SuperBrawl - The Black Hole

::: The Black Hole :::


It's just four black round balls, placed neatly in four holes. At the end of the four balls is a black square, resting uncomfortably on top of the same size hole the balls are placed in. He stares for several moments. He doesn't know what this is.

But he knows it's not art.

Realtor: As you can see, the previous owner had a thing for sculptures ...

He turns around, trying his best to take in the rest of the house as he commences the tour. Nice walls. Nice ceiling. Nice floors. It looks like the type of house they would use for filming a romantic comedy about a career driven executive producer of a morning television show in Los Angeles who's given up on love until, through happenstance, she meets a charismatic and charming bartender at her best friend's bachelorette party and through a series of entertaining and heartwarming encounters realizes opposites attract as she finds her soul mate and discovers that love is always there if you just allow yourself to open up.

Or the type of house they'd film a high production pornography in.

Realtor: ... and it's a turn-key property, so all of it is yours. That includes the furniture, if you were wondering.

There doesn't appear to be any smudgy remnants on the couch to his left, but it's better to err on the side of caution. They'll get a new one.

Realtor: ... so, what do you think?

He looks to his wife for the answer, who seems much more impressed than he does. As she should be, seeing as how he’s doing this entirely for her.

Shelia: I really like it ... yeah, I think it's great. What about you?

EBR: Yeah, sure. It's fine.

Trying her best not to show her displeasure in someone else's company, his wife's vexing glare is still caught by him. He's doing the best he can, but it's pretty f*cking hard to be enthused about a house he doesn't give two sh*ts about in a town he doesn't want to move to after he just got his f*cking face smashed into steel f*cking steps in front of a thousand f*cking people and who knows how many f*cking more watching on f*cking television.

F*ck.

Realtor: So ... any questions?

Nevertheless, a selfless man would at least feign an attempt to make an effort. That's what he is so that's what he does.

Even though he has the right to be a tad bit ornery at the moment.

EBR: This house hasn't been the scenes of any crimes has it? No murders, anything like that?

Realtor: You've asked me that about every house.

EBR: You haven't answered my question.

Realtor: The answer is "no". Just like every other time.

EBR: Thank you.

Shelia: Can you excuse us, for a minute?

Realtor: Of course, talk it over. Any other questions just let me know, alright?

Taking cue, their realtor exits the room leaving only EBR, Shelia, and the inane sculpture. That's gonna have to go.

Shelia: What are you doing?

EBR: What do you mean? I caved. If this is what you want, cool. We'll tell Carol we want it.

Shelia: We want it?

EBR: Don't do this. I'm not in the mood.

Shelia: Clearly. You've made that very clear during every house we've looked at. You told me you wanted to move here and you've done nothing but pout this entire time.

EBR: I'm not pouting.

Shelia: You literally had your arms folded on the way over here. You tell me you want one thing and then you go and change your mind, making new deadlines and finding ways to extend them. It's becoming a pattern, and not a very flattering one.

EBR: That's not true.

Shelia: You told me we shouldn't move because you haven't paid the paper boy yet.

EBR: I keep missing him. He's providing a service. You're supposed to pay for a service.

Shelia: Okay ... I'm not going to keep putting this move off. I've made plans. This is happening.

EBR: Yeah, I know. That's why we're here. Feels like you're accusing me of something I'm not even doing.

Shelia: I just wish you could pretend to be a little more enthused about it. This could be our house and you don't even care.

EBR: It's not about this. Things have come up. I've had other things on my mind lately.

He had all the respect in the world for Penny Shannon. There were two different championships being defended, and yet they were still chosen to close Animalize. That meant something to him. That was the WFWF telling him just how revered he was. He was humbled to receive that compliment, and honored to share that stage with someone of Penny Shannon's ilk.

And then he lost. Hrm.

So be it. He was disappointed because he only had himself to blame. The better competitor won. Maybe she had a handful of tights, but if he didn't want to lose that way he should have been better prepared to not get caught in a roll-up of all things. It just gives him something to improve on. Good. This business can get awfully boring which can lead to some awful things if you don't find productive ways to spend your time.

Afterwards he approached Penny in the middle of the ring and extended his hand. He wanted to thank her for a great match, and he wanted to tell her how much he admired her for what she went through the week prior, and he wanted to tell her he was disappointed to hear the negativity directed towards her when she came to the ring, and he wanted to tell her that history will be her vindication, and he wanted to tell her various other complimentary pleasantries which he would have meant because they were things he would have loved to hear if he was in that same situation.

And then the pain resonated up through his body and fixated itself in his lower abdomen for what seemed like an eternity. An eternity of a pulsing pain, like his scrotum and its occupants had become the unfortunate victim of a harrowing game of Whac-A-Mole. He dropped to his knees, grasping at his testicles while out of the corner of his eye he saw Penny exit and re-enter the ring with steel steps. Unfortunately his defencelessness was amplified by the far more pressing and immediate concern at that particular moment. The last thing he remembered was a brief sigh of relief. Thank God; both of them were still there.

He knows he woke up backstage some time later. He didn't and still doesn't know how long he was out for, or even how he got back there. There was only one thing he did know when he woke up, which didn't stop the doctor from trying to explain the concept of locomotion to a bird.

After all, with his history of giving them he's somewhat of an expert on the subject of concussions.

Shelia: I'm trying to be sensitive ... but is this just because of what ... you know ... happened?

EBR: Because of what? What happened?

Shelia: Your uh ... last match ...

EBR: What about it?

Shelia: ... When you got your ass kicked?

EBR: There's more to it than that ... but sure, "because I got my ass kicked" ...

Shelia: I'm sorry for being direct, but that was literally how you described it ... "sometimes you just get your ass kicked".

EBR: It's one thing when I say it. When you do it it's just ... mean.

Shelia: Sorry.

EBR: What for? It's not like you were the one who did it.

Shelia: Can I ask you something?

EBR: You're going to, so shoot.

Shelia: Isn't that the risk with what you do?

There's more confusion then dismissiveness in her question, not that he would have held it against her either way. She was very concerned in the immediate aftermath, but he made sure to ease any worries. She asked him how he was so he told her how he was. He was okay.

He is.

He is okay.

He's just fine.

EBR: You wouldn't get it.

Shelia: That's because you're always closing me out of that part. You always have.

EBR: Because you don't want to be part of it. It doesn't need to concern you.

Shelia: It's my concern when you're moping about it for weeks.

It was unbeknownst to him at the time all the animosity and hatred Penny Shannon had for someone she had never met. The venom she spewed told the story of the not-so-hidden skeletons in EBR's closet, and while he couldn't and wouldn't even bother denying the factual accuracies of the account, he didn't even have the opportunity to respond with much of anything before Vanessa McGurk attacked him from behind like she was a special guest who just so happened to be backstage and it was time to bring her out like it was an episode of Maury f*cking Povich.

So he got his ass kicked again. That is an unflattering pattern.

The indignity of being who he is and yet still so naive and ignorant notwithstanding, it was what those actions all meant tied together that neatly put the bow on EBR's growing discontent. Penny Shannon told him what he had always feared and somewhat expected, but still longingly hoped was not the case. She told him that no matter what he does going forward he will forever be judged for his past mistakes. And he knew that while she may have been the one to say it, his eyes have finally been open enough to know that it was a sentiment that is undoubtedly shared.

And that's disheartening.

To think someone can spend so many years of their life trying to atone and correct the mistakes and errors of the past and learn in such a brutal and humiliating way that it was all for nothing. To finally know that, in the end, he will forever be judged for his worst moments at the worst times. He gets no redemption, just a reputation. The same reputation that he once desperately yearned for and now, in a tragically ironic turn of events, will forever stick to him regardless if he wants it. The whole thing was just confirmation that when you have a rap sheet as long as EBR's you just can't beat the case, which is something it has in common with Penny Shannon, as he so humbly learned when they competed in the squared circle.

For so long and so many years he thought he could just envision the image of who he wanted to be, and if he acted accordingly and lived up to it, he could even become it. But alas, he's just an old fool. A method actor who, once the cameras stop rolling, is begrudged by cast and crew for his delusions and dedication to a performance that won't even net him an Academy Award nomination.

