COLUMBIA, SC

We’re greeted with the sight of Colonel Kelvin DuBois standing inside a room, where fake wood wallpaper covers thin walls adorned with stuffed deer heads, Confederate sabers, antique firearms, and state flags. He’s dressed in his Sunday best, a spotless tailored white suit befitting a former Kentucky Colonel, with a luscious velvet eyepatch covering his missing eye as the remaining one sparkles with mischievous intent. He spreads his arms wide, as if to greet the newly arrived viewer with the kind of Southern hospitality one would expect from a man of his impeccable upbringing and high status.

“Ah, good day! Normally I might be inclined to spend some precious minutes setting the stage, arranging the table, painting a picture, and all other relevant metaphors and similes. But today is not the day for pleasantries… primarily, I must admit, because I find my belly rumbling and my salivary glands yearning for some chicken fried steak, so I believe brevity is the order of the day. So, with that in mind let me cut to the chase and let y’all know a thing or two about a thing or two. Times are about to change up on Mount Olympus, a new age is on the horizon, a modern day Prometheus – yours truly, of course – is about to light a fire that burns away the rotten trees and uproot the fetid roots that are choking the life out of our beloved blue brand. And like any change throughout history, it is heralded again by the arrival of a few great men… namely, myself and my loyal hound dog, the human freight train, the Louisiana landwhale, the American Fatass, the unstoppable force known as… CLETUS!”

The wall behind Colonel DuBois suddenly explodes in a spray of plaster and paint, as the rotund titan bursts through it in a shocking entrance. Unfortunately nobody told him about the bracing 2x4 at the base of the wall, so rather than the dramatic arrival they had planned, he trips and goes sprawling face-first onto the floor, his massive gut luckily breaking his fall before his nose does.

“Oh, God…” mumbles the Colonel, covering his face with one meaty hand as he hides his frustration and embarrassment from the audience. It takes minutes for Cletus to push himself off the ground and stand up next to DuBois, brushing dust and bits of drywall off his face and sweaty, unclothed belly.

“ALRIGHT, BOSS. WE GOOD. MY BAD,” he bellows, slapping his manager on the shoulder so hard that the one-eyed Kentucky Colonel almost topples forward, only catching himself at the last second.

“Not so, I say, not so hard there, my boy!” shouts DuBois, before turning his attention back to the camera, “Now, where was I before that embarrassing turn of events… ah yes, I remember now, it’s all coming back to me, like memories of childhood rushing into my mind on a warm summer day spent on the porch with a Mint Julep and a pearl-handled revolver.

Short of Cletus’ debut in the Clash of Olympians, these coming matches are doubtlessly the most important of our short time here in the Omega Wrestling Ah-lliance. Forget about the Prestige Championship or that Interim Icarus belt… still not sure what the fucking deal with that last one is, to be honest with y’all, but that’s neither here nor there. The only thing that matters now is the #1 contendership for the Tag Team titles that’s waiting at the end of this fanciful little Sword and Shield Tournament. Earning that chance and subsequently dethroning Darkane and Lazarus Arjen – two legends of the brand by any definition of the word – would surely put a feather in the cap of…” he pauses, sighing, “...Dudes Rock.

I know, it’s a ridiculous name. I tried to argue against it, but the people have spoken! I wanted to call them Dem Boys, but I was swiftly voted down… and anyway, Wyatt was telling me the genesis of that word is somewhat in question. Apparently it’s in the process of being claimed by the Afro-centric crowd, and it might be ‘problematic’ – whatever the hell that means – if two white fellas go around using the name. But I’m not here to preach at you, I’m here to put the brand on notice. Everyone, from the Platinum Queens, to the World’s Finest, to the Tres Comas Club, to the Seventh Ward. Y’alls time is over, finished, done, dead, buried, and other such things!”

“BOSS,” interrupts Cletus.

“Not now, my boy! I’m just hitting my pace here, no time to slow down to wipe your ass, or whatever problem or idiotic request you’re about to present me with in this, my moment of truth! Y’see, a pair of good ol’ southern boys like Cletus and I never learned to take no for an answer, we weren’t raised to lay down and die when presented like a challenge, not like the rest of y’all with your soft underbellies and weepy-eyed, feminine attitudes. When we see something we want, we break down the walls – literally and figuratively, as Cletus so kindly demonstrated – and take it!

What, do any of you ignoramuses sitting at home really believe we’re going to be stopped, even by the fierce competition arrayed against us? Perish the thought, my friends, because it ain’t gonna happen, no sirree! First of all, regarding the so-called Platinum Queens that we’re set to face in the semi-finals, what chance could they possibly have against men like Brody and Cletus? Honest to God athletic prodigies, forged in the fires of strife and struggle, statuesque warriors carved from marble prepared to do battle with whatever demons and monsters this craven and depraved brand sees fit to send against them!

Speaking of demons, I am of course aware of Hana Nakajima’s history with such occult manifestations and ungodly powers. But we are not afraid, viewers, far from it! You know, I don’t often toot my own horn – wasn’t raised that way – but I simply must take this opportunity to highlight my past as a traveling preacher man, spreading the good word of the Lord to destitute and downtrodden communities up and down this great nation of ours… for a handsome fee from each parishioner, of course, but that hardly matters. Even a man of God like myself has to eat!

The point, I say, the point is, I have the Lord on my side and enough working knowledge of scripture to be utterly unconcerned with whatever infernal, satanic forces Hana might still be in league with. And even if she’s truly stepped away from her arcane ways, then Cletus will have no problem slapping some sense into her mouth without my – or Brody’s, for that matter – assistance. She’s got to be, what, 5’2”, 120 pounds at most? I don’t care how many Kung Fu stances she knows, it won’t be enough to stop a runaway train when it’s barreling down on her.

And Emmanuelle, maybe the worst of them all! Don’t get me wrong, though, I do respect the fact that she’d been stealing money from the former Dojo Boys under the guise of training, when all she really wanted was a few helpers to sweep up her training school and serve as bed warmers on whatever straw mat she sleeps on at night. I always recognize and appreciate a fellow swindler, but she needs to focus on cleaning up her own mess before she tries to create an entirely new one on the blue brand. How about you go and get that Kulina boy under control before you worry about winning more glory for your own old, decrepit ass, huh?

But that’s enough about them two, I’ve already wasted enough of my precious, precious breath explaining how little I truly think of our semi-final opponents. I feel my effort is best spent focusing on what comes after that. Unfortunately, there is some small level of uncertainty about who our next opponents might be, between the World’s Finest and the Tres Comas Club, those opposing groups of bitter rivals who I don’t doubt will sink to whatever levels are necessary to secure victory over the other.

Now, I’m a man who likes to hedge his bets, who likes to know what he’s getting into before leaping into the fray. Unfortunately, we have no way of being certain who we shall be fighting for the top contender slot, though I do have my suspicions on how this will all play out. Y’see, Nobi and Matsuda – fearsome foes they may be – are, I daresay, nearing the end of their relevance within this sport. Two individuals who have fought headline matches in damn near every country across the globe, who’ve accomplished all there is to do in this billion dollar industry. And yet, they still hunger for more. Such is the depths of their gluttony and avarice that they no doubt lay awake at night, fantasizing about stealing such an opportunity from a pair of men like Brody and Cletus, who are far more deserving of facing the Seventh Ward at Dreamworld.

You two call yourself the World’s Finest, without a hint of irony, without even the slightest understanding of how arrogant and cocksure such a name makes you sound… let alone how you’re setting yourself up to fall from a much higher precipice than you might otherwise have tumbled from. Oh, how devastating will your loss be – either to those textbook-reading, big-word-using goons from the TCC, or to Brody and Cletus if you managed to advance that far – when you realize that calling yourself the best doesn’t necessarily make it so.

At least Nobi has Hollywood to fall back on, and his never-ending quest of fulfilling every dying child’s wish of meeting a mediocre wrestling superstar and C-list actor before the cancer puts them six feet under. Hell, he probably spends more time with Make A Wish than he does wrestling these days… although I would be foolish to deny the fact that he’s been undergoing a bit of a resurgence of late. And sure, he may not be a bonafide Academy Award winning talent like that Chad Ecclestone fella, but he’s still got a niche in trashy action flicks and idiotic romantic comedies…

…but what do you got, Cloud? Hell, for a woman who places so much value on who she’s sleeping with at any given moment, you couldn’t even prevent Devione from kidnapping your latest bedmate and having his way with her, much like a Roman legionnaire might have had his way with a captured Gallic woman! What good are you, if you can’t even defend the ones you claim to love the most? Now, I won’t go through the entirety of your vaginal hit list – we don’t have all day here, we’re already late for third lunch – but anyone with an internet connection and the ability to read at a first-grade level can look up your Wikipedia page and scroll down to the tab listed ‘People Who Cloud Matsuda Has Fucked’. As long as they’ve got a day or two to get through the thousands and thousands of names, it’s all right there, so no need for me to repeat something so easily verifiable.

You’re washed up, used up, chewed up… and even worse for your odds here, that roast beef sandwich in your panties holds no appeal to either Cletus or Brody. Hell, that California boy is handsome as anyone I ever seen come outta that godforsaken dysgenic state, he ain’t interested in trash like you. And as for Cletus, well… the roast beef part might actually sound appetizing to him…”

“BOSS,” mumbles Cletus more urgently, once again brushed off by the Colonel.

“Don’t worry, my boy, I know you ain’t interested in someone as low-down as that Blasian brat, I was simply illustrating my point that her feminine wiles hold no sway with two red-blooded, meat-eating, chopstick-hating American sides of beef like you and your new partner!

Now, I already made it clear who I think we’ll be facing off against in the tournament finals, and that’s Alessandro’s two dogs, Poet and Reginald. As for the latter, I don’t have much to say… to be honest, I try not to think about the British whenever I can avoid it. A more despicable, disgusting, colonizing, Royal Family-worshiping group of shit-sniffing inbred morons I cannot imagine. Dampshaw, in case they don’t teach the Revolutionary War in your history classes over there, we don’t exactly cotton to royalists in America. South Carolina especially. You know that crowd is gonna be cheering for Brody and my boy Cletus, some real American heroes, instead of you and that pseudointellectual ruffian.

Ah, yes, the Prestige Champion. The man who was able to get one over on Cletus… and more than one over on our partner Brody. I bet you’re feeling cocky going into the semi-finals against the World’s Finest, considering you boys have had them on the run since you threw in your lot with Devione. What, you think everyone is impressed just because you got yourself a library card to check out a few poetry books? Oh, we bow and kneel before your superior intellect and proper grammar, your grasp of the English language truly makes you a worthwhile competitor to be feared by all… and it would, if this were a god dang spelling bee, instead of a wrestling match! I bet you think you’re slick, huh? Smarter than me and my boy? A shoe-in to ride into Dreamworld with a Tag Team Championship shot? Hell, I bet you even think you’d give them Seventh Ward boys a run for your money, should you manage to secure the contendership for yourselves.

Well, I’m here to tell you that you ain’t got a hope in hell of beating us, should you manage to make it to the finals. The only chance you boys have got, is if Daddy Devione opens up his chequebook and cuts Wyatt and I a fat bonus for taking a dive to you two… ahhh, fixed fights, that takes me back to my days spent rigging boxing matches, seems like only yester–”

“BOSS!” says Cletus again, tugging on DuBois’ sleeve to get his attention. This time, the Colonel turns angrily to glare at his client, face red with anger as he yells loud enough to send spittle spraying at the mongoloid’s face.

“WHAT? WHAT IS IT, YOU OVERGROWN RETARD? WHAT REASON COULD YOU HAVE FOR INTERRUPTING ME OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN, WHILE I’M TRYING TO DO THE VERY JOB YOU PAY ME 90% OF YOUR EARNINGS TO DO?”

“PISSED MYSELF, BOSS,” replies Cletus casually, as DuBois falls silent and looks down at the spreading wet spot at the front of the American Fatass’ denim shorts.

