NTR RP: Ars Moriendi

3-1-2016, Malakai Estate

Samael pulls into the driveway of what has essentially become his home over the last few months, though it’s not looking like very much longer. It’s not too late, but he’s been driving for almost eight hours, off and on the phone with WFWF related people and Shawn’s nurse who’s been staying with him while Sam’s away at shows. Asking if it was alright for Sam to bring him food, he was informed that anything of sustenance at this point would be a blessing due to Malakai’s stubbornness, refusing to eat or drink.

Sam enters the house and walks up the stairs, to the room that has the all too familiar stench of medicine and death.

Samael: How are you?

Shawn: Sh*t.

Samael: Well that sounds better than a few days ago. You dropped the complete part of that.

Malakai stiffles out a silent chuckle.

Shawn: H…ow are you?

Samael: Couldn’t be better, friend.

That’s a lie, and not even in death will it fool Shawn. What Sam is is…well it isn’t alright. Nothing is alright. But maybe a brave face can get passed Shawn’s defenses for the moment. Sam’s only interested in treating Shawn at this point, not in pointless discussion about something he’ll not make it to see this week at the rate he’s going.

Shawn: W…wh…ere is Anna?

Samael: She’s with her mother, they’re staying in Brooklyn this week.

Shawn: I…I never got…a show there…

Samael: I’m aware. It’s exciting. The crowd will actually get to see something entertaining for once, and not piss Nets basketball. Is it bad of me to be partially excited about my twenty something minute match likely to be more entertaining than any game played there by a billion dollar sports empire?

Malakai shakes his head.

Shawn: No. It’s true.

Sam pulls a little container of soup out of the Panera bag, opens it and feeds some of the Tomato soup to Malakai, who gets a disgusted look on his face.

Shawn: Are….you tr….ying to kill me? Wh…at is ….this?

Samael: Healthy take out. Shut up. Eat. The nurse told me you weren’t eating.

Shawn: What’s the….what’s the use?

Sam sets he bowl aside and grabs ahold of Shawn’s hand.

Samael: Stop being so f*cking melodramatic, you bastard. Just because a piece of paper you showed me months ago told you this was the week doesn’t mean you can’t outdo it. It’s just an educated f*cking guess. You shouldn’t have lived this long to begin with. You’ve been living on borrowed time for a long, long time. Just…borrow some more god dammit.

Malakai closes his eyes.

Shawn: It….it doesn’t work l…like that. You…you can…tr…

Samael: You can trick the death clock, but you can’t cheat it all together. I know. You’ve been telling me that for two years. I’m well aware of your f*cking gloomy outlook on I you f*cking prick. That doesn’t mean I have to bite the same f*cking apple!

Shawn: S…ays t….the serpent.

Sam gets out of his chair, about ready to rip his hair out.

Samael: This isn’t the snake you’re talking to, Shawn. Not now. You’re talking to ME. F*ck my namesake, and f*ck all of this. I signed on for this because you are my friend. I played my part in your game, and you won. WE won. We eliminated Michael Kyzer. We eliminated Donnie Kent, and as a result it cost me two very damn good friends to me, Shawn. It cost me Tugarin and it cost me Cam. Now here I am, in over my head….I…I am putting on such a fantastic face to everyone. No one knows what I’m thinking. No one knows how scared I am right now. They assume I’m this strong willed, brash genius, the personification of everything you were. And I am. But I…I can’t do this.

Shawn: Wh…what are you…scared of?

Sam looks Shawn dead in the eyes, hurt on both sides.

Samael: I’ve never lost someone.

Shawn: What?

Samael: Here I am. Samael Ahriman, thirty years old. I’ve never experienced this kind of loss. I’ve got both of my parents. Phoe is fine. The kid’s alright. My grandparents gone long before me. I…I don’t know how to grieve, so every time you continue to bring up the fact that you’re dying, I don’t know what the f*ck to do. I’m losing family and I’m…I’m scared.

