Post by Deleted on Aug 16, 2019 13:11:14 GMT -6
The Ghost of Dathan’s Past
-
I haven’t slept since Ignite in Iowa.
Defeat has never come easy to me. Despite the fact I have made a career of improving and adapting through generations of wrestlers, despite the fact that my record is littered with defeats due to minor tactical errors; defeat has never been a pill I’ve enjoyed swallowing. Something about it – it sets my heart on fire. For the past few nights, I have stayed up, tense, unable to sleep, recalling my match. The error I made was simple – I underestimated Anicka. She was far craftier than I anticipated – it cost me the match. I figured this out on day one of no sleep…so why couldn’t I sleep?
Laying there, staring at the back of my eye-lids, I began to try to take control of my breathing. The goal was to slow my heart-rate to a creep, then I would be able to sleep. It’s funny, when you think about how simple things could be. It’s simple, decrease the heart rate and brain activity, and you’re golden. Of course, that’s not how anything works – ever. How do I know this? Because I’m sitting up at 2 in the morning, like a bitch.
Inhale…
Exhale…
Inhale…
Fuck – this isn’t working.
So what was keeping me up? My title opportunity against Scarlet Styles? The fact that this is my first pay-per-view match in years? Or maybe the fact that I have a losing record of 1-2? No. After my match, a graphic would come on the titantron with my name – erased to dust – shattered. Someone has made their intentions clear – the question is, who? Who would want to target me, who would want to take me out? Whoever courts war with me, I would hope that they know what they’re doing in starting this.
Because here’s the cold, hard facts: nobody outlasts me. Let’s talk about longevity. Who has been here since 2009 other than a handful of us hall of famers? I’ll wait. And the fundamental difference between myself and the majority of the hall of famers is that I adapt. As time goes on, I change my moveset, I improve my tactical and strategic skills, take more calculated risks. So whoever it who is targeting me, they know this. What they do not know, is that I too have a surprise.
For far too long, I have been going about my career the wrong way. I have been a singles wrestler exclusively, I have fought my own battles without anyone having my back. That is all about to change, you see, it’s about time that I utilized my friendships and favors that I have cultivated throughout my many years in the trenches. So whoever is targeting me, will have more than just myself to worry about – which is actually a good thing for them, because once I figure out who did this, I plan to break their arm. Hopefully someone will hold me back – but I wouldn’t count on it.
It makes me wonder, what if I’m going about my detective work all wrong? I have thought of the major players in New Edge – the usual suspects, but what if it’s a younger, hungrier talent who put me in his or her crosshairs? What about a person like Dane Preston or Deacon Horrible, maybe James Wolf? I truly hope that this is not the case – it would be my preference not to cripple and injure new talent. There are many teaching experiences, many self correcting errors in wrestling, however, this would not be one. As a child, I remember placing my hand on the stove and burning it, I would know not to do this in the future. However, if I were to jam a metal fork in an electrical socket, I would not make that mistake again – because I would be dead. I compare gunning after me more to the latter of the two examples.
Sitting up, I decide it’s time to abort mission: sleep. If I can’t nourish my body with sleep, I’m going to do the next best thing – eating. You see, recovery, especially when you’re shooting testosterone in your ass, is imperative. All too often, I’ve seen younger wrestlers burn out because they weren’t training and nourishing their body for war. You wouldn’t put Coca-Cola in a diesel truck, would you?
As I begin to vacate the room, I glance down at Rebecca, she’s laying, wearing shorts and one of my oversized t-shirts. My heart aches in agony at realization that if I do not make more money, she will be taken from me. Losers don’t make money. In my last three, I have been 1-2, bringing my motivation and my focus. Sure, it was true, I have taken my eye off the ball, I was originally slated to be headlining Ascension, facing Austen Impact for the world championship. After Austen retired, I was left without a direction for my career. I was simply showing up for my paycheck – and that’s a dangerous place to be.
I was always told that if you’re in this sport for the money, you should go home, it wasn’t for you. There are hungry, younger challengers coming up through the ranks. Each and everyone of these challengers are drooling at the thought of taking a bite of me. Paired with laser sharp focus and an insatiable appetite, maybe I was too old to fight them off? Weathered down by some of NEW’s most intense wars, maybe I just didn’t have it in me anymore?
