Post by The Gangsta on Oct 30, 2016 21:15:55 GMT -5
This is my first time in New York in almost a year. I can’t say I’ve missed it, knowing what a stinkin’ sh*tpile it has become. The streets are gutters of blood, the buildings are totem poles of the corrupt, and the lights are fading glimmers of hope. A beautiful city to some, a decrepit wasteland to me.
In this decrepit wasteland that I called home, I find myself searching the graveyards, the only place I can find solemn silence and tranquility. It was at that time of night when they yawned, breathing hell itself out, poisoning the world. I love it.
Grave after grave, I looked. The drops of rain from a few hours ago hadn’t evaporated and thus, made it more tiresome to search. A muddy wasteland. Only the truly defaced, morbid, and ugly would love such an atmosphere. Count me as one of them.
Then, I found it. I had to investigate the depths of my mind to remember where it was. Untouched in years, moss growing everywhere, no flowers or anything. It was my mother’s grave.
I hadn’t seen it since I was ten. Every Sunday for a year and a half, my father took my brother and I to this place to pay our respects for the woman who gave birth to us. A woman who was only in 1/5th of my life. A woman who made such an impact regardless of time’s constraints.
I placed my hands upon her headstone, clearing some of the moss growing at the top. She deserved a better fate, one alongside two loving children and a husband who truly cared about his family. I find it comical how one’s life can be taken away at such an instantaneous moment. Dark humor, ha.
I rub the rest of the moss off of her grave. I had forgotten her first name up until the point I rubbed the moss off covering it. Margaret, named after her grandmother. “Margie” was her nickname. My father always liked to call her “Margie”. How could I be so stupid and forget her name? God can be vindictive, especially to me. I kneel down, closer to the headstone. The mother-son instinct kicks in. Emotion settles.
Ante: I love you, mom.
The roses I had bought for her came in an intricate and oddly satisfying gift wrapping. It was lined in gold, fake, obviously. But, the white foil made it shine. The roses were ripely red; red to the point where if I touched it, I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between it’s petals and human flesh.
I place them down, expecting the color to instantly fade upon touching the dirt. I placed my hand on the side of the grave again and wiped the tear from my cheek. I hadn’t felt grief or sadness in such a long time. I’d laugh off at death and at anything that would make the typical person cry. But, this, this was too much for me to handle.
An early grave, six feet under and silenced forever. It’s always been what I wanted; to die young and have no one miss you. To die lonely and have only your enemies leave roses. It always appealed to my senses. But, after that moment, after I realized how much these people would care about me, I changed my mind. Ben, Frankie, even James, they would’ve missed me. They would’ve wished I was there.
A short life, gone in an instant. No, just no. I can’t risk that, I should have never thought about that. So many regrets, so many unwise and stupid decisions. There is more to my life than what meets the eye. I am the successor to this business. I am the one who will make things better from here on. I am the one with the Golden Opportunity at stake.
Super Brawl is here..
..time to buy the roses.
---
Ante Whitner RP
Roses for the Dead
New York
Central Park
Ante: I’m home, Ben.
A bridge in Central Park is where I stand, maybe the same bridge from Spider-Man 3 where Peter Parker’s proposal went sour. Terrible film, too many characters, not enough development. Just like this Golden Opportunity match I’m in.
A clusterf*ck of superheroes, all battling this one villain. Captain America, Iron Man, Thor, Spider-Man, you name it (only Marvel characters because those DC movies are sh*t). We’re all one of the same, men with extraordinary abilities and using them together to fight for good, to fight for humanity.
This big budget superhero flick we’re in is called “the Golden Opportunity”. Trace is wielding his Infinity Gauntlet, the most powerful weapon in the Universe, and we’re wielding our fists. From hindsight, it looks like we’re fighting each other with the taglines saying Ante Whitner versus Frank Lynn versus yada yada yada. But, quite frankly, we’re not.
We’re fighting for something. And that something is the tool we need to fight the big villain himself, Trace Demon. The Opportunity entails some sort of International title shot against Dave Brennan or Lucas Crowe, but that’s more than enough to flip the bird to the establishment Trace runs. An establishment built on the broken careers of many, an establishment that not only treads the people they employ, but ruins their lives as well.
The physical and mental pain we endure is enough. We’re in it for the same, we’re fighting for the same. There is nothing that separates us besides the taglines in the title of our match. We may be enemies at this instantaneous moment, but after this, we will continue to fight together and respect each other as we have before.
Avengers, assemble.
Ben: I know that. A bit of nostalgia?
Ante: A little. I mean, my entire childhood was spent here. My house overlooked the Hudson back in Yonkers. Sometimes I’d stare at it and remind myself that my father won’t live forever.
Ben: Rough childhood?
Ante: Yeah. You knew that dipsh*t, haha.
Ben: Sorry, forgot, haha.
Surreal, the only way I can describe it. I’m sure all of us are feeling that right now. It’s SuperBrawl, the ninth one ever. It’s a dream, an aspiration I’ve had since childhood. A hope that never died. And now here I am, on the brink, staring into the bloody depths of hell or the ladder to greatness. A ladder I’ve tried to climb. A loose rung that let me fall. An impact so great it left me paralyzed. A ground so cold and far from the ladder.
They don’t know how it feels. They’re mesmerized by my accomplishments, but instead choose to focus on the irrelevancy I have in this business. A has-been, hell, may a never-was. If they had the maturity and intellect to make them a superstar, then they would’ve recognized the opportunity they have in their grasp. It’s gold for God’s sake.
Ante: Wanna know something, Ben?
Ben: Yeah, sure. What is it?
Ante: My childhood can be characterized by nothing but misery. Times where I felt displaced and disconnected from the world I was brought into. I questioned why I was even conceived in the first place. I questioned my existence, I resorted to drugs and razor blades. I-
I feel a lump in my throat. The words won’t come out.
Ante: But, through all the physical and mental scars that will never erase, I never lost hope. I never lost that sliver of hope that one day I could be a WFWF wrestler, like Calvin Lee and Wayne McGurk. Men that proved their worth and their relevance in a world so cold and miserable. That was the path I wanted, a path I was willing to do anything for.
Ben: And now here you are.
Ante: And now here I am.
I take a sip of the bagged Bud Light I had brought, Ben follows. A cold beer is something I need before a big match. I don’t need protein shakes or steroids. All I need is some fresh brewed IPA.
Ben: From the moment you hired me as your agent, I knew there was something different about you. I’ve managed football players with catastrophic head injuries, basketball players with broken careers, and other wrestlers with steroid issues. But, through the thick and thin of your illness and whatever holds you back, you still find a way to push through and I admire that in you.
Ante: Well, thanks. I guess that must be the hope I was talking about.
Ben: I think so too. I’ve lost hope, I’ve fallen back, and slipped into some serious depression. I always looked to gamble whenever that was the case, but whenever you slipped into those funks, you still persevered because of your everlasting hope. Since I still gamble from time to time, I’m not sure where my hope went, maybe at the MGM in Vegas. I just wish I had it back.
Ante: You’ll find it. Hope never dies. That light is somewhere and I’m here for you until you find it again.
Ben Harvey was an agent, a man who did all my extracurricular workload. But, now he has transformed into the best friend I’ve ever had. Frankie may have stuck to me since we were boys, but Ben has developed a more personal connection than Frankie ever did. Frankie didn’t have the guts to tell me when to stop, Ben did. Frankie didn’t know what to do with me, Ben did.
Frankie lost hope in me. Ben never did.
Ben: Thanks, Ante. You’re the greatest friend I’ve ever had.
Ante: I’m proud to say the same.
Gratitude, sympathy. It all feels so good. After all this time, I felt like I only had sympathy for the devil. Cross that one out of the shrinking list of Ante’s insecurities.
Ben: Alright, I gotta head out. There’s an investor’s meeting at the American Express HQ down at the new World Trade Center.
Ante: Okay, take care yourself man.