All he'll ever be in the eyes of his peers and employer is the same scumbag they saw the first go around, with a lore so infamous it can be recited from people who weren't even there to witness it firsthand. His attempts to change that narrative were effectively proven futile and that karmic target will always be on his back for someone to aim for when they want to get ahead in the WFWF while being able to justify their own lack of ethics. All this time he thought he could be the good guy with a halo hovering above his head, but it amounted to nothing more than an opportunity for someone like Penny Shannon to slide it down around his neck and use it as a makeshift noose.

So all said, it hasn't been the most glamorous of times for EBR. In fact, you could say he's feeling rather glum. That tends to be the case when one nurses a head injury, swollen testicles, damaged pride, and the loss of self identity, sense, and worth.

Also, his feelings were hurt. Penny Shannon's actions were generally mean-spirited.

EBR: You want to know what I'm going through? Okay. Imagine there's what you are, okay? Now imagine what you want to be. To get to what you want to be you have to sacrifice the one thing that defines and separates you from everybody else. So think about it. Honestly think about what you're giving up. Would you do it? Would you give up your ... I dunno, voice in your case. Would you give up your voice for that?

Shelia: ... So I'm the Little Mermaid?

EBR: Forget it. This is why I don't even bother.

Shelia: Look, I'm sorry, but I'm sick of being led on. You need to make a commitment. For months we've just been going around in circles. You told me we'd move to Los Angeles. You told me that's what you wanted. Now here we are and you couldn't make it clearer you don't want to do it. I have no idea what you even want because I'm beginning to question if you even know what you want. You're making this really hard.

Oh go write a song about it.

EBR: I'm sorry it's such an inconvenience for you. Look, you like this house? Fine. Okay. We'll buy it. You get what you want. I don't really give a sh*t either way. Today's your day.

Shelia: Just so we're clear; you said you weren't pouting?

EBR: I guess it's easy to act all high and mighty when you're not the one who's had their head stomped into two hundred pounds of industrial grade steel.

Shelia: See ... what am I even supposed to say to that?

EBR: Absolutely nothing, because there's absolutely nothing to say.

Shelia: No, really? Is that just going to be your get out of jail free card whenever you’re mad about something? Because I'm really sorry that happened to you ... but if you're not willing to talk about it I don't know what you want me to do with any of that.

EBR: I dunno, but if it happens again maybe just pass me an Advil and don't ask so many questions?

Shelia: If you're trying to make a point it'll help if you don't talk down to me in the process.

EBR: We don't have the same problems, okay? You saw what went down. That is the type of sh*t I have to deal with. Those are my problems, and then I have to hear you complaining about how you have to spend a few hours in a car driving somewhere? God, I wish I could be so fortunate. I'd love for my problems to be mitigated by deciding which podcast to listen to on the way there. F*ck ... wouldn't that be something?

Stopping himself he takes a deep breath. Inhale for four seconds, hold for seven, exhale for eight.

Now he feels better.

Now he feels okay.

Now he feels just fine.

EBR: Look ... I've just been a little mad lately ... have a lot of stuff going on ... so I'm just gonna go. I'll get over it and apologize later, but right now? I can't be here.

Shelia's disappointment is rather palpable. She's not the only one in this room who feels that way about him. Join the line, sister.

Shelia: Yeah ... you're going to do what you're going to do, but I'm done living in a holding pattern. I'm not going back to Oakland. Whatever you're going to do ... I think you need to think really hard about what it is you actually want.

EBR: Yes, I understand.

Shelia: And?

In an instant Penny Shannon tried to take everything from him, treating him like nothing more than garbage that needs to be kicked to the curb. She wanted the world to know that her reign had commenced, and she wanted to show that by squashing the nearest plebeian.

She wanted everyone to think she was the baddest motherf*cker on the block.

EBR: Well ... we've lived in different places for pretty much our entire relationship ...

Penny Shannon is entitled to her opinion. If that's what Penny thinks then so be it. That's what she thinks. That's okay.

That's just f*cking fine.

EBR: What's a couple more months?

So now Penny Shannon has to learn that she's not.



The pleasant scent of salt water fills his nostrils as he strolls along the boardwalk adjacent to the beach. The calming blue presence relaxes him more than he already is, and it's in moments like this he begins to truly understand and appreciate the Zen lifestyle which has become the basis of his existence. The world is truly a beautiful place if you let it be.

He's taken a keen liking to walking this route after his daily yoga session. It allows him to keep that meditative high for just a little longer. It allows him to be his best self. He may not be able to control the sea but he can learn to surf the waves.

There was just too much to deal with in Los Angeles. He needed to return home. While it was unfortunate his wife couldn't join him, it was too selfish to expect her to continue to uproot her own existence just to aid in his. She has her own things to deal with, and he has his. She understands. We all reach the same destination on our journey, but it doesn't mean we walk at the same pace.

The Penny Shannon situation was taking too much control over his life. He knew that things needed to be simplified in his quest to put an end to it, he just didn't necessarily know how. It was during one fruitful transition from downward dog to cobra pose did the answer finally materialize in his mind's eye. It was visualized with so much clarity and depth he felt like he could reach out and touch it.

EBR is many, many things. He's insightful, and shrewd. Respectable, and graceful. Caring, and compassionate. Honorable, and principled. There’s an element of righteousness thrown in, and all in all he's just a class guy all the way.

But above all of that he's the greatest wrestler the WFWF has ever seen.

It's what he is and will always be. He's never known anything else.

When Penny Shannon verbally runs him down, beats him, kicks his ass, and sends him into a state of unconsciousness in front of the entire world that runs in contrast to that. That casts shade over that ideology. Not a little bit, but by quite a lot.

That starts to send the message that EBR isn't that, and that if anyone wants to take a run at him they can. That EBR isn't who he once was, if anyone even remembers who that is or what that even used to be and that he isn't just that old guy who used to be pretty sketchy. When Penny Shannon punks him out they don't see EBR. They just see a nameless, faceless schmuck who will allow it.

The spreading of misinformation is a real societal issue these days.

He returned to the WFWF with a cock-eyed optimism, thinking he could treat people the way he wanted to be treated and would receive the same courtesy. It doesn't work that way. He forgot. There's sharks out there, and he shouldn't be surprised what happens when they sense blood.

He was running around like the fun uncle, sneaking them the occasional beer and a peek at a woman's gash in a Hustler magazine when he should have been playing the stepfather. They may hate the new rules but they will respect and follow them. There’s no point arguing - that’s just the way things are now, and they will address him as “Sir” lest they face the consequences. Turns out Alex had it right all along so many, many years ago.

What he saw in his mind's eye was himself victorious in the middle of the ring. His raised right arm had a fistful of Penny's hair as her detached head and severed spine dangled like fish bones below and her last gallons of blood dripped onto the canvas. The crowd looked on in stunned silence as he simply stood in triumph like an honorary member of the Lin Kuei.

It all became so clear and obvious. This was always how it was going to end. There was never any other way. All they heard were stories about this man - this great and legendary man - yet all they saw was Penny Shannon do to him whatever she pleased. The man didn't match the myth. They need to see it to believe it. He will oblige.

He'll march to the back with his trophy and slam it on Kris Kash's desk just to let him know this is the way it's going to be from here on out. Kash can do with it whatever he sees fit. He can stick her head on a pike for the entire world to see and use it was a warning for what happens when one crosses the Poltergeist. He could put it on ice and donate it to an arena with a closed roof, attach it to a cable, and hang it from the rafters as a tribute to his work because he doesn't have a jersey number to retire. Hell, he can tie it to a pole and let some neighbourhood kids play tetherball with it for all he cares.

Or he can just take it out back and toss it in the dumpster. That's where trash goes.

Poor Billy Broom. It's quite the trail of blood he'll have to mop up.

Let the truth about him be known. They think he's weak because he walks around with a warm smile and offers a sportsmanly handshake, but they'll all discover together that his greatness will forever outshine any kindness. They'll heed to the legend of the Poltergeist, and they should be thankful he makes it so hard to forget. All they have to do is think of the name and they'll remember; sometimes ghosts can be friendly.

But most of the time they're not.