Shawn: Y…

Samael: I’ve been in the lair of a demon. I’ve been drugged. I’ve been stabbed, almost to death. I’ve worked for a drug dealer. I’ve feared for years that someday my ex will take my daughter away from me. I’ve walked through every stage of hell and come out standing, stronger than ever. I’ve fought monsters, figuratively and literally speaking. And yet what scares me the most is the fact that I’m coming to the same mindset as you that this is it for you.

Sam sits back down next to Shawn.

Samael: I would give up everything to ensure I had my wife, my daughter and the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother with me until I go first. It’s not f*cking fair, Shawn.

Shawn: T…then do it.

Samael: What?

Shawn: W…William was here…when you and…David were in…Philly. Desk. Folder.

Samael cocks his head, getting up and going to the other side of the bed, opening the drawer and pulling out a manila folder, titled “Will & Testament of Shawn Malakai, revision 2/20/2016.” Sam turns to Shawn.

Samael: I REALLY don’t think this is the time.

Shawn: Better you…hear it now…

Sam slams the drawer shut, going back to his seat with the folder. He flips on a light and reads through the document silently. While he’s reading, Shawn flips on the television to a low volume to entertain himself while Sam glosses over the papers.

“I, Shawn Malakai, of sound mind and body…”

Yeah. Ok.

“…declare all points within this document to be my desire, and to be executed in kind by Executor of Estate, Samael Ahriman: Ira, Vermont, upon the following agreement…”

Sam reads on further, falling into a state of complete disbelief.

Samael: **struggling to coherently form words** What the hell is this, Shawn?

Shawn: Your…way…out. Loose…paper at end. Read…that to me. Took…him forever…to get that much out of…out of me in…this state.

Samael fumbles through the document to find the loose sheet at the end, folded up, clearly intended on being mailed but never given the chance. He unfolds it, clearing his throat.

Samael: Sam, I asked Willie to write this last segment for me, remaining between the three of us. He didn’t like writing it as much as I’m sure you will not like reading this. Sam, I’ve not been fair to you over the course of these last few years. I know you agreed to help me out of friendship, not sympathy, but what I had you do…unspeakable things, I’m aware that I never would have been able to execute them on my own, even in good health. I took extreme advantage of your proactive personality and the knowledge that you would be willing to do anything to help a friend. Despite your tough guy exterior, you couldn’t possibly be any softer and a push over. I know you’re wondering to yourself why I would be telling you all of this now. Consider this my last confession, being given to a Satanist over a priest, the irony isn’t lost. To you I confess I’m clearly not as good a man as you and many have made me out to be. Even down to near the end, my manipulative ways; old habit is going to die with me. But something tells me you weren’t quite as manipulated as I’m making you out to be. A soft personality you may be, but for sure a brilliant mind. You are smart enough to figure this out. I feel guilty for what I’ve put you through, even if you went through hell for me willingly. Know that your efforts have not been in vain though, because in death, I’m afforded the opportunity to repay my debt to you. Never can I do it in full, as I am still asking you to do three more things for me, but this is the best someone in my situation can provide to you.

Breath.

