Loaded RP - Champagne

SuperBrawl Revenge Post -Show Media Scrum
London, England
April 25, 2021

"What part of I'M DONE here don't you people understand?" I ask the attending media members as I rise from my seat. I grab the WFWF Championship and sling it over my shoulder almost haphazardly. I know Rupert Grint is staring daggers through me. "As long as things stay this way, I won't be back."

Wow, I sat here longer than I thought. Even getting up from my seat is proving to be more of a challenge than I thought. The adrenaline of the match has fully worn off, and now comes the less glamorous part of a professional wrestler's life, the aftermath.

"Josh, what about defending the title?"

"Josh, do you even care about wrestling anymore?"

"I'd love to explain further. Too bad no one will listen."

I feel like I need to catch you guys up to speed.

What's sad is my locker room was very quiet just a few minutes before. I grew up with a lot of solitude, so I treasure those moments alone. As I look around, it is bittersweet because tonight could be the last time I ever wrestle for this company. I don't want it to be, but I can't see us reaching an agreement. What Charlie Brown doesn't understand about this impasse is that it isn't about money and perks, it's about respect. But that's a pretty nice bucket of bubbly on the table. I can't wait to dig into it later. He'll find out soon enough I'm not a cheap date, but I won't turn down a little wining and dining. I can still taste the iron from the blood that's been dripping in my mouth.

I really need to wash my face.

"Hey," Wayne says as he closes my locker room door. "You know Kash is telling the press you're available to do a scrum." He reaches down and picks up my gym bag and sits it beside me. No... no... no! "Might wanna get dressed and head out there."

"He does realize my contract is up, right?" I say. My head remains lowered as I keep an ice pack pressed against my swollen right eye. It's not broken, but the scar tissue has been reopened. "Technically, I don't owe him sh*t anymore."

"Look, I understand you're still pissed." Wayne replies as he takes a seat beside my bags. Can he not even see my body language? Guess not. He unzips the bag and pulls out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some cotton balls. "But you can still be professional."

"Like he deserves it."

Wayne begins to douse the cotton balls in alcohol, rotating each one just millimeters away from the nozzle. It's different, something I never noticed until now. Then again, he's never had to do an impromptu patch job on me. He motions, "Ok, lean back. Gotta keep these cuts clean until the doc can get 'em sewed up."

Wayne grabs the ice pack off my face and hands me a cotton ball, "For what it's worth, you're in the right."

"Yeah. Yet I'm here getting a band-aid stand treatment from the only person in this building who doesn't hate my guts," I scoff, wincing from the alcohol stinging my open wounds. "And he gets the whole medical staff at his beckon call."

"To be fair, he's a tad more f*cked up than you right now."

Couldn't've happened to a nicer guy.

"Shows where Dexter's priorities lie."

"Oh come on." Wayne retorts as he reaches for the medical tape. He then fishes into his breast pocket and pulls out a cigarette before lighting it. "He's trying to prevent a lawsuit." Those cinders are growing closer to my face as he holds the cigarette in his mouth. "Besides, you won, so there's no reason to call the man outside of his name anymore."

"Hey, watch the ashes!" I shot out while squirming nervously. "If that drops, you'll singe off my eyebrows."

"Then shut up and hold still." Wayne asserts as he tears the medical tape off the roll and sticks it to his shirt. He muffles a cough in the bend of his arm before flicking the ashes to the side on the floor. "Happy now?"

"So how's it look?"

"Eh, you've had worse." Wayne grabs the small mirror from my bag and hands it to me. "See for yourself."

I remove the cotton ball and position the mirror. My wounds of war ever so present in the form of several small lacerations, except the quarter inch gash above my eyebrow that still has considerable swelling. I find myself chuckling because of the resemblance. He may be a lot of things, but a wimp is not one of them. If our rivalry weren't so personal, I'd applaud his resolve and fighting spirit. We're really the last remnants of an era full of warriors, and there was something pure about our fight.

Out of my peripheral, I see the WFWF Championship sitting beside me. It's MY WFWF Championship. All that professional pain of being seen as a middle of the pack tag team specialist coupled with the physical anguish of concussions and surgeries on every region of my body, culminated in this moment. With the exception of Vegas, it had been seventeen years since the last time I could call myself World Champion. A whole lifetime ago in the career of a professional wrestler, full of near misses and stunted growth, just for that cathartic feeling of finally realizing those expectations.

