He’d held them ever since, and after a foray into the west a couple of years prior he’d come back to Deathpool to settle, a loose band of ruffians answering his call and helping to establish him here. They included Ms. Montgomery and the Three-Fingered Bandit, both of whom were known to Dreamer from her time back in Lonehill. She’d often see them and a fourth who remained unfamiliar to her, either drinking in one of Deathpool’s many bars or riding at speed through the city gates to cause whatever mischief they’d set their minds on. Not that it had anything to do with Michelle. She’d given up the badge. Wasn’t her job to go chasing rumours anymore.

They weren't here now, she noticed, as she ordered herself another drink from the old, balding man behind the bar in 'the Snake Hole’. He nodded his acquiescence to her order and busied himself in pouring another bourbon. She took another scan of the faces in the bar.

Many of them were known to her, even if the handsome man's unmerry band of bandidos were nowhere to be found tonight. Their absence explained the Man in Black's presence. He'd tried twice to remove the jewels from Mr. Toner's possession, and twice he'd come back from the Corral with nothing but blood in his hands and shame in his heart. It was well known around the town - both amongst the bandidos and the honest folk, whose numbers were dwindling by the day - that the Man in Black was avoiding his handsome bane. He drank alone, and Dreamer reasoned he was either plotting a revenge he'd never take or picking through mistakes he'd never fix. The Cowboy was here, too. She'd been here when he arrived, and watched him march to the bar with swagger beyond his years. He demanded to see Toner, his hand already on the pistol at his side. The Cowboy wasn't scared, for better or for worse. Fear came with age.

The barman placed the bourbon down in front of Michelle, and as she reached for the glass she noticed blood on her sleeve. The Roman's blood, or her own. She couldn't really be sure. The only thing she knew was that her duel with the Roman wouldn't be her last here. Deathpool was wild. A frontier.

As she sipped her bourbon, the heavy saloon doors swung open and a familiar face emerged. Familiar to her, but not to the rest of the patrons inhabiting the place. He wore his black hat low, and a bandana covered everything beneath the bridge of his nose, meaning only his eyes were visible through a narrow slit. They were black, too. The newcomer scanned the bar, clocked Dreamer, and made his approach.

Michelle kicked out a chair for him. He sat down and signalled to bartender for another bourbon.

"How long has it been?" she asked.

"..... …..?" the man replied. "....?"

"That long?" Michelle mused, wistfully. The Quiet Man took off his heavy coat and placed it on the back of his chair. The barkeep arrived with his bourbon. He clinked his glass against Michelle's and took a long, satisfied sip: the first after a long journey. Michelle regarded him carefully. Although she was pleased to see what she could of his face, he was an unexpected relic of her past, which usually she sought to keep at arm's length. "You're not here only to share a drink with me?"

The Quiet Man reached into his inside pocket and handed over the envelope that Gerald gave him. Michelle's eyes looked over the seal, noticing that it was one she'd used many times in this aforementioned, neglected past. It belonged to the offices of the Lonehill Sheriff. She carefully ripped through the navy blue wax and removed the letter from the envelope, immediately recognising Gerald's tidy scrawl.

"You can wait until tomorrow?" she asked, after reading the text and carefully folding the letter away into her pocket.

". … ….," the Quiet Man said. A lengthy silence followed, during which Michelle pondered returning to Lonehill. Four years was a long time. She'd changed, just as Gerald said the town she'd left behind had. She doubted many more besides her former Deputy longed for her return.

As Michelle considered the implications of such a journey, the Quiet Man spied the Cowboy in the corner. He was surrounded by a handful of whores and a half-dozen slick types that must have migrated here from the city. Even the Quiet Man, who'd only arrived in Deathpool that afternoon, had heard about the huge rancher who would march into the taverns and ask for Toner by name. He'd also heard that Toner wouldn't come.

He'd heard other things, too.

"... … …. … …… ?" he asked.

"I heard," she said, with a nod. "I won't believe it until I see the body, or the jewels in someone else's hands."

"..... …….?" the Quiet Man asked.

"Still chasing," Michelle repeated.

Just then, her eyes were drawn towards the Cowboy, too. The Cowboy and the scene that was brewing in his peripheries. One of his whores had slapped one of his slicks, deeming him too handsy before the proper sums were settled. The Cowboy roared with laughter, attracting the attention of every patron in the room.

"Come on," Michelle instructed. "Let's go somewhere quieter."​

*****

THREE.​

From the outside, the hotel looked quite obviously unfinished. The bottom three storeys had been completed, but more were evidently intended that hadn't quite yet come to fruition, and as a result the upper half of the building resembled a construction site (for, of course, that was exactly what it was). The function, though, was taking place in the grand ballroom on the incomplete hotel's completed first floor, and when inside one had no real idea that the building as a whole was as yet only a shell.

The Sheriff was inside of the shell, but - as his eyes scanned the lavish room and took in the people, most of whom he recognised as the rich, the corrupt, or the rich and corrupt - he felt like he had no place being so. The rest of them were assembled there to raise money for some political party. Gerald wasn't much one for politics, but scanning the room left him under no uncertain terms that this probably wasn't the party for him, political or literal.

So, how did he come to be here?

The morning after the Sheriff sent his letter with the Quiet Man into the North, he climbed onto Meg's back and left at a trot in the direction of the Bank. A trot was all that the old mare could manage, nowadays. He arrived at a little before midday, and an unpleasant but somewhat expected scene was taking place in front of the building as he did.

It began with Mr. Vega accusing one of his workers, who now lay flat on his back in a heap in front of the building, of tardiness and a lack of energy. The underling wasn't remonstrating or defending himself in the slightest, allowing the boss's assertions to grow larger and bolder. Soon enough, the employee (or former employee, as it transpired) was guilty of all sorts of skullduggery, as Mr. Vega let him have it for theft, extortion, and perceived low levels of moral fibre.

The livid businessman disappeared back into his Bank, but re-emerged a moment later with the underling's hat, coat, and briefcase, which he hurled onto the ground next to him.

"Don't let me see you around here again, thief!" Mr. Vega instructed, whilst frothing at the mouth. His rage was unbecoming, and reminded the Sheriff of a basterd he'd seen in the town from time to time. "I have friends, boy! Friends whose names you wouldn't even want to know!"

The berated and brow-beaten victim scrambled to his feet, collected his belongings, and then scurried off down the street. Mr. Vega spat on the floor. Gerald climbed down from Meg and removed his gloves, clearing his throat in the process to garner the businessman's attention.

"I think we're closed for the day, Sheriff," Mr. Vega said, with a smile. He knew who Gerald was, at least. That was a start. "Suddenly short-staffed. Perhaps you'd like to come back tomorrow?"[/b]

"I'm here now," Gerald replied, firmly and - he thought - assertively. The businessman leant against the frame of his door, and folded his arms.

"What is it you're looking to do, Sheriff?" he asked, with narrowed eyes. "Opening an account? Probably for the best, Sheriff. It's not good to keep your cash beneath the bed anymore. The world's a wild place, nowadays."

A silence lingered, during which the businessman's smile faltered.

"I'm here about the company you keep," the Sheriff started, puncturing the silence. His opposite number still lent against the frame of the door, his arms still folded, and his smile refixed upon his face.

"You're here about whispers, then," Mr. Vega retorted. "Well, Sheriff, I'll do you one better than a guarded conversation in the backroom of a closed bank. It's too hot for such talks today, with nothing to whet one's whistle. But on Saturday I'm throwing a ball for the Party at 'the Cowbell'. You know my hotel, I trust?"

The Sheriff nodded, and stroked his horse's mane. Meg wasn't happy. She enjoyed the man's elusiveness even less than Gerald, it seemed.

"You should meet the company I keep," Mr. Vega began, whilst opening the doors to the bank again. And then, before he disappeared: "a man shouldn't rush to judge."

Now that Saturday had rolled around, Gerald found himself positioned as far away from Mr. Vega as was possible. Perhaps that was by design. His invitation meant very little when he was in the periphery of proceedings. And so, the Sheriff could do little else other than sit and mope, and watch on as the city’s well-dressed underbelly paraded their ill-gotten wealth before one another. He was about to give up entirely, and drained his glass of lemonade - far from homemade, he feared - with the intention of leaving, when Mr. Vega finally decided to register the fact that Gerald was there at all.

“I hope the Sheriff is enjoying himself,” the businessman said through a toothy smile, having approached Gerald’s table. He now loomed ominously above the lawman with his thumbs behind his braces, a large, seemingly unused, but well-polished six-shooter visible inside his jacket. “No expense has been spared on the food, the drink, the music… as I’m sure my friend’s distinguished senses can attest to.”

“The music is fine,” Gerald lied. He stopped short of plastering on his own snide faux-smile. “But I had hoped for somewhere more quiet. Where we could talk properly.”

“Very well,” Mr. Vega began. “If my ballroom is not fitting for our Sheriff to speak, perhaps you’d like to join me in my office for a cigar?”

Gerald allowed the bank owner to lead the way, and soon enough found himself sat across a large, imposing desk from him. Mr. Vega’s name was inscribed onto a golden plaque on the edge closest to the Sheriff, and for once he lamented not having the five-pointed badge on his chest, if only to proclaim his own position and stature in equally as ostentatious a manner. He shuffled uncomfortably in his low seat, looking up at Mr. Vega and waving away the box of cigars when it was presented to him. Gerald wasn’t much one for smoking. Even less so than politics, really.

“It’s not often a man joins me for a cigar and neglects to smoke himself,” Mr. Vega said. He paused to allow an underling to light the end of one. “You don’t mind if I do?”

“I’m used to it,” the Sheriff said. In truth, it had been four years, but he hadn’t forgotten the smell of tobacco that had once choked him on a daily basis in the office.

“What’s on your mind, Sheriff?” the businessman asked, in light and airy tones. Gerald couldn’t work out if his comfort and ease were affectations. They seemed natural, but that didn’t mean they were sincere. “What do you think of the company I keep, now that you’ve had the opportunity to actually meet my friends?”

“Your friends here were known to me before tonight,” Gerald began, in a guarded fashion. He didn’t tell Mr. Vega that he thought very little of his fancy friends, but felt this was implied regardless. “It’s the unknown associate that I’ve been hearing so much about that I’d most like to meet. This… Gunslinger.”

The businessman drew thoughtfully from the end of his cigar. Kept his cool. Expelled a half-dozen smoke rings into the dusty, fogged room. Continued to smile.

“You put too much stock in rumour and innuendo, Sheriff,” he said.

“Rumour and innuendo is most of my job,” Gerald replied. "And rumour can mature into knowledge, when investigated properly and taken with a pinch of salt."

"You'll need more than a pinch, Sheriff," Vega retorted, though Gerald sensed he sat a little less easily in his high chair. "What knowledge do you think you've come by?"

Gerald leant back in his own seat. Watched the businessman shuffle uncomfortably. He allowed the pause to linger and used it to his advantage.

"Do you have any of that lemonade?" the lawman asked, eventually. "I mean, it's shitty lemonade, but there's nothing like a sip of lemonade in a dry, smoky room."

The businessman's eyes narrowed in the Sheriff's direction, before he finally turned towards a nearby underling and offered him a nod. The employee scurried out of the room to prepare Gerald's drink.

"I know that you weren't alone when you arrived here," the Sheriff started, slowly. "I know about the two strangers who arrived in the middle of the night, together, nursing injuries and fatigue from a long journey south. Nursing ambition, too. I know about the masked man who hit the train at Mercia last week, and the bank down in Redfoot the next night. A Gunslinger was mentioned, and an accent from the north. Same accent as yours. I know that you're showing more money in political donations than your operations here - your legal ones - should allow you to. I know a few things, Mr. Vega. You see quite a lot around here if you take the time to look."

Silence again. Vega continued to suck at the end of his cigar, his eyes locked onto the Sheriff's. Both men gazed at the other in reproach. In warning. The underling re-emerged into the smoke-filled office and placed a glass of lemonade in front of the lawman. He picked it up and took a long, satisfied sip.

"I would like to meet this Gunslinger," Gerald began again, after setting his half-full (always half-full) glass back on the desk. "I believe that you can arrange this. It will be remembered that you helped when I get to the bottom of the incidents in Mercia and in Redfoot."

"If you get to the bottom of it…" the businessman corrected, boldly. Gerald faltered. Steeled himself. "You've got a lot on your plate already, Sheriff. This town is overrun with bandits. I counted five last night in Montgomery's. I feel your office's time could be better spent elsewhere."

"When I get to the bottom of it, Mr. Vega," the Sheriff repeated. His approximation of confidence was convincing enough, he felt. "I'll remember which side of this you came down on. And your fine friends out there won't hesitate to drop you like a bad habit once your usefulness dries up. Don't kid yourself otherwise."

The businessman gulped. Gerald afforded himself a smile. Checkmate.

"He isn't here often," Mr. Vega conceded. He stubbed his cigar out in an ashtray next to a bottle of rum, which he promptly began to pour a healthy measure of into a dirty glass. "He's due in town on Thursday night."

"Friday morning, then," Gerald suggested, forcefully. He liked these colours on himself. "At the Corral, in So-So."

"He'll bolt if half of the department is there," Mr. Vega said, and the glum look on his face suggested sincerity. "You and one other. And bring your best man. He won't blink before lighting you up."

Gerald stood. Nodded. Drained his glass.​

*****

FOUR.​

The two horses moved slowly, trotting down the dirt path as the moon crept higher into the sky, towards its apex. Hundreds of stars opened themselves up to the travellers, dancing heel and toe as the night grew deeper and darker. Beneath the climbing moon, Dreamer and the Quiet Man held the reins of their horses, fatigue thick upon them as they continued on towards the south, towards Lonehill, and towards Gerald.

The Quiet Man, living up to his name, said very little. Dreamer, failing to live up to hers, had been awake for days, stubbornly clinging onto reality, her mind and her body unwilling to allow themselves to be overwhelmed by her subconscious.

"I'm sure there's a tavern here somewhere," Michelle said, permeating the silence that had persisted for the last hour. In her growing delirium, she didn't realise that she'd said the same thing the last three times either of them had spoken. "Somewhere down this road, there's a tavern."

"... …'. … ….. …. …," the Quiet Man quipped, whilst adjusting his bandana. His black gelding strode on, assuredly. Michelle's mule struggled to keep pace, slow and old as it was.

"You're not thirsty?" she asked, though his answer wouldn't have changed her closed mind. "Thirsty work, travelling."

". …. …. .. … …. .. ……..," he answered.

"I want to get to Lonehill, too," she agreed. "But the town will still be standing the day after tomorrow. It's in Gerald's safe hands, remember."

"..'. .. ……'. …. …..," the Quiet Man repeated, as if it were a mantra he would adopt.

“Is Uncle still around? In Lonehill?” she asked. In truth, she’d only had a couple of brief interactions with the enigmatic stranger (and he was still a stranger, and probably would be no matter how long she spent in his company) in the town itself, and most of their relationship - or at least the blossoming thereof - had occurred outside of the city. But she’d heard that Uncle and his acquaintances were back at Gerald’s side, the last time she’d checked in on the comings and goings of Lonehill.

“... ….,” the Quiet Man explained. “... …… … … ….., …. … .., ………. … ….. ….. … …., … ….? .. …. .. .. …. .. …. .. …. .. …. …. .. ….”

Michelle pulled a face at the Quiet Man’s declaration. She didn’t quite like the idea of being taken care of, by him or by anyone else. Uncle was peculiar and singular, and she was willing to forgive him for much in the name of his uniquity. But the idea of Harry, Thomas, and the Quiet Man keeping an eye on her would’ve been amusing, if she was prone to finding the comic before the tragic. It didn’t surprise her that they’d chosen to surround Gerald instead of her.

". ….. …'.. ….. …. .. .. … ….," he pressed her, as they continued on southwards along the edge of a forest. A stream had flowed into a river, which trickled gently at their other side, the evening's only soundtrack.

"Gerald doesn't need me to look after him," Michelle argued. The Quiet Man took it as confidence in the Sheriff's ability to look after himself and take care of the town's business. Dreamer meant it as an admission of her own struggles and failures in Lonehill, and the eventual defeat that still haunted her. Her mind was cast to the Three-Fingered Bandit, who waited for her for another confrontation in Deathpool. One that she was running away from in order to fight Gerald's battles once again.

"... …'.. ……, ….-...-....," he said.

"But I'm coming, none-the-lesss," she agreed.

A silence fell again.

"I'm sure there's a tavern here somewhere," Michelle said, eventually.

*****

FIVE.​

Gerald sat on the bench in the corner of the empty jailhouse and pulled on his boots. He lowered his feet back down at an angle, allowing the cold iron spurs on his heels to grip the timber floorboards of his office. He ran his thumbs down the inside of his braces and to the brass buckle on his belt. Finally, his fingers gripped the two pistols in symmetrically positioned holsters at his thighs. One for Mr. Vega, and one for his anonymous friend. If it should come to that, of course. But Gerald didn't feel there was any need to hide the fact that he'd come to play. He doubted a man known only as the Gunslinger would arrive at the So-So Corral unarmed.

Thomas had wanted to come to the meeting, of course. Perhaps Gerald could've used him, but it was difficult to fully and firmly trust Thomas, given the deeds that he himself freely owned up to. His tale of a meeting with Michelle in the north, a short but bloody affair over some green-gold jewels that Gerald himself had come close to on one occasion, was enough to dissuade him from taking Thomas to the Corral. Harry was too young, but enthusiastically volunteered none-the-less. Gerald praised his moxey, and asked him to saddle up Meg before going home. Quiet was still out on his errand, and the Sheriff lamented the fact that the meeting had come too early for his return.

He walked over to his desk and drained a glass of lemonade before opening the top drawer. The gold badge, recently polished by Harry, stared back up at him. He reached down. Ran his fingers across its five points. Brushed the engraved lettering that read SHERIFF upon its front. He clutched it between his fingers and turned towards the mirror that hung next to the door, before carefully fastening the badge upon his lapel.

Sunny outside. Dry.

As he walked towards the stables, his spurs gently singing as his heavy boots padded against the cobbles, he wondered how he’d managed to find himself in this mess. He didn’t have to seek out Mr. Vega and his mysterious Gunslinger. He could’ve sat back, and watched on with disinterest as the one grew in wealth whilst the other in notoriety. But he wore the badge. Even though he’d only just fastened it to his chest, he’d been wearing it as far as the town was concerned for the last four years. When that gold was on his chest, challenges from men like Vega and the Gunslinger were to be expected. And it was expected of him that he would answer them.

At the door of the stables, he paused. Sighed. Listened to the wind. Its song sounded sad.

Inside, there were three horses. Meg, Gate, and a third: a mule that he didn’t recognise. Behind that, curled up in a ball amongst a hastily assembled bed of hay, was a human being. A woman. Michelle.

She slept. Uneasily, she slept.

