Post by Drakz on Oct 3, 2018 19:01:27 GMT -5
”3”
(A.K.A. A Trio of C*ntinents)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well that’s the f*cking mystique gone then.
Captain invincible drops a bollock on a global scale.
2 matches in to my farewell tour and I’ve lost.
Me.
Drakz.
Lost.
I know, I’m still in shock as well but, regardless of my resumé, I’m not going to get all knotted up over it. I’ve done my fair share of bragging over the years about my near perfect record, but wouldn’t you? I think I’ve earned the right to shout about my sh*t. 12 years deep and a set of scalps like no other. Maybe if I were more organised I’d have them all dried, pressed and kept in a book?
I missed out on a real f*cker of an addition to the collection though, don’t you think? Zmey’s lid would have dwarfed a lot of the older stuff. I’d like to say ‘next time’ but I’m not sure there’ll be one. Tugarin Zmey goes where he’s told, and if he’s not told to stand in front of me……..
Not being able to get your win back is a bitter d*ck to suck, but given that he didn’t beat me I’ll take it to the hilt. For clarity, I use the term ‘beat’ in place of “earn a victory over”, because he sure as sh*t beat the living piss out of me. I may be guilty of poetic license from time to time, but I’m not a liar. I still feel like crap, and it’s that Slavic (see: Mongolian) mountain wot did it.
What’s important though is that we all see this the same way.
I lost.
That’s the way that everyone will talk about it. No one gives a f*ck that Zmey won, because let’s be honest, he didn’t. I lost. Zmey was just there when it happened.
Chances are that’s the last we’ll hear from Tugarin, except as a bit player in a larger production, and I can only hope Michael’s done with throwing warm bodies in my path. You know it won’t stop me. You know I’ll always steamroll through. By hook or by crook…….or steel chair. Whichever’s handy at that given moment.
I’ve no idea what the f*ck those two bums are doing with you at the moment but, so long as they keep their hands to themselves, I’ll let them be. If that really is Alex and E then shame on them for succumbing to normality. It’s the human condition to devolve into a disgusting sack of sh*t once their prime slips away, but I always thought better of the two of you. Maybe I’d hoped you’d stay coiled like a spring in your absence, simply waiting for me to call you out. Just to become a couple more scalps for the hardback, leather bound, gild lettered tome of yours truly. Alas it looks as though you’re both past that, stuck now collecting up the dead skin of Our Stoned Messiah each time he sheds.
And yet as I say all of this there is still one man, not in between Kyzer and I, but looming in from stage right. Sh*t kickers primed and ready to boot teeth down throats.
David.
I’ve honestly never hated David Brennan. That’s not to say there hasn’t been any manifestations of ill will between us, but it’s mostly been a one way thing. Dave got it into his head, somewhere along the line, that I was the cause of his problems. The reason he’d slumped back into being a f*cking nobody with a habit. Now I don’t know exactly what he said to that evangelical kid he was riding with for a time, but based on here-say it doesn’t seem as though much of it was all too positive. Coupled with the way his sterner half regards me I think it’s fair to say he’s probably hated me at some point. Maybe he still does?
Who knows?
Who the f*ck even cares?
But no, I’ve never hated him. There was a stint where I thought he was a f*cking loser that refused to be helped for the sake of romanticising his own downfall, but no, never hated the guy.
At this point I’d go so far as to say he’s the closest thing I’ve got to a friend, and even then he’s a good few hours drive from it. But there aren’t many people who welcome me into their homes. I’ve still been in to a fair few, but usually under duress.
Not me.
So, as I was saying. I’ve got no reason to slap Dave about, none at all. Well, perhaps one. But it’s less to do with him, and more to do with not letting a snake squirm back into the sand unpunished. I need to stick me a nail through it, stop it in its tracks.
What does a man do in this situation then? Two men stand across from me. One in need of a good kicking, and one who happens to be holding my belt. Well I know neither of them are going to pull any punches when it comes to me, so f*ck it. I’ll be coming out swinging. Naturally with a bit more vitriol when I’m facing one corner, but if David tempts fate then I’ll put that big f*cker down. He might be the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, hell he might even be the guy I wanted to take my place at the top, but I’m Mr f*cking 8.5.1, and if it’s a tried and tested challenger he’s really gunning for, if it’s a war to really cement him as a true fighting champion then I’ll give him both barrels, the kitchen sink, all the tea in China and any other worn out WFWF metaphorical trope.
I know you’ve enjoyed your run as champion about as much as boring out a second arse hole. I know it’s ground you down to the point that you’re tired and just want to be left the f*ck alone. That’s why I hope you’ll consider any aggression thrown your way at Wembley as a mercy killing. I’ll help you get out………if you want me to.
Don’t fall on your sword though. Show me why I was right to choose you in the first place.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
01. Asia
“What the f*ck was that?!”
I’m only moments removed from a chair shot to the head, and now I have my least favourite slug howling in my f*cking face with her tech headphones still around her neck. I’ve only got one eye open as I reply.
“What?!”
“That finish?!”
“Oh f*ck off Sleater.”
I just walk past her, forcing her to unplug herself and leave the gorilla position. She trots along side me, like a hyena, ready to pick off her injured quarry.
“That’s not good enough! Why the hell did you just force the referee’s decision? You’re supposed to be my star attraction. Isn’t that what you said?”
“And I still am. Now if you wouldn’t mind I’ve got a thumping headache.”
I try to pick up the pace, in the hope she’ll give up, but my muscles are burning so much that even a walk is trying.
“Aren’t you the one who always harps on about his f*cking record? You’re nothing if you start losing.”
She’s persistent. Though she might live to regret it.
“For f*ck sakes Sleater. Do you really think any of this is about wins and losses anymore? Do you even remember why I’m back in your charge? Or have you already forgotten where I’ve been for the last 18 months? I’m not here to win championships, as much as my saying that might ‘devalue’ your f*cking toys. I’m not even here to win matches.
I will win them.
But that’s not why I’m back. That’s not my concern. I’m here solely to settle my accounts.
You f*cking well know all of this.”
She sneers and starts to shake her head.
“Don’t give me that bull sh*t. You can play this game all you want. Trying to force me on to the hook. I’m not going to bite d*ck head, I’ve not got time to be deviating. This farce with Tugarin? It’s a deviation.
You put the big c*nt in front of me. I just did my best to survive and make it to my next port of call. I never asked for this. I’ve only asked for one thing. Just one thing, and you’re failing to do even that.”
I’m getting riled. Mostly due to the screaming ring in my right ear from all the blunt force trauma, but also partly because this f*cking dive bar of a woman doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.
“So if you want to know how many f*cks I give about sending the fans home happy, or ensuring your ratings tick over nicely, well then. Do you really need me to finish? I’m sure even you can work out where I was going with that, right?”
She still doesn’t look ready to back down. I suppose because this is all happening out in front of the staff and talent. Lila doesn’t want to look weak in front of the employees now does she?
“I’m giving you an opportunity to make things right. The least you could do is pretend to give a sh*t.”
I turn and slam my hands against the wall on either side of her head, not giving her any where to move. Immediately her facial expression changes to concern as she questions her own safety.
“I am pretending! I’ve flown to the other side of the world to fight a f*cking dragon in YOUR main event. I could just stay home. I could sit out this whole damn global sh*t show, in favour of just waiting for you all to come back. Lila I’m trying to pretend as best I can, but right now, right at this moment, my patience is wearing so thin you can see my tits through it.
I tried to disable Tugarin Zmey. I had no intention of finishing that match as per your laws of the land. No. I wanted rid of that big sack of sh*t, with no chance of him showing up later to return the favour, because in case you haven’t noticed, Michael Kyzer’s always been pretty good at putting a human barrier up around himself.”
I’m right up in her face, but you should all be proud that my voice is staying fairly low key. Or at least I thought so until….
“Hey buddy, you need to cool off.”
A hand on my shoulder that tries to pull me away. At first I just ignore it, but they are relentless. I turn from Sleater and grab the shirt collar of whoever the f*ck is interjecting, pinning them against the opposite wall of the narrow corridor.
“Don’t do anything stupid now.”
Billy f*cking Broom. What is his deal? Twice in a night? Since when did ‘put your hands on the greatest of all time’ fall somewhere in between ‘lick the toilet bowl clean’ and ’mop up the puddles of Obo’s semen after a death match’?