Samael: First, I ask you to execute my will. You know my desires, and the small things you may not have been entirely aware of, such as the situation with Robin, Aaron and Michael and how exactly I would like it played out are now fully in your hands. I do not ask for you to agree with them, for you have plenty of reason to dislike some of my requests. However I implore you to respect them in your execution, and I’m sure that you will. You’re much more honorable than you give yourself credit for, just because you and others identify you as a snake doesn’t mean it’s true, Sam. Secondly, I ask you to finish the job. I know how much you want out of all of this and to be able to go into your own world, away from everyone but your family, but let me say this. Over these last two years, I’ve gotten the chance to know you even better than I did before I got sick. As much as you want away from the WFWF, which is a fair play, I do know you. You’re a kindred spirit. If you walk away from the WFWF right now, you will never be able to live with yourself, and it will eat away at your soul much in the way this cancer has done to my body. It. Will. Kill. You. Finish the fight that I started. Rip apart the establishment. Take down Trace Demon. Take down Drakz. If at any moment you feel that you’re going down, ensure that you take them with you to hell. You’ve got a strong friend down there with your beliefs, show them what you’re made of. And finally, after you’ve done all of that, get the f*ck out. Once you’ve finished the job, do not allow yourself to be roped into your own power, and do not allow your will to be taken advantage of. Do not leave until you have completed the job, but once you do, leave and never look back. You have a friend in Trevor Wolf who can take up the mantle for you and ensure corruption does not run wild in your absence. You have a wife and a child who are eagerly awaiting you to go home to Ira, the town I will never see. You would not be letting them down if you went home today and never stepped foot in the ring again. But trust me, once you start eating yourself alive for quitting…they will begin to feel let down. They will think that they are not good enough for you. Do not allow that feeling to creep into the thoughts of that beautiful little girl. You have the chance to do something that I lost due to negligence. In the end I confess to you that I know you will do the right thing. I just hope you understand where I am coming from in all aspects. Always, Shawn.

Samael folds the letter back up and puts the paper in his back pocket. He leans over towards Shawn and grabs hold of his hand again.

Samael: And what if I don’t listen to you and keep wrestling after I complete the job?

Shawn: Y…you won’t.

Sam takes a deep sigh. He knows Shawn’s right. He looks at the television, basketball highlights.

Samael: You ever consider doing that when you were younger, when you were still in high school or whatever? Height would have made you popular at the very least.

And they talked. And talked. Mostly Sam, trying to give Shawn yes or no questions just to keep himself and Shawn coherent and awake, but as time passed, ESPN got a little too boring for Sam’s taste and he fell asleep in the chair at Malakai’s bedside.



Waking up, Sam rubs his eyes. Christ, the room is bright. He starts to get up when he realizes he’s not in the chair he was in earlier, but he’s laying up from a bed. In fact, he’s not even in Malakai’s house. He’s wondering how Donnie managed to dose him this time. Last time this happened he wound up in a hotel with Tugarin, having a face to face…conversation…? For the first time with his former tag team partner.

But this is no hotel room. And it’s too bright to be Donnie’s doing. He stares at the wall for a moment and it’s blanc white stone and paint. Next to the bed is a curtain. He realizes now that this is a hospital room. He’s been in enough to realize what’s up. Sam rises to his feet and slowly walks to the curtain, still confused.

Shawn? He calls out the name of his friend, his voice not traveling. Sam pulls the curtain back, and there is another hospital bed, with all of the equipment Shawn has been attached to the last few months. He doesn’t really know what any of the stuff does, but he recognizes it so at least he’s not totally clueless. However, there’s something missing.

Shawn?

Where the hell is he?

Sam walks next to the bed, it does not even look like it has been used. However, standing next to it, he now hears a sound he hasn’t heard until this point. The heart rate monitor. Flatline.

How the hell have I not heard that till I was right next to it?

Sam ponders the situation, knocking on the screen of the monitor with his right hand.

The f*ck?

Immediately Sam notices something else strange. Feeling.

He pulls the sleeve off of his arm and hand, and it’s gone. His stab wound, completely eradicated. He makes a fist with his left hand and punches the palm of the right, a sting from flesh on flesh to nerve. Sam shakes the hand, trying to regain the feeling when his eyes widen. He stares at the hand, wound still gone. He runs to the side door in every hospital room, clicking on the light and walks to the sink. Hanging above is a mirror, and just as he thought. The scar on his face from the same attack that took his hand from him, it’s gone. He uses his new hand to feel his brow and cheek, not even a trace of scar tissue.

Ok, this is one ridiculous dream. This HAS to be a dream. He remembers the fight to protect Phoe, it’s something never far from his mind. The blade cutting into the flesh of his face and through his hand. PTSD something fierce. And yet, the markings that have defined him his entire adult life are suddenly gone.

