Show Time RP - Return to Vegas

In a world where enemies are routinely manifested through the fruits of your own achievements, it seems funny to think the man with whom I begrudgingly share the Tag Team Championships has come to this conjecture because of that very same fruit.

Joshua Dean, in a matter of days will stand in a ring, surrounded by the capacity crowd of the MGM Grand, waiting for my music to announce, like a starting pistol, the beginning of his greatest opportunity. He will stand there with one half of our Tag Team Championships around his waist, his trunks swelling with anticipation, and wait for the man he’s never bested to arrive. As he stands there though his confidence can really only be a masquerade, as the very championship gold he holds is not a symbol of his own success, but mine.

He presents himself as the challenger to my WFWF World Heavyweight Championship knowing that he’s seen as merely a place holder by the millions of fans watching live on Pay Per View. He must suffer the constant embarrassment of being MY number two at a time when he strives to eclipse my burning sun. This very moment is a culmination of everything he has ever done in the wrestling business. Every match he’s ever won. Every knife that’s been rammed in his back. This shot at the grandest prize in our sport is all he’s ever wanted, and yet his waist is adorned with a championship belt that I won. How can he possibly step out of a shadow tethered so firmly to his feet?

Now perhaps he’ll say this Tag Team Championship means nothing to him. It was merely a means to an end. His primary objective was ensuring I made it this far unscathed, and in doing so he has become my partner by default. And yet it strikes me that I still defended the Tag Team Titles single handedly, with a disqualification victory, thanks to Mr Dean’s ineptitude when it comes to defending me from physical assault. His strategy may need a complete overhaul if he deems the butt of a sword’s sheath ramming into my head as anything but a direct attempt on my permanent wellbeing.

Somehow, and we have no one but the boardroom oligarchy to thank for this, allowing me to be beaten with a foreign object constitutes the crowning of a new PAIR of Tag Team Champions. I was usurped by my own inability to multiply. I am many things; an undeniable technician, a wordsmith, devilishly handsome but to my failings binary fission is something I’m yet to master. Instead of asexually reproducing myself a partner to defend these belts with, I was forced to adopt a sick child, and in this case his name is Joshua.

Now the mere mention of children would be a perfect segway into a entire run down of Dean’s family life but honestly I’m f*cking bored of that. Name calling, bad mouthing your parenting skills and that terrible impersonation of a loving husband has run its course. I’m done with that, and them. I want to dismantle Joshua Dean because of Joshua Dean, not because of Nikki. Not because of Drake, or whatever the other less loved child is called. Dragging your family into these things is old hat and instead I’d rather let you know it’s not them I can’t stand, it’s just you.

You want to be the best, or at least you say you do, and yet I can’t help but notice you’re always diving into extra-curricular activities. You’re in the same boat as one Trace Demon in that you both spend too much time in the office, trying to manipulate from behind a desk. The pair of you are guilty of trying to defend that decision, but the constant claims of being dangerous no matter if your wearing cuff links or not do little to distill the rumours that you’re preparing for a life after wrestling. Once a man takes his eye off of the peak of the mountain then it’s much easier for him to slip and fall, and Joshua, it’s a long way down from way up here. I hope you’ve kept a clear schedule in the lead up to this match. I hope you’ve been in the gym instead of choosing which one your clients should be in. I have no distractions. I do one thing in my life and I do it well. I do one thing in my life and I do it better than anyone else. Absolute singularity is the only way one can even come close to perfection, so if you’ve been spreading yourself too thin again then this will be over before I’ve even unstrapped the belt from my waist.

If Josh is not preoccupied with his external business dealings though it’s not uncommon to find him tied up with his cohorts’ problems. The Saviors of Salvation made a lot of noise but ultimately went the same way as every faction, group, army, whatever you would like to label them as. They are all but dissolved. Let’s take a look at the founding members.

Penny Shannon. She’s barely a part time talent here, and when she does show up it’s usually to get beaten. This go around she has the pleasure of losing to Trace Demon. What larks.

Dave Demento. DUI. Gone to jail. Did not pass GO. Did not collect £200. Prior to that? Held the International Championship for a heartbeat and then the Tag Team Championships for even less time. Congratulations on a career well shat upon David.

And now the add on peripherals to the team.

Nikki Dean. Burnt out. She’s taken her toys and gone home. Clearly this game wasn’t for her in the end. She gave it a good go and impressed me along the way, but let’s be honest she’s better suited to dropping the kids off at football practice and getting f*cked behind the changing rooms by the gym coach, because her husband’s just become so darn distant after losing it all in Las Vegas.

Cameron Stone. The only man with any forward momentum, and also the only member who isn’t really even a member. More of a Subsidiary of Salvation if you will. He came good and finally won a title belt after goodness knows how long, but he’s said himself he’d much rather be pretending to be someone else for Disney than doing any fighting here. His days are numbered, and as soon as someone takes that International belt off of him he’ll high tail.

And so that leaves……….well……just Josh I suppose.

A man who calls himself “The Architect” is now without any proof that he’s ever really built anything. His house was built on sand and now that the tide’s come in he’s left up to his knees in nothing but sh*t (mixed with sand). That metaphor was abstract I understand, but consider that said tidal onslaught was the product of a sea of sh*t. Clearer?

Now if this were a situation I found myself in I would deem it a good thing. No longer does he have to worry about Penny trying to fellate his wife or Dave crying himself to sleep over children he’s never bothered to visit, instead he’s free to be his own person. This allows him to focus on what truly matters.

Me.

The man right in front of him.

Instead though I think, due to his very nature, this disbanding will weigh heavily on Josh’s mind. He’ll feel isolated and vulnerable now that he hasn’t got a group of people to cheer him on and slap him on the back. For too long has Josh allowed others to define his strengths, and whilst this is not the time for him to overcome those weaknesses, I hope his losing to me here gives him enough of a boot up the backside to realise he needs to make drastic changes.

Because how many changes have you made since we last locked horns Josh? You’ve been through a lot in the last 18 months, we both have, but have you learned anything along the way? I’ve done nothing but grow, that’s the reason I stand where I do. How much have you evolved? Enough to surprise me?

I doubt it.

In Vegas I no doubt face a man impossible to distinguish from the Josh Dean of 18 months prior. A few more battle scars from a few more stupid death matches maybe, but that’s not the kind of wiles that are going to help you here.