“Stupid? Are you f*cking with me? You need to remember where on this pile of muscle bound f*ck heads you stand mate. I’ll give you a clue, it’s the bottom. I suppose that wasn’t really a clue…..but the point stands. Keep your f*cking nose out of my business old man, or I’ll send you home with a flag draped over your box.”
“Is that a threat?”
For him to be answering back means I’m not squeezing his larynx even half as hard as I should be, so I remedy that as his face begins to walk further through the shades of red, towards purple.
“A threat? No, that’s a friendly warning. A threat would be my saying what I’ll do to your daughter the day she ticks over into legality.”
Another set of hands on me. Christ. Why won’t they let me wreak havoc in peace?
“Get off him!”
As if on cue, the janitor’s daughter tries to free her Father. I’m not in the business of slapping around teenage girls unless one of us is getting paid for it, so I let the sweating patriarch slump down the wall to the floor, this young girl checking on him. He’s fine. He might have almost lost consciousness, but so long as he hasn’t got any previous traumas to the brain he’ll be fine. So sayeth Isaac Cray M.D.
“Jesus christ man! You can’t just attack the staff like that! Are you insane?”
“Am I insane? What is this?”
I dunno? Am I? Aren’t we all? And I don’t mean that in some “deep & philosophical” 2008 WFWF way. No I’m talking about the fact we all go out, in front of thousands, and try to kill each other in our under pants, with straight faces. I’m just floating it as an idea. But that. That’s nuts.
“Your not a damn competitor after that bell rings. You just assaulted a member of the public. He could press charges.”
ha, hahah, HA!
“Hahaha, wait.”
I need to compose myself a second.
“I really want to see Billy “the piss porter” trying to talk to a Japanese police man. Do you have any idea how intimidated a cop over here would be if he was looking dead on at that very red and bald man’s face?! HAHA!”
This is killing me. I ache all over, I can barely stand after fighting a dragon and 3 fat, old fellas, but it might be a fit of the giggles that finishes the job.
“You need to get your sh*t together Isaac!”
Saaaaaaaaaay what? Oh tell me she didn’t just use my government name.
“Go take a shower.”
“Nope. That’s not how we’re leaving this. Not until you tell me where the f*ck Michael Kyzer is? I see you churning my f*cking butter but I haven’t heard anything about my illegal assailant.”
We pause for applause.
“Well?”
“We don’t know.”
“Little louder please?”
“I said we don’t know!”
“This is rich.”
The adrenaline of this sh*t is the only thing keeping me upright.
“So you chew my ear off about a DQ stoppage, but you’ve lost the three fat blokes who attacked me after the fact? F*ck you.
I’ll just weed him out myself.
Advertise the meeting of minds for the next show. Don’t fluff it. Main event spot. Got it? Good. Well, I guess I’ll see YOU ALL!”
I address the crowd of milk drinkers that have gathered in the corridor.
“In Meh-hico.
I’m going for a shower.”
And, with the beginnings of a stiffening, I hobble off and do just that.
Stupid c*nts.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
02. North America
“Please empty your pockets, remove any electrical items….laptops, phones, e-readers, from your bag and place them in the tray. Please also do the same with any belts or boots that are above ankle height.”
I’ve been through airport security in so many different countries that all of this has become common place. I’m on autopilot as I approach the metal detectors, my mind drifting off toward the question of how best to get a cavity search.
Nothing says ‘welcome to (insert country name here)’ quite like a national carelessly fingering your arse hole. Believe me when I say being tender isn’t in their job description. Not even so much as a bite on the shoulder to get you warmed up either.
“Sir. Sir!”
Ooops, how long has he been calling me?
“You can approach sir.”
So I do. No doubt having ignited the suspicion of all involved with my 1000 yard stare.
I’m already bored of recounting this whole f*cking thing, so let’s just skip ahead. I’ll summarise if it helps?
I’m patted down, and up, and down and up again. The guy clearly thinks there’s something worth digging around for because he’s not afraid of getting his hands dirty, moving my balls around like he’s paid for them. Regardless, he finds nothing.
No drugs. Not when you’ve just flown in from Japan.
No weapons. Who takes weapons INTO Mexico?
No illegal immigrants hiding in my hand luggage.
I’m free to leave, much to his chagrin. I know it pains straight laced f*cking hetronormative c*nts to let me get on with my life, because they all seem to think they know where I’m going and what I’ll be doing there, and they don’t like any of it. F*ck ‘em though. I get more of a kick out of them fermenting in their own frustration pre-cum than I would sniffing flakka from their teen daughter’s salty perineum anyway.
I mean, what makes them think THEIR daughter is so worth while anyway?
What the f*ck am I even going on about?
“Isaac chan!”
Phew, she made it through as well. Hiromi approaches from a different desk, because apparently having a different coloured passport decides where you stand in these places. I’m just pleased she didn’t decide on bringing anything untoward with her. She might be a picture of cute kawaii perfection, but she’s survived more anticlimactic knee trembles than I care to imagine. It pays to give as little f*cks as possible when you’re involved with a prostitute. It’s either that or obsess over wether I can still taste d*ck on her breath every time I’m close to her.
She hooks her arm through mine and we continue for the arrivals gate.
What?
Listen, I know. I’m very aware of the fact that I’ve brought a Japanese whore to the opposite side of her world. I’m very aware of the assumption that I’m falling for a trick’s trick. Getting her hooks in to bleed me dry, but for the record I’ve not given Hiromi a penny/dime/yen since we met. I’m talking right back to the first time, a few years ago.
I think it’s safe to say I’m not just another John. Or if I am then she’s a terrible business woman.
Oh, that’s not what you meant?
Well, I’m also very aware of how dangerous this is for her. She’s no idea what’s going on in my ‘work life’ at the moment, but she’s hardly coming from an office job herself. I’m sure Hiromi has seen her fair share of violence along the way. What’s a little more?
I don’t really care what she sees, while she’s with me. I don’t like that I’ve been stupid enough to add a weakness into the mix though. I’ve now got an achilles heel. A perfect target for kidnap and blackmail, both things that are well on Michael Kyzer’s radar. In fact this whole idea is stupid as sh*t. I’m sitting her directly in the line of fire and she doesn’t so much as suspect she’s in any danger. Why would she? For Hiromi this is an exciting elope across border lines, with a mysterious round eyed lover. She thinks I’m taking her away from jeopardy, not thrusting her head long into it.
Having grabbed our luggage we head out into the hot Mexican morning, the sun blinding. We’re met by a valet who simply hands me the keys to whatever car this is. I don’t give a f*ck about cars. So what?
Luggage on the back seats. Me behind the wheel. Hiromi next to me.
We’re apparently on a collision course with Michael Kyzer, but I’m still dubious that he’s going to show. Never the less I’ve got to keep my guard up, especially so now I’ve got collateral with me.
Hiromi sits, staring out the window at the alien cityscape. The beaten up, crumbling concrete houses around the airport are like nothing she’s seen in the metropolis of Tokyo, and yet the looming volcanic mountain Popocatépetl couldn’t be more reminiscent of Fuji-san.
“Hiromi san.”
She turns to me and giggles, still finding my limited Japanese cute, rather than annoying.
“Are you okay?”
She nods emphatically.
“Hai. I am ooo-kay.”
For now.
I must admit it’s refreshing to have a warm body alongside me that doesn’t answer back, or ask f*cking stupid questions. The fact that she’s only got 2 legs and posable thumbs is a bonus as well.
Heh. That’s actually the first time he’s come up since arriving in Japan. Maybe Hiromi is my Nazar. Warding off wet nosed evil spirits. Or maybe my brain is so fogged with dick blood that I can only focus on the here and now? Either way I’m liking the new direction my subconscious seems to be taking.
“How are you?”
The slight pauses in between each word show the thought that has gone in to the question. The words that make it up I mean, not so much the idea itself, though I’m sure she’s curious. How am I though?
I’m selfish.
I’m bitter.
I hold a grudge like no other.
Resentful.
Proud.
Disrespectful.
Self involved.
Cock sure.
Overall I’d say I’m a low life piece of human garbage, with just about enough redeeming features to maintain a steady job (sort of) and hold my own in a conversation.
Oh and I’m charming as all hell.
How am I? What am I? Who am I?
“Yeah. I’m ok. Thanks.”
And I do actually mean that. The thank you. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve been asked that question in the last few years? Come on, make an educated guest. Oh, and nurses don’t count as it’s their job to ask me how I’m doing.
Let me make it easy for you.