Sam turns out the light and walks to the main door of the room and trips over something that wasn’t there before. His sword, laying in the middle of the floor.

Now where did you come from Sakabato?

The Butch reaches down and picks up his sword, and a wave of warmth floods him. So warm it causes him to close his eyes and enjoy the euphoric feeling. When he opens his eyes, his body feels heavier, only slightly however. He looks at his hand to ensure his mark was gone, and it is, but his body is now dressed in his bushido.

Sam grins.

He slips the sheathe into the strap of the bushido getup, clicks the hilt of the Sakabato and pulls his treasure out, twirling the light but lethal weapon around in his right hand like he used to do as a child with the kendo stick, but has not been able to do with his right hand since the accident. He throws a couple of practice strikes with his right side and it feels natural, despite the nearly two decades he’s been living without much movement.

The Katana Wielding Butch puts the sword back into place and locks the clip into place and walks out the door.

Back to business.

Shawn!

In the hallway, that normally is capable of echoing for miles, Sam’s voice is lost. He cocks his head and starts walking. But it’s weird, he’s walking freely but he feels dragged at the same time. Confusing.

Where am I, anyways, Sam finally finds himself asking.

Wandering through the corridors, this pulling effect clearly has a destination in mind. Every time Sam tries breaking through to go down a dark hallway, something stops him, a barrier of sorts. He passes empty nurses stations, closed door rooms, this is getting weird.

Getting?

Finally Sam reaches a door cracked open. He tries to continue forward beyond the door, and the same barrier that prevented him from going down the hallway stops him at the edge.

Sam sighs.

Is this where you want me to go?

He opens the door, this room not nearly as bright as his was.

Hello?

A small shadow is facing the window of the room. A child.

Little one, can you answer me?

She cannot, but I can.

Who are you? Sam sees no one else. He walks forward and an arm extends to stop him from behind a corner. Sam steps back and clicks the hilt when from the corner comes Shawn Malakai. Sam lowers his guard and switches the hilt back into place.

What is going on here, he asks.

I asked myself that same question the first time I had this dream, Shawn responds.

So this is a dream?

Yes.

Then why are you in my dream?

I dunno.

And what’s the deal with the silent shadow?

You could be a bit nicer to my daughter, I think, Sam.

You…Xana? What the hell is going on here?

Shawn runs his hand through his hair. Is that the only thing striking you as the slightest bit off?

Hand. Hair. YOUR HAND. HAIR. IT’S LIKE MY SCAR. GONE. Like…what?

Sam removes the sword from his side and sits down on the floor, holding his head in his hands. I’m so confused.

Do you remember, before SuperBrawl, when I told you I had been having weird dreams, Sam?

Yeah. You told me about seeing your daughter in a hospital. Reminded you of when…you know…that day.

Now you know how this dream got planted in that head of yours. And why she’s just a shadow to you, and I’m as real as I once was. I see her plain as day, my beautiful girl. You were not there, so you’re merely interpreting my dream as you would see it in your head.

That doesn’t answer why I’m having this dream.

Well, when I first had this dream, it was a few weeks after I found out I was sick. A life changing shake of my character was due, and this was where I was brought to ponder what to do next.

The hospital where your daughter died? No offense, but that’s like your own crucifixion for the sake of satisfaction.

Malakai snaps his fingers and points at Sam. Now you’re getting it.

Getting what?

Why you’re here, kid. You’ve been lucky in life, all things considered. You didn’t have to experience what I did when Xana passed away. You are, however, about to. And you’re unsure what your next step should be.

Don’t talk like that.

I’m already gone, Sam. When you wake up from this, you’ll be returned to that room. However, you will be returning alone. I’ve already died.

How? We’re watching ESPN. I got bored and fell asleep.

That was about two hours ago. I passed in my sleep not long after that. But that’s good.

