International Assault RP: El Huracán

Ante Whitner RP
El Huracán

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The desert sun was setting, emitting a reddish-purplish haze. The colors were so bright and vibrant that the horizon seemed so round. Hell, it was so spherical and bended to the point you can count five separate storms spaced equally apart from each other in the distance. But, through the dimly lit and near-invisible storm clouds was a column of empty space, occupied only by a house. I smiled and walked toward it from my mini-desert mesa.

Although the house seemed miles away, I approached it fairly quickly, arriving at the front gate before I could count to ten. One, open the gate. Two. Three, enter the gate. Four. Five. Six, knock on the wooden door. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten, door opens.

It swings open violently with a sudden surge of desert wind trailing me. I forcibly shut the door, closing myself from the outside world with the little mound of sand that had formed. I continue to walk around the abandoned house, searching for any sign of life. Pieces of the house stick out to me like the furniture, the empty picture frames, and dimly lit candles. It all felt… familiar.

I walk upstairs to the second floor and see a feminine figure sitting in a rocking chair, staring out at the setting sun. Her stature reminded me of someone I knew, someone misleading. She says “the championship is next” in a motherly voice, referring to either me or some title. The figure stands up, taking off the white robes they had on. The robes drop to the floor and turn into gooey, dark ink, bleeding into the wooden floor. The person morphs into the figure of a man who is holding an object of some sort. He turns around and I know exactly it is.

Ben.

But, he’s not old Ben, he’s rotting, deformed, and bloody. Dead. The object he was holding was a portrait of my family; my father, my mother, Charlie, and myself. He started laughing as a crack in the glass formed around my youthful self. As he was melting away into dust and bones, he start to mumble.

Ben: You killed me Ante. You killed…

He disappeared, sweat is forming in my pits. I realized that this house was my childhood home as I pressed my hands into broken beer bottle glass trying to recover the picture. When I found the picture and held it in my bloodied hands, it instantly fell into sand with Ben’s remains. I heard a large BOOM and looked outside the window. The setting sun was no more. It was now a bright orange nuclear fireball, hurtling towards me. Whispers began to plague my shocked and terrified soul. “You did it, you did it.” The explosion engulfs me, excruciating pain ensues.

My eyes shoot wide open.

---

September 16th, 2017
“Ashes to Ashes”

My eyes couldn’t move besides stare straight at the ceiling. The reddish hue was due to the popped blood vessels in my eye. I’m blinded by the passing lights and itch to get out of the stretcher. I moved violently as they were bringing me into the ambulance.

James: ANTE!!

The stretcher would’ve tipped over, sending my body flying to the cold concrete, if James hadn’t caught me.

James: You’re a f*ckin’ madman.

I try to say some witty half-ass quip in response but all I can muster is muffled underneath my oxygen mask. I’m strapped to the stretcher like Hannibal Lecter awaiting trial, the only difference being I enjoy the restraints and he didn’t. The restraints fill me with power and a motivation to overcome despair. I’m not overcoming it this time however. I am despair.

They load me into the ambulance, fading in and out of consciousness like a rubber chicken every time it’s squeezed. I heard my brother squeezing that damn thing in my head the whole ride to the hospital. James is in the ambulance with me, holding the IV bag as my organs continue to bleed. Schneider did a number on me, but somehow I’m not dead. Whether I make it to the hospital or not is in fate’s hands, that damn b*tch.

The last thing I remember was being unloaded from the truck and rushed inside. My eyes, unable to turn, flood with red, blood oozing into my eyes like a spring geyser. I crave that bloodlust feeling and seeing the pain I’m in from a third person perspective, an out of body experience. It fuels my flame. I keep thinking and thinking until I begin to feel overwhelmed and suddenly black out. The last time I was in the hospital I was in a coma for two weeks.

This time was a month.


October 17th, 2017
Carolinas Medical Center

Dr. Fortmeyer: I told you last time that if one more visit to the hospital was made, you’d be dead.

Ante: Am I f*ckin’ dead?

The douchebag know-it-all, sitting behind his maple desk and leather swinging chair. I’ve been peeling back the nails of my fingers as he says the words “it’s time to quit”. I make plans in my head to use those bloody, chipped nails to stab him to death. Through the eyes, through the mouth, and through the neck. Only thing stopping me is that James is right beside me and he’ll restrain me better than the stretcher can.