Ben: You too Ante. I think this is the last time I see you before you wrestle at SuperBrawl.
Ante: Yeah, it is. I’ll see you then.
Ben strides away in the Kohl’s suit he had bought a week ago. The corniness and demeanor this guy has is something I would puke at. But, after exposing myself to it, I’ve learned to embrace it. After all, I used to call myself the “Bloodied Eagle”. I gotta get a new epithet quick.
I glance at my phone, scroll to contacts. I stumble upon “Frankie Pulitizi”, the same number he’s been using since childhood. It’s basically engraved in my head, but seeing his name gave me a pleasant smile. I mean, I am in New York, he’s not too far away. Hesitant to tap, I press the “call” icon.
“Ding. Ding. Ding.”
No answer. It’s a shame that the one time I’m in New York he won’t pick up his phone. The fat cripple can’t give a sh*t for Ante Whitner anymore. F*ckin’ cripple, I swear-
“iMessage: Samael Ahriman”
What? I thought my eyes deceived me before I glanced at the Messages section. Each individual pixel stood out to me. The name Samael, the man main eventing SuperBrawl, a man I called my closest ally. God, we were unstoppable.
I open the message. I’m surprised at the contents of the message, already thinking in my head that it was going to be some sort of congratulations for me making it to the Golden Opportunity match. But, it wasn’t. It was far different.
“Ante. Come to Seattle, Donnie’s bar. Meet me on Friday.”
Reluctant to respond to my former ally, I give in.
“Alright.”
Samael Ahriman, the katana-wielding butch that stole my spotlight when I whooped Mike Kyzer’s ass. I never complained about Sam hacking off Kyzer’s head in one clean cut, but it always stuck in my mind. Almost like a moment spoiled, but yet not spoiled. Kyzer built a living on his toughness and his unbeatable demeanor and in a span of three seconds, I changed that. I made a statement to the world, a statement I couldn’t back up. I guess Sam’s swift samurai action undermined that insecurity. If I didn’t back my win up with more solid wins without Sam’s theatrical homicide, I’d probably be a broken deadbeat. Sam had always been so methodical, so mysterious, yet in one brash move, he changed the landscape of WFWF. Kyzer had come back to the WFWF for a mission and before he can speak, Sam decapitated him.
I guess Sam has always had a taste for the theatrics. He made a fool out of Drakz in their match at Black Hole Sun, but still managed to come up short. His evident mission is to make this place better for the rest of us, the future of this business. When he came to the business, big guys like EBR and Kyzer were running the place through mudhole after mudhole. He saw the corruption, he saw the lies when no one else could. He looked after Shawn Malakai to right the wrongs and leave the place better for him. He’s looking to continue that prophecy on his year long mission of becoming a Grand Slam champion. And after SuperBrawl, he’s going to complete it, prove everyone wrong and...make a statement.
Perhaps that’s what he wants to talk about.
Walking through the streets of Manhattan brings me back to the time WFWF was at the Garden, the same night Drakz’s legendary World title reign began. I won the match that night, a #1 contender’s match for the National Champion.
And now here I am, walking through the streets of Manhattan, Drakz is still champion and I’m in a #1 contender’s match for the International Champion. They could put the “Golden Opportunity” ringer on it, but Trace and I know that it’s essentially the same thing.
We get older, we get weaker, but it’s like I’ve never stop fighting for the same prize. I defined the National Championship in my historic reign and I brought it to prominence again in the many times I defended it. But, that’s the only title, the only thing I kept fighting for time and time again. It became a part of me and without it, there was no Ante Whitner, only a shadow of his former self.
The International title is what I’ve been itching to grab, not just because it’s a title and the power that comes with it (trust me, I know how that feels like). I want it to make a statement, to rape the entire system, to prove a point. Not many wrestlers can do that these days. The National title is gone, the International title is in the hands of some deranged mercenary, and the World title is in the grasp of a God Slayer. Do any of these men prove a point? Well, maybe Drakz is by proving he’s practically unbeatable.
But, none of them prove the point that I and the other freshmen in this match are trying to prove. How do we represent ourselves in a growing monopoly over us? How do we continue to fight when the weapons against us are too powerful? This “Golden Opportunity” is all we need to prove that point.
And I’m gonna be the one that proves it.
-----
“If opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door.” -Milton Berle
The opportunity never knocked for me. Instead, it created this muck, a mudpile from my doorway to the outside world. A mudpile, reminiscent of the shattered dreams I had when I lost my National title. It’s as if my entire career, just laid there, in a disgusting pile of dirt. The mudpile was so thick and dense that you’d have to build a boat just to get to the other side. And that’s what I did.
I built a boat, not a wall you Trump-supporting c*ckheads, a boat. It was made out of any materials I could find. My sanity, my future, my relationships, just about every flavor of gum from the Ante Whitner gumball machine. Nothing supported it, no nails, no glue, just a boat, held together only by my arms and legs. If this was my boat, my life just sailing across an ocean of all my broken aspirations, how else would I support it?
*cues the p*ssy ass Styx song*
Everything that has occurred from July 2014 to right now has involved every aspect of my mental state. My mind is a deprived, dry, and exhausted wasteland, much like California now that I think about it. It lacks the vital nutrients to go on further and the boat I’ve built is whatever I have left, every resource, every nutrient put into a single raft. My arms and legs are what has been keeping me rowing, each punch or kick landed adds propulsion. And kicking and punching is all I’ve been doing in this life.
Without it, this boat won’t float. Without it, I am nothing.
This “Golden Opportunity” match is the chance for everyone to make a boat for themselves and not end up like me. I am exhausting every last resource I have to stay afloat while all of these guys still have the tools necessary for a battleship. I row, they can sail, shoot missiles, and rain hell upon their enemies.
It’s almost as if I do want to lose. It’s a feeling I’ve been fighting this entire time, but it’s becoming more and more evident as the days go by. All of these battleships, all of these destroyers, and yet, I’m the only one with a simple rowing boat. Puny, insignificant, and irrelevant to the greater picture of the WFWF. What else must I complete in order to leave a lasting legacy?
That goes back to my point about proving a point. What will happen if someone like Warren Goodwin wins the Golden Opportunity and only uses it as a propeller to the main picture? It’s the same exact thing I did when I won the National title. I felt like the man, the alpha male in a growing division of visionary hopefuls. Someone who has the equal opportunity like I have could do the same and repeat the mistake I made. They don’t know how it feels to have that power yet. And I hope they never do.
To experience that much power, to reap nothing but corruption, is a sin. The adjective “golden” is what frightens me, a ploy that Trace is using to make fools out of us. He saw what happened to me and so did everyone else. But, these men, these costumed superheroes in the match with me, haven’t. They hear “golden” and immediately jump to conclusions before even comprehending the intensity of the match’s outcome. This opportunity can earn you an International title shot, but not a reduction of higher expectations or serious mental breakdowns. Being a champion can make you one of two things: a patron, a man with an honorable quest and a strong mental physique to make a stand, or a king, a man with corruptible power and eternal vengeance for those who have wronged them.
When I think of what this opportunity entails, I almost vomit. I know how it feels to be corrupted, powerless, and a slave to the little voice in your head, I know that feeling all too well. I’ve asked myself numerous times if this boat I’m sailing is desiring to feel that pain again or to ignite the alternate route. Either way, I’m ready. And if I fail, it’s not a big deal.
But, I’m not failing. I refuse. I will not tread to some corporate regime that has made pawns of us all. This is not a “Golden Opportunity”, this is our stand. A stand in order to make things right, for us and for the future. We’re building a giant warship that will break down every barrier this company has built. We are on a path and that path is taking us to great places. We’re not slowing down anytime soon and no one will be ready. For the talkative big mouths these corporate jackasses are, they’re silent. And we will keep it that way.
No matter what happens in this match, win or lose, I will not bow my head. I refuse to quit. And I expect none of the others to quit as well. This match is all or nothing and it is all what we need to get our point across.
