Post by Deleted on Apr 19, 2013 20:22:07 GMT -6
Monday April 15th 2013
Chicago, Illinois
"Jesse Styles ... was telling the truth."
Standing before a congregation of reporters and camera operators outside his hotel in Chicago, Matt Slater released a disconcerted sigh, having verified the evidence that Jesse Styles had despicably exposed on Ignite. Sudden flashes of white decorated the dismal scene as Slater accepted the downfall of his idolized status, now tainted by the footnotes that would detail his scandalous steroid usage. Every reporter wanted to hear his distressing words. Every photographer wanted to capture this heart-breaking occasion, archiving Slater's solemn expressions for the world to visualize whenever they pleased. Ashamed and weary, Slater frowned and lowered his head, allowing the media to publicize this infamously unforgettable moment.
This was supposed to have been a day of celebration. This should have been a day where the fans of professional wrestling would gather together and joyously discuss the defeat of Domestik Disturbance, happy that their World Tag Team Championship reign had come to an end. Matt Slater and Kronin were the new champions of the division, a surprising pleasantry considering that they had only been an official team since the previous week. The masterful duo from United had successfully prevented the Styles Mafia from attaining supreme power, and they were even able to withstand the brutal force of Valora and Judas Dathan. But once Jesse Styles told the world that Slater was currently on or had previously taken steroids, the script was inexplicably changed, and everything came to a shocking standstill.
Where there used to be laughter, there was sadness. Where there used to be contentment, there was emptiness. The purifying qualities of their victory had all but drained away, leaving loathsome stains that would forever blacken the rejuvenated legacy of Matt Slater; a legacy that he had courageously saved from oblivion with faithful dedication and noble vitality.
"I ingested steroids before competing against Hazard in Uniondale. Dr Johnson, a specialist at the Medical Center ... located traces of the substances in my urine. Therefore, my offenses will hereby be kept on record ... and I will take full responsibility for the illegal consumption of these steroids."
Adjusting his loosely knotted tie, Slater seemed to be on the brink of walking away from the interrogative media, isolating his morally-corrupted presence and avoiding any further questions that would worsen his emotional turmoil. He had been expecting this confrontation since the early hours of the morning, but lack of sleep and nervousness made it hard for him to remain professionally composed. He was clearly experiencing nausea due to anxiety and stress, causing perspiration to form and settle upon his pale, ashen face.
If ever there was a logical time for someone to have a nervous breakdown, this would no doubt be the time.
Everything was crashing down around Slater, and he didn't want to witness the aftermath of his self-destruction any further. He didn't want to continue explaining his side of the story, even though it was an essential requirement. He just wanted to disappear permanently, completely shrouding his entire life in woeful secrecy, doing the best he could to handle the heavy burdens that weighed down on his weakening shoulders.
But Slater knew that he couldn't stop what he was attempting to accomplish, no matter how depressed he felt. He knew that his departure from New Edge Wrestling, and Professional Wrestling in general, wouldn't solve any future problems. He might be ostracized and vilified by society because of his controversial actions, but the Styles Mafia needed to be brought down and humbled by the wrestlers rebelling against their egomaniacal agenda. True justice needed to be sanctioned, and even if it meant absorbing the hatred around him on a frequent basis, Slater would continue to pursue this selfless venture that would cure New Edge Wrestling once and for all.
His latest task was to compete against Johnny Stylez at the 5th Anniversary Show in Detroit, a match that could potentially steal the show due to their resilient styles and iconic imagery. More often than not, Slater had been Johnny's aggravating kryptonite, but if Slater wasn't motivated enough to succeed, or if he didn't have enough confidence in his abilities, then Johnny would leave him a bloody, broken mess in their Hardcore Submission encounter. Slater couldn't afford that to happen; despite these documented atrocities that were polluting his endeavours, Slater would rigorously train for a contest that he truly needed to win, both physically and mentally.
"Thank you all for your time..." Slater concluded sensibly, albeit morbidly, doing so before he stepped away from the numerous microphones and smoothed down his creased, sweat-laden shirt. At the corner of his eye, Slater spotted Kronin, Ryan Omega and Scarlet standing in the luxurious lobby of the hotel, focusing on him through the curtained windows. Their expressions were different, yet they all presented the same emotion: grievant disappointment.
Lowering his head further, Slater thoughtlessly studied the concrete step that led to the hotel entrance, listening to the officers and guards commanding the media to move back. They were a persistently intrusive group, and it didn't surprise him that they wanted to get more answers out of him to bolster their written articles.
"Have you taken anabolic steroids before?"
"Have you been addicted to any other drugs?"
"Are you going to quit New Edge Wrestling because of these truthful allegations?"
"Wait! Wait a bloody minute!"
Suddenly, amongst the annoying questions that were being asked, a guttural shout filtered through the congregation. It was a loud exclamation that carried a distinctive accent, one that Slater was quick to acknowledge based on its unmistakable familiarity.
Looking beyond the shoves and stumbles of the restless crowd, Slater searched for the man that had uttered these words, an immobile quest that wouldn't take long to complete; the man's flamboyantly-coloured suits made him stick out like a sore thumb, and once Slater located his extravagant appearance, all he could do was stare, frozen in place by what was going to inevitably transpire.
Matt Falcon had arrived on the scene, and Slater wasn't the only one who was astonished by his unexpected presence. More and more people began to notice him as he forced his way through the mingling crowd, appearing flustered and exhausted as he battled his way towards the stairs. It was the first time that Slater had seen him since they individually journeyed to Tokyo on the same flight. Slater had found it difficult to forgive his older companion, a decision which had been tested by Falcon's phone calls and text messages.
"Get out of the way, dickhead!" Falcon roared, forcibly shoving a husky cameraman to the side before he made it onto the steps. Because of his eccentric behaviour, everyone was focused on his appearance more than Slater's, and this meant that he was also being recorded and photographed. Noticing the cameras and bewildered expressions on their faces, Falcon put his arms up in an appealing fashion, attracting the attention of the ravenous media as he slowly regained his depleted energy.
"I ... can explain! I can explain ... everything!"
Momentarily turning towards Slater, Falcon visualized his friend's sombre appearance. With a reassuring nod, Falcon exhaled and scrubbed his shaven face with his hand, prompting the reporters to aim their microphones towards him.
"Matt Slater is an innocent man! He never chose to take the steroids! He hasn't taken them before, and he hasn't taken them since! I..."
There was no going back for Falcon. He felt compelled to protect his friend, to cleanse Slater's tarnished image and repair the damage that had been sustained since the previous evening. As Slater stared at Falcon, enamoured by what he was about to do, Falcon tentatively shrugged his shoulders and sighed, eradicating his tendency to lie in order to salvage the sinking vessel that contained Slater's prominent future.
"I was the one who tainted his water bottles with steroids. Matt didn't have a clue! He ... didn't know..."
More camera flashes flickered sporadically as the photographers captured this startling revelation, watching Falcon's sorrowful movements as he forwarded an apologetic attitude.
"Matt had absolutely nothing to do with this. I was worried that ... Hazard would destroy him. I wanted to keep him strong for the Terrordome. So if anyone is going to take full responsibility for the steroids ... it's going to be me. Matt is innocent. He's innocent..."
The repetitious finale of Falcon's announcement emphasised the certainty of Slater's innocence. It was a strong message that caused a number of responses to unfold. Some people in the crowd sympathetically frowned. Some softly rejoiced, always believing that Slater was a morally-strong individual. A few others began to change their notes, having portrayed Slater in a negative light. However, the rest of the media were still sceptical, thinking that this was a plan to take the fault away from Slater and broadcast him as a saint, making the nation forgive him and apologize for their critical analysis. There was nothing Slater could do about that. After all, with these recent developments being universally judged, it would be left up to the public to either ridicule or exonerate Slater's endeavours. Falcon had accepted the blame for his troublesome stunt, but Slater had not exactly been open about his offenses until now.