Twice.
Once by a talking f*cking dog.
Once by a meth head who thought herself a psychotherapist.
A sexually abusive Father does not a therapist make. That’s not to say the two are mutually exclusive. No. I’m just saying if that’s what you’d write in the “qualifications” section on a job application then you’re probably sat in the wrong chair.
“Are these c*nts following us?”
This whole time, since we left the airport, there’s been a car 30 feet or so behind us. The kind of distance that I’m not supposed to notice. The kind of distance that should leave you completely at ease, and yet no f*cker drives like that, in any country, ever. But certainly not in down town Mexico City.
I decide to take the next few junctions with a disregard for navigation. Simply just watching what the car, so suspiciously cautious, decides to do. Sure enough, we chuck a right, they do. We turn left, they follow. I eventually pull up on the side of the road and wait. Hiromi looks a little confused.
“Hotel?”
“No. One second.”
She looks around, but as I put my hand on her leg she sits still. Getting the message that something isn’t right. The car that was behind us hasn’t shown up and I count down from 10 in my head and then start the car again, slowly pulling away. I’m just being skittish, knowing I’ve finally got something to lose. Who’s even going to be following us? What, you think the Brennan family has stretched its Bostonian limbs this far south? Please.
Just as I make to turn right though the car from before turns on to the street behind us. If this were a film you’d have that discordant note return right about now. Hans Zimmerman just basting us with his cinematic load.
I decide to take a different tact and just put my foot down. Flying through a light just as it turns to red. Knowing that the pursuers will get stuck behind it. I maintain the speed and Hiromi’s hand is now on my leg. Oh I’m just so bad and dangerous right? Irresistible.
I turn another corner and the pedal goes flat back to the floor, Hiromi’s wandering hand sliding up my thigh.
F*cking wanna be gangster pricks. Tailing us like I’m even somebody worth following.
We’re really flying now, down an empty street, minus the parked cars on either side. Hiromi grabs a hold of my bulge and squeezes, distracting me for all of a second. But that’s all it takes.
Just one.
I slam on hard, but the stopping distance for a vehicle at this speed is about triple what I’d like it to be.
F*CK!
The young boy’s head hits the windscreen as his legs are swept from under him by our front bumper. The glass cracks into a spiderweb, out from the point of impact. As my eyes momentarily close my ears are filled with the sound of bones, rolling along the roof of the car. It’s a f*cking awful noise. Like a bin bag full of cans going over us. But I know it’s not, and it snaps my eyes back open. We finally come to a halt, the bonnet bowed into a smile and Hiromi just shrieking. No pause for breathe it seems.
I’m staring dead ahead, my knuckles white from gripping the wheel so damn hard, and all I can do is close my eyes again now that the bizarre quiet takes ahold of us all. The engine has stopped. Hiromi seems to be too choked to scream anymore.
“F***********CK!!!!!!”
I slam my hands against the wheel and my eyes are shocked open again by Hiromi’s startled yelp. I have to check. I have to f*cking check.
I wrench my seat belt off and throw open the car door, fighting back the urge to just puke straight into the street.
I rise to my feet and rely on the chassis to keep me upright as I slide along it. That f*cking Zimmerman drone seems to have reared it’s head in my own as I inch towards the backside of the vehicle. I steady my nerve, just for a moment and then crane my neck, peering over the driver’s side rear fin.
Wait.
What?
Adrenaline surges to my muscles and I stand upright with no prop. I walk with purpose now around the car. Nothing. I get on to my hands and knees and look underneath. Nothing.
I stand back up and begin to walk down the street, looking for any sign, anything at all, of this crippled, dying child.
Nothing.
“Isaac chan?”
Hiromi is out of the car as well now, the terror in her eyes only seconds previous completely dissipated.
I look around some more and can only come to one conclusion.
Maybe I’m not alright?
Oh God, here we go.
My stomach explodes and I throw up all over the read window of the car, lurching forwards and once again having to use the body to hold myself steady. Hiromi runs around to me, clearly having no idea what’s caused this sudden outburst on my part.
But the more I think about it. The more I remember. The more an old reality sharpens in my mind’s eye.
Through a stoned and psychotropic state of memory I see it.
“Mike.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So you hire the cartel?
Do you think after everything (insert list of Kyzer and Drakz related foibles here), a bunch of drug slinging hard nuts would intimidate me? I’m firing on all cylinders Mike. You’ll have to reach deeper into the carpet bag than that.
So you claim they were just there for the crowd. For protection. But to me it seems there’s a little more to it when you’ve got these c*nts following me around. Keeping tabs.
Surely you’re not that wobbly legged are you?
Have you had them trailing Mr Brennan as well? Did you know he was in the country before he showed up “out of nowhere” with his own vignette and entrance?
The look on your face at the time said no. But, you’ve always been a good liar. Both to those around you and yourself.
I was starting to think that after all this time of ducking me. Hit and run. Hit and run. Rinse and repeat. Maybe this was never going to materialise. This is it though buddy. We’ve finally got our date and I’m counting down the days until that bell rings. That pretty f*cking bell.
What’s more, now it’s not just the two of us, we’ve inadvertently changed the rules. That is to say, now we are 3, there are none. You can’t get disqualified in a three-some. Every hole as they say……
And you know David, this isn’t personal between us. At first I questioned, but now I guess I respect your sticking your c*ck into the fruit bowl. I thought you were done. When I saw you all tucked up, in the north, I figured you were too sick of all this. All the f*cking verbal red tape. The absolute dissolution of personal safety. The slog of being the champ. So fair play, you’re still a fighting champion. How much fight is left in the dog though? How many more times can the scabby leader of the pack drag himself across the garden to gnash his teeth at the post man?
You’re here on business, and I’m treating it that way when it comes to me and thee. Business in one hand, pleasure in the other. I didn’t come back to win any titles. I’ve done that. Apparently that notion twists a few knickers but f*ck them. Let them get back to their “tribbing with Frank Lynn” DVD.
I’m here for one reason only, and we all know at this stage what it is, so I don’t need to keep alluding to it. But Dave, if I destroy Michael Kyzer and win your championship in the process? So be it.
Hell, maybe I’ll even try to break my own record? It’s about the only decent competition around here these days.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
03. Europe
The late English summer is in full swing, in that it’s f*cking humid and still the sky is shrouded in clouds that aren’t so much black and menacing as they are grey and smothering. One of the things I notice whenever I come back here is how low the sky feels compared to the rest of the world. Like we’re in a f*cking Truman Show dome or something.
Not only that but the situation itself feels fabricated enough to warrant the comparison.
I’m walking through a comically huge graveyard on the outskirts of Leeds city, heading to the plot where my Father’s ashes have been buried, and I’m flanked by a woman equal parts innocent and sexually deviant, who’s followed me around the world for the last few weeks for no good reason.
Good morning Truman!
The funny thing is whilst I’m doing this all I can think about is David Brennan and his on again, off again schtick with his own paternal corpse. Jack.
Our relationships with our Dad’s couldn’t be any more different though. For one, mine wasn’t a piece of sh*t. Nor was he manipulative. I know right? What happened with me? Let’s just say it takes two folks to raise a kid.
My Dad was a good man. A salt of the earth type of guy. He worked hard, he loved his family (his second one at least), and he always had time to listen. And yet all of that didn’t matter, not after the f*cking blood in his head clotted and dropped him like a sack of sh*t smeared potatoes.
That was it. Everything up to that point became worthless. All of the good he’d done, and the work he’d put in, it meant nothing. He wound up a vegetable. Just sat, dribbling into his own chest hair, while the rest of the world carried on without him. His second wife couldn’t handle it anymore and honestly I don’t blame her. She took off. But so would I if I was her. F*ck, I mean I did, and I’m his son…….I was his son.
There was only so much of it I could stomach. Watching as the man who’d raised me faded into the shadow cast by this brain dead mass of skin. There was nothing left. Not an iota of my Father remained in that shell, and so I just treated it as a death. I grieved for him. I grieved for all of us.
Then I left the country.
Now I’m back in it, and a whole lot of sh*t has happened in between.
“Paul Cray
1949 - 2012
You’re finally free.”
Hiromi takes a hold of my arm. Not knowing exactly why we’re here and yet surely realising the gravity of such a place. A bloody great field full of dead f*ckers.
“Alright mate?”
What am I doing?
“How’s it?”
Why am I talking to a f*cking headstone? Daft c*nt. I instead turn my head slightly to address Hiromi.