James: Ante, chill.

Who knew James would’ve evolved from an instigating sack of sh*t to my moral ego and agent? I feel powerless when I’m near him, even when I’ve stood up to him. He has motivations and continue to stealthily progress through them. I start tapping my leg in nervous frustration.

Dr. Fortmeyer: Like I said, it’s a miracle that you’re here, a miracle that you were alive last time too. But this is your second serious medical condition in two months. Does that not jump at you?

Ante: Not at all, I feel fine.

Perhaps I shouldn’t tell him the endless vomiting this morning, the fever I had an hour ago, or the endless picking at loose pieces of my peeling skin. The scar tissue has turned ugly and deformed, the way I like it. Long have I desired for scars and sh*t like that, the way they glorified it in western movies was great.

Dr. Fortmeyer: Well, you seem to forget the vomiting, the fever, and the bleeding pieces of skin on your left arm.

F*ckin’ hell.

Ante: Oh, I didn’t forget doc.

Dr. Fortmeyer: What about your thoughts, emotions, feelings?

Ante: I haven’t had any of those thoughts since I last saw you.

I almost started laughing maniacally over that lie. In fact, the mental sh*t has been dialed up to 100 since my match with Schneider. I’ve had more urges and thoughts to shoot up a high school in a glorious massacre-suicide in one week than I’ve had in my entire life. The bombs, the knives, the guns, and fire all makes me quiver with butterflies in my stomach where in the past, I’d hate to think of it. I feel a stiffy in my crotch and angle myself more towards James to hide it.

James: Ante. The dream you had.

Perhaps this country doesn’t need gun control. They need Ante control. At this point, I’ve pulled off my middle fingernail completely off, the cuticle ripped and everything.

Dr. Fortmeyer: Tell me this dream you had. Was it chaotic and violent? Did anything jump out at you?

Ante: Yeah, this did.

I flip him off with the same middle finger I had taken the nail off of. I hear him utter a short gasp. I feel James’s hand on my shoulder pulling me back into my seat. Fortmeyer tells James to bring me outside in a not-so secret whisper. Next thing, I find myself outside with fire crotch. I rub the bloody finger and lick it, peeling the tiny pieces of nail left over. James swats my hand down.

James: Do you want to get better mate?

Ante: Of course.

James: Then what the hell are you doin’ in there?!

Ante: According to him, I’m “mentally handicapped” so I shouldn’t even be in there in the first place. I should be in a ward, strapped to a bed, and loaded up with drugs.

James: This is real treatment mate, not experimental government sh*t they did in the fifties.

He’s right. Echoes of Ben’s voice runs rampant in his words.

James: Fortmeyer told me that you should rest for the remainder of the night and watch TV or some sh*t. He concluded that talking to you the day after you’d wake up was a bad idea.

Ante: No sh*t. I can’t walk around?

James: He’d prefer you not to. Anyways, I think Frankie and Elijah are coming sometime today or tomorrow, not sure. They both called me yesterday when you woke up.

I feel time slipping by like a sweeping natural disaster, a hurricane or mudslide of some sort. To think I was knocked out cold for a month is pretty f*ckin’ disturbing.

Ante: Be honest with me, was I really out for a month?

James: Yes, why?

Ante: Are you sure?

James: Yes, I’ve been out of a job for a month.

It’s honestly felt like two minutes. But every time he says yes to my question, I feel the skin graft I initially dug into goes deeper and grows tanner, fading into my actual skin.

Ante: Okay, it’s just.. everything has moved so fast.

James: How so?

I feared he’d ask that once I brought up the topic. I’d rather rip out my teeth and make a necklace out of them. Or scalps, I don’t know.

Ante: Don’t pry me James.

James: I asked a valid question, are you serious?

Ante: I’d wanna talk about it when I could sh*t by myself and pour my own cereal.

I walk back to my room down the hall, stumbling a little to my sleep paralysis that hasn’t shaken since yesterday night. I hear James yelling at me, but I can’t hear him. My eyes can’t turn and my body is sent into an excruciating shock of pain. I fall to the ground and black out.

Idiot.

Later that evening…

Elijah: Ant’, you good?