Most of the time they're pretty scary.

Leaning over a railing, he looks down onto the beach in front of him. He takes a deep breath, breathing in that beautiful ocean smell. Indeed; he may not be able to control the sea, but he can learn to surf the waves. It's not just an inspirational quote on his favorite yoga studio's wall.

Turning away he walks down the boardwalk, bringing the straw of his strawberry protein smoothie to his mouth and taking a much deserved drink. It's the treat he gets after every great workout.

When you put in the work, you reap the rewards.



Casually sauntering down the sidewalk, the sun shines down on him in this beautiful moment on this beautiful day in this beautiful city. It's the little joys which make life so fulfilling.

He approaches the crosswalk and joins his fellow pedestrians as they collectively wait for the light to change. He takes in his surroundings and scenario which lies before him and simply exists in the present. Simply lives. It's an enjoyable and delightful experience. He had been looking to strengthen his mindfulness, and he nods at the realization that he's absolutely crushing it. Everything's coming up EBR.

Simply majestic. Dare he say, downright divine?

The lights to the right and left of him turn red as he anticipates the continuation of his stroll, but is halted as the walk signal never changes while the green traffic light beside it does. No one bothered to press the walk button, but the pedestrians walk ahead anyways despite all the various cars trying to make their left turns, which are now halted by the various people who are now clogging up the crosswalk. It wasn't their turn to go yet they took it anyway, ripping it away with absolutely no regard.

Rules are there for a reason. Polite society depends on them and it's selfish to brazenly ignore them. The inch you take here and the inch you take there gradually becomes miles, and if you do it long enough eventually you pay it no mind when you find yourself taking other people's land in the process because, unfortunately for them, it just so happened to be in the miles you've already decided to poach. When rules and common decency aren't adhered to we descend into chaos, and from the flames of chaos emerges an alarmingly large amount of co-workers with severe head injuries and certain men having to be shamed and guilt-ridden over it. It's just wrong.



Unless certain co-workers deserve it. There are exceptions to every rule.

He takes a deep breath and takes a sip of his smoothie. It's okay. It's not a big deal. Those pedestrians didn't mean anything. We all make mistakes. He, however, presses the button beside him and opts to wait. His time isn't more valuable than anyone else’s. Besides, he's having a good time. It's a good day. Excellent day.

Enjoying his existence, he resumes taking in his environment. If he's not mistaken he may have just seen a song sparrow off in the horizon. By pure circumstance he looks off to his side, making eye contact with the driver of the vehicle waiting for the light to change in his respective direction. He's abruptly caught off guard.

He knows that man.

EBR: ... KC?

KC pulls up slightly, rolling down his window.

KC: Ahaha ... what up, fam?

With his outstretched hand extended out the window, EBR claps it as he leans in towards the car.

EBR: I'm good, man ... I'm real good.

KC: Yo what's up? You need a ride or something?

EBR: Uh ... I dunno, I'm not really going anywhere in particular.

KC: C'mon, get in.

By this point, the traffic light has long since turned green and the driver behind him honks in an attempt to get his attention.

KC: We need to catch up, man. How long's it been? Sheeit ... don't even know.

With the driver continuing to press the horn, KC sticks his head out the driver's side window and looks back.

KC: Hey yo go around, bro! Go around! There's two lanes you dumb f*ck! It's not that complicated, son!

Casually he turns back to EBR.

KC: C'mon, let's roll.

Shrugging, EBR opens the door and gets in. Not doing so would be rude.

And he's such a swell guy.



The clear countertop nearly stretches across the entire store as cabinets and display cases displaying product are neatly placed in space efficient locations. To his astonishment it's actually an official looking store, surprisingly subdued, modest, and elegant in appearance. He'd think he was selling jewelry if it wasn't for the giant banner with a marijuana leaf hanging over the cash register and counter.

It certainly appears to be a logical and inspirational career decision for his old friend to make. Find what you do and just do it better, not unlike a certain wrestler who went to Japan to become a much more acclaimed one.

KC: So where the f*ck have you been? You haven't contacted me in a minute.

EBR: I mean, I was living in a different country ... so y'know ... roaming charges ...

KC: I thought you were either dead or in jail.

EBR: No sh*t? That's what I just assumed happened to you.

KC: Cause I'm black?

EBR: More so because of your previous ... occupation ...

KC: But the stats aren't in my favor, right?

EBR: Dude, I don't know how we got here but I didn't start this.

The grin spreads on KC's face as both chuckle.

KC: Just f*cking with you, fam.

EBR: Yeah I know ... you have a point about the statistics though.

KC: Yeah that's too bad.

They both take a moment to reflect on the issue of systemic racism. These are the tough conversations the world needs to have to elicit change. They're making a real difference.

He's glad after so many years their camaraderie is still intact. They were good friends back in the day. Probably his only legitimate friend if he's being honest with himself. He understood EBR like few ever could. When you're pursuing greatness and put all your time and focus onto achieving those great feats it can often be difficult to build stable relationships, doubly so in EBR's line of work. Work associates do not equal friends, as he has so often learned when he would later abandon or betray them in one shape or another.

But KC was always there for him, often if not always with a delightful supply of celebratory and interesting narcotics at good prices after EBR's latest in a long line of personal and professional victories. He was a simple man who after a long, hard day at work simply wanted to unwind with the simple pleasures. He wasn't asking for the world, just some great times to be had by all. And they were. Great f*cking times ... eh, unless you were the unfortunate soul standing opposite him.



He looks down on those days, as has been long since documented. He didn't behave properly and his extracurricular activities tended to support that. He was wrong and it was wrong.

Fun, though.

Being back in his presence brings all the memories back. It all feels so familiar, and not just because KC is standing behind a counter only a few feet away from him and is rolling and now puffing on a joint.

EBR: So you own this place?

KC: Word.

EBR: Nice, nice. Going legitimate ... I feel you. We all have to grow up eventually.

KC shrugs.

KC: I guess. Figured sooner or later the feds are going to look into how I can afford all my sick sh*t. You want any?

He offers EBR a hit. Back in the day he’d use it and substances of its ilk for assistance in coming up with potential solutions to potential problems, but it seems pretty derivative at this point. He’s a grown ass man who has all the clarity he needs. He already figured out how to deal with his newest problem.

Soon she won't be one. Soon she won't be much of anything.

EBR: I'm good. I don't really do that anymore. I'm all about that clean living, all day every day ...

For he is the Poltergeist.

EBR: ... Super natural.

KC: It's a plant, bro.

EBR: Yeah ... but once I start indulging who knows where that leads me, right?

KC: Cause it's a gateway?

EBR: Actually, yeah. Sort of.

KC: You're being a bitch right now, man.

EBR shrugs and takes a hit. KC always knew just what to say. The bud fills his lung, causing EBR to erupt in a cough before he hands it back to KC.

It's a little strong, and while it's been awhile since he's last partaken he can still differentiate it was more than just some sweet Kush. It was never just Kush with KC.

KC: So what you doing back here?

EBR: I live here.

KC: A'ight, so what you're saying is you could have shot me a message?

EBR: Don't take it personally. I don't get out much anymore. Not enough time in a day, am I right?

KC: We make time, mother f*cker.

They both laugh even though EBR doesn't know why that's supposed to be funny.

KC: Yo, so I'm heading out to the club later tonight. You wanna hang?

EBR: I'd like to chill but I dunno ... something tells me our ideas of a good time are a little different now ...

KC: Can I be real with you?

EBR: When you start a sentence with that I already know you're going to insult me.

KC: You're being a real bitch. For real.

EBR: Eh ... I don't think so.

KC: When I first saw you earlier you were drinking a strawberry smoothie.

EBR: That was a post-workout recovery drink. I had just worked out.

KC: What kind of workout?

Before he has to answer that the door chimes open and a customer enters the store, walking up to KC and the counter.

KC: Yo what up, bro?

Customer: Not much, not much.

KC: What you need?

The customer glances at EBR, before back at KC. He hesitates.

Customer: ... Uh ...

KC: Nah nah ... he's cool. What you going for?

Customer: Need some of that "Reasonable Doubt".

KC: "Brooklyn's Finest" or "D'Evils"?