Now, let’s build that boat motherf*ckers…
------
Pasadena, California
Three days before SuperBrawl
He was sharpening his katana when I walked in. Blood stained the blade, although Sam has said it was stainless before. A physical remnant of his career and the path he has led all year. Cold, methodical, and on a mission, a man much like me.
Samael: Hey, Ante.
Ante: I figured I’d find you here. I brought something.
I reached into my duffle bag and dug my hand through the clutter inside. Old boots, old trunks, and a brown bag. I pulled out the brown bag and hand it to Sam.
Samael: What is it?
Ante: Pull it out and see.
Samael: Dalmore? Ah, you cheeky bastard.
Ante: I made it my mission to get another one before Donnie could feed you to the makos.
Samael: Maybe we can go back again after this whole sh*tshow is done with, with my world title and your Golden Opportunity shtick. Put that two hundred dollars worth of Dalmore back on his shelf, perhaps take a couple of swigs before doing so.
He was talking to me, facing his blade, with a smile on his face. I don’t know if he’s pleasant about me buying the Dalmore or possibly using that katana blade in front of him. Or, the fact that we’ve been getting closer when our careers are at stake.
Ante: That’d be nice. Hey, listen, I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said back in Seattle, about the whole protecting the house thing. Y'know, what you were saying before Donnie ruined the night?
His smile fades.
Samael: I knew you would. You’re a changed man, I could tell. The face tells the story and your face is different from the first time Donnie brought us together.
Ante: How so? The only thing that has changed has maybe been the length of my beard, but other than that, nothing.
Samael: It’s not the physical qualities that define you obviously, you’ve said that yourself to me. You called me a selfless hypocrite back at Donnie’s and I’m here to call you a changed man, Ante.
He hands me the Dalmore, pops the cap, expecting me to take a swig. I stare at the silver buck on the glass and the orange tint of the drink inside. I take a small sip and hand it back to him.
Samael: When I met you, you had no intention of maintaining the order in this place, smashing the cornerstones and setting a name for yourself when you couldn’t live up to the expectations. You’re mature enough to see the errors in your ways now and you know what has to be done. Those cornerstones that great people like Shawn Malakai and Wayne McGurk made, the ones I followed, those are the cornerstones you must live by. Almost like you’re devoting yourself to some religious cause.
Ante: Like, you?
I awkwardly chuckle, Sam continues his prophetic speech.
Samael: No, not like me. I don’t want you to follow every single thing I’ve done because you’ll end up as a bottom feeder, just like good ol’ Dave Brennan. You’re not that Ante, and you’re far from it. You said to make a statement, I said to make this place better than I leave it. If you’re willing to do both, you’ll shatter the roles Drakz and Demon have erected.
Ante: And it starts with the Golden Opportunity?
Samael: Yes, plain and simple. You are going to win that sh*t and make David run for his life. It’s your second chance to do so and you will not fail this time around. I’m counting on it.
Ante: What happens if I don’t? And who said Dave is gonna win his match?
Samael: I said, Justin Tyme is too weak and fragile to beat Brennan. It’s inevitable and clearly, you know that too. As for you losing out on this potential life changing match, well, you’ll start off from square one, just like you have been for months and months on end.
Sam hands me his katana. Has he ever let anyone touch his blade?
Ante: What are you doing?
Samael: Grab, with your right hand, on the handle and put your other hand on the blade. It’s sharp, razor-blade thin and able to cut through anything, even bone. You saw that for yourself. Now, I dare you to slice your hand on it.
I feel as if I wanted to do this all along. But, what point is he trying to prove here? I proceed to slowly glide my hand on the blade. Blood oozes out, but there is no pain.
Samael: What do you feel?
Ante: Nothing, nothing at all.
He picks up the Dalmore, taking a swig for himself before putting it in my hand.
Samael: Drink this.
I take a large swig of it and immediately feel pain in my hand. The blood begins to ooze out even faster.
Samael: Now, what do you feel?
Ante: Pain, a lot of it.
Samael: Good.
He takes the blade from my hand and places it on the bench. He lets the sponge soak it as he sits talking to me.
Samael: How you felt before I gave you the Dalmore is how you feel right now. There is nothing to lose, almost as if you’re vulnerable to anything. After you drank it, the pain swelled because now you had something to fight for; a mission. You’re youthful and naive Ante, it’s what Donnie and I saw in you when you joined the family.
I wipe the blood onto his katana.
Ante: The Golden Opportunity is what I need.
Samael: Exactly, exactly. I know you can do it, it’s almost too easy for you.
Ante: Whatever you do with that katana three nights from now, just make sure my blood is still on it. Look at it and it’ll remind you of my commitment to what you told me. I’m committing to forging a new cornerstone and making this place better than when I entered it.
Sam’s smile returns.
Samael: That’s what I’d like to hear, Ante. Cheers.
He takes a swig of the Dalmore and I follow suit. At this point, the Dalmore is already half gone.
Ante: This sh*t is already halfway finished, haha.
Samael: Better put it in an oven and throw in Donnie’s liquor casket before he flips a sh*t.
Ante: Will do.
Samael: Take care of yourself man, win that match and the big one that follows. You’re on a path of greatness my friend.
Ante: Take care of yourself too Sam. I know you’ll make Drakz look like a fool in a couple of nights.
Samael: Welcome to the family, Ante.
He shakes my hand as I leave with the Dalmore. He goes back to wiping the katana, making sure my splotch of blood isn’t erased. Hopefully, that isn't the last time I see Sam ever.
Do you ever have that gut feeling that you know something good is gonna happen? I felt that way for every minute in that locker room with Sam. Despite his katana wielding antics, he knows what he’s talking about and he sees the faith and dedication in me unlike any other. For a man so methodical and mysterious, he is pretty vocal about our relationship. To me, he’s family, as I am to him.
I walk out into the stadium. The rain had settled an hour earlier so each seat is soaked in water. The stage and the ring are just about set up and the atmosphere is already kicking in. In only three nights, 90,000+ people will pack in here, watching all of us put our bodies on the line. Surreal.
It’s a moment I’ve dreamed of forever. Just then, a hand is placed on my shoulder.
Frank: Hey there, Ante.
Ante: Oh sh*t, hey Frank. We’ve never met in person, have we?
Frank: Nah, nah. I just got back from filming some promotional stuff and figured I do the same thing you’re doing. Taking it all in, y’know?
Ante: Yeah, yeah.
I take a swig of the Dalmore.
Frank: Is that Dalmore?
Ante: Yeah, it’s for-
Frank takes it out of my hand and smashes it on the floor. The c*ckhead thinks he’s funny, very reminiscent of a young Ante Whitner. Naive, careless, and power-hungry. Men like Frank Lynn are in it to make a stand, they’re in it for the glory.
Frank: Two hundred dollars gone, just like that. How does it feel to be irrelevant pal?
Ante: It feels good. Look, Frank, if you really wanna be immature and just try to get into my head, it isn’t gonna work. My skull is thicker than whatever pillow you hump at night.
Roasted? I feel like a third grader right now talking to him.
Frank: I’m not getting into your head. I just want to see how you feel about us, the “rookies” you’re up against.
Ante: How do I feel about them? I feel that everyone in this match has the shot to make things great for themselves. Hopefully, they’d learn to use that power wisely.
Frank: How do you feel about yourself?
Ante: Are you working for the Pasadena Times or somethin’ Frank?
Frank: No, I’m just curious.
Ante: I feel confident that I’ll do anything to not let you win in three nights. Whether it’s me, Warren, or even that mystery person, I’m fine with it.
Frank: I’ve been on top of the world while you just hid in your corner, contemplating your emotions and irrelevancy.
Ante: What do you mean by on top of the world because I’m pretty sure Drakz is running this place right now? And if I am so irrelevant to you, why are you here trying to interrogate me?
Frank goes quiet.