“...sometimes you, I say, sometimes I wish I’d never dragged you out of that swamp, boy…”

“I don’t even know why we’re having this match. I mean, Striker is a tough guy. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a mean mug. He does some cool strikes and he likes to do the things I do. I want to throw people around, but he seems to do that as well. Fuck, I’m craving waffles, man. Should we get some food before we begin filming?”

“Colton, we’re filming now.”

In the middle of a sip of his morning coffee, Colton’s eyes shift towards the camera. A dramatic pause, caused by the confusion, breaks only as he slowly finishes his sip. After lowering the mug to the table, Colton’s glare is not at the camera, but at the light on the side of it.

“So, what’s what fucking light is. Huh.. Interesting.”

“Are you going to talk about the match?”

“I’m fucking hungry! I can’t complain about an opponent on an empty stomach, you know that!”

**One Trip To IHOP Later**

“Okay, I think we got something here.”

As Colton crunches on some vegetables, he ponders the effect that the upcoming match has on his dream contest against Chris Sabertooth. A match that he thinks the world needs to see, Colton eyeballs a carrot while lost in thought.

“So, about the match?”

“Well, hold on a second. Let’s backtrack for a minute here. How come nobody is talking about my epic win against the guy from the cult at Divine Retribution? That was awesome! You heard the crowd, they even said it was awesome.”

“Who did?”

“Everyone! Okay, so they weren’t chanting it but I heard some good things from people. No, instead, people were burned out after Sabertooth and Striker kicked the dog shit out of each other. What a fight.”

“You’re looking at that carrot like it took twenty dollars out of your wallet.”

“Well, my wallet is a little lighter.”

With a look of disdain at the carrot, Colton’s nostrils flare before ripping it apart with a savage bite.

“That’s you, Jacob Striker! I know damn well that you had the nerve to come into MY home?! You came to my house and decided to take twenty dollars from my wallet despite me opening the door and my world to you. I opened myself as no mortal man would, and you took advantage of me by touching my wallet.”

“Colton, he neve..”

“I don’t want to hear it! Jacob Striker is a menace! He needs to be stopped! Why do people keep allowing this man near their property?!”

“What was in that coffee?”

“Ground up coffee beans and a lot of pent up frustration. You know how it feels for someone to come into my home and suddenly decide that they think they own it? SWWS is my home, guys. That man came through the doors and became their World Champion. So, I thought it might be a solid idea to go to OWA and maybe make that my home. Then, this guy decided to face the guy I want to face and then take twenty dollars from me… I can’t believe the audacity of this man. Straight Shooter, huh? More like Wallet Thief. Fuckin’ mean, man.”

“Colton, none of that is true. You know that. He didn’t take twenty dollars from your wallet, Eddie did. He was in OWA before you joined there. Not to mention, you’ve wrestled like four matches in SWWS. I think you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

Looking past the camera, Colton cocks his head with a firm glare at the voice behind the camera.

“You know, you’re getting on my nerves with this talk about Jacob Striker being better than me. I don’t think he is. Let me ask you something, Dil. Is that a Jacob Striker t-shirt you’re wearing?”

“It’s a University of Louisiana shirt that we got in Monroe.”

“We?”

Shaking his head in frustration, Colton looks down at the half carrot in his hand.

“You make me sick. Let’s just be honest for a minute here. Jacob Striker is a roadblock. He’s a big dude, a big fucking roadblock. Do you know what I do to roadblocks?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure you’ll tell everyone.”

“I get in my truck and I back out of my driveway. Then, I stop at the gas station to buy a pack of smokes and a cheap coffee. Then.. Oh, it gets better. I drive to the gym and I lift some weights. After that, I’m pretty spent so I go home and take a nap. Then, the kids will be yelling and telling me that I’m lazy and I’ll never make it as the OWA Spartan Champion. No, it doesn’t end there. Then I get told by that one guy who drops all those letters in my mailbox that the fucking mailbox is already full. Dude, I hate roadblocks! I don’t see the point in them. If you don’t want me to drive there, just say so! Then I won’t drive there. I’ll fly to Columbia! Are there roadblocks in the fucking sky?”

“You are way off topic here. How did any of that register as a roadblock?”

“Life is a roadblock! A big ass roadblock, Dilan. There’s always something in the damn way when I need to achieve a goal. I sign with OWA and everyone was so happy. I saw a mother throw her child into the air. Clear steer to Sabertooth, right? I talked with the brass, I pitched this match because I wanted so damn badly and what did I get? Some fucking Charles Manson guy threatening my family. Now, I have to deal with Jacob Striker. The same dude who couldn’t beat Sabertooth. The same dude who I FOUGHT at Madison Square Garden. The same dude that has been walking around and saying bad things about me. I get it, he doesn’t fucking like me.

So what? There’s always a problem. I look at OWA as this great opportunity to become the wrestler that I know I should be. I’ve been fighting this battle against my own body. How many damn surgeries did I have to even get here?! No, they put their chips on a Romanian kid who didn’t know how to carry the weight. I got skipped. At Divine Retribution, I got skipped again. Okay, maybe that match was scheduled before, but I still feel slighted. Now, I have to continue this entire path and the guy in my way just happens to be the same guy who did some pretty crappy things to my sister in another company.

I don’t hate Jacob Striker, but I am damn sure sick of standing in line. That seems to be the trend of my career, right? Back of the line, big guy. Sure, you’re great and you’re very strong, but we want someone else. Every single fucking day I have to wake up and feel that feeling. For what?

What is it, Dilan? Injury prone? Alcoholic? What is it?”

Instead of a clever retort, silence fills the air. Colton, feeling the weight fall on him, slowly rises out of his chair as he stares out of the window.

“Are you good?”

“I came here to do something, you know? I came to OWA for that match. If I don’t beat Jacob Striker on Kingdom, man.. I don’t know if I’ll ever get that match. It’ll always be on my mind and always a hope that I have.. It will mean nothing if I can’t get it done. It’s like what am I doing? I got all worked up over Keegan, but damn did I perform. I don’t think Striker can make me that angry, he doesn’t say stupid things that would make me want to take his head and rip it off of his shoulders. It’s like competition for wrestling superiority. A lot is on the line and I feel like I’m playing myself. Ever since I got back from Tampa, I’ve had that mindframe that I SHOULD win by default. Not by forfeit, but that I have that much confidence in my own skills that this would be a walk in the park. Striker is a must defeat. He has to lose.”

“Maybe you should get some fresh air.”

Nodding to the voice, Colton heeds the advice and opens the window. The cold air blows into the home, causing immediate goosebumps to cover his arms.

“Now that you’ve done that, let’s talk about the match with a more level head.”

“A lot on the line, Dil. A lot of things can happen in this company, we’ve seen plenty of it. Wars, crazy matches, big moments. I like the idea of the big moments. The happy ending, you know? The hero wins and gets the adulation from the audience. Then he rides off into the sunset as the winner. Not of just a championship, but of life. I want that to be my reality one day. That path goes through Striker. I know what I need to do, but I also know that it won’t be easy. He’s a Champion, he’s a star. He’s someone who can make this dream an absolute nightmare. I got by Keegan when many thought I couldn’t. Now I have to do this.”

“Exactly, but you know you can do it.”

“I can. It’s like the little train guy. I think I can, I think I can. Well, Columbia.. I think I..”

SLAM!! The window’s edge drops fiercely on the hand on Colton.

“Oh shit!”

With his head lowered, Colton looks at his hand underneath the window.

“Colton, get your hand out of there..”

After the moment of uncomfortable silence, a small chuckle escapes Colton. The moment of laughter, as uncomfortable as it is, allows Colton to raise the window back up.

“Now, where was I?

Jacob Striker… I could talk all day about why it’s important to defeat YOU. Your accolades say a lot. Mine, not so much. I won’t bore the world with the tale of defeating an unbeatable God. I won’t bother you with that, but I need you to know exactly what you’re going to see in Columbia. Are you sure this is the road you want to take?

I thought, for twenty years, that I knew myself. I thought, shit, this is a guy who can get his act together and become something special. It doesn’t happen, Jacob. It hasn’t yet, anyways. Here’s the thing though, admiration and experience breeds exposure. You’ve wrestled in so many places that anyone with a computer or someone who knows how to use one, can figure out a gameplan against the Croninberg of Clotheslines. Everyone has seen you and everyone knows what you’re going to do and how you’re going to do it.

Can you say the same about me? Really think about that one. Think about the fact that for every Colton Saint match that the world sees, they see ten Jacob Striker matches. Striker matches are hard hitting matches. We know that. It’s become like clockwork, though. I know the grimace on your face when you take a swing at someone. I know the shoulders arch inward as you set up the Apocalypse. I know everything I need to know.

That’s where the problem is, Jacob. You have been in the world for so long that everyone knows what Jacob Striker is going to do. Nobody.. Absolutely Nobody.. Knows what Colton Saint is going to do. You’ll never figure it out. You’ll never understand what is next in the mind of me, and why is that? Simple, it’s because I don’t understand what’s next for me either. I’ve tried for years, and I’ve failed every single time.

Failing is something I’ve become pretty good at. I failed to become the next Nolan Ryan. I failed to break even at the box office. I failed being a husband. All those things I’ve failed at, cool. There is one thing I won’t fail at..

I won’t fail in beating you.”

The camera is in a shot of the library of the Dampshaw Estate. It is dark outside, and the only light is the fire roaring in the fireplace. Reginald is sitting in a leather armchair in front of the fire, looking deep in thought.




Reginald looks to his left, and as the camera pans out, we see Poet sitting in a chair, his long, curly blonde hair tied tightly in a ponytail.




Reginald leans forward, the flicker of the flames reflecting in his eyes, casting a sinister glow that seems to dance across his features.




Poet picks up the wine glass he had sitting on the small table next to him and takes a sip, letting the wine roll over his tongue and savouring it.






Poet looks around, taking everything in. He notices a dark doorway across the hall and instantly feels uneasy.






Poet's unease grows palpable, the atmosphere in the library shifting subtly as if the air itself grows colder with the mention of the entity that resides within the dark doorway. The warmth from the fire seems to recede, making the shadows in the corners of the room deepen and stretch towards them.




Reginald thinks about the question for a moment and shrugs.




Poet sets his wine glass down, the rich liquid now forgotten. 




Reginald turns and looks at Poet.




Poet stares at Reginald for a moment. He then turns and looks at the doorway that he has been eyeing for some time now. He laughs but then sees how serious Reginald is.






Reginald thinks for a moment before speaking.




Poet looks confused. His chuckle fades into the crackling of the fire, his confusion mingling with a dawning realization. 




Reginald nods, the corners of his mouth lifting in a knowing smile. 




Reginald’s expression softens with an understanding smile, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he watches Poet grapple with the concept. 




Poet shifts uncomfortably in his chair, the nervous laugh fading into a thoughtful silence. He runs a hand through his tightly tied hair, contemplating the gravity of Reginald’s words. 


He repeats this quietly, the weight of the task dawning on him. 


Reginald puts a comforting hand on Poet's shoulder and smiles.




The two men stand there for a moment, letting their words hang in the air. They then turn to look at each other, and the two men begin to laugh. 




Reginald nods in agreement as he leans back in his chair, the firelight dancing in his eyes as he savors the taste of victory yet to come. 




Reginald gestures toward the dark doorway across the hall, his voice dripping with disdain. 




Poet raises his glass in response, his eyes reflecting the flicker of the flames. 




He echoes Reginald, the words resonating in the grand library. The clink of their glasses also resonates, sealed in the shadowy ambiance of the Dampshaw Estate's library. As the fire crackles and pops, the two men sit in contemplative silence, each lost in thought over the upcoming challenges. The camera slowly pulls back, leaving the two figures to their scheming, the warmth of the fire casting long shadows that dance across the room. The scene fades to black.