Unfortunately, the acquirement of these steroids was still a pressing concern.
As Falcon stared at Slater once again, two senior police officers moved to the stairs. Falcon realized that his crime would be investigated, so he didn't resist their intended arrest.
"Mr Falcon, we're sure that you had Mr Slater's welfare at heart..." one of the officers said, grasping Falcon's hands and placing them behind his back. "But unfortunately, you are hereby under arrest for the possession of anabolic steroids."
After the officer finished informing Falcon of his human rights, the handcuffs were placed around his wrists. Slater wanted to intervene and get Falcon off the hook, but he could tell by Falcon's eyes that this was the only way he could serve his justifiable punishment.
"You deserve to be in that Main Event at Justice 5, Matt..." Falcon stated, slowly being escorted away by the officers to a nearby patrol car. "They'll continue to support you. I know they will..."
With the majority of the enthralled crowd following Falcon and the accompanying officers, Slater didn't waste any time getting away from the media. He walked back into the hotel lobby as best as he could, still feeling numb after what had taken place.
"Are you okay, my friend?"
Kronin's concerned enquiry caught Slater by surprise, having forgotten that his United allies were watching the entire scene from the safety of the empty lobby.
"I'm fine..." Slater replied dryly.
"I kind of knew you were innocent in all of this..." Scarlet said softly, expressing her belief that Slater wouldn't rely on the performance-enhancing drugs to increase his competitive advantages.
"I didn't either..." Omega conveyed, agreeing with Scarlet as he nodded firmly. Slater continued to stand still, although his eyes were vigilantly wandering.
"Thanks for believing in me..." he finally uttered, being sincere and remorseful at the same time.
Not wanting to stay in the same place any longer, Slater began to move away from the encouraging group. They had already questioned his steroid usage in the locker room after the events of Ignite had culminated, but now it had been made clear that Slater had always adhered to his beneficial values.
"Where are you going?" Kronin asked, wondering where his partner was heading off to. Slater obediently stopped near the ground-floor elevators and turned his head to look over his shoulder.
"I just ... need to be alone for a while..."
Pressing the button on the wall panel to call the nearest elevator, Slater waited for the transport contraption to arrive. Meanwhile, Kronin, Omega and Scarlet accepted his lonesome activities, talking amongst themselves about the Styles Mafia and the show in Detroit. Omega was excited to wrestle in front of his home-town crowd, and as he made a joke about the relationship between Ray Andrews and Jesse Styles, a chime played from the stereo above the elevator doors, informing Slater that it was time to enter.
Once Slater manually shut the doors, he contemplated what to do. His hotel room didn't offer anything special that could alleviate his depressive mood. In fact, he didn't want to remain around an area that would be swarming with reporters. Truth be told, Slater didn't want to socialize with the general public either, but he wasn't going to stay here.
Deciding to worry about the details later, Slater pressed the button that would make the elevator descend into the underground car park, and with an unhealthy shudder, the elevator began its downward journey.
A matter of seconds passed before the stereo chimed again. The doors revealed the dimly lit area, filled with various vehicles of different models and proportions. From Slater's perspective, there seemed to be no one in sight. This would give anyone the urge to move briskly across the tarmac, but Slater knew better. He couldn't risk rushing to his vehicle in case a civilian happened to come out of a place that Slater didn't see, intruding upon his privacy and trying to get into an informative conversation.
Being careful not to alert anyone or cause unneeded suspicion, Slater cautiously moved towards his rental car. Taking out the keys from his pocket, Slater unlocked the driver's side door gently, keeping his eyes peeled for any silhouetted figures. Fortunately, the coast remained clear, a realization that beckoned Slater to lower himself into the leather seat. A surveillance van was parked nearby, but given that Slater had evaded detection up to this point, he was positive that no one had noticed his familiar identity. The security cameras might have glanced over his body, but the security officials wouldn't have been bothered or startled by his departure.
Instead of starting up the car and driving out of the parking lot right then and there, Slater began to have strong urges to smoke a cigarette. He had given up on them a year ago, but the temptations still occurred from time to time, especially when he was under immense stress and anguish.
Controlling his need to locate or purchase any cancer sticks, Slater exhaled and turned on the ignition. As soon as the rental car settled down, Slater slowly accelerated out of the parking lot, eventually finding himself on the main road.
Chicago was a rather large city, but Slater didn't want to spend his entire time driving. He wanted to find a place that wouldn't aggravate his anxiety, a place that would be quiet and serene.
After ten minutes of driving around the bustling streets, Slater came across an establishment that would perfectly suit his needs.
The Chicago Public Library.
Finding an open space behind the building, Slater carefully parked his car and scanned the surrounding area. The library was accessible to anyone, but due to the time of the day, the premises were going to be the equivalent of a Ghost Town. Reading a book would help Slater take his mind off things, an activity that he pondered as he entered the side door.
Roaming around the historical facility, the ongoing calmness of the building matched what Slater had formerly suspected; there were hardly any people around. Obviously there were voluntary workers and official librarians walking around the sectioned aisles, but they were too busy completing their duties to notice Slater. Taking his time, Slater blocked his presence with the obstructive shelves that had been placed in a convenient formation, lessening the possibility of someone being lost. The shelves were twice Slater's height, but he could still make out some of the titles on the highest section. A ladder would be useful to scan the section more thoroughly, but Slater didn't want to bother with anything he couldn't reach without sufficient help.
Searching through the books on the categorized shelves, Slater consulted every title that appealed to him. Unfortunately, none of the published books seemed to sway his interests. Nothing screamed volumes from a visual perspective, ultimately persuading him to take it off the shelf and read the pages within. Perhaps this venture was a failure in progress, something which Slater thought of as he placed his hands on his waist.
After releasing a disappointed sigh, Slater took one more chance with another section, attempting to maintain his optimism instead of becoming sceptical of what he would locate on the mahogany shelves.
"There's got to be something here..."
In the midst of whispering the eye-catching titles unto himself, Slater began to detect a strange noise emanating from the other side of the towering shelf. It sounded like skin meeting skin, as if a child was lightly clapping after being amused. Thinking that it would inevitably pass, Slater returned his gaze to the colourful books, trying to ignore the noise as much as possible. But before Slater could get settled, his senses would be alerted again, this time by pleasurable grunts and moans.
"Oooo ... mmm ... uhhh..."
"What in the world...?" Slater curiously mumbled, deciding to investigate the next aisle as he cautiously scanned the premises. Slater was anxious of what he would find, but his vigilant urges needed to be satisfied. He couldn't just walk away from something without acknowledging it first. He would be thinking of what it could have been for hours thereafter, failing to move on and continue with his scheduled priorities. Furthermore, based on the quietness of the Library and the rules that were in place, Slater was surprised that no one else had decided to inspect the area. But since it was a Monday, there were hardly any people inside the building, and since he was the closest individual there, it only made sense that he would be the first to potentially solve the mystery.
The grunts became more intense as Slater tip-toed across the carpeted floor, making sure that his footsteps didn't startle the individual or cause any terrifying ramifications. Slater didn't believe in paranormal activity, but for some bizarre reason, he felt like he was a temporary Ghostbuster, as though he was on a mission to capture some kind of ghost, or even Slimer. It was weird to even fathom, but the freakish behaviour of the individual on the other side couldn't be ignored.
With his interest peaked far beyond the point of no return, Slater slowly leaned across the side of the shelf, looking towards the cause of the distressing noises. What he discovered was more disturbing than any ghost or poltergeist, but not as disturbing as an LA Kief-induced nightmare.
"Oh that's right, baby ... work it, work it ... I'm almost there..."