Maybe it was time for me to pack my shit and head home?
And then do you know what I did? I think of everytime I gaze into the eyes of my daughter. This little person I created, and all she knows is me and Rebecca. And if I quit and Rebecca died – I would be the only role model she has – a quitter. And why did I quit? Because it was too hard? I could not imagine a world where I allow that to be the example I set for my daughter – that it was okay to give up.
My eyes drift from Rebecca to the doorway. Slowly, I walk through the doorway, through my dark house. I was shirtless, wearing only shorts, my body – littered with scars and tattoos. I continue walking through my kitchen, missing my trajectory of the refrigerator and entering my daughter’s room. Maria’s eyes shoot open, a whimper releasing from her delicate face. She was precious. I reached down, grabbing my child by her small, fragile body, lifting her up to my chest and pressing my lips to her warm, fuzzy forehead.
Let’s talk about being a father. When you’re a father, it is your job to protect your children at all costs. When Maria was born, I made a vow to myself and to her that I would never, ever allow her to go without having a father in her life – I would do everything to protect my own life to ensure she had a father for as long as humanly possible. That is what it is to be a good father and man. Do you know what a good father wouldn’t do? Get involved with the mafia, not take a dive during a boxing match and end up getting beaten down and killed by said gangsters. Unfortunately, for Scarlet, that was what her father did. She had no concept of how a man is supposed to protect her family until Jesse came into her life. Now, why am I thinking about this? Am I just being a dick? No. You see, Scarlet would turn to boxing as her outlet – the exact sport that got her father killed. You may ask, was this a tribute to her father? Or just a happy coincidence? I’m unsure, but, let me say this, if she tries to pull any shit in our match, she will end up exactly like him.
What this meant was: I had to keep going, and most importantly, I had to win, and win big – even if that means breaking the arm of Scarlet Styles. Of all the people in this business with the last name Styles, Scarlet is the one I respect the most. She is a fighter, born into a boxing family, turning into one of the greatest Trans-Atlantic Champions of all time. Many refer to the Trans-Atlantic Championship as the “Scarlet Title.” You see, as many girls were given tiaras in their youth, Scarlet was given boxing gloves and told to fight. She packs a lot of power in her right hand.
However, if memory serves me correct, the last time her and I encountered one another, I was victorious after arm-bar’ing her. In fact, I believe it was the referees who had to pull me off her, as I continued the hold. You see, when Scarlet was learning how to punch people in the face, I was learning how to master the art of tactical and systematic murder through use of scientific wrestling. There are only four strikes in boxing: the straight, the jab, the uppercut and the hook. There are a million different combos, however, there are only four different movements. There are a million submission holds, I plan to exhaust all of these in order to force a submission from Scarlet.
Scarlet is coming hot off a win over Johnny Stylez, however, part of me can’t help but wonder – how focused is Scarlet? How many times has she won the Trans-Atlantic title? Is she still hungry for it? Because similar to myself, Scarlet is a parent, she is moving a little slower in the ring. She is coming off hot wins, but I can’t help but feel as though she has been lulled into a false sense of security. Unless Scarlet is planning on trying to punch her way out of my arsenal of foot, arm, leg and neck locks, there is no stylistic game-plan that makes sense.
I will say – despite being a very solid competitor, I am confused about how Scarlet had a hall of fame career. Now, you may be thinking that I am going the “she slept with the boss” route, but I’m not. I don’t think Scarlet slept her way to the top – not one bit. Now, do I think that maybe, just maybe, she landed that right cross on Jesse Styles a couple dozen times when he over-cooked her dinner? Perhaps. If you ask me – Scarlet is like Mike Tyson meets an episode of Mob Wives. She’s never found a situation she couldn’t punch her way out of. She’s like Staten Island and Jersey Shore had a kid – and that kid moved to Chicago, Illinois and listened to too much Kid Rock with her husband.
Laying Maria down on her back, I plant one more kiss on her soft cheek. Immediately after doing so, I hear a violent knock at the door. Looks like I won’t be enjoying my sandwich on this night. With a turkey and Swiss all that fuels my mind, I race to where I heard the noise coming from. Passing throughout my house, I finally make it to the front door. Strange – if someone were to break in, you would think that they would not try to get through the front door. As I lean into the peephole, I am surprised to see a familiar face from my past.