“This is my Dad.”
It seems she at least knows the word “Dad”, and given where we are I’m confident she can work out the rest.
We just stand there in silence for a few minutes and I get lost in thought. Thoughts about why I’m here. In the country I mean.
Once again I find myself headlining Wembley Stadium, only this time things are mighty different. Last time I was champion for one. This time? Not so much.
This isn’t about achievements, nor is it about measuring who is the better man by way of accolades and championships. This is the end of a long road. A road I’ve been thrown off of more than once. I’m back in my country with the opportunity I’ve waited on for a long f*cking time. It may not be exactly how I’d imagined it, but to be honest the more time I’ve had to think about it, the more I’ve warmed to Brennan being a part of this moment.
The New Epoch finally gets the spotlight it deserves. All of us.
“You look like you could use some of this.”
A woman’s hand enters my field of vision, clasping a battered old hip flask. She’s right.
I knock back a good mouth of it. Urgh, cheap f*cking gin. It burns the cobwebs out though, which is enough for me. I turn to pass the flask back and nearly choke on my own tongue.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you gonna hug your f*cking Mother?”
That other “folk” I mentioned that raised me? This is that worm. Some how.
“I thought you died in an American hospital. Slowly and f*cking painfully.”
“Heh. You f*ckin’ wish.”
I do. I honestly do. You want to know why I’m like this? Why I’m the polar opposite of the man I previously described? That’ll be this undead piece of sh*t.
“Why are you here?”
“Why am I here? My son has come home. What do you think?”
“Trust me, it’s better I don’t tell you what I think. Anyway, how the f*ck did you find me? You can’t have much cash left after what I can only hope was a colossal medical bill, so using that to your benefit isn’t an option anymore.”
“How did I find you? You’re not the most understated of men. There’s been media coverage of your little fight for weeks now. Your ugly f*ckin’ mug is everywhere. It wasn’t hard.”
“And you think it’s acceptable for you to be right here? Next to him?”
“Next to him? Please. He’s a f*cking pot of dust in the ground.”
Careful now.
“Besides, who the f*ck are you to get all high and mighty. You’re a f*ckin’ damn sight worse than me.”
In usual circumstances I’d take that kind of thing as a compliment, but given who’s saying it I’d rather take her eyes out.
“So you just what? Parked your car up here and waited for me to show? Am I that predictable? I guess you’ve got me all worked out ey Mum?”
Hiromi, who I’d admittedly forgotten about, reacts to the word Mum and I sense she wants to ask me, but there’s not time for that.
“I might have done my fair share of underhanded sh*t to get to where I am, but I’m still a good few greasy rungs above you. Irregardless of what you might think you f*cking vulture.”
“You left your own f*ckin’ Mother, you left ME for dead you no good piece of sh*t!
And now I find you, unrepentant, cursing me out, parading around with this painted up gook whore!”
She gestures aggressively toward Hiromi and suddenly I don’t get the impression Hiromi’s curious about who this woman is anymore. And she doesn’t need to dwell on it either, because we’re leaving.
“Sayonara.”
That was very much for Hiromi’s sake. Letting her know we’re not hanging around this place for a moment longer. I hurry her away from the gravesite and back towards our waiting car. For the record, after that sh*t in Mexico I’m not taking the helm for a while. I busted Lila’s balls enough to get me a driver. Something along the lines of I can’t wrestle if I’m mangled in a wreck on the M1.
“Are you going to visit Karla while you’re in town?”
B*tch. C*nt b*tch.
I stop. Of course I f*cking stop.
Anyone with any kind of memory knows that’s a name I can’t just ignore. Try as I might.
“No. We said our goodbye’s a few years back. No need.”
For the record, Karla is that sister….half sister, I mentioned to Brennan’s missus. Yeah.
“You know she’s had another kid?”
I face her.
“I don’t give a f*ck. Look Mum, don’t try to force conversation with me. We both know I f*cking hate you. I know you know this. So what’s the point?
I already asked you once. Why are you here?”
She doesn’t respond. Just takes a swig from her bottle.
“Good.”
Hiromi, sensing I needed a moment, has walked on ahead, so I move to catch up with her. Just before I’m out of ear shot though I turn back once more.
“Oh and Mum…..”
She raises her head to look at me. Her eye’s a bit manic.
“Stay dead this time okay?”
Mic drop.
Mum drop?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How often does a piece of sh*t like me get to play home town hero?
That’s not rhetorical. There’s a definitive answer.
Twice.
This is only the second major show I’ve ever wrestled in the UK (RIP Trace Demon), and yet it feels like the perfect place to end my career…….if it comes to that.
Last time I was here as “THE GOOD GUY”. This time I’m here as “GUY FAWKES”, only there will be no premature discovery of some elaborate f*cking scheme on my part. No, all of my sh*t is playing out in the open. Everyone knows I’m here, and everyone knows why.
Burn down the Kyzer empire.
Every last piece of it.
Wipe his f*cking name from the history books.
I have no intention of leaving that stadium in one piece, because I know that’s what it’s going to take to destroy the man whom I once called brother. I’ve f*cking dreamt of this for long enough. Much too long to let it slip and wind up on my back. Michael we’re finally doing it.
The New Epoch dies tonight. Everything people associate with you. Most of which was never yours to begin with. I took a step back and let you do your thing, way back when. And despite the constant jibes and comments about my playing second fiddle to the “clear leader of the group”, I kept my sh*t together. I didn’t let ego get in the way when it came to brothers. And yet what did you give me in return for that? For my patience? For my loyalty as a friend? You f*cked it and fell flat on your face.
Michael Kyzer loses to Phillip Schneider.
And you can cry foul as many times as you like. You f*cking choked. I set my sights on gold beneath my station just so you could have a clean run, and you couldn’t even get the job done.
And then? Then you take your f*cking ball and go home, taking me crashing down with you. But what of the Michael Kyzer mythos in 2018?
It’s lost a whole lot of it’s sheen don’t you think? You’re not the untouchable “God of f*ck” that you used to be. No. In fact there’s a whole heap of sh*t heads with claims to your pelt these days.
Ahriman. Whitner. Schneider. Brennan.
And yet you figure you can just brush these off and the aura is magically restored to its full brilliance?
Not quite Mike. You’ve got to earn it. In fact the more I think about this, the more I think perhaps it’s you who needs this match more than even I do? You need a man like me to revive that long dead legacy of yours. Because I mean really? What have you even done around here?
Two lacklustre heavyweight championship reigns and a whole lot of pageantry. It’s easy for you to claim you’ve never been here to win titles, but in the end you have. It strikes me though that maybe you’re just not good enough to keep hold of them?
Do you know how many times I’ve held that same belt? Twice. Do you know how both reigns ended? With me forfeiting the championship. The first time because we took over this place, (God that feels like a lifetime ago doesn’t it?) and I didn’t want the stink of being the boss all over my gold.
The second? Well, you know what happened there don’t you?
So this argument, of who was the better man all along? An argument the old timers just love to wheel out. It’s f*cking moot.
I AM THE WFWF!
What I’ve achieved here will never be surpassed. I’ve set the bar so high that most of the locker room wakes up every morning asking ‘what’s the point?’.
First ever double Grand-Slam. Longest reigning WFWF World Heavyweight Champion in history. A near perfect record. Christ, after your masked juggernaut up and left me I won the f*cking tag team titles on my own.
And you?
They’ve already nearly forgotten you mate. Your only claim to relevance in the last 6 years has been me. The only reason anyone mentions your name anymore is when they’re talking about me. So yeah, I’m starting to think this match, this opportunity at victory, means a lot more to you than perhaps you’re letting on.
You’re a shell of your former self. You’re a poor imitation of the man I used to run with. The man that David Brennan used to run with.
We were immortals. We were the three men in this entire industry that every other competitor wanted to blow.
Drakz.
David Brennan.
Michael Kyzer.
The New Epoch.
And now we find ourselves here. 6 years down a very long and tiresome road. Older. More banged up. After everything we’ve been through it all comes down to this match.
3 men.
THE 3 men.
No one can hold a candle to what we’ve done as a group. Not Trace Demon. Not Phillip Schneider. Not EBR or Alex Sean. F*cking no body.
THIS is the grandest moment in the history of the WFWF. THIS is the reason people still watch this f*cking product.
They’ve all been waiting for this moment.
Almost as long as me.
Mike. Dave. This isn’t going to be pretty.