So why the hell can't I just enjoy it?

Is it because I know I have challengers coming out the woodwork already? Maybe and that's fine, it's part of the territory. Or is it because I can still hear the rumblings of discontent from the packed stadium some forty five minutes after the show faded to black? It wasn't of riot proportions, but it's been a long time since I've had a crowd that I wasn't trying to antagonize be so against me. Kinda bizarre when you think about. I knew I wasn't going to be popular over here, but I guess national pride has a way of excusing poor behavior.

"Steel steps have a way of doing that." I chuckle while sitting up.. "I'm just glad it didn't bleed into my eyes."

Wayne presses the cotton ball and gauze against my eye. He rolls the tapes ends with his thumb to ensure it stays in place before asserting, "Probably wouldn't happen if you didn't wrestle like a damn car wreck every match." He takes a puff from his cigarette and clears his throat as he breathes the gray and white plum from his nose. "Your neck won't hold up if you don't consider doing something different."

"What do you suggest?"

"Well, whether you re-sign isn't important." Wayne says before turning his head and letting out a deep series of coughs. He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a handkerchief. All I can see is a mixture of phlegm and traces of blood. "But you need to get back in the gym and fine tune your approach."

Wayne continues to cough. It's like he can't stop. Now I'm getting concerned.

"You good?" I ask as I stand up and take my shirt off the hanger in my locker. "Here, get some water out of my bag."

"No, I'm good..."

"Wayne, I'm not asking." I assert as I reach into my bag and retrieve a bottle of water. He continues to cough into his handkerchief. "Look at you. You can barely breathe."

"Just blown up, kid." Wayne insists as I tilt my head. "I ain't in as good of shape as you."

"What about the blood?"

"Well, Bishop did catch me in the mouth pretty good." Wayne says while grabbing the bottle of water. I raise my chin to acknowledge, letting him tell me what he needs to. He tilts his head back and empties half the liter bottle in a swig. He exhales and says, "Aaah, that hit the spot."

"Ok, you keep drinking." I direct Wayne while I button my shirt. "You need fluids. I have more in the bag if you need it."

"I'll be fine," Wayne reassures me as he continues to nurse the bottle of water. "Probably just dehydrated."

I sigh as I pull my sport coat on. "Ok, let's get this over with. Do I look presentable?"

"Yeah, just one thing missing." Wayne sits the water down before picking up the WFWF Championship. He stares at it for a second and smiles, before extending his arm with the title in his hand. "You might need this."

I reach out to retrieve my title from Wayne and return the smile he gives me. I don't know if I've ever seen him this proud He nods his head and I turn on my heel toward the door.

The walk to the press station is admittedly a blur. I can't help but feel uneasy about Wayne's condition. That wasn't a case of dehydration, and I think he knows I wasn't buying it. An arena in a foreign country is not the place to have this conversation, and Wayne is a man of great pride. He wouldn't take too kindly to being publicly treated like an invalid.

Ugh, even Ralph Malph's cheshire grin is appalling. Out of courtesy, I nod my head and take my seat. I sit the WFWF Championship on the table and grab the mic. Just look me in the eye for once, Ralph, is that too much to ask? He points towards the right side of our media audience.

Did I mention I loathe these things?

"Josh, first of all congratulations on the win tonight." The first question comes my way from a familiar face, Jessica Casey of Pro Wrestling Today. "You've had a long career to date. Would you consider tonight your crowning achievement?"

"I definitely think this ranks up there." I say, glancing at the WFWF Championship before turning my attention back to the brunette reporter. "There is a reason SuperBrawl is still the biggest event on the WFWF schedule. I don't know if it's been mentioned, but we had eight World Champions on tonight's show…"

"It was mentioned earlier in the scrum." Brian Scalabrine interjects, pantomiming money gestures with his hands. "I really didn't even need to promote this event with all of the top level talent we had…"

"Right," I interrupt. "To be on a card of such magnitude is great. Winning this," I point to the WFWF Championship. "on top of that is really special. But I try to put these moments in their proper context and remain focused. All the greats know and are able to do that."

"Josh, Michael Sogenbottom of WFWF.com."

"I know who you are, Michael." I reply with a smile. "No need to be formal."

"Thank you, and congratulations." Michael says as he scans his notepad. "Your rivalry with Drakz was very personal on both sides, and it was confirmed that he is in fact en route to a local medical facility for observations. Do you care to comment?"