There are no added stipulations here. It’s me and you, 1 on 1. This is my realm. This is how I beat Phillip Schneider. This is how I beat Trace Demon.

Josh. This is how I’ll beat you.


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Malalignment Rouge

It’s fair to say I was shocked when, holding the door open for Dog, I stepped out of the lobby of my block of flats to find a limousine waiting outside. I wasn’t shocked in a “this can’t possibly be for me?” prom queen way, no. I was shocked because I didn’t know anyone with this little class wanted to talk with me.

“Who’s this?”

Dog asks the question with his leg cocked, waiting to see if my response warrants a hot stream of p*ss against the car or not.

“I dunno. To hazard a guess though I’d say it’s going to be either Lila Sleater or Justin Tyme.”

“Justin who?”

“I shouldn’t worry about it.”

And with that a near neon jet of day-glo yellow drums against the wing of the vehicle.

Good boy.

Almost as a response the passenger window nearest me winds down revealing a leviathan of a man leaning over, a man I sort of recognise but only in as much as he works for the WFWF in some capacity. I suppose I don’t pay attention to many people who don’t lace up their boots night after night, although the reason this giant hasn’t is somewhat of a mystery to me.

”Get in the back. The boss wants to talk.”

Oooh the boss. How very theatrical. I hope I’m not expected to suck someone’s d*ck in there. Once again I hold the door for Dog and he hops straight up and into the limo. I hear a sigh of disgust come from within. I take it they’re not dog people.

I duck inside and roll my eyes the minute I sit down.

“You know what, I’m getting back out.”

I reach up and grab the roof edge of the door frame in an attempt to return to my life 2 minutes prior, but the driver controlled doors close and nearly take my fingers off. I slump back down onto the seat, Dog next to me, suitably spoiling the upholstery with his dirty feet. I know they’re paws but the word feet seemed funnier.

“Charmed.”

I haven’t the energy for this.

“And here I was thinking you might be pleased to see me?”

And so the one upsmanship contest begins. This is going to be exhausting.

“Trace………eat a d*ck…… That’s honestly the best I’ve got for you right now.”

Trace Demon chuckles and shakes his head, clearly not impressed by my vulgar and somewhat unimaginative response.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the mega-brain of our sport? Captain Vocabulary? You’re disappointing me Drakz.”

“They say you never should meet your heroes mate.”

That’s more like it.

“Bravo. Bravo. But show some f*cking gratitude ch-am-p.”

His lips smack around the p in a way that lets even the layman know he’s disrespecting me.

“I’m the only reason you can call yourself a Double Grand Slam winner after all.”

“The FIRST & ONLY Double Grand Slam winner dear sir.”

Correcting him brings a smile to both Dog’s and my face. I can hear him panting as his mouth sits ajar.

“Whatever gets you off. Either way I think my role in that coming to fruition at least warrants you sitting in here for more than five seconds, don’t you?”

As always I didn’t ask for his help, nor did I appreciate it much after the fact, but if he’s gone to the effort of driving to Chicago he must at the very least have something interesting to talk to me about.

“Shoot from the hip then sailor.”

A bizarre coming together of military nonsense.

The car pulls away from the curb side and now we’re rolling through Chi-Town.

“What’s going on Drakz?”

“I’m sorry?”

“This Las Vegas sh*t. What’s going on?”

“You’re not giving me much to work with here but I’ll assume you’re talking about my facing Josh Dean in what has to be the most cluster f*ck love triangle, good cop/bad cop, odd couple story of at least my recent memory.”

“Why are we sharing the top of the mountain?”

“I’m not.”

“You will be. Joshua Dean is scratching his way into your bedroom and something tells me Samael Ahriman has your number as well. So I ask you again, why are we sharing the top of the mountain? Why are we sharing with losers like Dean and Ahriman?”

I stand by my first statement, but simply repeating it isn’t going to make us much ground is it?

“Sorry to answer your question with another question Trace, but what makes you think there’s anyone up here with me? Based on the way you worded things it seems you still consider yourself my equal?”

Trace’s eyes narrow, if only a little.

“Well?”

“I take it the importance of our Pay Per View venue isn’t lost on you Drakz? Your ego surely hasn’t allowed you to forget what happened last time you walked into the MGM Grand, has it?”

F*cking punk.

“You think a victory over me three years ago cements your status ever eternal? Give me a break your highness, I’ve beaten you each time we’ve met in that ring since. There’s only room for one on the top rung of the ladder mate, and as always it’s the champion who takes that spot.”

He’s quick to retort.

“Well while we’re recounting memories perhaps it’s about time you cast your mind back even further, to the night you won your World Heavyweight Championship. There seems to be a pattern emerging, wouldn’t you agree?”

I never asked for help. The fact he gave it is his prerogative, not my reason to be indebted.

“You think things would have panned out differently had you let go of Dex’s legs? Even if that night ihad/i given us a different outcome, do you honestly think it would have mattered in the long run? I’m still the man who beat you one on one in the UK, and I’m still the man who retired Phillip Schneider, both times with my title on the line. There’s a reason every day I wake up I’m setting a new record you know. This hasn’t been gifted to me.”

“I appreciate that, but there has to be a tiny part of you that can’t be put to bed, knowing that there’s a permanent question mark, albeit a small one, hanging over both of your current title reigns.”

He grins, an eyebrow cocked. It’s really no wonder I want to drill this guy in the face every time I look at him.

“But I’m not here to measure d*cks with you Drakz, if you can believe that?”

“Then what is it? I’m not joining your dead in the water revolution. We had that discussion a long time ago. Nothing’s changed over here.”

“Revolution is a bit strong at this juncture. I’m a missionary without a church, but I can see why it all fell out from beneath me. I’m not blind to my own malpractice. The revolution failed due to a lack of faith. I’m only one man, and it seems that wasn’t enough to instil the necessary levels of faith in those I’d recruited. We can help each other though Drakz. Who needs faith when you have talent? Unmitigated, officially recognised talent! It is undeniable! It’s tangible!”

Has he lost it?

“So you want me to do your work for you?”

“I want us to do this work, together.”

“That’s all well and good Trace but I’m failing to see what I gain out of this?”

“I can help you Drakz.”

“I don’t need any help. Why would I?”