Customer: "D'Evils".

KC: Word.

KC reaches underneath the counter, producing a modestly sized brick of white powder. Now, EBR doesn't know for a fact that it's pure cocaine harvested from the jungles of Colombia.

But it's pure cocaine harvested from the jungles of Colombia.

KC: How you paying?

Customer: American Express.

KC passes the customer the card reader, who puts in his card and PIN number. All three stand in silence as the information is processed, and once it's approved he hands it back to KC who hands him the receipt.

KC: You have a good day, alright?

Customer: Thanks, dude.

The customer casually stuffs the brick into his backpack and exits the store. KC turns his attention back to EBR, rather informally.

KC: So as I was saying, we should hang. It'll be good for you to get out.

EBR: ... Maybe.

KC: What? You had plans or something?

He doesn't. He hadn't really thought far in advance, being as focused on living in the now as he is. The endorphins stemming from the thought of Penny Shannon's destruction were still in full effect. He had just assumed that was the only high he would need until it came to fruition. It was the sweetest of dreams.

Penny Shannon can don a mask and cape and parade through the night masquerading as a vigilante if she pleases, but nobody should be buying anything she's selling. She ain't that. She may try to rep for Vanessa McGurk because she's her foster mother or whatever their deal is, but c'mon ... you think Penny's really staying up at night sending a thought and a prayer to the many that EBR's wronged? It seems pretty evident she's just some c*nt who's pissed off about her own sh*tty life and has finally found someone to take it out on, all while under the guise of the good guy so she can justify the presence of the scumbag she's gonna see in the mirror every morning. EBR should know - that was basically his entire MO back in the day. The man would shape narratives to justify his actions like he damn near invented it.

See, he used to think Penny was a somewhat smart kid but now he's not so sure. Her judgement and subsequent actions make any brightness seem a bit iffy. Does she not understand the type of business she chose to get in? Here's the plot twist, the subtext that's always been hidden underneath whatever this sport was supposed to be; everyone was and is trying to do what EBR used to do. Always. The difference - the one distinguishable difference - has been that EBR was actually capable of doing it.

This business, this industry, this "sport", is based entirely on physically incapacitating your opponent. That's all it ever was. If people don't like it they can stick to the amateurs or learn how to shoot a ball through a hoop, but that's what it is. EBR didn't create those rules. They were the rules he was told to play by. So EBR did. And unlike the Penny Shannons of the world who act like they're somehow above it, EBR would at least own up to it. He knew who and what he was. He was Babe Ruth pointing out past left field before he hit another home run.

Look, he wishes it were another way. He wishes it could be another way. He worked tirelessly to make it so, but Penny got some sand in her vagina and effectively put an end to it. That's partly what grinds his gears so much. The nerve - the f*cking hypocrisy - of Penny Shannon to come after him for anything he's done when in the same breath willfully admit that she would "f*ck up" a DevilKiller or a Cameron Stone, like we all don't know what that really means. It means she tried to do the same thing she accosts EBR for. And it means she didn't succeed. And it, somehow, means she gets to sleep at night because of it. What a world we live in which failure somehow gives someone the moral high ground.

Penny just doesn't get it. She loudly boasts that she's had to work for everything she's ever gotten, while men like EBR had it handed to him? So bitter and petty is Penny. And mistaken. It wasn't that he was gifted anything; it's that he just took whatever the f*ck he wanted, and so effortlessly that it's hard to notice the distinction. She's certainly living up to the stereotype that jealousy is a female trait.

He's forced to concede that he just had Penny pegged all wrong. He thought she was one of the good ones, because he thought there actually were some good ones. It's the one way he'll tip his cap to her; it gave her an opening to get at him that he never saw coming. Good on her. But that difference - that one notable difference - between EBR and everybody else rears its head again.

She didn't finish the job.

Oh, PenPen - that stupid, petulant child. She's much dumber than he had ever anticipated. When you're swinging for the fences the first rule is to finish the job. That's a big part of it. That's the most important part of it. You don't just leave the flesh eating zombie on the ground near the well you get your clean water from. You put a bullet in its head because you're going to cross paths again.

It's so inconceivable to him that someone who he had as the present and future of this company could be so God damn stupid. What was her end game, anyways? Take him out? Nah, she proved she can't actually do that. So what is it? An elaborate scheme of some kind? Does she have some loved ones and a really good life insurance policy she wants them to collect?

Or was all this just Penny trying to send him a message? Hrm.








Welp, message received loud and clear, c*nt.

This is the fight that Penny picked, and if that's the fight she wants that's the fight she'll get. A gentleman always lets a lady decide.

Part of him almost feels bad, but it'll pass. It's so unfortunate to have to end what was once such a promising career that should have been hitting its prime any day now, but eh ... this is Penny Shannon after all. She would have just flaked out again in a couple of months anyways. At least this way she can go down being confabulated as some great wrestler who had the whole world ahead of her and proved it when she defeated Drakz for the Heavyweight Championship, but whose dazzling career was tragically cut short. It's a better alternative then being remembered for she actually is; just another overhyped prospect who never lived up to the lofty expectations, whose greatest accomplishment was flukily winning a belt that Drakz immediately and decisively won back a few weeks later, who sulked and disappeared in shame for over a year, and in an insolent act of delusion tried to regain her dignity by setting her sights on a target that was far, far too unattainable.

Penny Shannon; the Icarus of the WFWF.

EBR ain't even wrong this time, but still. He's a good dude, and he hates having to go back down this route after condemning it for so long. But alas; a man's got to do what a man's got to do.

She attempted to take him out. It was a very weak, futile, and ultimately unsuccessful attempt. But it was an attempt nonetheless. How the f*ck else was this ever going to end?

KC: For real, what are you even doing tonight?

Some people have reputations to uphold. It's not his fault the foolish, stupid girl chose to expose herself by making checker moves on a chess board. Welcome to the big leagues, PenPen. Someone should have told her she has to get both feet inbounds for that great play to count. Otherwise ... well ... she might as well have just dropped the ball. It equates to the same result either way.

Penny asked for it, so now the Master goes back to work. Sorry kids; you'll need to quiet down over there and make sure to keep the door closed. Try not to cause any distractions or disturbances, for the chef is in the kitchen and he's cooking up another one of his specialties. A real chef d'oeuvre.

EBR: Tonight? Absolutely nothing.

It should be quite a trip to take an old stroll down memory lane. Those endorphins have got him all hyped, and it doesn't feel like it's going to be the only high he's on anyways. That juicy joint is already starting to kick in.

KC: Sick. Yo, where you staying at anyways?

And since he's such an upstanding dude who's always willing to lend a helping hand, some advice for all those kids and aspiring wrestlers out there who want to grow up to have long, illustrious careers and not settle for becoming just another Penny Shannon? Take a page from the Master; don't aim for the head.

EBR: Same place as before.

Aim through the head.



It's an unpleasant and sordid environment he finds himself currently occupying. The music is grating and far too loud, which along with the dim lighting, only reinforces how on edge he and all his senses are. It's grimy and filthy, and he can't even see the floor all that well. God knows what he'd find if he could. There's high end and there's low end, and this is most definitely low end.

The woman on the stage in front of him wraps her body around the silver pole like a snake wrapping itself around a dead possum. The patrons holler and clap.

The disappointment in this current predicament cannot be emphasized enough. This isn't the kind of club he thought KC would take him to. Not that the alternative wouldn't leave him as equally out of place, but at least the chairs wouldn't be so sticky.

Pulling himself off the adhesive seating he saunters around the club, desperately looking for KC. He finds him occupying a booth with a woman in his lap. EBR sighs before he approaches and sits down.

KC: 'Sup, E? This is Charity.

Charity: Hi.

EBR: Yeah, nice to meet you.

He turns to KC.

EBR: Hey man, you want to get out of here? Go see a movie or something? I saw Tenet the other week and wouldn't mind seeing it again.

KC: I don't even know what that is.

EBR: Neither do I but I think if I see it a couple more times I'll figure it out.

KC: Nah fam, we're good here.

EBR: You can stay if you want, but this isn’t really doing anything for me so I think I'm just going to bounce, alright?