Gerald crouched over her on his haunches and shook her by the shoulder, gently at first and then a little more vigorously when she resisted his initial attempts at rousing her. Eventually, she came to, rolling onto her back and sitting up before attempting - a futile attempt, it should be added - to bring the world into focus by rubbing her eyes and shaking her head. She could see the outline of Gerald, her old Deputy, in front of her, and remembered enough about the night before to know that she’d at least arrived in Lonehill. The rest of the evening was patchy. She’d found a tavern on the southbound road, where she and the Quiet Man had taken up a brief but eventful residence for the twelve hours of daylight that preceded this oncoming twelve hours of daylight. They’d travelled again beneath the moon, but the ale and the bourbon had flowed freely enough for the events on the road to remain a patchwork of blurred mundanities.

Maybe, if she put her mind to it, she would’ve been able to remember more. But the effort of focussing was beyond her. Her head hurt too much. She hoped beyond hope that Gerald wouldn’t say anything, through fear that the words of another human being might cause her brain to spill out of her ears. The only exertion that seemed worthwhile was the collection of her pipe and hip flask from her saddlebag. She sat back on the straw and stared up at Gerald, his face finally coming into something resembling focus as she reintroduced a mouthful of amber to her system.

"You came," he said, finally.

"I came," she repeated. It was all she could muster. All that she could think to say.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," she said, with a heavy and noticeable slur on the third word. "I don't think so. Not yet."

"I doubt you'd ask me where we're going," he said, slowly. He was used to Michelle in this condition, even if it had been a while. He knew how to approach her: with a direct simplicity. "Who we're up against. And to tell you the truth, I couldn't tell you much about them, even if you wanted to know. Some businessman, and whatever hired gun his ill-gotten wealth will stretch to. But it doesn't matter who they are. They're coming for what you built here, and what I've struggled to keep standing."

He paused, and stood up. He whistled once for Meg, and then again for Gate, the two horses responding to the subtle differences in the calls.

"That you're here is enough," he concluded, simply. "For now."

He held out Gate's reins, which Michelle took in her hands. Without a word, for all of her concentration was dedicated to the next sequence of physical motions, she stood to her feet. She stroked the familiar but forgotten mane of black hair on the white horse's neck, the soft hair catching between the coarse skin of her fingers and palms. She placed her foot in the stirrup, and then pulled herself up onto the horse's back… before promptly falling off the other side.

She landed in a heap in the straw, where soon she fell back into her uneasy sleep.

Gerald crouched over her once more, to fasten her hip flask and put out her pipe. He placed both on the sill next to the long, north-facing window, and then patted Gate to calm him down after the strange, long-awaited reunion with his former rider.

Finally, with the sun casting a bold, orange band across the horizon, he mounted Meg, and left the city in the direction of the So-So Corral.​

​

 

[Jam]

The Other Guy
by Gerald Grayson

We had finally done it.

The Spirit Walkers gave us quite a challenge, but in the end, The Connection would not be denied their destiny. You know the history about the ups and downs of the Connection, so I won’t bore you with the details. But finally, we had done it. The Grayson and von Horrowitz Connection are now FWA Tag Team Champions.

As soon as we were backstage after winning our match, Michelle and I shared a few words to debrief. Nothing long-winded: what we were feeling could remain unsaid. Ultimately, we decided to celebrate our own separate ways before doing something together, maybe even something with the Nephews. I had no objections with this and fully expected it as Michelle and I had two different versions of fun.

I was alone in my locker room, drenched in sweat from the battle we just had against the Spirit Walkers. I was full of emotion, overcome with emotion actually. It was beginning to be too much for me, so I did what I thought would be most helpful at this very moment – I called my parents. Funnily enough, when I grabbed my phone and turned it on, I had 11 missed Facetime calls from my parents. Seeing that put a smile on my face immediately. I returned their Facetime call and after a few seconds, my mom answered.

“Woohoo Gerald! That’s my boy!” my mom shouted loudly. “I’m so proud of you!”

“Thanks mom,” I said, already on the verge of tears. Seeing this, my mom had already begun crying and that made me full on cry.

If you didn’t know, I was a bit of a mama’s boy growing up. My mom was there for all my extracurricular activities – fundraisers, sporting events, prom. Oh god, I forgot my mom was there during prom. So maybe I was a big mama’s boy, sue me. Hearing her voice always made me feel a sense and calm, but that might be a superpower most mothers had.

“Good job, son. We’re incredibly proud of you!” my dad said, as my mom passed the phone to him, not wanting me to see her cry.

My dad was a good man. He worked really hard – sometimes working two to three jobs because he wanted to provide for our family and more. My mom thought it was a pride thing and it may have been, but she didn’t discourage him from it.

“Thanks dad,” I said, barely able to get the words out. My dad held the phone further away so my mom could fit into the picture. By this time, she had done her best to stop crying.

“Thank you, guys. Really. You guys worked so hard raising us, Jay and I,” I paused at the thought of my brother. With us not being on the best terms right now, it killed me inside knowing Jay wasn’t around to celebrate this moment with me.

“Sorry,” I said, trying to compose myself.

“This win was for the family, most especially you guys. I’m glad I was able to achieve something that you guys can be proud of,” I paused again, taking a deep breath. “It’s been a while since that has happened,” I continued, wiping my eyes.

“Gerald, your father and I have always been proud of you. Never forget that,” my mom mustered, after failing to hold in her tears once more. She left the scene and passed the phone to my dad once again.

“Your mom’s right, Gerald. I know you would’ve wanted Jay here, but that shouldn’t discredit what you’ve achieved tonight. We’re proud of you son and we love you,” my dad said with no hesitation. My dad was a man of few words, so hearing this from him was a big moment from me.

“We love you so much, Ger. Your dad’s absolutely right. Don’t think about the Jay thing too much, we’ll get through to him. Now’s the time to celebrate your win,” my mom said, mustering the strength to talk through her tears.

Who am I to go against my mom’s wishes, right? We all gotta listen to our moms. Pro tip right there.

“Thanks mom. Thanks dad. I appreciate you both so much,” I responded. “I’m going to gather my things, watch the rest of the show from my hotel room, and order a bunch of room service. I’ll come visit again soon and we can do something to celebrate together, alright? Love you both so much!”

“Love you son!” they said in unison as we said our goodbyes.

That felt good. Hearing from my parents always made me feel better. I’m one of the lucky ones. So, if you have that type of relationship with your parents, take this as the universe’s sign to call them.

— — —

It took twenty minutes to get from the airport to the location of the next episode of Fallout in Freetown Christiania. On the drive over, everyone was anxious over the unfamiliarity with the area.

“Yo, is this place safe?” the Sane Wizard questioned, looking around like someone was about to take him hostage.

“I’m sure the FWA has taken every precaution needed to ensure the safety of its employees,” I said with worry in my voice. My eyes looked forward, making sure no shenanigans were about to go down.

“You sound like a robot, Gerald. Did the FWA elite train you to say that?” Thomas joked. However, his demeanor changed when we finally entered the Freetown Christiania community.

Quiet and Harry sank in their seats, trying not to make eye contact with the locals. West looked out once and garnered a glare he didn’t like and never looked out again. For me, my eyes were looking straight ahead, hoping we’d get to our destination faster.

Along the roads, there were a myriad of old, broken down buildings. Each of these buildings had several people sitting on the front porch, scanning the FWA van, knowing outsiders were entering their community. The people of Freetown Christiania stared down the untinted van as it went down the rocky roads of Christiania with no paved road in sight where we were going.

As we neared our hostel, we saw more old, broken down buildings. However, there were designs on the side of these buildings - many containing nature-related objects such as flowers, the sun, trees, and more, which made us feel a little safer. The further we went down the road, we saw more of the same buildings. This time, the people were waving at us as we passed by. The laughter of children and several other cars filled the silence we felt compared to the entrance of Freetown Christiania.

We were finally at our destination. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was a sizable hostel with other tourists around, calming our nerves a bit. Thomas, Quiet, Harry, and I were all staying in rooms that were right next to each other.

“Nephews – assemble!” I exclaimed to the universe as Thomas, Harry, Quiet, and I gathered around in a circle.

“Alright Nephews, what’s the game plan?” I asked the team, searching for answers.

“Hold on, why didn’t Michelle follow us again?” Harry questioned.

“You know Michelle, she does what she wants. She did say something about meeting in London to celebrate. We can have a Nephews Extravaganza then,” I offered, patting Harry on the back.

“Hmm, alright. I guess so. I suggest we go to the beach!” the Sane Wizard commanded.

“… … ...” Quiet said, in a swimming motion. He kept doing it as if it would clearly explain what he wanted to say, but the more he did it, the more confused we got. He motioned to his feet and fell to the floor, flopping around like a fish, and that’s when I understood what he wanted to do.

“Quiet wants to go see the little mermaid statue,” I informed everyone. The Nephews nodded their heads in realization.

“There’s a queen around here, right? Let’s get her on the podcast!” Thomas said, garnering weird looks from the Nephews, who knew this would be no easy feat, as a collective sigh followed.

“That all sounds great, but I need to prepare for my match against Big Bryan Baxter, Nephews,” as soon as I said this, all the Nephews groaned.

“C’mon Gerald. It’s the loser half of the Buddy System. You have nothing to worry about with Big Bryan Baxter,” Thomas assured me.

“Yeah, exactly what Thomas said. He’s not even the “Best” part of the Buddy System. Ha – ha – ha,” Harry said, nudging me in the ribs with his elbow, laughing to himself. The rest of the Nephews weren’t so amused. I pushed his elbow away because he was digging into my ribs. He continued to do it and that’s when I glared at him before he finally stopped.

“You guys know that’s not my style. I don’t underestimate anyone in the ring, especially not someone like Big Bryan Baxter. Dude has a chip on his shoulder – probably the same chip I have. Hell, probably an even bigger chip,” I stated, looking at the Nephews to agree with me. Suddenly, I could feel someone behind me. Quiet had slowly emerged behind me, over my right shoulder.

“… … ..” Quiet said, confused at my statement.

“No, there’s no actual chips, Quiet. It was a figure of speech,” I said, scolding him. I should’ve known better, Quiet’s a big chips fan, a chip connoisseur in fact.

“… … ..” Quiet said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Sorry dude. Not gonna lie, some Cheetos would hit the spot right now,” I paused. “But that’s not the point!” I held the area between my eyes and began to massage it to prevent a headache from coming.

“Listen, let’s all go back to our rooms for now and grab a few hours of sleep, then we can meet back up in the afternoon. How’s that sound?” I asked, putting my hands together, hoping they’d agree with my plan. Thankfully, they all nodded as I breathed a sigh of relief.

Everyone grabbed their bags and headed towards their rooms. The hostel we were staying at was nice and private, which is all we can really ask for in this area. Our rooms weren’t too far from each other, but they were far enough that privacy wouldn’t be a concern.

“Hey Gerald,”

I turned around and it was Harry. His mood appeared to have changed, looking more solemn and serious.

“Yeah wassup, Harry? Everything alright?” I asked the Sane Wizard.

“I was really hoping you’d consider going to the beach with me,” he said, but in a different manner than before.

“I don’t know, Harry. I’ve got my hands full this time around. Michelle and I are pulling double duty on Meltdown and Fallout. Now that the Connection are FWA Tag Team Champions, we have a lot more responsibilities. Plus, we gotta stay on top of our game because everyone’s gunning for us,” I offered as a response.

“It’s just that -” Harry looked down, biting the inside of his lip, delaying what he’s trying to tell me.

“I’ve been training hard too, Gerald,” he said confidently. He proceeded to take his shirt off, but struggled to do so. I stood there longer than I wanted to before eventually helping him with this simple task. When his shirt was off, he threw it on the ground and started flexing his muscles.

“Whoa, you’re jacked, Harry,” I said, surprised at the Sane Wizard’s figure.

“How did this happen? Just a few days ago, you were downing gallons of ice cream - with sprinkles, might I add and struggling to make it up the stairs,” I said, unsure of how genuine this transformation from Harry was.

“Well, Uncle did help me,” he said a little too nonchalantly.

“Of course he did,” I said, shaking my head. “What’d you take?”

“Not the point, Gerald! I know everyone sees me as a joke and that’s okay, but I want people to see that I can turn it up whenever I want to. I wasn’t a former Gauntlet Champion for nothing,” he said, doing a few more poses once again.

“Harry, I don’t have time for this. I’m headed to my room. I’ll text you, alright?”

“Gerald, c’mon. Please?” he put his hands together, begging for his request to be granted like I was a genie from a bottle.

“You don’t need me to go to the beach, you know. The other Nephews are available, I’m sure,”

“They’re not cool enough. Plus, I didn’t want to sound sappy, but I look up to you, Gerald. Literally and figuratively,” he paused, garnering my attention. “Ever since you became a Nephew, I’ve admired everything you’ve done and all you stand for, like how brave and adventurous you are. I mean, they call you the Daredevil for a reason, right?”

“They do, don’t they,” I said, smirking to myself, knowing full well what Harry was doing to convince me. The Sane Wizard knew the right words to say to get my attention and keep it. He must’ve been getting lessons from Quiet on his persuasion skills.

“Plus, we’re the real Connection here, Gerald,” he smiled, getting closer to me. “You felt it, right? The first time we met? There was a connection,”

This time, we were almost nose to nose as he stared at me, looking into my soul. Immediately, I took a few steps away from the Sane Wizard.

“Harry! Jesus,” I said, halting him from getting any closer. I thought about Harry’s request for a couple of seconds and decided it wasn’t worth getting hassled like this much longer. “Alright, give me 30 minutes to get ready and we’ll have a beach day. Does that sound good?”

“Perfect! The Wizard Daredevil Connection is going to the beach!” he said, grabbing his bags, heading back to his room.

“The Wizard and Daredevil Connection?” I asked, but immediately regretted it when those words came out of my mouth.

“Yeah, it’s our tag team name,” Harry said, giving me two thumbs up.

I sighed, knowing there was no use to argue any further. Every time we’ve gone to the beach, shenanigans followed. I bet Big Bryan Baxter didn’t need to deal with something like this. Oh well, when life gives you lemons, make lemonade, right? I could probably work on my tan at least.

— — —

It didn’t take long for Harry and I to find a spot on the beach to put our chairs down. I brought a small cooler with me to store my orange juice and turkey wraps. Harry packed light with only a backpack that had his extra clothes, his wallet, and some sunscreen. Luckily for him, there was a beach bar where he could get some food and drinks.

“Thanks for doing this, Gerald,” Harry said, as we bumped fists.

“Yeah, no worries,” I responded, putting my things to the side to get ready for my tan.

“Want anything from the beach bar? My treat,” he said enthusiastically.

“I’m good, Harry. Thanks,”

And off he went to the beach bar. You couldn’t miss him. He was dressed in a green body suit that he had cut the sleeves off of. On the side was a streak of black and read “Sane Wizard” in white letters. He said it would draw the babes to him. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth.

As for myself, I kept it simple with a bucket hat with the GG logo, white Crocs, black Nike shorts. I had to give it to Harry, it was a beautiful day to be at the beach, but I should be at the gym, preparing for the Connection’s first title defense and for my match against Big Bryan Baxter.

Admittedly, I haven’t kept tabs on Big Bryan Baxter as much as I should. When I first heard of the Buddy System, I thought it was a new policy FWA was enforcing for all those involved with the FWA to have a security detail. I’ve heard of too many stories where FWA talent were nearly injured or put in a bad place because there are some bad people out there. Greg for example, poor guy. Hope he’s doing okay.

The Buddy System seemed like a tag team destined to fail. The motivations behind the team weren’t ideal. While Jeremy Best does his absolute best to keep the team together, I’d say Big Bryan Baxter is a huge reason The Buddy System has not failed yet. I know I’m not a Negative Nancy, but being positive all the time has to be exhausting. Baxter having to deal with that shows he has a huge mental game. I’d say FWA is 50% mental and 50% skill. With Baxter being halfway there, it’s just his skill that has to catch up, which is where Best comes in.
When I think of Baxter, I think of the many parallels we share. We’re both in tag teams. We have more successful tag team partners. We’re seen as the other guy in our tag teams. There’s many more to list down, but I think what Baxter and I are looking to do is break the stigma that we’re nothing without our tag team partners.

I don’t believe Baxter has it in him to juggle being a good guy or bad guy. If he continues to do this, he will continue to be known as the other guy. He needs to embrace himself, whatever that might be - and that’s where I separate myself from Big Bryan Baxter. It’s really hard to achieve greatness when you are your own worst enemy. For me, my goal has always been the same - to be the very best. With Michelle by my side, I definitely get first-hand experience of greatness. However, I can’t disregard what I’ve done to achieve greatness. I’m a one-time X-Division Champion for a reason. I put my body on the line each night I go out there. I’ve fought against some of the best FWA has to offer and won. What has Baxter done? Nothing. I won’t let myself be a stepping stone for Baxter. I’ve worked too damn hard to come up short.

“Excuse me, are you part of the FWA shows happening later this week?” a voice from behind me asked, taking me out of my trance. I turned around to see a young man, with medium-length, brown hair, probably a freshman in college, dressed in a gray floral shirt.

“Yes, I am. Are you a FWA fan?” I asked, still reeling from my inner thoughts.

“Sort of. My dad works for the production team. He’s setting up for the show right now,”

“Oh is he? I love the production team! They’re the real MVPs of the show,” I said with enthusiasm, garnering a smile from the young man. I looked at the young man again, noticing his flat nose, big ears, and sharp jawline. I knew exactly who his dad was.

“I appreciate that. My dad works hard. Proud of him,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. An awkward silence came between the two of us.

“You’re part of that team, right? With Michelle von Horrowitz?” he questioned, fishing for information.

“I am, yes. Michelle’s my tag team partner,” I said, nodding my head. He’s probably a fan of Michelle’s because his eyes grew wide and I could see the stars in them.

“Is she here?! Can you introduce me?” he asked, looking around with excitement. But that slowly faded away as he saw no sign of Michelle around.

“Yeah, sorry. She’s not here right now. She should be, but she had other plans,” I said, breaking the news to him. He frowned, but changed his expression almost immediately, hoping I wouldn’t notice.

“Michelle’s always been the type to go at life at the beat of her own drum. Like for instance, in our first ever tag team match together, she didn’t show up until our music hit. Imagine that! I was furious but also relieved she actually showed up. Also, when -” I paused, realizing I had babbled on information that probably shouldn’t have been said. The young boy was wide-eyed, not sure what to do with the information I just disclosed as awkward silence ensued.

“I’m sorry. What was your name?” I questioned, finally breaking the silence between us.

“Oh, I’m Eli,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Good to meet you, Eli,” I said, shaking his hand in return. “Your dad’s Edmond, right?”

“Yes!” he said in a happy tone. “You know my dad?”

“I do. Edmond’s awesome! Your dad’s been with the FWA for a very long time. He was one of the first people to really check on me when I first signed with the FWA. He has such a way with words. He always knew what to say even when I hadn’t told him anything yet,” I said. Eli’s face glowed up again as I talked fondly of his father.

“Yeah, literally everyone has said that about him. In fact, they call him ‘Pastor Ed’ around here because of the way he speaks and just his wisdom in general,” Eli informed me.

“Is that so? Well, it’s very well earned,” I said, nodding my head once again.

“I’m sorry, but you’re - The Stuntman, Bernard Batson?”

“What?” I asked, as my right eyebrow rose to heights comparable to Mt. Fuji.

“Your name. Your moniker. “The Stuntman” Bernard Batson, right?”