The lone ranger thing is kind of my schtick. What’s his angle here?

“Right now you’re a target. You’re the man the underlings need to overthrow to make their mark on things. You’ve reached a stage where one single victory over you is going to be enough to lift someone from the mire of regularity. That’s a dangerous position to be in.”

“I’m the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, I’ve always been a target.”

“Yes but right now you’ve backed yourself into a perfected little corner and everyone wants to be the one to push you up against that wall and sully your legacy.”

Or rape me. Whichever fits your narrative more I suppose.

“It would be foolish of me not to recognise the magnitude of your win streak, your title reign and the general image you’ve been creating for yourself Isaac.”

I hate it when he uses my real name.

“But it would be even more so were I not to let you know what’s going on just beneath the ice you’re standing on.”

“So, what? You want us to team up to stomp on the clawing hands of those trying to climb up this high? You think we can protect one another’s status? I’m going to go back to one of the first questions I asked you……..do you honestly think you’re on my level Tracey? Because despite all of the beatings you hand out, despite the physical and verbal berating you lay onto everyone you deem ‘in your way’ I still believe I’m the best in this business, by a long, long way.

Thanks for the offer, but I’m good. Kindly tell your ape to pull over and let me and my friend out would you.”

No question mark. It wasn’t a question.

“You misunderstand me Isaac.”

He’s got that look in his eye. Here we go…..

“Your back is against the wall and there are a number of hungry wolves who want to tear you apart. They want to take what’s yours. They want to be the one to cast you aside. A man who has forged himself into a living legend. Imagine the rub it would give someone capable of doing that. Imagine how it would change the way Josh Dean is perceived? Imagine how it would change the way Samael Ahriman is perceived? Imagine what it might do even for someone like……me.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that this is a rhetorical question. I’m saying that if you refuse my offer of help……then I’m going to help Josh.”

Son of a……..

“If you don’t accept this offer Drakz I’m going to cost you the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship. I’m going to undo everything you’ve spent the last few years doing. I’m going to take you back to the night you last lost. You staring at the lights. Me smiling down at you.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because unlike you I’m still happy being a piece of sh*t. I’m ‘THE BAD GUY’ and I’ve never tried to say otherwise. This is what I do.

Zeus!”

The car screeches to a sudden halt and I’m thrown out of my seat, driven ribs first into the opposing ones. I suppose driving all of the wind out of me was a very physical exclamation mark on the end of his statement. Sh*t! Dog! I look to my left worried for every bone in that poor animal’s body but to my surprise, unlike me, he was wearing his seat belt.

“I thought I’d be a gentleman and drop you at the airport.”

The door opens and Trace shoves me out and down onto the hard tarmac. Jesus man, this drug baron act is uncalled for. Dog hops out as well in fear of abduction and, without another word, Trace’s car pulls away from us as I struggle to open up my lugs.

This is no good at all.

Dog starts to lick my face in the hope it will help. It really doesn’t.

A moment passes and I’m finally sat up on the edge of the curb, taking deep lungfulls of sweet polluted air. Dog sits directly in front of me looking into my face and I eventually raise my eyes to meet his.

“What’s the problem?”

“We’re driving………to Vegas. We don’t need……the….airport.”

Trace Demon, you sh*t.


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Drive on You Crazy Diamond

We’re flying. Seriously flying right now. The dust rips into the air around us, twisting off into the sky in our wake. The motor revs harder as my foot pushes down and it’s fair to say we’d get pulled in an instant if we get unlucky. I don’t get unlucky very often though.

The roads in this country are so damn straight. A fact that’s never more visible than when you’re heading into Vegas. The scrub land desert and the rocky rises only serve to focus your eyes dead ahead, right down the road, until it tapers to nothing on the horizon. The wind howls in my head as Dog hangs his out of the window. He’s a walking cliché. To his credit he’s got his seatbelt on again though.

We’re over fifteen hundred miles away from Chicago right now and we’ve not spoken in as many. I’ve not really been in the mood since that visit from a Demon. One thing I’d like to point out is that unlike the last time I drove as far as this across the United States we have stopped. We’ve also slept, eaten, stretched all six of our collective legs and even stopped for a drink in Denver. These differences are however not a testament to my complete sobriety, but instead a direct representation of the difference between the pain killers for my back and the speedballs I had shelved up inside my arse hole a few years back.

This simple idea, reminiscent of a time where a lot of talking was done, brings me out of my hole…………unlike the speedballs…….they dissolved up there. I force Dog to reel his head in by putting up the electric window on his side, nearly crushing his idiot skull in the process due to his penchant for stubbornness.

“What’s the big idea somber Sally?”

“I need to talk.”

“Now? It’s been nearly 38 hours since we set off and you’ve hardly said a word. What changed?”

“I dunno. F*ck you then.”

Can’t a man be melodramatic anymore?

“You will do no such thing. I don’t care how desperate times are getting Isaac, interspecies relations are not my thing. Nor should they be yours.”

When a four legged animal makes a joke about having sex with him it’s hard not to laugh, even if it ruins your strong and silent type deal.

“Are you going to let me rant then? Or have I not spread it out across the entire journey adequately enough for you?”

He shrugs (if you can imagine a dog shrugging) and joins me in looking right down the road. He’s listening.

“Listen, you’ve only known me during the ‘good’ times.”

“The what?”

“Okay, so admittedly what I deem to be good is still pretty sh*te compared to any sane person’s version of it, but let me assure you, the time you’ve been around has been a cake walk compared to if we’d met in the street 4 years ago. Even worse if it was 8 or 9. I was using pretty heavily back then.”

“Using what?”

“Drugs. Just about all of them. Coke to get me buzzed, booze to help me talk, brown to numb the pain, blues to help me sleep and a whole lot of weed just for the hell of it. Not only that but I was on a cocktail of prescriptions to accommodate for any random outbursts of psychosis. The worst part? None of it really made me any worse of a person. Don’t get me wrong, I was a piece of sh*t, but it wasn’t because of the drugs. No. I was acting out because I hadn’t been humbled yet.”

“Your back?”

“Yep. I suppose if I thought he meant for it to turn out this way I should thank Kyzer for what he did to me, but he didn’t. I’m better now than I’ve ever been and it’s all because of what I taught myself during my time in the hospital. I did that. F*ck Kyzer. He put me down because he was consumed by fear, not because he’s a good samaritan. There’s no one to thank for my current situation but me.”