(Nobi and Cloud Matsuda are in a gym. They just finished training. Afterward, Nobi kicked a trash can nearby)

Nobi: Fucking hell!

Cloud Matsuda: Hey! Take it easy!

Nobi: The hell I can! Reginald Dampshaw III and Poet screwed me over with my Wrestleworld European Title! 

Cloud Matsuda: I understand, but this is your chance to get some revenge against them and now I’m in your corner too. Just relax…

Nobi: Relax? Yeah, a good idea because now you’re in my corner right? Just like when I lost the European Title when you were in my corner, now I can relax.

Cloud Matsuda: …..I’m going to pretend I didn't hear this sarcasm….

(Nobi takes a deep breath)

Nobi: Look, I’m sorry, Matsuda. I’m just…

Cloud Matsuda (cutting): It’s ok, I understand.

Nobi: Thanks. You can go ahead if you want. I think I want to have another session.

Cloud Matsuda: Fine. Just don’t overpushed yourself.

Nobi: I know, don't worry. I’m going to take a rest at the men’s locker room first for a couple of minutes before training again.

(Cloud nods and then Nobi goes to the men’s locker room. He goes to take a drink and then opens his iPad. He watches Poet’s video)

———————————————————

First, thing, first…

Fuck you Tree Commas Club.

You all keep messing with me, you all keep messing with Cloud, and you all keep messing with everyone you have a problem with. 

And I know why Tree Comas Club keep doing what you’re doing by screwing people.

I’m still one of your biggest threats. I’m definitely the walking and talking dangerous Zone to you. And of course, so is Cloud.

Otherwise, why would you all waste my time, energy, stamina, and breaths to me and Cloud? 

A part of me is glad to know it, actually and I know I can take down the Tree Comas Club eventually. Cloud and I might as well start doing it right now with this match against Poet and Reginald Dampshaw III. 

I mentioned it earlier, you both cost me my Wrestleworld European Title, so now it’s my turn to cost you both to go further in this Shield and Sword Tournament but I can proudly say, it’s not going to be a cost. We’re not costing you both. We’re going to beat you so it’s going to be a loss for both of you. This is an official match after all. When Cloud and I screw you both, it just means we defeat you both in an official match. Cloud and I are just going to do what we have to do and that is winning this match.

I know this won’t be easy. Even though I have beaten Reginald Dampshaw III so many times before and then Poet only could pin me after I wasn't paying attention to him, they're still good competitors in the ring.

….and also take it in account that they definitely have something dirty up in their sleeves…

This won’t be easy.

Doesn't mean Cloud and I are going to back down. Hell, if anything I'm angrier more than ever now. My blood is boiling right now. My visions are seeing you both in a bloody pulp. That's something that I want to see right now. Not just Poet and Reginald Dampshaw III, but also for the rest of Tree Comas Club as well.

But something is still at stake. Besides a personal vendetta of mine and I believe Cloud's too, this is still a tournament match, so this adds more reason why Cloud and I have to win this match. This motivated us further to beat Poet and Reginald Dampshaw III. 

So I have to be very focused to kill 2 birds with 1 stone don't I? My attention is definitely on you both and I can guarantee, it is not a good thing. I want to kick both of your asses as hard as I can and as much as I possibly can. 

And assuming this is still a 2 on 2 match, that's very possible to do so. I’m not underestimating both of you at all, I’m taking this very seriously to knock both of your heads off. 

It's time to put the Tree Comas Club members to the Sleeping in Comas Club, starting from Poet and Reginald Dampshaw III.

Seriously, what are you doing, Dampshaw? I don't know how your brain works. Well, maybe you have a different way of thinking because you’re an idiot. Everytime you appear in front of me, I always prove that I'm a step or two above you. Hell, maybe you’re a few steps behind me now as you were the first guy that was eliminated at FD 3 while I became the runner-up at that Thunderdome match and yet, you still want to get these hands? Well, no problem for me. I will smack across your face once again in this match and I will do it over and over again every time I see your ugly face. Maybe at this time I’ll kick The Lizard’s tongue to shut you up. Don't bother to talk if you don't want it to happen.

And that actually goes for you too, Poet. You talked about something you don't understand. A failed marriage? That was years ago. My hot wife is happy with me and I’m happy with her. I always see her on my bed every single night. I get laid every single day and I’m pretty sure you’re still a virgin, Poet. That's why you bothered to talk about my marriage. You’re jealous of me because of your virginity. 

And you think I chose my own nick-name? I’ve said it countless times that I didn't pick my own nick-name, the fans did. Never once have I called myself The White Knight. I just let the fans, commentators, friends, and enemies like yourself to call me that. Now you can call me The Black Knight if you wish because your eyes are about to shut off in the darkness when I punch those ugly eyes of yours. You’re right about one thing though, I haven’t saved anyone and everyone from Tree Comas Club. What I did and The World's Finest did was kick Tree Comas Club' asses in that All or Nothing match on that Olympus a couple of weeks prior FD 3 where you and every single Tree Comms Club were having comas, Poet. And you’re one to talk about my accomplishment. Well, I don't really care whether these accomplishments are standing out to you or not. I won these titles and I became champs. I know I’m just that good.

Not trying to discount you, but what have you accomplished? Right you’re the current OWA Prestige Champion and……what else? Can you tell me anything else, Poet? And let me say it the only 2 reasons why you’re holding that Prestige Title is because of The Seventh's Ward and a low blow. By the way, that low blow you did to me is because you’re jealous of my chad Johnson. 

I agree I would have been a big name in the 1980’s but I'm also a big name right now. You really think the cheers disappeared everytime I walked out from behind the curtain? They always cheer for me and chant for my name everytime I appear, even when I don't wrestling. You’re clearly stupid and in denial to say they don't cheer for me, Poet. Well, what can I say? I’m a handsome son of a bitch while you're just….ugly. 

Now, why would I need to retire when I’m still popular and still pretty much kicking? Because I need to let others get to the top? I’m not holding any OWA belts right now, so what are you talking about? Well, that will change soon enough. I don't know which belts but at least Cloud and I are working towards the Tag Team Titles. Maybe I could go after you, Dampshaw, or Remington Ivory Prescott soon enough too.

And you can only ask me to retire because you can't make me do it, just like everybody else can't in the past, including your Tree Comas Club pals.

I’m not a hero, Poet. Never once I claimed myself as someone who always wants to do the right thing. I do what I want and I guess that sits right for almost everyone. Almost. You’re natural to not see it as the right thing, Poet, especially right now. Because what I want 
to do right now is kicking your ass and Dampshaw.

(Camera fades to black)

ATLANTA, GA

Fresh off their victory against Devi Krysis and NAMI, the boys are back in town. And by town, I mean the parking lot of a notable strip club in the Atlanta metro area. The quartet – clearly buoyed in spirit by the success they tasted just hours ago – strolls towards the front doors of the establishment, seeking some rest and recuperation after their athletic ordeal. Colonel Kelvin DuBois leads the pack, reaching the front door to the establishment first, turning to face the others as his voice rings out, loud and boisterous:

“Ha ha! Why, never in my many years did I expect to feel so thoroughly and vicariously overjoyed to be here in this stinking urban cesspool the local rubes have so stupidly dubbed ‘Hotlanta’. But boys, I do believe this is the partnership we all been waiting for! Now let’s go enjoy the sensual movements and succulent stench of the, I say, of the finer sex!”

With that proclamation, the Colonel throws open the double doors to the strip club’s interior, revealing not the oasis of female sex workers they had expected, but something else entirely. Bare male ass and cock, as far as the eye can see, except for a few scattered women throughout the audience, hooting and hollering as ballsweat flies into the crowd and chest hair glistens under the hot, bright lights. The four men stand in the entrance, eyes wide with shock as Sylvester’s homosexual classic ‘You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)’ blares over the sound system.

“Welp. That’s a lot of dick, bro. Is this what you and Cletus been doing on the road?” asks Brody.

“Certainly not, you dang pothead!” the Colonel shouts back, clearly offended by the implication that he and his client spend their leisure time huffing man-musk and ogling schlongs. “There must be some mistake… perhaps we took a wrong turn back at that young African-American crack dealer…”

“What was the name of this place again, Dubois?” asks Wyatt, sounding almost amused by the situation his new business partner has thrust them into.

“Tomcat’s!” he shouts in response, “Some fella in leather chaps outside the venue said this is where the action wa… oh…” he trails off, suddenly putting the pieces together in his head.

Before they can make their decision to leave and go find an actual titty bar, Cletus shoulders his way past the Colonel, following his nose through the door until his eyes fall upon a table set up along the span of the far wall.

“BUFFET!” he bellows, nearly loud enough to shake the very walls, as he charges into the club headed straight towards the array of breakfast foods that are being offered to the customers within.

“Man, I don’t know about all this,” mumbles a skeptical Brody as he and the other two half-heartedly shuffle after Cletus, until something grabs his attention as well, “Seems sorta ga— HOLY FUCK! STRIP CLUB PANCAKES! I WAS BORN FOR THIS SHIT! LET'S FUCKING GOOOOOOOO!!!”

Brody charges towards the breakfast buffet... but as he approaches, Cletus – who already has a bunch of sausages crammed halfway into his mouth – turns to block him from reaching the food. Unsurprisingly, the American Fatass is more than a little territorial when it comes to his banquets, as he barks and growls like a pit bull at his tag team partner. Not to be dissuaded by such a threat, Brody jukes by him effortlessly and grabs a stack of pancakes in each hand, but he’s quickly forced back on the run by the surprisingly fast (and equally motivated) human freight train.

“Jesus…” mutters the Colonel, watching the scene unfold.

Wyatt finishes his thought, “… Christ.”

The two men turn to each other, their eyes meet, and they both offer a slight smile: kindred spirits, men with big dreams, men with their fates hitched to the wagons of talented clients... with much dimmer intellects.

“Well, we’re already here, might as well sit a spell, take a load off, let the boys be boys… Now, since there ain’t no lovely ladies to entertain two refined, classy gentlemen like us… what say you and I play a bit of cards? Unless of course, you don’t wanna put up that bankroll I seen you carrying around,” says the Colonel with a smug grin.

“No problem there, Colonel,” is the immediate reply from Wyatt, apparently unconcerned with the idea of being hustled by a carnival barking, low-down, no-good, potential cardsharp like the infamous Colonel Kelvin DuBois.

They make their way to an empty card table, and DuBois withdraws a pack of cards from inside his white suit jacket, shuffling like an expert as the pair of them take up seats across from each other.

“Don’t worry, California, I promise I’ll leave you enough to pay for gas on the way to your next destination,” chuckles the Kentucky native, as he begins to deal cards to himself and Wyatt… he gets about three cards in, before Wyatt's grip falls upon his wrist, stopping him from handing out the rest.

“Deal from the top, DuBois. I’m not some mongoloid like that beast you picked up in Lousiana, and I sure as hell aren’t as gullible as the yokels you’re used to scamming on the old carnival circuit. So do us both a favor, and play it straight.”

“Ha ha! My apologies, merely a course of habit, so to speak,” he laughs, playing off the entire situation as an honest mistake, “I wouldn’t dream of getting one over on my new friend and partner in this wrestling endeavor, my dear Wyatt…”

“Uh huh. I bet. Now, you're free to stop talking and start dealing, I'm sure those two are going to get us kicked out shortly,” says the other man, as DuBois reshuffles the deck and begins to deal the cards honestly.

“I done already apologized, no need for attitude, my new friend and business associate! Let’s not let a simple slip in judgment get between us and the big payday them two boys are leading us towards! But I don’t need to tell you, do I? You were right there watching alongside me, as our respective clients thrilled the arena with their athletic conditioning, raw strength, and natural camaraderie. Hell, I only got one good eye, and I was able to see it clear as day: them two working together are sure to draw the dimes we need to get ahead in this business.