"Well, I hope he's okay." I declare, which causes a lot of chatter from the scrum. I notice out of the corner of my eye that Archie is giving me a stink eye. I guess he thinks I'm lying. Just choosing to be diplomatic. There's a difference, kids. "It may come as a shock, but I don't wish any ill will towards him despite the fact I don't really like him."

"So does that mean it's over between you two?"

"Lord, I hope so," I reply to the question from the scrawny Smithson fellow in the back. He'll actually get to see the end of this assignment. "Professionally, I don't think he and I could survive another round against each other..."

"BUUUT," Wally West intervenes again. This f*cking guy just loves to irritate me. "You can't count it out. Drakz is a true champion and I expect he'll be back stronger than ever."

"Did you even watch the match, Tintin?" I ask, finally turning my attention to him. "Do you really want us mixing it up again after tonight? Every time we face off, one of us gets hurt."

I pause to make sure I have his attention.

"Besides, who said anything about either of us sticking around?"

"Josh, are you saying you still haven't re-signed?"

"That's what I'm saying."

The entire scrum goes silent. I can noticeably see eyes shifting toward him. Lucy, you got some 'splainin to do!

"I don't know why you're looking at me like I'm the bad guy?" Alfred E. Newman asks, pointing back at me. "He's the one trying to extort me for more money!"

"Let me correct you there, Fry." I retort. I carefully turn the WFWF Championship towards him so he can see it. I point at it. "This is the premiere championship in all of wrestling. But instead of celebrating it and at least being cordial, you're trying to make this about you like you always do."

The scrum of media personnel are amazed at such a public falling out. Sometimes these things that happen in front of the cameras are byproducts of the real thing. I guess you can say I have nothing to lose. I'm the champion who's not even under contract. He's going to hear me, and I want as many people to see as possible. Is it poor taste on my part? Probably, and I know I'll hear about it on the plane ride home once Wayne gets wind of it. But I care too much about this business to let him continue doing what so many others have gotten away with.

I reach over and grab the mic off his stand. No way in hell I'm getting cut off again.

"At least when Trace didn't want me as champion, he got his ass in the ring and did something about it." I assert while watching the droves of reporters writing frantically on their notepads. They're eating this up. "I'm about to throw up in my mouth for saying this, but I somewhat respect what he did versus this."

I turn to face him. I'd like to think he knows this isn't a publicity stunt..

"You want the title off me so badly, Buddy Pine?"
I ask rhetorically. "Hey, at least look at me when I'm talking to you."

Finally he turns to face me, and I see him mouth "if that's what we gotta do."

"Then I suggest you find someone who can get it done, do it yourself, or shut the f*ck up." I assert. "Unless you're happy to sit there and let me walk."

"So is it about opponents, Josh?" I hear the question from James Dulaney from What's Hot Now ring out. "If that's the case, who exactly would you like to face?"

"I have no problem facing anyone." I say, closing my eyes for a moment to collect my thoughts. I've had just about my fill of this. "Obviously guys like EBR and DGX are matches I've wanted for a while. It looks as though Devilkiller officially entered his name in the hat tonight, and he absolutely deserves a shot. But, I'd really love to see some of the young guys on our roster grow, especially if I can help."

I shrug my shoulders before tilting my head. My hands begin to raise in a "this can't be that hard to understand" gesture before saying, "I just wouldn't get my hopes up on anything, seeing as this clown doesn't want me."

And now you're officially caught up to speed.

"Josh, does this mean you're a free agent?"

"What part of I'M DONE here don't you people understand?" I ask the attending media members as I rise from my seat. I grab the WFWF Championship and sling it over my shoulder almost haphazardly. I know Rupert Grint is staring daggers through me. "As long as things stay this way, I won't be back."

"Josh, what about defending the title?"

"Josh, do you even care about wrestling anymore?"

Ask anyone who has ever been in a fight, and they'll tell you the pain doesn't actually set in until a couple hours after the bout. I'm more worried about that than spending any more time answering these questions. Every part of my body is ravaged from tonight. My legs are jello, even though I spent countless hours working them out to ensure they fired at maximum force when I needed them. When you're in the ring, forged in combat, you never know long that battle is going to last.

"I'd love to explain further. Too bad no one will listen."