“That doesn’t sound too humble……”

“Heh. Perhaps not. I’ve gone off piste here though. The lowest point I can recall, the moment I really felt myself slipping into an abyss was the last time I was in Las Vegas. It was a combination of pushing my mind to its limit and being forced to recognise the toll that was taking on my physical self. It took my first loss in what? 6 years? To hold that mirror up to my face. The only problem was at that point in time all I saw was a suitable surface to sniff off of. Looking back now it’s a surprise I didn’t lose more often. I’m not sure if that’s proof of my unrivalled ability or the incompetence of the rest of the roster? Either way that loss is the only blemish on my otherwise perfect 4 year run. Can you imagine what kind of weight that carries? 26 and 1. It doesn’t have the same shine as a 0 does it?”

“So this is why you’ve been so unresponsive? You lost last time you were here?”

“Not exactly.”

Not by a long shot.

“There was some other sh*t going on at that time. Something that in essence was my undoing. I think the only reason I even lost my footing was because of this………thing.”

“Care to divulge anymore information than that?”

I’ve never really talked about this before.

“Well……..the thing…..was more of a person than a thing. Sort of, anyway. Jesus.”

My eyes close for a moment as I try to regain composure. I understand that it’s not the smartest thing to do whilst driving at speed but it’s not as though there’s much room for hazards to hide on an empty road as straight as this. I take a deep breath and adjust my grip on the wheel as my eyes peel back open.

“F*CK!”

I almost swerve off the (very straight, very empty) road as a flash of his face confronts me for a split second.

“Woah! What’s going on Isaac? Do you need to pull over? Vegas isn’t going anywhere, we can stop if you need to.”

“I’m okay. I’m okay. Bloody hell.”

I push a lungful of air out through my puckered lips. Man alive. That was heavy.

“Sorry. F*ck. Sorry.”

I’m panicked. Even on mute I’d still seem panicked to an innocent viewer. I’m fidgeting, running my hand through my hair and stroking my own face. I must look like a mad man. I turn to Dog and stroke his cocked head, a look of very real, almost human, concern in his eyes.

“I’m all good boy. It’s just been a long time since I’ve paid this stuff much dividends. I told you. These have been the good times.”

Do I really want to go down this rabbit hole? I could just turn the car around. Not show up for the match. I wonder if they’d strip me of the belt? Am I that bothered?

“Are you able to tell me what this ‘thing’ is then? If you do can you promise me one thing?”

“Sure.”

“You won’t crash the car and kill us both?”

“I’ll do my upmost, very, hardest best not to kill us both, yes.”

I’m not making any promises though.

“Okay. So the last time I was in Vegas my mind some what unravelled. I……..well I suppose I……..it was more that I came to the realisation that it had been unravelling for some time. That realisation is why I lost my nerve, and with it the match, and with that my International Championship belt.”

“What has Vegas got to do with it? Why did things come to a head at that moment?”

“Why? I don’t really know. All I know is how. For months I had been meeting with a journalist to put together an extended series of mini documentaries, although in retrospect there was very little in the way of actually feeding information toward any kind of coherent narrative. This journalist though……….Sam Clearland………well it was in Vegas that I finally found out that he didn’t exist.”

“What are you saying?”

“I mean he was nothing but a self destructive machination of my own subconscious. There never was a Sam Clearland according to anyone I asked at the time. Brennan, Kyzer and Donnie all denied ever even hearing his name before, and there I was being chased by the man. It was in this 24 hour period that I realised I was quite possibly totally insane but because of the moment we were in, the moment The New Epoch was in, I didn’t have time to waste. How wrong I was about that though. F*cking hell. We really dropped the ball that night. I would pay serious money to be able to look back from an outside perspective at what went on in the months prior to that night. Was I really just sat on my own, talking to an absence of character? There is no Sam Clearland. That was a bitter pill to swallow.”

Of course the irony of my telling all of this to a talking dog is not lost on me but f*ck the lot of you. I’m better now. Even if I’m not, whatever state of mind I find myself in it’s working wonders. That is undeniable.

“Do you miss the drugs?”

“I miss the companionship that seemed to go hand in hand with it. At least I think I do. It’s hard to say when now I look back at those times in the knowledge that maybe it was all a lie anyway. Until he revealed himself to me Michael Kyzer was without a doubt my best friend in the world and Brennan, although his tenure in my life was far shorter, was a close second thanks to our bottle fuelled nights of confiding in one another’s ability to analyse. Where’s all of that now though? Kyzer turned his back and now lies in a hospital bed while David ran off with one of the choir boys. I’m the only one left and that’s what I have to face when we enter that city in a couple of hours. The first time I visited Vegas I chose to do so alone, safe in the knowledge that my friends weren’t far behind. This time? This time I’m alone and that’s as far as it goes. There’s no where for me to turn if things get bad.”

Dog looks hurt, and perhaps it’s harsh of me to never truly consider him a shoulder to support me when my legs go.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your company mate, it’s just that…..well….you’re a bloody dog.”

He mutters under his breath.

“Am I?”

“What was that?”

“I said I am. I am a dog.”

A tension swells within the car and I can feel another mutual silence coming on, one that might outlast even the previous day and a half. It’s laid to rest pretty quickly though.

“Listen, regardless of my importance to you I want to say that if things get shaky while we’re here I’m going to support you through it. That’s what friends do.”

That’s what they [font color="1979e6"should, it doesn’t mean they will though. Why do I have to be so cynical? He’s just trying to be the bigger man…….dog, here.

“Thank you. I like to think I’m beyond that though. I should be fine.”

Should be……

“Right I should call Stevie anyway.”

“Who?”

“Stevie. Someone I met last time I was here while I was drowning my sorrows post Demon-Gate. A stripper.”

“Are things that bad that you need to call up some wh*re the moment you get within 100 miles of a city? Is she pretty?”

“It’s a he.”

“Things really must be bad.”

“This isn’t a booty call mate. He’s a good guy. He’s seen some stuff, pretty nasty stuff over the years and he’s a laugh……..plus I f*cked his sister last time I was in town and I want to know if she still lives in the area.”

“Knew it.”