Though I must admit I was skeptical of your boy Brody’s dedication at first – I’ve known my share of California layabouts, after all – I must say I was impressed with the explosiveness he demonstrated in that ring tonight. That boy is a natural! Natural what, I can’t be sure yet, but I know talent when I see it. How do you think I picked up Cletus?

My only concern is that Brody might be spreading himself a little thin… not only is he in this Sword and Shield tournament with my dear Cletus, he’s also taking a run at the Battle Royal for a shot at the Devione chap’s American Dream. I do hope that you and your friend do not view this partnership with Cletus and I as some temporary stepping stone to greater things… after all, Brody hasn’t exactly been successful in his solo career, has he? Then again, neither has my Cletus…

…but the two of them together? Now we’re cooking with propane, buddy! I simply must pity the two unfortunate JAV rejects who have found themselves looking down the barrel at our boys. Hell, I can’t rightly figure what they’re in this tournament for anyway. A tag team championship? You ask me, them two are more suited – culturally speaking, of course – for that Puroresu belt… can you believe that’s actually a real word? I had to look it up, but sure as shit there it was in the Jap dictionary! Crazy, right? Then again, the ways of the mystical east tend to be odd to those of us who have grown up in the cradle of civilization known as these United States of America. Ain’t I right?

But more to the point, what could they possibly do to defeat our two bonafide thoroughbreds? My Cletus can soak up any punishment their feeble feminine forms might possibly be able to dish out… you saw him absorb those shots in the match this evening, and beg for more, did you not? You saw him heft up that lady and toss her effortlessly over the ropes and onto the concrete floor, as surely as I myself witnessed it.

And as for your Brody, despite his lackadaisical attitude and beach bum mentality, he is doubtlessly one of the most refined athletes on Olympus… or Kingdom, for that matter! An inborn talent for this sport if I ever did see one! If you manage to keep him focused on the prize at the end of this tournament, I am positive that our victory is assured.

And once we make our way past those Oriental gatekeeping whores in the semi-finals, it’s on to the real deal. Now, as much as I respect the accomplishments of Cloud Matsuda and Nobi, there is too much on their plates to truly put their heart and soul into these battles. Nobi with his famous career in that Liberal cesspool called — and I almost dare not speak its name — ‘Hollywood’. And Cloud, with whatever lesbian hooker or muscular field hand she’s shacked up with this week. That woman’s vagina might as well be registered as a weapon of mass destruction for all the pain, disease and death it’s caused this unsuspecting world! I sincerely hope she’s got a license for that thing, if nothing else… these blasted democrats keep going on about gun control, well what about some slut control? Thanks, Obama!

Fact is, they represent the past, do they not? I speak of both the World’s Finest, and the team of Hana and Emmanuelle. Their day has come and gone as sure as the sun sets at night and rises up in the morning! Perhaps six months ago, their victory could have been a vague, distant possibility, but times have truly changed here on Mount Olympus, heralded by the sudden arrival of that Devione fellow and his compatriots. It is a new era, so I have little doubt in my mind that our boys shall end up facing the representative from the Three Cummers Club in the finals instead. I'd bet my left boot on it, in fact!

And I know, I said, I know Brody has had trouble getting one up on that annoying, scholarly, stuck-up Poet, but I am confident that — working together, mind — he and Cletus will have no issues coming out on t—“

“Royal Flush,” states Wyatt matter-of-factly, cutting off DuBois as he lays down his cards. He'd been silently betting and drawing cards during the obnoxious, overbearing monologue.

“Why I never… you hustling me, Wyatt?” accuses the Colonel, his remaining eye narrowing at the man sitting across from him as he begins to work himself into a tizzy… but before he can truly go off on his counterpart, something catches his attention in the background.

The chase between Cletus and Brody had still been going on around the stage the entire time that the two businessmen were shooting the shit over a hand of cards, with the former slowly gaining on his more nimble, athletic partner. In desperation, Brody leads his pursuer up and onto the stage, leaping into the air and grabbing onto the stripper's pole, spinning around with the agility and poise of an Olympic gymnast, vaulting over Cletus’ head, and running away in the opposite direction, hoping the quick maneuver is enough to throw the oafish strongman and literal retard off his trail.

Not to be outdone, Cletus reaches out with his thick, stubby arms to grab the  pole, freakishly strong hands gripping the metal, and his feet leaving the ground as he attempts to execute the same about-face that Brody just did. But Cletus has neither the hand-eye coordination, lean muscle mass, or normal human weight of his tag team partner, and when he puts even a fraction of his total mass on the pole, the entire thing is uprooted from its position, anchored into both the floor and ceiling of the joint. Drywall crumbles onto the stage from above, as Cletus – the metal rod still in his hand – flies a few feet through the air, before landing back down with a thunderous crash on the wooden stage, his body falling straight through it and leaving a massive, human-shaped hole in his wake.

The music – YMCA by the Village People – stops with the scratch of a vinyl record, as the entire club falls into silence at the sheer destruction visited upon it by this accident, as Wyatt and DuBois cease their card game to stare wide-eyed at the chaos. Even Brody, still chewing on the delicious flapjacks, stops in his tracks to look at the situation his partner has found himself in. There’s a dramatic, awkward pause, until one voice cuts through the stunned disbelief that has settled over the audience and employees:

“Dudes rock… dudes rock… dudes rock! Dudes Rock! DUDES ROCK! DUDES ROCK!”

It’s Brody, making his way onto the stage and offering Cletus – still sprawled out inside the hole that descends several feet underneath the floorboards – his hand in assistance. In an instant, the confusion and anger of the patrons melts away at this show of brotherly love and dudes being guys, and they join in. Within seconds, the entirety of the strip club has carried up the chant.

“DUDES ROCK!
DUDES ROCK!
DUDES ROCK!
DUDES ROCK!”

…except Wyatt and DuBois, still seated in quiet disbelief at their card table. Shaking his head, KD can’t help but chuckle at the scene playing out in front of him.

“Yessir, I do believe we may be onto something here, Wyatt…” says the Colonel, sounding downright impressed by how quickly Brody and Cletus have won over the people here.

“You may be right, DuBois. You may be right…” replies Wyatt, rubbing his chin in thought as dollar signs begin to float around in his head.

Cutting the celebration short, is the arrival of two uniformed police officers through the front door, responding to the call placed by the bartender the moment Cletus and Brody started their pancake chase around the establishment.

"Ah..." sighs the Colonel, noticing the cops first and nudging Wyatt to warn him of their impending expulsion and possible arrest.

"...shit."

xxx

Kyoto, Japan

He returned to Kyoto covered in more bandages than when he left. His reward for successfully defending the Icarus Title was a sore back, his blood spilled backstage, and one of his friendships forced to weather through the ultimate balancing act where one miscalculated move resulted in everything crashing down. 

Injuries normally would only earn a shrug from him. Sore body parts, red marks, black bruises—all of them came with the profession. The nature of fighting itself was a nature that left combatants scarred no matter the experience. Physical wounds healed. So did scars. Emotional ones were different however.

“Hmm...so that’s what happened.” Naoya said as he placed down one stack of books next to another. He couldn’t recall how long they spent inside of the storage room—traditional dojos were allergic to clocks—but no matter how many neat stacks of books were made, the cluttered sea of red books hardly diminished. “Well, there was always such a risk when cultivating flames. It’s why they say to be careful around fire. Because—” 

“You can get burnt.” Tatsuo interrupted, swiftly cutting him off. He temporarily abandoned the cleaning tasks and was now using a pile of books as a makeshift seat. “I know the saying, Naoya. I’m not ignorant.”

“...Don’t get me wrong here. I am sympathetic towards you.” Naoya said as he rested a hand on his hip. “It’s a sudden betrayal, isn’t it? It's like the two stars of Honnō-ji find themselves once again.” 

Almost immediately, Tatsuo frowned as his expression became pinched and unhappy. It had the classic markings of one but calling what transpired a betrayal filled him with discomfort. Uttering the word turned his throat as dry as sandpaper. The last thing he wanted to do was call it a betrayal. 

“So then—” Naoya walked over to Tatsuo, now staring down at him. “What do you plan to do?”

“Defend my belt obviously.” 

“You’re dancing around the real question. Ryo has committed a transgression against you—are you going to break away from him because of it?” 

Tatsuo broke eye contact with Naoya and turned on his side. Perhaps his mind was so unorganized that it was playing tricks on him but he swore the sea of books had become even more cluttered. More had been added to the piles. “I haven’t thought about it.” He said. “You always seem ready to do that stupid mind reading trick with me. How come you can’t use it on Ryo and give me a way out of this?” 

“Because I’ve never met Sakazaki-san—I can’t read thoughts I never saw for myself.” Naoya deadpanned, soon crossing his arms. “Though if I had to make a guess based on your own thoughts...he’s suffering.” 

“Obviously.” Tatsuo said flatly. 

“No, he’s suffering.” Naoya repeated, putting extra emphasis on the word. “You know what I mean right? Unless your worldly eyes don’t work anymore, no?”

“Shut up.” Tatsuo said as he clicked his tongue. “I know what you mean.”

Naoya took one glance at the agitation on Tatsuo’s face, then at the growing piles of books inside of the storage area, and finally let out a sigh as he sat down beside him. “...When you were acting out, I believed that you were suffering and that the only way to stop was to beat you up so I broke your legs. What I thought was suffering was gone but our attachment became undone. Even now, despite everything, you still hold me at arm’s length—because you believe that I’ll hurt you again.” 

Tatsuo didn’t react or say anything. It didn’t matter if he did or did not when his friend could so easily read his mind and figure out what was happening in his line of thoughts. And read his mind he did.

“I don’t know anything about Sakazaki-san because I’ve never met him. You aren’t the only one backstage in that promotion. Others probably believe the best thing you could do is simply beat him down and let him burn in his own flames alone...but if you don’t want him endlessly sailing the ocean of regrets, there’s something you could do.” 

From places unknown, a book fell from above and landed in another pile. The hiragana, katakana, and kanji written on the pages were meshed together into a jumbled mess that could hardly be read, let alone understood. 

“Which is...?” 

“You can have a conversation with him.” 


I knew that we were bound to cross this path one day.

I grew up surrounded by temples and shrines. There was an elderly priest at one temple near my home and no matter what, he would default to one specific phrase, it was practically his motto. Zehi ni oyobazu—there is no choice. It was a phrase you used when you were well prepared for what fate was lined out for you. There was only one path and you had to follow it—no matter how much it hurts.

Though, I was always terrible at listening to those older than me. They always said things that made no damn sense to me. Like fate being something that can’t be rewritten, for example. 

Ryo, I believed that I understood you in a way that others couldn’t. I did hear the snide remarks, the whispers in the wind, and belittlement of my choice to stay by your side and I ignored all of them. It would be beneath me if I allowed my choices to be swayed by others. I resisted the opinions of others because I believed you as someone that I could understand...but I was wrong.

I only understood a fraction of you. I failed to truly comprehend your suffering. You were a member of the roster before me. There are parts of your history that I physically was not there to bear witness to. Parts that continue to pilot your actions. I dictated my actions based on the puddle I saw—not the ocean that continues to pull you further and further into darkness. 

So, Ryo, I’m sorry. I should’ve understood you better. 

...I’m also sorry for what I’ll do to you to keep this title in my possession. 

How long are you going to let those weaker minds control your life, Ryo?

You said it yourself: People who have spread whispers to slander your name are weak, not even worth to be mentioned by name. Yet, despite how pitiful they are, you continue to let them buzz and fester in your mind like gnats. You allow your soul to be poisoned by them. I will not deny nor look down on your suffering but I will look down on how you’ve grown addicted to it. 

Ryo Sakazaki cannot live without suffering. He is an eternally tormented man. No matter what happens to him, something new will manifest to cause him more grief. Even if his greatest dream is achieved, he will not be fulfilled. The Flame Emperor is a person eternally trapped in samsara.