Partially squatting with his pants around his ankles in an empty room, Inkt continued to masturbate freely as he read the book in his hand. The NEW World Heavyweight Champion was completely aroused by the literature, and the way his body quivered and shuddered informed Slater that he was on the verge of an orgasmic climax. Slater didn't know what to believe more; he was either in the middle of a realistic dream, or that Inkt was genuinely in front of him, "jerking the meat" as it were a few metres away.
"I'm about to blow!"
"What the fuck?!" Slater blurted out suddenly, abruptly ruining Inkt's private moment as he frantically spun around.
"Aww shit!"
With his secrecy spoiled, Inkt dropped the book and stumbled further into the vacant room, a convenient location that was in the deepest corner of the library. His uncoordinated movements caused him to trip over his own feet, making him tumble into a nearby plant. Luckily the overturned foliage covered his erect manhood, something which Inkt quickly fought to conceal as he pulled his pants up.
"God damn it, Slater!" Inkt yelled, fastening his customary leather belt at the same time. The visible protrusion of his denim jeans left little to be desired, creating an awkward sight that Slater wisely kept his eyes away from. Despite Inkt's angered response, the volume of his vocal release had been limited; he didn't want any civilians to discover he was hiding in a library in the heart of Chicago, a discovery that would result in numerous questions being asked and bothersome requests being addressed. Of course, it wasn't exactly common for Inkt to be associated with these kinds of establishments. Slater was naturally bewildered by his presence, and there needed to be a plausible explanation. Wanting to uncover the details, Slater approached Inkt with a raised eyebrow.
"What are you doing in here?"
Giving Inkt time to think of a logical answer, Slater properly surveyed the area, making sure that no one else had been disturbed by Inkt's moans and subsequent clumsiness.
"The hotel's got a stupid internet connection..." Inkt said after releasing an exasperated sigh. "I couldn't load shit up on my laptop. A guy like me can't go without lesbo action, know what I mean? Tried to get it fixed and the idiots at the desk couldn't figure that shit out. And if that ain't bad enough, Kief and Pugh have been annoyin' the fuck outta me. Pugh's actin' like a ragin' beast because he wants to fuck up Hazard and shit on Noc's wheaties, and Kief's bein' ... well ... fuckin' Kief."
"So you needed privacy..." Slater summarized, nodding his head. "That's understandable."
"And who's gonna find me in a Library, bro? Well okay you did, but I forgot you lived in places like this."
Slater rolled his eyes, but he eventually chuckled to ease the annoyance of Inkt's friendly insult.
"Well at least you're reading literature..." Slater said as he bent down, picking up the book that Inkt was scanning for filthy material. Slater wasn't surprised by the title printed on the cover.
"Dirty ... by Megan Hart..."
"You can read it if you want. I'm not one to judge."
"I think I'll pass..." Slater said, placing the book back where it was supposed to belong.
"So why are you here?" Inkt enquired, rubbing his crotch at the same time to comfort his swollen genitals. It was only fair for him to ask the same question, but it took a while for Slater to respond.
"I wanted to spend some time alone, and the library was a place that ... the media..."
Slater abruptly finished his explanation, failing to fully complete his train of thought. Once Inkt properly stood up, he forwarded an understandable nod, having learned about Slater's steroids before the closure of the show.
"Give it time, man. Soon things will be back to normal."
"I hope so..." Slater replied, taking his eyes off Inkt as he focused on the books on the shelves.
"Want to talk about it?"
Inkt's friendly suggestion made Slater face him again. It was clear that there was mutual respect between both men, stemming from their historical tenures in the wrestling business and beyond. A large number of people were already excited to see Slater and Inkt compete at Justice 5 for the NEW World Heavyweight Championship, and Slater agreed with their statements. Inkt was an athlete that had made his mark with determination and passion, and his supreme victory at Kamikaze was indeed a long time coming.
"Sure..." Slater said, accepting Inkt's invitation. Inkt directed Slater towards a couple of couches inside the empty room, positioned opposite each other to make relaxed conversation more comfortable. Inkt took up one of the couches as Slater sat down on the other one, attempting to unwind as he exhaled.
"So what happened?" Inkt asked, stretching one of his massive legs up onto the vacant seat next to him to improve his leisurely posture.
"A group of reporters were waiting outside the hotel. They wanted to know the details surrounding my steroid usage. They assumed Jesse was making allegations ... but I legitimized his claims by telling the truth. Then, it just became ... too much for me to handle. I needed to get away for a while."
"Which is why you're here," Inkt summarized.
"That's not the end of it though..." Slater confessed. "Falcon ... basically tainted my water bottles with the steroids ... and he showed up. He told the reporters that he did it, and now he's been arrested for possessing them. He'll probably be charged, but..."
"That's pretty shitty ... but he did get them illegally."
Slater nodded, cupping his hands together as he leant forward.
"I'm sure you heard that I was on them at one time..." Inkt said, looking around the room afterwards. "I was misguided. Those stupid fucks said that wrestling was for the big guys. So I spent every day in the gym working out. I got bigger ...I got stronger ... but I thought it wasn't enough. So ...I started juicin' up. I got addicted to them ... and a bunch of shit happened."
Slater understood what Inkt meant. He had done efficient research on New Edge Wrestling, which included learning about Inkt's past exploits. With his tampered inhibitions to cause havoc and distress, Inkt was an absolute monster. He destroyed various wrestlers inside the ring with his brutal strength, strength that Inkt couldn't fully comprehend the power of. But that wasn't the worst thing he did, something that Slater reflected upon as he frowned dismally.
In 2010, Scarlet was pregnant with her first child. During that time, Inkt and Scarlet were having colossal issues. Inkt had already hospitalized Scarlet by refusing to break a submission hold after an intense match at Annihilation for the NEW Trans-Atlantic Championship, a manoeuvre that several people needed to physically pry Inkt away from. Due to the severity of Inkt's actions, his victory was overturned, and he lost the championship after approximately five minutes. Angered and enraged by these declarations, Inkt got his revenge in the worst way possible; he kicked Scarlet in the stomach, causing her to lose her unborn child.
"To this day, I still don't know how I was forgiven..." Inkt murmured, also reflecting on the shocking incident that personified his volatile behaviour. "I was a loose cannon, man, attackin' anythin' and everythin'. But ... I suppose anyone can rebuild their life after bein' given a second chance. X tried to keep me juiced up, but I was wiser. I was smarter. I didn't need them, and everyone else knew that too. From that point onward, I let my skills do the talkin' inside the ring, and now ... I'm the World Heavyweight Champion."
Once again Slater nodded, although he found it ironic that Inkt had spent an intimate session with Scarlet years after the incident.
"Do you think ... they'll be the same with me?"
"Fuckin' right," Inkt confirmed. "If they know you didn't take them by yourself, then they'll be less critical of you. You'll be reprieved in no time at all."
Suddenly Inkt blinked, visibly confused by an unknown occurrence.
"Damn, this library is makin' me use big words."
Slater openly chuckled at Inkt's comment.
"I believe you're rather intelligent when you put your mind to things."
"Heh. Then I guess I'll start usin' my brain more often ... unlike that dipshit named Hunter Valentyne and that pot-head named Johnny Stylez."
Contrary to popular belief, despite the egotistical personalities and lifestyle choices of both men, they were far from idiotic. Hunter and Johnny were thorough with their schemes, checking every single detail to make sure that nothing went awry. Their opportunistic qualities had led them to victory numerous times, and if Slater and Inkt weren't careful, they could have a surprising strategy in store.
"Speakin' of Johnny, that's who you need to focus on," Inkt advised. "I know this steroid shit is gonna be messin' with your head, but you've gotta keep him perspective. Jesse will try and screw you over, but you'll do what you've always done since you came back. You'll prove them wrong."
"That's what I'm prepared to do," Slater replied. "It's certainly discouraging, but I guarantee that I'll maintain my composure with vigorous exercise. And if Jesse tries to do what he did to Kronin at Kamikaze, I'll head him off at the pass."