“Sorry. Even the ever living enigma that is the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion can be predictable from time to time. Especially when he can smell p*ssy in the water.”


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Return of The Imp

“Hahaha! Isaac buddy you’re a f*ckin’ a*shole to the core.”

I’m THE GOOD GUY now, so that statement does little to massage my ego. Okay maybe a little.

“Stevie, you have to realise I’m a different man now. I’m a reformed villain. I’m kind of like the Tyrannosaurus Rex in the first Jurassic Park film.”

“Ugly as sin with tiny arms?”

He explodes into laughter, his huge chest shaking with each note. He really is an adonis of a guy, with a body that puts 90% of those in my line of work to shame. Hold the phone, was he just making a direct dig at the fact he’s got bigger arms than me?

“F*ck you baby d*ck.”

And with that I can’t help but join in the laughter between swigs from the bottle we’re passing between us. Our surroundings are far from classy, but when you meet with a male stripper in Las Vegas it’s to be expected I suppose. His trailer isn’t far from the strip itself so getting to work isn’t a problem for him. Needless to say he ran with the whole ‘It may not look like much but the location is fantastic’ line. Something I’m sure he’s rehearsed and rehashed every time he has company.

“So what are you doing here man? You working?”

“Yep. Headlining the MGM at the weekend.”

“Sh*t, that’s crazy brother. You nervous?”

There’s no reason me and Stevie should get along. None. He’s the epitome of almost everything I hate about America and yet for some reason I found him charming the first time we met and I still do now. He’s loud, he’s brash and he’s vain as they come but beneath all of that he’s genuine. There’s nothing untoward in anything he says or does and I like that. I’m so used to dealing with people in a capacity that doesn’t allow for dropping your guard. I’m desensitised to the human nature because I’ve come to believe it’s nothing but sh*t and lies, but there are some people out there who aren’t tied up in what I get into, and Stevie helps me keep hold of that.

“Nervous? This is small game to me my friend.”

“Nice to see you’ve stayed humble.”

“You know you’re not the first to bring that up in the last few days. Give me a reason to be humble and I’ll take it. That is not an open invitation to try and have sex with me, just for the record. I know what you’re like.”

Before he has a chance to retaliate or at least disprove my theory there’s a knock on the trailer door. Stevie passes me the bottle of spirit as he goes to answer, a perplexed look on his face. Clearly his visitor didn’t have the decency to call ahead like old Drakz did.

“Is he here?”

“That depends on who he is little man?”

I know that voice!

“F*ck yourself you big baby oil drinking queer. Is Drakz in here? Isaac f*cking Cray.”

That would be an excellent pseudonym if I hadn’t settled on Drakz all those years ago.

“Isaac who the f*ck is this threatening me with a flick knife and why is he forcing his way into my house?”

With no time to answer I’m now presented with the tip of the aforementioned blade nestling into my neck, right on top of the jugular.

“Donnie. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Donnie Monty Kent.

“Unfinished business.”

“I’m pretty sure all of our business is fully tied up. We finalised our contracts back in Tokyo, don’t you remember? Chasing me out of a bar while I dragged a Japanese prostitute behind me?”

“I don’t mean to be a bore gentlemen but who the hell is this midget and why is he about to cut you open Isaac?”

“I can cut you open instead if you’d prefer muscles?”

Donnie turns the attention of his knife in Stevie’s direction and, for all of his physical gifts, he cowers like a child. Even working as he does in Sin City he’s clearly not used to this kind of thing. Well that distraction didn’t last long as Donnie is close to giving me a shave again.

“We’ve got things to deal with. New things. Things that hadn’t cropped up yet last time I threatened to kick your ass.”

I’d almost forgotten that his cocky demeanour was never a product of having Zmey around. DMK has never and undoubtedly will never give a f*ck.

“Can we at least do this without that letter opener rammed up in my face please?”

Begrudgingly he obliges as the knife wavers in pressure and eventually slips back into his waistband. Stevie is giving me real sh*t eye over Donnie’s shoulder and who can blame him? I drop by for the first time in a couple of years and, within an hour, a weapon wielding maniacal midget turns up on his doorstep. I too would be both amused and bemused by the whole charade.

“Thank you. Now tell me, why are you here? Why have you followed me to a male stripper’s trailer? Right now it’s looking pretty suspect Don.”

Tread carefully now. He’s only just put that thing away.

“Watch your smart mouth f*ck nuts or I’ll cut it so far up each side your head will fall back. Like I said, we’ve got unfinished business.”

“And I say we don’t. You and Tugs left me high and dry in Tokyo. There’s nothing more to say or do mate. The KKK is done.“

“The what?”

“Not that KKK. They’re still at it. If I were you Stevie I’d tune out for the next 5 or 10 minutes.”

“We’ve got a mutual enemy now.”

“We do?”

“I want to f*ck the corpse of Samael Ahriman. I want to burst his eyes with my d*ck. I’ll bore new holes into his back and screw them if I’m not satisfied. He’s a judas. He’s a f*cking snake and I want his head. I know you do too.”

“I’m not interested in having sex with him. Dead or alive.”

“P*ssy.”

“But you’re right in that he’s on my sh*t list.”

“So why aren’t you crushing him in Vegas?”

“Because I’m booked to fight Joshua Dean…”

“Dean’s a f*ggot, a world class soft c*ck. Why is he taking precedence over your own personal issues?”

“Because I can wait. Because I’m the Heavyweight Champion and I fight who I’m supposed to fight. There are certain rules at work here Donnie, you know that. Regardless, Josh beat Ahriman for this opportunity so I need to squash him and send a message.”

Another knock on the door?

“Jesus, what now? You haven’t brought friends have you?”

“All I brought is Dog and he’s out in the trailer park throwing his seed around the b*tches.”

Not derogatory. He is a dog. As are they. I’m not into the sexual degradation of the lovelier sex.

And with that two such folk enter the trailer. Low and behold one of them is Stevie’s sister. Yes the one I had ‘relations’ with last time I was here. Excellent news. Hello, who’s this? She’s got a friend. A friend indeed. My eyes are glued to this new arrival and I smirk like the sexual predator I can sometimes become.

“Two pieces of ass walk into the room and you think we’re done?”

I wave Donnie off as I stand up to greet our new arrivals.

“We’ll pick this up later. F*cking paper d*cked child kisser…..”