Slowly, I creek the door open, my eyes falling upon those of current New Edge Wrestling X-Core champion, Shane Sparx. It is well documented, the history between myself and Mr. Sparx. Despite being on “opposite sides” of the locker room for our entire careers, we are good friends. It was Shane Sparx who prepared me for my world title match against Adrien Spectar all of those years ago. When others did not believe in me, Shane did – he had reached the mountain top, and helped me cultivate the skills to join him there. We can sit here and split hairs all day about his character, however, Sparx has proven his character enough to me.
“Shane Sparx, X-Core champion. I see you still dress like an Abercrombie model, but at least you haven’t missed a step in the ring, huh?” It was true – both parts. Shane stood before me, a purple button down shirt and urban style jeans, and if I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t think this man knew the difference between a wrist-lock and a wrist-watch. The man is a natural. In his hand, he held a piece of paper, that paper was integral in finding who targeted me last week.
This may be the part where many would believe that Shane was the person I have been referring to as my back up. This may be where all pieces of this story come together, where everything makes sense – but it isn’t. No, my surprise is reserved for when I need it. You see, with friends like the ones I have – as talented, meticulous and intelligent – I can afford to spare them a favor here or there in order to gain one from them later. This was that. Shane owed me a favor, and he is coming through for me here.
“Judas – erhm – James. You must be excited this week, you got a crack at some gold. You think you got Scar?” I fully opened the door, motioning for Shane to come in. I would offer him something to drink, but all we had was pediasure, red wine and lemon-lime Gatorade. Shane waltzed through my front door as I lead him to our living room. He would take a seat on the couch as I turned on the light. He was not carrying the X-Core belt, though, I could see the confidence oozing out of every pore in his body.
I longed for that confidence – the confidence of being champion.
As I take a seat across from Shane, I bite my lower lip before launching into what I had to say, “Scarlet’s distracted. Her husband has one of the biggest and certainly the most dangerous match of his career against that twat, Johnny Stylez. There’s a very good chance that Jess isn’t making out of that match alive. Our match comes before this, and Scarlet knows how dangerous Johnny is, especially under the rule-set they are competing in, wouldn’t you be occupied? If Scarlet takes her eye off the ball for even a second, she will not be hitting the SKO, it’ll be me knocking her unconscious. I imagine Scarlet as the type of girl who goes to a club until closing and fist pumps against the wall to Skrillex for the entire time. At first, it’s kind of cute, and charming, in a really, really trashy way – but then it turns pathetic. I imagine she has assaulted many cashiers at the supermarket leading up to this.” Shane’s lip curled, he saw the fire and passion in my eyes, he understood that this was the most motivated he has seen me in some time. “Why the supermarket?”
“I don’t fucking know, I cold see her dropping a cashier for giving her a losing scratch ticket. You have Al Env-“
“Let’s cut past the small talk, man.” Placing that small, white piece of paper on my coffee table, Shane lurched forward, making direct eye contact with me. He wanted something – the question was, what? Why else would he be here so late? I guess that was for me to find out. Reaching my left hand out, I grab the piece of paper with the several names listed on them – some being younger, new talent, others being seasoned veterans. Two names on the list jumped out at me almost immediately as suspects.
The first was Nick York. Nick York is a young talent, a hired gun – a mercenary if you will. This certainly makes it more difficult, as someone would have had to hire him in order for me to be targeted. So after beating an answer out of him, I would have to hunt down whoever ordered the hit. Also, use of the titantron does not seem like his MO.
That would bring me to the next name that I was very weary of: the returning Nocturnal. The bastard has returned to New Edge, and our history together speaks for itself. We were tag partners as well as bitter enemies, having a string of matches that would follow us through at least three different federations at six years. I can personally thank Nocturnal for at least six years taken off of my life. And now he’s back. What would his incentive be? Not sure, maybe to finish the job – but I also don’t believe that Nocturnal is a man who always needs an incentive to cast mayhem and destruction.
