Post by Deleted on Aug 13, 2019 17:50:35 GMT -6
A light shines down onto a doorway in an otherwise darkened alley. A puddle beneath the light reflects the world around us, and within it, we see a shape that could be not just a man, but our man. In a matter of seconds, our attention is drawn from the murky puddle by the door, to the door itself, as it creaks open. From behind it, two women emerge. One, a blonde who looks more like she’d be found in a courthouse than a dark alleyway, and the other, a heavily tattooed woman with multiple piercings on her face, and most likely elswhere. The two kiss heavily for a good amount of time, before breaking apart and saying their goodbyes. As the short haired pin cushion watches the stuffy lipstick walk away, a voice pierces the silence and damn near scares the pincushion into an early grave.
“She was cute.” Our man said, leaning against the wall next to the woman who was screaming, and is now gazing up at him with shock.
“...boss?” she said, throwing her arms around him happily. The tightness of the hug told him she had missed him, that she was genuinely happy to see him. This was not something he was prepared for. “I thought you were dead!”
“No. Close a few times.” He smiled, but the truth of the matter was that he had not only come close, he had chased the odds constantly and yet consistently somehow defied them. Every man dies, he told himself. Few for good reasoning. The reason he had was as noble as any he could have hoped to die for, despite being very pleased that he didn’t.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Here. there.”
“...It’s good to see you.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry to do this, surprise you like this...But I need a couple of favors.” He could think of at least 5 reasons why she’d turn her back. None of which began with a hug that tight. And none of which were coming to mind for her.
“Name ‘em.” She said, with a smile that could light up an alleyway, had the one above the door not been doing a bang up job. She never told him this, but if there was ever a man who her bitter lesbian heart could ever say it truly loved, it would be him. He wasn’t always the nicest guy, he had a temper and didn’t care much for controlling it, and his mouth was often faster than the filter most would have in any given situation. But he was in most ways that counted, a really good man. As long as he wasn’t hopped up on coke.
“First, I need to use your shower.”
“I can tell that, yes.”
“Second, I need you to brush your teeth because you reek of pussy.”
“I always reek of pussy.”
The two share a laugh and exchange pleasantries as they walk inside. We quickly see the outside versus the inside is an example of why you should never judge a book by its cover, or a building by its interior. Clean lines, perfeclty balanced paint colors (as all rooms should be), and fancy furniture, interspersed with high concept art that no one but a gothy lesbian would dare pay for, sat next to old pieces of furniture secured through the sale of some expired senior’s money hungry children, all neatly placed about the open floor building. Our man had to give it to her, She had taste. Not any taste worth having, but taste nonetheless.
“Wow. You really fixed this place up.”
She smiled, two marlboro lights clenched between her teeth as she applied the flame of a very nice golden lighter. “Had a lot of time the last 5 years, you gone and all.”
“Yea, especially since you sold the club I gave you.”
She lost her smile. It was 5 years ago when he picked up and hauled off. He had left her holding the ball. It was a nice ball, and she knew how to handle it. One of the only balls she had ever. She was the best at running the club he had ever seen. Even his brother, who had sold to him, didn’t bring in as much money as she did. It was income he was banking on having for the rest of his life. “Why.” he asked, accepting the lit cigarette from her.
“Few reasons. One, you were gone. It wasn’t the same. I wasn’t running it for you anymore. I was running it for me. And it wasn’t for me. Two, The industry has changed. We became too well known. Things were taking a turn and I saw it coming. So I thought it was time to move on. Dragged my feet a little longer than I should have, to be honest. And then I got an offer. Some super fan with a shit ton of money, who really wanted to be connected to it. Made sense.”
He stared at her. She as nervous, as well she should be. She had sold the one thing he had not given up completely. She wasn’t scared though. She knew he’d given her that place because he trusted her. As well he should.
“Listen, You made the call I left you in place to make, And it seems like you made some money, if this shitty art is any indicator.”
“Correction. We made money.”