The music is too loud and KC didn't hear him.

KC: What?

EBR: I'm gonna go.

KC: What?

EBR: I said I'm going.

KC: What?

EBR: I'm leaving.

KC: Why?

EBR: I said I'm leaving.

KC: No I got that, why?

He surveys around the club. If someone was into this he guesses it'd be a fine time. He used to be into this sort of thing so in all fairness he shouldn't judge.

There's a seventy year old man ogling the woman on stage on the opposite end of the club. The stripper takes off her bikini bottom and spreads her legs in front of his face.

He's not into it anymore, though.

EBR: Not really my scene.

KC: You're way too tight, man. You need to relax. Hey Charity, give him a show.

She takes off her top.

KC: Damn look at them titties, E!

He does.

EBR: Yes they're very nice.

KC: You know what you need? A dance.

His compadre snaps his finger, drawing the attention of another working girl.

KC: My friend needs a companion.

She approaches the booth and sits on EBR's lap. The polite thing would have been to ask first.

Very Young Stripper: Well hi there.

EBR: ... How old are you?

Very Young Stripper: As old as you want me to be, daddy.

He's legitimately old enough to be just that, and as such he's only semi-erect. He quickly shoos her off. That's where she should be - over there.

EBR: I'm good ... I'm good, thanks.

KC: E ... I brought you here to have a good time. You're not having a good time. The solution? Shut the f*ck up and just have a good time. God damn, man.

EBR: You know I'm married, right?

KC: Why would I know that? You haven't talked to me in years. That's not knowledge I'll possess.

Charity: He's wearing a ring.

KC: Bitch, this is our conversation.

EBR: You shouldn't talk to Charity that way.

Charity: Meh, it's fine. You are being a nag, just so you know.

EBR: I thought you were on my side ... you know what, this is a personal conversation so while I may not support the language ... I agree with the general sentiment. No offense.

KC: Yep, so just sit here and look pretty.

Charity zips up and stays on KC's lap. All said, his involvement in this situation isn't one of EBR's proudest moments and it won't find itself on his personal highlight reel.

KC: You know what your problem is? You're too stressed. I don't know what's going on with your personal life but you gotta have fun, man. You used to have fun. Now you're just some dude with kids who goes to bed at nine.

EBR: I don't have kids.

Taking a drink from his glass, KC eyes EBR with a judgemental glare.

KC: That makes it even worse. Just settle down and take it easy. I got your back, man. I know what's good for you. And this ... is exactly what you need. You gotta get rid of that tension somehow.

KC always knew just what to say.

EBR: Maybe ... yeah, maybe you're right. I guess I have been a bit of a nag. Charity was right.

Charity: Tolds you.

KC: Aha ... my man.

EBR: A'ight, let's party.

KC: Let me finish my drink first.

EBR: Fine. I'm just heading to the wash room.

KC: There you go. Get rid of that tension.

EBR: What? Dude I'm just gonna take a -

KC: Don't care, man. You do you.

Leaving the table just as the current song stops he can hear them from a distance.

Charity: Oh yeah, for sure he's definitely gonna beat off in there.

Walking past the club's inhabitants who, for better or worse, he shares far more in common with than he'd like to admit EBR reaches and enters the washroom. It's empty apart from the closed stall next to the urinal he approaches. He didn't have much of a choice; it was the only one. He unzips and brings out his genitalia, by habit inspecting his testicles which remained swollen far longer then he would have anticipated. He'll give it to her; Penny Shannon has very powerful legs.

He stares ahead as he does his business, at least until his attention is drawn to the various graffiti littered on the urinal walls. Various inappropriate rhymes, crude jokes, and the name "Jenny" and how if he wants a good time he should apparently call 867-5309 are plastered in front of his face. There are also several drawings of penises. There's always penises.

This is who he is. This is who he needs to be. He belongs in this unseemly, vile filth. He needs to make it his residence, at least until the deed is done.

Perhaps it's just his endorphins subsiding, but he feels no real hatred towards Penny Shannon. She's just a girl who caught herself in a real bad situation. She made a mistake. Someone's life shouldn't be defined because of a mistake, be it singular or throughout the course of an entire career up until 2013 like a certain professional wrestler. We're all just living our lives and dealing with the hardships in them as we go. Sometimes you have to steal just to get by.

But you better make damn sure you know who you're stealing from.

Penny Shannon stole from the mob.

EBR has lived in the swamp for so long he knows how to navigate it. Penny just thinks she does. She's frustrated that she's had to grind and claw her way to the table to get a taste of what everyone else is having, and it's left her disenfranchised and disillusioned with the system. The problem is she thinks the system is rigged, wholly unaware and ignorant that the problem is her. She's just a player, and she's a player who just doesn't possess the necessary qualities to ever win the game. It's why a Phillip Schneider can take her eye, and yet he and EBR were always surprisingly cordial. Game recognizes game.

The table isn't for everyone. Not everyone gets the same meal. Pulling up a chair doesn't net you a spot, and sitting in someone else's chair doesn't mean you take their plate. It just means they kick you off.

The table is only reserved for the select few who are willing to embrace the filth and everything that goes along with it. Everyone says they can - and they may even believe it - but it's only once they get there that they discover just how cold, dark, and lonely it really is. It's when they realize their hopes and dreams and all they ever wanted really just aren't worth the work they have to put in. The vast majority just aren't built for it, so the vast majority just end their days watching the select few eat.

It's hard to blame someone like Penny Shannon for having resentment for the whole situation. She's watching people eat what she believes is a delicious meal because it looks glamorous now, but she wasn't in the room when they had to kill and gut the pig.

The people at the top had to put in the dirty, filthy work to get there. It may not be admirable, but it required some level of sacrifice all the same. They've done far too much to get there to ever just give it up. They're going to keep their spot through whatever means necessary. Penny Shannon may not like it and may choose to pout and yell about it, but it changes nothing. Sh*tting on other people doesn't stop it from once again becoming your fate when you're the middle piece of the Human Centipede.

If only Penny had known that. Instead she walked up to the toughest guy in the prison yard and punched him in the jaw. She thought it would establish dominance and let everyone know it was her place now, but inevitably it just ends with her lying naked in the shower, failing to keep her entrails from spilling out of her gut as she watches her blood run past the discarded shiv and circle down the drain. It's the last thing she ever sees.

Some people have difficulty keeping their heads above the muddy, swampy water when they try to occupy a habitat they're not long for. EBR not only survives the vile filth, he thrives. It was an environment he was built for, as everyone will see as he conquers the land he's conquered so many times before and loudly reclaims his rightful place as King of the Alligator People.

Not that he's even particularly happy about it. It's not all sunshine and roses for him either. He's looking at potentially a very difficult conversation with his wife regarding why his life's work and latest endeavor in the art of sport has devolved into felonious assault. He'll have to look her in the eye and confirm that - sadly - sometimes people just get their asses kicked.

Shelia's pretty chill. She'll understand.

He wishes it could be another way, but alas, this is his career. This is his life. He's not going to let someone else just take it, and he's too old to start over. He's done so many terrible things throughout his career that one more shouldn't move the needle. Greatness isn't free. If the cost is a few sleepless nights so be it. He likes staying up and watching movies anyways.

He gives a few more shakes to empty the bladder as he finishes up his business. Before he can put his genitalia away he feels something scurrying on his foot. He takes an exasperated sigh as he looks down, because naturally he expects to look down and see a small mouse occupying the top of his shoe. Which, in fact, there is. He's just not impressed with this strip club’s health and safety standards.

Shaking his foot back and forth he tries to get the mouse off, but it stays firmly cemented. The mouse has gumption, and as a result, EBR's respect.

But it's still a rodent on top of his foot. Have to draw the line somewhere.

EBR: Come on ... hurry up ... don't got all night, dude.

He continues to swing his foot back and forth to no avail. Annoyed at this point he swings with enough momentum to send his leg across his body, the force propelling EBR and his exposed penis to the stall beside him. For the first time he notices a specifically placed hole located around waist height, and he specifically notices it because his penis neatly goes through it. Very quickly he feels something warm on it.

At this point the mouse has gotten off his foot.

EBR: Ugh ... uh, no thanks.