Ante: Frank, I don’t care what you’re trying to get at here, alright? I just need you to understand something.
Frank: Understand what?
An ignorant f*ck. Just what I needed right now. As he sits next to me in this damp stadium weather, I just can’t stand how much he reminds me of myself. Not just the douchebag mohawk and beard, but just how ignorant I was. Jesus.
Ante: To understand everything, this match, what comes after, just everything. I’ve been in that position before and I know how powerful you feel. All of it, it just feels so...good. You believe that nothing in this world can stop you. And then comes along a better fighter, one who takes your place in an instant. How are you gonna cope with that?
Frank remains silent.
Ante: Exactly. I just need you to comprehend what this Golden Opportunity entails because although it seems pleasant by the tagline, who knows what your fate with it could be.
Frank: Whatever Ante. I don’t need this metaphorical sh*t before a match like this one. SuperBrawl is my show. The Golden Opportunity is my title. And you just need to get the f*ck outta my way.
Ante: If I recall, I wasn’t in your way right now. You just strolled down here and ruined my perfect bottle of Dalmore for Donnie Monty Kent.
Frank: Who’s that?
Ante: Exactly.
Frank walks away furiously. Well, it's either I wasn’t prepared for how ignorant he was or that I’m being too melodramatic with everything.
Frank Lynn is the only opponent in my match that poses serious danger. As good as Dachs, Jenkins, and Goodwin may be, Frank is violent, reckless, and an animal in the ring. He knows how to wrestle, he knows how to win, and he has this perfect picture engraved in his head of how it’ll go down. He can do whatever he wants to attempt to win, but with ignorance and carelessness like that, he is no champion.
Everyone thought I was no champion when I held the National title and quite frankly (no pun intended there), I finally see why. I was ignorant, naive, careless, just as much, if not more, as Frank. In my National title, no old trailblazer posed a serious threat. It was just myself, Axel Thornstowe, and Shapiro, three guys who had proven themselves up until that point.
Frank isn’t intimidated by the fact that the man who beat Michael Kyzer, the man who held the National title for 199 days, and the KoKaine Konspiracy member is sharing the same ring with him. He’s THAT ignorant. Whoever Frank chooses to be, a champion or prized fighter, is up to him, not me.
If he wants to be ignorant, let him be. I’m not ignoring anything, not what Sam said, not what I said. It’s time to stick to my word for once.
--------------------
My career, July 2014 to October 2016, one spanning two years. In hindsight, two years seems like a long time for a devout fan. But, for us, the physical and mental pain makes it seem like only days. Three days ago, I won the National title. Two days ago, I lost that title. Yesterday, I dropped Kyzer on the mat.
Today, I face a Golden Opportunity. Tomorrow, I face uncertainty.
From the moment I stepped into the Baltimore Arena at Up the Garden Path to the moment I step into the Rose Bowl at SuperBrawl, there has always been a thought come across my head. I dismiss it as insignificant and unimportant to the match, but now I fully realize it. Every single time without fail, there was this underlying thought in my head of how I might change.
Everyone obsesses over winning and how the result can impact the rest of their careers, but I always had a fear of changing stuck in the back of my brain. Each step would pose a new question about it. Right foot: “Who am I right now?” Left foot: “Who will I be in this match?” Right foot: “Who will I be if I win?” Left foot: “Who will I be if I lose?”
Both feet stop: “Who will I be when I retire?”
What is the legacy I’m willing to leave? Sam made that point back in Seattle very clear, stating how the cornerstones that Shawn Malakai and Wayne McGurk built have to continue and live on in each successing generation. Sam is on his way out, an outlaw riding into the sunset, looking to put a great career to rest. It’s up to me to carry that legacy, to meet everyone’s expectations, again.
The last time I had to meet expectations was when Nikki Dean whooped my ass at End Game, which I failed for those eggheads that didn’t know. I’ve failed to meet expectations all my life, every day making dumb decision after dumb decision. How can Sam trust me with the knowledge of all my shortcomings?
Because he’s my brother. He believes in me as much as I believe in him. Donnie inadvertently brought us together and made myself, Sam, and Tugarin brothers not by blood, but by passion. We are all passionate about what we do and if I keep that passion alive, the last bit of hope I have, I’ll finally meet the expectations. That’s what Sam sees, that’s what I see, and that’s what everyone else will see in given time.
The “Golden Opportunity” that I face today could be the new rung on my ladder or the same rung that breaks again on me, to heaven or to hell. It is the typical make-or-break situation that only my passion can determine. A moshpit of rookies, all itching for that golden prize, and that one gunslinging veteran who knows the in’s and out’s of this business. A superhero movie with every superhero imaginable, all fighting against the enemy, and that one godly being with every ability in existence. Frank Lynn, Warren Goodwin, Maxwell Dachs, Leeroy Jenkins, some mystery guy, and Ante Whitner.
We all have an opportunity in our grasp, one that could define any of us. We’re against each other, versus against versus against versus. A naval war where rowboats are just firing slingshots of pebbles at each other, childhood dreams coming true. Some are rogue, in it for themselves and for the glory, like Frank Lynn. And then there is one who wants everyone to work almost as a singular unit to overcome the disease the WFWF has inflicted upon us. That’s me.
Warren Goodwin is the indie wrestler, running through the circuit like a one-way motorway. He’s on a warpath, much like how I was. He doesn’t show any signs of stopping, who knows how he likes to cooperate. But, I can make him work, I can make him bend to my will. Not for evil, but for the good of the generations that follow us. If he is unable to cooperate, then he will be left back in the indies, unforgiven and embarassed.
Maxwell Dachs, surfing the tsunami of “Dachslemania”. He understands the crowd, he knows their motions. He wants to ride this wave forever, but who knows what could break his current. The Golden Opportunity match? Precisely, it’s either the Hurricane Matthew that intensifies his ocean or the barge that prevents catastrophic flooding. Either way, if he’s unwilling to cooperate, he’ll drown in his once-called ocean, now a tiny puddle.
Leeroy Jenkins, as much of the Internet meme he is, is a moonshiner, a backwoods degenerate. He’s a fighting man, willing to provide anything for his family, the support system he is able to fall back on. This Golden Opportunity could reap huge benefits for his family, backing on his win. If he’s unable to cooperate with my plan, he’ll drink away the moonshine he’s made and die a drunken has-been.
Frank Lynn, the ignorant MMA fighter, the rival of Leeroy Jenkins. The monster, the roid rager, the tactical fighter who only sees the prize and it’s golden hue, blind to the impact the Golden Opportunity can have on the WFWF. If he’s unable to cooperate with the plan, he will fade from relevance, as he told me himself, and become the shadow of himself, just like me.
Through all of the childhood nightmares, all of the drunken stories, all of the euphoric stoner trips, and all of the failed expectations, I never lost my passion for this sport. I never lost hope in where my career choice would get me down the road. In all of the clouded aspects of my future, there is one light that shines through, one that I’ll not only find, but one that is already here.
A Golden Opportunity. The plan, the Avengers, the boats, everything. I blinked once and it all just appeared right in front of me. The legacy I want to leave, the legacy I want my successors to leave. There’s one briefcase up there and we all are going to work to get it. Forget how we’re pitted against each other for one moment and focus on this briefcase. If we just take a moment to breathe and understand this opportunity, we can achieve anything.
Cooperation is key. Without it, the image of my mother’s grave comes to mind. A soaken, mossy, headstone that says the name “Whitner”. A legacy that I was meant to complete, just buried there; six feet under, silenced forever. Death is what I’m afraid of and death is afraid of me. I’ve made it this far without killing myself, what is left for Ante Whitner to achieve?
Everything. Everything Sam said, everything I said, everything Kyzer said, everything Donnie said, every single thing that planet Earth has to offer. The International title, the Tag-Team title, the World title, it’s all down the line. It’s just a matter of how I’ll get there. And that is all determined by this one match, this one Golden Opportunity.