“Uhm - close. It’s “The Daredevil” Gerald Grayson,” I said slowly, hoping he’d remember it.

“Oh my god. I am so sorry. The reception here is horrible. When the FWA shows are on, it’s hard to hear the commentary team most of the time because of how muffled it is. I am so sorry,” he said, putting his hands together, bowing apologetically.

“No, don’t apologize. It’s fine. People get my name wrong all the time,” I said, hoping it’d lessen his embarrassment.

“I apologize. I’m a big fan of Michelle’s. She just speaks to me, you know? The way she carries herself and the way she dominates her opponents. Kinda hot, not gonna lie,” he said, looking into oblivion as he daydreamed about Michelle in front of me.

“Then I remembered she had a tag team partner - and it’s you! Lucky you, getting to spend so much time with her - ” he continued to speak, but I had to tune him out. I looked at Eli and his mouth was moving, probably praising Michelle’s in-ring prowess and her looks more. I’ve never felt this awkward in a while. My forehead started to sweat, thinking of ways to get out of this conversation.

Suddenly, my phone started to ring. Oh thank god. I looked at the number, but didn’t recognize it. Nonetheless, I thanked the heavens for whoever is on the other side of this call. Eli stopped talking at the sound of my ringtone of “Hooked on a Feeling, the Guardians of the Galaxy edition” ringing through.

“I should get this,” I said, motioning to my phone. “But it was nice meeting you, Eli! Please send your dad my regards. I’ll probably tell him I met you too,” I told him before turning away to answer the call.

“I will. If you could just leave my number with Michelle, then maybe she could -” I heard him say as my back was turned.

“Yes, hello?” I answered the phone call. I could feel Eli’s presence still behind me for a few seconds, before he finally left.

“Hello, is this Joey Jennings?” the husky voice of a man questioned.

“No? Who’s this?”

“Oh, it isn’t? Anyways, this is a friend,” he retorted, changing his tone from casual to professional.

“A friend? Who is this?” I questioned once more.

“I told you, a friend,”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have many friends. I’m going to hang up now,”

“Hold on! Wait wait wait. If I could just have a few minutes of your time. There’s this opportunity for growth that I’d like to share with you, Mister -” he said, trailing off.

“Grayson,” I answered.

“Ah yes, Mr. Grayson. I don’t know many Graysons. The only Grayson I’m familiar with is Dick Grayson from DC Comics and that Grayson fella from the FWA. But you’re not him, right?” he questioned, hoping he had hit the jackpot in reaching a celebrity. On my end, I was delighted he recognized me and my spirits perked up almost immediately after that encounter with Eli.

“What was that Grayson guy’s name again from FWA?” he paused, mumbling to himself. “Jerry? George?”

“It’s Gerald Grayson!” I shouted into the phone, before hanging up. Just like that my mood shifted back to annoyance. I got up to my feet, fuming at the series of events and chucked my phone into the ocean.

“Hey Gerald,” Harry suddenly said, startling me, causing me to jump to my feet, ready to fight someone.

“Harry! You nearly gave me a heart attack,” I said, holding my heart, making sure it’s still there. “Don’t do that again!”

“Oh my b,” Harry said nonchalantly, holding a margarita glass in one hand and a bottle of orange juice in the other. “Are you okay?”

He handed me the bottle as I looked at him with doubt in my eyes. Before long, I took it from him carefully as if it were a delicate object. I opened the top and sniffed it - orange-y.

“Safe to drink, I suppose?” I questioned Harry. He looked at me with a quizzical look on his face, before nodding his head.

“Alright,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, downing the bottle of orange soda.

As each gulp passed, my mind began thinking of all the things that could go wrong. Like maybe Harry actually has a grudge against me and he poisoned this bottle of orange juice. What a way to go. But something about each gulp passing and me still being alive gave me a rush. Before long, the orange juice was gone. I turned the bottle over, making sure there were no drops left. All the Nephews were looking at me with wide eyes, as if they were expecting my demise.

“Thanks Harry,” I said, letting out a refreshed and satisfied sigh. “What took you so long?”

“Dude, there was this babe at the bar. A total 10 outta 10. She had big, brown eyes and a toothy smile that lit up a room,” Harry said, pausing to catch his face with his knuckles, daydreaming about the woman he had just seen at the beach bar.

“No wonder you were gone for so long,” I said, almost scolding the Sane Wizard. Harry shrugged before going back to daydreaming about the babe he saw at the bar.

I chuckled, putting the bottle of orange juice to the side, before going through my belongings. West shook his head once more and put his sunglasses back on and joined Quiet in getting a tan. Quiet dressed in his patented full body black suit while West wore nothing but a yellow thong that was too itty bitty for my liking.

“But what really got my attention was her supid-faced, buck teeth, cheap spray tan, controlling boyfriend,” Harry said, folding his hands in annoyance.

“Oh, so she’s spoken for then, Harry. Don’t think that’s something you want to get between,” I said, rifling through my stuff, looking for the bluetooth speaker I packed, so I could play some tunes.

“Didn’t you hear what I said? Dude was controlling as hell. He was getting mad at her for not bringing him a drink and for not packing his spray tan! Can you believe that? The nerve he has speaking to a babe like that,” he said, as his face turned angry.

“Yeah, but it’s none of our business, Harry,”

“I thought you’d be eager to come to the rescue here, Gerald. Gotta say, I’m kind of disappointed,” he said, looking at me continuously, hoping I’d change my mind.

I stopped looking for my bluetooth speaker and turned to Harry. “Harry, look. Unless he put his hands on her and I see it with my own two eyes, then I can’t really do anything. Sometimes, the other guy wins,” I said, shrugging towards Harry.

Suddenly, those two words “other guy” rang in my head and started to echo vehemently.

Was I really just the other guy?

Ever since I was paired with Michelle, this was my moniker. Despite my accomplishments, such as being a former X-Division Champion and putting on banger match after banger match, I couldn’t escape being “the other guy.” Michelle never said it out loud, but the entire FWA knew it to be true - I was known as the other guy. At every fan meetup or every FWA press event, barely anyone would be in line to meet me. Of course I don’t blame Michelle, who was seemingly oblivious to all of this. If it were up to Michelle, she’d be in and out of these events as quickly as possible. She hated them as much as I loved them. There were numerous events where security denied my entry simply because they didn’t know who I was. At every opportunity, I rose to the challenge not to separate myself from Michelle, but to show that I was my own person.

Yes, it’s fine to think Gerald Grayson is synonymous with Michelle von Horrowitz, but there’s more to Gerald Grayson than Michelle von Horrowitz. Just like how there’s more to Big Bryan Baxter than Jeremy Best. From the entire FWA roster, I think Big Bryan Baxter knows how I’m feeling the most. This is Baxter’s legit first time to branch out on his own and he must be feeling the pressure. Poor guy. I wish I could tell him it will be alright - maybe after our match.
I never really let this issue get to me until now. It’s been slowly building up inside of me and more frequently now, which confuses me. The Connection are FWA Tag Team Champions, emphasis on tag team. I couldn’t achieve this without Michelle and Michelle couldn’t have achieved this without me. I guess I should be happy that the only damage done was needing a new cell phone.

But I can’t lose focus. This is one of the reasons I wanted to travel to Christiania on my own. The Nephews have helped me at every turn and I’m appreciative of them. However, they can be a lot to deal with at times and right now, they’re distracting me from one of my goals of facing the FWA World Champion, whoever that may be after the F1 Climaxxx Tournament and becoming the new FWA World Champion.

If I’m still known as “the other guy” after the F1 Climaxxx Tournament, then that’s fine with me, because “that other guy” is going all the way to the top. Big Bryan Baxter, I hope you’re ready because I’m looking forward to introducing to the daredevil without the dare.

“Gerald. Gerald. Hello?” I could hear Harry’s voice, but I wasn’t totally back yet. "Gerald, you there?” he said, snapping his fingers to bring me back to reality.

“Yeah, sorry about that, Harry,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Listen, Harry, I gotta go,” I said, not explaining myself as I gathered my stuff. Before Harry could say another word, I was gone like the wind.

“Oh well. More babes for me then,” Harry said, putting his sunglasses down, relaxing on the beach chair he had laid out earlier.​

 

[Cyrus Truth]

Exile Chronicles (Volume 5)
Chapter 9: Windfall

For those who travel the Long and Winding Road, the Struggle is what defines them. The Struggle to take that next step, clear that next bend…the Struggle to press forward when the Road throws everything and anything at you to reach the rewards that await at Journey’s End.

Ever since he was a child, Cyrus Truth has followed the Long and Winding Road. Struggle and all.

But here and now? For the briefest of moments, Truth feels little but bitterness and spite.

For the third year in the row, Cyrus finds himself sitting in the back of an arena, body completely battered and bruised. The only companionship he has in this dark corner are pain and a feeling of absolute fury and frustration.

For the third year in a row, Cyrus Truth entered the sadistic Chamber for a chance to claim the Golden Opportunity.

And for the third year in a row, Cyrus has absolutely nothing to show for it aside from a battered body and an unsated hunger.

Despite over a decade of wrestling experience, despite the mental discipline drilled into him at a young age due to an education with the Order of Observers, and despite Cyrus’s own strength of will, it is taking everything that Cyrus has to not lash out and break something or someone. White knuckles on tightened fists, clenched teeth that threaten to shatter his own jaw in anger, that look of absolute rancor in his eyes knowing that a guaranteed title shot at the World Champion has, once again, been ripped away from him…Cyrus Truth is a roiling furnace that is threatening to burn down everything around him.

And the one thing that’s keeping that fire stoked is the fact that it was that flake Chris Peacock that ultimately eliminated him and won the Golden Opportunity.

Sure, it was Devin Golden who crashed down on Cyrus and actually scored the pin…but that was due to Peacock joining him in a stereo superkick and prompting him to take the risk that he himself wasn’t prepared to take. Either because he knew that it would take enough out of Golden to snipe the easier pin or because he knew full well that he wasn’t strong enough to finish the job on his own, Cyrus didn’t know nor did he really care. Chris Peacock, instead of taking Truth out on his own like a man, like a potential World Champion should?

He used another former World Champion as his weapon to open the path to the Golden Opportunity.

Allen Price and Jean-Luc Watkins can call this win “fair and square” all they want, and perhaps they might even be right…but still…

“Damn it.”

Cyrus exhales. It doesn’t do anything to help ease the building anger in his heart, but The Exile does not succumb, does not lash out. No…for this, it’s better to just let that rage simmer. Better to use it as fuel than to let it out and accomplish nothing with it.

The Exile HATES having to do this. Wrestling with anger is not how he likes to operate, but given everything that’s happened, given who was responsible for denying him a long overdue opportunity to try and reclaim the World Title…given that the F1 Climaxxx was on the horizon and it could potentially give Cyrus an chance even though it’s arguably a much harder road…anger as fuel to push him is better than nothing.

“Focus, Truth. Eyes to the future, not the past. Fine, fine…who was I going to fight in the opening for the Climaxxx?”

Cyrus pulls out his smartphone and pulls up the FWA App to take a look at what the card is for the upcoming Meltdown and Fallout shows. Cyrus heard from management that his first pool match for the Climaxxx would be at the Freetown Christiania show.

The Exile pulls up the show’s card…

…and immediately throws his phone as hard as he can against the walls of the Superdome.

“Fuck.”

*******

There’s a stir in the air, although Cyrus can’t possibly understand why.

After a six hour training session at a local gym in the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood of New York City, The Exile finds himself at a local dive bar called the Whistling Glade. His flight to Copenhagen leaves tomorrow morning, where he’ll be facing off against Chris Peacock in his opening match for the F1 Climaxxx.

One would think that Cyrus would be relishing the opportunity to exact a bit of revenge against Peacock, but revenge is a sucker’s game. The only thing that Cyrus is contemplating with this match is the match itself. If he gets to beat the life out of Peacock, that’s just an added bonus. Cyrus wants to WIN. Opposition be damned…

…or at least, that’s what he’s been trying to convince himself as the bartender delivers his whiskey sour. Try as he might, Cyrus can’t push past the feeling of absolute disdain at this upstart punk once again being the obstacle between him and reclaiming what he lost years ago. It’s made all the more frustrating that Peacock already has a World Title shot, and could theoretically be the stone that trips Cyrus AGAIN.

Who IS this man? Who the fucking hell IS this man that he’s become such a goddamn thorn in Cyrus’s side? This man who got a big win at Back in Business, left when both Meltdown and Fallout burned, and only shows back up to cash in his chance to compete for the Golden Opportunity. This man whose career is the very definition of failing upwards.

He failed to win Ground Zero, yet somehow got a contract.

He failed to keep his family and X Division title safe from a somewhat lethal, but ultimately joke character in JJ Jay.

And despite coming out on top at Back in Business, he decided that it wasn’t worth his time to fight when his peers were bleeding, struggling, and standing tall for their own convictions and beliefs in the War Between the Brands.

Feeling his anger rising yet again, Cyrus quickly grabs his whiskey and downs it in one gulp. The alcohol helps, but only just a little. The Exile slams the glass back on the counter of this shitty little Irish pub as he takes a deep breath.

He then takes a look over at one of the corner booths and tilts his head, somewhat confused. Cyrus turns back to the bartender, a middle-aged and somewhat heavier-set woman with bright red hair.

“Hey, Moira! Where’s Finn? Isn’t he usually passed out at his booth by this time in the day?”

Moira, pouring a draft beer for another customer, doesn’t even look at The Exile as she says.

“Oi, Truth…ain’t you supposed t’ be some all-seein’, all-knowin’ sort? An’ you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Finn’s won th’ big SuperCash jackpot! He’s a goddamn millionaire, now. Hell, it’s all anyone’s talkin’ ‘bout.”

Cyrus looks around. The Whistling Glade isn’t particularly busy, but the regulars that are always here regardless of what time of the day it is are talking, and talking ad nauseum about Finn’s big win, pondering what he’s going to do with all of his money and speaking about him either with support for a friend or, perhaps, with the hushed tone of jealousy that they weren’t the big winners of the record jackpot.

“Ay, these drunks and louts won’t stop talkin’ ‘bout it, love. Can’t say I blame ‘em, though. Seein’ one of their own who’s had a rough go of it just all the sudden get everythin’ he could want…”

Moira, without even being asked, has produced another whiskey and swapped out Cyrus’s empty glass with a fresh drink. Cyrus doesn’t react as he wraps his fingers around new glass as Moira goes to clean the one she took.

“Couldn’t imagine what I’d do with that kind of money, you know. Still, good for ‘im. I wonder what he’s goin’ to buy first with…”

“Two months.”

“Hmm?”

“Two. Months. And that’s being really generous.”

“Two months ‘til what, love?”

“Two months until Finn’s back here, sitting in his seat.”

“Well, why wouldn’t he be? I mean, my pub’s not what you call ‘upscale,’ but I imagine he’d be back to…”

“No, Moira.”

Cyrus takes a sip of his whiskey. There’s still an undercurrent of bitterness in his voice, but as he continues, he speaks with the driest, most matter-of-fact tone.

“Do you know how many lottery winners end up broke and bankrupt after they win?”

“Well…no. I s’pose I don’t.”

“70%. Seven out of every ten newly-minted millionaires and billionaires lose their money and are basically back to square one, if not worse off than they were before. Finn? He can be a fun guy, but you and I both know that a lot of his woes are his own goddamn fault. If he manages to keep enough money to keep his head above water after two months, it’ll be a fucking miracle. But I suspect that he’ll be broke, destitute, and back in his seat drunk and miserable, just as he’s always been.”

“That’s…awful cold of you, Truth.”

“Given a choice between the harsh Truth or a comforting lie, I’d hope that more people would accept the Truth rather than let themselves be blind to reality.”

Cyrus takes another sip as he fidgets with his smartphone, which has a very noticeably cracked screen. It still functions as Cyrus absent-mindedly scrolls through the FWA App, looking at various articles written by the promotion’s reporters.

“Thing is, I don’t blame Finn at all. But that’s the danger of a windfall. When you’ve achieved everything you’ve ever wanted to do, or acquired everything your heart could possibly desire…it’s SO easy to lose perspective. The high of being at the top with the veritable golden ticket is intoxicating. But because it’s so easy to lose the forest from the trees, those who suddenly find themselves with a windfall make every possible mistake they could make. They trust people they shouldn’t, and shut out those that could help keep them grounded. They cash out and spend money even when it would be wiser to hold onto it. And they make horrible investments without having any sort of idea how to follow up on them, ensuring that their immediate buy-in yields them nothing and leaves them as they were to start with…broke, drifting, and hungry again.

“Can you stand there and tell me that Finn has the perspective and wisdom to not just piss away the golden opportunity that he’s been given? Can you do that, Moira?”

Moira purses her lips at that statement. It’s clear that this woman has a very big heart and a soft spot for her regulars…but…

“No, can’t say that you’re wrong. Still, is it wrong t’ want folks to do well when fortune favors ‘em?”

“Depends on who fortune favors.”

“Hmm. I’m gettin’ the idea that you’re not just talkin’ ‘bout Finn, love.”

“Probably because I’m not.”

Cyrus slides his phone over to Moira, who picks it up. She looks at it, as Cyrus had pulled up an article written prior to Lights Out detailing some of the most recent history with the Golden Opportunity. Moira looks at the article as Cyrus, nursing his whiskey, speaks without even really looking at her. Speaking, but not to anyone in particular.

“I know that you might think I’m speaking out of a place of jealousy and bitterness. And you know, Truth is? Maybe I am. But that doesn’t mean that anything I’m about to say isn’t Truth. The Golden Opportunity is basically the lottery for us wrestlers in FWA. It’s a World Title match whenever and wherever you want. No management decisions, no champions trying to dictate the stipulations…it is the absolute most potent tool available for anybody seeking to become the World Champion. And now, it’s in the hands of Chris Peacock. And I’m sure, I’m SURE that he’s just enjoying life right about now. After all, this is what he’s been chasing after since he somehow disco danced his way into an FWA contract after failing repeatedly to do anything of note in Ground Zero aside from being the “star” pupil of Randy Ramon. But now he has the Golden Opportunity, and you know what else? He has ANOTHER opportunity to bank a World Title with the F1 Climaxxx…goddamn it, it’s such a stupid way of spelling it. Makes it look like this is the porn parody of the FWA that’s been brewing for some time.”

“Think you’re losin’ your train of thought.”

“Right, yeah. Thing is…the Golden Opportunity is often a trap. People who win it and cash it in think that’s the endgame. Nova Diamond, the last guy who won it? He cashed it in on Devin Golden after Devin had been completely demolished and won the World Title. It’s a really cheap way to become a World Champion, but Nova did it and won the belt.”

“So, he made good on the…”

“...and he subsequently lost it in his first title defense. He held the title for 13 days, and just decided to walk away yet again. A fleeting blip on the grand history of the FWA World Championship.”

Cyrus motions for Moira, who puts the phone down on the bar as Cyrus scrolls past the part of the article detailing Nova Diamond’s Golden Opportunity, scrolling to Gabrielle.