Briskly he pulls his phallus member out of the hole and back into his pants where it belongs. It is wet.

Man In Urinal: What the hell? Do it or don't!

EBR: That was uh ... that was an accident ...

Man In Urinal: Really? That was an accident? That's what you're going with?

EBR: Look ... mistakes have been made ... it's best if we just go our seperate ways ... long pause ... word ...

Man In Urinal: Why'd you even come in here!?

EBR: It's a washroom. I had to go.

Man In Urinal: You knew what this was!

EBR: ... How am I in the wrong here? ... F*ck this, I'm leaving ... I don't know if you want me to apologize ...?

Man In Urinal: Just get out!

He does, but not before washing his hands. He normally lathers for twenty seconds but opts for thirty, even though he's aware his hands aren't the body part that he wants cleaned.

Exiting the wash room he approaches the booth KC is occupying. Charity is nowhere to be seen, which is the first development in several moments that has gone in EBR's favor. He sits down across from KC.

EBR: Okay, I'm a little cranky so let's just party and get the f*ck out of here, cool?

His words fall on deaf eyes as KC simply stares to his left, a look in his eye most similar to a cat looking at a squirrel through the living room window.

EBR: ... 'Sup?

KC: I know that motherf*cker.

By the process of looking in the direction of KC's glare does EBR notice four men off in the other end of the club. Without ever taking his eyes off them KC downs his drink, and while it was objectively slick EBR knows that sh*t, is in fact, about to go down.

EBR: C'mon man, let's not do this. Let's just do whatever stupid bullsh*t you originally wanted to do and get the f*ck out of here.

KC: F*cker stole from me the other week. If he wants it like that he gets it like that.

EBR: So what? Best case scenario you're gonna cause a scene or something?

KC: Ain't playing games up in here.

He jets off his seat and makes a beeline towards the men, EBR begrudgingly dragging himself along in pursuit.

EBR: It's not worth it, man. Let's just stick to objectifying women.

KC: Oh it'll be worth it ... by the way, did something happen back there the washroom? You look different.

EBR: Ignoring You're better than this, man. You run a legitimate ... well, you run a business ...

KC: Yo Marcus! Ahaha ... guess who, mother f*cker!

The group's attention is caught. That type of greeting will usually elicit the intended response.

Marcus: What? You got a problem?

EBR: I think we can talk this out like -

KC: Where's my money, motherf*cker!

Marcus: I don't owe you sh*t, and even if I did I ain't paying you sh*t so get the f*ck up outta here.

KC: So it's like that, huh?

Marcus: Yeah, it's like that.

He turns towards EBR.

Marcus: Who the f*ck is that?

EBR: You don't know me. We've never met.

KC: That's my boy and we'll f*ck all ya up! Right, E?

EBR: Yeah about that ... I don't really want to be involved ... maybe just be here for emotional support?

KC: Have my back, E.

EBR: You shouldn't have sprung this up on me. We should have talked about this first. If anything, we should be looking to de-escalate the situation.

Marcus pushes KC.

EBR: That was unnecessary -

Marcus: We doing this or no?

KC: Oh we doing this, bitch.

After a retaliatory shove a small crowd has started to gather to watch the show. It's just foolishness all around; a bunch of men acting like children playing children's games. Not EBR, though. He's a grown ass man, and as a grown ass man he makes grown ass responsible decisions.

He sees the fist of Marcus coming towards KC, and as such makes a very brave and upstanding sacrifice once he steps into it and takes it in the face.

It actually hurt more than he anticipated. Had that been information he was privy to would it have affected his decision? No. He's far too noble for that.

An internal debate would have preceded it, however.

EBR: Rubbing jaw Okay guys, you got to look tough in front of some people, nothing more needs to come from this. Alright KC, let's go -

KC: Yo you don't get to play my boy like that! Joe Louis comin' at 'ya!

For the second time in mere seconds EBR is forced to act like the bigger man and take a second punch, this time to the other side of his face, and this time from KC.

KC: Dammit E your face got in the way!

EBR: Rubbing other side of jaw Dude ... I took the first one so you wouldn't have to. This way, you don't feel the need to retaliate and do something stupid ... admittedly, you didn't know that so I'll chalk this whole thing up to miscommunication. That's equally on me. My bad.

Nevertheless, the conflict has been successfully avoided. Sometimes upstanding cititzens make upstanding sacrifices.

EBR: Can we bounce now?

Marcus: Hey KC your boy is soft as Charmin!

EBR: The f*ck? I literally let both of you hit me and neither even took me off my feet. I'm clearly the toughest, baddest mother f*cker in this entire f*cking club ... you know what, that doesn't matter right now. The important thing is -

At this point KC has pulled a gun out of his pocket.

KC: Clap clap, son!

He fires it in the air and laughs maniacally. Frantically the crowd disperses in various directions while several strippers begin screaming.

At this point EBR can't help but feel his handle on this situation was vastly overstated.

KC: Aha ... you can run but you ain't gettin’ away -

With KC's sights still on Marcus and his group who have since begun the process of effectively high tailing it, EBR doesn't wait for a clarification or confirmation on what KC means and desperately begins to wrestle the gun away from KC.

KC: What are you doing, E?

EBR: I ... don't ... trust you with this. I'd just feel better if I had it -

The struggle pursues until EBR is able to jerk it out of KC's hand, accidentally causing it to discharge as another bullet hits and ricochets off glasses sitting on top of the nearby bar. Startled, EBR instinctively throws the gun away, causing it to hit the ground and fire off one last shot which hits the now empty stage.

This causes much more hysterical screams.

KC: See, you shouldn't try to grab it from someone like that. That's not how you responsibly handle a firearm.

EBR: Uh ... we should probably leave before the cops come ...

KC: Let me just go get it first -

EBR: Dude, no.

KC: Can't just leave it here, E. That's how they catch you.

KC chuckles.

KC: Amateur.

EBR: I'll get it, just go get the car and meet me out front. You've lost your gun privileges.

KC: Who are you to decide that?

Incredulously, EBR looks up at the ceiling and the bullet sized hole above them.

KC: Yeah, whatever. This place has gotten lame anyways.

Following in the direction of a few departing strippers and drunken degenerates KC exits out of the nearest door, which EBR notices is specifically a fire exit. He sympathizes with the fight or flight response but Jesus Christ can't people just follow the f*cking rules? They're not just a f*cking suggestion and they exist for a f*cking reason. This f*cking night is really testing his God damn f*cking patience.

F*ck.

Deep breath. Inhaling for four seconds, holding it for seven, and exhaling for another eight.

Okay. Now he feels better. Perhaps he was overreacting. That probably wasn't the largest of infractions that have occurred in the last several moments. He approaches and picks up the firearm, looking to put it in his pant's pocket but quickly stops himself once he thinks it through. Can't have that accidentally discharging. His balls have been through enough recent trauma. He opts for the responsible decision and puts it in his jacket pocket because he's a responsible grown ass man who just happens to find himself collecting evidence and becoming an accessory to a crime.

He wishes he could say this wasn't how he saw his night going, but in hindsight it might be pretty par for the course. Live in the swamp and you tend to get a little muddy. It takes an individual with a particularly clownish disposition to not understand that. Or to ever forget it.

Finding the proper door he exits the club, despite it being much further then the fire exit. Just because other people don't doesn't mean he doesn't follow the rules. That's an onus that still lands on him. Outside, he wanders around the building and towards the parking lot as he searches for KC's car. He shouldn't be here. He should have never been here. It doesn't take the presumable and impending arrival of law enforcement to reach that conclusion.

KC: Yo E! Hurry up!

Slightly disappointed with his sense of self he spots the car and casually saunters towards it.

KC: Gah! They're behind you, bro!

Startled, EBR turns around to see Marcus and his crew from a distance. All four have guns, which considering the numbers advantage just comes off as unnecessary if not excessive. Surprisingly appropriate, however. The lack of class near and around this establishment continues to astound him. Admittedly, that is probably not the most pressing observation at this current point of time. His attention should be devoted to the real possibility he might be dead in a mere matter of seconds.

This night. For f*ck’s sake.