His Tag Team partner had suffered a controversial loss to Ray Andrews at Kamikaze. With a Cobra Clutch applied by the man known as KOP, Jesse ordered the bell to be rung, screwing Kronin over in the process. Kronin didn't submit vocally or physically, but the decision had been finalized. Kronin lost his Television Championship because of the despicable plan. However, with chemistry and collective technique, Kronin was able to secure another championship with Slater.
"Johnny's gonna be pissed off that you beat him and Hunter for the Tag straps, so if I know him like I do, he's gonna try and mess with your head by diggin' up the dirt."
"I'm expecting Johnny to do something along those lines," Slater said, getting more comfortable as he sunk further into the couch. "He might attempt to contact my ex-wife Amy, who has moved to a discrete location now. He might try and tell my son that I'm an evil person, creating a biological rivalry that will fester inside his mind year after year. Unfortunately for Johnny, they won't believe him. And to be honest, what can he possibly do to try and upset me? I've admitted everything there is to admit. There are numerous documents that chronicle my misdemeanours, and I've fought every single day to amend those negatives. And guess what? I have."
Inkt smirked, visualizing Slater's confidence seeping through.
"And this is why I think you'll win. You've not only got Johnny's number, but there's nothin' he can do that can fuck with you."
"Precisely..." Slater replied. "And you're correct about me having Johnny's number. Ever since we started competing against each other, I have caused him to lose time and time again. I stopped him winning the Terrordome at Justice 3, I've taken two World Tag Team Championships away from him with two different partners, I've upset him in Six-Man Tag Team Matches, and in the only match that we've ever had one-on-one ... I defeated him."
"I think I remember that..." Inkt mused.
"Here's the thing though. The only reason I ended up winning that match in Jamaica is because my unconscious body was dragged over Johnny when the lights went out. I think it was Al Envy that did it, but that doesn't change the result that remains on record to this day. So, in Detroit, I'm going to modify that historical victory. You see, Johnny will be able to use any weapon at his disposal, but the only way he can beat me is if he can make me tap out ... or pass out. I guarantee that this encounter will culminate with Johnny soaking up the blood on the canvas, trapped in a submission with nowhere to go. And just like in Jamaica, the lights will go out again ... but not the same way as before. Because if Johnny refuses to submit, then his stubbornness will extinguish his chances of success, and he's going to have his lights turned off, figuratively speaking."
"Well at least in Jamaica, he had enough drugs to last him a lifetime..." Inkt said. "In Detroit, he'll have to find enough drugs to last him three life-times, because once you beat him, he will want to live the rest of his life in a psychedelic stupor, so that he doesn't have to wake up every mornin' feelin' like a failure."
"I'm sure he did that after you gave him the Spiderman."
"I'm sure he did that after he lost to Kaeden Cedrik."
Preventing their exchange from going any further, Slater chuckled and visualized the interior of the room. A number of posters were attached to the wall, advertising the newest novels and movies on the market. One of these artistically-crafted posters depicted a large, luscious field, but at the forefront of this tranquil scenery, a grave had been freshly dug. After staring at the poster for a while, Slater turned back to Inkt.
"Do you understand the relevance of Johnny's shovel?"
Inkt blinked in response to Slater's bewildering question.
"Yeah ... he whacks people over the head with it."
"That's not what I mean."
"Well stop bein' cryptic, bro!" Inkt said, wanting to know what Slater was talking about.
"He uses it as a painful metaphor. It isn't just an object that can cause blunt-force trauma ... it's an object that represents Johnny in every conceivable way. Johnny has been known to research his opponents, and whatever he can find, he'll dig it up and release it to the public. The figurative dirt is used to smother his opponents with anger and sorrow. He wants them to make mistakes. He wants them to fall victim to his mind games, and when they've been made vulnerable, he'll conquer their weakened strengths and stand triumphant."
Inkt stared at Slater, dumbfounded that he was even able to talk about Johnny in this manner.
"That's just one metaphor," Slater continued. "The other is that he likes to bury his opponents. It's another figurative term that Johnny likes to talk about. Instead of literally burying them six feet under, he will do anything in his power to abuse and decimate them as quickly as possible. The shovel emphasises those two things."
"Why did you feel the need to tell me that?" Inkt asked.
"Because from what we've discussed, his personable traits are meaningless..." Slater answered. "He can't bury me, because I won't give him the satisfaction of controlling the pace of the match. He can't dig up any dirt on me, because it's all out in the open. I'm immune to their effects. Essentially, Johnny is walking into a battle that he can't win. His mind games won't work. His common strategies won't work. The only things he can rely on are his experiences with weapons, and even then, he's going to have to kill me with those objects to win that match in Detroit."
Looking into the center of the library through the doorway, Slater once again noticed the book on the shelves.
"Every book in this library has a story and a finale. Every criminal mastermind and antagonist has a strategy ... they have a plan. Unfortunately, we've already skipped to the final chapter, where the bad person gets their comeuppance, where they have to pay for their wrongs. The story that will be told in Detroit is that ... despite everything Johnny will do ... he can't vanquish the hero and ruin his tale of redemption."
"Damn right, doggie..." Inkt responded. "That's the way I'm viewin' my match against Hunter in Las Vegas. He's gonna have to..."
Suddenly, Inkt was interrupted by his phone vibrating in his pocket. Slater watched Inkt take out the phone, keeping his eyes on him as Inkt studied the flashing screen.
"God damn it, Pugh..." Inkt mumbled, staring at the caller identification on his phone. "I suppose I should take this..."
Releasing an aggravated growl, Inkt accepted the call and placed the phone to his ear.
"What do you want, tubby?"
Slater clamped his lips together, not wanting to ruin the conversation by laughing at Inkt's juvenile insult.
"I'm in the..."
Before Inkt could finish that sentence, he intelligently stopped himself. If he told Pugh he was inside a library, he wouldn't hear the end of it.
"... bathroom."
"Nice save..." Slater whispered, something that Inkt acknowledged with a wink.
"What do you mean still? I'm creating a Hunter Valentyne in here. It's startin' to smell like him too."
Pugh's shouts could be heard through the phone as Inkt waited for him to shut up.
"No I'm not gonna defecate on myself..."
More shouting ensued, causing Inkt to take the phone away from his ear an inch or two.
"Yes, there's enough toilet roll..."
A few more moments passed before Inkt growled.
"Fuck you, asshole. I'll be there soon."
After hanging up and putting the phone back into his pocket, Inkt looked at Slater again.
"That was a pleasant conversation," Slater said.
"Yup..." Inkt responded, sighing as he stood up from the couch. "I guess I'll be goin'. It's been fun."
Standing up, Slater stretched out his arm, a common gesture that usually led to a handshake.
"Just to let you know ... I'm behind you every step of the way when it comes to beating Hunter Valentyne. You'll retain the World Heavyweight Championship ... and you'll headline Justice 5."
Noticing the hand, Inkt smirked and grasped it with his own, initiating a clenched symbol that was commonly used to define brotherhood and respect.
"I'll see you at Justice, bro."
Inkt didn't need to tell Slater that he would defeat Hunter Valentyne the week after in a Last Man Standing Match to determine Slater's future. It was written in his eyes and the way he concluded the respectful gesture. Remaining still, Slater watched Inkt sneak out of the empty room, acting like a rookie spy who was on an investigative mission. Once he disappeared out of sight, Slater slumped down onto the couch again, allowing his thoughts to take full priority.
The 5th Anniversary Show in Detroit was going to have a lot of great moments. Highlight Reels were even in the works that would broadcast memorable moments from Ignite over the years. But if there was one moment that would live on, it would be the sight of Slater surviving against Johnny Stylez in their Hardcore Submission Match, proving the Styles Mafia wrong once again and prolonging his undefeated streak since returning to New Edge Wrestling.
"But the pleasure won't be yours, Johnny..." Slater openly said, unable to keep his thoughts contained. "The pleasure ... will certainly be mine."