“Then there’s Gabby. And to her credit, she didn’t spring a surprise title defense on Sullivan. No, for once in her career, she decided to make her claim upfront. Granted, there was that whole fake pregnancy bit, but whatever. Attention whores need attention. She won the Golden Opportunity, and you would THINK that as a former World Champion in her own right, she’d be wise enough to not let the hype around winning the title shot inflate her ego and fumble the actual title match itself. But…ego is one of Gabrielle’s favorite cocktails. After taunting Sullivan for months, she absolutely failed to get the job done and went into a downward spiral, never even coming close to sniffing at World Championship gold.”

Cyrus again scrolls, this time stopping on a picture of Phillip A. Jackson.

“Another former World Champion who managed to secure the Golden Opportunity. And like Nova, he decided to spring the champion after he had been through hell, and he pinned Chris Kennedy to become the new champion. And if you look at the history books, he did actually manage to have a nice, respectable 200+ day reign as World Champion…”

“Let me guess. It ain’t that simple.”

“No, of course not. Phillip’s title reign was heavily bolstered by his association with Thomas Princeton, who basically went out of his way to make sure that Phillip had every opportunity to twist the outcomes of his matches in his favor. The second Princeton was outed, he lost to Ryan Rondo.”

“This is a fascinatin’ history lesson, love. But what’s the point?”

Cyrus takes his phone back and pockets it as he finishes off his drink.

“I wanted so badly to win the Golden Opportunity that Chris Peacock wormed his way into, Moira. Not just because it’d give me a chance to become the World Champion again, but because unlike the past Golden Opportunity winners, I understand that it’s not the endgame. There are no guarantees that the rest of your dreams and aspirations work out when a windfall just falls into your lap, whether it’s a massive lottery payout or a guaranteed shot at the biggest prize in our sport. The Golden Opportunity was a means to an end, not the end itself. And the thing that has defined Chris Peacock for his entire FWA career? He’s never shown that he truly understands what it means to progress further past the next accomplishment.

“As much as I dislike Danny Toner, I have to admit that the man has been on his A-game since becoming the World Champion, and has been putting forth the performances of his career night in and night out. Probably because he realized that losing so soon after winning it, after finally making good on everybody’s arguably insane assumption that he was indeed World Champion caliber? He knows that he cannot afford a short reign, a transitional reign like the rest of the champions that preceded him in the previous year.

“In an upfront battle between Toner and Peacock? It’s hard to see a man like Peacock unseating Toner. Almost impossible to see it. So, Peacock will likely do as Nova and Phillip did and cash in when Toner’s at his weakest. But if he wins? What the hell proof do we have that Chris has the ability to HOLD the belt? Everything in this man’s history is a mountain of evidence that suggests that Chris lives for moments instead of building legacies. And that’s the most frustrating thing about him. I KNOW he’s going to squander the Golden Opportunity. Because that’s what he’s done with every other opportunity he’s had in his entire FWA career.”

Moira, listening to Cyrus talk about Chris Peacock, Golden Opportunity, and the World Championship, has a look on her face that suggests…concern. Sympathy for an Exile who’s reached the end of his rope, the very last piece of his patience and restraint.

Despite Cyrus’s suggestions to the contrary, it’s obvious that there’s a biting bitterness and simmering rage at the situation he finds himself in. To have come so close only to have his aspirations snuffed by the machinations of who he considers little more than a flake stealing what shouldn’t have been his, something that he barely comprehends the magnitude of…it’s killing The Exile. And to find himself face to face again with him for the first F1 Climaxxx match…

Moira sighs as she grabs a bottle of whiskey and pours Cyrus another drink in his now-empty glass.

“Somethin’ different ‘bout you, love. Never seen you this angry before. You sure it’s not just that you’re jealous?”

At that, Cyrus laughs…but it’s not a dismissive laugh. It’s the laugh of a man who’s just…absolutely tired of having to deal with the never-ending stream of bullshit that he’s been forced to wade through, while others get to sweep in, bypass it, and profit from the hard work that men like him put in.

“Jealous?! Hahaha…you know, maybe. Maybe just a little. I’ve been struggling for THREE FUCKING YEARS to get back my World Title, Moira. And this little shitstain on the tapestry of FWA managing to sneak his way into taking the key to me getting it back is just…well…it’s just a lot, you know? And the fact that he now stands in my way of another avenue towards getting back the World Title is just a cruel fucking joke at this point.

“I basically WON the War of the Brands! And two of my teammates got championship opportunities afterwards, and good for them! They earned those shots. But did I get anything that I already hadn’t earned? No, but that’s how it is, isn’t it? I do EVERYTHING I can to get back to where I was, I get knocked down and then have to pick myself up off the dirt. And yet…I don’t know. It seems to me that a lot of people in this company have had to work a lot less to gain a lot more. And with this Climaxxx…another avenue back to the World Championship, but one where I have to run through at least six other competitors to get what I want. And the man that stands right in my FUCKING WAY is Chris Peacock. Because heaven forbid the Road provide me with anything else.”

Cyrus immediately shoots his drink, downing it in one massive gulp. The whiskey BURNS down his throat as The Exile notices that the pub has gotten real quiet.

It seems that Cyrus’s outburst has gotten their attention as they look warily at The Exile. Some recognize him, either as the wrestler or, for one or two of them, as the denizen of the world of shadow. Either way, nobody’s eager to antagonize him as Cyrus stands up from his barstool.

“You know what? Fine. Fine. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, right? At the very least, I got into the Climaxxx, RIGHT?! I should be absolutely grateful that the man who’s held the World Title for more days than anybody else in FWA history has to continue to jump through hoops just to get a rematch for the World Title when Devin Golden PRETENDED to be the champion and got a shot, or Alyster Black LEFT and got rewarded without having to put up his own title. Climb a ladder, have to endure a team-up, run the fucking gauntlet…because why not?! Cyrus Truth will do it, because that’s who he is. He’s the hardest working man in FWA and he’ll do whatever he has to in order to get back what he lost and never had a real chance to reclaim, so he’ll put up with continuing to have to slog for opportunities while others can just…you know, get them for no damn good reason. All the while, I’ll just…I don’t know…suffer having to listen to idiots like Chris Peacock talk about how sanctimonious I am, how I talk too much about people should conduct themselves in this business while he inevitably wastes the opportunities he’s been either given or earned because he just REFUSED TO LISTEN!”

Cyrus looks out over the rest of the Whistling Glade at the patrons who’ve been transfixed with a combination of drunken intrigue and trepidation before turning back to Moira as he reaches into his pocket.

“You know, Moira…perhaps it was just a dream. A dream of making FWA better, of preparing people to carry the company forward into a better tomorrow by leading by example. Maybe Chris Peacock was right, and that I’ve been wasting my time trying to educate wrestlers like him about the perils and pitfalls that come with chasing glory. And maybe I should’ve spent more time on silly little skits and stunts to mock my opponents instead of showing them just how utterly ill-prepared they are for the trials that anyone, ANYONE who wants to pursue World Championship gold are going to face. But no…that’s not who I am.

“But what I am? What I am when everything else is stripped away?

“I’m a living nightmare. A monster. A tyrant who’ll strip the flesh from the bones of his enemies for daring to mock him, belittle him, or stand in his way on the warpath. And perhaps, it’s past time I stop pretending to be anything other than that.

“Chris can say or do whatever cute thing he wants to if he thinks it’ll make him a king. But I’m going to hurt him. I’m going to tear his heart out with the crown he thinks he’s already wearing. And I’m going to embrace the Struggle once again, because what choice do I have if I want to be true to myself? So I hope Chris enjoys whatever little cute skit or smartass remark that he’s going to have for the next few days and truly, TRULY enjoys reveling in having won the wrestling equivalent of the lottery. Because the second he steps into that ring with me in Freetown Christiania, the second he realizes that he doesn’t have a former World Champion to throw at me and he’s all alone? He’s not going to enjoy life anymore. "

Cyrus pulls out some dollar bills and puts them on the counter, pushing them towards Moira. Cyrus’s grimace, his biting tone, the venomous words coming from his lips paint the picture of a man who’s reached the end of his rope, the very edge of his wit’s end.

“I am SICK and TIRED of having to wait and twist in the wind while children play at being a champion. So I’m going to win the Climaxxx. I’m going to smash every single wrestler that stands between me and the prize, whether they have my respect or not. I’ll be cruel. I’ll be vicious. I’ll leave them behind like debris in the wake of a tornado, and Chris Peacock will serve as the PERFECT example of the difference between those who live in the moment and those who know what it’s like to truly, TRULY struggle for the actual prize…and what happens when a man of wavering conviction has to face another of iron will without a way to escape. And when he inevitably has to bow out of the tournament after getting his soul beaten out of him by me and comes back two months later to cash in the Golden Opportunity, I’ll still be there…the one constant in FWA that isn’t going away no matter how many people would like me to.”

Cyrus says nothing else, just standing there letting his words settle with Moira and the drunks in the Whispering Glade.

Moira was right. There is something different about The Exile. Something a touch darker, a touch more vicious.

Cyrus Truth came into FWA winning Carnal Contendership, main eventing Back in Business, and fighting off a wave of challengers as the World Champion on multiple occasions.

No one, not a single soul, can honestly say that Cyrus hasn’t earned everything he’s had in FWA.

And now, Cyrus finds himself over the last three years having to scrape for not the opportunities, but just to hold onto the hope that the opportunities would eventually come. And those who have gotten those opportunities? In The Exile’s eyes, most of them have squandered them.

Cyrus Truth is only human, it seems.

And he’s run out of patience. He wants the World Title. He NEEDS to have it back. And if Chris Peacock thinks he can sneak his way into the World Title and NOT have to answer for it?

Chris Peacock is sorely, SORELY mistaken.

“Thanks for the drinks, Moira. And when you see Finn again, tell him I said congratulations…and that I called it.”

Cyrus takes his exit from the Whispering Glade.

He’ll be heading to JFK Airport to head out to Denmark to begin his road on the F1 Climaxxx.

And two months from now, he will be proven right as Finn, the windfall winner of the lottery, will come crawling back to the bottom of a bottle of cheap gin.

Chris Peacock? He won’t have to wait two months to live in regret.

Cyrus Truth will see to that…​

 

[Jimmy King]

REDEMPTION
Chapter 1



Lights Out
Caesars Superdome
New Orleans, LA
Saturday 22nd October 2022


Moments after the Secular Spooktacular, we find an elated Nate Savage, who has just found out he has a future title shot for the X-Championship. Nate sits with his briefcase and stares down at the X, indicating his title shot.

The title that he lost to Alyster Black over a year ago. He has a chance to right that wrong.

Nate has a chance to redeem himself.

He thinks of poetic it would be if he were the one to end Alyster Black’s reign of terror after being the one that, in a way, started it after Alyster defeated him.

What a story that would be.

A redemption story like no other.

As these thoughts swirl around in Nate’s head, he’s interrupted by Jackson Fenix, who barges into the locker room while holding an ice pack to his head after being on the receiving end of a Baxter Driver.

Jackson Fenix: “I almost had it! I almost had that last briefcase! Damn that Bryan Baxter, what a dick!”

Nate Savage: “Uh huh, yeah.”

Jackson sits next to Nate on the bench while keeping the ice pack on his head.

Jackson Fenix: “Well, at least you got something out of it, or I should say that WE got something still.”

Nate Savage: “What do you mean, we?”

Jackson Fenix: “Uh, hello? I helped with capturing that briefcase!”

Nate Savage: “Yeah, but only one of us could qualify as the winner, and I won rock, paper, scissors.”

Jackson Fenix: Fuck, I should’ve picked paper!”

Nate Savage: “If you would’ve just got that other briefcase after I gave you that opening when I clocked Baxter in the head with this one, we could both be looking at title shots right now.”

Jackson Fenix: “Dude, I tried! That match had too many other goofs; the odds were too much!”

Nate Savage: “Yeah, well, now I’m the one with the title shot.”

Jackson Fenix: “Thanks in part to me.”

Nate Savage: “Yeah, I guess, but I’m letting you know right now that I’m doing this for me. We’re a team, but I only want to do this for me and me.”

Jackson Fenix: “What are you trying to say? Are you breaking up with me?”

Jackson looks like he’s about to break down and cry, but Nate reassures him that’s not the case.

Nate Savage: “No, I’m not doing that, but what I’m saying is that I want to do this on my own.”

Jackson Fenix: “Alone?”

Nate Savage: “Yes, and that means my next match at the next Fallout too.”

Jackson Fenix: “Oh, come on, dude, let me be there as moral support! What about commentary?”

Nate Savage: “I’ll think about it, I guess.”

Nate would think about it.

He loves Jackson like a brother, but at the same time, he wants to do this on his own. He wants to show the world he doesn’t need help to win.

He’s his own man, and he’s going to prove that.

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

A few weeks later, on the 11th of November, on a Friday, to be more specific, we find Nate in Freetown Christiania. The last time Fallout was here was on the 3rd of September in 2021, and it was there that Nate competed in a fatal four-way for the X-Championship.

He would be unsuccessful in that match.

Over a year later, Nate faces a new challenge in Freetown, and this time it’s a one-on-one affair as he takes on XYZ.

To the best of his knowledge, Nate has never faced XYZ. He’s never met anyone quite like XYZ before. He’s faced some oddballs and questionable characters in his time, but never someone like XYZ.

Nate wasn’t afraid of XYZ, but he knew to take him seriously. He can’t lose this match.

No way.

Not after earning a chance at redemption.

This is a must-win scenario.

Nate is alone at the event's site, where in a little over 24 hours, he'll be standing across from XYZ. The ring is already set up, and he steps inside the ring and walks around. Nate begins to imagine the crowd that will be surrounding the ring come this time tomorrow.

“XYZ.”

Nate says to himself and the camera that’s with him. He lets it hang in the air for a second before he continues.

“XYZ.”

Again, he lets that hang there as he leans against the ropes.

“X.”

He pauses again and thinks about that.

“It’s funny that you’re standing in my way first, XYZ. Is it just some odd coincidence that I am facing you after earning an opportunity to reclaim something that I should have never lost and that something also has the letter X in its name?”

Nate shrugs.

“I don’t know; it just seems funny to me.”

Nate walks around the ring and begins to pace back and forth.

“Do you know what won’t be funny, though? You don’t have to answer that because it’s a cliche of me to even hint at saying it, but I suppose it’s the truth. The thing that won’t be funny is what I will do to you when you step inside this ring with me.”

“See? Cliche, right? I’m going to hurt you! Again, cliche.”

“Cliche, but true nonetheless.”

“You mean as much to me as your name having any actual meaning other than being some letters thrown together on a whim. I’m saying that you mean very little to me, but that’s not me underestimating you.”

“You’re not part of the bigger picture; you’re just an obstacle. You’re standing in my way; you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I’m not going to go on and on about how I’m going to hurt you and what ways I will do it. I want my actions in this ring to do the talking for me. This isn’t the typical promo where I say what I’m going to do, and then I end up losing embarrassingly. I’m going to go out there and do what I must to win.”

“I know people expect me to go on some tirade or this to be a Nate Savage promo with Jackson Fenix being the main focus, but that isn’t what this is.”

“This is about me; this is my story.”

“This is not about The Undisputed Alliance.”

“This is about “Nasty” Nate Savage.”

“My name was once feared amongst my peers in the locker room. I’ve pinned some of the biggest names in this business, but now I’m seen as nothing more than a punchline.”

Nate finally stops frantically pacing around the ring and leans over the ropes once again as the camera zooms in.

“Not anymore. No more jokes. No more games.”

“The Savage is back.”​

 

[AON]

BBC RADIO 1.
​

"And here's one for all you sports fans; Wrestling legend Philip Andrew Jackson is coming home after a number of years in the states, kicking ass, taking names and flying the flag in the wrestling game for us; PAJ is going to be competing at Hyde Park this weekend, as part of FWA's Europe show.

"I think we can all agree, even if you don't know a thing about wrestling, we all know it's the thing Phillip Jackson does, the first ever UK-born FWA champion. The current television champion. A triple crown champion, this lad has done it all."

"I can't even begin to imagine what kind of reception he's going to get in Hyde Park."

"Oh yeah, no doubt; we all know the crowd in any sport will be like the 12th man in football. PAJ in London?! He's going to be unbeatable.

"Whose going to be stupid enough to try and take on PAJ in London?!"​

-----------

Oh boy, oh joy, It's that time when the good ship FWA set sail for the globe at large, but it doesn't happen overnight, of course. You can't just snap your fingers and, hey ho, we got a show in an entirely different part of the world. The travelling FWA circus has to get engineers, producers, and ring crews, ship them all over to Jolly ol' London town and make sure production goes swimmingly for the first-ever F1 tournament; maybe not so vital was hotel accommodations. Several members of the FWA crew were held up in a lovely five-star hotel a stone's throw away from the beautiful Hyde Park. Here we find roving reporter Katie Baker, standing outside the hotel dressed up for the typical London overcast weather; she stands there, with various production notes in one hand and in the other, holding a half-eaten apple half-heartedly she throws the apple towards a nearby industrial-sized trash can.

" OW-!"

What the hell?! Katie jumped back in shock as a very clear and loud female voice echoed from the trash container.

"Is someone in there?!

"...."

"No...."

An eyebrow was raised.

"Ok, so just to confirm, no one is in there talking to me..."

"N-No."

Okkkkk, so, who I'm I speaking to right now?"

The trash can seemed to consider this for a moment before answering.

" A ghost."

" ....A ghost...."

"I mean, yeah, it's London, you know? These streets are probably haunted as heck! What with the plague, and the weird stuff and general-"

"Lizzie, you can stop; I know it's you."

A gasp escaped the trash can, stunned that Katie could draw that conclusion, despite the fact that it was a female voice that seemed to speak in a stuttered, unsure voice, and oh right, a tuff of bright red hair poking out of the trash, that could only belong to one person.

"Whose Lizzie?! Why the only Liz I know is Queen Lizzie the second because I'm a ghost of a victorian chimney sweep I am. The air was too thin on one of those double-decker buses, and I-!

"You know you're speaking with an American accent, right?

"...."

"Lizzie, what are you doing in the trash?"

"...I think it's called a bin over here."

"Ok, I'll rephrase; what are you doing in a bin?"

"Hiding."

"Hiding?"

"In the bin, yes, that is my current state of being."

"Um, ok? Why?"

"....Ummm, because I don't want to be seen. I thought that was obvious."

"...who don't you want to be seen by?"

"The people I'm hiding from."

Katie sighed and rubbed her temples, wondering why she should continue this conversation.

"Ok, fine. I'll bite. Why are you hiding-"

"Because I don't want to be s-"

"Yeah, I got that part; I was kinda hoping for elaboration."

"Ok, so, like, we're in London, right?"

"Yeah, I noticed."

"So me and Joe wanted to soak up the culture here, y'know? Take in the British vibe. Get into the UK kinda mindset, so Joe went to Madame Tussauds."

"Without you? Why didn't you go with-"

"OH, I'M SORRY, IS THAT CRAZY?! IS THAT CRAZY NOT TO WANT TO BE LOCKED IN A ROOM WITH VERY REALISTIC WAX WORKS FIGURES?! TOO REALISTIC?! IS THAT IRRATIONAL?!"