Sadly there isn't time for a deep breath and calming thought as he runs towards KC's car and grabs the door handle. He jerks it for several moments.

EBR: God dammit KC unlock the door!

Such an embarrassing way to go out - the great EBR found gunned down outside of the lowest of low brow strip clubs, the unfortunate collateral damage of beef he had no prior knowledge of but which he found himself involved in. It's a fate only slightly more dignified then being found hanging in a closet, his tightly formed fist around his dick serving as a somber and woeful reminder of the dangers when one overestimates their ability to hold their own breath.

Eventually the door unlocks just as KC steps on the gas, and after briefly running with the moving vehicle EBR is able to leap into the passenger seat and close the door. He keeps his body down for several moments, long enough until the sound of gunfire becomes a more improbable threat with each passing second. Tentatively he brings himself up and turns back towards the rear window. He sees nothing but road and a few cars. Instinctively he puts on his seat belt. Safety first.

Neither man speaks as they simply stare ahead and enjoy the ride.








Finally, EBR breaks the silence after several minutes.

EBR: So ... and I know it's weird to say because I'm really not happy with that entire how situation and how that went down ... but everything considered ... I feel like that didn't end as badly as it could have, you know?

KC: Yo, friend to friend? You really bitched out back there. Like ... God damn, man.

EBR: Really? You thought I was the problem?

KC: You embarrassed me. You let them just run all up on us. You let him smack you like you’re his bitch. Sheeeit ... it wasn't a good look. My credibility is crushed by association.

EBR: I was protecting you from yourself. Someone had to try and defuse the situation. I was defusing the situation.

KC: Man, no one was asking you to do that. You were there to back me up in case things got out of hand.

EBR: "In case things got out of hand" ...

KC: I needed to handle things. This was my reputation, man. Can't have any of these motherf*ckers going around thinking they can disrespect me.

EBR: Who cares? Why does it matter?

KC: It matters, son. That's my name. People need to know what it means and what the consequences are when they don't.

EBR: Then what?

KC: Then what what?

EBR: What happens after that? You think things just go on normally after that? It doesn't just end or go away. There's a tomorrow you have to deal with. There's always a tomorrow. Those are the hard days.

KC: You're trying to be all philosophical or something?

EBR: There's consequences to your actions, man ... the things you do ... sometimes you can't just take them back. They stick to you, and you may not worry about it now but eventually it hits you ... those weren't just things you did. That's who you are.

KC: Whatever, man. Gotta stand for something. "My name is my name", you know?

EBR: You're quoting "The Wire" now?

KC: Truth is truth, bro. A motherf*ckas gotta know what's important to a motherf*cka. Otherwise, what the f*ck is the entire point of anything and what the f*ck are we even doing here? Damn ... now look who's acting all deep and sh*t? Droppin' knowledge all up in here ... I know things, son ... and I know I don't need you protectin' me ... chuckling ... sheeeit, you should be protectin' your own damn jaw.

EBR: F*ck man ... I can take a hit. I can handle that.

KC: I don't know what happened to you over the years, man. You used to be a killer. Now I dunno ... you only seem capable of accidental vehicular manslaughter or something ... you've changed, bro. You've changed.

Sharply, EBR turns towards KC who continues to chuckle while keeping his eyes firmly on the road in front of him. That was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him.

After a moment KC pulls the car into a parking lot and subsequent parking space of the liquor store they're now in front of.

KC: You coming in or want anything ...?

EBR: I'm good ... could use some air though ...

Both exit the car and head off in opposite directions. Simply enjoying the relative quietness that occupies his current location EBR rests on a curb as the serene and pale moonlight shines down on him. He takes a moment and simply resides in his new found tranquility. He's in peace at the self-acknowledgment of his existence while thinking relaxing images and whatever other bullsh*t he needs to use to lie to himself to keep his mind off the reality he's sitting outside alone because he's f*cking up again.

F*ck.

Now he's thinking about how he's f*cking up again.

What's he even doing here?

What's his problem with Penny Shannon anyways? He's admired and respected her for the 95% of the time that he's been aware of her existence and suddenly he's out for her scalp. And for what? Because she gave him a headache? As do hot, humid days in the summer. He's yet to join SPECTRE and fire rockets at the sun.

It's to his chagrin that he knows what it really is.

On more than one occasion Penny Shannon acknowledged what a piece of sh*t he used to be. She points out that he was once the scummiest of the scum and the filthiest of the filth, the type of man who proudly wore the derogatory nickname of "Dr. Dirty" that he was condescendingly given like it was some sort of badge of honor.

It was all true. Penny Shannon told a factual account of history. The problem he does and should have is with himself for ever allowing himself to become that in the first place.

Yet despite condemning those actions for six years in counting and doing everything in his power to change whatever negative perception of him may persist, he'll inevitably return to it if it allows him to hang onto whatever greatness he has for just a little while longer. Whatever it takes just so he can lay claim to the greatest wrestler in the history of this profession.

It's a rather large personality flaw when it's laid out like that.

There he was for over six years saying all the right things and believing all the right things. More importantly, doing all the right things. Up until the point that he doesn't, at least. He would pride himself on being one of, if not the only, decent people in a sport that doesn't encourage it. Stupid, stupid man. You're not decent if you're only decent when it's convenient.

For so long all he had was the claim that he was the greatest wrestler in the history of the profession. What the f*ck is that? Just some baseless claim that became his entire identity, the tunnel vision that kept him from seeing the vanity, arrogance, and shame that was always there. Yet he still refuses to ever truly let it go. He's a forty year old professional athlete - he's been driving down this road for so long the warning sign telling him of its impending closure should be creeping into his field of vision any day now.

This isn't the only way this ever had to end. It was just the easy way for someone desperate for another bite no matter how bitter the taste. The way for someone so weary of what the future may hold that he'd rather relive his glory days, regardless if they were his worst days. You can't fall off a cliff if you just never move forward. He thought it was pretty sound logic.

He's better than this. He has a nice life with a nice wife in what is presumably a nice house which has possibly been the scene of many joyous fornications filmed on camera. And he'd throw it all away for a fleeting high. He can't help but feel he's the only person capable of f*cking up his life, and is appropriately disappointed in himself that he's apparently adamant on doing that for stupid, childish reasons.

That's not him. That book was supposed to be closed for good so many moons ago.

For so much of his career he's done it the wrong way. Careers and lives of other men and one Vanessa McGurk were destroyed, not even because they were in his way but because they were in the mere vicinity of a path he wanted to take. It was a bungling of his livelihood so pronounced that no cheap drug store make-up could ever cover the blemishes and flaws. The smudge may fade over time but its remnants would always remain on his skin, difficult to see by the naked eye but just enough visibility to be spotted by the keen observer. After living with it for so many years he resigned himself to a lifetime of carrying that stain.





Then he stopped being a p*ssy and did something about it, opting to cover those troublesome blotches with a much grander design. It was an image that was large enough in scope to obscure and envelop what was once underneath, and drawn with ink that wouldn't wane with time. A symbol he could look down on and be proud of.

The Poltergeist.

Everything before that was supposed to stay in the past, only to be acknowledged as the prime example of what not to do and how not to do it. It doesn't mean it didn't happen. He did all the things Penny accused him of and he's the one who has to own up to it, even if it's uncomfortable and inevitably ends up dampending the mood when he chooses to whimsically reminsice about were supposed to be his greatest days and greatest accomplishments but were objectively anything but.

Your past is you. You may regret it, and you may learn from it, and you may look to atone for it ... but to do any of those, you can't just say you do them. You have to actually do them. And even once you do, you're forced to accept that you don't get rewarded with the benefit of erasing the past.

But all the same ... you also don't have to live there.

He reaches into his pocket and brings out his phone before making a call.

Shelia: Heey.

EBR: What's up? Just checking in. How'd recording go today?

Shelia: Good. Long, but good.

EBR: You're back in the studio tomorrow?

Shelia: Yeah, there's some background vocals and dubbing we have to do. It'll be pretty monotonous ... but gotta do what you gotta do, right? How was your day?

EBR: Just more of the same ... training I mean. Nothing too exciting.

Shelia: I know it's only a few hours away but I'm just picturing you running up snowy mountains like Rocky IV.