Chicago, Illinois
"Jesse Styles ... was telling the truth."
Standing before a congregation of reporters and camera operators outside his hotel in Chicago, Matt Slater released a disconcerted sigh, having verified the evidence that Jesse Styles had despicably exposed on Ignite. Sudden flashes of white decorated the dismal scene as Slater accepted the downfall of his idolized status, now tainted by the footnotes that would detail his scandalous steroid usage. Every reporter wanted to hear his distressing words. Every photographer wanted to capture this heart-breaking occasion, archiving Slater's solemn expressions for the world to visualize whenever they pleased. Ashamed and weary, Slater frowned and lowered his head, allowing the media to publicize this infamously unforgettable moment.
This was supposed to have been a day of celebration. This should have been a day where the fans of professional wrestling would gather together and joyously discuss the defeat of Domestik Disturbance, happy that their World Tag Team Championship reign had come to an end. Matt Slater and Kronin were the new champions of the division, a surprising pleasantry considering that they had only been an official team since the previous week. The masterful duo from United had successfully prevented the Styles Mafia from attaining supreme power, and they were even able to withstand the brutal force of Valora and Judas Dathan. But once Jesse Styles told the world that Slater was currently on or had previously taken steroids, the script was inexplicably changed, and everything came to a shocking standstill.
Where there used to be laughter, there was sadness. Where there used to be contentment, there was emptiness. The purifying qualities of their victory had all but drained away, leaving loathsome stains that would forever blacken the rejuvenated legacy of Matt Slater; a legacy that he had courageously saved from oblivion with faithful dedication and noble vitality.
"I ingested steroids before competing against Hazard in Uniondale. Dr Johnson, a specialist at the Medical Center ... located traces of the substances in my urine. Therefore, my offenses will hereby be kept on record ... and I will take full responsibility for the illegal consumption of these steroids."
Adjusting his loosely knotted tie, Slater seemed to be on the brink of walking away from the interrogative media, isolating his morally-corrupted presence and avoiding any further questions that would worsen his emotional turmoil. He had been expecting this confrontation since the early hours of the morning, but lack of sleep and nervousness made it hard for him to remain professionally composed. He was clearly experiencing nausea due to anxiety and stress, causing perspiration to form and settle upon his pale, ashen face.
If ever there was a logical time for someone to have a nervous breakdown, this would no doubt be the time.
Everything was crashing down around Slater, and he didn't want to witness the aftermath of his self-destruction any further. He didn't want to continue explaining his side of the story, even though it was an essential requirement. He just wanted to disappear permanently, completely shrouding his entire life in woeful secrecy, doing the best he could to handle the heavy burdens that weighed down on his weakening shoulders.
But Slater knew that he couldn't stop what he was attempting to accomplish, no matter how depressed he felt. He knew that his departure from New Edge Wrestling, and Professional Wrestling in general, wouldn't solve any future problems. He might be ostracized and vilified by society because of his controversial actions, but the Styles Mafia needed to be brought down and humbled by the wrestlers rebelling against their egomaniacal agenda. True justice needed to be sanctioned, and even if it meant absorbing the hatred around him on a frequent basis, Slater would continue to pursue this selfless venture that would cure New Edge Wrestling once and for all.
His latest task was to compete against Johnny Stylez at the 5th Anniversary Show in Detroit, a match that could potentially steal the show due to their resilient styles and iconic imagery. More often than not, Slater had been Johnny's aggravating kryptonite, but if Slater wasn't motivated enough to succeed, or if he didn't have enough confidence in his abilities, then Johnny would leave him a bloody, broken mess in their Hardcore Submission encounter. Slater couldn't afford that to happen; despite these documented atrocities that were polluting his endeavours, Slater would rigorously train for a contest that he truly needed to win, both physically and mentally.
"Thank you all for your time..." Slater concluded sensibly, albeit morbidly, doing so before he stepped away from the numerous microphones and smoothed down his creased, sweat-laden shirt. At the corner of his eye, Slater spotted Kronin, Ryan Omega and Scarlet standing in the luxurious lobby of the hotel, focusing on him through the curtained windows. Their expressions were different, yet they all presented the same emotion: grievant disappointment.
Lowering his head further, Slater thoughtlessly studied the concrete step that led to the hotel entrance, listening to the officers and guards commanding the media to move back. They were a persistently intrusive group, and it didn't surprise him that they wanted to get more answers out of him to bolster their written articles.
"Have you taken anabolic steroids before?"
"Have you been addicted to any other drugs?"
"Are you going to quit New Edge Wrestling because of these truthful allegations?"
"Wait! Wait a bloody minute!"
Suddenly, amongst the annoying questions that were being asked, a guttural shout filtered through the congregation. It was a loud exclamation that carried a distinctive accent, one that Slater was quick to acknowledge based on its unmistakable familiarity.
Looking beyond the shoves and stumbles of the restless crowd, Slater searched for the man that had uttered these words, an immobile quest that wouldn't take long to complete; the man's flamboyantly-coloured suits made him stick out like a sore thumb, and once Slater located his extravagant appearance, all he could do was stare, frozen in place by what was going to inevitably transpire.
Matt Falcon had arrived on the scene, and Slater wasn't the only one who was astonished by his unexpected presence. More and more people began to notice him as he forced his way through the mingling crowd, appearing flustered and exhausted as he battled his way towards the stairs. It was the first time that Slater had seen him since they individually journeyed to Tokyo on the same flight. Slater had found it difficult to forgive his older companion, a decision which had been tested by Falcon's phone calls and text messages.
"Get out of the way, dickhead!" Falcon roared, forcibly shoving a husky cameraman to the side before he made it onto the steps. Because of his eccentric behaviour, everyone was focused on his appearance more than Slater's, and this meant that he was also being recorded and photographed. Noticing the cameras and bewildered expressions on their faces, Falcon put his arms up in an appealing fashion, attracting the attention of the ravenous media as he slowly regained his depleted energy.
"I ... can explain! I can explain ... everything!"
Momentarily turning towards Slater, Falcon visualized his friend's sombre appearance. With a reassuring nod, Falcon exhaled and scrubbed his shaven face with his hand, prompting the reporters to aim their microphones towards him.
"Matt Slater is an innocent man! He never chose to take the steroids! He hasn't taken them before, and he hasn't taken them since! I..."
There was no going back for Falcon. He felt compelled to protect his friend, to cleanse Slater's tarnished image and repair the damage that had been sustained since the previous evening. As Slater stared at Falcon, enamoured by what he was about to do, Falcon tentatively shrugged his shoulders and sighed, eradicating his tendency to lie in order to salvage the sinking vessel that contained Slater's prominent future.
"I was the one who tainted his water bottles with steroids. Matt didn't have a clue! He ... didn't know..."
More camera flashes flickered sporadically as the photographers captured this startling revelation, watching Falcon's sorrowful movements as he forwarded an apologetic attitude.
"Matt had absolutely nothing to do with this. I was worried that ... Hazard would destroy him. I wanted to keep him strong for the Terrordome. So if anyone is going to take full responsibility for the steroids ... it's going to be me. Matt is innocent. He's innocent..."
The repetitious finale of Falcon's announcement emphasised the certainty of Slater's innocence. It was a strong message that caused a number of responses to unfold. Some people in the crowd sympathetically frowned. Some softly rejoiced, always believing that Slater was a morally-strong individual. A few others began to change their notes, having portrayed Slater in a negative light. However, the rest of the media were still sceptical, thinking that this was a plan to take the fault away from Slater and broadcast him as a saint, making the nation forgive him and apologize for their critical analysis. There was nothing Slater could do about that. After all, with these recent developments being universally judged, it would be left up to the public to either ridicule or exonerate Slater's endeavours. Falcon had accepted the blame for his troublesome stunt, but Slater had not exactly been open about his offenses until now.