But it’s sure as f*ck going to be fun.
(A.K.A. A Trio of C*ntinents)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well that’s the f*cking mystique gone then.
Captain invincible drops a bollock on a global scale.
2 matches in to my farewell tour and I’ve lost.
Me.
Drakz.
Lost.
I know, I’m still in shock as well but, regardless of my resumé, I’m not going to get all knotted up over it. I’ve done my fair share of bragging over the years about my near perfect record, but wouldn’t you? I think I’ve earned the right to shout about my sh*t. 12 years deep and a set of scalps like no other. Maybe if I were more organised I’d have them all dried, pressed and kept in a book?
I missed out on a real f*cker of an addition to the collection though, don’t you think? Zmey’s lid would have dwarfed a lot of the older stuff. I’d like to say ‘next time’ but I’m not sure there’ll be one. Tugarin Zmey goes where he’s told, and if he’s not told to stand in front of me……..
Not being able to get your win back is a bitter d*ck to suck, but given that he didn’t beat me I’ll take it to the hilt. For clarity, I use the term ‘beat’ in place of “earn a victory over”, because he sure as sh*t beat the living piss out of me. I may be guilty of poetic license from time to time, but I’m not a liar. I still feel like crap, and it’s that Slavic (see: Mongolian) mountain wot did it.
What’s important though is that we all see this the same way.
I lost.
That’s the way that everyone will talk about it. No one gives a f*ck that Zmey won, because let’s be honest, he didn’t. I lost. Zmey was just there when it happened.
Chances are that’s the last we’ll hear from Tugarin, except as a bit player in a larger production, and I can only hope Michael’s done with throwing warm bodies in my path. You know it won’t stop me. You know I’ll always steamroll through. By hook or by crook…….or steel chair. Whichever’s handy at that given moment.
I’ve no idea what the f*ck those two bums are doing with you at the moment but, so long as they keep their hands to themselves, I’ll let them be. If that really is Alex and E then shame on them for succumbing to normality. It’s the human condition to devolve into a disgusting sack of sh*t once their prime slips away, but I always thought better of the two of you. Maybe I’d hoped you’d stay coiled like a spring in your absence, simply waiting for me to call you out. Just to become a couple more scalps for the hardback, leather bound, gild lettered tome of yours truly. Alas it looks as though you’re both past that, stuck now collecting up the dead skin of Our Stoned Messiah each time he sheds.
And yet as I say all of this there is still one man, not in between Kyzer and I, but looming in from stage right. Sh*t kickers primed and ready to boot teeth down throats.
David.
I’ve honestly never hated David Brennan. That’s not to say there hasn’t been any manifestations of ill will between us, but it’s mostly been a one way thing. Dave got it into his head, somewhere along the line, that I was the cause of his problems. The reason he’d slumped back into being a f*cking nobody with a habit. Now I don’t know exactly what he said to that evangelical kid he was riding with for a time, but based on here-say it doesn’t seem as though much of it was all too positive. Coupled with the way his sterner half regards me I think it’s fair to say he’s probably hated me at some point. Maybe he still does?
Who knows?
Who the f*ck even cares?
But no, I’ve never hated him. There was a stint where I thought he was a f*cking loser that refused to be helped for the sake of romanticising his own downfall, but no, never hated the guy.
At this point I’d go so far as to say he’s the closest thing I’ve got to a friend, and even then he’s a good few hours drive from it. But there aren’t many people who welcome me into their homes. I’ve still been in to a fair few, but usually under duress.
Not me.
So, as I was saying. I’ve got no reason to slap Dave about, none at all. Well, perhaps one. But it’s less to do with him, and more to do with not letting a snake squirm back into the sand unpunished. I need to stick me a nail through it, stop it in its tracks.
What does a man do in this situation then? Two men stand across from me. One in need of a good kicking, and one who happens to be holding my belt. Well I know neither of them are going to pull any punches when it comes to me, so f*ck it. I’ll be coming out swinging. Naturally with a bit more vitriol when I’m facing one corner, but if David tempts fate then I’ll put that big f*cker down. He might be the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, hell he might even be the guy I wanted to take my place at the top, but I’m Mr f*cking 8.5.1, and if it’s a tried and tested challenger he’s really gunning for, if it’s a war to really cement him as a true fighting champion then I’ll give him both barrels, the kitchen sink, all the tea in China and any other worn out WFWF metaphorical trope.
I know you’ve enjoyed your run as champion about as much as boring out a second arse hole. I know it’s ground you down to the point that you’re tired and just want to be left the f*ck alone. That’s why I hope you’ll consider any aggression thrown your way at Wembley as a mercy killing. I’ll help you get out………if you want me to.
Don’t fall on your sword though. Show me why I was right to choose you in the first place.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
01. Asia
“What the f*ck was that?!”
I’m only moments removed from a chair shot to the head, and now I have my least favourite slug howling in my f*cking face with her tech headphones still around her neck. I’ve only got one eye open as I reply.
“What?!”
“That finish?!”
“Oh f*ck off Sleater.”
I just walk past her, forcing her to unplug herself and leave the gorilla position. She trots along side me, like a hyena, ready to pick off her injured quarry.
“That’s not good enough! Why the hell did you just force the referee’s decision? You’re supposed to be my star attraction. Isn’t that what you said?”
“And I still am. Now if you wouldn’t mind I’ve got a thumping headache.”
I try to pick up the pace, in the hope she’ll give up, but my muscles are burning so much that even a walk is trying.
“Aren’t you the one who always harps on about his f*cking record? You’re nothing if you start losing.”
She’s persistent. Though she might live to regret it.
“For f*ck sakes Sleater. Do you really think any of this is about wins and losses anymore? Do you even remember why I’m back in your charge? Or have you already forgotten where I’ve been for the last 18 months? I’m not here to win championships, as much as my saying that might ‘devalue’ your f*cking toys. I’m not even here to win matches.
I will win them.
But that’s not why I’m back. That’s not my concern. I’m here solely to settle my accounts.
You f*cking well know all of this.”
She sneers and starts to shake her head.
“Don’t give me that bull sh*t. You can play this game all you want. Trying to force me on to the hook. I’m not going to bite d*ck head, I’ve not got time to be deviating. This farce with Tugarin? It’s a deviation.
You put the big c*nt in front of me. I just did my best to survive and make it to my next port of call. I never asked for this. I’ve only asked for one thing. Just one thing, and you’re failing to do even that.”
I’m getting riled. Mostly due to the screaming ring in my right ear from all the blunt force trauma, but also partly because this f*cking dive bar of a woman doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.
“So if you want to know how many f*cks I give about sending the fans home happy, or ensuring your ratings tick over nicely, well then. Do you really need me to finish? I’m sure even you can work out where I was going with that, right?”
She still doesn’t look ready to back down. I suppose because this is all happening out in front of the staff and talent. Lila doesn’t want to look weak in front of the employees now does she?
“I’m giving you an opportunity to make things right. The least you could do is pretend to give a sh*t.”
I turn and slam my hands against the wall on either side of her head, not giving her any where to move. Immediately her facial expression changes to concern as she questions her own safety.
“I am pretending! I’ve flown to the other side of the world to fight a f*cking dragon in YOUR main event. I could just stay home. I could sit out this whole damn global sh*t show, in favour of just waiting for you all to come back. Lila I’m trying to pretend as best I can, but right now, right at this moment, my patience is wearing so thin you can see my tits through it.
I tried to disable Tugarin Zmey. I had no intention of finishing that match as per your laws of the land. No. I wanted rid of that big sack of sh*t, with no chance of him showing up later to return the favour, because in case you haven’t noticed, Michael Kyzer’s always been pretty good at putting a human barrier up around himself.”
I’m right up in her face, but you should all be proud that my voice is staying fairly low key. Or at least I thought so until….
“Hey buddy, you need to cool off.”
A hand on my shoulder that tries to pull me away. At first I just ignore it, but they are relentless. I turn from Sleater and grab the shirt collar of whoever the f*ck is interjecting, pinning them against the opposite wall of the narrow corridor.
“Don’t do anything stupid now.”
Billy f*cking Broom. What is his deal? Twice in a night? Since when did ‘put your hands on the greatest of all time’ fall somewhere in between ‘lick the toilet bowl clean’ and ’mop up the puddles of Obo’s semen after a death match’?