EBR: I wish. My beard game isn't that strong.

Shelia: What are you up to now?

EBR: Not much. Caught up with an old friend. Just been hanging out and stuff.

Shelia: Having a good time?

EBR: It's been nice seeing him but I dunno ... we went out but I'm just not really feeling it anymore. Just doesn't do for me what it used to.

Shelia: Right.

EBR: What about you? What are you doing?

Shelia: Watching the Food Network. Turns out I've been making Huevos rancheros like a fool all this time. At least I know better now.

EBR: Yeah that's usually the way it goes. You think you got it all figured out and boom. It's true what they say about cracking a few eggs to make an omelette I guess.

Shelia: Not sure if you're trying to make egg jokes or ...?

EBR: That was just first saying that came to mind. It was a coincidence.

There's a bit of a breeze as he sits alone on the curb. Getting a little chilly out tonight.

EBR: So hey ... I'm just about finished training so I'm thinking I'm just going to pack it in and head up out of Oakland.

Shelia: So you're coming here?

EBR: Well I was certainly hoping to. Probably should have asked first though.

Shelia: Why? It's your home, too. You were just busy doing the ... things you needed to do. I mean, I get it.

EBR: Do you?

Shelia: Maybe not specifically ... but I know it’s a part of your life. I may not fully understand what it is but I know you get something out of it.

EBR: Yeah, but there's no reason I have to be up here to do it.

Shelia: Then why are you there?

EBR: Man, I don't even know.

He's lying to himself again. If he's actually committed to being his best self that's something he should work on.

EBR: Hrm ... cause it's familiar. I've never really known another way. This was always just how I would've handled things.

Shelia: Some people are just creatures of habit, I suppose.

EBR: Yeah, but I don't want to be. My life's with you in LA now. You were right. I ... probably should have just moved there with you from the get-go. If I keep talking about making a new life I should probably ... do that.

Shelia: It's fine, we both have our own things going. I don't hold it against you for caring about your career. Sometimes you have to prioritize certain things.

EBR: I know what's important to me.

Shelia: I mean ... there's no deadline for us. Not like we're planning to start a family or anything. We have time.

EBR: Yeah, yeah ... no, I know. It's just that there's no real reason for me to be up here anymore. I've always had particular goals and there were ... ways I would accomplish them ... but I dunno, it's seems silly to think this is the only way I can achieve them. Things change. I've changed ... just have to make some adjustments if I want things the way I want them ... can't control the sea but can learn to surf the waves, right?

Shelia: Right ... honestly, I don't really know exactly what you're talking about at this point ... sort of getting the impression there's a whole story there I don't really know ...

EBR: Guess I am sort of rambling. Anyways, I'm going to get in touch with a realtor tomorrow, see if I can get a listing before I leave. I don't want to have to come back.

Shelia: You sure? You loved that house.

EBR: It's not like it was ... now it's just tiresome ... I'm tired and I don't sleep so well when I'm here. Whatever I want going forward ... this ain't it.

There's been far, far too much progress and rehabilitation to his name to squander it for one final run at the top. The first time he reached the mountaintop he did so in whatever ways possible. He'd ally with whomever dubious individuals he'd meet along the way so long as they'd help lug his equipment up the cliff, and when that proved insufficient simply used the frost bitten bodies of his fellow climbers as a ladder to reach the peak. Anything and everything to make journey just a little bit easier.

That's not the only way.

The last time he competed in a WFWF ring entailed losing to someone he had all the respect and admiration for in Penny Shannon. He had studied her every move in countless hours of preparation every single day the second the match was announced until the second the bell rang. He would wake up every morning and immediately hit the weights, pushing himself to lift a little more weight just a little more times than the session that preceded it, and the day wouldn't end until he had completed what he deemed a sufficient amount of cardiovascular training. He did it all day every day like clockwork. This isn't just a gig to him or a thing he does in his spare time. It's his livelihood. It's his entire life.

And it wasn't enough to be victorious. Perhaps that little modicum of doubt started creeping in and he began to question where to go when hard work doesn't pay off. He should know by now the answer isn't to simply retaliate and resort to what got him to the top in the first place. That's not how he's supposed to operate anymore, a point that's hammered home when he has to reach past the loaded handgun in his pocket to get to the phone to call his wife who's located several cities away because he left her there.

Whatever the answer is it isn't found by working any less hard.

Do better.

It takes everything you have to tackle the harsh tundra of Mount Everest. For too long and too many times he opted to use the pick-axe that was supposed to aid in his climb instead as a device to be lodged into a fellow traveller’s skull, all so he could say he was the first one to reach the top. That's not how you reach it.

You reach it through your own grit, valor, and sweat. You reach it by driving that axe into the frozen wall in front of you and dragging your frigid, arching, and freezing body up to the next ledge until you can repeat the process, as grueling and uncomfortable as the journey is. You don't think about the pain and you don't pay attention to the thoughts that begin to circulate in your own head, questioning whether it's even worth it. This is your life now. This is what you do, so you don't think about it. You just do it. You just keep going, step by agonizing step until that day finally arrives that you just can't go on any further. Until you have nothing left to give and you find yourself on your hands and knees, face pressed firmly into the snow as you catch your breath. This is the day it ends. This is the day you had to stop.

There's just nothing left to climb once you've finally reached the top.

Only then do you get to look down and truly appreciate the beauty that lies below you. Only then have you truly accomplished something.

Only then did you actually earn it.

Just do better.

EBR: Anyways ... I know it's getting a little late so I should probably let you go ... let you get on with your night.

Shelia: Really hoping there’s some other cooking tricks I can pick up.

EBR: Right on ... and hey, since I have you on the line ... so I'll be coming down there in a couple of days and uh ...

Shelia: I'll text you directions.

EBR: That'll be ... that'll be helpful.

Shelia: See you then. Have a good night. And get some sleep. You said you were tired.

EBR: I will. Talk to you soon. Bye.

Ending the call, EBR remains seated on the curb as KC re-approaches and parks down next to him, a bottle of Hennessy in his hand. He takes a drink before he offers the bottle to EBR who politely declines with a shake of his head.

KC: So look ... there's this other place I like to go to ...

EBR: Nah, I'm done. This is a wrap for me.

KC: For real?

EBR: It's late.

KC: Meh ... if you need to go to bed you need to go to bed.

EBR: We should both just call it a night. Honestly ... it might be a good idea for you to lie low for a little while ...

KC: Maybe ... guess it's getting a little hot out here ... chuckles... and you know I ain't just talking about the weather, boy.

EBR: Yeah ... I suppose that's what happens when you fire a gun in a crowded strip club.

KC: That? Naw, that type of stuff happens all the time. They're used to it. It's part of the ambience, really. No see, what it is ... got a couple outstanding warrants to my name -

EBR: I'm gonna stop you right there. I shouldn't know anymore.

KC: It's actually a funny story. I dunno if you remember that guy who used to own -

EBR: The less I know the better.

KC shrugs before taking another swig of Hennessy.

KC: We should do this again. What you up to tomorrow?

EBR: Tomorrow's no good for me ... actually, I'm not even gonna be around anymore. I'm heading to Los Angeles.

KC: The f*ck's in LA?

EBR: My life.

KC: Sheeit ... first you're here, then you're not. Then you're here, and then you're not ... make a decision, bro.

Looking up at the calm night sky he closes his eyes and takes a deep, relaxing breath. He just sits, enjoying the quiet and soothing act of simply existing. He's in a state of serenity. A state of tranquility. A state of composure, and any other adjective to describe the Zen lifestyle which is the basis of his existence.

EBR: Already did, man. Made that decision a long time ago.

He is, indeed, his absolute best self.

EBR: Anyways ... getting up ... I should probably call an Uber or something.

KC: C'mon, I'll drop you off. You sure you done tonight?

EBR: Want to get up early tomorrow. There’s some things I need to do.

Which, among other things, includes learning how to safely dispose of an unwanted firearm. All in the life of the responsible, grown ass man.

Approaching the car, he watches as KC continues to drink from the bottle of Hennessy.

On second thought ... nay ...

EBR: You know what? How about I drive?

... all in the life of the Poltergeist.