...That’s a horrible way to live. Repeating the same mindset over and over. 

Ryo—no, Flame Emperor—has it crossed your mind even once that you are letting Cloud and Nobi win by allowing them to darken your soul like this? You could win every single championship in Olympus, destroy the Tres Comas Club single-handedly, and even manage to get into the OWA Hall of Fame...and Cloud still wouldn’t look you in the eye. Nobi would still regard you as someone beneath him. 

They believe that the best way to handle you is to ignore you. To both of them, you are a lost cause, a sign of their failures and regrets, and there is nothing more satisfying to them than to watch you self-immolate in misplaced fury as you burn away every relationship you’ve built.

In the back of your mind, you’re expecting it, aren’t you? Regardless of the result of our Icarus match, you expect me to turn my back on you. You’re gearing up for when I look at the camera and join the crowd of whispers and nameless faces that are chanting for you to quit. 

Sorry. You’ll have to try harder than that to get rid of me. 

I am the Honored One—a figure who stands above heaven and earth. It is my job to eliminate the suffering within the earth and that includes yours. Ryo, you are like a brother to me and because of that, I am more than willing to beat the shit out of you if it removes your suffering for good. If it means retaining my title. 

My challenge towards Baker wasn’t a mistake. I fully intended to challenge for the SSW title—whether it was Baker holding it or if it was you, Ryo. You two are strong, stronger than anyone I know. As I watched the match, I knew I had witnessed it: The greatest thrill. A strong opponent who could take me to the brink of life and death! I couldn’t afford to miss testing myself against such strength! 

I was genuine in my words—You did well! You faced Baker on equal footing and he almost lost to you! You would’ve won! And it angers me that you are allowing yourself to be swallowed up by your own darkness, where feeble minds have pulled you down to depths unimaginable. I’m not like Cloud—I refuse to let you continue wallowing in torment as you grow more mad. We weren't born to wallow in despair endlessly! We were born to die!

I refuse to let the Icarus Championship slip and fall in your hands when you aren’t even equipped to handle its power! You don't want this belt—you want to silence naysayers who either don't exist anymore or will never bother to change their opinion on you. Kissing up to those types is a bore, isn't it? 

So then, Ryo...

Let’s have a conversation. 

Actions speak a lot louder than words. I could keep talking here or I could get right to the point and just punch you in the jaw.

I expect nothing less from you, Ryo. I want you to bring your worst. Your suffering, your hatred, your burning inferno—I desire all of it! Let’s talk through violence! Let’s go to war against each other! I don’t believe in fate being only one path: Fighting would be boring as shit if it did! I’m not blind to your starvation but I won’t humor it because it's pathetic. Out of all the versions of yourself, the one who lies at the bottom of the pit is the worst version...but you’re done falling.

Humans do not fall endlessly. They fall up to a certain point and then they rise up to salvation and now it's your turn, Ryo. I will erase the darkness from your soul, willingly or by force. As the Icarus Champion, I will yank you from the depths of the ocean of suffering and bring you to salvation! I will beat you and stand tall as the greatest champion that Olympus ever had. And then...after I beat you, after we finally understood each other...I’m going to challenge Baker at Dreamworld and I’m going to win the SSW title. Not just for my sake but for our sake.

Now, shut up and fight me. That’s the only way we’re going to get through this.

Choices
Odyssey vs. Ayla Rodriguez #1

After losing to both Arata Asakura and Michael Bishop at Divine Retribution, Devi is training in Matsuda Dojo in Tokyo mentally and focused as she prepares to bounce back from her Tag Team match as she goes one on one against Ayla Rodriguez.

“Man…Divine Retribution I feel like…I feel like I made some difficult choices as of late. Extremely difficult choices. I mean I fought against former World Champions of Arata Asakura and Michael Bishop and bruh Bishop you gave me a fucking run for my money not gonna lie cause your MMA background is legendary, that I can really respect. Hopefully our paths will cross again soon but now my focus is on my one on one match against Ayla Rodriguez, a young punk that I really don't want to hurt….but I got to hurt you see I don't know how days, months, or even years here in OWA, I'm exploring many choices when my run in OWA is over but I need to bring the fight against anyone and I mean ANYONE who you put in front of me. This whole Kingdom and Odyssey mixup is a mess. Has it happened with the women that have been in this company since day 1?”

Devi look at the posters of different wrestling promotions

“I've been working hard on getting into other promotions like Pro Wrestling SHINE, other promotions that accept Women's wrestling like me, regardless of what happened at Divine Retribution I feel like the women's division in OWA is dying….slowly. Like slowly, slowly dying. But if I'm going to be spending my final days in OWA, a few things that need to happen, me winning this year's Women's Clash of The Titans, Main event Final Destination, and most importantly winning the OWA Alpha World Championship! And my Road of that conquest will begin starting with Ayla Rodriguez! So kid I hope that you can hang with me cause you're not gonna survive the beat downs and grappling that gonna dished out on you, you better be ready to spill blood on this damn canvas cause I'll create art, not just any kind of art like crayons no, I'm a bloody violent kind of art and it'll be a fucking masterpiece. So Ayla Rodriguez I hope that your choice of fighting might not be as a dumb as you think! And Diantha Rosso I know that you're gonna bring your commentary expertise to this match so hope this entertainment may not be to your liking.”

“Everyone has a choice in life.”

“Everyone had to live with that choice.”

“But every choice you make…..”

“Has dire consequences.”

“Soon Ayla Rodriguez will find out first hand that she'll fear Discus Devi F'n Krysis when she lies down in the ring in her own bloody mess. See you soon darling!”

Scene fades

In the dead of the night, Chad Ecclestone lay asleep next to his wife, in his luxurious, custom-made, California Emperor sized bed within the well-appointed confines on his palatial estate in the Hollywood Hills. But they're not alone on this particular evening, as a voice – sounding remarkably similar to fellow Hollywood star Samuel Jackson – is suddenly heard, cutting through the darkness of the unlit bedroom.

“Hey… hey you… hey, we gots to talk…”

Chad rolls over in his sleep, but aside from that the mysterious whisper elicits no reaction. A pause, and then the voice echoes through the room again, this time much louder.

“WAKE THE FUCK UP, WHITEBOY!”

It’s enough to rouse our intrepid hero from his slumber. Springing into action, Chad rolls out of bed and onto his feet, squinting into the shadows as he tries to find his bearings.


“RELAX, MOTHERFUCKER, I JUST WANNA TALK! AND I DIDN’T BREAK INTO SHIT, I’VE BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME!”


“THAT’S RIGHT, BITCH, IT’S ME! YOUR GRAND PRIZE, NOT THAT YOU BEEN MAKING ANY DAMN USE OF ME SINCE YOU BEAT THAT HANA BITCH!”


“OH, YOU DIDN’T EXPECT ME TO TALK?”


“I HOPE YOU AIN’T IMPLYING WHAT I THINK YOU’RE IMPLYING, CRACKER!”


“WHY HAVEN’T YOU USED ME YET? I’M OVER HERE WAITING, PICKING MY PROVERBIAL ASS, WHILE YOU’RE OUT HERE WITH KRIEGER, WASTING YOUR TIME IN THE TAG DIVISION! IT’S PATHETIC!”


“THAT’S ALL I NEEDED TO HEAR. GO OUT AND BEAT THEM TWO MILK MAIDENS, THEN IT’S TIME FOR BIGGER AND BETTER THINGS, MY N–”

Suddenly, the dream is over, as Chad – still in bed – is prodded awake by his wife, who looks at him with something between annoyance and adoration.

“Chad… CHAD! You were shouting slurs in your sleep again, and I’ve got a photoshoot in the morning! Shut the fuck up and let me sleep!”

Rubbing his eyes and yawning, the actor gazes at his wife(‘s tits) and smiles, patting her on the head and mumbling something before rolling over and going back to sleep.

Wyatt let Esperanza use his study for her weekly counseling sessions with Brody, even though its decoration was far too ostentatious for her taste.
 
“I remember the first time my pops told me to stop bein’ such a little faggot,” said Brody mournfully before sparking a lighter and taking a massive hit from his bong. “I mean, he was right, in all fairness. People who want parties on their birthday are fuckin’ weirdos, dude. I dunno, though. Maybe I’m a pussy or somethin’ ‘cause I think that was a little harsh on a six-year-old.”
 
Brody took one more hit before placing the bong on the coffee table and lying supine on the couch. His eyes glistened intensely as he combed through his and Wyatt’s tempestuous history. Meanwhile, Esperanza sat patiently, allowing Brody to search through his feelings.
 
“You might think this is funny – y’know, considering how different we are – but, growin’ up, he was my idol, dude. Like, I know he’s my dad, an’ that’s supposed to be the idea, but we’re different. Obviously,” Brody snorted. “He just doesn’t understand why I’d want to be anythin’ different than him, considering the four sons that came before me all followed in his footsteps. I used to wait for him to notice the things I did, but all he cared about was work, bro. Numbers always seemed to hold more value than anythin’ else to him. No matter how good I am or how hard I work, there’s not much money in surfing, so he couldn’t give a fuck. I had to look elsewhere for masculine role models, an’ that’s when I first heard Elton John.”
 
“Hold up… Elton John, perhaps the gayest man that’s ever lived, was your masculine ideal?”
 
“Dude sang about touchdowns an’ rocket men. Fuckin’ tell me, what’s more manly than sports an’ space shit? Sure, he sang about emotions, too. I’m not afraid to say I get emotional sometimes, except my emotions aren’t the gay ones. They’re the manly ones, like vengeance an’ sprinting. But things feel different with my dad now. I feel like he’s startin’ to respect me more, y’know?” Brody sat up and took a little bag of white powder from his pocket. “I know people are gonna say it’s because I’m makin’ stacks now, but how else do you explain him finally letting me on the family health insurance? Like, say less, Dad. I love you too, bro.”
 
“Brody,” replied Esperanza, dumbfounded as Brody chopped up a few rails and blasted them. “I’m not sure he – hmm,” she steadied herself, “doesn’t it bother you when he refers to you as Forrest Gump?”
 
“Why would it?” he replied, rubbing his nose.
 
“Because he was a… slow man,” she raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Do you seriously not understand?”
 
“Oh, I see what you mean,” Brody laughed as he lay back down on the couch. “Nah, he calls me Forrest Gump because a chick I had a child with died of AIDS.”
 
“What the fuck did you just say?”
 
“Don’t worry, I got checked, I’m all clean. I’m very on top of all that, just so you know.”
 
“Ok, I’m actually kinda glad you said that because I obviously wanted to be sad about the woman dying, but I was way more freaked out that you might have given me AIDS. I didn’t know if that was me being selfish or not.”
 
“Dude, be fuckin’ selfish in that circumstance, for fuck’s sake. Ain’t nothin’ funny about AIDS, bro.”
 
“OK, let’s go back a second. Are you telling me that you’ve got a child?”
 
“I mean, several, probably,” he said, opening a can of beer and taking a swig. “But this one, definitely. At least by blood, if not by law. I’m actually in the middle of a bitter custody battle with her parents. I’m facing claims of bein’ a negligent father.”
 
“Why are they saying that?”
 
“They’re not; I am. Nah, they’re all like, ‘Brody, you gotta take him; Abdullah will have more opportunities in the United States.’ It’s fuckin’ exhausting, bro.”
 
“Are you serious?”
 
“What? I’ve been sendin’ them money for him, chill. I’m not made of stone,” he said, using the last of his beer to wash down a couple of pills he’d scooped from his pocket. “Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, my dad was never, like, there for me growin’ up, y’know?" Esperanza bit her lip while reminding herself why she was there. "Sure, we lived in an amazing house, an' had multiple vacations a year, but he criticized everythin’ I did. Not much’s changed. I just wanted to show him how dedicated I am, but he thinks I’m takin’ my eye off the ball with the tag tournament. He said that should be the priority.”
 