His train of thought rides off under his breath and I’ve stopped listening.

“Laurie!”

”Isaac? Oh my God, Isaac!”

She wraps her arms around me and it feels good, not the physical act of her hugging me, no. The fact she can be this pleased to see me means I did something right last time I was X amount of inches inside of her. I’m still far more drawn to this friend though.

“Great to see you Laurie, it really is.”

She steps back.

“And who’s your friend?”

“Natalie. You an old friend of these two?”

She offers me her hand but I step forward and give her a kiss on either cheek. She’s taken aback but you’ll see I have a perfect alibi for such behaviour.

”Haha, oh Natalie I forgot to mention Isaac here is from Europe! That’s how they say hello over there.”

Not strictly true on either counts but it’s a great one to ride out.

“An old friend, back in town for the weekend only I’m afraid. You want a drink?”

I’ve still got hold of her hand but I’m not sure she’s noticed. Regardless, I lead her over to where we were sat and replace my hand in hers with the neck of a bottle. There’s a look of dejection on Laurie’s face but honestly, I don’t care. I may be THE GOOD GUY but Vegas brings out the worst in me.

“So what do you do Natalie?”

Stevie hugs his sister as they greet one another before joining us while DMK sits staring right at me and my new conquest. His wide eyed fixation and look of complete disillusionment is fine by me but Natalie may start to get creeped out by it. Mind you I’m not sure she’s even spotted Donnie yet, so we could be in for a treat when he undoubtedly says something offensive to her.

“Well I work the crap tables over at…”

“Yeah, he doesn’t really give a f*ck. What he really wants to ask is how far does your anus stretch and were you aware of your startling resemblance to former WFWF National Champion Nikki Dean?”

Right on cue. Wait? Nikki Dean?

“Because that’s what’s going on here. He wants to f*ck you because you look like someone he works with, wether he knows it or not.”

“What the f*ck is that?”

WHAT!? Haha! Not who, but what! Incredible!

“Drakz. With me. Now.”

“I’m fine right where I am thanks Donnie.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

I see him go for his waist band and I wouldn’t put it past him to cut up this Natalie girl’s face just to spite me.

“Okay. Okay.”

I turn to Stevie.

“Listen man, I’m sorry about this. It seems I need to talk shop with this lunatic and it’s probably better if I do it somewhere else. I’ll be sure to see you while I’m still in town but I’ll make sure I’m alone next time.”

He feigns a smile but I can see he’s pretty annoyed about all of this. F*cking Donnie. I thought I was done with this cretin.

“Ladies, it’s been short but sweet. By the way if any of you want tickets for the show just drop me a line. Stevie’s got my number.”

They’re all so confused by my sudden self ejection that they just smile and don’t really have much to say on the matter, and with that I’m following the imp out into the crisp December air of Las Vegas.


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Soul/Strip Searching

The neon seems so garish to me now in my slightly more mature state. I say mature but perhaps I simply mean older? A few years ago I was the talk of this town. I was a highlight of people’s stay in Vegas. Doped up to the eyeballs I ran a whirlwind through this God forsaken city, a dervish that culminated in my own meltdown and coming of age moment. I still managed to lose my match though and that’s the part that’s stayed with me. You can keep your Sam Clearlands. You can keep your talking statues and Hindu apparitions. The only thing that matters to me from that visit right now, in the closing moments of 2015, is the glaring 1 on my resumé.

My hands are deep in my jacket pockets, shying away from the wind that whips down the Vegas strip. We’re attracting attention but it’s of little importance as the people here are easily moved along by the first light bulb they spot mere seconds after they double take at us. Idiots. The WFWF Tag Team and World Heavyweight Champion. The most recognisable face in the business, walking Las Vegas Boulevard South with a dog he keeps talking to and a sour faced ‘little person’. It’s a wonder that I’m sober. it really is.

“So when are you going to drop this bull sh*t then?”

“Which bull sh*t is that Donald?”

“That’s not my name you lousy f*ck, and I’m talking about this good guy nonsense.”

Nonsense? What have I done to give the impression this new leaf is anything but a genuine change in character? Have I not vanquished enough evil yet? I just chuckle at him.

“You’re not fooling me. I can smell evil as strong as dank p*ssy and you’re dripping in it.”

“Evil, or p*ssy?”

Well it’s certainly not p*ssy these days.

“Shut the f*ck up and listen. I know you’ve convinced yourself that you’re noble or some sh*t. Fighting with honour, blah blah blah, but it’s plain as day to someone like me that you’re only doing this to antagonise the likes of Michael Kyzer. He’s gone though. He’s f*cked. That’s part of why I’m here. You don’t need to keep up appearances anymore. The world doesn’t give a f*ck. For some unknown reason they all seem to cheer for you no matter what you do anyway, so why not stay true to yourself and be a c*nt?”

Donnie laying down the feels.

“This isn’t an act Donnie. I went through a life changing year when I was injured and it put things in perspective.”

“And most of it was total fabricated f*ckery. Mike proved once again that he’s one step ahead of you by planting those God damn actors in your rehab clinic. All of the wisdom you thought you were taking on board was just venom fed from the glands of your own former running partner. Wake the f*ck up! Kyzer f*cking neutered you. He castrated you with kindness. Your balls are gone but that doesn’t have to be the end.”

“My balls are gone? Donnie, this may have escaped you but I’ve been more successful in the last 2 years than I ever was before that. I’ve eclipsed my previous attempts at greatness along with anything Michael Kyzer ever did. If he was the one formulating my downfall then it’s blown up in his face because right now I’m unstoppable.”

“But aren’t you just in the least bit bored?”

Dog chimes in and stops my train of thought in it’s tracks. We keep walking but no one says anything for a moment. What has my quality of life become, running along side these achievements? How much of myself has this new persona cost me? He’s got a point.

“Maybe I am bored, but the results speak for themselves.”

“Who said anything about being bored?”

“Oh. Nothing. I was just thinking aloud.”

“So you’re bored? Why? Is it because you can’t do whatever the f*ck you want anymore? Is it because you’re under the pressure of representing a multi-billion dollar global organisation?”

“No, it’s because no one really hates me like they used to.”

Donnie turns to look at me and starts laughing. it builds and builds until he has to stop walking. He stands there shaking and slapping his thigh as his cackles pour down the strip, attracting ever more attention than before.