First time I’ve seen Elijah in a couple of months. He looks more relaxed and calm than I thought he would. It bothers me.

Ante: Yeah, when did you get here?

Elijah: Half-hour ago, nurses told me to keep you asleep. Your friend Frankie is here too.

The urge to somehow hate Frankie and ignore his existence returns.

Ante: I’ll talk to him later. How’s the business?

Elijah: Folded. Bankrupt. Crushed.

How terrible.

Ante: Oh.

Elijah: I spent way too much money than we earned. The deficit just got way too overwhelmed that we refused to pay some of the wrestlers.

Ante: Damn.

Making a federation in today’s post-truth world is hard as f*ck. I’d chop off my arm and sell it to a Vietnamese butcher to run a federation challenging the WFWF. Maybe I could create death matches without the glory of earning titles or money. You don’t fight for dough, you kill for honor and glory. Elijah had the money, but not the grasp. He was simply a rich fan trying to make his lifelong hobby a reality. Some things weren’t meant to be.

Elijah: How are you feeling? I haven’t seen you since you peeled that nasty sh*t off your skin.

Ante: Absolute sh*t.

I guess the thing that makes me afraid the most is that I would be even worse after the match with Schneider. Not just physically, but mentally too. And I fear that may have happened.

Elijah: Do they know exactly what happened with you?

Ante: Did you not see my body flinging around in that flame ridden ring? Did you not see the blood on the barbed wire ropes and the white mat turn completely red? I’m a mess.

Elijah: I told you, that sh*t sickens me. I’m not watching fight club, I’m supposed to watch wrestling.

Ante: Then go back to the 1920s where they’d hang you for being a n*gger.

Ha.

Elijah: I knew there’d be some day you’d use the hard “r”.

Do I care? No.

Ante: If you wanna be a wrestler so bad, look at me. F*ckin’ look at me!!

I scream and squirm in my bed. I take him by the neck.

Ante: Would you rather choke on a noose from a pear tree or take that scalpel over there and cut me to pieces??!!!

He pushes my weak body away. I’m in terrible pain again.

Elijah: F*ck you Ante.

I’m feeling no remorse.

Ante: It’s the truth.

Elijah: Then I don’t want to be a wrestler anymore. Then I don’t want any part in this bullsh*t.

Elijah has been paying my rent and hospital bills since it’s come to the point where I can’t afford them. I need him. F*ck the invisible hand.

Ante: I’m sorry.

Desperation.

Elijah: I’ll see you around Ante.

He slams the door and a nurse comes in, asking if it was okay if one more guest can come in. You gotta love just waking up to a guy standing over you and having to scream.

I nod yes, picking at the gum in between my teeth. I poke at it too hard and it starts to bleed. Tastes better than any of the hospital food they’ve given me. Expecting the fat, crippled, Danny DeVito-esque to wheel himself in, I was surprised by someone else.

It was Ivy, James’s sister.

Ivy: Ante?

I’m silent. But, f*ck, she’s still hot and has an amazing ass.

Ante: Hey.

She sits on my bed. Her tattoos are brighter and longer than they used to. The “girl with the dragon tattoo”.

Ivy: James doesn’t know I’m here.

Ante: I’m sure.

She looks down at her nails as she continues to talk to me. Maintain eye contact c*nt.

Ivy: How are you? It’s been a while.

Ante: I’ve seen better days Vee.

“Vee” was her nickname I gave her. James unironically used it when he used to taunt me and be a cowardly, bony, wannabe Bond villain. Simpler times. I notice a tear forming in her eye.

Ivy: I don’t think you’ve ever seen a good day. It reminds me of my father.

James and Ivy’s father died not too long ago. Massive heart attack at the pub, comatose for weeks until they decided to take him off life support. If only that could be me right now.

Ante: You’re right.

Ivy: Yeah.

Ante: What prompted you to come here?

She pauses and wipes the tear away. I feel my hands digging into the mattress I’m buried in, almost trying to claw myself out and avoid this situation. This is probably my biggest mental test yet.

Ivy: I needed to run. I needed to escape and breathe in the fresh air.

Ante: What?

If fresh air is bottles of grandpa piss, used needles, and latex, she’s in the right place. But, man, I’m beyond confused.

Ante: Why did you come here of all places?