Samael is sobbing. How is that good?

Because I never wanted to wake up from these dreams. I got to spend time with Xana, but only for short periods of time. And even if I am stuck in this room her for all of eternity, and there are no pearly gates for her and I to walk through…then so be it. I get to remain asleep forever, and at least I’m with her. For good. Finally. If at any point in your life you’ve loved and cared for me as much as you have claimed, you’ll understand that this is what I’ve wanted for years…I just took the long way around.

Shawn extends his hand down to Sam, who grabs hold and is pulled up to his feet. Shawn turns to look at the shadow. Cover your ears, love. Colorful language. The shadow moves.

Are you listening to me right now, Sam?

Yes.

Good. You have a glorious opportunity in front of you. Just a few more menial tasks to perform, and you’ll be able to live in a real world state of grace for the rest of your hopefully long and prosperous life. But you’re too much like me. I know how much you’ll fight the notion of quitting. But once you’re on top of the world, it’s best to stop there. Much better than falling back to earth. Trust me.

How do I survive this fight?

You don’t. You win. Saying go out there, beat Justin Tyme’s whip boy and f*ck up Drakz. Take what is most precious to them. Their power. Without their titles, what are they? Once were-s. Meanwhile what will that make you? The one who brought down the establishment. The man who finished the job of Shawn Malakai. You will be larger than the shadow of me you have been living behind the last two years. You will be Samael Ahriman, a name known, feared and revered throughout the rest of time.

I can’t do it alone.

Sam, kid…you’re never going to be alone. You have Trevor Wolf. He’s much more than he looks, trust me. You have my brother, fully ready and able to fight for you and talk with you at a moments notice. You’re about to come into a whole new group of friends, backers, once you execute my final wishes. I’ll always be with you in spirit. But in the end, until the day you fall for good and join me in paradise, you’ll have that beautiful little girl who adores you beyond comprehension. She’ll grow, a personality all her own she already has. One day you’ll give her away, with Phoe quick in tow, but even then…she’ll always be the beautiful little girl I’ve gotten to know and you have the chance to raise…the chance I lost. And if for any one minute you ever forget that, I will f*cking haunt you.

Sam smiles. I understand.

Good.

Then does this mean…?

Yeah, I’m afraid it’s time.

Alright.

Don’t be afraid.

Shawn kisses the forehead of Sam, who is still falling to pieces.

Goodbye, Shawn.

Goodbye, Sam.

Sam turns slowly towards the door as Shawn walks towards the window and the shadow. Before Sam can get through the door, he hears the light, girlish giggle coming from the shadow. Sam smiles. See ya on the other side, old man. Sam walks through the doorway and closes the door behind him, a flash of light before his eyes.



Sam opens his eyes, a loud ringing near him. ESPN still on the television. He looks at his hand, tries making a fist with no luck. Damn. He looks up at the machines, all indicating what he was already aware of. Flatline. He grabs Shawn’s hand, cold.

Samael: Easy, friend.

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone, beginning to dial.

Samael: Yes, 911. Name? Samael Ahriman. Emergency, yes. I’m at…


There’s a medieval Latin text, something I’ve been fond of for the last couple of years. It caught my eye in a reference on a television show I was watching around the time Shawn had come to me, telling me he was sick, and that it was inoperable, at least in his eyes. It’s titled Ars Moriendi which translates roughly to The Art of Dying. There are six chapters within this text, basically a rundown of how dying works and what those about to die, or are working with someone who is about to pass…basically what’s going to happen on both sides.

Chapter one refers basically to death being, ultimately, a good thing. While we here who will survive the deceased may not look at it that way, it’s truly a blessing to whoever is suffering. As someone who’s never properly experienced death of someone close, this was impossible to really grasp until a couple of days ago when I had that dream. No longer must the dying man suffer…and while I always hated seeing him suffer…I finally saw the purpose in these words, and how factual an idea this truly was.