I glanced up at Shane who was now standing. I would go over the rest of the list and do the research later. Extending his hand, Shane smiled weakly. I would clasp Shane’s hand before shaking it. As I walked Shane to the door, I gave him a pat on the back before speaking in a hoarse whisper: “So – why are you really here, Shane?” He looked surprised, either that I was this perceptive, or that he was that obvious – to be fair, it was a combination of the two. I knew the reason he was here, because I knew that if I were in his shoes, I would do me a favor. All this sport is, is about positioning and leverage.
“I wanted to ask you for something. I wanted to ask you for a match. If we both win our match this week, I want a champion versus champion match, sometime down the line. Trans-Atlantic Champion versus the X-Core Champion. Think of the headlines and think of how much money you could make. Money for Reb-“
I placed my hand on Shane’s shoulder stopping him from speaking anymore. This was the match I wanted anyways, he didn’t have to sell me on it. Not only would it be a match against a competitor I actually respect, but it would be a match that would make me a lot of money – especially after I force Shane to tap. “Shane, all you ever had to do was ask. The answer is yes. But first, you get ready to take out Al, and I’ll put Scarlet down for a dirt-nap. Once these happen, we can talk to Jesse.” Smiling, Shane nods before vacating my household. As I close the door, I glance down at the list in my hand – so many names to run through, so many leads on where I can get my information – Shane was a miracle worker. He knew I just needed a start, now I can investigate – because I want to find my stalker before they find me…again. However, this would all have to wait after this weekend, because I had a Snooki to kill.
This weekend, Scarlet is going to wake up in the morning, brush her teeth with a Four-Loko, apply as much spray-tan solution to cover a house (enough so that she is the color of a tangerine), pop on her finest Ed Hardy t-shirt with ripped jeans, take out her hair extensions and put on oversized sunglasses. From there, she’ll jump into her Ford Escalade, throw some Iggy Azelea or Cardi-B on and race to the event. What she doesn’t know, is that she very well could be driving to her last wrestling match ever. You see, Hunter didn’t know his last match was two weeks ago – until I broke his arm. Because after this weekend, people will no longer call me “Fox-Catcher’ or “Kid Krisis,” they will call me the reigning, defending Trans Atlantic Champion (formerly, the Scarlet Title) because I am going to do two things, and two things only this weekend:
I am going to take Scarlet’s shit, and I am going to own it.
-
I haven’t slept since Ignite in Iowa.
Defeat has never come easy to me. Despite the fact I have made a career of improving and adapting through generations of wrestlers, despite the fact that my record is littered with defeats due to minor tactical errors; defeat has never been a pill I’ve enjoyed swallowing. Something about it – it sets my heart on fire. For the past few nights, I have stayed up, tense, unable to sleep, recalling my match. The error I made was simple – I underestimated Anicka. She was far craftier than I anticipated – it cost me the match. I figured this out on day one of no sleep…so why couldn’t I sleep?
Laying there, staring at the back of my eye-lids, I began to try to take control of my breathing. The goal was to slow my heart-rate to a creep, then I would be able to sleep. It’s funny, when you think about how simple things could be. It’s simple, decrease the heart rate and brain activity, and you’re golden. Of course, that’s not how anything works – ever. How do I know this? Because I’m sitting up at 2 in the morning, like a bitch.
Inhale…
Exhale…
Inhale…
Fuck – this isn’t working.
So what was keeping me up? My title opportunity against Scarlet Styles? The fact that this is my first pay-per-view match in years? Or maybe the fact that I have a losing record of 1-2? No. After my match, a graphic would come on the titantron with my name – erased to dust – shattered. Someone has made their intentions clear – the question is, who? Who would want to target me, who would want to take me out? Whoever courts war with me, I would hope that they know what they’re doing in starting this.
Because here’s the cold, hard facts: nobody outlasts me. Let’s talk about longevity. Who has been here since 2009 other than a handful of us hall of famers? I’ll wait. And the fundamental difference between myself and the majority of the hall of famers is that I adapt. As time goes on, I change my moveset, I improve my tactical and strategic skills, take more calculated risks. So whoever it who is targeting me, they know this. What they do not know, is that I too have a surprise.
For far too long, I have been going about my career the wrong way. I have been a singles wrestler exclusively, I have fought my own battles without anyone having my back. That is all about to change, you see, it’s about time that I utilized my friendships and favors that I have cultivated throughout my many years in the trenches. So whoever is targeting me, will have more than just myself to worry about – which is actually a good thing for them, because once I figure out who did this, I plan to break their arm. Hopefully someone will hold me back – but I wouldn’t count on it.