Cooperate with me Max, Frank, Warren, and Leeroy, I ask you this once. Because SuperBrawl is upon us…
...and the roses are sold out. Don’t make me rob a nursery to get them.
In this decrepit wasteland that I called home, I find myself searching the graveyards, the only place I can find solemn silence and tranquility. It was at that time of night when they yawned, breathing hell itself out, poisoning the world. I love it.
Grave after grave, I looked. The drops of rain from a few hours ago hadn’t evaporated and thus, made it more tiresome to search. A muddy wasteland. Only the truly defaced, morbid, and ugly would love such an atmosphere. Count me as one of them.
Then, I found it. I had to investigate the depths of my mind to remember where it was. Untouched in years, moss growing everywhere, no flowers or anything. It was my mother’s grave.
I hadn’t seen it since I was ten. Every Sunday for a year and a half, my father took my brother and I to this place to pay our respects for the woman who gave birth to us. A woman who was only in 1/5th of my life. A woman who made such an impact regardless of time’s constraints.
I placed my hands upon her headstone, clearing some of the moss growing at the top. She deserved a better fate, one alongside two loving children and a husband who truly cared about his family. I find it comical how one’s life can be taken away at such an instantaneous moment. Dark humor, ha.
I rub the rest of the moss off of her grave. I had forgotten her first name up until the point I rubbed the moss off covering it. Margaret, named after her grandmother. “Margie” was her nickname. My father always liked to call her “Margie”. How could I be so stupid and forget her name? God can be vindictive, especially to me. I kneel down, closer to the headstone. The mother-son instinct kicks in. Emotion settles.
Ante: I love you, mom.
The roses I had bought for her came in an intricate and oddly satisfying gift wrapping. It was lined in gold, fake, obviously. But, the white foil made it shine. The roses were ripely red; red to the point where if I touched it, I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between it’s petals and human flesh.
I place them down, expecting the color to instantly fade upon touching the dirt. I placed my hand on the side of the grave again and wiped the tear from my cheek. I hadn’t felt grief or sadness in such a long time. I’d laugh off at death and at anything that would make the typical person cry. But, this, this was too much for me to handle.
An early grave, six feet under and silenced forever. It’s always been what I wanted; to die young and have no one miss you. To die lonely and have only your enemies leave roses. It always appealed to my senses. But, after that moment, after I realized how much these people would care about me, I changed my mind. Ben, Frankie, even James, they would’ve missed me. They would’ve wished I was there.
A short life, gone in an instant. No, just no. I can’t risk that, I should have never thought about that. So many regrets, so many unwise and stupid decisions. There is more to my life than what meets the eye. I am the successor to this business. I am the one who will make things better from here on. I am the one with the Golden Opportunity at stake.
Super Brawl is here..
..time to buy the roses.
---
Ante Whitner RP
Roses for the Dead
New York
Central Park
Ante: I’m home, Ben.
A bridge in Central Park is where I stand, maybe the same bridge from Spider-Man 3 where Peter Parker’s proposal went sour. Terrible film, too many characters, not enough development. Just like this Golden Opportunity match I’m in.
A clusterf*ck of superheroes, all battling this one villain. Captain America, Iron Man, Thor, Spider-Man, you name it (only Marvel characters because those DC movies are sh*t). We’re all one of the same, men with extraordinary abilities and using them together to fight for good, to fight for humanity.
This big budget superhero flick we’re in is called “the Golden Opportunity”. Trace is wielding his Infinity Gauntlet, the most powerful weapon in the Universe, and we’re wielding our fists. From hindsight, it looks like we’re fighting each other with the taglines saying Ante Whitner versus Frank Lynn versus yada yada yada. But, quite frankly, we’re not.
We’re fighting for something. And that something is the tool we need to fight the big villain himself, Trace Demon. The Opportunity entails some sort of International title shot against Dave Brennan or Lucas Crowe, but that’s more than enough to flip the bird to the establishment Trace runs. An establishment built on the broken careers of many, an establishment that not only treads the people they employ, but ruins their lives as well.
The physical and mental pain we endure is enough. We’re in it for the same, we’re fighting for the same. There is nothing that separates us besides the taglines in the title of our match. We may be enemies at this instantaneous moment, but after this, we will continue to fight together and respect each other as we have before.
Avengers, assemble.
Ben: I know that. A bit of nostalgia?
Ante: A little. I mean, my entire childhood was spent here. My house overlooked the Hudson back in Yonkers. Sometimes I’d stare at it and remind myself that my father won’t live forever.
Ben: Rough childhood?
Ante: Yeah. You knew that dipsh*t, haha.
Ben: Sorry, forgot, haha.
Surreal, the only way I can describe it. I’m sure all of us are feeling that right now. It’s SuperBrawl, the ninth one ever. It’s a dream, an aspiration I’ve had since childhood. A hope that never died. And now here I am, on the brink, staring into the bloody depths of hell or the ladder to greatness. A ladder I’ve tried to climb. A loose rung that let me fall. An impact so great it left me paralyzed. A ground so cold and far from the ladder.
They don’t know how it feels. They’re mesmerized by my accomplishments, but instead choose to focus on the irrelevancy I have in this business. A has-been, hell, may a never-was. If they had the maturity and intellect to make them a superstar, then they would’ve recognized the opportunity they have in their grasp. It’s gold for God’s sake.
Ante: Wanna know something, Ben?
Ben: Yeah, sure. What is it?
Ante: My childhood can be characterized by nothing but misery. Times where I felt displaced and disconnected from the world I was brought into. I questioned why I was even conceived in the first place. I questioned my existence, I resorted to drugs and razor blades. I-
I feel a lump in my throat. The words won’t come out.
Ante: But, through all the physical and mental scars that will never erase, I never lost hope. I never lost that sliver of hope that one day I could be a WFWF wrestler, like Calvin Lee and Wayne McGurk. Men that proved their worth and their relevance in a world so cold and miserable. That was the path I wanted, a path I was willing to do anything for.
Ben: And now here you are.
Ante: And now here I am.
I take a sip of the bagged Bud Light I had brought, Ben follows. A cold beer is something I need before a big match. I don’t need protein shakes or steroids. All I need is some fresh brewed IPA.
Ben: From the moment you hired me as your agent, I knew there was something different about you. I’ve managed football players with catastrophic head injuries, basketball players with broken careers, and other wrestlers with steroid issues. But, through the thick and thin of your illness and whatever holds you back, you still find a way to push through and I admire that in you.
Ante: Well, thanks. I guess that must be the hope I was talking about.
Ben: I think so too. I’ve lost hope, I’ve fallen back, and slipped into some serious depression. I always looked to gamble whenever that was the case, but whenever you slipped into those funks, you still persevered because of your everlasting hope. Since I still gamble from time to time, I’m not sure where my hope went, maybe at the MGM in Vegas. I just wish I had it back.
Ante: You’ll find it. Hope never dies. That light is somewhere and I’m here for you until you find it again.
Ben Harvey was an agent, a man who did all my extracurricular workload. But, now he has transformed into the best friend I’ve ever had. Frankie may have stuck to me since we were boys, but Ben has developed a more personal connection than Frankie ever did. Frankie didn’t have the guts to tell me when to stop, Ben did. Frankie didn’t know what to do with me, Ben did.
Frankie lost hope in me. Ben never did.
Ben: Thanks, Ante. You’re the greatest friend I’ve ever had.
Ante: I’m proud to say the same.
Gratitude, sympathy. It all feels so good. After all this time, I felt like I only had sympathy for the devil. Cross that one out of the shrinking list of Ante’s insecurities.
Ben: Alright, I gotta head out. There’s an investor’s meeting at the American Express HQ down at the new World Trade Center.
Ante: Okay, take care yourself man.
Ben: You too Ante. I think this is the last time I see you before you wrestle at SuperBrawl.
Ante: Yeah, it is. I’ll see you then.