“It’s because everyone respects you too much.”

“”No it’s not. It’s because everyone’s scared they can’t follow through.

“Isn’t that the same thing? They respect your ability to overcome. They’re all aware that compared to you they’re nobodies.”

Finally getting it out of his system, Donnie stands upright again and, wiping the tears from his eyes, catches back up with Dog and I.

“You feel better for that?”

“F*ck yes. I haven’t laughed like that in a while. You’re such a pr*ck. Everyone hates you.”

“No. Everyone wants to beat me. Everyone hates that they’re not in my position. Everyone hates that I’m making them look like sh*t. No one legitimately hates ME though. There’s a difference.”

“They hate what you do. How is that any different?”

“There’s not enough gunpowder in that sentiment. Take Josh Dean for instance. He may not like me, and certainly wants to be the guy to beat me, but he doesn’t hate me. He’s got no reason to. There’s no fire there. It’s boring.”

“Doesn’t that make you want to change things? You’ve got the power to make a difference.”

“You make it sound so noble.”

There’s nothing honourable about what Donnie is proposing. Two steps backward. Etc etc.

“So you’re just going to carry on, bored out of your limey f*cking head? Everyone always rattles on about how clever you’re supposed to be, but you’ve done nothing in the last hour to change the opinion I’ve always had of you.”

“Which is?”

“You’re a total f*cking moron who just knows how to talk fancy.”

Maybe he’s right.

“If you’re able to solve your problem with little more than a return to form, then not following through with it is dumb. Do you want the rest of the world to realise you’re actually as dumb as them? Has that boredom turned to fear yet little p*ssy?”

Maybe he’s right.

“You can’t be the one f*cking scared b*tch. You need to be striking it into the hearts of all those around you like a thrusting d*ck. Stop moping around complaining you’re bored and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! God you’re getting me angry!”

“I can see that vein in your head.”

“I wanna beat the sh*t out of someone. Don’t you get that? Don’t you ever think to yourself ‘I want to beat this guy to death’? Just because you don’t like the way he looks? No good reason. You just feel like it.”

This is dangerous territory.

“I wanna do it to you, right now! I want to gut you like a f*cking fish and then let this stupid f*cking dog of yours eat the viscera, but I won’t know why?”

“Because you’re really just a….”

“If you say ‘nice guy’ I swear to God I’ll stab you in the nuts. I’m not going to because I need your help. Eurgh it makes me sick even having to say that.”

He spits a glob of phlegm the size of a fist on the ground and to my dismay Dog licks it up. Jesus. I should probably try and stop him but he’s got to learn from his own mistakes.

“I need you to help me crucify that devil worshipping nancy boy Samael Ahriman.”

“And I need you because?”

“You need me to remind you who you f*ckin’ are. F*ck! How many times!”

Little Donnie Kent is now at breaking point, that much is undeniable. An unfortunate drunken 20 something zig zags toward us and in no time has wound up kissing the dusty pavement with DMK punching him over and over and over in his young virgin testicles. He then turns his attention to the head of his unassuming victim, making it rain midget feet all over the place. It’s hard to do anything but watch in amusement when someone of Donnie’s stature gets violent, and at no point does this seem like assault and battery, until……

“F*cking Ahriman! This is for you and your cancer ridden b*tch lover!”

A flash. The surrounding neon glares against it. Oh sh*t! In a moment, lasting no longer than my sharp intake of breath a knife has found it’s way through the flesh of this kid. I say kid because that’s all he is. The grimace on his face shows me that. Nothing but fluff on his top lip. Acne still lingering around his nose. Donnie waves me over.

“Get in on this. This is your re-initiation!”

The blade swipes the air and thankfully only the air before Donnie puts it away, only serving to free his hands up to deliver left and right shots to the now barely conscious youth.

“COME ON!”

What do I do? Do I join in with the heat of the moment? F*ck. That’s insane. No! I’m THE GOOD GUY. I’m still THE GOOD GUY. Nothing’s changed. Dog is sitting, watching this unfold and as he glances across at me he whispers.

“Aren’t you going to allow yourself a bit of fun Isaac?”

Dumbfounded, I stare back at Dog as he tries to instigate an action from me that would undo any of the hard work I’ve put in to reform my own sociopathic tendencies. My stomach lurches. What is going on right now? I feel as though this forsaken city is once again trying to turn me.

“Who’s going to know?”

Who’s going to know? Who’s going to know? The issue isn’t who knows about what, it’s how far will I ride it if I start the descent? No. I can’t. I won’t, and retrospectively I didn’t. My hands remain unsullied. In that moment I remained THE GOOD GUY, or at least………THE EUNUCH GUY. Castrated by my own inability to make a decision. I didn’t join in and that’s a medal on my lapel, however I didn’t do anything to stop it continuing and, for what it’s worth, I was reminded how much I enjoy watching the weak suffer.

Sh*t. Vegas has gotten to me……….again.

I stood and as my guts snarled with bile the edges of my lips curled upward. A harsh realisation came to me in a moment of absolute depravity, a moment that should never have happened, let alone been witnessed by me. I realised in my quest for media neutrality and a holier than though resumé I’ve gelded my true self. I’ve become what I’ve always hated. A nothing. A champion…..sure, but an empty one. I’m neither truly good, nor truly evil, regardless of my achievements. I’m just a bore.

I’d rather be nefarious than a nobody.

I’d sooner be bad than a bore.

I think it may be time to adjust course.


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And so once again I square up to this city and what it has in store for me. It seems so cliché for it to happen here, but who am I to deny the hand I’m dealt? This city of lights does nothing but draw out the darkness I fight on a daily basis. It swells inside of me like an ulcer, drawn so tight it could pop at any given moment. For two years now I have stood on the opposite side of the fence, looking back at my reflection, looking back at what I have done. I’ve taken a stand against my own genetic make up and the things I’ve learned along the way, denying the very essence that made me who I was for so long. Even then there have been those that have denied me. There have been those that have claimed I’ve been ‘up to something’, but I can honestly say that the only thing on my mind was trying to make a change for the better. I may not have been the most convincing of heroes but I vanquished my share of moustache twiddling villains on my way to this moment.

Isn’t that enough?