It makes me wonder, what if I’m going about my detective work all wrong? I have thought of the major players in New Edge – the usual suspects, but what if it’s a younger, hungrier talent who put me in his or her crosshairs? What about a person like Dane Preston or Deacon Horrible, maybe James Wolf? I truly hope that this is not the case – it would be my preference not to cripple and injure new talent. There are many teaching experiences, many self correcting errors in wrestling, however, this would not be one. As a child, I remember placing my hand on the stove and burning it, I would know not to do this in the future. However, if I were to jam a metal fork in an electrical socket, I would not make that mistake again – because I would be dead. I compare gunning after me more to the latter of the two examples.
Sitting up, I decide it’s time to abort mission: sleep. If I can’t nourish my body with sleep, I’m going to do the next best thing – eating. You see, recovery, especially when you’re shooting testosterone in your ass, is imperative. All too often, I’ve seen younger wrestlers burn out because they weren’t training and nourishing their body for war. You wouldn’t put Coca-Cola in a diesel truck, would you?
As I begin to vacate the room, I glance down at Rebecca, she’s laying, wearing shorts and one of my oversized t-shirts. My heart aches in agony at realization that if I do not make more money, she will be taken from me. Losers don’t make money. In my last three, I have been 1-2, bringing my motivation and my focus. Sure, it was true, I have taken my eye off the ball, I was originally slated to be headlining Ascension, facing Austen Impact for the world championship. After Austen retired, I was left without a direction for my career. I was simply showing up for my paycheck – and that’s a dangerous place to be.
I was always told that if you’re in this sport for the money, you should go home, it wasn’t for you. There are hungry, younger challengers coming up through the ranks. Each and everyone of these challengers are drooling at the thought of taking a bite of me. Paired with laser sharp focus and an insatiable appetite, maybe I was too old to fight them off? Weathered down by some of NEW’s most intense wars, maybe I just didn’t have it in me anymore?
Maybe it was time for me to pack my shit and head home?
And then do you know what I did? I think of everytime I gaze into the eyes of my daughter. This little person I created, and all she knows is me and Rebecca. And if I quit and Rebecca died – I would be the only role model she has – a quitter. And why did I quit? Because it was too hard? I could not imagine a world where I allow that to be the example I set for my daughter – that it was okay to give up.
My eyes drift from Rebecca to the doorway. Slowly, I walk through the doorway, through my dark house. I was shirtless, wearing only shorts, my body – littered with scars and tattoos. I continue walking through my kitchen, missing my trajectory of the refrigerator and entering my daughter’s room. Maria’s eyes shoot open, a whimper releasing from her delicate face. She was precious. I reached down, grabbing my child by her small, fragile body, lifting her up to my chest and pressing my lips to her warm, fuzzy forehead.
Let’s talk about being a father. When you’re a father, it is your job to protect your children at all costs. When Maria was born, I made a vow to myself and to her that I would never, ever allow her to go without having a father in her life – I would do everything to protect my own life to ensure she had a father for as long as humanly possible. That is what it is to be a good father and man. Do you know what a good father wouldn’t do? Get involved with the mafia, not take a dive during a boxing match and end up getting beaten down and killed by said gangsters. Unfortunately, for Scarlet, that was what her father did. She had no concept of how a man is supposed to protect her family until Jesse came into her life. Now, why am I thinking about this? Am I just being a dick? No. You see, Scarlet would turn to boxing as her outlet – the exact sport that got her father killed. You may ask, was this a tribute to her father? Or just a happy coincidence? I’m unsure, but, let me say this, if she tries to pull any shit in our match, she will end up exactly like him.
What this meant was: I had to keep going, and most importantly, I had to win, and win big – even if that means breaking the arm of Scarlet Styles. Of all the people in this business with the last name Styles, Scarlet is the one I respect the most. She is a fighter, born into a boxing family, turning into one of the greatest Trans-Atlantic Champions of all time. Many refer to the Trans-Atlantic Championship as the “Scarlet Title.” You see, as many girls were given tiaras in their youth, Scarlet was given boxing gloves and told to fight. She packs a lot of power in her right hand.