“Stupid? Are you f*cking with me? You need to remember where on this pile of muscle bound f*ck heads you stand mate. I’ll give you a clue, it’s the bottom. I suppose that wasn’t really a clue…..but the point stands. Keep your f*cking nose out of my business old man, or I’ll send you home with a flag draped over your box.”
“Is that a threat?”
For him to be answering back means I’m not squeezing his larynx even half as hard as I should be, so I remedy that as his face begins to walk further through the shades of red, towards purple.
“A threat? No, that’s a friendly warning. A threat would be my saying what I’ll do to your daughter the day she ticks over into legality.”
Another set of hands on me. Christ. Why won’t they let me wreak havoc in peace?
“Get off him!”
As if on cue, the janitor’s daughter tries to free her Father. I’m not in the business of slapping around teenage girls unless one of us is getting paid for it, so I let the sweating patriarch slump down the wall to the floor, this young girl checking on him. He’s fine. He might have almost lost consciousness, but so long as he hasn’t got any previous traumas to the brain he’ll be fine. So sayeth Isaac Cray M.D.
“Jesus christ man! You can’t just attack the staff like that! Are you insane?”
“Am I insane? What is this?”
I dunno? Am I? Aren’t we all? And I don’t mean that in some “deep & philosophical” 2008 WFWF way. No I’m talking about the fact we all go out, in front of thousands, and try to kill each other in our under pants, with straight faces. I’m just floating it as an idea. But that. That’s nuts.
“Your not a damn competitor after that bell rings. You just assaulted a member of the public. He could press charges.”
ha, hahah, HA!
“Hahaha, wait.”
I need to compose myself a second.
“I really want to see Billy “the piss porter” trying to talk to a Japanese police man. Do you have any idea how intimidated a cop over here would be if he was looking dead on at that very red and bald man’s face?! HAHA!”
This is killing me. I ache all over, I can barely stand after fighting a dragon and 3 fat, old fellas, but it might be a fit of the giggles that finishes the job.
“You need to get your sh*t together Isaac!”
Saaaaaaaaaay what? Oh tell me she didn’t just use my government name.
“Go take a shower.”
“Nope. That’s not how we’re leaving this. Not until you tell me where the f*ck Michael Kyzer is? I see you churning my f*cking butter but I haven’t heard anything about my illegal assailant.”
We pause for applause.
“Well?”
“We don’t know.”
“Little louder please?”
“I said we don’t know!”
“This is rich.”
The adrenaline of this sh*t is the only thing keeping me upright.
“So you chew my ear off about a DQ stoppage, but you’ve lost the three fat blokes who attacked me after the fact? F*ck you.
I’ll just weed him out myself.
Advertise the meeting of minds for the next show. Don’t fluff it. Main event spot. Got it? Good. Well, I guess I’ll see YOU ALL!”
I address the crowd of milk drinkers that have gathered in the corridor.
“In Meh-hico.
I’m going for a shower.”
And, with the beginnings of a stiffening, I hobble off and do just that.
Stupid c*nts.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
02. North America
“Please empty your pockets, remove any electrical items….laptops, phones, e-readers, from your bag and place them in the tray. Please also do the same with any belts or boots that are above ankle height.”
I’ve been through airport security in so many different countries that all of this has become common place. I’m on autopilot as I approach the metal detectors, my mind drifting off toward the question of how best to get a cavity search.
Nothing says ‘welcome to (insert country name here)’ quite like a national carelessly fingering your arse hole. Believe me when I say being tender isn’t in their job description. Not even so much as a bite on the shoulder to get you warmed up either.
“Sir. Sir!”
Ooops, how long has he been calling me?
“You can approach sir.”
So I do. No doubt having ignited the suspicion of all involved with my 1000 yard stare.
I’m already bored of recounting this whole f*cking thing, so let’s just skip ahead. I’ll summarise if it helps?
I’m patted down, and up, and down and up again. The guy clearly thinks there’s something worth digging around for because he’s not afraid of getting his hands dirty, moving my balls around like he’s paid for them. Regardless, he finds nothing.
No drugs. Not when you’ve just flown in from Japan.
No weapons. Who takes weapons INTO Mexico?
No illegal immigrants hiding in my hand luggage.
I’m free to leave, much to his chagrin. I know it pains straight laced f*cking hetronormative c*nts to let me get on with my life, because they all seem to think they know where I’m going and what I’ll be doing there, and they don’t like any of it. F*ck ‘em though. I get more of a kick out of them fermenting in their own frustration pre-cum than I would sniffing flakka from their teen daughter’s salty perineum anyway.
I mean, what makes them think THEIR daughter is so worth while anyway?
What the f*ck am I even going on about?
“Isaac chan!”
Phew, she made it through as well. Hiromi approaches from a different desk, because apparently having a different coloured passport decides where you stand in these places. I’m just pleased she didn’t decide on bringing anything untoward with her. She might be a picture of cute kawaii perfection, but she’s survived more anticlimactic knee trembles than I care to imagine. It pays to give as little f*cks as possible when you’re involved with a prostitute. It’s either that or obsess over wether I can still taste d*ck on her breath every time I’m close to her.
She hooks her arm through mine and we continue for the arrivals gate.
What?
Listen, I know. I’m very aware of the fact that I’ve brought a Japanese whore to the opposite side of her world. I’m very aware of the assumption that I’m falling for a trick’s trick. Getting her hooks in to bleed me dry, but for the record I’ve not given Hiromi a penny/dime/yen since we met. I’m talking right back to the first time, a few years ago.
I think it’s safe to say I’m not just another John. Or if I am then she’s a terrible business woman.
Oh, that’s not what you meant?
Well, I’m also very aware of how dangerous this is for her. She’s no idea what’s going on in my ‘work life’ at the moment, but she’s hardly coming from an office job herself. I’m sure Hiromi has seen her fair share of violence along the way. What’s a little more?
I don’t really care what she sees, while she’s with me. I don’t like that I’ve been stupid enough to add a weakness into the mix though. I’ve now got an achilles heel. A perfect target for kidnap and blackmail, both things that are well on Michael Kyzer’s radar. In fact this whole idea is stupid as sh*t. I’m sitting her directly in the line of fire and she doesn’t so much as suspect she’s in any danger. Why would she? For Hiromi this is an exciting elope across border lines, with a mysterious round eyed lover. She thinks I’m taking her away from jeopardy, not thrusting her head long into it.
Having grabbed our luggage we head out into the hot Mexican morning, the sun blinding. We’re met by a valet who simply hands me the keys to whatever car this is. I don’t give a f*ck about cars. So what?
Luggage on the back seats. Me behind the wheel. Hiromi next to me.
We’re apparently on a collision course with Michael Kyzer, but I’m still dubious that he’s going to show. Never the less I’ve got to keep my guard up, especially so now I’ve got collateral with me.
Hiromi sits, staring out the window at the alien cityscape. The beaten up, crumbling concrete houses around the airport are like nothing she’s seen in the metropolis of Tokyo, and yet the looming volcanic mountain Popocatépetl couldn’t be more reminiscent of Fuji-san.
“Hiromi san.”
She turns to me and giggles, still finding my limited Japanese cute, rather than annoying.
“Are you okay?”
She nods emphatically.
“Hai. I am ooo-kay.”
For now.
I must admit it’s refreshing to have a warm body alongside me that doesn’t answer back, or ask f*cking stupid questions. The fact that she’s only got 2 legs and posable thumbs is a bonus as well.
Heh. That’s actually the first time he’s come up since arriving in Japan. Maybe Hiromi is my Nazar. Warding off wet nosed evil spirits. Or maybe my brain is so fogged with dick blood that I can only focus on the here and now? Either way I’m liking the new direction my subconscious seems to be taking.
“How are you?”
The slight pauses in between each word show the thought that has gone in to the question. The words that make it up I mean, not so much the idea itself, though I’m sure she’s curious. How am I though?
I’m selfish.
I’m bitter.
I hold a grudge like no other.
Resentful.
Proud.
Disrespectful.
Self involved.
Cock sure.
Overall I’d say I’m a low life piece of human garbage, with just about enough redeeming features to maintain a steady job (sort of) and hold my own in a conversation.
Oh and I’m charming as all hell.
How am I? What am I? Who am I?
“Yeah. I’m ok. Thanks.”
And I do actually mean that. The thank you. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve been asked that question in the last few years? Come on, make an educated guest. Oh, and nurses don’t count as it’s their job to ask me how I’m doing.
Let me make it easy for you.
Twice.
Once by a talking f*cking dog.