I heard producers say that he and I wrestled in the ballpark of forty-five minutes. It seemed like an eternity, and fatigue makes us all quitters. Thirty minutes in is where the lactic acid build up really kicks in, but I couldn't worry about it then. I'll deal with it when I have the chance to sit, I kept telling myself. I would love nothing more than to have a celebratory drink while I keep my muscles from swelling in an ice bath. I'll probably do that when I get back to the hotel. But for now, I don't want to be in this circus.

"Josh, do you intend to retire?"

"I have nothing more to say." I point at Ronald McDonald, who at this juncture is trying to laugh off his disgust. "Ask him about my contract status!"

Well, at least I tried to be professional.

Josh Dean Presents
Champagne

McGurk Wrestling Academy
Tempe, Arizona
One week before the Ascension Press Conference

"You see this here?" Wayne asks me as he lights a cigarette. "Why in the hell are you getting into a slugfest?"

"It was an adrenaline dump." I reply, carefully observing myself and Isaac hit the ground from the striking exchange. "You gotta understand, I just wanted to hit the sonofab*tch."

"Yeah, when you should've taken him down to control the situation instead." Wayne says before stopping the tape. He clears his throat. "I bet you didn't realize you dropped your left hand when you threw those elbows."

"No, I admit I didn't."

"That's a good way to lose some teeth." Wayne declares as he starts the tape again. "Do you like your teeth?"

"What?"

"Do you like your teeth?"

"Well, yeah?" I say in confusion. "I like them as much as I like getting a bl*wjob."

I snicker, and Wayne reaches around to slap the back of my head. I shot out, "What was that for?!"

"You aren't in Atlanta right now." Wayne asserts. "And I ain't gonna sit here trying to coach you while you make jokes. He coughs into his shirt sleeve. "I ain't Jason."

"I thought you liked Jason?"

"I do," Wayne confirms, taking a drag from his cigarette and flicking the ash into the concrete floor. "But he isn't my protégé. You are."

Wayne hasn't been this business oriented with me in years, probably since my early twenties when he first started mentoring me. When I got the call that WFWF was purchased last month, I didn't think much of it. I was too preoccupied on the mats to even care. I always go back to my jiu-jitsu roots to gain balance as an athlete, which I desperately needed after such public bickering last year as the company shut down. That, plus the fact it's humbling to learn from those who aren't starstruck by training with the current World Champion. I could just be one of the guys for a change. It was liberating, a reminder that while I'm at the top of my profession, I don't know everything.

I remembered what Wayne said about my style after the match with Isaac, and how he continued to talk about approach on the plane ride back. That was, of course, after he dressed me down about the media scrum.

"Way to make an ass out of yourself." I recall being his most poignant observation.

I can't help thinking I caused some of what happened to the company.

I was livid when I got the report of WFWF's cessation. Like many of my colleagues, I had to discover our fate through social media outlets. I wasn't even the first person in my house to find out. Nikki was, and I think part of her was relieved for the nightmare that plagued us to be over. The rivalry was one thing, but the ongoing tit for tat with Ralph Malph caused her a lot of undue stress worrying about her job. She could've been collateral damage, and we were both aware he was petty enough to use her to control me. I'm not going to pretend to be a doctor, even if I did dress up as one for Halloween two years ago. But last time I checked, increased blood pressure can't be good for blood clots.

I still salivate at the smell of pancakes and bacon. I suppose it really was a cause for celebration for her.

"We have a plate for Hunter," Nikki says with a huge smile as she slides our eight year old son his breakfast on the bar that surrounds our island kitchen. Hard to believe he was just a baby when I came out of retirement. "a plate for Max," She continues to smile as she sits our two year old son Max's plate down in front of him. "and here's yours, honey."

"Thank you," I say as I look down at my favorite cheat meal. "I didn't expect all of this."

"I figured you earned it." She replies while pouring a cup of coffee. "I know you have to look good for the cameras, but it's like you barely eat when you're on the road."

"I just like to stay in shape." I say while picking up a piece of bacon. "I gotta eat smarter since I'm busier now..."

"And older." Hunter chimes in, then giggles, "Ha, daddy's getting old!"

Nice to see I'm now another son's punchline. You know, I remember a time when he didn't talk. Good times.

"Yeah, buddy," I say as I pat his shoulder. "Daddy's ready to be put out to pasture."