Ben strides away in the Kohl’s suit he had bought a week ago. The corniness and demeanor this guy has is something I would puke at. But, after exposing myself to it, I’ve learned to embrace it. After all, I used to call myself the “Bloodied Eagle”. I gotta get a new epithet quick.
I glance at my phone, scroll to contacts. I stumble upon “Frankie Pulitizi”, the same number he’s been using since childhood. It’s basically engraved in my head, but seeing his name gave me a pleasant smile. I mean, I am in New York, he’s not too far away. Hesitant to tap, I press the “call” icon.
“Ding. Ding. Ding.”
No answer. It’s a shame that the one time I’m in New York he won’t pick up his phone. The fat cripple can’t give a sh*t for Ante Whitner anymore. F*ckin’ cripple, I swear-
“iMessage: Samael Ahriman”
What? I thought my eyes deceived me before I glanced at the Messages section. Each individual pixel stood out to me. The name Samael, the man main eventing SuperBrawl, a man I called my closest ally. God, we were unstoppable.
I open the message. I’m surprised at the contents of the message, already thinking in my head that it was going to be some sort of congratulations for me making it to the Golden Opportunity match. But, it wasn’t. It was far different.
“Ante. Come to Seattle, Donnie’s bar. Meet me on Friday.”
Reluctant to respond to my former ally, I give in.
“Alright.”
Samael Ahriman, the katana-wielding butch that stole my spotlight when I whooped Mike Kyzer’s ass. I never complained about Sam hacking off Kyzer’s head in one clean cut, but it always stuck in my mind. Almost like a moment spoiled, but yet not spoiled. Kyzer built a living on his toughness and his unbeatable demeanor and in a span of three seconds, I changed that. I made a statement to the world, a statement I couldn’t back up. I guess Sam’s swift samurai action undermined that insecurity. If I didn’t back my win up with more solid wins without Sam’s theatrical homicide, I’d probably be a broken deadbeat. Sam had always been so methodical, so mysterious, yet in one brash move, he changed the landscape of WFWF. Kyzer had come back to the WFWF for a mission and before he can speak, Sam decapitated him.
I guess Sam has always had a taste for the theatrics. He made a fool out of Drakz in their match at Black Hole Sun, but still managed to come up short. His evident mission is to make this place better for the rest of us, the future of this business. When he came to the business, big guys like EBR and Kyzer were running the place through mudhole after mudhole. He saw the corruption, he saw the lies when no one else could. He looked after Shawn Malakai to right the wrongs and leave the place better for him. He’s looking to continue that prophecy on his year long mission of becoming a Grand Slam champion. And after SuperBrawl, he’s going to complete it, prove everyone wrong and...make a statement.
Perhaps that’s what he wants to talk about.
Walking through the streets of Manhattan brings me back to the time WFWF was at the Garden, the same night Drakz’s legendary World title reign began. I won the match that night, a #1 contender’s match for the National Champion.
And now here I am, walking through the streets of Manhattan, Drakz is still champion and I’m in a #1 contender’s match for the International Champion. They could put the “Golden Opportunity” ringer on it, but Trace and I know that it’s essentially the same thing.
We get older, we get weaker, but it’s like I’ve never stop fighting for the same prize. I defined the National Championship in my historic reign and I brought it to prominence again in the many times I defended it. But, that’s the only title, the only thing I kept fighting for time and time again. It became a part of me and without it, there was no Ante Whitner, only a shadow of his former self.
The International title is what I’ve been itching to grab, not just because it’s a title and the power that comes with it (trust me, I know how that feels like). I want it to make a statement, to rape the entire system, to prove a point. Not many wrestlers can do that these days. The National title is gone, the International title is in the hands of some deranged mercenary, and the World title is in the grasp of a God Slayer. Do any of these men prove a point? Well, maybe Drakz is by proving he’s practically unbeatable.
But, none of them prove the point that I and the other freshmen in this match are trying to prove. How do we represent ourselves in a growing monopoly over us? How do we continue to fight when the weapons against us are too powerful? This “Golden Opportunity” is all we need to prove that point.
And I’m gonna be the one that proves it.
-----
“If opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door.” -Milton Berle
The opportunity never knocked for me. Instead, it created this muck, a mudpile from my doorway to the outside world. A mudpile, reminiscent of the shattered dreams I had when I lost my National title. It’s as if my entire career, just laid there, in a disgusting pile of dirt. The mudpile was so thick and dense that you’d have to build a boat just to get to the other side. And that’s what I did.
I built a boat, not a wall you Trump-supporting c*ckheads, a boat. It was made out of any materials I could find. My sanity, my future, my relationships, just about every flavor of gum from the Ante Whitner gumball machine. Nothing supported it, no nails, no glue, just a boat, held together only by my arms and legs. If this was my boat, my life just sailing across an ocean of all my broken aspirations, how else would I support it?
*cues the p*ssy ass Styx song*
Everything that has occurred from July 2014 to right now has involved every aspect of my mental state. My mind is a deprived, dry, and exhausted wasteland, much like California now that I think about it. It lacks the vital nutrients to go on further and the boat I’ve built is whatever I have left, every resource, every nutrient put into a single raft. My arms and legs are what has been keeping me rowing, each punch or kick landed adds propulsion. And kicking and punching is all I’ve been doing in this life.
Without it, this boat won’t float. Without it, I am nothing.
This “Golden Opportunity” match is the chance for everyone to make a boat for themselves and not end up like me. I am exhausting every last resource I have to stay afloat while all of these guys still have the tools necessary for a battleship. I row, they can sail, shoot missiles, and rain hell upon their enemies.
It’s almost as if I do want to lose. It’s a feeling I’ve been fighting this entire time, but it’s becoming more and more evident as the days go by. All of these battleships, all of these destroyers, and yet, I’m the only one with a simple rowing boat. Puny, insignificant, and irrelevant to the greater picture of the WFWF. What else must I complete in order to leave a lasting legacy?
That goes back to my point about proving a point. What will happen if someone like Warren Goodwin wins the Golden Opportunity and only uses it as a propeller to the main picture? It’s the same exact thing I did when I won the National title. I felt like the man, the alpha male in a growing division of visionary hopefuls. Someone who has the equal opportunity like I have could do the same and repeat the mistake I made. They don’t know how it feels to have that power yet. And I hope they never do.
To experience that much power, to reap nothing but corruption, is a sin. The adjective “golden” is what frightens me, a ploy that Trace is using to make fools out of us. He saw what happened to me and so did everyone else. But, these men, these costumed superheroes in the match with me, haven’t. They hear “golden” and immediately jump to conclusions before even comprehending the intensity of the match’s outcome. This opportunity can earn you an International title shot, but not a reduction of higher expectations or serious mental breakdowns. Being a champion can make you one of two things: a patron, a man with an honorable quest and a strong mental physique to make a stand, or a king, a man with corruptible power and eternal vengeance for those who have wronged them.
When I think of what this opportunity entails, I almost vomit. I know how it feels to be corrupted, powerless, and a slave to the little voice in your head, I know that feeling all too well. I’ve asked myself numerous times if this boat I’m sailing is desiring to feel that pain again or to ignite the alternate route. Either way, I’m ready. And if I fail, it’s not a big deal.
But, I’m not failing. I refuse. I will not tread to some corporate regime that has made pawns of us all. This is not a “Golden Opportunity”, this is our stand. A stand in order to make things right, for us and for the future. We’re building a giant warship that will break down every barrier this company has built. We are on a path and that path is taking us to great places. We’re not slowing down anytime soon and no one will be ready. For the talkative big mouths these corporate jackasses are, they’re silent. And we will keep it that way.
No matter what happens in this match, win or lose, I will not bow my head. I refuse to quit. And I expect none of the others to quit as well. This match is all or nothing and it is all what we need to get our point across.
Now, let’s build that boat motherf*ckers…
------
Pasadena, California
Three days before SuperBrawl
He was sharpening his katana when I walked in. Blood stained the blade, although Sam has said it was stainless before. A physical remnant of his career and the path he has led all year. Cold, methodical, and on a mission, a man much like me.