However, if memory serves me correct, the last time her and I encountered one another, I was victorious after arm-bar’ing her. In fact, I believe it was the referees who had to pull me off her, as I continued the hold. You see, when Scarlet was learning how to punch people in the face, I was learning how to master the art of tactical and systematic murder through use of scientific wrestling. There are only four strikes in boxing: the straight, the jab, the uppercut and the hook. There are a million different combos, however, there are only four different movements. There are a million submission holds, I plan to exhaust all of these in order to force a submission from Scarlet.
Scarlet is coming hot off a win over Johnny Stylez, however, part of me can’t help but wonder – how focused is Scarlet? How many times has she won the Trans-Atlantic title? Is she still hungry for it? Because similar to myself, Scarlet is a parent, she is moving a little slower in the ring. She is coming off hot wins, but I can’t help but feel as though she has been lulled into a false sense of security. Unless Scarlet is planning on trying to punch her way out of my arsenal of foot, arm, leg and neck locks, there is no stylistic game-plan that makes sense.
I will say – despite being a very solid competitor, I am confused about how Scarlet had a hall of fame career. Now, you may be thinking that I am going the “she slept with the boss” route, but I’m not. I don’t think Scarlet slept her way to the top – not one bit. Now, do I think that maybe, just maybe, she landed that right cross on Jesse Styles a couple dozen times when he over-cooked her dinner? Perhaps. If you ask me – Scarlet is like Mike Tyson meets an episode of Mob Wives. She’s never found a situation she couldn’t punch her way out of. She’s like Staten Island and Jersey Shore had a kid – and that kid moved to Chicago, Illinois and listened to too much Kid Rock with her husband.
Laying Maria down on her back, I plant one more kiss on her soft cheek. Immediately after doing so, I hear a violent knock at the door. Looks like I won’t be enjoying my sandwich on this night. With a turkey and Swiss all that fuels my mind, I race to where I heard the noise coming from. Passing throughout my house, I finally make it to the front door. Strange – if someone were to break in, you would think that they would not try to get through the front door. As I lean into the peephole, I am surprised to see a familiar face from my past.
Slowly, I creek the door open, my eyes falling upon those of current New Edge Wrestling X-Core champion, Shane Sparx. It is well documented, the history between myself and Mr. Sparx. Despite being on “opposite sides” of the locker room for our entire careers, we are good friends. It was Shane Sparx who prepared me for my world title match against Adrien Spectar all of those years ago. When others did not believe in me, Shane did – he had reached the mountain top, and helped me cultivate the skills to join him there. We can sit here and split hairs all day about his character, however, Sparx has proven his character enough to me.
“Shane Sparx, X-Core champion. I see you still dress like an Abercrombie model, but at least you haven’t missed a step in the ring, huh?” It was true – both parts. Shane stood before me, a purple button down shirt and urban style jeans, and if I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t think this man knew the difference between a wrist-lock and a wrist-watch. The man is a natural. In his hand, he held a piece of paper, that paper was integral in finding who targeted me last week.
This may be the part where many would believe that Shane was the person I have been referring to as my back up. This may be where all pieces of this story come together, where everything makes sense – but it isn’t. No, my surprise is reserved for when I need it. You see, with friends like the ones I have – as talented, meticulous and intelligent – I can afford to spare them a favor here or there in order to gain one from them later. This was that. Shane owed me a favor, and he is coming through for me here.
“Judas – erhm – James. You must be excited this week, you got a crack at some gold. You think you got Scar?” I fully opened the door, motioning for Shane to come in. I would offer him something to drink, but all we had was pediasure, red wine and lemon-lime Gatorade. Shane waltzed through my front door as I lead him to our living room. He would take a seat on the couch as I turned on the light. He was not carrying the X-Core belt, though, I could see the confidence oozing out of every pore in his body.
I longed for that confidence – the confidence of being champion.