She took a deep drag off the cigarette, and kept it tight between her teeth, as she opened a drawer in a nearby desk and pulled out an accordion file holder. “The deal I made was for way more than the club was worth. And seeing as the guy was a ‘super fan’, I got him to agree to pay to keep the name. His lawyers almost shit when he agreed. But, I did right by you. Every dime of your share is in your account. Promise.”
He nodded, Taking a puff. “Glad to hear I’m not broke.”
She exhaled a large cloud. “Yeah. thing is. You’re really...not broke.”
The two locked eyes. 5 years ago he’d made a mistake. A mistake he hated himself for committing, almost as much as everyone else hated him. He had tried to make it right to all he had effected. Some were harder to apologize to than others, it would seem. He had spent a lifetime obtaining objects worth seeing. And he had sold them. All. In order to make things at least a little bit right. And then to add to it, the mother fucker didn’t even take it.
“Sonova..” He began, but was quickly interrupted.
“Relax! I took care of it. Soon as I realized he wasn’t cashing that check, I took the money and put it into a trust for his kids. He can turn down your money all he wants, but their Uncle is gonna give them a very nice 18th birthday present, and he can’t do shit about it.”
“....I’m astonished.” But truly he wasn’t. She had always been this smart. How she did it alone...
“Don’t be. I had some help.” Who had helped her and why was a question she didn’t want to answer. But thankfully for her, it was a question he didn’t want to ask.
“Bravo, Nez. Really. You’re probably the best employee I’ve ever had.”
“And...What else?”
He nodded, Reaching into the inside pocket of his cut, he pulled out a very thick wad of pamphlets, covered in dust and wrapped in an old rubber band. From the exchange we can see that these are all Narcotics Anonymous meeting schedules. Fanning through them, Nez sees all the states and cities he’s stopped in, and she smiles with pride.
“Still clean?”
“...Not physically, obviously. But yes. Not even a sniff.”
“I’m proud of you. 5 years is a long time for people like us. I’ve got 10, but whatever.”
“I couldn’t have done it without ya. You’re a good employee, but you’re an amazing sponsor.”
“That’s cause for celebration. I got some 12 year old scotch I’ve been dying to open. This is as good as any other reason I was gonna find. You shower, and I’ll get some food ordered up.”
There were many people, when he first joined NA, that wanted to be connected with him. He had a name that even in the best anonymity circles, held weight. He had told himself he would never bother with any of them. He’d do what he was there to do and that’s that. No friendships, no connections, and for fuck sure no sex. He was warned before he even stepped through the door, if you fish in polluted waters, you catch polluted fish. So he’d do it for himself, by himself. And then he saw Nez.
Nez who had started as a runner for him the same day he took over the club. Nez who moved up to bartender only a month later, simply because she was dependable. Nez, who never drank on the job, but knew how to have a good time outside of it. She had been an addict the entire time he knew her, and she never said a word. Even when she saw him in the throws of it, she stayed out of his business by minding her own. That was someone who could keep her mouth shut when she had to. That was someone worth trusting.
“Alright. Be out in a minute.” He said, walking toward the bathroom. Catching a glimpse of himself in a nearby metallic sculpture of something a child has nightmares about, he stopped. “...you own a buzzer?”
“Under the sink. Use it for my pubes. Just fyi.”
The mirror in front our man is fogged over in the steam filled bathroom. Wiping it with his hand, he looks at the clean, for the first time in forever, face staring back. His hair wet from the shower, and matted from the road. His beard, long and scraggly, and uneven in multiple spots. Tugging at both, he turns on the clippers, and begins the work he’s got cut out for himself.
“When I was a kid, I was thrown into a lot of activities. Soccer, Baseball, the normal ones. Also, though. Sailing. My father was a big boat guy, and insisted that I be the same. So I’d spend most of my weekends, on the ocean, in a walker bay, racing other kids of well to do means. There were always the kids who had been there forever. The ones who knew what a sloop and a jib was. Who could work their rutter like it was part of them. The rest of us always wondered why they’d even bother showing up. What was the point of bothering to race, when it would be so easy for you to win? I think I’m starting to get it.”