Once by a meth head who thought herself a psychotherapist.
A sexually abusive Father does not a therapist make. That’s not to say the two are mutually exclusive. No. I’m just saying if that’s what you’d write in the “qualifications” section on a job application then you’re probably sat in the wrong chair.
“Are these c*nts following us?”
This whole time, since we left the airport, there’s been a car 30 feet or so behind us. The kind of distance that I’m not supposed to notice. The kind of distance that should leave you completely at ease, and yet no f*cker drives like that, in any country, ever. But certainly not in down town Mexico City.
I decide to take the next few junctions with a disregard for navigation. Simply just watching what the car, so suspiciously cautious, decides to do. Sure enough, we chuck a right, they do. We turn left, they follow. I eventually pull up on the side of the road and wait. Hiromi looks a little confused.
“Hotel?”
“No. One second.”
She looks around, but as I put my hand on her leg she sits still. Getting the message that something isn’t right. The car that was behind us hasn’t shown up and I count down from 10 in my head and then start the car again, slowly pulling away. I’m just being skittish, knowing I’ve finally got something to lose. Who’s even going to be following us? What, you think the Brennan family has stretched its Bostonian limbs this far south? Please.
Just as I make to turn right though the car from before turns on to the street behind us. If this were a film you’d have that discordant note return right about now. Hans Zimmerman just basting us with his cinematic load.
I decide to take a different tact and just put my foot down. Flying through a light just as it turns to red. Knowing that the pursuers will get stuck behind it. I maintain the speed and Hiromi’s hand is now on my leg. Oh I’m just so bad and dangerous right? Irresistible.
I turn another corner and the pedal goes flat back to the floor, Hiromi’s wandering hand sliding up my thigh.
F*cking wanna be gangster pricks. Tailing us like I’m even somebody worth following.
We’re really flying now, down an empty street, minus the parked cars on either side. Hiromi grabs a hold of my bulge and squeezes, distracting me for all of a second. But that’s all it takes.
Just one.
I slam on hard, but the stopping distance for a vehicle at this speed is about triple what I’d like it to be.
F*CK!
The young boy’s head hits the windscreen as his legs are swept from under him by our front bumper. The glass cracks into a spiderweb, out from the point of impact. As my eyes momentarily close my ears are filled with the sound of bones, rolling along the roof of the car. It’s a f*cking awful noise. Like a bin bag full of cans going over us. But I know it’s not, and it snaps my eyes back open. We finally come to a halt, the bonnet bowed into a smile and Hiromi just shrieking. No pause for breathe it seems.
I’m staring dead ahead, my knuckles white from gripping the wheel so damn hard, and all I can do is close my eyes again now that the bizarre quiet takes ahold of us all. The engine has stopped. Hiromi seems to be too choked to scream anymore.
“F***********CK!!!!!!”
I slam my hands against the wheel and my eyes are shocked open again by Hiromi’s startled yelp. I have to check. I have to f*cking check.
I wrench my seat belt off and throw open the car door, fighting back the urge to just puke straight into the street.
I rise to my feet and rely on the chassis to keep me upright as I slide along it. That f*cking Zimmerman drone seems to have reared it’s head in my own as I inch towards the backside of the vehicle. I steady my nerve, just for a moment and then crane my neck, peering over the driver’s side rear fin.
Wait.
What?
Adrenaline surges to my muscles and I stand upright with no prop. I walk with purpose now around the car. Nothing. I get on to my hands and knees and look underneath. Nothing.
I stand back up and begin to walk down the street, looking for any sign, anything at all, of this crippled, dying child.
Nothing.
“Isaac chan?”
Hiromi is out of the car as well now, the terror in her eyes only seconds previous completely dissipated.
I look around some more and can only come to one conclusion.
Maybe I’m not alright?
Oh God, here we go.
My stomach explodes and I throw up all over the read window of the car, lurching forwards and once again having to use the body to hold myself steady. Hiromi runs around to me, clearly having no idea what’s caused this sudden outburst on my part.
But the more I think about it. The more I remember. The more an old reality sharpens in my mind’s eye.
Through a stoned and psychotropic state of memory I see it.
“Mike.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So you hire the cartel?
Do you think after everything (insert list of Kyzer and Drakz related foibles here), a bunch of drug slinging hard nuts would intimidate me? I’m firing on all cylinders Mike. You’ll have to reach deeper into the carpet bag than that.
So you claim they were just there for the crowd. For protection. But to me it seems there’s a little more to it when you’ve got these c*nts following me around. Keeping tabs.
Surely you’re not that wobbly legged are you?
Have you had them trailing Mr Brennan as well? Did you know he was in the country before he showed up “out of nowhere” with his own vignette and entrance?
The look on your face at the time said no. But, you’ve always been a good liar. Both to those around you and yourself.
I was starting to think that after all this time of ducking me. Hit and run. Hit and run. Rinse and repeat. Maybe this was never going to materialise. This is it though buddy. We’ve finally got our date and I’m counting down the days until that bell rings. That pretty f*cking bell.
What’s more, now it’s not just the two of us, we’ve inadvertently changed the rules. That is to say, now we are 3, there are none. You can’t get disqualified in a three-some. Every hole as they say……
And you know David, this isn’t personal between us. At first I questioned, but now I guess I respect your sticking your c*ck into the fruit bowl. I thought you were done. When I saw you all tucked up, in the north, I figured you were too sick of all this. All the f*cking verbal red tape. The absolute dissolution of personal safety. The slog of being the champ. So fair play, you’re still a fighting champion. How much fight is left in the dog though? How many more times can the scabby leader of the pack drag himself across the garden to gnash his teeth at the post man?
You’re here on business, and I’m treating it that way when it comes to me and thee. Business in one hand, pleasure in the other. I didn’t come back to win any titles. I’ve done that. Apparently that notion twists a few knickers but f*ck them. Let them get back to their “tribbing with Frank Lynn” DVD.
I’m here for one reason only, and we all know at this stage what it is, so I don’t need to keep alluding to it. But Dave, if I destroy Michael Kyzer and win your championship in the process? So be it.
Hell, maybe I’ll even try to break my own record? It’s about the only decent competition around here these days.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
03. Europe
The late English summer is in full swing, in that it’s f*cking humid and still the sky is shrouded in clouds that aren’t so much black and menacing as they are grey and smothering. One of the things I notice whenever I come back here is how low the sky feels compared to the rest of the world. Like we’re in a f*cking Truman Show dome or something.
Not only that but the situation itself feels fabricated enough to warrant the comparison.
I’m walking through a comically huge graveyard on the outskirts of Leeds city, heading to the plot where my Father’s ashes have been buried, and I’m flanked by a woman equal parts innocent and sexually deviant, who’s followed me around the world for the last few weeks for no good reason.
Good morning Truman!
The funny thing is whilst I’m doing this all I can think about is David Brennan and his on again, off again schtick with his own paternal corpse. Jack.
Our relationships with our Dad’s couldn’t be any more different though. For one, mine wasn’t a piece of sh*t. Nor was he manipulative. I know right? What happened with me? Let’s just say it takes two folks to raise a kid.
My Dad was a good man. A salt of the earth type of guy. He worked hard, he loved his family (his second one at least), and he always had time to listen. And yet all of that didn’t matter, not after the f*cking blood in his head clotted and dropped him like a sack of sh*t smeared potatoes.
That was it. Everything up to that point became worthless. All of the good he’d done, and the work he’d put in, it meant nothing. He wound up a vegetable. Just sat, dribbling into his own chest hair, while the rest of the world carried on without him. His second wife couldn’t handle it anymore and honestly I don’t blame her. She took off. But so would I if I was her. F*ck, I mean I did, and I’m his son…….I was his son.
There was only so much of it I could stomach. Watching as the man who’d raised me faded into the shadow cast by this brain dead mass of skin. There was nothing left. Not an iota of my Father remained in that shell, and so I just treated it as a death. I grieved for him. I grieved for all of us.
Then I left the country.
Now I’m back in it, and a whole lot of sh*t has happened in between.
“Paul Cray
1949 - 2012
You’re finally free.”
Hiromi takes a hold of my arm. Not knowing exactly why we’re here and yet surely realising the gravity of such a place. A bloody great field full of dead f*ckers.
“Alright mate?”
What am I doing?
“How’s it?”
Why am I talking to a f*cking headstone? Daft c*nt. I instead turn my head slightly to address Hiromi.
“This is my Dad.”