We're really just your typical family, except that Dad and Mom don't have normal jobs. Nikki and I both know the little guys aren't old enough to understand the significance of what's happened in the past few months, and maybe it's because we've made a concerted effort not to tell them. We learned that lesson the hard way with Drake, seeing as how he's trying to follow in our paths.

"I just hope Jason got to the office in time to open up."

"Why wouldn't he?" Nikki asks before taking a drink of her coffee. "Doesn't he have a key?"

"Yeah."

"Then everything should be fine."

She leans over the counter, batting her eyes subtly as I attempt to eat my pancakes.



Houston, we have lost all contact with mission control.

This is not a drill. We have lost all contact with mission control.

You know that feeling you get when you're smiling and can't help it? The way your cheeks rise and your eyes nearly close as the goose pimples go down your back? It's warm and genuine. But I suppose Wayne had enough of my… daydream.

SPLASH!

Goddammit that's cold!

"Focus!" Wayne commands, starting to push himself from his seat.

Beats the hell out of thinking about the alternatives, namely anything involving a certain ginger. He's all but a road marker in my rear view mirror now, but it still irks me how it went down.

"I bet you're glad I bought that new fridge for your office." I cackle while running the cold water through my hair, and Wayne clearly isn't amused as he stands up. "Oh come on, Wayne!"

"This isn't a game, kid." He says while turning to face me. He isn't pissed like I thought, but rather disappointed. "Unless you want people to think you're a fluke."

"I'm… sorry?" My voice cracks in confusion. "Please tell me how I'm a fluke?"

"Look, you've had time to enjoy being WFWF Champion." Wayne begins, muffling a cough as he takes a drag from his cigarette. "A lot of champions don't because they're too busy looking over their shoulder." He stops the tape as Isaac crumples to the floor after the Nail in the Coffin on the apron. "But with WFWF coming back, you're going to have that target on your head."

"I understand that."

"Do you?" He inquires before pulling his handkerchief out and coughing deeply into it. He takes a couple breaths then manages to say before another coughing fit in a gravely yet weak voice, "Do you really?"

"I thought you said you were gonna get that cough checked."

"I will," Wayne says as he folds the handkerchief up. "I promise you that."

"Just like you promised me that last year."

I won't let him off the hook, not this time. Wayne's eyes drop. "Wayne, it's getting worse."

"What do you want me to say, Josh?" Wayne asks before dropping his head and turning his face away from me. "You want me to tell you I'm scared?"

"Anything's better than this."

"Suppose I'm… worried about what they'll say."

In that moment, I didn't see the man who had all the answers. I didn't see the sage wisdom and living embodiment of professionalism. I saw a man who was shook by something. I saw the reason behind his lack of patience, and it made sense. It felt similar to when survivors of a near death experience reflect on the value of life and time when they stare mortality in the face. For most of the fifteen years I've known Wayne McGurk, the only time I've seen him this vulnerable is when he and Vanessa had their problems. But I'll admit, I was more of an outside observer then. As Wayne and I have gotten closer in the past ten or so years, I've felt a sense of responsibility to do whatever I can for him. He did the same for me when he didn't have to.

"Isn't that more of a reason to want answers?"

"I don't know if it will do any good." Wayne says. "Besides, you, Scarlett, and Penny don't need that kind of distraction. And for you, I just didn't want to see you getting complacent."

"You not taking care of yourself is hard enough to deal with." I respond, and I can feel myself trying to fight off getting choked up. "I won't speak for the girls, but I'm pretty sure they'd feel the same way."

Wayne just keeps his head lowered. I know he's so exhausted he can barely lift his head. But is he really going to make me do this?

"Do you want me to beg you, Wayne?" I know I'm grilling him, but I'm hurt. It feels like he's giving up when he still has more in the tank. "I've lost too many people in my life that I'm close to, and I don't want to know how I'd handle going through it again."

"Ok, kid." Wayne finally relents. "You win. I'll make the appointment, under two conditions."

"What's that?"

"I need you to be focused." Wayne says. "When we're together, we're working."

"Ok." I acknowledge his request. "What else?"

Wayne scratches the back of his head before simply stating, "No one else can know."

This is a tremendous burden he is placing on my shoulders. It really does feel like a covert operation. I want to respect his wishes because it's vital to his health. But it doesn't feel right in those situations that would require me to lie to Vanessa. I know that I'll be asked, especially if Wayne acts differently. What I worry about is my honesty to a fault. But if a poker face means life and death, then I better tune mine up.