As I take a seat across from Shane, I bite my lower lip before launching into what I had to say, “Scarlet’s distracted. Her husband has one of the biggest and certainly the most dangerous match of his career against that twat, Johnny Stylez. There’s a very good chance that Jess isn’t making out of that match alive. Our match comes before this, and Scarlet knows how dangerous Johnny is, especially under the rule-set they are competing in, wouldn’t you be occupied? If Scarlet takes her eye off the ball for even a second, she will not be hitting the SKO, it’ll be me knocking her unconscious. I imagine Scarlet as the type of girl who goes to a club until closing and fist pumps against the wall to Skrillex for the entire time. At first, it’s kind of cute, and charming, in a really, really trashy way – but then it turns pathetic. I imagine she has assaulted many cashiers at the supermarket leading up to this.” Shane’s lip curled, he saw the fire and passion in my eyes, he understood that this was the most motivated he has seen me in some time. “Why the supermarket?”
“I don’t fucking know, I cold see her dropping a cashier for giving her a losing scratch ticket. You have Al Env-“
“Let’s cut past the small talk, man.” Placing that small, white piece of paper on my coffee table, Shane lurched forward, making direct eye contact with me. He wanted something – the question was, what? Why else would he be here so late? I guess that was for me to find out. Reaching my left hand out, I grab the piece of paper with the several names listed on them – some being younger, new talent, others being seasoned veterans. Two names on the list jumped out at me almost immediately as suspects.
The first was Nick York. Nick York is a young talent, a hired gun – a mercenary if you will. This certainly makes it more difficult, as someone would have had to hire him in order for me to be targeted. So after beating an answer out of him, I would have to hunt down whoever ordered the hit. Also, use of the titantron does not seem like his MO.
That would bring me to the next name that I was very weary of: the returning Nocturnal. The bastard has returned to New Edge, and our history together speaks for itself. We were tag partners as well as bitter enemies, having a string of matches that would follow us through at least three different federations at six years. I can personally thank Nocturnal for at least six years taken off of my life. And now he’s back. What would his incentive be? Not sure, maybe to finish the job – but I also don’t believe that Nocturnal is a man who always needs an incentive to cast mayhem and destruction.
I glanced up at Shane who was now standing. I would go over the rest of the list and do the research later. Extending his hand, Shane smiled weakly. I would clasp Shane’s hand before shaking it. As I walked Shane to the door, I gave him a pat on the back before speaking in a hoarse whisper: “So – why are you really here, Shane?” He looked surprised, either that I was this perceptive, or that he was that obvious – to be fair, it was a combination of the two. I knew the reason he was here, because I knew that if I were in his shoes, I would do me a favor. All this sport is, is about positioning and leverage.
“I wanted to ask you for something. I wanted to ask you for a match. If we both win our match this week, I want a champion versus champion match, sometime down the line. Trans-Atlantic Champion versus the X-Core Champion. Think of the headlines and think of how much money you could make. Money for Reb-“
I placed my hand on Shane’s shoulder stopping him from speaking anymore. This was the match I wanted anyways, he didn’t have to sell me on it. Not only would it be a match against a competitor I actually respect, but it would be a match that would make me a lot of money – especially after I force Shane to tap. “Shane, all you ever had to do was ask. The answer is yes. But first, you get ready to take out Al, and I’ll put Scarlet down for a dirt-nap. Once these happen, we can talk to Jesse.” Smiling, Shane nods before vacating my household. As I close the door, I glance down at the list in my hand – so many names to run through, so many leads on where I can get my information – Shane was a miracle worker. He knew I just needed a start, now I can investigate – because I want to find my stalker before they find me…again. However, this would all have to wait after this weekend, because I had a Snooki to kill.
This weekend, Scarlet is going to wake up in the morning, brush her teeth with a Four-Loko, apply as much spray-tan solution to cover a house (enough so that she is the color of a tangerine), pop on her finest Ed Hardy t-shirt with ripped jeans, take out her hair extensions and put on oversized sunglasses. From there, she’ll jump into her Ford Escalade, throw some Iggy Azelea or Cardi-B on and race to the event. What she doesn’t know, is that she very well could be driving to her last wrestling match ever. You see, Hunter didn’t know his last match was two weeks ago – until I broke his arm. Because after this weekend, people will no longer call me “Fox-Catcher’ or “Kid Krisis,” they will call me the reigning, defending Trans Atlantic Champion (formerly, the Scarlet Title) because I am going to do two things, and two things only this weekend:
I am going to take Scarlet’s shit, and I am going to own it.