"Um, ok? Lo-"

"YOU KNOW THOSE THINGS ARE ABSOLUTELY HAUNTED, RIGHT?! HOW COULD THEY NOT BE?! "

"Ok, ok, jeez, Stay focused, Lizzie here; I'm not getting how this ends with you in a bin."

"Well, I thought the next best British thing would be this obscure sport they play around here; I don't know if you heard of it; it's called soccer."

"Yeah, I've heard of it."

"So, I thought I'd swing around and catch a game, see what's all the fuss is about, and there are a ton of stadiums in the area, but I wanted to pick the right one. White Hart Lane was too American looking. The Emirates was too expensive. I tried Stanford Bridge, but I got the strangest sense of pure evil when I walked into the stadium. So I wandered around for a bit and came across this cute-looking small stadium in the area; what was the name of it again? The Dan...The Dam...The Dell! The Den! That was it! A team called Millwall play there."

Uh, oh...

"Right...."

"So, I got into the stadium, and I tried to mingle with the fans, making friends in low places, you know? Asking people if they were having fun watching soccer, and I mentioned a few times it's almost as good as sports in the US."

"...How did that go?"

"Um, well, I'm currently hiding in a bin. So not well. They chased me out of the stadium and down the street! For SOME reason, they really didn't like me. I had to hide in here to make sure they didn't keep throwing things at me."

At this point, Lizzie finally stood up, fully revealing not only herself but, most noticeably, her attire of choice. A rather distinctive jersey in this part of the world. A combination of dark purple and light blue, and a crest depicting two hammers crisis crossing under the legend "WEST HAM UNITED"

If you know, you know.

"Where'd you get that shirt?"

"Oh, this? Well, I saw a lot of people around London wearing the same shirt, and I LOVED the colours. If I'm going to a soccer match, I have to wear a soccer jersey, you know? No one else was wearing this shirt in the stadium, though...."

"....Do you think there might be a good reason why they chased you out?"

"You mean they don't like the colours?"

"Something like that"

"Oh...."

"Ok, this has been....slightly concerning, but I'm going to have to go back to my hotel room to get ready for the show."

"Can I come too? Back to your room? I'd seriously prefer not to be in a bin anymore. There's a huge rat in here with me...or possibly a very small cat; I thought it'll be rude to ask it."

"What?! Why can't you just hang out in your own room?"

"The key card slipped out of my pocket when I ran from the angry mob...."

"....Lizzie, I've never met someone who's so insanely lucky, yet at the same time seems to bumble head first into misfortune after misfortune.

"Thanks!"

"Not a compliment,"

"Oh.....Can I come anyway?"

"I don't know...."

"Please-?"

....And there it was; Poor Katie was hit full force with the most powerful force in FWA today; Lizzie Rose's puppy dog eyes. The interviewer didn't have a chance as the strange kind of accidental charisma that has caused the wrestling world to believe in Lizzie instead of pure logic activated; Kate was very much aware of it, too, as she made a face like she just swallowed a lemon. Still, like a black hole, she was caught in its gravitational pull, and there was only one outcome...

"Ok fine. You don't speak; you don't move. You just sit there quietly and calmly while I try to organize my schedule. Deal?"

"Deal!"

With reviewed enthusiasm, Lizzie leapt up from her hiding place, seemingly relieved that her luck was finally turning...

....Only to have her head collide with the underside of the bin with an almighty THUD-!

"Aw nuts...."

-------

With no small amount of trepidation, Katie returns to her room with Lizzie. The North American title belt carefully pressed on her shoulder (To be honest, Katie would have gotten there a lot sooner if Lizzie didn't stop and talked to every one that passed by. "See this belt? It's mine; pretty cool, imma right?") but eventually, Katie opened the door to her hotel room, and Lizzie happily curled up on a nearby chair, placing her title on the side table lovingly and turning on the TV.

"You going to be fine here?"

"Um? Yeah, Totally."

"Look, I'll be in the other room doing some prep work for the F1. Just hang out here, watch some tv and....maybe take a shower..."

"I have been hiding in a trash can for the last two hours...."

"Yeah, you need one."

And with those parting words, Katie went to her bedroom, leaving Lizzie Rose in front of the TV...This is where she found her two hours later, unmoved whatsoever and staring blankly at the tv screen, utterly mesmerized by the moving pictures.

"Jesus, Liz, have you moved at all?!"

"Shhh, someone is talking too loud in the Queen Vic, and Mick Carter is telling them to get out of his pub..."

"How many episodes of this show have you watched?"

"A lot; I don't know why anyone lives on this street; it seems cursed or something. I don't understand anyone's accent, but they all seem sad about something."

"If- you don't like the show, why don't you change the channel?"

Lizzie didn't answer right away; she turned her head slowly and appraised Katie with a blank stare before she slowly reached for the remote, changed the channel with a CLICK-! and turned up the volume so Katie could hear;

"We're here live outside Hyde Park where British Wrestling Icon Phillip Andrew Jackson will be returning to"

CLICK-!

"Wrestling fans all over the country will come to Hyde Park to cheer on the Immortal PAJ-"

CLICK-!

"COME ON, PAJ LAD! WE LOVE YOU!"

Lizzie turned off the tv, clearly having made her point.

' It's really weird. PAJ could've come here with nothing, but a bag of poop which he set on fire in the middle of the ring and the crowd could be falling over themselves trying to cheer for him. No matter what happened, he's a made man in this place. Anywhere else in the world, 90% of the time, they'd be on my side. But here? I'm a leper to them because I'm facing him....and the thing is...he's kind of a jerk. I mean, I get it; support your hometown heroes and whatnot. But he's a jerk with a buttface who kicked a puppy on his way here.'

"Did he really?"

"No, but it seems like the type of thing he'd do."

Lizzie lapsed into a thoughtful silence, a frown appearing on her face.

"I'm worried about this one, Katie,"

"Aren't you generally worried? Like that's your state of being? You're not the most zen person in the world."

"Right, but...not like this. This is different. This match is different."

Lizzie sighed, her head down; she placed the North American Title on her lap as if drawing comfort from it as. Katie stood against a wall and listened.

"Like, I'm not afraid of Phillp Andrew Jackson. I've been punching above my weight since the day I started, so what's one more former world champion that's bound for the hall of fame? Honestly, I'd be worried if I was ever the odds-on favourite for a match, THAT would freak me out. I know how to fight people who are better wrestlers than me, so it's not that-"

She closed and opened her mouth as if trying to force out the next part like she didn't want to say it, but she had to

"I've never been in front of a crowd that didn't want me to win. What if it's like the Millwall fans? What if they hate me just like they did."

And there it was, her biggest fear, spoken. She shudders at the thought.

"I know, I know how that sounds weird. I get it; in this job, no one is popular everywhere. At some point or other, you're going to be booed. Heck, I spent time with Gabby, I've seen her almost cause riots in crowds, and she seems to relish it, but...me? I don't know how to block it out. I never had to—everything I've done. Everywhere I've been, the crowd had my back; that's why I'm here. I didn't get to this point because of my world-class wrestling ability. It's because everywhere I went, when my music hit, people would clap their hands, they'd sing along, and that would energize me. That's my biggest strength. Knowing that people believe in me. Knowing that they want me to win that's always motivated me. Because I could never let them down, I draw strength from them- But this week? Meltdown in Hyde Park? I won't have that. I'll be cut off from the crowd. I'll get the exact opposite of what I'm used to. I'm the bad guy in this situation. I'm not the one starting the party. I'm the party pooper. I'm the one that no one wants to win; I'm the one that has to disappoint a crowd...That's weird-! Like if I win, what do I even say? "Hey, sorry, you guys spent your money to see a national wrestling icon win, but here are some shuffle steps for you."

She laughs a little bitterly at the idea of her doing her usual crowd-popping shuffle, dancing to a sea of boos.

"I think you're selling yourself short..."

"I'm five foot something..."

"It's an expression."

"Oh....."

"Like not everyone is gonna want to chase you down the street. You just gotta relate with them somehow; what do you know about English people? What do they like?"

".....Bookmarks?"

"Bookmarks...."

"Bookmarks and trumpets."

Sometimes when someone says something so earnest yet so stupid. The only way to respond to it is to ignore it. This was one of those times.

"....Why don't you try again..."

Liz sat there, her eyes closed, and the frown on her forehead deepened as she focused on something...ANYTHING she could relate to British wrestling fans more than a man who's a God in this part of the world. You could practically see the steam flow out of her ears until, eventually-

"Sport-"

"That's great! They love sport here; you just went to a soccer game, there's cricket, rugby...."

"-Y. Scary. Posh. Ginger. and Baby. The Spice girls.

Lizzie didn't so much say those collections of words but more so recited them, like some kind of sacred mantra or a religious prayer, something that could only be said with a tone of reverence. In fact, Lizzie even takes the time to bless herself and points to the sky; what's she pointing at? Who knows.

"Ok, Liz, I know, like, the 90s are kinda your thing.....but can you relate to anything...current?"

"......"

"Like in this century?.....Anything you can relate past the year 2000?"

"Um, what's more relatable, then peppy songs, drum and base and a little something called "Girl power"?!

"Were you even alive when The Spice Girls were a thing?"

"Not physically, no. But my spirit was."

"Huh?!"

"You don't choose the spice life. Spice life chooses you."

Again, Katie didn't really have a response to something that sounded that odd., but something seemed to have lit up Lizzie, her head now held high and a spark hitting her eyes as an idea came to her.

"I gotta think like a Spice Girl."

"Come again?"

"That's how I'm going to win this. Do you think Posh Spice would back down from a hostile crowd? Do you think she'd just pack her bags at the first sign of trouble?!"

"She did leave the band and married David Beckham..."

"Exactly, none of them would. I need to think like a Spice Girl. When people say, "Who do you think you are?" You can't beat PAJ in London! When they say, I can't win the F1; I just need to tell them, "Stop right there, thank you very much!" Because I'm the one that has to carry that mantle now, I have to fly the flag for Girl Power at Meltdown-"

A quick wonderstruck gasp escapes Lizzie.

"Oh my God...I'm Lizzie Spice."

These words were said with an awe-struck whisper as Lizzie's eyes glazed over dreamingly as the idea overcame her.

"I mean, You're not the only woman in the F1. There's MVH too."

"Lizzie Spice...."

"Also, I think we established a long time ago in this company that female wrestlers are on the exact same footing as the boys. It's kind of our appeal. So there's no reas-"

"DAMN IT. LET ME LIVE MY SPICE GIRL-RELATED DREAMS! I'M GOING TO BEAT PAJ, AND IT'S GOING TO BE SO COOL THAT THE SPICE GIRLS ARE GOING TO REUNITE. THEY'RE GOING TO INVITE ME TO BE THE SIXTH MEMBER. AND WE'RE GOING TO SAVE MUSIC. WHEN THEY SANG VIVA FOREVER, THEY DIDN'T MEAN VIVA A FEW YEARS; THEY MEANT VIVA. FOR. EVER!"

Woah. Ok, it turns out Lizzie Rose takes The Spice Girls just a tad seriously as she roars at Katie for daring to bring her back to reality with a bump, her face contorting with an acute rage that only an obsessed fan can pull off.

"Ok, Ok, jeez."

The look Lizzie gave Katie wasn't exactly intimidating...Lizzie Rose was a lot of things, but scary wasn't one of them, but eventually, after a few deep breaths, the fire left her eyes as she returned to herself, looking somewhat sheepishly at Katie.

"...I may have slightly miscalculated the volume of my voice there...."

"....You think?"

Lizzie held up her hands apologetically as she shifted in her chair, trying to get her thoughts in order, before speaking again to Katie, a lot less energetically, but there was growing confidence in her words.

"You know, putting aside my slightly irrational obsession with The Spice Girls...I think I've had something of a breakthrough. I can't think of the people in London that want me to lose. I can't think of PAJ's people. I have to think about my people. I have to think of everyone watching at home in Brooklyn, staying up at three am to watch the show live. I have to think of my family and friends...and EVERYONE that wants me to win. It doesn't matter if they're at Hyde Park. Or thousands of miles away. If they support me, if they send me positive vibes.....I'll hear them."

She nods along with her words believing everyone.

"I think...I hope...that's the big difference between us; I mean, I know PAJ's whole deal...We all have, and there's one thing that's always been consistent with him...He's kind of a butt. Like a talented butt. But a butt all the same. From the world heavyweight title. To being voted wrestler of the year. To even now with the television championship. He's zeroed in on himself on his goals, on his ambition. On what he needs. The venue doesn't make a difference to him; he's so focused on winning that it doesn't matter if it's in his own backyard or Hyde Park. He doesn't rely on other people. He puts his trust and faith in his ability and skill, and well, he should because he's pretty damn good. He thinks he doesn't need people, that he doesn't need the support of his fans....and that's where he'll fall down, because if in Hyde Park, just ONE person, in a sea of PAJ's fans. One member of the Lizzie Rose Rave. I will draw on it. I will use it. And I will win. "That's the big difference between Phillip Andrew Jackson and myself; he fights for himself... He represents herself. I can't do that. I have to represent my people. I have to stand tall for my block. For Brooklyn.

But as soon as those words leave her mouth, she shakes her head and reaches for her title belt.

"No, not just for Brooklyn. I'm the North American Champion. I'm the champion of an entire continent. That's like two hundred Brooklyn. I have to take that seriously. If I'm going to be a champion of North America, I have to show up for those people. PAJ doesn't have to prove himself in London. They love him regardless...but I have to prove myself worthy of North America. Of Being in the F1. Of being among the elites.

"Sounds like you feel like you're ready."

"I guess I am. Thanks, Katie. Maybe I really needed this chat."

"You know what else you need? A shower."

"Oh...."​

 

[AON]

Hello, yes, this is Steve! The Techo Vampire, the Vampire that is Techo, Steve, yes. Very hip, very cool. and tonight, I face someone who is not Steve the Techno Vampire, I weep for him, for he is not me. He is a mortal man. Who believes himself to be that among demons. He is Akihiko Kawaguchi. A famed warrior that has many supporters. Which makes me hate him so Steve has two mortal foes;

Dubstep.

And The Rising Sun.

They claim he's a monster among men. That he's an unstoppable demon. The next big thing in wrestling.

But that doesn't scare Steve The Techno Vampire. You know what scares Steve The Techno Vampire?

Being 45 on a dating app.

Yes, Steve plans to start the party, with the groovy sweet grooves of the dammed, because no one else seems to believe in Steve, but Steve can look at himself in the mirror and say he will defeat Kawaguchi...

Well, not look in the mirror. I have no reflection.

I'm a vampire.

A Techno Vampire.

Named Steve.

BLAH. BLAH.

 

[AON]

Doug Lupone: TIIIIIMMMMBER

 

[Mandalorian]

BREAKING IN

​

“This interview is being conducted by DS Cartridge and DC Gabriel at ten-thirty on the morning of Thursday, tenth of November 2022 at Abbey Wood Police Station. Mister Peacock, do you understand that this interview is being recorded and that you remain under caution at this time?” The younger of the two detectives said as he looked up from his notes on the desk towards Chris Peacock.

Chris stared blankly at the younger but more senior detective, and then to his female partner, who was not leading the interview. He finally snapped back into the room and sat up slightly in the cold metal seat that had been provided to him, but the handcuffs around his wrists prevented him from becoming truly comfortable, no matter how he sat. “Hmm? Oh, yeah.”

It was an empty response. He didn’t care if he was being recorded or not. It was not going to change anything. It wasn’t going to change how he had thrown away the biggest opportunity of his life and obliterated any and all aspirations that he had for himself. Cartridge and Gabriel might as well have been interrogating thin air. Chris’s extremely unkempt appearance and defeated demeanour was not going to stop the two diligent detectives from trying, though.

“Good. So, as you were made aware by the arresting officers, PCs Michaels and… Knotting… you have been arrested under the suspicion of aggravated assault and trespassing.” Cartridge stopped reading from his notes and then motioned for Chris to address him. “Is there anything that you’d like to say about those charges, Mister Peacock? Anything you’d like to say to assist us in our line of enquiries?”

There was silence in the room as Chris considered his options. How was he supposed to play this? It was over. Nothing mattered anymore. Everything he had worked towards had ultimately been for nothing, and he had no one but himself to blame. The female detective, Gabriel, reached forward and touched his hand, causing him to recoil slightly and feel the strain of his handcuffs even more. “Chris, this will work out better for you in the long run if you decide to cooperate with us. How about we start with when you arrived in the UK? Your travel records show that you landed into Heathrow Airport at around this time yesterday.”

There it was. The one thing that Chris knew he could not afford to hold on to at the moment. Hope. He knew in the pit of his stomach that these were just formalities and they had everything that they needed already. The last thing he wanted right now was the carrot being dangled in front of him only to get the stick later on. Hope was not helpful. No matter what he felt though and how desperate his situation was, he could not let that faint glimmer of hope fade. He’d tried giving up before and it didn’t suit him.

Chris took a deep breath, and he began to tell the detectives about his arrival into the country the day prior.

10:30am Wednesday, November 9 - Heathrow Airport

Chris Peacock was on the top of the world. He strutted through Heathrow Airport on the morning of Wednesday the 9th of November, pulling the large suitcase he had brought with him for the FWA’s European tour with his right hand. In his left? Well, it was only the most important thing that he has ever owned in his entire life. The Golden Opportunity briefcase.





It mattered not to Chris whether it was the golden briefcase that all of his fellow passengers were looking at, or if it was just the fancily-dressed man who was exuding confidence from every single pore of his body. For once, everything in Chris Peacock’s life felt like it was just going right. Outlasting six of the best that the FWA had to offer and walking out with the stick of dynamite that could blow Executive Excellence’s entire operation down in three seconds felt good.

Chris was not going to be journeying through the continent on his own, either. He’d taken a first class flight (his treat), accompanied by three men that he allowed to penetrate his inner circle; Allen Price and the Diamond Dogs boys - Slick Rick and Sonny D. If Danny Toner could have a back up crew in place, why couldn’t he? Not that Chris thought he needed any assistance when push would come to shove with Executive Excellence after their performance inside the Steel Roulette at Lights Out.

Despite the luxuriousness of their flight, Allen was still dissatisfied. He was not used to being catered for or pampered and failed to abide with any of the unwritten rules of travelling in first class. His exuberance and excitement on the plane resulted in him being told to quieten down by the majority of the other passengers on the flight. His neck roll was also confiscated by a flight attendant, so he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “Chris, thank you for the flights, but I’ve got to say that I don’t think this long-distance travel suits me. Why are we in Europe again?”

Sonny and Rick walked on as Allen paused and looked around, almost causing Chris to walk into him. “Allen, what’s the fucking problem, man? Why all of the complaining? We won! We did it! There’s nothing to be upset about at the moment, we’ve got our ticket.” It was a change in dynamic with Chris being the one to pick Allen’s spirits up, but Chris did see that Price appreciated the comments.

Allen looked down and released his bag, and fiddled with the handle. “You know, Chris, I’m truly happy to see you like this. With how hard you’ve worked and everything you’ve had to go through to get to this point, to see you with the pressure off-”

“Oh shit!” Chris said loudly, totally interrupting Allen. “She’s choking! Ma’am! I’m coming!”