Unfortunately, the acquirement of these steroids was still a pressing concern.
As Falcon stared at Slater once again, two senior police officers moved to the stairs. Falcon realized that his crime would be investigated, so he didn't resist their intended arrest.
"Mr Falcon, we're sure that you had Mr Slater's welfare at heart..." one of the officers said, grasping Falcon's hands and placing them behind his back. "But unfortunately, you are hereby under arrest for the possession of anabolic steroids."
After the officer finished informing Falcon of his human rights, the handcuffs were placed around his wrists. Slater wanted to intervene and get Falcon off the hook, but he could tell by Falcon's eyes that this was the only way he could serve his justifiable punishment.
"You deserve to be in that Main Event at Justice 5, Matt..." Falcon stated, slowly being escorted away by the officers to a nearby patrol car. "They'll continue to support you. I know they will..."
With the majority of the enthralled crowd following Falcon and the accompanying officers, Slater didn't waste any time getting away from the media. He walked back into the hotel lobby as best as he could, still feeling numb after what had taken place.
"Are you okay, my friend?"
Kronin's concerned enquiry caught Slater by surprise, having forgotten that his United allies were watching the entire scene from the safety of the empty lobby.
"I'm fine..." Slater replied dryly.
"I kind of knew you were innocent in all of this..." Scarlet said softly, expressing her belief that Slater wouldn't rely on the performance-enhancing drugs to increase his competitive advantages.
"I didn't either..." Omega conveyed, agreeing with Scarlet as he nodded firmly. Slater continued to stand still, although his eyes were vigilantly wandering.
"Thanks for believing in me..." he finally uttered, being sincere and remorseful at the same time.
Not wanting to stay in the same place any longer, Slater began to move away from the encouraging group. They had already questioned his steroid usage in the locker room after the events of Ignite had culminated, but now it had been made clear that Slater had always adhered to his beneficial values.
"Where are you going?" Kronin asked, wondering where his partner was heading off to. Slater obediently stopped near the ground-floor elevators and turned his head to look over his shoulder.
"I just ... need to be alone for a while..."
Pressing the button on the wall panel to call the nearest elevator, Slater waited for the transport contraption to arrive. Meanwhile, Kronin, Omega and Scarlet accepted his lonesome activities, talking amongst themselves about the Styles Mafia and the show in Detroit. Omega was excited to wrestle in front of his home-town crowd, and as he made a joke about the relationship between Ray Andrews and Jesse Styles, a chime played from the stereo above the elevator doors, informing Slater that it was time to enter.
Once Slater manually shut the doors, he contemplated what to do. His hotel room didn't offer anything special that could alleviate his depressive mood. In fact, he didn't want to remain around an area that would be swarming with reporters. Truth be told, Slater didn't want to socialize with the general public either, but he wasn't going to stay here.
Deciding to worry about the details later, Slater pressed the button that would make the elevator descend into the underground car park, and with an unhealthy shudder, the elevator began its downward journey.
A matter of seconds passed before the stereo chimed again. The doors revealed the dimly lit area, filled with various vehicles of different models and proportions. From Slater's perspective, there seemed to be no one in sight. This would give anyone the urge to move briskly across the tarmac, but Slater knew better. He couldn't risk rushing to his vehicle in case a civilian happened to come out of a place that Slater didn't see, intruding upon his privacy and trying to get into an informative conversation.
Being careful not to alert anyone or cause unneeded suspicion, Slater cautiously moved towards his rental car. Taking out the keys from his pocket, Slater unlocked the driver's side door gently, keeping his eyes peeled for any silhouetted figures. Fortunately, the coast remained clear, a realization that beckoned Slater to lower himself into the leather seat. A surveillance van was parked nearby, but given that Slater had evaded detection up to this point, he was positive that no one had noticed his familiar identity. The security cameras might have glanced over his body, but the security officials wouldn't have been bothered or startled by his departure.
Instead of starting up the car and driving out of the parking lot right then and there, Slater began to have strong urges to smoke a cigarette. He had given up on them a year ago, but the temptations still occurred from time to time, especially when he was under immense stress and anguish.
Controlling his need to locate or purchase any cancer sticks, Slater exhaled and turned on the ignition. As soon as the rental car settled down, Slater slowly accelerated out of the parking lot, eventually finding himself on the main road.
Chicago was a rather large city, but Slater didn't want to spend his entire time driving. He wanted to find a place that wouldn't aggravate his anxiety, a place that would be quiet and serene.
After ten minutes of driving around the bustling streets, Slater came across an establishment that would perfectly suit his needs.
The Chicago Public Library.
Finding an open space behind the building, Slater carefully parked his car and scanned the surrounding area. The library was accessible to anyone, but due to the time of the day, the premises were going to be the equivalent of a Ghost Town. Reading a book would help Slater take his mind off things, an activity that he pondered as he entered the side door.
Roaming around the historical facility, the ongoing calmness of the building matched what Slater had formerly suspected; there were hardly any people around. Obviously there were voluntary workers and official librarians walking around the sectioned aisles, but they were too busy completing their duties to notice Slater. Taking his time, Slater blocked his presence with the obstructive shelves that had been placed in a convenient formation, lessening the possibility of someone being lost. The shelves were twice Slater's height, but he could still make out some of the titles on the highest section. A ladder would be useful to scan the section more thoroughly, but Slater didn't want to bother with anything he couldn't reach without sufficient help.
Searching through the books on the categorized shelves, Slater consulted every title that appealed to him. Unfortunately, none of the published books seemed to sway his interests. Nothing screamed volumes from a visual perspective, ultimately persuading him to take it off the shelf and read the pages within. Perhaps this venture was a failure in progress, something which Slater thought of as he placed his hands on his waist.
After releasing a disappointed sigh, Slater took one more chance with another section, attempting to maintain his optimism instead of becoming sceptical of what he would locate on the mahogany shelves.
"There's got to be something here..."
In the midst of whispering the eye-catching titles unto himself, Slater began to detect a strange noise emanating from the other side of the towering shelf. It sounded like skin meeting skin, as if a child was lightly clapping after being amused. Thinking that it would inevitably pass, Slater returned his gaze to the colourful books, trying to ignore the noise as much as possible. But before Slater could get settled, his senses would be alerted again, this time by pleasurable grunts and moans.
"Oooo ... mmm ... uhhh..."
"What in the world...?" Slater curiously mumbled, deciding to investigate the next aisle as he cautiously scanned the premises. Slater was anxious of what he would find, but his vigilant urges needed to be satisfied. He couldn't just walk away from something without acknowledging it first. He would be thinking of what it could have been for hours thereafter, failing to move on and continue with his scheduled priorities. Furthermore, based on the quietness of the Library and the rules that were in place, Slater was surprised that no one else had decided to inspect the area. But since it was a Monday, there were hardly any people inside the building, and since he was the closest individual there, it only made sense that he would be the first to potentially solve the mystery.
The grunts became more intense as Slater tip-toed across the carpeted floor, making sure that his footsteps didn't startle the individual or cause any terrifying ramifications. Slater didn't believe in paranormal activity, but for some bizarre reason, he felt like he was a temporary Ghostbuster, as though he was on a mission to capture some kind of ghost, or even Slimer. It was weird to even fathom, but the freakish behaviour of the individual on the other side couldn't be ignored.
With his interest peaked far beyond the point of no return, Slater slowly leaned across the side of the shelf, looking towards the cause of the distressing noises. What he discovered was more disturbing than any ghost or poltergeist, but not as disturbing as an LA Kief-induced nightmare.
"Oh that's right, baby ... work it, work it ... I'm almost there..."
Partially squatting with his pants around his ankles in an empty room, Inkt continued to masturbate freely as he read the book in his hand. The NEW World Heavyweight Champion was completely aroused by the literature, and the way his body quivered and shuddered informed Slater that he was on the verge of an orgasmic climax. Slater didn't know what to believe more; he was either in the middle of a realistic dream, or that Inkt was genuinely in front of him, "jerking the meat" as it were a few metres away.