With a pass of the buzzer, he takes off a large chunk of the left side of the beard. It falls to the sink and sticks to the slick porcelain. He attacks it again but this time on the right.
“I knew the second I saw you, Solomon Whothefuckever, that you were more than meets the eye. You were uncomfortable in the skin you were in, and it showed. I knew it was only a matter of time before you revealed yourself to be someone else. Something else. Of course, I expected it to come after a victory. But the plans of mice and men...Either way, Let me be the first to say this, Necro: I don’t give a fuck about your name, I’ve already got your number.”
The beard now gone, the buzzer is then applied to his head, and large almost dreadlock like strips of hair begin to fall at his feet. He pushes onward, revealing more and more of the man beneath, as the voice continues.
“You wanted a fresh start. You wanted to come here, and go on a tear, and let people think this was someone new. Like King did with Bachman, or so many of us have done with alternate personas. Someone threw a me sized wrench into the cogs of that plan, tho, didn’t they? Guess you can thank the booking team for that. Booking.FU, as it seems. I’m sure shedding the made up monicker you gave yourself was joyful. To be back to the man you’d been before, and were desperate to be again. I’m sure that feels amazing. But I also know that only a piece of shit would pretend to hide who was for some sort of gratifying reveal later. I also know you think the necro reveal cancels out the loss as Solomn.. I know you’re gonna tell everyone that you didn’t get pinned, blah blah. But you and I both know that you know better. I also know that you’re now aware of a very important fact. A fact that you and Drake learned, and a lot of others are about to learn. I was not, and am not fighting you. You, dear legend, however you are named, are fighting me.”
“It’s a very important distinction. Let’s hope either of your personalities are smart enough to make it.”
With one more pass of the buzzer, Our man finds the image before him satisfying, and shuts the buzzer off. He rests the buzzer on the sink, and returns to the shower to wash off the hair that has fallen onto his shoulders and back. Emerging from the bathroom in a towel, he walks into the kitchen area to find his friend Nez setting out salads from a large green bag.
“Wow. You look like you again.”
“Thanks. Been awhile since I wasn’t covered by a thick layer of dust.”
“No wonder you were able to beat Frost and Drake. The smell alone..”
“Funny.”
“I got some clothes on that chair for you. I’d like to eat without seeing the outline of your penis. IF you don’t mind.”
“You lesbians.”
Our man, with a mouth full of salad walks over to the chair and picks up a pair of basketball shorts. Sliding them on under the towel, he looks down at the t-shirt and sees the words “victory or Valhalla” on them. He looks down at the front of the shirt and sees a very powerful looking blonde woman standing on a turnbuckle. He thinks about how this might get blurred for copyright reasons, but then remembers that he doesn’t actually give a fuck, and puts the shirt on.
“So boss, I was thinking that maybe I could help you prepare for your match. I could print out a list of the people you’re facing, and then I could read them off, one at a time, and you could talk all about them. Wouldn’t that be great!?”
The two go silent for a second and then laugh a bit. Our man swallows hard, and takes a drink off a glass of water that’s been on the table literally the entire time.
“Don’t be mean. Some people need shit like that. Terrible, horrible people who will never make it in this business…”
“Or any other business…”
“But still...people.”
The road behind was long, and difficult. And filled with many interactions, none he would dare refer to as pleasant. While there was still much to be done, and much to become, it was nice to have this moment. There would be far fewer pleasant ones, he was sure. And in ways he could never even begin to explain, he was very much looking forward to them. They finished their food, and took to the roof of the building. The bottle of scotch passing back and forth, and cigarettes lit with the cigarette before it. Stories told, and memories recanted. Smiling and staring off into the night sky, their voices melt away, as one from beyond our sight calls out.