Chris then bumped past Allen, knocking the latter to the ground, and he quickly grabbed the middle-aged woman gagging on the Subway sandwich that she was trying to engulf seemingly all in one go. “Come! On!” Chris urged as he gripped his hands under her diaphragm and wrenched back on her body, and after a few attempts at the Heimlich manoeuvre, a mixture of half-chewed bread and salami shot out of the woman’s mouth.

As he picked himself up from the floor, Allen looked over to see that Chris was being surrounded by an applauding crowd and the woman hugged him as thanks. He shook his head as he heard Chris declaring that “Choking is NOT something that happens on my watch, anymore, motherfuckers!”

——————​

“Sounds like you’re something of a hero, then?” Cartridge said in a condescending manner. “It surprises me that we’ve managed to end up with such an upstanding member of society sitting here in our interview room for aggravated assault that has left a man in hospital.”

Despite his mood perking up slightly after being able to recount the heroics that he displayed the day prior, he felt some of the colour in his face re-fade when Cartridge brought up the condition of the other man that was involved in the altercation. “Is he okay?”

“How about we let the professionals worry about that, because you’ve got plenty of things to worry about right here.” The DS smirked as Chris backed down and hunched his shoulder slightly, the power dynamic in the room changing. “What is it you’re even doing in London, anyway? We’ve seen some of your employer’s advertising and there’s a show in Hyde Park this evening, but I can’t see anything about you being on this show? You’re supposed to be facing… Cyrus Truth… this weekend in… Denmark?! So what brings you to the UK, Chris? Was hospitalising a station guard the sole purpose of your visit?”

The dry sarcasm of Cartridge caused Chris’s blood to boil and at that moment he wished for nothing more than to jump across the table and shut him up. He’d nothing left to lose at this point, with the exception of that increasingly-smaller piece of hope that he’d found a few minutes earlier. “I’m here for Danny Toner.”

The two detectives looked at each other in a nonplussed way for a few seconds and then back to Peacock. “Ah, Danny Toner, then. He’s supposed to be here in London because he does have a match on this show tonight. That doesn’t explain to me why you’re here. This Danny Toner chap is a future victim of yours, then?”

“Yes.”

The short and immediate answer took the detectives by surprise. Chris couldn’t help but break a small smile upon seeing that. “He has something that I want, and I’m going to wait until the right moment to take it from him. Or I was, anyway.”

“I see.” DC Gabrielle chimed in again, using a soft voice. It was another attempt to be the good cop to Cartridge’s bad, but Chris saw straight through it. “He’s got something you want. So you’re going to need to fill a couple of gaps for us, Chris. Where does this Cyrus Truth fit into all of this?”

Where does Cyrus Truth fit into all of this? It was a thought that had scampered around Chris’s mind several times in the last couple of weeks, ever since he and Cyrus had been drawn in the same pool in the F1 Climaxxx. Was he an obstacle in the way? Was he someone Chris should take seriously as a threat? These thoughts had lingered and developed in the back of his mind.

14:00pm Wednesday, November 9 - Searcys at The Gherkin

“This means that where Danny Toner is, I will also be there. I don’t want Danny to be able to close his eyes without thinking of me bringing everything that he has built crashing down around him. Executive Excellence may think that they run the game, but you’re looking at the most valuable player, folks.” Referring to the Golden Opportunity briefcase on the table in front of him, Chris believed that he had the crowd of one hundred or so journalists and media professionals eating out of the palm of his hand.

Little did he know, he did not. The assembled guests had in fact just endured a ten minute tirade about how Chris has overcome his failures and now it is nothing more than a matter of time before he would be calling himself the FWA World Champion. He even retold the story of saving the woman in the airport. The Londoners were not as vocal of their disdain towards Peacock as the New Orleans crowd at Lights Out were, and as a result of this, Chris came off as incredibly oblivious.

“You there! The man in the rather fascinating yellow jumper!” Chris pointed at one man in the rabble with his hand up in the air, who had been patiently waiting for several minutes to ask his question. Chris sipped on a glass of champagne as he waited for the question to be asked.

“Thank you, Chris. Jim Phillips, Independent. You’ve spoken at length about your future intentions for the Golden Opportunity briefcase and Danny Toner, but what about Cyrus Truth? You have a match with him this Saturday, thoughts on that?” Jim sat down and Chris slowly nodded his head.

“I’ve been thinking about Cyrus Truth a lot, Jim.” Chris sat forward in his seat and looked towards Allen who nodded. “In fact, I was talking to Allen about him on the flight over here this morning. Allen thinks that I should sit here and talk about the fact that Cyrus Truth is a legend of this business and having the chance to compete against someone of his calibre is a sign that I’ve finally made something out of myself in this business and in the FWA. I think that’s a load of shit. No offence, Allen.”
The look on Allen’s face indicated that there was in fact offence, but Chris jabbed his finger into the top of the briefcase on the table in front of him. “You want proof of me making something of myself in the FWA? It’s right here. I’m doing this tournament because I can. I could sit here and try to paint Cyrus out as someone who is past it and can’t keep up with me, but that’d be stupid. To write him off as a threat to me winning this tournament and solidifying my position would be stupid. That being said, I’m going to beat him… because I can.”

With a smirk filling the corner of his mouth, Chris scans the room and sees a number of hands raise. Allen puts his head in his hands. Jim Phillips stands up again, and his garish yellow jumper causes him to stand out from the crowd once again. “Jim, go for it again.”

“Thank you, Chris… I suppose my follow up to that would be about your attitude. I think that you’re being clearly dismissive of Cyrus whilst trying to make out that you are taking this match seriously. I’m sure you can draw on your experience against him before, but those were in multi-person situations. On Saturday, it is going to just be the two of you. You’ve got nowhere to run.”

“Why would I be running?” Chris asked, incredulously. “Cyrus has been consistently one of the best performers in the FWA for fuck knows how long now. That’s not an accident, but why is he dedicating his time to whining and complaining? All he wants is a title shot, right? Why hasn’t he gone out and won one yet? He’s been in Carnal Contenderships, Golden Opportunity and that Bounty thing, but he’s not won?”

“Two fucking years I’ve been called a choker and a loser, but what about him? Why is Cyrus just exempt from all of that? Cyrus hasn’t got a title shot because he hasn’t earned one. That’s the plain and simple fact. He can say he’s not been given the opportunities, but he’s had the same chances as everyone else. I’m sure you think that I should be concerned or worried about facing him, but I’m not. Cyrus has the sure, but he’s like a shark with no teeth.”

Chris pointed onto the briefcase again. “I won this. Fair and square. When Gabrielle wanted to cash in on it, no one batted an eyelid. When Nova did, everyone was excited. Now, what about when it's me? Why are you talking to me about my attitude? Like Cyrus is going to put me in my place or something? My place is as a future FWA World Champion. If Cyrus wants to do something about that then I suggest he brings his A-game on Saturday. He’s been on the block for a long time, but he’s never faced anyone like me before”

That comment was met with groans from the people in the room, but Chris scoffed. “What is it with you people over here and sentiment? You’re so content with everything being the same and when something changes it's this whole massive deal! Cyrus Truth’s time at the top is over, get over it. Better yet have a fucking four day funeral or whatever it was when that Queen of yours died, huh? Talk about someone overstaying their welcome, am I right?”

The atmosphere in the room became immediately hostile, with the crowd full of Brits not taking the jibe at their monarchy very well. “You know what? Fuck this. You want to tell me that I’ve changed? Yeah, I have. I’m not a loser anymore! I’m not the silly dancing guy that you can all laugh at anymore and I’m not a desperate monster either. I’m a fucking winner… I’m Peacock Prime, motherfuckers!”

Chris grabbed his briefcase and walked behind the press wall that had been constructed. Allen did not immediately follow and Chris heard him attempting to appease the baying mob that he had left behind. With a shake of his head, he left.

——————​

“Sounds like you’re something of an opportunist, then? Quite insecure as well, I’d say. Is that why you hospitalised Keith Trundle? Why his wife and kids are sitting by his bedside at the moment, wondering when he can come home?” Cartridge pressed, and as he did, Chris’s urge to lash out at him increased. “Sounds to me like this Cyrus Truth is someone that you see that’s just in your way, but all they are doing is what they’re supposed to do. Sounds a lot like Keith Trundle before you fractured his skull last night.”

Chris stayed silent, his head facing the floor in between his feet.

“Do you have a problem with authority?”

The direct question asked by Cartridge caused Chris to look up. He went to speak but he thought for a moment about how he would answer. “No.” He lied.

“Do you require constant attention? Some of the things that you’ve been saying suggest to me that you’re jealous of how well this Cyrus Truth is regarded. Why else would you be comparing yourself to him? What does it matter to you that he wants the same thing as you?”

“Because I’m the one that matters!” Chris said, slamming his hands down on the table through the handcuffs. “Everyone gets in a line to lick his boots and I don’t play like that! Just because he’s been there a long time, we’ve all got to bow down to him. Fuck that. I can show respect where it is due, but I’m not going to play along with the charade that Cyrus Truth is entitled to anything more than kissing my ass!”

After calming down, Chris leant back in his chair once again. Cartridge remained stoic, but a small grin formed on his face. “So you do have a problem with authority. You don’t like the established hierarchy and with this briefcase you’re able to skip the queue. I can see why that wouldn’t make you popular with your peers. You’re acting entitled.”

“You don’t know a thing about me, man.” Chris said, now getting openly frustrated with the DS. “I earned my shot. No one can take it away from me.”

“Perhaps we should see how the ongoing investigation goes first, though.” Gabriel said, popping up back into the conversation. “I think we should talk about the incident itself that led to you being here, Chris. Can you walk us through your version of events?”

03:15am Thursday, November 10 - Farringdon Station

Chris rounded the corner and arrived at the tube station, but he found that the main entrance of Farringdon station was barricaded up. In an intoxicated state after a night out with Sonny and Rick (both of which he lost in a club in Soho), Chris failed to notice the other entrance to the tube station immediately behind him. Instead, he got to work on forcing the doors open.

The large metal fencing was not going to be moved by the combined might of one man, who could barely stand on his own two feet. Still, despite how poorly equipped he was, he tried. He used his hands, feet and at one point attempted to bite through the railing. Various passers by watched Chris through his many failed attempts.

He turned around and completely missed the other entrance as he scanned the immediate area for something he could use to force entry. At this point, he did not think that what he was doing was illegal or wrong; his goal was to get where he needed to go. The moral dilemmas needed to be ignored for now whilst it was time for business.

An unsuspecting homeless man found himself accosted by the jazzy-looking American man and Chris did not hesitate to rifle through the man’s few belongings that he stored in the shopping trolley that he used as the main form of storage for the various belongings that he had accumulated. Chris dumped a lot of his trinkets and tat on the floor, but a metal plumbing pipe was just the kind of thing that Chris was looking for. Chris didn’t even thank the homeless man after he had disrespected his belongings, and he paid no attention as he turned his attention back to the large cast-iron gate.

He wedged the pipe in between the opening of the doors and shimmied it as much as he could to loosen it, but it did not move. No matter how hard he tried, he still could not get the gate to open.

“HEY!” Shouted a voice from the open entrance of Farringdon station, and a security guard dressed in standard tfl uniform walked out, pointing at Chris. He was a middle-aged white man and keen observers could see his security pass which read ‘Keith Trundle’. “You can’t do that! Stop or I’m going to call the police!”

“Fuck off!” Chris shouted back without even looking or stopping what he was doing, and he soon found himself having to wrestle for the pipe. He turned around and Keith had his hands on the pipe, but Chris snatched it away from him. “I’m trying to get through! You can’t stop me, so get lost!”

“Sir, you cannot do that. Please put the pipe down or I will call the police.” Keith stood his ground, trying to calm himself down. “You can use the alternative entrance-”

“No, I’ll use this entrance, thank you. Now, get the fuck out of here.” Chris dismissed the security guard and then went back to the fence.

Keith stood with his hands on his hips and then he unfastened the radio from his upper arm and spoke into it. “I’ve got an attempted break-in here at Farringdon, there’s some guy with- ugh.”

A loud thud followed, being the sound of Keith’s body hitting the pavement and Chris standing over him with the pipe in his hand. Several screams followed from some onlookers and Chris noticed the homeless man abandoning his trolley to book it away from the scene. Chris looked down at Keith and found himself sobering up almost immediately as he realised what he had done by lashing out.
Blood dripped from the pipe onto the pavement and a separate pool of blood began to form around the head of the downed security guard. The groaning and laboured breathing from the guard evidenced to Chris that he had not killed this man, but he was not in a good way. Chris panicked, unsure of what to do or where to go. He lashed out in a moment of madness.

The decision was taken out of Chris’s hands in mere seconds though as he saw the reflection of blue lights down the road and two police cars making their way towards him.

——————​

“I felt awful about it, as soon as it happened. I just lost it, but I knew what I was doing. I remember it all so vividly. I don’t know, I’ve kind of just conditioned myself to think of people as obstacles that I need to get past. I wanted to get into that station, so fucking badly.” Chris said as he forced a year to return to his eye. “Attacking the man did not get me into that station. It was all for nothing. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.”

“He could have just let me be. I’ve tried telling myself that; that he brought it on himself, but he didn’t. All he was doing was what he was supposed to do, but clearly that isn’t enough to keep someone safe around me when I am like that.”

It angered Chris that Cartridge was so right about him before, about how entitled he is. Chris can talk about Cyrus Truth having a chip on his shoulder, there is no one in the FWA more desperate to prove themselves right now than Chris Peacock. People have expectations of him - he is the champion in waiting. He can’t show weakness, even if it means having to follow through and hurt people if they’re trying to stop him.

Cyrus Truth finds himself in the same position as Keith Trundle did. He is the one trying to stop Chris from breaking into the upper echelons of the FWA. Surely, if Cyrus Truth can win against Chris Peacock then he will only have more ammunition for demanding the title shot that he feels like he is owed. Chris can’t let that happen. He can’t afford to. Beating Cyrus Truth is necessary to proving that he deserves to eat at the top table.

He can’t stop there, though. No one else in the F1 Climaxxx is safe, either. Eleven people for Chris to prove himself better than; a myriad of former and current champions. Then at the end of it all waits Danny Toner.

Chris got so far away in his thoughts that he forgot where he was for the moment. All of that is moot anyway, because Chris is about to be put away for what he did to the security guard. There was glee on the face of Cartridge as he tidied his papers up. “Well, I think that we have everything we need to call for charges, Peacock. We are charging you with-”

“You will do no such thing.” A fourth voice said, entering the room briskly. Chris looked up at the man and he screwed his face up slightly, because he did recognise the man, he just could not remember where. “Not until I have had the opportunity to confer with my client.”

The two detectives seemed very annoyed as they rose from their seats, realising that they had to give Chris and this new person some time to themselves. The man, dressed in a smart grey suit and holding a briefcase of his own, waited for Cartridge and Gabriel to leave before closing the door behind them.

“Who are you?” Chris asked the man as he sat down. “Where did you come from?”

“Well, my name is not important but if you must have it, you can call me James Bennett. My employer received word that you were being detained here and he sent me here to get you out of this.”

“Who is your employer?”

“Rupert Watkins.”

Chris shook his head and pounded his fist on the table; the mere mention of Rupert’s name causing anger to surge through his body. “What does that piece of shit want?”

“What he wants,” The man adjusted his glasses. “Is for you to hold up your end of the agreement. Do I need to refresh your memory? He doesn’t pursue you for breach of contract and uses his remaining connections in the FWA to secretly ensure you take that final slot in Steel Roulette and in exchange you…”

“Claim the FWA World Championship and bring those traitorous bastards crashing down to Earth.” Chris said, taking over from the aide. “I remember what he said and what we agreed.”

“So you agree that getting yourself arrested is jeopardising that? You’re lucky that Mister Watkins has the connections that he does, because you’re about to be allowed to walk out of that door a free man. Tonight though, if the opportunity is there… you do not hesitate. You cash in, got it?”

Chris nods his head slowly, reluctantly showing his understanding of the agreement made between himself and Rupert Watkins prior to his returning after the Anniversary Show.

Chris had once again made himself a deal with the devil. He did not know whether he would live to regret putting his faith in the man who has mentally manipulated him on multiple occasions, but if Chris was looking for his way through the door, Rupert was the one with the key…

 

[Tommy Bedlam]

Life Changes

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity. It was the season of light, it was the season of darkness. It was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.

The real problem was, Tommy Bedlam had no idea that it was the worst of times. He wasn’t aware of the impending season of darkness. Nor did he realize that the winter of despair’s cold, bitter winds were blowing in faster than the spring of hope could possibly fend them off.

As the referee’s hand hit the mat surrounding the outside of the ring three times, Tommy felt himself exercising the demons of his past. The X-Rules match at Lights Out had been every bit as brutal as Tommy assumed it would be. The fight had seen Tommy and Jason battle through the concession area, into the bathroom, and finally back to the ring.

At one point during the match, Jason doubled Tommy over with a chair shot to the stomach. Tommy knew was coming next, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. As he gasped for air, Randall delivered a brutal chair shot against Tommy’s spine. The same spine that Jason had damaged roughly six months ago. As Tommy crumbled to the floor, his mind went back to the surgeries that he had gone through to repair the damage. His career flashed before his eyes as Jason rained down another blow with the chair on his back. Then another. And another. In the midst of a crowd that was screaming, Tommy was deafened by the silence.

Was he about to lose to Jason Randall again? Moreover, was his career really going to end like this. In that moment, his mind went back to Uncle Jimmy, the man who had overcome his own wildcard the weekend before. Endued with a power that he could not explain, Tommy started fighting back.

As he dangled off the apron over a table that had been set up at ringside, he experienced another flash back. Months before, the week after Jason had broken his back, Tommy crashed through a table in a match with Joe Burr that ended in a no contest. He never should’ve been in the match, but cowboys rarely know when to walk away. After battling his way back into the ring and away from the table, Tommy saw the chair flying towards him yet again. In his heart of hearts, he knew if Randall made contact, things were over. The match would certainly end, and his career may soon follow.

After dodging the chair shot and trying to create some separation between himself and The Wildcard, Tommy lay there, nearly motionless as he watched Jason empty a small bag of thumbtacks onto the mat. He had seen spots like this in the past, and he knew what was coming next. Somehow, he managed to fight himself free of Jason and spinebuster Randall into the thumbtacks. Suddenly, the blood that flowed from Tommy’s head mixed with the blood that was seeping from Randall’s back on the mat.

Suddenly, it was Randall who needed to create some separation between himself and Tommy. As he rolled onto the apron, Tommy saw his opportunity. Suddenly, he lunged forward with a size-13 boot that caught Randall flush across the chin. The Buckshot Superkick landed perfectly, and Randall crashed through the same table that he had sat up. Tommy crawled out of the ring, onto his fallen foe. The ref counted.

1…
2…
3…

The bell rang, the crowd cheered, and for a moment, Tommy forgot about the searing pain coursing through his back.

It truly was the best of times. Unfortunately, all of that was about to change.

Tommy looked around ringside to see if Randi, his new “friend” whom he had gotten a front-row ticket for was there. He had noticed her during his entrance but managed to avoid looking towards her during the match. Defeating Jason Randall was going to require his full attention. She wasn’t there. Seriously?! She missed the end of the match?!