"I'm about to blow!"
"What the fuck?!" Slater blurted out suddenly, abruptly ruining Inkt's private moment as he frantically spun around.
"Aww shit!"
With his secrecy spoiled, Inkt dropped the book and stumbled further into the vacant room, a convenient location that was in the deepest corner of the library. His uncoordinated movements caused him to trip over his own feet, making him tumble into a nearby plant. Luckily the overturned foliage covered his erect manhood, something which Inkt quickly fought to conceal as he pulled his pants up.
"God damn it, Slater!" Inkt yelled, fastening his customary leather belt at the same time. The visible protrusion of his denim jeans left little to be desired, creating an awkward sight that Slater wisely kept his eyes away from. Despite Inkt's angered response, the volume of his vocal release had been limited; he didn't want any civilians to discover he was hiding in a library in the heart of Chicago, a discovery that would result in numerous questions being asked and bothersome requests being addressed. Of course, it wasn't exactly common for Inkt to be associated with these kinds of establishments. Slater was naturally bewildered by his presence, and there needed to be a plausible explanation. Wanting to uncover the details, Slater approached Inkt with a raised eyebrow.
"What are you doing in here?"
Giving Inkt time to think of a logical answer, Slater properly surveyed the area, making sure that no one else had been disturbed by Inkt's moans and subsequent clumsiness.
"The hotel's got a stupid internet connection..." Inkt said after releasing an exasperated sigh. "I couldn't load shit up on my laptop. A guy like me can't go without lesbo action, know what I mean? Tried to get it fixed and the idiots at the desk couldn't figure that shit out. And if that ain't bad enough, Kief and Pugh have been annoyin' the fuck outta me. Pugh's actin' like a ragin' beast because he wants to fuck up Hazard and shit on Noc's wheaties, and Kief's bein' ... well ... fuckin' Kief."
"So you needed privacy..." Slater summarized, nodding his head. "That's understandable."
"And who's gonna find me in a Library, bro? Well okay you did, but I forgot you lived in places like this."
Slater rolled his eyes, but he eventually chuckled to ease the annoyance of Inkt's friendly insult.
"Well at least you're reading literature..." Slater said as he bent down, picking up the book that Inkt was scanning for filthy material. Slater wasn't surprised by the title printed on the cover.
"Dirty ... by Megan Hart..."
"You can read it if you want. I'm not one to judge."
"I think I'll pass..." Slater said, placing the book back where it was supposed to belong.
"So why are you here?" Inkt enquired, rubbing his crotch at the same time to comfort his swollen genitals. It was only fair for him to ask the same question, but it took a while for Slater to respond.
"I wanted to spend some time alone, and the library was a place that ... the media..."
Slater abruptly finished his explanation, failing to fully complete his train of thought. Once Inkt properly stood up, he forwarded an understandable nod, having learned about Slater's steroids before the closure of the show.
"Give it time, man. Soon things will be back to normal."
"I hope so..." Slater replied, taking his eyes off Inkt as he focused on the books on the shelves.
"Want to talk about it?"
Inkt's friendly suggestion made Slater face him again. It was clear that there was mutual respect between both men, stemming from their historical tenures in the wrestling business and beyond. A large number of people were already excited to see Slater and Inkt compete at Justice 5 for the NEW World Heavyweight Championship, and Slater agreed with their statements. Inkt was an athlete that had made his mark with determination and passion, and his supreme victory at Kamikaze was indeed a long time coming.
"Sure..." Slater said, accepting Inkt's invitation. Inkt directed Slater towards a couple of couches inside the empty room, positioned opposite each other to make relaxed conversation more comfortable. Inkt took up one of the couches as Slater sat down on the other one, attempting to unwind as he exhaled.
"So what happened?" Inkt asked, stretching one of his massive legs up onto the vacant seat next to him to improve his leisurely posture.
"A group of reporters were waiting outside the hotel. They wanted to know the details surrounding my steroid usage. They assumed Jesse was making allegations ... but I legitimized his claims by telling the truth. Then, it just became ... too much for me to handle. I needed to get away for a while."
"Which is why you're here," Inkt summarized.
"That's not the end of it though..." Slater confessed. "Falcon ... basically tainted my water bottles with the steroids ... and he showed up. He told the reporters that he did it, and now he's been arrested for possessing them. He'll probably be charged, but..."
"That's pretty shitty ... but he did get them illegally."
Slater nodded, cupping his hands together as he leant forward.
"I'm sure you heard that I was on them at one time..." Inkt said, looking around the room afterwards. "I was misguided. Those stupid fucks said that wrestling was for the big guys. So I spent every day in the gym working out. I got bigger ...I got stronger ... but I thought it wasn't enough. So ...I started juicin' up. I got addicted to them ... and a bunch of shit happened."
Slater understood what Inkt meant. He had done efficient research on New Edge Wrestling, which included learning about Inkt's past exploits. With his tampered inhibitions to cause havoc and distress, Inkt was an absolute monster. He destroyed various wrestlers inside the ring with his brutal strength, strength that Inkt couldn't fully comprehend the power of. But that wasn't the worst thing he did, something that Slater reflected upon as he frowned dismally.
In 2010, Scarlet was pregnant with her first child. During that time, Inkt and Scarlet were having colossal issues. Inkt had already hospitalized Scarlet by refusing to break a submission hold after an intense match at Annihilation for the NEW Trans-Atlantic Championship, a manoeuvre that several people needed to physically pry Inkt away from. Due to the severity of Inkt's actions, his victory was overturned, and he lost the championship after approximately five minutes. Angered and enraged by these declarations, Inkt got his revenge in the worst way possible; he kicked Scarlet in the stomach, causing her to lose her unborn child.
"To this day, I still don't know how I was forgiven..." Inkt murmured, also reflecting on the shocking incident that personified his volatile behaviour. "I was a loose cannon, man, attackin' anythin' and everythin'. But ... I suppose anyone can rebuild their life after bein' given a second chance. X tried to keep me juiced up, but I was wiser. I was smarter. I didn't need them, and everyone else knew that too. From that point onward, I let my skills do the talkin' inside the ring, and now ... I'm the World Heavyweight Champion."
Once again Slater nodded, although he found it ironic that Inkt had spent an intimate session with Scarlet years after the incident.
"Do you think ... they'll be the same with me?"
"Fuckin' right," Inkt confirmed. "If they know you didn't take them by yourself, then they'll be less critical of you. You'll be reprieved in no time at all."
Suddenly Inkt blinked, visibly confused by an unknown occurrence.
"Damn, this library is makin' me use big words."
Slater openly chuckled at Inkt's comment.
"I believe you're rather intelligent when you put your mind to things."
"Heh. Then I guess I'll start usin' my brain more often ... unlike that dipshit named Hunter Valentyne and that pot-head named Johnny Stylez."
Contrary to popular belief, despite the egotistical personalities and lifestyle choices of both men, they were far from idiotic. Hunter and Johnny were thorough with their schemes, checking every single detail to make sure that nothing went awry. Their opportunistic qualities had led them to victory numerous times, and if Slater and Inkt weren't careful, they could have a surprising strategy in store.
"Speakin' of Johnny, that's who you need to focus on," Inkt advised. "I know this steroid shit is gonna be messin' with your head, but you've gotta keep him perspective. Jesse will try and screw you over, but you'll do what you've always done since you came back. You'll prove them wrong."
"That's what I'm prepared to do," Slater replied. "It's certainly discouraging, but I guarantee that I'll maintain my composure with vigorous exercise. And if Jesse tries to do what he did to Kronin at Kamikaze, I'll head him off at the pass."