“Being the kind of person I am, who I was raised to be, who I was sculpted to become, and who I grew into, I’m somewhat of an expert at quite a few things. First and foremost, is spotting the difference between one person, and another. It’s a hobby that doesn’t usually serve me outside of this industry. Thankfully, it’s worth it’s weight in gold inside it. Especially in a confrontation such as this, where you have...well...The likes of most you. I might not know who you are, but it doesn’t take long for me to figure out what you are, and the difference between us. I’ve made my mistakes, as have guys like Dane Preston. We’ve been slaves to that which owns us. But like Dane, I’ve cleaned up. And that’s what this is, really. The Cleaned Up Versus The Washed Up.”
“This is not the chance you believe it to be. This suitcase, this match, it is not for you. It is in spite of you. In spite of who you’ve shown yourselves to be, and how you’ve chosen to behave, you’ve been placed in this match with a handful of fucking professionals. People who came here because they don’t want to be at the top. They already are. You are not opponents for these people. You are speed bumps. You are more likened to several tires we need to run through than a man, or woman, we need to fight. The bad news, is that you won’t believe me. The good news is, you don’t have to. The worse news is that you’re going to.”
“It doesn’t matter which of us grabs the briefcase, whether it's Nocturnal, Dane, myself, or the one or two others who actually matter. That’s just a detail.What this is truly about is removing that which should not be allowed to be. Might as well fucking call this a Roundup, because this is a weeding.”
“Those who will lead NEW, against those who will leave NEW. I know which side I’ll be on. Do you?”
We pan away from the two friends seated on the roof, discussing things beyond our ability to hear. We concentrate on the moon, large and full. It hangs in the perfectly clear night sky, illuminating everything below. But that moon quickly changes form, and becomes that of a single headlight. Panning up from that headlight, we see the face of a man we’ve seen before. A handlebar mustache on his face, a gun in his waist, and the word “Spatz” on his leather club cut. Dismounting from the bike, he charges into a bus station, and waiting is the rest of his gang with a 40 year old clerk who has now becoming a punching bag.
“New Jersey, Spatz. Dude got a bus to Jersey last week.”
“Well we know where’s gone…” said one voice, laughing in the way meth heads usually do. More of a guttural grunt than an actual laugh.
“Forget where he went. I know where he’s gonna be.”
We pan over to get a look at a tv in the bus station. A commercial for NEW’s first PPV Ascension plays and previews the on card matches, with a picture of Our Man Nomad, dead center.
“Mount up boys. Looks like we’re going to Iowa.”
The men hoot and holler, and exit the bus station quickly, leaving the clerk on the floor to crawl away terrified, and leaving us to the darkness from which we came.
“She was cute.” Our man said, leaning against the wall next to the woman who was screaming, and is now gazing up at him with shock.
“...boss?” she said, throwing her arms around him happily. The tightness of the hug told him she had missed him, that she was genuinely happy to see him. This was not something he was prepared for. “I thought you were dead!”
“No. Close a few times.” He smiled, but the truth of the matter was that he had not only come close, he had chased the odds constantly and yet consistently somehow defied them. Every man dies, he told himself. Few for good reasoning. The reason he had was as noble as any he could have hoped to die for, despite being very pleased that he didn’t.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Here. there.”
“...It’s good to see you.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry to do this, surprise you like this...But I need a couple of favors.” He could think of at least 5 reasons why she’d turn her back. None of which began with a hug that tight. And none of which were coming to mind for her.
“Name ‘em.” She said, with a smile that could light up an alleyway, had the one above the door not been doing a bang up job. She never told him this, but if there was ever a man who her bitter lesbian heart could ever say it truly loved, it would be him. He wasn’t always the nicest guy, he had a temper and didn’t care much for controlling it, and his mouth was often faster than the filter most would have in any given situation. But he was in most ways that counted, a really good man. As long as he wasn’t hopped up on coke.
“First, I need to use your shower.”
“I can tell that, yes.”
“Second, I need you to brush your teeth because you reek of pussy.”
“I always reek of pussy.”
The two share a laugh and exchange pleasantries as they walk inside. We quickly see the outside versus the inside is an example of why you should never judge a book by its cover, or a building by its interior. Clean lines, perfeclty balanced paint colors (as all rooms should be), and fancy furniture, interspersed with high concept art that no one but a gothy lesbian would dare pay for, sat next to old pieces of furniture secured through the sale of some expired senior’s money hungry children, all neatly placed about the open floor building. Our man had to give it to her, She had taste. Not any taste worth having, but taste nonetheless.