Tommy’s disappointment was short-lived. He made his way up the ramp, held his arm up in the air as the crowd threw their support behind The Cowboy.

As he made his way through the curtain, Rocco Sullivan leapt out of his chair at the gorilla position. He had wanted to accompany his on-again/off-again client to the ring, but the two had decided it would be best if Rocco stayed in the back. The nature of an X-Rules match made ringside an unsafe place.

“Holy hell, kid! You did it. You got past Randall.”

Tommy felt compelled to hug the man who had returned to his corner, but he knew that Rocco would never go for a bloody, sweat soaked hug. His suits were far too expensive for that. Instead, Tommy extended a hand that Rocco shook. The two made their way towards Tommy’s locker room as Tommy grabbed a towel from a backstage staffer and wiped the mix of sweat and blood from his own face.

He walked over to a chair in the corner, opened a bottle of water, and took a gulp. He poured the rest of the water into the towel and started wiping his face.

“Listen, they haven’t made any announcements yet, but you know I know people. That win right there has you a spot in the F1 Climaxxx. You have the option to decline, but you know I don’t think you should.”

“Decline? Why would I decline a spot in the F1?! Tell ‘em I’m in.”

Rocco immediately started pecking away at his cellphone.

“When will I know what pool I’m gonna be in? Any word on who I’m gonna face?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Since you took the spot, you’re probably gonna be starting out against the winner of Black and Toner.”

“The winner of Black and Toner? So, I’m getting the World Champion in the first round?! How did that happen.”

“Well, the official draw hasn’t been announced yet, but a lot of this stuff has been set into motion for weeks. You’ve spent your whole life working for a moment like this.”

“Yea, I know. But holy shit, Rocco. You really think I’m ready for a match like that?”

“I know you are. The work you put in going into this Randall match, the roll you’ve been on since you came back, all of it. You’re ready for whoever they put you against.”

“Well, guess I need to stick around and see who wins that one.”

Tommy was somewhere between thrilled at the prospect of getting into the F1 Climaxxx and riddled with anxiety that he was going to be leading off against the FWA World Champion, whoever he may be. He reached into his bag and pulled out his cellphone. There was a text from Randi.​

Hey. I need to see you, but they won’t let me backstage. Emergency.​

Tommy responded:

Where are you?​

At the back entrance of the arena.

“Rocco, can you head to the backdoor and get them to let Randi in? I’m gonna grab a quick shower.”

Tommy wanted to be happy, but he couldn’t get past the fact that Randi’s text said there was an emergency. He had just received news that had the potential to change his entire career, but something had to be wrong back home.

He came out of the shower area, having already put on a pair of jeans. His wet hair fell across his exposed back, and he could immediately tell by the looks on the faces of Randi and Rocco that something was seriously wrong.

"What happened to him?”

Tommy knew something had to be wrong with Jimmy. There was no other emergency that would’ve caused Randi to need to see him in person.

“Mom said that something happened a few hours ago. They’ve done one surgery already to stop some internal bleeding, but there’s an issue with some infection. Tommy, I’m so sorry, but she said you need to get there to tell him goodbye. He’s still there, but they aren’t sure how much longer they can keep him alive.”

Keep him alive?! He was fine when Tommy had left him. They were joking about him spitting into a bedpan. He was already talking about getting a shot at the Texas Rodeo Championship.

“Rocco, when can you get me on a flight?”

“I’ve got you a ticket on a Delta flight. Last seat they had. Leaves in an hour and should take about an hour and forty-five minutes.”

Tommy threw on a black t-shirt, grabbed his bag, and headed to the door. Suddenly, he stopped and turned around. He looked at Randi.

“Wait, what about you?”

“My flight leaves in the morning. I had kinda planned on us spending the evening together after the show. Just go. I’ll meet you back home tomorrow.”

Tommy pulled his ballcap down low over his eyes, ran down the corridor of the arena, out the back door, and jumped into the rental car that he had brought to Lights Out. He pointed it north towards the airport and stood on the gas.

A drive that should’ve taken 30 minutes took 15. Tommy threw the car in park, tossed the keys to a valet, and ran into the airport. He made his way to the Gate B10 and explained the situation. The gate attendant had already spoken to Rocco on the phone, and she had his boarding pass ready for him.

Tommy made his way to his seat, threw his bag in the overhead compartment, and silently waited on the flight to take off. A lovely flight attendant, a woman Tommy would usually notice, came around and asked him if he would like a beverage. He had sworn off alcohol after his drug and alcohol induced stupor that Rocco had found him in more than a month ago.

“I’ll take a beer.”

Within minutes, she returned with his beer as the plane began to roll down the runway. Tommy looked out the window as the airport began to grow smaller. He took a long drink, realized the beer was empty and motioned for the flight attendant. He held the beer up to her, and she went to find him another.

The next hour and 45 minutes were going to feel like an eternity. Tommy knew he would need something to take the edge off.

A little more than an hour into the flight, Tommy’s phone dinged. It was a text from Rocco.​

“Toner retained. You’ll get him in round one. Next Meltdown. Official announcement sometime in the next day or so. I’ll be on Randi’s flight back to Sweetwater in the morning.”

Tommy didn’t even respond. A match against Toner should be the highlight of his FWA career. When he originally signed on, he had dreamt of a moment like this. When he fought in his first match, the Battle Royal, and turned it into a Gauntlet Championship match, he thought about the idea of one day getting into a tournament like the F1.

Now, he wondered if any of it really mattered. When he beat Randall, he felt like he was on the highest high of his career. When Rocco delivered the news of the spot in the F1, somehow, things got even better. This whole thing with Jimmy just seemed like the pattern of Tommy’s life. Two steps forward, three steps back.

Tommy knew that Rocco would be putting together a thorough film study on Danny Toner, but nobody around the FWA wasn’t already familiar with his work. After all, Toner was the top of the mountain in FWA.

He had seen every match of Toner’s over the course of the last year. Even when he was out with his back injury, he kept up with what was going on in the FWA, and if you followed the FWA, you followed Danny Toner.

Tommy should’ve been focused on enjoying the news he had received and getting ready for a match against the champion. Instead, he was wondering how much longer the flight was going to last. He ordered another beer, his fourth of the flight, and the flight attendant let him know that she was going to have to cut him off.

Did she know who he was? Four beers in a nearly two-hour span weren’t enough to do anything. Screw it. They could do what they wanted. He’d get more to drink when he got home.

Rocco had thought of everything and had a second rental car waiting on Tommy when he landed at the tiny airport in Sweetwater, Texas. Suddenly, home was the last place that he wanted to be. He jumped into a tiny Ford Focus and set out for the hospital.

It was 2:15 AM when Tommy walked through the front doors of the hospital. Randi had texted Tommy that Jimmy was in room 828. The eighth floor of the hospital was intensive care. Tommy knew that.

As he got off the elevator on the eighth floor, he immediately saw Suzy sitting in the waiting area. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She stood up and made her way towards Tommy.

“What happened? He was fine when I left here.”

“The doctors said that the internal damage must have been worse than they thought. He’s septic, and his body is struggling to fight off the infection.”

“Worse than they thought?! They’re doctors! Shouldn’t they know about this kind of thing. How was it worse than they thought?”

“The injury to the spleen and the liver also messed up something in his intestines. There was so much blood in there from the liver damage and his spleen, they couldn’t see it. It didn’t show up in any scans.”

“I’ve gotta get back there and see him.”

“Visiting hours don’t start for another 4 hours. I’m not sure they’ll let you in.”

“They’ll let me in, or they’ll haul me out of here in a cop car.”​

Tommy went to the small reception desk outside the ICU and told the unit secretary who he was.

“I’m sorry sir but visiting hours don’t start until 6:00 AM.”

“I’m well aware. But I just flew straight from New Orleans to get here because I was told that you people are trying to keep him alive long enough for me to say goodbye.”

“I’m sorry sir. Visiting hours start at 6:00 in the morning.”

“Yea, I’ve heard about that. Is Dr. Beckett here?”

“Hang on a moment. I’ll page him.”

Dr. Beckett, the same elderly doctor who had performed the surgery on Jimmy appeared at the unit’s desk with a concerned look on his face.

“It’s OK, Tammy. He can come on back with me.”

Tommy wanted to be relieved that he was going to be allowed to go see Jimmy. However, in his gut, he knew that if a doctor was breaking hospital protocol, things had to be bad. Really, really bad.

As he stepped into the small room, he was immediately overwhelmed by the number of tubes flowing into his uncle’s body. The man had more IV bags hanging around his bed than Tommy had ever seen. Couldn’t any of them help? When he had left Jimmy, his color was good, his eyes were vibrant, and he was making plans for his next rodeo appearance. Now, only a few days later, Jimmy looked like a corpse already.

A sickening greenish-grey color had taken over his face. His eyes were closed, and each breath that he took seemed labored. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, and Tommy was sure that it was only a matter of time.

“Jimmy?”

Tommy’s whisper could barely be heard over the beeping of the machines. If he was being honest with himself, he would admit he didn’t really want to wake his uncle, his hero up. However, as he pulled a chair closer to the side of his bed, the screeching sound the small wooden chair made against the cheap tile floor caused Jimmy to open his eyes.

“Hey, you made it.”

Jimmy’s voice was weak, and every word seemed to require more effort than the patient had to give.

“Of course I made it. I gotta drive you home when you get out of here.”

Tommy knew there would be no drive home. So did Jimmy.

“I’d say you’ll be able to leave the truck in park, bub. Doctors say I won’t be going home.”

“What do they know?”

“They know a whole lot more than you or me. Say, I saw that match against Randall. Suzy set her phone up on my table there so I could watch. You got your revenge.”

“Yea. You got yours, too.”

Jimmy chuckled slightly.

“I’m not so sure about that. Looks like I won the battle but ole Cyclone won the war.”

Those words hung heavy in the air as neither man was exactly sure what to say next.

Suddenly, Tommy’s sadness was replaced by anger. This should’ve been one of the best nights of his life. He had beaten Randall and was waiting on the official announcement that he was going to face Toner in the first round of the F1. More anger. More sadness. Tommy reached in his back pocket and pulled out the can of tobacco that he had.

“You’re gonna share that ain’t ya?”

“Jimmy, I don’t think they want you chewing tobacco.”

“What’s it gonna do, kill me? Hell son, my clock is ticking anyway.”

Tommy put a pinch of tobacco into his bottom lip and handed Jimmy the can. He didn’t realize that the IV tubes running into his uncle’s hands and arms made it impossible for him to reach out.

“You’re gonna have to do that for me.”

Tommy pulled a small pinch out of the can and reached for Jimmy’s mouth with it.

“That’s all you’re gonna give a dying man?! C’mon, boy. I deserve a better last chew than that.”

Tommy couldn’t help but chuckle at how crass Jimmy was about his own impending doom. He pulled a much larger pinch out and stuffed it into Jimmy’s lip.

“Push that table over here and set the bad pan on it.”

Tommy simply did as he was told. He felt his phone vibrate and pulled it out. He had a large file from Rocco, who had already started compiling a scouting report on Toner. The first file was from the match that had just ended at Lights Out between Toner and Black. Tommy, looking for something to distract himself from what was going on turned the volume down and started watching the match he had missed when he left the arena early.

The next 30 minutes passed in total silence outside of an occasional spit from Jimmy into the bed pan. Tommy glanced at the monitors hanging over his bed, knowing full well that he had no idea what any of the numbers meant. Jimmy’s blood pressure was low, 80/51. His respirations were slow at only 20 per minute, and the machine indicated that his heartrate was dropping. Any minute now.

Any minute now went on for another hour. Suddenly, Jimmy cleared his throat as Tommy was watching another of the matches that Rocco had sent him to study.

"You need anything?”

“See if they’ll let Suzy in here.”

He knew his time was drawing close.

Tommy stepped out into the hallway and motioned for a nurse. He told her what Jimmy was asking for, and with a silent nod, she stepped out into the hallway to get Suzy. Suzy appeared a couple minutes later with the strong smell of cheap cigarettes firmly attached to her clothes.

“Hey baby. I’m right here.”

“Yea, I knew you would be. Listen, I don’t think I’m gonna get to take you on that cruise next summer like I had talked about. I just want you to know that I wish I had given us a real chance back in the day. I wasted a lot of damn time on some women and none of them were half as good as you.”

Suzy collapsed into a sob onto the side of Jimmy’s bed.

“Tommy. There’s some things I need to tell you. You’re gonna have to work with Suzy to handle all the arrangements. Y’all don’t fight over my fortune. I’ve got about $76.00 in the bank.”

Tommy couldn’t help but chuckle. Even in his final, fleeting moments, Jimmy was cracking jokes. His ability to break the tension in any situation was one of Tommy’s favorite things about him.

“Don’t let that pastor down at the Pentecostal church handle the funeral. You know I don’t like all that running around, falling in the floor, speaking in tongues stuff. Just get Ronny to say a few words. He’s the rodeo chaplain, and he doesn’t beat around the bush. He says whatever he needs to say and shuts up.”

“You got it.”

“Tommy, I want you to give my eulogy.”

Tommy could’ve puked. Or fainted. Or both. A eulogy? No. That was out of the question. It was almost as though Jimmy could read his thoughts.

“Don’t say no. You can’t deny a dying man his final wish. I know I’m your uncle, but I feel like you and me kinda grew up together. Just tell them the good things about me. There should be enough stories that you can pick one or two and send me out right.”

Tommy choked back tears as he nodded. How could life change this fast? He was so excited about calling Jimmy after he had processed the events of Lights Out. Things with his mother had never really returned to normal, and Jimmy was the one family member that he had that was still supporting his professional wrestling career.

“Tommy. Try to straighten things out with your mom. Do that for me. And find you a good woman, a woman kinda like Suzy. Don’t fuck around and waste your time chasing all the wrong ones when the right one is living right down the road, you hear me?”

“Yea, buddy. I hear you.”

“You think you two could hang around for a minute? I’m awful tired. I’m just gonna close my eyes and get a little sleep. If I think of anything else, I’ll tell you when I wake up.”

Tommy put a giant hand on Suzy’s shoulder and guided her to the chair that he had been sitting in. He walked over to the window seal and propped up on the edge of it. He glanced down at his phone. 3:57 AM.

Tommy stared out the window. There are few things as beautiful as the night sky over Texas. For a moment, he wondered where Randi was at in that sky. He wanted her to get there soon. Hell, he wanted Rocco to be there. Soon, he told himself. They would be there soon.

At 4:17 AM, a long, steady beep flowing from one of the machines broke Tommy’s concentration. It was happening. In fact, it had already happened.

A team of doctors and nurses rushed into the room as Suzy let out a guttural moan. One of the nurses spoke loud enough to drown at the beeping of the machines.

“Time of death: 4:18 AM.”

He was gone. Life had suddenly changed again. Just when Tommy thought one thing was going to happen, the polar opposite had taken place. It had happened when he suddenly found himself competing in the FWA. It happened when he became a champion in his second match. It happened again when he lost his championship in only his fifth match. It had happened when his father came back into his life, when he betrayed Rocco, when Deathswitch Initiative had formed, and when Jason Randall had broken his back.

Dammit all to hell, tonight was supposed to a night where everything changed for the good. Tommy, almost in a zombie-like trance walked past the team of medical professionals, past Suzy, and into the hallway. Without even realizing it, he found himself in his rental car. He punched the dashboard so hard that he cracked the plastic above one of the vents.​

He looked up towards the sky and screamed. Was there anyone listening up there? Tommy didn’t know, but somebody needed to hear his outrage.

He put the key in the ignition and headed towards his apartment. On the way, he stopped at his favorite liquor store, and the only one that was open 24 hours a day, Cheech’s Carryout. There, he picked up two fifths of Jack Daniels. It was Jimmy’s favorite, and Tommy somehow felt like he should grab one for his hero.

He walked into the apartment, plopped down on the couch, and opened one of the bottles in the dark. He started to look for a glass and then realized he didn’t need one. He turned the bottle up and took a long, sorrowful drink.

He leaned back and went to the next match in Rocco’s attachment concerning Toner. Should Tommy even go on with the F1? Maybe he should text Rocco and let him know to give the spot to someone else. That new girl, Vampyra, had looked amazing in her first couple matches. She would probably be much better suited for the tourney.

The soft glow from his phone barely lit up the room. Jean Luc Watkins voice was the only sound in the room as he delivered the commentary as Toner hit Satan’s Spike on someone. Tommy wasn’t even paying attention to who Danny was facing.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Probably Rocco. Shit. Tommy hadn’t texted Rocco and let him know that Jimmy was gone.

Tommy picked up the bottle of whiskey, which by that point was more than half gone, and walked to the door. He opened it, and there was Randi.

“Hey.”

She looked incredible for a woman who had just flown all night from Louisiana to Texas. But that sympathetic look on her face was the kind of thing Tommy was hoping to avoid. He remembered a long line of mourners giving him the same look when his grandmother had passed away years before. He wasn't sure what they were all so sympathetic about. None of them liked the old woman, and she certainly didn't care much for any of them.

“Come on in.”

Tommy pointed towards the couch with the same hand that clutched the bottle of whiskey.

“Mom’s asleep. I figured you’d come over here and see if you needed to talk.”

“Not a whole lot to talk about.”

“Tommy, you can’t bottle all this up. You need to talk to someone, and I wanna be that person.”

“He’s dead. I’m not. Life changes. Gonna happen to all of us one day. I think that’s about all there is to say.”

“He was proud as fuck of you. You know that, right?”

“Yea, I’ve heard.”

He took a huge drink from the bottle and extended it towards Randi.

“Wanna drink?”

She smiled, took the bottle and took a small sip before handing it back to him.

“Listen, I know you’re a big tough guy, and you don’t wanna let anybody in, but I really think it would help if you-“

“Randi. I may wanna talk about this, but not tonight. I’ll be honest, I really need a distraction. Do you think you can be a distraction without us having to talk about any of this shit?”

She smiled everso slightly at him and slowly eased over towards him on the couch. Their lips touched, and in that moment, Tommy forgot about the mass chaos of the last eight hours. She slid her hands under his shirt, and pushed it off over his head. He quickly returned the favor. With his arms around her, and her legs around his waist, Tommy carried her to the bedroom and kicked the door shut behind them.

He left his phone on the coffee table so he didn’t see the text from Rocco:​

“Hey, kid. BIG changes in the F1. You’re still in, but you’re not facing Toner. Call me ASAP. I'm at the Ramada by the airport. I'll be at your place tomorrow."

More changes. Of course. Fuck it. Tommy would deal with them in the morning.​

 

[PheTomenal]

Episode 1 of The New Era of Television

“CUT!”

The voice of the director booms through the area of Hyde Park where FWA cameras set up on the lawn in front of the broad walk path. FWA keen to get Kensington Palace in the background. Jackson had been shooting some video for the Climaxxx promo material.

“Phillip, you're finished for the day. Good work.”

Jackson nods.

That's why you get the professionals.

Jackson annihilates a bottle of water, quickly drinking the whole bottle of it. Jackson is handed a white towel and he dabs his face with the towel. The runner who passed it over is quick to turn the other way. Jackson taps him on the shoulder.