“So, your signup isn’t motivated by the American Dream championship?”
 
“The what?”
 
“That’s what it’s called, right? If you win this Battle Royal, you get a shot at the American Dream championship?”
 
“Word? Shit, I had no idea. I wondered why Dad was tellin’ me to just forget about Devione. Well, that’s cool, I guess. But really, I just wanna make my dad proud, to be honest. I want him to accept me for who I am, not who he wants me to be. I want him to treat me like he did when I was in college.”
 
“No way, you went to college?”
 
“For real, dude,” he said, lighting a fat blunt. “Football scholarship at Florida State. That was until I got kicked out. In my defense, if you’re gonna pass out in the middle of a frat house, you’re gonna get shit shoved up your ass. An’ gettin’ tea bagged is really the least of your concerns, bro. Did I have to set his pubes on fire? Maybe not, but that’s just called livin’ in a boys' house,” Brody puffed his chest out and made several barking noises. “But yeah, dude, I was an awesome wide receiver, an’ he actually turned up for my games, bro. Earning his respect has been the biggest thing that’s motivationated me my whole life.”
 
“So, there’s no part of you that wants that title?”
 
“Nah.”
 
“Nah?”
 
“Nah,” he replied, drawing on the blunt. “Honestly, I don’t care about any title. I know lots of people have probably said that, an’ few have ever meant it, but it’s true. Losin’ to Allesandro hit me hard because I lost, not because I didn’t win a belt. There’s a difference. Like, I’d never lost in my life, dude. I mean, even if I didn’t win, I never felt like I lost, you know? It took me 12 tries before I won my first surf contest, but I could always hold my head up high, knowing that I was doing it my way. Not that night, though. I don’t know why but that night was the first time I felt like I’d lost.”
 
“Hmm. Why did you challenge Allesandro in the first place?”
 
“Why do you think?”
 
“So, let me get this straight. You went to college, which you didn’t really care about, to make your dad proud, and you got kicked out. You challenged Allesandro for a title you didn’t really care about to make your dad proud, and you lost. Now you’re entering a Battle Royal for that same title and for the same exact reason?”
 
“I never said I was perfect,” he said, munching on some mushrooms. “An’, well, they also told me Chad Ecclestone was gonna be in it, an’ I wanted to slip him my movie script. It’s about a New York street gang that gets trapped across town an’ have to make their way through rival gang territories to get home.”
 
“So… The Warriors?”
 
“Right, exactly! A shot-for-shot remake of The Warriors, except, this time, a white dude dies at the start, an’ the whole crew is gonna be trans. Y’know, for the wokes.”
 
“OK, but do you honestly not see a pattern? Have you ever thought about living life for yourself and not for the attention of others? Maybe that’s why you felt the way you did after losing to Allesandro, but when you surf, you always feel like a winner because you’re being true to yourself?”
 
“Sounds like nerd shit to me, bro. Fact is, if I wanna be the best, I can’t let that defeat stand. I’ll beat Devione next time, whenever that may be, I just don’t give a fuck if it’s for the American Dream championship or not.” Brody drew hard on the pipe and held it in his lungs for around five seconds before exhaling. “But hey, if they wanna call me a champion an’ give me a belt for bein’ fuckin’ awesome, then whatever, dude.”
 
“And the tag championships? They don’t motivate you?”  
 
“They motivate me the same way nuttin’ does. You see, fucking is about more than just nuttin’, you know? It’s about—”
 
“Stop. Please.”
 
“OK. Shitting, then. Like everybody else, I love takin’ fat dumps, bro. But that’s not why I eat food. You feel me?”
 
“I think I actually preferred the sex metaphor.”
 
“I’ll be honest, I had my doubts about this partnership with Cletus. I kinda remembered him from the Clash, an’ then I saw how Landerson duped him. I thought he was just a big tub o’ shit at first, an’ in many ways, that’s exactly what he is. But the way he just stood there while Devi kept kneein’ him in the face, an’ then how he powerbombed her out the ring like it was nothin’? Shit was awesome, bro.”
 
“Do you think you can trust him and this Colonel Dubois?”
 
“Why not? I’m an excellent judge of character, and this Dubois dude seems like a real straight shooter. I think we got a chance to take down the Seventh Ward.”
 
“You have to get through the Platinum Queens first, no?”
 
“Dude, come on. Two women? It was easy enough against just one woman last time out. This is gonna be a piece of cake, dude.”
 
“One woman? What are you talking about? You fought against two women last time out.”
 
“Not cool, dude. I know it’s hard to tell with Asians sometimes, but that was a dude, dude. Not gonna lie, you’re comin’ off a lil racist right now.”
 
“NAMI replaced Stark before the match. So, it’s you who, in fact, is racist.”
 
“What? Nah, that can’t be right. Can it?”
 
“It is 100% right.”
 
“Bruh. Anyway, doesn’t matter. Me an’ Cletus got this one in the bag, dude. Although I will say, the pug-faced woman intrigues me. Sexually, I mean. Hmm, how do I put this delicately—”
 
“I’m begging you not to!”
 
“I wanna penetrate—”
 
“HEY!”
 
“What? I was gonna say I wanna penetrate deep into her soul.”
 
“Oh.”
 
“As well as her flaps.”
 
“Jesucristo.”
 
“As for that other one… Naka Nakajima, is it? Whatever that means. I guess she’s pretty hot, too. I’ll tell you this, though: our biggest trouble might actually be Cloud and Nobi. The big guy told me that he has a bit of a soft spot for ol’ Matsuda, even though I explained to him she’s total drywall.”
 
“Drywall?”
 
“Yeah, non-load bearing. You know, Lebanese. An’ not the good kind like you see in porn, neither. She’s more the Carhartt dildo kind.”
 
“Do you ever think about the things you say?”
 
“Thinking is for nerds, bro. Anyway, we gonna start this therapy session, or what?”
 
“Uhh, Brody, we’ve already started…”
 
“For real? Just in time, too. These drugs are startin’ to work their magic, bro. Good luck gettin’ anythin’ outta me, though. I’m notoriously reserved. If you try to psychocologicalize me, you’ll find that my mind’s a fortress.”
 
“Hmm, sure.”
 
“Wait a minute!” Brody bolted upright. “Wait just a God damn minute here… you’re saying I’ll get a shot at Devione if I win the Battle Royal? So, there’s a chance I could beat him and Poet back-to-back?”
 
“Well, that depends on quite a few variables, but yes, I suppose that could happen.”
 
“Holy shit,” Brody drew hard on the blunt. “I just got fuckin’ hard, bro.”
 
“You seem to be taking a lot for granted. From what your father tells me, Poet and Dampshaw are the ones to beat in this tournament, and as far as I can tell, you’ll have your work cut out for you in this Battle Royal.”
 
“Doesn’t matter,” said Brody, raising his fists with a look of steely determination etched on his face, “these are the only weapons I’m gonna need.”
 
“Your confidence is admirable, but—” Esperanza was suddenly taken aback as Brody opened his fists to reveal two ninja stars in the palms of his hands. “Where the hell did you get them?”
 
“Internet.”
 
“I don’t think they’ll let you use them.”
 
“Oh, so RIP can just go around stabbin’ people, but I’m the dick if I use a weapon? This is bullshit, bro. Tres Comas Club gets away with everythin’. You know, we knocked them on their asses at All or Nothing, but now it’s like they’re stronger than ever. Well, if there’s one thing my boy Cletus and I can do, it’s stop them from gettin’ those tag titles, too. An’ once we’ve done that, I’ll take that gay little title from Devione, too. Except, this time, I won’t stop ‘til the job’s done. It’s time to finally run these fuckers outta town. From this time, my thoughts will be bloody!”
 
“Wow, you know Shakespeare?”
 
“Sure, but you said I couldn’t use weapons.”
 
“What? No, that line’s from Hamlet, right? ‘From this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.’”
 
“Be nothing worth? Ha! Nice words, bro. I remember sixth grade when I was learning to talk!”
 
“Sixth grade?!”
 
“Whatever the normal grade is! Stop distracting me when I’m makin’ resolutions to destroy, ‘k? My point is there isn’t much that pisses me off more than the Tres fuckin’ Comas Club. If you gotta cheat to win, what’s the fuckin’ point? Don’t get me wrong, I’ll bend the rules a little; like, who among us doesn’t use performance-enhancing drugs? Smoke a blunt to chill. Blow a couple rails to get back up. Drink a beer to take the edge off, then pop a couple uppers to get your head back in the game. Maybe finish off with some hallucinogens because raw doggin’ reality is the worst drug of all, bro.”
 
“But you’ve done all of this in just the short time we’ve been speaking.”
 
“You think I don’t know how to dose myself? Wow, I’m insulted. Fifteen years of takin’ every drug known to man, an’ I’m still bein’ met with this shit.”
 
“Fifteen years?! But you’re 26 years old!”
 
“You know what,” he said, slowly rising to his feet. “I think this conversation is over.”
 
Brody shook his head as he walked toward the door, where he stopped for a moment before leaving. He looked back at Esperanza with narrowed eyes but couldn’t find the words to express himself. Instead, he took a crack pipe from the front pocket of his hoodie and walked away while shaking his head in disgust.

The camera opens up inside a small Catholic church. A large crucifix adorned with the figure of Jesus Christ hangs above the reverend’s pulpit, while lit candles decorate the wooden window ledges and pews lining the small room. Somber organ music plays throughout the room, though no organ itself is visible. The Banshee slowly raises up from behind the pulpit, wearing a traditional white robe typically worn by Catholic priests during Sunday services. She opens a large Bible, clearing her throat as the creepy organ music suddenly stops.
 
The Banshee: Why is it that you Bible-thumping rednecks often quote this detestably-fictional storybook, yet you don’t ever try to glean the occasional words of wisdom that can be found between the hypocritical and the contradictable verses that were all written by men?
 
For example, Jeff X has refused to acknowledge me as the Queen of the Monsters, in addition to the blatant disregard for the incredible amount of danger that both you and your Alpha World Championship face at Divine Retribution…
 
Jeffrey’s words and actions thus far show an emotional man that’s grossly underestimating just how DANGEROUS his opponent at Divine Retribution truly is… If there was ever advice that Jeff X could gain from the Bible, than it’s likely from Proverbs 1:26-27: “I also will laugh at your calamity; I will mock when your fear cometh; When your fear cometh as desolation, and your destruction cometh as a whirlwind; when distress and anguish cometh upon you.”
 
Every action holds its own special set of consequences, Jeffrey… some of those consequences can even be rather… GRAVE… wouldn’t you say? I am the rejected wisdom that you cast aside for pride… and so, you will learn a grave lesson that one should never reject free wisdom, let alone mock and defy it… because it can often lead to a calamitous outcome… which it will for you, though you had fair warning it was coming…
 
You know Jeffrey, I’m not one for quoting scripture… especially when I find it all to largely be bullshit, a wicked but ancient way for those in power to continuously justify atrocities against others since the dawn of time… but here’s another quote from Revelations 9:6 that I think you should ponder the deeper meaning of… ““And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.”
 
Jeff, your words and actions lately suggest that you do have some type of insane death wish, but you don’t yet realize that I’m not going to bring you death… I’m instead going to bring you suffering and agony that’s so painful… you’ll soon start to long for death’s sweet release… because death means “the end.” I don’t think your agony should end simply because you wish for it so… your mouth wrote a lot of checks, now it’s time to cash them all on your ass!
 
Jeffrey, you may believe that The Banshee hasn’t been able to get inside your head or underneath your skin…
 
But looking at all you’ve had to say about me... just fucking proves that I’ve been inside your goddamn head since the match was officially announced… you actually claimed that you, NOT ME, are the REAL MONSTER in this battle… after saying that this match “isn’t going to be about the championship… blah, blah, blah… until you finish your ludicrous boast that this match is going to be about you, Jeff X… “Revealing the monster that lurks within.”
 