It seems she at least knows the word “Dad”, and given where we are I’m confident she can work out the rest.
We just stand there in silence for a few minutes and I get lost in thought. Thoughts about why I’m here. In the country I mean.
Once again I find myself headlining Wembley Stadium, only this time things are mighty different. Last time I was champion for one. This time? Not so much.
This isn’t about achievements, nor is it about measuring who is the better man by way of accolades and championships. This is the end of a long road. A road I’ve been thrown off of more than once. I’m back in my country with the opportunity I’ve waited on for a long f*cking time. It may not be exactly how I’d imagined it, but to be honest the more time I’ve had to think about it, the more I’ve warmed to Brennan being a part of this moment.
The New Epoch finally gets the spotlight it deserves. All of us.
“You look like you could use some of this.”
A woman’s hand enters my field of vision, clasping a battered old hip flask. She’s right.
I knock back a good mouth of it. Urgh, cheap f*cking gin. It burns the cobwebs out though, which is enough for me. I turn to pass the flask back and nearly choke on my own tongue.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you gonna hug your f*cking Mother?”
That other “folk” I mentioned that raised me? This is that worm. Some how.
“I thought you died in an American hospital. Slowly and f*cking painfully.”
“Heh. You f*ckin’ wish.”
I do. I honestly do. You want to know why I’m like this? Why I’m the polar opposite of the man I previously described? That’ll be this undead piece of sh*t.
“Why are you here?”
“Why am I here? My son has come home. What do you think?”
“Trust me, it’s better I don’t tell you what I think. Anyway, how the f*ck did you find me? You can’t have much cash left after what I can only hope was a colossal medical bill, so using that to your benefit isn’t an option anymore.”
“How did I find you? You’re not the most understated of men. There’s been media coverage of your little fight for weeks now. Your ugly f*ckin’ mug is everywhere. It wasn’t hard.”
“And you think it’s acceptable for you to be right here? Next to him?”
“Next to him? Please. He’s a f*cking pot of dust in the ground.”
Careful now.
“Besides, who the f*ck are you to get all high and mighty. You’re a f*ckin’ damn sight worse than me.”
In usual circumstances I’d take that kind of thing as a compliment, but given who’s saying it I’d rather take her eyes out.
“So you just what? Parked your car up here and waited for me to show? Am I that predictable? I guess you’ve got me all worked out ey Mum?”
Hiromi, who I’d admittedly forgotten about, reacts to the word Mum and I sense she wants to ask me, but there’s not time for that.
“I might have done my fair share of underhanded sh*t to get to where I am, but I’m still a good few greasy rungs above you. Irregardless of what you might think you f*cking vulture.”
“You left your own f*ckin’ Mother, you left ME for dead you no good piece of sh*t!
And now I find you, unrepentant, cursing me out, parading around with this painted up gook whore!”
She gestures aggressively toward Hiromi and suddenly I don’t get the impression Hiromi’s curious about who this woman is anymore. And she doesn’t need to dwell on it either, because we’re leaving.
“Sayonara.”
That was very much for Hiromi’s sake. Letting her know we’re not hanging around this place for a moment longer. I hurry her away from the gravesite and back towards our waiting car. For the record, after that sh*t in Mexico I’m not taking the helm for a while. I busted Lila’s balls enough to get me a driver. Something along the lines of I can’t wrestle if I’m mangled in a wreck on the M1.
“Are you going to visit Karla while you’re in town?”
B*tch. C*nt b*tch.
I stop. Of course I f*cking stop.
Anyone with any kind of memory knows that’s a name I can’t just ignore. Try as I might.
“No. We said our goodbye’s a few years back. No need.”
For the record, Karla is that sister….half sister, I mentioned to Brennan’s missus. Yeah.
“You know she’s had another kid?”
I face her.
“I don’t give a f*ck. Look Mum, don’t try to force conversation with me. We both know I f*cking hate you. I know you know this. So what’s the point?
I already asked you once. Why are you here?”
She doesn’t respond. Just takes a swig from her bottle.
“Good.”
Hiromi, sensing I needed a moment, has walked on ahead, so I move to catch up with her. Just before I’m out of ear shot though I turn back once more.
“Oh and Mum…..”
She raises her head to look at me. Her eye’s a bit manic.
“Stay dead this time okay?”
Mic drop.
Mum drop?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How often does a piece of sh*t like me get to play home town hero?
That’s not rhetorical. There’s a definitive answer.
Twice.
This is only the second major show I’ve ever wrestled in the UK (RIP Trace Demon), and yet it feels like the perfect place to end my career…….if it comes to that.
Last time I was here as “THE GOOD GUY”. This time I’m here as “GUY FAWKES”, only there will be no premature discovery of some elaborate f*cking scheme on my part. No, all of my sh*t is playing out in the open. Everyone knows I’m here, and everyone knows why.
Burn down the Kyzer empire.
Every last piece of it.
Wipe his f*cking name from the history books.
I have no intention of leaving that stadium in one piece, because I know that’s what it’s going to take to destroy the man whom I once called brother. I’ve f*cking dreamt of this for long enough. Much too long to let it slip and wind up on my back. Michael we’re finally doing it.
The New Epoch dies tonight. Everything people associate with you. Most of which was never yours to begin with. I took a step back and let you do your thing, way back when. And despite the constant jibes and comments about my playing second fiddle to the “clear leader of the group”, I kept my sh*t together. I didn’t let ego get in the way when it came to brothers. And yet what did you give me in return for that? For my patience? For my loyalty as a friend? You f*cked it and fell flat on your face.
Michael Kyzer loses to Phillip Schneider.
And you can cry foul as many times as you like. You f*cking choked. I set my sights on gold beneath my station just so you could have a clean run, and you couldn’t even get the job done.
And then? Then you take your f*cking ball and go home, taking me crashing down with you. But what of the Michael Kyzer mythos in 2018?
It’s lost a whole lot of it’s sheen don’t you think? You’re not the untouchable “God of f*ck” that you used to be. No. In fact there’s a whole heap of sh*t heads with claims to your pelt these days.
Ahriman. Whitner. Schneider. Brennan.
And yet you figure you can just brush these off and the aura is magically restored to its full brilliance?
Not quite Mike. You’ve got to earn it. In fact the more I think about this, the more I think perhaps it’s you who needs this match more than even I do? You need a man like me to revive that long dead legacy of yours. Because I mean really? What have you even done around here?
Two lacklustre heavyweight championship reigns and a whole lot of pageantry. It’s easy for you to claim you’ve never been here to win titles, but in the end you have. It strikes me though that maybe you’re just not good enough to keep hold of them?
Do you know how many times I’ve held that same belt? Twice. Do you know how both reigns ended? With me forfeiting the championship. The first time because we took over this place, (God that feels like a lifetime ago doesn’t it?) and I didn’t want the stink of being the boss all over my gold.
The second? Well, you know what happened there don’t you?
So this argument, of who was the better man all along? An argument the old timers just love to wheel out. It’s f*cking moot.
I AM THE WFWF!
What I’ve achieved here will never be surpassed. I’ve set the bar so high that most of the locker room wakes up every morning asking ‘what’s the point?’.
First ever double Grand-Slam. Longest reigning WFWF World Heavyweight Champion in history. A near perfect record. Christ, after your masked juggernaut up and left me I won the f*cking tag team titles on my own.
And you?
They’ve already nearly forgotten you mate. Your only claim to relevance in the last 6 years has been me. The only reason anyone mentions your name anymore is when they’re talking about me. So yeah, I’m starting to think this match, this opportunity at victory, means a lot more to you than perhaps you’re letting on.
You’re a shell of your former self. You’re a poor imitation of the man I used to run with. The man that David Brennan used to run with.
We were immortals. We were the three men in this entire industry that every other competitor wanted to blow.
Drakz.
David Brennan.
Michael Kyzer.
The New Epoch.
And now we find ourselves here. 6 years down a very long and tiresome road. Older. More banged up. After everything we’ve been through it all comes down to this match.
3 men.
THE 3 men.
No one can hold a candle to what we’ve done as a group. Not Trace Demon. Not Phillip Schneider. Not EBR or Alex Sean. F*cking no body.
THIS is the grandest moment in the history of the WFWF. THIS is the reason people still watch this f*cking product.
They’ve all been waiting for this moment.
Almost as long as me.
Mike. Dave. This isn’t going to be pretty.
But it’s sure as f*ck going to be fun.