Chapter two and six were blow offs to me, at least. While I watched Shawn over the course of these last few years, not once did I see him succumb to chapter two, the outlining of the greed a dying man would feel about wanting to extend his life. Sh*t, Shawn would have offed himself, but he was too selfless for me, Anna and David. And chapter six was a joke in and of itself. I’m far from a praying man…but I allowed Shawn to do so as he pleased to comfort himself, as God was second to only Xana in his life.

Of them all, chapter five was what stuck with me the most over the course of the last two years, what to do while at the deathbed with the sick. It’s been two days now since Shawn passed away, and I’ve spent a lot of my time on the way to Brooklyn thinking about the whole situation. Two years ago I found myself on the doorstep of the Malakai Estate in Pittsburgh for the first time. Shawn and I had been cordial, borderline friends in my years in the WFWF prior to his calling me to his home. When I arrived for the first time, after the diagnosis, after the retirement, I was not sure what to expect. But for all intents and purposes, he looked just fine. And until these last few months, I believed that he was. I could see that his body was fading away, and in the weeks leading up to his passing, his mind was starting to slip, lapses in memory…the like. But I fooled myself into believing that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him.

Or rather, over the course of time, that he was sick and would just get better somehow like anyone with a simple cold…as if cancer could ever be that simple, right?

So in this text I had been reading, I tried modeling perfect ‘bedside manner’ so to say. Not to question him more than I should, not to criticize him as much as I otherwise would…somehow I had fooled myself into knowing he was going to die, but remaining into one massive state of denial throughout. He went from a coworker, to a friend, to my brother. I’ve never lost anyone before this, a blessing and a curse.

The Art of Dying should have a new definition. Instead of the solely philosophical and religious aspects previously depicted, it should include modern interpretation. Can dying truly be considered an art form? Hear me out before you think this is some kind of sick idea ripped from some teenage video game. While the world’s turned, I’ve watched my best friend fade in front of my eyes. But he never had any sense of pity, he never once asked for empathy while the entire time refusing to show any kind of apathy to his situation. He was never disenchantment with the cards he was dealt. He tirelessly continued to pull strings to ensure the company he saved remained as liberated in his absence as it possibly could, which was where I came in. Good ol’ double agent type sh*t.

And yet, in these final months, when he essentially let me off of my leash, confident I could handle the business on my own, he didn’t self-wither. He continued trying to live as much as he could from one bed in one room that would later become his deathbed. He became almost…not almost, he was, a second father to my daughter. It was astonishing to see how close those two became. Completely out of the business now, no real reason to keep going if he didn’t want to, and he kept on keeping on for her and for me.

The Art of Dying is what it is, but I will forever now look at it as an art form, not telling how to die, but rather how to live while dying. And if that ever picks up any momentum, Shawn’s image will forever be cemented as that form of art. The epitome of class at its core.

Not quite two days after the death of my best friend, I now have to try to make an attempt at following in his footsteps. The path he laid out for me, that I have willingly walked along now has no more footsteps for me to travel in. I must blaze my own trail from here on out. Break out of his shadow, and be my own person, and be remembered as Samael, not Shawn’s friend. But time is running out for me to do that. I’m stating it here for all to see, and I will address it prior to my match this week on screen, following SuperBrawl, I am retiring from the WFWF. So what does that mean, exactly?

If I want to finish what has been started, I first must step into that ring tonight with WFWF National Champion Lucas Crowe. When I first started in the WFWF in 2008, not 2012 like my WFWF.com bio page reads…nimrods…well, let’s just say not many of the names that were there then are still kicking. Trace, I think that’s it. And I’ll eventually give the Demon his Day with the Devil soon enough. But one of the names that was popular at the time on the main roster, away from the development center was one Justin Tyme. Tyme was one hell of an athlete. Former champion, flashy and fun to watch, a little bit of a cocky prick but hey, aren’t we all a little self serving? We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t. Even a saint like Shawn. But time has passed Tyme by, and following his last run in the WFWF, he was left unable to truly wrestle ever again courtesy of our reigning, defending International Champion Cameron Stone. Keep fighting, Calgary Kid. Even if you hate me, the feeling isn’t mutual.