"I have a condition of my own."

"Ok," Wayne replies, his voice raising out of curiosity. "What's that?"

"I better be sitting in that office with you when you go."

*****

WFWF Acension Press Conference
Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada
June 2, 2022

All eyes on me.

More specifically, all eyes on MY title.

I can feel them closing in from all sides.

Wayne was right. As soon as I arrived, the target was being branded on my head. The sneers of my fellow WFWF wrestlers, each vying to be the one that tweaks me enough to start a confrontation. At least that's what it seems like on the surface, but I could be just a touch paranoid. I know they saw how that got me a title match with Isaac, and they're hoping a cross stare my way can help them jump the line.

I'll see you all in due time. I'll remember those looks when you're the next one in my path.

For right now, I'll just nod and move on. I'll even say it's nice to see you when approached. I'm cognizant enough to realize that the title on my shoulder means I'm responsible for setting the tone of every public appearance and every show we're involved in. It's easy to look at just actions, but it's another to understand the context behind those actions. How would you feel if your name was brought up in not so…flattering ways we'll just say? Yeah, because that sounds a hell of lot more polite than calling it character assassination, which is really what it was. Everything from my aptitude, my passion, even my attitude was scrutinized. Words really do stick with you.

Here's being optimistic for a fresh start.

That's really what we have here, so I decide to lean against the closest wall and just take in the vibrance resonating from the production crew. Us wrestlers are a different breed, with so many cantankerous personalities. I'm guilty of it, too. But it's easier to justify when you're constantly being put on the defensive. This really is a nice shindig Bobby put together for the grand re-opening of WFWF, and first time in quite a while, I'm proud to be at the center of it.

All eyes in me, all eyes on MY title. Waiting all this time to finally be recognized is starting to feel pretty good.

But I have work to do to be revered the way Wayne is, the way Raider is, even the way Isaac is. Holding a championship for a defunct promotion is not the greatest of starts. But never let it be said that I backed down from a challenge. All I want is a little clarity of what those challenges are so the playing field can be a little more fair.

The hustle, energy, and newfound sense of camaraderie is truly inspiring. This is the way an organization should run, with everyone functioning as one cohesive unit in the pursuit of one goal, to provide the best experience for those who pay to see us perform.

"They said you were an observer," My rumination is interrupted by Bobby Abadi. Hello new boss. "No wonder you're so good in the ring."

Starting with a compliment. Hmm, that's unusual. I nearly fought my last boss, and did fight the one before that. And I'm… hugging this one?

"It's good to see you again, Bobby." I say, reciprocating Bobby's hug as a show of good will. "Yeah, it's cool to be around such vitality."

Bobby finally releases the hug. That's gonna take some getting used to.

"Right!" Bobby says as he pats my title. "It's infectious! And having our company's champion back in the mix will only add to it!"

"This is all great." I reply, clenching my fist for such a good feeling. "Man, I can't wait for Nikki to be a part of this."

"About that," Bobby's tone changes to a somber one. "We're not going to resign Nikki at this time."

Come again?

"I.I.I'm sorry." I finally manage to stammer. "What?"

"No, I'm sorry," Bobby mumbles, and I can feel my heart sink. "We just couldn't extend her contract with the budget we're allocating."

I want to like Bobby, and he seems legitimately heartbroken that Nikki is without a job, per say. Of course she can work in the office, and thank God we have that as an insurance policy. But it's a little naive to think that a husband and wife wrestling tandem wouldn't come as some sort of a package deal. Did he even bother to watch WFWF after 2011? Or was a Google search his best friend?

I'm not buying all of his reasoning, but I'm willing to give Bobby the benefit of the doubt because he's ignorant to the business.

His humility is also refreshing, considering who I just dealt with that was in his position.

"So you were just gonna pack it in without an explanation, huh?"

His office is barren, a far cry from the outlandish trinkets he decorated his walls with the last time I was in it. All the rumors were true, but I had to fly out and see first hand.

On the flight, I thought of the different scenarios that could happen and potential outcomes. It was almost a sure bet that I would hit him, having been waiting since the last time I hit him, when he stepped in the middle of Isaac and I. It's a contact sport, after all. That would surely end up with me in handcuffs, and I'm not too keen on going back to lockup. One time as an angry youth was enough.