She remains silent and lifts up her shirt and shows me something very interesting. She’s covered in bruises, self-inflicted cuts, and scratch marks. She’s in an abusive relationship.

Ante: Who did this to you?

F*ck you compassionate Ante.

Ivy: My boyfriend.

Bingo. The heavy amount of concealer gave it away.

Ante: Sh*t.

Wife-beaters, girlfriend-beaters, and abusive men are pigs and deserve the electric chair. It’s one quality of human nature I can’t stand, even in this amoral state. Something about her is jumping out at me that makes me not wanna hear the rest of her story. Maybe it’s her tits.

We’re on the same page, both physically and mentally f*cked up. Only difference is that you can actually leave your house in the morning and do whatever you want.

Ante: So how the f*ck did you get here?

Ivy: He’s out of town, “business”.

Ante: Then, where are you gonna go?

This conversation has become so predictable. I’d rather just choke her out right here and slide my big willy in there. Hopefully she stays long enough for that to be consensual.

Ivy: I’m gonna stay with James. Or hopefully, you.

Two bingos. Thoughts of pounding this girl get larger and larger. I want her to peel my bandages off and put her fingers in each open wound, squeezing it until I bleed and scream. Masochism is all the craze for me these days.

Ante: I don’t think you’d…

One of the nurses walks in, the gay guy. He tells me it’s time for my MRI and that Ivy needs to leave. Finally, something to get me out of this encounter.

Ivy: I’ll see you around Ante. Feel better.

And just like that, the hottest piece of ass has left the building. Can’t say I wanted a conversation with her in this kinda setting, but physically seeing her definitely brightened my evening. She made me feel like I wasn’t alone or suffering by myself.



She made me feel…



Loved.

---

The International title, huh? The title that has alluded me every chance I’ve gotten? The title WFWF puts on the line because they absolutely hate Dave Brennan? Huh.

It’s pretty much common knowledge at this point that I’m a one pump chump who blows his load way too early. I’m a proverbial one hit wonder as Schneider used to say.

I was told I beat Schneider and I didn’t take it with a grain of salt. Not because that I was certain I had won, but rather because this was another example of how “big match Ante” is victorious over some legendary macho man and receives nothing but pain afterward. It’s a trend, but at this point, it’s become a figment of my character. A literal one pump chump.

For the past year, I’ve planned to correct that. But, time and time again, I’ve fallen victim to my own mortality. When people say the sky's the limit, I say it’s bullsh*t and that your body is the limit. If you’re an asshat saying that, just look at my medical records for the past couple of months, forget the years. It takes me two looks at a bottle of water to realize that it’s not some poisoned chalice, but rather a stupid Poland Spring water bottle. My own reality has been turned upside down so many times that I dream of killing humanity and enslaving everyone to my own will. The exit, voice, and loyalty game is mine motherf*ckers.

But, there’s something about wrasslin’ that makes me keep coming back. I don’t know if it’s the thrill, the crowd, or the other wrestlers, but it’s just always been there. My gorefest version of reality is how I’ve lived for the past few years. If I see poison chalices instead of bottles of water, I still don’t see wrestling as something else. It’s always been “wrestling”, “fighting”, and “organized chaos”.

When I tell people unknowing of my career what I do for a living, I tell them I’m a butcher because in honesty, I don’t see a difference between the two. Whatever Frank Lynn does to change that, I’ll pretty much undo because the last thing I’ll ever want to change is my career, my sport, my passion.

My life.

With everything that’s been changing for the past year, my passion for wrestling hasn’t altered once. And now that I’m at this point of complete mental instability and poor health, it’s finally hitting me that it all could be over. Not because of my deteriorating condition, but because I just don’t see the drive in everyone else.

Everytime I walk into the arena now, it feels more empty. Everytime I walk backstage, there’s less boots screeching on the glossed tile. The WFWF is becoming more of a graveyard than a melting pot of opportunity. I know it and so does the few remaining wrestlers. Hell, it’s probably why Schneider wanted to kill me because I was the only one who had the passion like him.

But, when there’s a single piece of gold on the line, everyone and their mothers clamor to get their way into the match. Stan McMann, Devilkiller, Kyle Edwards, hell probably even Dave Demento, will all come out to this match. Why? Because it’s an open invite to challenge the International Champion.