His Tag Team partner had suffered a controversial loss to Ray Andrews at Kamikaze. With a Cobra Clutch applied by the man known as KOP, Jesse ordered the bell to be rung, screwing Kronin over in the process. Kronin didn't submit vocally or physically, but the decision had been finalized. Kronin lost his Television Championship because of the despicable plan. However, with chemistry and collective technique, Kronin was able to secure another championship with Slater.
"Johnny's gonna be pissed off that you beat him and Hunter for the Tag straps, so if I know him like I do, he's gonna try and mess with your head by diggin' up the dirt."
"I'm expecting Johnny to do something along those lines," Slater said, getting more comfortable as he sunk further into the couch. "He might attempt to contact my ex-wife Amy, who has moved to a discrete location now. He might try and tell my son that I'm an evil person, creating a biological rivalry that will fester inside his mind year after year. Unfortunately for Johnny, they won't believe him. And to be honest, what can he possibly do to try and upset me? I've admitted everything there is to admit. There are numerous documents that chronicle my misdemeanours, and I've fought every single day to amend those negatives. And guess what? I have."
Inkt smirked, visualizing Slater's confidence seeping through.
"And this is why I think you'll win. You've not only got Johnny's number, but there's nothin' he can do that can fuck with you."
"Precisely..." Slater replied. "And you're correct about me having Johnny's number. Ever since we started competing against each other, I have caused him to lose time and time again. I stopped him winning the Terrordome at Justice 3, I've taken two World Tag Team Championships away from him with two different partners, I've upset him in Six-Man Tag Team Matches, and in the only match that we've ever had one-on-one ... I defeated him."
"I think I remember that..." Inkt mused.
"Here's the thing though. The only reason I ended up winning that match in Jamaica is because my unconscious body was dragged over Johnny when the lights went out. I think it was Al Envy that did it, but that doesn't change the result that remains on record to this day. So, in Detroit, I'm going to modify that historical victory. You see, Johnny will be able to use any weapon at his disposal, but the only way he can beat me is if he can make me tap out ... or pass out. I guarantee that this encounter will culminate with Johnny soaking up the blood on the canvas, trapped in a submission with nowhere to go. And just like in Jamaica, the lights will go out again ... but not the same way as before. Because if Johnny refuses to submit, then his stubbornness will extinguish his chances of success, and he's going to have his lights turned off, figuratively speaking."
"Well at least in Jamaica, he had enough drugs to last him a lifetime..." Inkt said. "In Detroit, he'll have to find enough drugs to last him three life-times, because once you beat him, he will want to live the rest of his life in a psychedelic stupor, so that he doesn't have to wake up every mornin' feelin' like a failure."
"I'm sure he did that after you gave him the Spiderman."
"I'm sure he did that after he lost to Kaeden Cedrik."
Preventing their exchange from going any further, Slater chuckled and visualized the interior of the room. A number of posters were attached to the wall, advertising the newest novels and movies on the market. One of these artistically-crafted posters depicted a large, luscious field, but at the forefront of this tranquil scenery, a grave had been freshly dug. After staring at the poster for a while, Slater turned back to Inkt.
"Do you understand the relevance of Johnny's shovel?"
Inkt blinked in response to Slater's bewildering question.
"Yeah ... he whacks people over the head with it."
"That's not what I mean."
"Well stop bein' cryptic, bro!" Inkt said, wanting to know what Slater was talking about.
"He uses it as a painful metaphor. It isn't just an object that can cause blunt-force trauma ... it's an object that represents Johnny in every conceivable way. Johnny has been known to research his opponents, and whatever he can find, he'll dig it up and release it to the public. The figurative dirt is used to smother his opponents with anger and sorrow. He wants them to make mistakes. He wants them to fall victim to his mind games, and when they've been made vulnerable, he'll conquer their weakened strengths and stand triumphant."
Inkt stared at Slater, dumbfounded that he was even able to talk about Johnny in this manner.
"That's just one metaphor," Slater continued. "The other is that he likes to bury his opponents. It's another figurative term that Johnny likes to talk about. Instead of literally burying them six feet under, he will do anything in his power to abuse and decimate them as quickly as possible. The shovel emphasises those two things."
"Why did you feel the need to tell me that?" Inkt asked.
"Because from what we've discussed, his personable traits are meaningless..." Slater answered. "He can't bury me, because I won't give him the satisfaction of controlling the pace of the match. He can't dig up any dirt on me, because it's all out in the open. I'm immune to their effects. Essentially, Johnny is walking into a battle that he can't win. His mind games won't work. His common strategies won't work. The only things he can rely on are his experiences with weapons, and even then, he's going to have to kill me with those objects to win that match in Detroit."
Looking into the center of the library through the doorway, Slater once again noticed the book on the shelves.
"Every book in this library has a story and a finale. Every criminal mastermind and antagonist has a strategy ... they have a plan. Unfortunately, we've already skipped to the final chapter, where the bad person gets their comeuppance, where they have to pay for their wrongs. The story that will be told in Detroit is that ... despite everything Johnny will do ... he can't vanquish the hero and ruin his tale of redemption."
"Damn right, doggie..." Inkt responded. "That's the way I'm viewin' my match against Hunter in Las Vegas. He's gonna have to..."
Suddenly, Inkt was interrupted by his phone vibrating in his pocket. Slater watched Inkt take out the phone, keeping his eyes on him as Inkt studied the flashing screen.
"God damn it, Pugh..." Inkt mumbled, staring at the caller identification on his phone. "I suppose I should take this..."
Releasing an aggravated growl, Inkt accepted the call and placed the phone to his ear.
"What do you want, tubby?"
Slater clamped his lips together, not wanting to ruin the conversation by laughing at Inkt's juvenile insult.
"I'm in the..."
Before Inkt could finish that sentence, he intelligently stopped himself. If he told Pugh he was inside a library, he wouldn't hear the end of it.
"... bathroom."
"Nice save..." Slater whispered, something that Inkt acknowledged with a wink.
"What do you mean still? I'm creating a Hunter Valentyne in here. It's startin' to smell like him too."
Pugh's shouts could be heard through the phone as Inkt waited for him to shut up.
"No I'm not gonna defecate on myself..."
More shouting ensued, causing Inkt to take the phone away from his ear an inch or two.
"Yes, there's enough toilet roll..."
A few more moments passed before Inkt growled.
"Fuck you, asshole. I'll be there soon."
After hanging up and putting the phone back into his pocket, Inkt looked at Slater again.
"That was a pleasant conversation," Slater said.
"Yup..." Inkt responded, sighing as he stood up from the couch. "I guess I'll be goin'. It's been fun."
Standing up, Slater stretched out his arm, a common gesture that usually led to a handshake.
"Just to let you know ... I'm behind you every step of the way when it comes to beating Hunter Valentyne. You'll retain the World Heavyweight Championship ... and you'll headline Justice 5."
Noticing the hand, Inkt smirked and grasped it with his own, initiating a clenched symbol that was commonly used to define brotherhood and respect.
"I'll see you at Justice, bro."
Inkt didn't need to tell Slater that he would defeat Hunter Valentyne the week after in a Last Man Standing Match to determine Slater's future. It was written in his eyes and the way he concluded the respectful gesture. Remaining still, Slater watched Inkt sneak out of the empty room, acting like a rookie spy who was on an investigative mission. Once he disappeared out of sight, Slater slumped down onto the couch again, allowing his thoughts to take full priority.
The 5th Anniversary Show in Detroit was going to have a lot of great moments. Highlight Reels were even in the works that would broadcast memorable moments from Ignite over the years. But if there was one moment that would live on, it would be the sight of Slater surviving against Johnny Stylez in their Hardcore Submission Match, proving the Styles Mafia wrong once again and prolonging his undefeated streak since returning to New Edge Wrestling.
"But the pleasure won't be yours, Johnny..." Slater openly said, unable to keep his thoughts contained. "The pleasure ... will certainly be mine."