“Wow. You really fixed this place up.”
She smiled, two marlboro lights clenched between her teeth as she applied the flame of a very nice golden lighter. “Had a lot of time the last 5 years, you gone and all.”
“Yea, especially since you sold the club I gave you.”
She lost her smile. It was 5 years ago when he picked up and hauled off. He had left her holding the ball. It was a nice ball, and she knew how to handle it. One of the only balls she had ever. She was the best at running the club he had ever seen. Even his brother, who had sold to him, didn’t bring in as much money as she did. It was income he was banking on having for the rest of his life. “Why.” he asked, accepting the lit cigarette from her.
“Few reasons. One, you were gone. It wasn’t the same. I wasn’t running it for you anymore. I was running it for me. And it wasn’t for me. Two, The industry has changed. We became too well known. Things were taking a turn and I saw it coming. So I thought it was time to move on. Dragged my feet a little longer than I should have, to be honest. And then I got an offer. Some super fan with a shit ton of money, who really wanted to be connected to it. Made sense.”
He stared at her. She as nervous, as well she should be. She had sold the one thing he had not given up completely. She wasn’t scared though. She knew he’d given her that place because he trusted her. As well he should.
“Listen, You made the call I left you in place to make, And it seems like you made some money, if this shitty art is any indicator.”
“Correction. We made money.”
She took a deep drag off the cigarette, and kept it tight between her teeth, as she opened a drawer in a nearby desk and pulled out an accordion file holder. “The deal I made was for way more than the club was worth. And seeing as the guy was a ‘super fan’, I got him to agree to pay to keep the name. His lawyers almost shit when he agreed. But, I did right by you. Every dime of your share is in your account. Promise.”
He nodded, Taking a puff. “Glad to hear I’m not broke.”
She exhaled a large cloud. “Yeah. thing is. You’re really...not broke.”
The two locked eyes. 5 years ago he’d made a mistake. A mistake he hated himself for committing, almost as much as everyone else hated him. He had tried to make it right to all he had effected. Some were harder to apologize to than others, it would seem. He had spent a lifetime obtaining objects worth seeing. And he had sold them. All. In order to make things at least a little bit right. And then to add to it, the mother fucker didn’t even take it.
“Sonova..” He began, but was quickly interrupted.
“Relax! I took care of it. Soon as I realized he wasn’t cashing that check, I took the money and put it into a trust for his kids. He can turn down your money all he wants, but their Uncle is gonna give them a very nice 18th birthday present, and he can’t do shit about it.”
“....I’m astonished.” But truly he wasn’t. She had always been this smart. How she did it alone...
“Don’t be. I had some help.” Who had helped her and why was a question she didn’t want to answer. But thankfully for her, it was a question he didn’t want to ask.
“Bravo, Nez. Really. You’re probably the best employee I’ve ever had.”
“And...What else?”
He nodded, Reaching into the inside pocket of his cut, he pulled out a very thick wad of pamphlets, covered in dust and wrapped in an old rubber band. From the exchange we can see that these are all Narcotics Anonymous meeting schedules. Fanning through them, Nez sees all the states and cities he’s stopped in, and she smiles with pride.
“Still clean?”
“...Not physically, obviously. But yes. Not even a sniff.”
“I’m proud of you. 5 years is a long time for people like us. I’ve got 10, but whatever.”
“I couldn’t have done it without ya. You’re a good employee, but you’re an amazing sponsor.”
“That’s cause for celebration. I got some 12 year old scotch I’ve been dying to open. This is as good as any other reason I was gonna find. You shower, and I’ll get some food ordered up.”
There were many people, when he first joined NA, that wanted to be connected with him. He had a name that even in the best anonymity circles, held weight. He had told himself he would never bother with any of them. He’d do what he was there to do and that’s that. No friendships, no connections, and for fuck sure no sex. He was warned before he even stepped through the door, if you fish in polluted waters, you catch polluted fish. So he’d do it for himself, by himself. And then he saw Nez.