You know that, despite your grandstanding, The Banshee isn’t just another notch on your belt, an easy lay-up while you try to save the belt to give back to Felix in some bullshit rematch that no one wants to see…

However, I will promise this here and now… to Felix… Once I become the new Alpha World Champion, I will offer you my very first title defense, despite what anyone in the front office says or attempts otherwise… so don’t worry Jeffrey, I do think that Felix was rightly screwed out of the title… but seeing that the title is in YOUR possession, Ike Turner… I feel no guilt whatsoever about taking it from you… especially because you never wanted it… not really becoming of a “champion.”
 
Winning the Alpha World Champion has become my top priority at Divine Retribution… but it’s not retribution that I’m seeking… This match has NEVER BEEN about retribution for me…
 
It’s about showing you the power of the Queen of the Monsters firsthand… your lack of respect means nothing to me, but your lack of respect towards the Alpha World Championship is beyond disgusting and unbecoming of a champion…
 
Do you want to know what real power is, Jeffrey… Even if I LOSE this match, even if I don’t somehow emerge from this match as the new Alpha World Champion, hell, there’s a ton of ways things could play out… but there’s one constant that will remain at the end… I’m STILL going to be the QUEEN OF THE MONSTERS!!! I’ve NEVER needed championship gold to validate myself or my damn career… and guess what… I’ve done enough that I never will… That’s what makes ME DIFFERENT… I’ve never needed gold to verify that I’m one of the strongest, psychotic, baddest bitches on the fucking planet! You and I both know this to be true… so don’t look stupid by denying it….
 
I’m going to show you my power up-close and personal… You’re going to be haunted by the very memory of me after Divine Retribution… and I’ll show you what it means to be truly “haunted” in every fucking sense of the damn word!
 
You might be wondering why I am very confident in my ability to defeat you in that ring… winning the Alpha World Championship right after pummeling you into submission…
 
 
 
Because the fact of the matter is this, Jeffrey… yes, I have never beaten you… but you also have NEVER BEATEN ME… because we have NEVER FACED OFF BEFORE! So, as far as I’m concerned… that puts us on even grounds… Just because you have a far more storied and legendary career DOESN’T automatically certify you as being better than The Banshee… because you’re NOT better than me, and at Divine Retribution, this will be proven to the world…
 
 
 
 
And although I’ve said it before, it must be said again that I fully expect plenty of outside parties will attempt to influence the outcome… including Aria’s little Tribunal playhouse…
 
Just note that I will attack anyone that tries to interfere with our gladiatorial contest… not that I believe Felix will get involved, but my warning even includes her, if she decides that watching The Banshee continuously punching your nose through the rear of your skull is too much to take… well then, just see my previous work…
 
However, I will actually take immense pleasure in wrapping my fingers around the throats of all the Tribunal piss-ants that want to antagonize us both… Of course, you probably don’t want to put your son into a grave quite yet…
 
I murdered your child in over 700 different ways at Hardcore Havoc… and every time, it brought a huge fucking smile to my face… so if I have to murder him again, it would take less effort to do that than it does to slap a bitch… something else you clearly have issues with…
 
Hell, just look at what you fucking did to poor Felix Hartley in that match… you beat her like she knowingly gave you a STD! You won your belt by going full Chris Brown on your woman… Yes, your son certainly was a big catalyst of everything that went down… but you still left with the Alpha World Championship around your shoulder… how fucking “noble” of you, totally nice to see that chivalry was gang-banged to death in North Carolina decades ago!
 
But if Tyler Kulina does show up, pacifier in mouth, crying for his mommy or daddy… I am going to gouge his fucking eyes out with a plastic spoon I take from a passing vendor… If you value your sight, Jeffrey… I suggest you do not interfere with me teaching your son some valuable lessons… even if he’ll be too dead to ever apply them…



Besides, that could even be doing you a favor… how much back-child support do you fucking owe, anyways?
 
You seem to have it in your meth-addled brain that The Banshee is one that easily feels humiliation or embarrassment in defeat… but that couldn’t be further from reality…
 
For example, why should I feel any humiliation about losing to Aria Jaxon? Please explain that one to me, because if there’s someone who’s record possibly dwarfs your very own in OWA history, than it’s definitely Aria, or Ms. Jaxon if you nasty…
 
Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don’t linger on the past as much as you do… I instead move on to the next challenge or goal, because I already know that I’ll get another crack to crack open Aria’s skull… in fact, there’s probably no one with more patience in the OWA than The Banshee… I know how to play the long game…
 
You’ve spent much of this time clinging to my past missteps and failings… Now you’re just clinging now to what’s familiar… trying to “out-monster” the Queen of the Monsters… too bad it won’t be enough for you…
 
I’ve gotten so deep inside your head… so far beneath your supposed-Teflon skin… that you’ve come across like a raving lunatic who sees his end-of-days fast approaching… Do you still not know why I revved you up like that?
 
I want you at 200 fucking percent… I want you at your very fucking best… because when I take the Alpha World Championship from you, I don’t want to hear a single fucking excuse about why or how you lost… Besides, I enjoy the added danger from poking the bear with a really big stick… I want you at your most dangerous…
 
I may not be your most desired or marquee opponent for this event… but there is NO ONE more fucking DANGEROUS to your title reign… and your overall health… than the goddamn Queen of the Monsters!
 
 
The only way you’ll be able to survive the night with the Alpha World Championship still in your possession… is if you’re able to call upon some DIVINE INTERVENTION… although…
 
The Banshee leaps up and punches the Jesus-crucifix through the wall, perching back down on the pulpit directly, a crazed smile across her face.
 
Even THEIR “help” wouldn’t be enough… but hey, feel free to invite Havoc to the party… I still owe him a rampaging beatdown…
 
The Banshee chuckles a bit before letting out a terrifying shriek, as the camera feed immediately ends as it cuts to black.

The scene unfolds in a clandestine setting, a dimly lit room casting long shadows on weathered walls. A solitary figure emerges from the shadows, each step echoing in the silence of the room. Approaching the camera frame, the guy's silhouette becomes more defined. His features are shrouded in darkness until he steps into the faint light, revealing a face carved with seriousness. In one seamless motion, he reaches for a chair, its creaking protest breaking the silence like a distant thunderclap.

Christopher Sabertooth turns the chair around, straddling it as he faces the camera. The Spartan’s Champion wasn’t in a jolly mood. 

Seems like Jacob Striker and I are going back and forth, so I am going to skip the pleasantries and get to business.

Firstly, I would like to apologize to Striker. While I did intend on lighting a fire under his ass, I didn’t mean to give him the wrong idea about how serious I am about this match. I have waited SO FUCKING LONG to get my chance of earning a championship once again in OWA. I understand what this business entails so I wouldn’t take any match lightly knowing that one punch-- one wrong move could change the outcome. Nobody is ever guaranteed to walk out of the squared circle with their body, mind, and soul intact. I don’t take anybody for granted just like I don’t take my life for granted. God has given me multiple chances at life, something that the majority of the people on this planet wouldn’t be afforded. I completely understand I speak from a position of privilege. 
 
That being said, Jacob Striker is a fucking piece of shit. I can sense the passion brewing inside of him. What the fuck took so long?! If Jacob Striker would have been like this since day one, he’d be worth a damn in OWA. I willingly stoked the flame trying to see if Striker still had a backbone. I am glad that he’s got a voice that he can muster once every few months. Jacob complains constantly about not getting an opportunity in OWA. There has to be a reason why Jacob can succeed everywhere else he goes but fails to compare to ANYBODY in the OWA locker room. It’s because there’s no place like OWA. We do not celebrate mediocrity. We do not praise people for doing the bare minimum. The only accomplishment under Jacob Striker’s name in OWA is that he’s somehow still employed after having a history of losing. 

He’s right that it does sound hypocritical coming from me. After all, I have had a fair share of losses to deal with. But even on my WORST fucking day, even with every loss in the fucking book-- I am a Grand Slam Champion. I am one of the most accomplished wrestlers in the history of this company. I have been here since the VERY BEGINNING and outlasted everybody who was touted to be a bigger deal than Christopher Sabertooth. That’s the difference! I can afford a couple more losses without anybody batting an eye and throwing mud on my legacy. OWA is not an outlier, Jacob. It’s an expose of where you stand.

Was I supposed to be impressed by a bunch of paperweight titles and dead championships? Should I parade around wearing the Shogun Championship I still possess despite Wrestleworld being a thing of the past? No. Cause that would make me look foolish. Whether you want to admit it or not, SSW is dead in the water. And PWN isn’t going to be the redeemer of that promotion’s name when they put out one show every six months. That’s as good as dead to me. I don’t care that OWA sanctions SSW title matches. SSW ceased to exist and I don’t acknowledge any belt that doesn’t have OWA’s name engraved in gold across it. Did you win a championship in WWH? Good for you! Yet, I am still the most accomplished and longest-reigning world champion in a 20-plus-year-old company’s history. If the locker room didn’t respect me then, they were jealous. As you are now. The moment I walked away, so did the people. Nobody watched anymore and WWH vanished into the night sky. And if I hadn’t left, you know damn well that you’d still be licking the bottom of my shoe wanting a taste of where greatness stands.

Whatever history that we carry means nothing to most people here in OWA. They don’t need to know about it either! People form their opinions based on what they see and to everybody else in OWA, Jacob Striker is a failure. Your success elsewhere holds no significance just like your run here in OWA. I don’t want to get into an accolade battle… We’re not going band for band, but I am sure to have you beat. You’re getting yourself into a fight you cannot win. It’s not because I look down on you and my hubris has consumed me to the point that I feel invincible. Far from it. I know how fragile life can be. I know it can be taken away from you in an instant. That’s not why I know I will beat you. I know that because Jacob Striker is NOTHING without Christopher Sabertooth. Even now you seek my approval just like the fanboy you once were. You want me to acknowledge your position in the wrestling world. You want to be seen as a threat by your peers. But I won’t give you that courtesy because I have NEVER seen enough to believe in any word you have to say.

You’ve shown fire to me but that fire is bound to last about a week before you fizzle back down to the unambitious little twerp that you are. I am not angry at you either. I feel nothing but disappointment knowing that I was the one who chose you as my protégé. I was the one that saw potential in you back in the day. If you want to be called successful-- If you want to be acknowledged as my equal, you need to succeed EVERYWHERE. That’s what the greats do. That’s what I have done wherever I have gone. And when it comes to OWA, my name has been synonymous with the company since the very beginning. I came in with all the hype and then delivered on it. Sure, I stumbled along the way but I reached the pinnacle of this industry. I main-evented Final Destination. I fought alongside my brothers to save this very planet you live in. Instead of being grateful, you want to cut me down when I am getting back up.

The revival of Christopher Sabertooth has been a spectacle to witness and you want to steal that away from me. How DARE you, Jacob? I MADE you and I am about to do it again. Every championship you brag about, I laid the foundation for it! I am giving you a platform you would have NEVER had if it wasn’t for me. Be grateful for even getting a chance even though I know that you will fail once again. My heart breaks for you! I see the pain in your voice when you try to channel this fire inside of you that will be extinguished by a whisper in the wind. I hate that you don’t realize why you fail every single time in OWA. I hate that I ever took you in the first place. I wasted my time with you, Jacob. Time that I will NEVER get back. All because I wanted better from you. I EXPECTED better from you.

Chris’ emotions are on display as he talks about his opponent. Someone he truly cared for at some point in his life.