What happened to the passion? What happened to the packed crowds and bloodfest main events with not a single title on the line? It makes you wonder if wrestling in general is even worth it, worth all of the pain. It’s come to a point where if you don’t hold a piece of gold, you have no significance. Everyone comes and goes, but I’ve been here suffering since day one and never once amounted my personal suffering to vying for gold. I’m always “taking one for the team”. I’ve had enough.

Frank Lynn, focus your petty “revolution” on why we fight each other and not how goddamn it. I think that’s more important because without we can’t think of ways to hurt each other. You effectively kill the problem before it develops into a beast. Take my advice, I’ll help you if you need it.

But, otherwise, I’m taking my last one for the team. If Schneider didn’t kill me, the WFWF will in a glorious murder-suicide. Jesus was executed by the Romans for being a heretic. Why’d he die a martyr?

Because he died for your sins. I will gladly die for yours.

---

October 21, 2017
Carolinas Medical Center

My hands have been aching from all of the therapy and punches into the concrete wall. Hell, I almost broke my entire right hand in frustration. The cross-dressing nanny has been accompanying me everywhere, making sure I don’t suddenly stab a guard with a pencil or break open the snack machine for some Sun Chips. Sometimes I mess with him by lunging at a random person and I hear his feminine voice go “staaaappppp”. It’s more enjoyable than reality TV.

The queer is bringing me to a room with James and Fortmeyer again to discuss some plans for my future. I got my MRI results yesterday and they weren’t good at all. I ain’t no doctor, but when I see shrunken pieces of my brain, I know it ain’t spectacular. Fortmeyer said I should stay in the hospital for a few more weeks to run more tests and improve my motor functions. Despite the mental calamities, there’s only one other serious condition that puts me at risk. I’ve partially lost feeling in my legs.

I thought it was a temporary paralysis kinda deal, but it hasn’t improved since I woke up and Fortmeyer said it’s most likely permanent. Paralysis, not being able to walk straight, f*ck… it scares the living sh*t outta me. I had a mental breakdown last night just thinking about it. How mangled and crippled I could be, how I could be a fat f*ck sitting in a chair for the rest of my life, f*ckkk. I don’t want to be the next Percy Panhandler.

I slowly open the door into the meeting room, almost like an interrogation room. Elijah is surprisingly there too. Great.

Dr. Fortmeyer: Hello Ante, please sit down.

I sit down humbly in my chair, trying my best not to scream like a girl.

Dr. Fortmeyer: So, I’ll start off with this Mr. Whitner and please do not freak out. This is a very serious matter you’ve gotten yourself into and it takes a lot of care and precision to pinpoint your recovery and rehab. That being said, you’re here today to talk about your career moving forward.

Ante: You don’t need to explain it dumbass, I know why I’m here right now.

I vision it in my head. “You’re gonna have to retire”, “you’re gonna have to find some other hobby”. Thing is, this is not my hobby, this is my life. I was born to do this. It’s like teaching a kid to learn a bike and then tell him to unlearn it. It’s simply impossible.

Dr. Fortmeyer: In order to fully recover from your recent injuries and the long term mental effects, you’re gonna need to take a break from wrestling.

Well a break is temporary so f*ck, I’m shocked.

James: Because of this, I’m gonna take you to a new facility, one equipped with a diagnosis of your size.

I chuckle.

Ante: What am I, a cripple, an epileptic? What?

Fortmeyer and James pause and look at each other.

Dr. Fortmeyer: You have grade two brain degradation, along with your already-diagnosed bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, anxiety, A.D.H.D., and delusional disorder.

Sh*t.

James: You’re dying Ante, faster than we thought.

Dr. Fortmeyer: Well, stage two doesn’t spread as quickly and could be treated. But, again, you need a better facility equipped with state-of-the-art technology.

Ante: I…

Elijah: I know how hard this is for you.

No, no he f*ckin’ doesn’t. For someone so open to the grim reaper, this sh*t terrifies me. I’d rather a quick, painless death, not the masochist daydreams I enjoy manifested into a tumor making me a f*ckin’ vegetable over a long ass period of time. Masochism works for a short period of time, not for eternity. It’s a sudden rush, not an everlasting orgasm.

Ante: I thought you said you wanted nothing to do with me motherf*cker.