What is this moment though? Is it the moment I’m finally put out to stud? Is it the moment I’m usurped and my legacy laid to rest? The final punctuation in my story as the over-achiever? Joshua Dean is coming for me and what I have. He’s coming for my seat and the most interesting part is he thinks he can take it. I have to applaud such bull headedness as in part it’s what got me to where I am as well.

Josh, you’re a more convincing good guy than I’ll ever be. You live and breathe your moral code in such a way that it makes me question how you would ever cope in the ‘real world’. I suppose it’s the very reason you found your way here. Like all of us you made your way into this world because you simply couldn’t exist anywhere else. So I suppose I should hold up the end of the bargain I’ve always guaranteed, not for you, but for those paying to watch us. I have always been ‘The Man They Paid To See’ and if that means adding some theatrics into the mix then so be it.

For the first time in a long time something inside me is trying to get out just hard enough that it actually might. It’s hammering on the door Josh and I think for you, just for you and your Saviors, it may even kick that door in. How do I feel about that?

Confused? A little.

Scared? Perhaps.

But these aren’t emotions you have any sway over. This is all of my making and I think that says a lot about the way our relationship has been built. I am in control 100% of the time, and once again that holds true.

I am the one that can make this story as complete as it needs to be. Right now your reasons are mostly professional for stepping up to the plate, but I can change that.

I can be the evil you HAVE to vanquish.

I can be the insurmountable challenge that everyone else wants you to overcome.

I can give you the cheers of every fan in the MGM Arena, the will of those watching on Pay Per View around the globe, the encouragement of the commentary team…..everyone. I can give you everything you want, everything you NEED to make this a perfect moment. I can provide all of the drama of the silver screen, right through to the under dog’s hard fought victory!

I can be the man to cement you as THE GUY!

……..........................................................

But I won’t.

Instead I’ll hang all of this in front of you like a carrot only to ram that carrot so far down your d*ck that the next addition to the Dean household is born orange with green f*cking hair!

I’m the gatekeeper to the main event Joshua. F*ck it! I am the main event! I’ve been standing right here for years and right now Mr Dean, I don’t think it’s your time to come in. Oh I’ll give you a taste of it, sure, why not? But only to make it’s unattainability all the more exasperating.

This joke about 2015 being your time to finally take the reigns comes to an end in Vegas, because you’re not just facing anybody my boy. No. You’re facing the greatest champion of all time, bar none. You’re inability to realise what you’re up against is the very same reason you’re about to become just another notch on my bedpost. Yet another seemingly competent challenger who simply got f*cked.

And after you? Yet another. After you I’ll move onto Samael Ahriman, because quite honestly if I’d had the foresight to intervene when it mattered I would have put him in your current position. My egocentric self tells me Ahriman is the more important man to put to bed because of what he has denied me, but my logic and reason has accepted that it can wait. The fact I was personally able to count the 3 seconds it took for Ahriman to lose his International Championship was just enough of a hit to keep me going for now and allow me to focus on you.

Don’t get me wrong though Josh, you are in the same position another man was in not so long ago. You are the Phillip Schneider to my Michael Kyzer. The aperitif to my main course. It’s time to get out of my way little man before I steam roll right over you. That’s not an admission of underestimation, that’s merely a statement and belief structure founded on raw fact, statistics and probability.

You’ve come this far Josh. The table’s set for you and the climb is nearly over. Everything, from where you’re standing at least, has come to a head. it all boils down to this one opportunity doesn’t it? Our shared Tag Team Titles. Our previous match. Your apparent growth as an individual and fighter. To you, winning ‘the big one’ at this time makes perfect sense, but I have to break down how things seem from my side of the tracks.

You are still the same man I beat last time, only now you are MY partner…………but I’m not yours.

I am the very reason you can call yourself a champion, but at Show Time Joshua, I’ll also be the reason you can’t. The simple act of comparing the fork in our road is enough to convince even the most sceptical of men. Let’s see……since I last beat you one on one what have you done? I know I’ve claimed the answer to be ‘very little’ but how about we explore beyond sweeping statements?

To kick things off let’s welcome back a man I referenced not 5 minutes ago in Phillip Schneider. Here is a guy that beat the sh*t out of you to such a degree that you begged him for mercy. That was literally the only way the match was allowed to stop and you caved. You were in complete control there. No knock out shock endings, just a question of how far could you allow it to go? Not far enough. You let the Jew win, something I’ve never done. I’m 2 and 0 against our friend Philipé and to add insult to injury I retired him. There’s no way you can ever right that wrong now. It’s done. You’ll forever be the guy that Phil made cry.

Next up you see-sawed with Daniel Kirkbride. Now that right there is probably the greatest thing you’ve ever achieved in my book. Granted I beat the lad but my God (pun very much intended) was that kid talented. It’s such a shame Michael broke his brain because given a couple of years experience I have no doubt Daniel would have left the likes of you in his dust Josh. Your beating him after suffering a loss only weeks previous is quite the feat and one you should talk about more often. It’s fights like this that can often be forgotten simply because there was little more than bragging rights on the line, when in reality those two matches should have meant so much more. Getting a little philosophical here. Time to steer things back toward being a piece of sh*t. You’ve lost to Kirkbride. I never have.

Somewhere along the line you managed to beat Jayson Garrett as well, but unlike Kirkbride I don’t consider that any great feat. Garrett quickly became too big for his boots and in offering to help him it seems I did nothing but break his spirit. I’ve said my bit on this man so let me sum it up in that I see your victory over The Golden Boy and raise you one.

Things go a little pear shaped for you here don’t they? The couple of mediocre victories you snatched are turned on their head by Trace Demon, a man who never ceases with his sexual harassment on my lovely little life. It’s nothing for you to be ashamed of, losing to Trace. He’s arguably been the second best superstar on the roster at any given point in his career, but I must emphasise that while there is no shame in you losing to him it would be a total f*cking embarrassment for some one like me.

Okay I’m bored.

I can talk, and talk, and talk about this Josh but I think I’ll just show you instead. I’m ready to let the beast out. Sol Inviticus is coming, and I’d like to prematurely offer my condolences and apologies to Nikki for leaving her a widow. Don’t worry about her though Josh, I’ll be sure to take real good care of her supple skin.

I might have to get rid of those kids though.

I hear the Chinese organ market is booming right now. Does Drake have any allergies?