Nez who had started as a runner for him the same day he took over the club. Nez who moved up to bartender only a month later, simply because she was dependable. Nez, who never drank on the job, but knew how to have a good time outside of it. She had been an addict the entire time he knew her, and she never said a word. Even when she saw him in the throws of it, she stayed out of his business by minding her own. That was someone who could keep her mouth shut when she had to. That was someone worth trusting.
“Alright. Be out in a minute.” He said, walking toward the bathroom. Catching a glimpse of himself in a nearby metallic sculpture of something a child has nightmares about, he stopped. “...you own a buzzer?”
“Under the sink. Use it for my pubes. Just fyi.”
The mirror in front our man is fogged over in the steam filled bathroom. Wiping it with his hand, he looks at the clean, for the first time in forever, face staring back. His hair wet from the shower, and matted from the road. His beard, long and scraggly, and uneven in multiple spots. Tugging at both, he turns on the clippers, and begins the work he’s got cut out for himself.
“When I was a kid, I was thrown into a lot of activities. Soccer, Baseball, the normal ones. Also, though. Sailing. My father was a big boat guy, and insisted that I be the same. So I’d spend most of my weekends, on the ocean, in a walker bay, racing other kids of well to do means. There were always the kids who had been there forever. The ones who knew what a sloop and a jib was. Who could work their rutter like it was part of them. The rest of us always wondered why they’d even bother showing up. What was the point of bothering to race, when it would be so easy for you to win? I think I’m starting to get it.”
With a pass of the buzzer, he takes off a large chunk of the left side of the beard. It falls to the sink and sticks to the slick porcelain. He attacks it again but this time on the right.
“I knew the second I saw you, Solomon Whothefuckever, that you were more than meets the eye. You were uncomfortable in the skin you were in, and it showed. I knew it was only a matter of time before you revealed yourself to be someone else. Something else. Of course, I expected it to come after a victory. But the plans of mice and men...Either way, Let me be the first to say this, Necro: I don’t give a fuck about your name, I’ve already got your number.”
The beard now gone, the buzzer is then applied to his head, and large almost dreadlock like strips of hair begin to fall at his feet. He pushes onward, revealing more and more of the man beneath, as the voice continues.
“You wanted a fresh start. You wanted to come here, and go on a tear, and let people think this was someone new. Like King did with Bachman, or so many of us have done with alternate personas. Someone threw a me sized wrench into the cogs of that plan, tho, didn’t they? Guess you can thank the booking team for that. Booking.FU, as it seems. I’m sure shedding the made up monicker you gave yourself was joyful. To be back to the man you’d been before, and were desperate to be again. I’m sure that feels amazing. But I also know that only a piece of shit would pretend to hide who was for some sort of gratifying reveal later. I also know you think the necro reveal cancels out the loss as Solomn.. I know you’re gonna tell everyone that you didn’t get pinned, blah blah. But you and I both know that you know better. I also know that you’re now aware of a very important fact. A fact that you and Drake learned, and a lot of others are about to learn. I was not, and am not fighting you. You, dear legend, however you are named, are fighting me.”
“It’s a very important distinction. Let’s hope either of your personalities are smart enough to make it.”
With one more pass of the buzzer, Our man finds the image before him satisfying, and shuts the buzzer off. He rests the buzzer on the sink, and returns to the shower to wash off the hair that has fallen onto his shoulders and back. Emerging from the bathroom in a towel, he walks into the kitchen area to find his friend Nez setting out salads from a large green bag.
“Wow. You look like you again.”
“Thanks. Been awhile since I wasn’t covered by a thick layer of dust.”
“No wonder you were able to beat Frost and Drake. The smell alone..”
“Funny.”
“I got some clothes on that chair for you. I’d like to eat without seeing the outline of your penis. IF you don’t mind.”
“You lesbians.”