Crowe, you’re a relatively new name here in the WFWF. When did you get here? April of last year I think? Maybe may? That should tell the amount of attention I’ve paid to you. And yet, I’ve paid an ungodly amount of attention to Trevor Wolf, who only showed up two shows ago in a losing effort to Brandon Bison, yet another name I know, an incredibly new name. So why is it that I have not paid much attention to you? I mean, you’re in my way to my Grand Slam; you’d think I would pay attention to the WFWF National Champion. So why didn’t I? It’s because of who you aligned yourself with. Now, I know what you are going to say. ‘Well, you aligned with a dying guy, and you just admitted that Tyme’s not terrible.’ Ya not wrong, 8-Ball. That’s exactly what happened. Difference?

My horse was bigger than yours.

My horse was badder than yours.

My horse will forever be known as a hell of a lot better than yours.

Tyme was a phenomenal athlete, but was he WFWF Champion? Tyme was able to get you under his thumb. But did he start a f*cking revolution?

I’m not afraid to say that at points I was used by Malakai. He’s openly admitted it. However the power he wielded through me after his departure, his ideas, entirely his own, or a combination of ideas I had and ideas he had so we could ensure both he and I got something good out of what we were trying to do…and we did it. He took down Trace Demon. I took down Michael Kyzer. I took down Trace Demon’s first dog Joe Bishop. And now I’ve taken the first step in taking down Demon’s final dog, Drakz, for good. I poked the bear at Show Time, ending his record reign, assisting Josh Dean, my newest…ally?

So the question you now have to ask yourself, WFWF National Champion Lucas Crowe, is whose thumb is Justin Tyme under? I said he was a good wrestler. He won a title. Unless you’re Dex, that takes skill. However at no point did I say that Justin Tyme was a smart man. So you’re his meal ticket, taking him to the Promised Land of relevancy…but who’s giving him this much leeway? Who’s allowing you to win contendership matches that you didn’t deserve? Title matches you don’t deserve? The honor of stepping in the ring with the next Grand Slam Champion?

You could be something someday, Crowe. You’ve got the size. You must have the skill, just a guess, because you had to win the title you didn’t deserve at the time somehow. You have to get out from Justin Tyme, and as a result, Trace Demon’s thumb(s). But right now, God to say you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time is an absolute understatement. I was already fired up when I found out that not only my match with you was for your championship, but that for me it was also a number one contendership match for the WFWF Championship. As if I would have been able to pass up the opportunity to beat you, take your title, bury Justin Tyme, weaken Trace Demon and go head to head with Drakz and take that mother*cker out for good.

But you caught me on an incredibly bad week. You may go far, kid, but at Nowhere to Run, there will be nowhere to run. Not only do I want to win for all of the aforementioned reasons…I have an added reason. I just lost my best friend. And not only do I want to take down the establishment; that was his dying wish as well.

We're all stories in the end. But they say you can't tell an effective story if you haven't felt loss. And in my thirty years, I haven't. Until this week, I've not felt the stabbing pain that is death. I'm one of the lucky few, I've been told. I look at it as a curse. Because until this point, I've not been able to write my own story.

Well look alive, Sunshine. Because I'm now free. Free to tell the story I've kept locked up in the confines of my mind for so long. And where my story begins...well...where my story begins is where your story ends. But fear not, I promise to make it a good one. Because if you refuse to abandon the ship that I’m going to sink, at least I'm giving you the opportunity to be slightly more than a footnote.

But after tonight if you do the wrong thing and continue to stand in my way, you’ll just join the rest of them as scorched and salted earth.

That will give a whole new meaning to The Art of Dying.