Samael: Hey, Ante.
Ante: I figured I’d find you here. I brought something.
I reached into my duffle bag and dug my hand through the clutter inside. Old boots, old trunks, and a brown bag. I pulled out the brown bag and hand it to Sam.
Samael: What is it?
Ante: Pull it out and see.
Samael: Dalmore? Ah, you cheeky bastard.
Ante: I made it my mission to get another one before Donnie could feed you to the makos.
Samael: Maybe we can go back again after this whole sh*tshow is done with, with my world title and your Golden Opportunity shtick. Put that two hundred dollars worth of Dalmore back on his shelf, perhaps take a couple of swigs before doing so.
He was talking to me, facing his blade, with a smile on his face. I don’t know if he’s pleasant about me buying the Dalmore or possibly using that katana blade in front of him. Or, the fact that we’ve been getting closer when our careers are at stake.
Ante: That’d be nice. Hey, listen, I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said back in Seattle, about the whole protecting the house thing. Y'know, what you were saying before Donnie ruined the night?
His smile fades.
Samael: I knew you would. You’re a changed man, I could tell. The face tells the story and your face is different from the first time Donnie brought us together.
Ante: How so? The only thing that has changed has maybe been the length of my beard, but other than that, nothing.
Samael: It’s not the physical qualities that define you obviously, you’ve said that yourself to me. You called me a selfless hypocrite back at Donnie’s and I’m here to call you a changed man, Ante.
He hands me the Dalmore, pops the cap, expecting me to take a swig. I stare at the silver buck on the glass and the orange tint of the drink inside. I take a small sip and hand it back to him.
Samael: When I met you, you had no intention of maintaining the order in this place, smashing the cornerstones and setting a name for yourself when you couldn’t live up to the expectations. You’re mature enough to see the errors in your ways now and you know what has to be done. Those cornerstones that great people like Shawn Malakai and Wayne McGurk made, the ones I followed, those are the cornerstones you must live by. Almost like you’re devoting yourself to some religious cause.
Ante: Like, you?
I awkwardly chuckle, Sam continues his prophetic speech.
Samael: No, not like me. I don’t want you to follow every single thing I’ve done because you’ll end up as a bottom feeder, just like good ol’ Dave Brennan. You’re not that Ante, and you’re far from it. You said to make a statement, I said to make this place better than I leave it. If you’re willing to do both, you’ll shatter the roles Drakz and Demon have erected.
Ante: And it starts with the Golden Opportunity?
Samael: Yes, plain and simple. You are going to win that sh*t and make David run for his life. It’s your second chance to do so and you will not fail this time around. I’m counting on it.
Ante: What happens if I don’t? And who said Dave is gonna win his match?
Samael: I said, Justin Tyme is too weak and fragile to beat Brennan. It’s inevitable and clearly, you know that too. As for you losing out on this potential life changing match, well, you’ll start off from square one, just like you have been for months and months on end.
Sam hands me his katana. Has he ever let anyone touch his blade?
Ante: What are you doing?
Samael: Grab, with your right hand, on the handle and put your other hand on the blade. It’s sharp, razor-blade thin and able to cut through anything, even bone. You saw that for yourself. Now, I dare you to slice your hand on it.
I feel as if I wanted to do this all along. But, what point is he trying to prove here? I proceed to slowly glide my hand on the blade. Blood oozes out, but there is no pain.
Samael: What do you feel?
Ante: Nothing, nothing at all.
He picks up the Dalmore, taking a swig for himself before putting it in my hand.
Samael: Drink this.
I take a large swig of it and immediately feel pain in my hand. The blood begins to ooze out even faster.
Samael: Now, what do you feel?
Ante: Pain, a lot of it.
Samael: Good.
He takes the blade from my hand and places it on the bench. He lets the sponge soak it as he sits talking to me.
Samael: How you felt before I gave you the Dalmore is how you feel right now. There is nothing to lose, almost as if you’re vulnerable to anything. After you drank it, the pain swelled because now you had something to fight for; a mission. You’re youthful and naive Ante, it’s what Donnie and I saw in you when you joined the family.
I wipe the blood onto his katana.
Ante: The Golden Opportunity is what I need.
Samael: Exactly, exactly. I know you can do it, it’s almost too easy for you.
Ante: Whatever you do with that katana three nights from now, just make sure my blood is still on it. Look at it and it’ll remind you of my commitment to what you told me. I’m committing to forging a new cornerstone and making this place better than when I entered it.
Sam’s smile returns.
Samael: That’s what I’d like to hear, Ante. Cheers.
He takes a swig of the Dalmore and I follow suit. At this point, the Dalmore is already half gone.
Ante: This sh*t is already halfway finished, haha.
Samael: Better put it in an oven and throw in Donnie’s liquor casket before he flips a sh*t.
Ante: Will do.
Samael: Take care of yourself man, win that match and the big one that follows. You’re on a path of greatness my friend.
Ante: Take care of yourself too Sam. I know you’ll make Drakz look like a fool in a couple of nights.
Samael: Welcome to the family, Ante.
He shakes my hand as I leave with the Dalmore. He goes back to wiping the katana, making sure my splotch of blood isn’t erased. Hopefully, that isn't the last time I see Sam ever.
Do you ever have that gut feeling that you know something good is gonna happen? I felt that way for every minute in that locker room with Sam. Despite his katana wielding antics, he knows what he’s talking about and he sees the faith and dedication in me unlike any other. For a man so methodical and mysterious, he is pretty vocal about our relationship. To me, he’s family, as I am to him.
I walk out into the stadium. The rain had settled an hour earlier so each seat is soaked in water. The stage and the ring are just about set up and the atmosphere is already kicking in. In only three nights, 90,000+ people will pack in here, watching all of us put our bodies on the line. Surreal.
It’s a moment I’ve dreamed of forever. Just then, a hand is placed on my shoulder.
Frank: Hey there, Ante.
Ante: Oh sh*t, hey Frank. We’ve never met in person, have we?
Frank: Nah, nah. I just got back from filming some promotional stuff and figured I do the same thing you’re doing. Taking it all in, y’know?
Ante: Yeah, yeah.
I take a swig of the Dalmore.
Frank: Is that Dalmore?
Ante: Yeah, it’s for-
Frank takes it out of my hand and smashes it on the floor. The c*ckhead thinks he’s funny, very reminiscent of a young Ante Whitner. Naive, careless, and power-hungry. Men like Frank Lynn are in it to make a stand, they’re in it for the glory.
Frank: Two hundred dollars gone, just like that. How does it feel to be irrelevant pal?
Ante: It feels good. Look, Frank, if you really wanna be immature and just try to get into my head, it isn’t gonna work. My skull is thicker than whatever pillow you hump at night.
Roasted? I feel like a third grader right now talking to him.
Frank: I’m not getting into your head. I just want to see how you feel about us, the “rookies” you’re up against.
Ante: How do I feel about them? I feel that everyone in this match has the shot to make things great for themselves. Hopefully, they’d learn to use that power wisely.
Frank: How do you feel about yourself?
Ante: Are you working for the Pasadena Times or somethin’ Frank?
Frank: No, I’m just curious.
Ante: I feel confident that I’ll do anything to not let you win in three nights. Whether it’s me, Warren, or even that mystery person, I’m fine with it.
Frank: I’ve been on top of the world while you just hid in your corner, contemplating your emotions and irrelevancy.
Ante: What do you mean by on top of the world because I’m pretty sure Drakz is running this place right now? And if I am so irrelevant to you, why are you here trying to interrogate me?
Frank goes quiet.
Ante: Frank, I don’t care what you’re trying to get at here, alright? I just need you to understand something.
Frank: Understand what?