Elijah: I never said..

James interjects.

James: We’ve found a place in Florida, near where you used to live. It’s a great facility, Elijah knows a few of the people who run it.

Dr. Fortmeyer: We're prepared to fly you out sometime this weekend, if that’s fine with you.

Anything to get me out of this goddamn prison.

Ante: Yeah, uh, that’s fine.

Dr. Fortmeyer: I’m sorry. If there’s anything you need, feel free to ask.

As he gets up to leave, I ask a question.

Ante: Doc.

Dr. Fortmeyer: Yes?

Ante: How long until I get back into the ring?

He was shocked. As if I wouldn’t ask any other question.

Dr. Fortmeyer: Um, I think it’ll be a decent amount of time, if at all.

Ante: Thanks.

Fortmeyer and Elijah leave, but James sits with me. He moves to the seat closer to me and lays out a briefcase. Not just any briefcase.

Ante: Why did you bring that here?

James: Take it, we leave tomorrow.

Ante: What?

James: You heard me. We’re getting out of here tomorrow.

Ante: To where? To Florida?

James: No, to Puerto Rico.

Puerto Rico? Am I going on a f*ckin’ bucket list vacation in a hurricane-devastated country?

Ante: Why?

James: Open the case.

Muscle memory cracks the code. I shuffle past my note to Ben and the loose Xanax pills. James had put in a printed out an announcement from Lila Sleater, a transcript of some kind.

James: Read it.

I read every word and line. She’s pitting Dave Brennan against the world for the International title. Holy sh*t.

Ante: Are you serious?

James: Yes, very.

Ante: I thought you were on the doc’s good side.

James: It was my suggestion to move you down to Florida, it was his for you to retire and stay in this sh*thole for months. What do you say mate?

My skepticism of James arises again. He’s onto something and part of me enjoys it, but the other hates it. I contemplate if he’s possibly trying to kill me by getting me involved in these big matches with huge implications. Am I a lamb pegged to slaughter? Probably.

Ante: F*ck. Sure, let’s do it.

James: Great, remember we leave tomorrow.

Ante: Yeah, I gotcha.

James: What’s wrong? If this was me the last time you were here, you would be jumping out of your seat.

Ivy comes to my mind and how she visited me.

Ante: Your sister visited me.

James: Vee? Why?

Ante: She says we’re very much the same. She’s…

James: I know, she reached out to me the other day. But, how did she… how did she know about you being here in the Carolinas?

Ante: I don’t know.

Pieces of my memory fall back into place. I have short-term memory loss, thanks to this sh*t. I don’t remember the words said, but the images are...falling...wait.

No.

James: Ante?

Ante: I gotta go.

I cling to the walls and push my way out.

James: Are you alright? Let me bring you back to the room mate.

James guides me to my room. F*ck, f*ck, f*ck. I can’t believe…

I make it to my bed and James leaves the room to call for help.

I...raped her.

---

Welcome to the downward spiral of Ante “the Prophet of Ass” Whitner. Welcome to the journey that somehow did not conclude last show, but most likely concludes now. Welcome to the motherf*ckin’ show.

I’ve heard the very few visitors who gave a damn about me each say “you should’ve died” or “how the f*ck are you still alive”. It was not “you could’ve” or “wow, you’re alive”, no, it was a shock. To be honest, it was a shock to me too. When I woke up, I thought I had woken up on a distant planet, far away from the disgusting swamp I call home. I thought for once, I was finally away from all of the bullsh*t in my life.

I crawled out of that fire pit Schneider and I dived into unconsciously. I didn’t know I had won. I didn’t know I had actually lived until I woke up from my deep sleep. Perhaps I’m still dead, distantly dreaming in the realms of purgatory. I don’t know man.

But, something has drawn me here. No it’s not the title that attracts me, no it's not Dave Brennan who has called me out. It’s that plea for help, that plea to finally make myself a phenom. Up until this point, I’ve been that one pump chump, the man who blows every opportunity presented. To everyone, I’m a failure and a lonely sack of sh*t who either needs to go home or die. To Drakz, Michael Kyzer, Phillip Schneider, and Dave Brennan, I’m another shoe cleaner, wiping every speck of dust off their brand new kicks, despite the fact that I f*ckin’ stepped on both Schneider and Kyzer like a bug.