Thanks, do you feel different?

The runner hesitates slightly caught off guard by the question.

“No?”

The weight of history in this park...I love it...

“ooooohhhhkay....Did you want your belt?”

The runner hands it over to Jackson.

Jackson nods and takes it off him and places it over his shoulder. Jackson points to the camera man to follow him. Jackson looks around quickly and grabs some spray paint.

We are filming episode 1 right now. That was the deal I made. We are set up just where I want you, so we are gonna go from here.

Jackson marks an X on the floor where he wants the camera set up.

Can you see the statue?

The camera man nods.

If you pan over to the right can you see the garden hedge?

The camera man nods.

Perfect, I nailed the set up hey.

Jackson lets out a small chuckle.

Lucky the weather held, cloudy with a bit of moisture in the air but dry. Classic November weather. We are lucky it hasn't rained though. Glad we got this area closed off. Right, I'm going to stand on the path way and we are gonna get this down in one.

Jackson throws the towel and the spray paint back towards where the camera is set up to get it out of shot and adjust his shirt to make it a bit neater. Jacksons mood shifts to more serious and focused. Jackson counts himself in...3...2....

Welcome to the New Era of Television live from Hyde Park, where I will walk out for the first time as a champion. The first time in years that I will do that. I am in a great mood, it's bit cold but it is London in November. I've been thinking about the show and why Hyde Park is in an interesting location. It lies beside the seats of power in the UK. This is the land I called home but London is meaningless to me. It will get peddled around that I am “home” but I am not. I am 100 miles from home. They will give me a positive reception but they should be reminded that there is never going to be another great Englishmen because I have already claimed that title. I also left this place in pursuit of something bigger and something better. Where I could be free from what held be back. From the powers that put me down. That's is where I am now and that's all that matters to me. I did what all great stars do and cross the world in pursuit of opportunity and that is exactly what I have right now. The opportunity to launch the New Era of Television. Where better to launch it than in the land I was born, the place that people like to tell me is home. Home?... This country I called home for much of my life. Where I struggled, where I thrived. Where I became the man I am today. This is not a soppy story about my life or my childhood. I've told that story and closed that chapter of my life. Just like this country has entered a new era. New leaders, new monarchs and the worst recession in 100 years. I emigrate to Canada and all of this happens? I didn't think you would miss me that much. Despite everything that has gone on, there is nothing quite like this feeling of home but there is danger in that because I went back to my home city. I saw friends, family and people I hadn't see in years. It was familiar but refreshing. There is comfort in familiarity. That is what this place is to me, comfortable. I hate being comfortable. I hate being content. It brings bad tendencies, it brings complacency and although I now hold a belt. This is not my last dance, one last belt for a legend. This is a symbol. A symbol to remind FWA the kind of man I am. I don't care for wins and losses, I'm a big match competitor. I raise to the big challenges that I face and Lights Out proved that.

Jackson looks backwards with his upper body and gestures behind him. The camera man focuses on the statue of Queen Victoria that is behind Jackson.​

It is no accident where I'm stood. I am between monuments that define the history of my home country...

...The statue of Queen Victoria, the second most famous Queen...

We see the white statue of Victoria towering over Jackson before Jackson nudges his head to the right. The camera quickly pans over to the right of Jackson.

… and the Princess Diana memorial garden...

We can't see into the garden but we can see the hedges on the slight grass incline to the right. There are a few members of FWA staff milling about near the fence that protects the grass. The camera focuses back on Jackson.

They are historic figures in this country, just like me but we will get to them. Did you know that from this part of Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace and Downing Street are within 3 miles of us. The power and history you can feel courses through you but I didn't come here just because of the show. I love history. I love this stuff. That's why I dressed as Napoleon Bonaparte when I walked out at Back in Business as a world champion, with a song in his honour. The weapons they held were power but they held power in different ways. Historically amazing but right now I don't care about who sits on those seats of power because they are not using it correctly. They only care about holding onto their power, doing whatever they can to ensure they keep it. My people is for the people, my power is for the greater good. My power is the new era of television. My message for the masses. My gift to the world however, these are symbols of power that show you that all sins are forgotten if you are famous, if you are rich and if you are powerful.

Jackson does a full turn and looks up in admiration at the statue of Queen Victoria. Jackson studies the details of the statue and is overcome with some emotion looking at it.

The camera man coughs to try and get Jackson attention.

“Phil-”

Jackson snaps back into the reality, still with a glint of emotion in his eyes.

Queen Victoria was even known as the Grandmother of Europe but she was a ruthless expander of the British Empire. The ruthless power hungry Queen, now memorialised and beloved in the most famous park in the country and that was without the modern propaganda machines that exist today. Her power was the biggest economy in the world. It was easy to be beloved back then because our sins were hidden and we memorialised them for it. Even I admire our grandmother of Europe. The original “The Queen”. A great woman.

Jackson shifts his body to the right and looks over at the edge of the memorial garden. Jackson is slightly less overcome with emotion but is respectful of what he is looking at.

Diana, that's different. She was beloved. She is not the villain of this story. Even America loved her. She was genuine to the people but the royal family were not too keen on her normality because that was her power. She had the people and the press in her hands and her power was her authenticity. Royals maybe did not like that but hey, I'm not one for conspiracies but it was all too convenient that she was out of the picture and this in front of our great queen, is not the place. What this place is, is a monument to power, to the empire that once spread across the globe. They ran the world, like countries these days *think* they do. Look around the park and everything is a memorial to some great English person. Soapboxes where Orwell and Marx used to speak. Art Galleries and the former home of many great royals. I've spent many hours here already and not because I have too.

Jackson has a genuine smile on his face looking around at Hyde Park around him, seemingly overcome by a sense of national pride and excitement to be wrestling in front of British fans again.

This memorial to former British power is all that we have left. What do we have now? No more empire. They gave it all up and are now squabbling over any amount of power that remains and they aren't even very good at it. They are tearing each other apart over nothing. At least FWA Climaxxxx has a winner and not a best runner up winning. This country has no idea about power, no-one has any idea. All the power is behind the scenes. The people calling the shots are not visible to them. They are behind the curtain and I want to make the promise that I would never deceive like that. I will be clear with my intentions because I don't shy away from using my greatest weapon.

Jackson smirks and points to his mouth.

FWA does not forget my sins, how I betrayed them by joining CWA in the invasion, how I ruled FWA through being the biggest asshole imaginable and so much more but I was a trailblazer, I changed FWA forever and the “powers” of FWA remember my sins, so I am held back from the hall of fame. I have been a future hall of famer for 5 years. Where were they in my struggles? When I needed them? Non-existent. I gave everything to them and I got nothing because the power said so. I was no longer a problem because I could no longer betray them, I could no longer hurt them and I could no longer dominate this company. Yet, years later, Rupert Watkins proved that nothing changed. Despite all the things I have done, the fans will forgive my sins because there is no-one more untouchable on the planet than an athlete who knows not to say stupid stuff. I will be absolved of whatever I have done because I have earned that. The power in FWA sits with the winner of the Climaxxx, the power of a world title match. Right now, though, that is a long way off and I proudly hold the FWA Television title. No legal challenge can change that. This is the premier belt in the FWA behind only the world title. Why you ask? Because of the man who holds it. My power is in my status, in my reputation and I have elevated this belt by it simply being in my presence. The premier belt of FWA around my waist and another tick on my career. Another new accomplishment and a challenger already awaits. I, like all the champions, will need to pull double duty and when the time comes, I will need to face Vampyra. Another faceless no name who has no pride in who they are. Hidden away from public eye because they fear failure. Like all the other masked wrestlers. It isn't mystique, it isn't mind games, it isn't “honour”. My face stands behind my successes and my failures. I don't shy away from it but there will be a time when Vampyra will need to look me in the eyes and see I have no fear. I have nothing to fear. That is also enough speaking about a future opponent. It is day one of the FWA Climaxxx, a new challenge for me. A new opportunity and a free elevator ride up the mountain to face the FWA World Champion.

Jackson looks at the title on his shoulder and smiles. He had almost forgotten the belt having been wrapped up in the excitement he is feeling.

Regardless of who wins, they hold power. I've already said that and power comes in many forms and is different for everyone. For me, I want to win because I want to make one last run at the top, Danny will want to win because he can choose an opponent for his belt. This is a massive advantage. Everyone else can skip the queue and try and seize the day. I intend for that to be me, but that will be said by every single person who is in the tournament. They all have the same delusion that success is given to the one who says they will achieve it more than anyone else. I don't doubt anyone in this tournament and whether they are a champion or not, they have earned this but I will be facing a champion. The North American Champion, who seemingly got the week off from defending it at Lights Out. America loved it, you winning the belt. Austin loved it. The sweetheart and little sister of FWA yet again beloved for no reason but Lizzie, you are entering my domain. You aren't Britain's little sister, like you are Americas. A country where I should have a statue next to Victoria because I am the icon of this country. The 21st century deity, where I am the God of television, the God of entertainment and the last great hope for professional wrestling in this country. There is no song and dance from that can make it any clearer. You are going to feel what I feel every single week. A crowd at my back, thousands of miles from home. It is a tough environment, not like when you lose your glow-sticks, this is real. People booing you, wanting to see you fail. They want to see you be beaten up. Are you ready for that? The thought of seeing thousands people waiting for your demise. For me, it's why I wake up in the morning. I love it. For you? Well let's find out whether you have the mental fortitude to enter my world. To enter the world of a legend, who has not wrestled in his home country in almost 5 years. You're entering one of the most difficult environments in pro wrestler. A British wrestler at home. I can talk all I want about all the negatives because it is my country and although this is no longer home, it is my land. Welcome to the madhouse that is British Pro Wrestling.

Jackson spreads his arms and imagines the atmosphere of the crowd. He mutters

Welcome back...Welcome back...

UK...CLAP CLAP...UK...

Jackson smiles. He has truly missed his home country as much as he doesn't like to show it. Jackson smiles again.

There is stuff here for you as well. This is home of the thing you love the most, other than me. Raves. This country love them and they grew them in popularity. I don't get it. Never have, never will. Partying in some abandoned building in the middle of nowhere, off your face on whatever you get your hands while trespassing on private property before the police would come in and smash skulls...sounds...delightful... I'm sure if you go about 15 miles in either direction you'll find something. Anyway despite all that, somehow you've had success? I guess something of use came out of that environment. I guess they are different in the USA. I'm not an expert in the field. I am an expert in professional wrestling. I have been doing training for more than half my life. I have been professional for more than a third. The ring is my domain. The words are my weapons...sorry, Chris...that soften you up ahead of it. North American Champion is nothing to sniff at. I've held that belt twice it was what elevated me from just another guy to someone to be watched. I did it with my mentor at my side. The Syndicate taught me not just how to win gold but how to hold gold. I don't need a little lackey at my side to ensure success. I have always believed in doing your own dirty business, doing the tough job yourself. I don't shy away from that. I will fight and claw my way through my enemies because I believe in doing things myself. I don't need anyone at my side because they are incapable of being Phillip A. Jackson. I don't need some voice gnawing at me thinking that I am helping them. Trying to pollute you with their thoughts and needs and wants. History only remembers the individuals. History does not care for lackeys. Power does not get held by those second in command. For one week only, I have the fans on my side. I have the people in my corner. For one week only, I will make the exception because they will not stop me from doing what I do best. Cleansing FWA from those who are not worthy. As the oracle of the pure, the master of ceremonies of the new era of television and the cleanser. I do not have much sympathy for your “hobbies” it is an impure, dirty form of partying that I shall never tolerate. Is that really what we want representing the FWA? It is not within the scope of tolerance for the purity of FWA or for the new era of television. Do you want to upset me when I am in such a *good* mood. I have seen two great women of history in some capacity and they are the pillars in which all should be held. Regardless of their gender. They were icons of their time and held power because of it. They were admired by the people, the masses and that is why they were successful and tonight Champion versus Champion on the opening night of the Climaxxx, I can't wait because I am admired by the people and Lizzie, I will see you in the madhouse.

Jackson points behind the camera and you can see the frame of the FWA set being set up across the round pond.

​

 

[The Golden One]

A breeze rips through Lake Eola in downtown Orlando, where XYZ is currently sitting under a gazebo next to the lake. The weather in Central Florida in November is ideal, a cool 68 degrees with scattered clouds that cannot hide the bright Florida sunlight.

XYZ is wearing his usual attire, a green cape tied around his neck, plus a plain white T-shirt with sparkling rainbow glitter. He also has short running shorts going down half his thighs. The entire “look” is silly, but X doesn’t really give it much thought.

His mind is elsewhere, particularly on the person he’s to meet. X looks contemplative, his eyes staring down to his Birkenstock sandals before gazing at the swans floating nearby in the lake. Then he looks out to the north of the lake, where XYZ spots the nearly broken-down Magic School Bus parked in the grass under the most-northward oak tree in Lake Eola park. No one in the park seems to mind this rusty and paint-scraped school bus parked in the grass, obviously illegal, and separate from the nearby street parking. It stands out like a sore thumb, but no one pays any attention. X chalks it up to people choosing to ignore it. Maybe it’s just too outlandish and awkward for them to face it directly.

Again, XYZ thinks about the man he’s supposed to meet. Any second now.

As if the timing was planned, X perks up as he looks out across the nearby grass field. Walking towards him is a familiar face. Separating this person and X is a walking path filled with Sunday morning walkers in Orlando. The person coming toward XYZ seems to glide through the crowd of walkers going directionally across from him. The crowd doesn’t slow his momentum, almost like he’s a ghost moving through the bodies of walkers, but more likely someone excitedly and quickly maneuvering through a crowd with an intent focus on reaching a destination.

“Big AL! My friend! My comrade! The original XYZite!”

“X! It’s good to see you. Been a while.”

Big Al and X embrace under the gazebo. A few of the walkers glance towards the pair but continue on, whispering to one another if they are in a pair or group.

Big Al looks quite thin, at least in comparison to how he looked the last time we saw him. It’s quite understandable, though, considering Big Al finished 12 rounds of chemotherapy for lung cancer. Remarkably, the chemotherapy worked! The cancer shrank enough for surgery.

Then the surgery happened. Big Al got two lobes of his right lung removed, with doctors taking out an entire chunk of diseased tissue. There were no more signs of cancer. The disease was “in remission,” to use medical terminology.

Big Al is on his way to being a cancer survivor! He dropped more than 55 pounds since the start of his chemotherapy. He was down from 364 pounds to a slim 306!

And he had no desire of returning to his previous weight. Big Al was in the gym or on the treadmill five days a week, trying to rebuild his energy and strength after surgery. Big Al’s main concern is a lack of breath, especially when trying to work out or walk on the treadmill, but doctors say this is common for people after lung surgery.

“X, I can’t thank you enough for bein’ a friend and bein’ supportive. You called every day. You texted every day. You offered to come with me to doctor visits. You told me what to ask about and how I should prepare for stuff.

Without you, I couldn’t have made it.”

XYZ feels a sense of companionship toward Big Al like never before. Big Al’s words to him and his depiction of the importance of XYZ’s friendship is making X appreciate Big Al’s place in his life. XYZ just wants to be wanted – doesn’t everyone? – and wants to feel he is having an impact on people’s lives. Big Al expressed to him, emphatically, that X is having a major positive impact.

XYZ needs Big Al because he needs someone to need him. Big Al needs X, so X needs Big Al for that reason.

And others.

X wasn’t the only one offering companionship and help and advice. Big Al was doing the same. Big Al’s loyalty the past few weeks has not gone unnoticed. X has fallen into a bit of a rut in the FWA, taking a few losses in consecutive matches, after nearly winning the X Championship on two occasions against Alyster Black.

X feels out of place, again, in the FWA, largely because he doesn’t have Big Al every day as a stable presence. He doesn’t feel as confident to go into interstellar fights with muckrats and dingbots on other planets and in other solar systems without Big Al’s aide.

And he doesn’t feel he is full or complete enough to compete at the highest level in the FWA.

So, XYZ doesn’t just need Big Al because X wants to feel needed. He needs Big Al because Big Al is needed. Big Al is X’s best friend. And while he has been land-locked undergoing chemotherapy to treat his lung cancer, and while he had been preparing for and having surgery done to remove two lobes of his right lung, Big Al has not been able to join X.

“Nate Savage, huh?”

“I feel like I haven’t been whole, Al, since you’ve been … away. Now I feel like the air is back in the gulf of the sands. I feel the turtles have their full shells. I feel the fur is back on the brown grizzly bears. The tree bark is thick and sturdy. The burger is meaty. The lightning bolt is zapped with electricity of ten thousand countries from different light years.

I feel right, Al. I feel like a friend has returned to my side. There is a feeling like a goat who can spit fire. I have a desire to soar a rocket ship deep into the heart of the earth.

So, yeah, Nate Savage.”

“Nate Savage is getting your X Championship shot.”

“Nate Savage is keeping it warm.

With Big Al back and the cancer gone … there’s a sense of everything just … glowing. The earth is downhill now. I can sprint as fast as the jaguar with eight legs! I can LEAP … over entire MOUNTAINS FILLED WITH SANDSTONES FROM THE MAGNA CARTA!”

“I get it, X. I get it! You’re happy I’m back.”

Big Al says this with a wide smile on his face. X returns it with his own smile.

“I’m happy the XYZites are in full form. Do you know Jeremy Best and his … troubles with the Undisputed Alliance?”

“I’ve kept up, X.”

“Then we do this for you … for Jeremy … and for a message: that the world will turn back our way. It will turn back the way of the downtrodden, of the men and women and children and sheep and spiders and particles and red-headed cranes who cannot get an edge in this world. It’s for all of us looking for a light amid the consistent darkness.

This is for … the electrical car that can create gasoline in its trunk. So fly with me and the dolphins, Big Al. Fly with me once again. Win or lose on Fallout, we will let the world know that we are back to our true Charizard form when we face Nate Savage.”

“I’m in, X.

And I’m not going anywhere.”

X then points his finger to the beaten-down Magic School Bus. With a smile, XYZ has his marching orders ready.

"Then we must board the bus and head our way to Freetown Chriiiiistiana! It's a land of small folk and shops and people fighting to make their way. It's a place of people like US! It's a place of unfortunate and misguided. They are looking for a fighter, for a hero, for a soldier to stand on top of the rocks and shout, 'WE WILL KEEP GOING! ONE STEP IN FRONT OF THE OTHER! WE WILL ALWAYS GO FORWARD! WE ARE FREETOWNERS!'

So, we go to Freetown for ... them. Wherever they are."

"You've kept the Magic School Bus up, huh? How'd you manage that without me? How'd you keep it going up into space without my mechanic skills? You don't know how to change a carburetor any better than you know how to win the X Championship."

X thinks of Alyster Black and the two misses he had for his first singles championship belt in the FWA. He thinks of how close he was to taking down one of the best X Champions ever. He thinks to how people admired his performance, but then XYZ thinks about how he remains empty-handed.

In the recent weeks, this thought brought XYZ down -- because Big Al wasn't his companion to lift him back up. X needs someone to lift him up when these negative thoughts come in.

Now? This thought of the near-misses only motivates him.​