An ignorant f*ck. Just what I needed right now. As he sits next to me in this damp stadium weather, I just can’t stand how much he reminds me of myself. Not just the douchebag mohawk and beard, but just how ignorant I was. Jesus.
Ante: To understand everything, this match, what comes after, just everything. I’ve been in that position before and I know how powerful you feel. All of it, it just feels so...good. You believe that nothing in this world can stop you. And then comes along a better fighter, one who takes your place in an instant. How are you gonna cope with that?
Frank remains silent.
Ante: Exactly. I just need you to comprehend what this Golden Opportunity entails because although it seems pleasant by the tagline, who knows what your fate with it could be.
Frank: Whatever Ante. I don’t need this metaphorical sh*t before a match like this one. SuperBrawl is my show. The Golden Opportunity is my title. And you just need to get the f*ck outta my way.
Ante: If I recall, I wasn’t in your way right now. You just strolled down here and ruined my perfect bottle of Dalmore for Donnie Monty Kent.
Frank: Who’s that?
Ante: Exactly.
Frank walks away furiously. Well, it's either I wasn’t prepared for how ignorant he was or that I’m being too melodramatic with everything.
Frank Lynn is the only opponent in my match that poses serious danger. As good as Dachs, Jenkins, and Goodwin may be, Frank is violent, reckless, and an animal in the ring. He knows how to wrestle, he knows how to win, and he has this perfect picture engraved in his head of how it’ll go down. He can do whatever he wants to attempt to win, but with ignorance and carelessness like that, he is no champion.
Everyone thought I was no champion when I held the National title and quite frankly (no pun intended there), I finally see why. I was ignorant, naive, careless, just as much, if not more, as Frank. In my National title, no old trailblazer posed a serious threat. It was just myself, Axel Thornstowe, and Shapiro, three guys who had proven themselves up until that point.
Frank isn’t intimidated by the fact that the man who beat Michael Kyzer, the man who held the National title for 199 days, and the KoKaine Konspiracy member is sharing the same ring with him. He’s THAT ignorant. Whoever Frank chooses to be, a champion or prized fighter, is up to him, not me.
If he wants to be ignorant, let him be. I’m not ignoring anything, not what Sam said, not what I said. It’s time to stick to my word for once.
--------------------
My career, July 2014 to October 2016, one spanning two years. In hindsight, two years seems like a long time for a devout fan. But, for us, the physical and mental pain makes it seem like only days. Three days ago, I won the National title. Two days ago, I lost that title. Yesterday, I dropped Kyzer on the mat.
Today, I face a Golden Opportunity. Tomorrow, I face uncertainty.
From the moment I stepped into the Baltimore Arena at Up the Garden Path to the moment I step into the Rose Bowl at SuperBrawl, there has always been a thought come across my head. I dismiss it as insignificant and unimportant to the match, but now I fully realize it. Every single time without fail, there was this underlying thought in my head of how I might change.
Everyone obsesses over winning and how the result can impact the rest of their careers, but I always had a fear of changing stuck in the back of my brain. Each step would pose a new question about it. Right foot: “Who am I right now?” Left foot: “Who will I be in this match?” Right foot: “Who will I be if I win?” Left foot: “Who will I be if I lose?”
Both feet stop: “Who will I be when I retire?”
What is the legacy I’m willing to leave? Sam made that point back in Seattle very clear, stating how the cornerstones that Shawn Malakai and Wayne McGurk built have to continue and live on in each successing generation. Sam is on his way out, an outlaw riding into the sunset, looking to put a great career to rest. It’s up to me to carry that legacy, to meet everyone’s expectations, again.
The last time I had to meet expectations was when Nikki Dean whooped my ass at End Game, which I failed for those eggheads that didn’t know. I’ve failed to meet expectations all my life, every day making dumb decision after dumb decision. How can Sam trust me with the knowledge of all my shortcomings?
Because he’s my brother. He believes in me as much as I believe in him. Donnie inadvertently brought us together and made myself, Sam, and Tugarin brothers not by blood, but by passion. We are all passionate about what we do and if I keep that passion alive, the last bit of hope I have, I’ll finally meet the expectations. That’s what Sam sees, that’s what I see, and that’s what everyone else will see in given time.
The “Golden Opportunity” that I face today could be the new rung on my ladder or the same rung that breaks again on me, to heaven or to hell. It is the typical make-or-break situation that only my passion can determine. A moshpit of rookies, all itching for that golden prize, and that one gunslinging veteran who knows the in’s and out’s of this business. A superhero movie with every superhero imaginable, all fighting against the enemy, and that one godly being with every ability in existence. Frank Lynn, Warren Goodwin, Maxwell Dachs, Leeroy Jenkins, some mystery guy, and Ante Whitner.
We all have an opportunity in our grasp, one that could define any of us. We’re against each other, versus against versus against versus. A naval war where rowboats are just firing slingshots of pebbles at each other, childhood dreams coming true. Some are rogue, in it for themselves and for the glory, like Frank Lynn. And then there is one who wants everyone to work almost as a singular unit to overcome the disease the WFWF has inflicted upon us. That’s me.
Warren Goodwin is the indie wrestler, running through the circuit like a one-way motorway. He’s on a warpath, much like how I was. He doesn’t show any signs of stopping, who knows how he likes to cooperate. But, I can make him work, I can make him bend to my will. Not for evil, but for the good of the generations that follow us. If he is unable to cooperate, then he will be left back in the indies, unforgiven and embarassed.
Maxwell Dachs, surfing the tsunami of “Dachslemania”. He understands the crowd, he knows their motions. He wants to ride this wave forever, but who knows what could break his current. The Golden Opportunity match? Precisely, it’s either the Hurricane Matthew that intensifies his ocean or the barge that prevents catastrophic flooding. Either way, if he’s unwilling to cooperate, he’ll drown in his once-called ocean, now a tiny puddle.
Leeroy Jenkins, as much of the Internet meme he is, is a moonshiner, a backwoods degenerate. He’s a fighting man, willing to provide anything for his family, the support system he is able to fall back on. This Golden Opportunity could reap huge benefits for his family, backing on his win. If he’s unable to cooperate with my plan, he’ll drink away the moonshine he’s made and die a drunken has-been.
Frank Lynn, the ignorant MMA fighter, the rival of Leeroy Jenkins. The monster, the roid rager, the tactical fighter who only sees the prize and it’s golden hue, blind to the impact the Golden Opportunity can have on the WFWF. If he’s unable to cooperate with the plan, he will fade from relevance, as he told me himself, and become the shadow of himself, just like me.
Through all of the childhood nightmares, all of the drunken stories, all of the euphoric stoner trips, and all of the failed expectations, I never lost my passion for this sport. I never lost hope in where my career choice would get me down the road. In all of the clouded aspects of my future, there is one light that shines through, one that I’ll not only find, but one that is already here.
A Golden Opportunity. The plan, the Avengers, the boats, everything. I blinked once and it all just appeared right in front of me. The legacy I want to leave, the legacy I want my successors to leave. There’s one briefcase up there and we all are going to work to get it. Forget how we’re pitted against each other for one moment and focus on this briefcase. If we just take a moment to breathe and understand this opportunity, we can achieve anything.
Cooperation is key. Without it, the image of my mother’s grave comes to mind. A soaken, mossy, headstone that says the name “Whitner”. A legacy that I was meant to complete, just buried there; six feet under, silenced forever. Death is what I’m afraid of and death is afraid of me. I’ve made it this far without killing myself, what is left for Ante Whitner to achieve?
Everything. Everything Sam said, everything I said, everything Kyzer said, everything Donnie said, every single thing that planet Earth has to offer. The International title, the Tag-Team title, the World title, it’s all down the line. It’s just a matter of how I’ll get there. And that is all determined by this one match, this one Golden Opportunity.
Cooperate with me Max, Frank, Warren, and Leeroy, I ask you this once. Because SuperBrawl is upon us…
...and the roses are sold out. Don’t make me rob a nursery to get them.
I dont know good luck 