They calculated their nostalgic orgy until I was unrecognizable and being escorted out of the arena on a gurney. They knew I didn’t matter to them, they knew I was just like the undercard, vying for opportunities and either blowing them or gaining noise before being squished. They knew I was that one pump chump, that two second wonder. But, I’m not. And that’s why I think this match has been conducted.

It’s not an open invitational. It’s a power struggle, giving every man in the WFWF the chance to build a legacy in their name. Maybe they can get free dental, or maybe they can give the championship as a Christmas present to their kids. Or maybe there’s someone like me, who will take that f*ckin’ title and burn it. Why? Because it’s nothing. People think it’s gold, expensive, and prestigious. I see it as another belt I can wear around my waist so my flab doesn’t keel over my jeans. I have enough leather belts at home to keep my pants uptight for months, I don’t need the International title.

However, I’m gonna grab that sh*t from Brennan. I’m gonna yank it from his clammy, egotistical hands. It’s like stealing candy from a crying baby, it’s for your benefit and it's oddly enjoyable. I’m grabbing the title for a sole purpose; I’m going to show how wrestling isn’t defined by the men who hold the flimsy belts.

I’m gonna show how wrestling is defined by the blood and sweat put into the everyone’s collective passion. I’m gonna show how my deteriorating health is all worth it for this industry. I’m gonna show how you don’t need a massive ego or a Harvard degree to usurp a championship title.

Shun me for this, but I absolutely love how this stupid gauntlet is set in a hurricane-devastated San Juan. It’s ironic as f*ck. Among the ruins of a civilization, some douchebag white girl from America sets up a championship match for everyone to blow their money on. She’s gonna sell out seats for sure, but she’s gonna leave kids and parents starving as they blow their last penny on seeing sweaty men fight each other for a f*ckin’ white belt. If you don’t call that racial pride, then I don’t know what is. Hurricane Maria was like a manifest destiny, giving Lila the divine right to set up a f*ckin’ title match in a “savage” land in an attempt to make it more “civilized”. F*ckin’ sick.

Then again, I’m the one who peels back skin for pleasure. Then again, I’m the broken assh*le who just won’t go away. Then again, James announced to the world that I’m retiring when I’m secretly heading to Puerto Rico for an International championship match. I have motives, motives that cannot be stopped. What else can’t be stopped?

A f*ckin’ hurricane.

It's no f*ckin' clue I’m unhinged and psychotic. I went to the extremes with trying to kill Schneider. But, like I said with my win over Kyzer, I don’t feel fulfilled. I’m still hungry for more meat and blood, figuratively and literally. My desire for power has brought me to borderline cannibal levels. I’m broke, ruthless, and hungry. The combination of those three is more toxic than oxy and moonshine.

Dave Brennan built himself on oxy and moonshine. He poisoned himself with the glory of championship pride that he has literally every single title available in active competition in his grasp. Who let him do that? Everyone of us. Why did Lila make this match? To make us realize our huge mistake. People will see the piece of sh*t Brennan is, the piece of sh*t the institution is, and the piece of sh*t I am. They’ll see the side of me that killed Phillip Schneider and the side that held a title vicariously for 200 days.

Call me the Bloodied Eagle one more time.

And to all of the other f*cks in this match, don’t expect much. You’ll bury me six feet under into the ruins of San Juan, sure. But you can’t kill the machine, the machine that rolls over anyone who gets caught in the onset of championship glory. I’m a steamroller, ready to make landfall among another piece of land that is oblivious to everything.

That piece of land is the WFWF ring with Dave Brennan standing in the middle of it.

You f*cks want gold? Take it. You f*cks want glory? Earn it. You f*cks want to prove a point? Join me. Because otherwise, I’m the category five that’ll empty your supermarket shelves and make your lives a living nightmare. After I’m done, they’ll create a category six. After I’m done, they’ll forget all of you existed. After I’m done, they’ll look upon you like a lost puppy. After I’m done, you’ll all be nothing.

I’m the hurricane that destroyed Michael Kyzer. I’m the hurricane that destroyed Phillip Schneider. I’m the hurricane that will destroy Dave Brennan. I’m the hurricane that will destroy you.

I’m the hurricane that will destroy the WFWF.

Fear me.