If this was Christopher Sabertooth of the old, I’d understand why you’d think I am delusional. You’d think that my hubris had gotten the better of me. But we’re talking about the face of Kingdom, Grand Slam Champion, Conqueror of Demons, Christopher Sabertooth. I have EARNED my right to be confident. Yes, I conquered my demons so you can’t rile me up by constantly bringing that name to the front and expecting a reaction out of it. There’s no demon inside of me anymore, Jacob. And there’s no demon inside of you either because it would be a waste of that demon’s time. You’re incapable of being capable. J Cole’s next album must be about you because your fall-off is right around the corner. All this talk about championships doesn’t mean shit if you can’t replicate it everywhere else. OWA is not your kryptonite. It’s your limiter. So you can rack up championships elsewhere but don’t rub it in our faces and expect us to take you seriously. You had my respect at some point that was lost after I saw a dejected man constantly repeating the same mistakes and expecting a different result. 

I am not hiding away from my failures either. I have failed plenty of times before and all I seek now is a new chapter in my life. A soft refresh, if you will. I am walking down the same path I took a few years ago in OWA’s infancy. The only difference is that I don’t make the same mistakes that led me down a path of hurt and misery at the hands of Havoc. Trust me, I will never be able to get rid of the guilt I have for unleashing that monster into this world. So, I don’t need anything else in my life to remind me of my failures. One thing is more than enough. I am sorry for trying to be better! Next time, I will choose to be as miserable as you and accept my failures without acting on changing my fate. Pathetic.

If you want me to respect you, you will have to prove yourself in OWA. Until then, I will treat you like the loser you are. I will look down on you as I always have. You’re NOT on my level and you’re only getting further away. Despite all that, you will get the BEST version of myself in the ring. I don’t intend on making a dumb mistake like you have and losing what I cherish the most. I don’t intend on stopping my journey to the top for Jacob fuckin’ Striker. While I am glad that you stood up for yourself-- You’re NEVER going to be able to look me in the eye. For old time’s sake, I will give you another piece of advice. You have a chance to redeem your name in an instant. You have a chance to prove everybody including myself wrong. You have a chance to be under the spotlight after a LONG fucking time. If there was ever a day to step up, it is today… But if I were in your position, I would give up. I couldn’t bear another loss after pouring my heart out. I couldn’t bear the fact that I would never measure up to the people I once idolized. I couldn’t bear the fact that Christopher Sabertooth will NEVER acknowledge me for what I have done. Quit while you’re ahead, Jacob. I say it for the sake of your mental well-being. 

Your mind has become accustomed to being a loser and that’s a real shame. Think about your family! They’d have to live in infamy being related to a generational loser like yourself. Your kids will never hear the end of it. The shame in their eyes to call you their father. It’s painful!

In this world, OWA is all that matters. And in that context, Jacob Striker ain’t worth a damn penny. If you insist on it, I will deliver on your promises for you. There WILL be blood in this match. Hell, let’s paint the fucking town red while we’re at it. Tampa Bay could use some color. But it won’t be mine.

If you’re hungry for a fight, I have been starving for it.

If you’re desperate for success, I have been DYING, quite literally, to do so.

Anything you want, I want it more.

Anything you do, I have ALREADY done it better.

We don’t need a copy when you’ve got the original. 

Jacob, you’re not needed in this world. Do all of us a favor and end your misery.

Or I will end it for you. 

Tyler couldn’t sleep. Once the authorities apprehended Felix, He felt he could leave his siblings with his aunt. He visited his mother at the hospital, Albany Medical Center specifically. After finding Claire Kulina in the condition she was in, the doctors wanted to keep her under observation for several days before sending her home. The young man laid back in his seat, his eyes half closed as his mother watched a rerun of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the television. Other than a heartwarming hug, little was said between them. Ty knew his mother’s silence was just a response to his own. She knew what he was thinking, and eventually, she was going to respond to it. She just wanted to see him try to avoid the topic with an opening line. 

Tyler Kulina: I spoke with the doctor. He says you should be back home in no time-

Claire Kulina: It’s not your fault, Ty.

Tyler Kulina: I know. It’s that crazy bitch Fe-

Claire Kulina: Stop blaming yourself.

Tyler Kulina: If my dad wasn’t-

Claire Kulina: Ty?

Tyler Kulina: Yeah?

Claire Kulina: Why do you hate him?

Tyler Kulina: …because I was there.

Claire Kulina: Hmm?

Tyler Kulina: I was there for everything. I’m the one who watched you work your ass off to take care of me. I’m the one who watched you come home from overtime shift after overtime shift. I’m the one who watched you do things you feel proud of…and who quietly watched you do things…you’re not proud of. I know things you don’t want me to know. I know the promises Ashley and Wayne’s fathers made to you and I watched how they both broke those promises. And to know that he never cared about you the way you cared about him. To watch him put us behind him…and then rub it all in with that whore of his. And then that very whore decide to put her hands on you…I’ll never forgive him at this point.

Tyler got up from his seat and grabbed his coat.

Tyler Kulina: I can give two shits if the world hates me for my actions. Nobody - and I mean nobody gets to disrespect my mom and my family. Even worse - think they can put their hands on my family and get away with it. Scott Oasis is going to pay for her bail himself so she can face me at Divine Retribution.

Tyler slowly made his way to the door and stopped at the doorway.

Tyler Kulina: I’m sorry mom. But this only ends when one of us is gone. Either him…or me.







“Do you think that if you were falling in space
That you would slow down after a while
Or go faster and faster?
Faster and faster
For a long time, you wouldn't feel anything
Then you would burst into fire forever
And the angels won't help you 'cause they've all gone away”


“You just won’t learn, will you?”

The camera opens to Tyler Kulina sitting alone in an empty gym he’s renting upstate. The equipment around him from the punching bags to the weights looked recently used. Kulina is shirtless, wearing only sweatpants and sneakers. He’s staring at the ground thoughtfully before he continues.

“I don’t know what it is about women like you, but you refuse to learn anything of freaking value. I know you’re sitting there all proud of yourself like you did something! You sure showed me by beating an innocent woman within an inch of her life! Like…really!? And you have people who cheered you on! All of you are nothing but degenerates, a bunch of sick fucks who get off on the pain of others. My gripe with my father was always an insular thing. You chose to get in between us because you’re too dick-drunk to think for yourself!  You call yourself an outlaw, how rich. But even outlaws had a code. You…don’t have anything, my dear. You believe in nothing, so when you close your eyes every night there’s nothing. Even androids dream of electric sheep! Meanwhile, you’re just lying there, cold as a fucking vampire. You’re a husk of a little girl who used to love herself. If you kidnapped one of the Tribunal I would’ve handled things differently. But, I have people who depend on me – my mother and siblings. You have nothing. You just exist as my father’s favorite cum dumpster…for the moment. You wish to think of me as a child, but what I did was more adult than any of you freaks could’ve done. You confuse dysfunction for edginess, walking around thinking you’re “that bitch” or whatever. If anything, you demonstrated to me how predictable you are. And as the woman you claim wipes my ass used to say ‘if you fight as badly as you promo, then this fight will be a cakewalk.’”

Tyler rose from the bench and started walking around ther gym.

“My father has you wrapped around his finger so bad, that you can determine what’s real or what’s not. You’ve created this reality for yourself that as long as you fight in the name of your love for Jeff X, you’re untouchable. You’re a second-rate Gypsy Rose – because at least she finished the job of killing the mom she went after! Meanwhile, instead of getting with a Peter Griffin, you traded for a Vin-Diesel-with-hair who thinks his La Familia aka Frontline will always save the day. Allow me to break your reality, “sweets”. This time, Frontline won’t save the day. Dad won’t save you from my wrath, and when it’s all said and done you’ll be imprisoned after I return the pain you gave my mother tenfold.”

“By the way, thanks for the History Channel excerpt about my rookie year. You Thotyssey brats are good at those oral book reports you deliver every week. While you’re stuck on my past, I look towards the future. And in my future, I see a troubled Jeff X as he’s on his knees begging me for mercy. You have it all wrong, Stepmommy. I don’t give a fuck if Jeffrey Thomas Kearns loves me. Or if he even likes me. I don’t need his love…just his pain. I need his weaknesses, i.e., you and the others, to fall individually.  That’s it, that’s all there is to it. I just want all of you to suffer so that he suffers. I wanted this to be a one-on-one kinda thing, but you fucked it all up for everyone, Stepmommy. You’re so much of a try-hard, desperate to cross the line with your fake T n’ A, jiggling along like you have something that I- or even Jeffery haven’t seen before. You’re just another notch under his belt. You’ll find out one way or another, and when you do, you’ll become as irrelevant as Sena in 2024 because ain’t coming to see him, Otis!”

Tyler chuckled to himself as he took a drink from his water bottle.

“You want to be the one to set the rules so bad, but you have no idea what it takes to wield real power. The woman whose tutelage I now preside under has shaped an entire generation of women. She’s defied the odds countless times and is one of the few Black women to hold a Japanese world championship. Hell, as is my other auntie. They are trendsetters, something I’m sure you wish you were, but you’re still stuck being the Luigi to Rebecca Filth’s Mario. Since departing from Sena, I’ve established myself as my person, just like I’ve been establishing myself as my own man without that deadbeat father. I know you’re so desperate to not look at me as a threat, you reduce me as nothing more than some random pipsqueak crying over his daddy, and you know what? Keep doing that. Keep undermining me, because when you least expect it, my fangs are going to make contact with your skin, and like the venomous snake you all think of me as that poison is going to run through your veins. You will have no choice but to fall to me. But, I’m not gonna kill you. I want you to rot away in prison forever. I want you to sit there with a TV I’m gonna buy for you personally just so you can see me end the legacy of Jeff X just mere moments before I end the life of Jeffery Thomas Kearns. The Felix Hartley in you is going to want to eat me alive, but little forgotten and abandoned Felicia Jackson? Well, she’ll simply die of a broken heart. Cold and alone in a cell, the perfect punishment to fit the crime of hurting my family.”

Tyler’s eyes looked into the camera carefully as if he was looking for something that wasn’t there. When he found it, he smiled.

“There you are. I know exactly where you are, Felicia. This…awakening Abholos has blessed me with…has granted me a weird sense of things. When people look at you, they see a blonde bombshell. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I saw nothing but a little girl still trying to impress Daddy. Maybe that’s why you like my dad. He’s older than you and gives off that dysfunctional vibe that you seem to love so much. Getting off on the idea of beating the fuck out of his blood child and destroying the family he used you to replace them with is fucking wild. And somehow..these sociopathic wrestling fans like this shit. No wonder I didn’t want the product for years. There’s more honor in boxing if you ask me. Another thing Auntie Aria taught me is that this business will always have is carny roots. We’re all nothing but animals in Scott Oasis’ three-ring circus. Well, if its an animal I have to be, a freak show of an act to be able to exact my vengeance, then fine. I’m fueled by the memories of someone who had to watch someone struggle on their own to make ends meet, a woman who waited patiently for her lover to return, but was ghosted because her man was too much of a coward to find her.”

Tyler’s smile seemed to grow wider, as if he was looking at the audience…as if he was breaking the fourth wall. His eyes seemingly flashed for a second, as if there was something else behind them. Or maybe it was from the poor lighting of the gym. Who knows.


“Yes. Jeffery Thomas Kearns is nothing more than a coward. So much so that he had to travel the world as Jeff X just so he couldn’t be found and called out for avoiding his responsibility. But don’t fret, this responsibility has come back to bite him in the ass. You’re about to die on the wrong hill, sweets. And as impressive as his dick game might be to you, that’s not a sword you should be falling on. But you know what? It’s alright. The more people defend him just leaves more bodies for me to drop before I come for his. This story doesn’t finish at Divine Retribution. We’re still in the early chapters. The early verse of a song. But, it’s my book, my song, and you’re just an element that will soon fade from the pages. And as your tears fall and the blood is caked on your face, I’ll be laughing. It’ll be the best feeling to show the world what happens when you fuck with a Kulina.”

Tyler grabs a Modelo from an old fridge and pops off the cap.

“Thank god Mom gave me her maiden name. Right…Mrs. Kearns- oh wait.”

Tyler chuckles to himself and takes a sip.