Our man, with a mouth full of salad walks over to the chair and picks up a pair of basketball shorts. Sliding them on under the towel, he looks down at the t-shirt and sees the words “victory or Valhalla” on them. He looks down at the front of the shirt and sees a very powerful looking blonde woman standing on a turnbuckle. He thinks about how this might get blurred for copyright reasons, but then remembers that he doesn’t actually give a fuck, and puts the shirt on.
“So boss, I was thinking that maybe I could help you prepare for your match. I could print out a list of the people you’re facing, and then I could read them off, one at a time, and you could talk all about them. Wouldn’t that be great!?”
The two go silent for a second and then laugh a bit. Our man swallows hard, and takes a drink off a glass of water that’s been on the table literally the entire time.
“Don’t be mean. Some people need shit like that. Terrible, horrible people who will never make it in this business…”
“Or any other business…”
“But still...people.”
The road behind was long, and difficult. And filled with many interactions, none he would dare refer to as pleasant. While there was still much to be done, and much to become, it was nice to have this moment. There would be far fewer pleasant ones, he was sure. And in ways he could never even begin to explain, he was very much looking forward to them. They finished their food, and took to the roof of the building. The bottle of scotch passing back and forth, and cigarettes lit with the cigarette before it. Stories told, and memories recanted. Smiling and staring off into the night sky, their voices melt away, as one from beyond our sight calls out.
“Being the kind of person I am, who I was raised to be, who I was sculpted to become, and who I grew into, I’m somewhat of an expert at quite a few things. First and foremost, is spotting the difference between one person, and another. It’s a hobby that doesn’t usually serve me outside of this industry. Thankfully, it’s worth it’s weight in gold inside it. Especially in a confrontation such as this, where you have...well...The likes of most you. I might not know who you are, but it doesn’t take long for me to figure out what you are, and the difference between us. I’ve made my mistakes, as have guys like Dane Preston. We’ve been slaves to that which owns us. But like Dane, I’ve cleaned up. And that’s what this is, really. The Cleaned Up Versus The Washed Up.”
“This is not the chance you believe it to be. This suitcase, this match, it is not for you. It is in spite of you. In spite of who you’ve shown yourselves to be, and how you’ve chosen to behave, you’ve been placed in this match with a handful of fucking professionals. People who came here because they don’t want to be at the top. They already are. You are not opponents for these people. You are speed bumps. You are more likened to several tires we need to run through than a man, or woman, we need to fight. The bad news, is that you won’t believe me. The good news is, you don’t have to. The worse news is that you’re going to.”
“It doesn’t matter which of us grabs the briefcase, whether it's Nocturnal, Dane, myself, or the one or two others who actually matter. That’s just a detail.What this is truly about is removing that which should not be allowed to be. Might as well fucking call this a Roundup, because this is a weeding.”
“Those who will lead NEW, against those who will leave NEW. I know which side I’ll be on. Do you?”
We pan away from the two friends seated on the roof, discussing things beyond our ability to hear. We concentrate on the moon, large and full. It hangs in the perfectly clear night sky, illuminating everything below. But that moon quickly changes form, and becomes that of a single headlight. Panning up from that headlight, we see the face of a man we’ve seen before. A handlebar mustache on his face, a gun in his waist, and the word “Spatz” on his leather club cut. Dismounting from the bike, he charges into a bus station, and waiting is the rest of his gang with a 40 year old clerk who has now becoming a punching bag.
“New Jersey, Spatz. Dude got a bus to Jersey last week.”
“Well we know where’s gone…” said one voice, laughing in the way meth heads usually do. More of a guttural grunt than an actual laugh.
“Forget where he went. I know where he’s gonna be.”
We pan over to get a look at a tv in the bus station. A commercial for NEW’s first PPV Ascension plays and previews the on card matches, with a picture of Our Man Nomad, dead center.
“Mount up boys. Looks like we’re going to Iowa.”
The men hoot and holler, and exit the bus station quickly, leaving the clerk on the floor to crawl away terrified, and leaving us to the darkness from which we came.