Then again, I'm sure I could call Isaac. Between him and six degrees of separation his with Donny Kent, I'm sure we could put our heads together and formulate a way to dispose of a dead body.

We really should bury the hatchet.

"You really flew all this way to gloat." The ginger finally opens his mouth. "I see you don't have the belt with you."

"I don't want to get blood on the faceplate."

"Eh, it's just the same." He dismisses my quip. "That belt's worthless now."

"Whose fault is that?"

"Everyone made mistakes," He asserts as he continues to pack up his desk. "...including you, 'champ'."

The way he threw out the term champ with such disdain is a harsh cut. I don't consider neck surgery a mistake.

"You know, I tried to work with you."

"And you think refusing to address me by name was the right way to go about it?" He asks.

"When you try to jump in front of a landmine, expect to get hit with shrapnel."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you chose to inject yourself in a situation that was none of your business!" I shot out, slamming my fist onto his desk. That finally causes him to perk right up. "Then what's worse, you disrespected me by acting like it was such a noble f*cking cause to honor my deal."

"You brought up your own deal!" He shouts back. I guess he finally grew a pair. "And I will not be dictated to about negotiating with talent!"

He stands up straight. He's really starting to feel confident.

"You can't stand there and act like you didn't know exactly what you were doing, Josh."

"What exactly was I doing?"

"You knew it would create drama."

"It helped your buy rates, didn't it?"

"Not as much as it damned the company." He asserts. "You ruined any credibility I had as a businessman."

What about the nearly two hundred employees he put out of work?

Now Bobby has an even harder undertaking on his hands, repairing the damage done by his predecessor's apathy, which means gaining your roster's trust all over again.

"I see," I say, clearly lying through my teeth. I hope he didn't notice it. He's just so damn nice. "Well, we recently had to make some personnel changes at Championship Connections, and those are never easy."

"I'm glad you can see that we're building for the future," Bobby says, then pressing the microphone button on the side of his headset. "Yeah, yeah he's here." He releases the mic button. "I apologize for that, Josh. I'm confident it'll be temporary. Once we get the numbers in for the first tour, we should have room to expand again."

"It's building equity, like any good business."

He really does have a way of making you believe in his goals. That or he has exceptional soft skills. I'm sure he's used that silver tongue to bed many.

But if that fails, he has the wallet to pay for them. Probably good to have on hand since he likes to hug sweaty men.

"Well I'm for one glad to have you back on board." Bobby says as he pushes the mic button down on his headset again. "Ok, I'll be right there." He pushes the mic button again to disconnect it. "I have an urgent matter I need to attend to, but it was good to catch up with you."

"You too."

"If you need anything, my door is always open." He says, but puts a finger up as he begins to turn away. "Just do me a favor and give me a heads up before coming in. Your time is valuable to me."

I've heard that one before, and maybe I should cut the guy a break. He's nervous about making a good impression, but the bar was set pretty low. If he's the least bit authentic, he'll be in good shape.

Waiting for my cue to speak at the press conference flew by, and I suppose it was because I was deep in thought about my next move. What would I tell Nikki about her job status? Would she even want me to participate? I've spent so much of my career chasing the prize that was in my possession. I know that all title reigns eventually end, but I want it to be done the right way. I could just walk up to Bobby and hand it to him. I'd no doubt be making a statement that reflected my principles. But I fought so hard to change my own career narrative, what would vacating it for this reason really say?

I also considered bringing the title with me when I confronted Ralph Malph, but I'm glad I changed my mind.

"I guess that doesn't really matter now." He smirks, especially because he knows how much I detest it. "I don't have to deal with you anymore."

"I just want to know why,"

"Why should I tell you after everything you've put me through?"

"Like you said, you don't have to deal with me anymore after this conversation." I advise. "What have you got to lose, Ralph? Wouldn't you love to give me a big f*ck you for all the insults?"

He's seething. Good. I want to give him a chance to tell me how he feels about me. I might even grow to have some modicum of respect for him. I have my theory, but I want to hear it from the source. Maybe it'll create the discourse needed for us to have at least a cordial relationship, should we ever encounter each other again.

Key word, I might respect him.

"Fine, since you just HAVE to know, it's because you f*cked up my plans." He finally admits, closing up the box on his desk. He leans down to check to make sure his drawers are emptied. "I had Drakz scheduled to defend the title against EBR at SuperBrawl Revenge."

"I did what was right for me after what Isaac did to me."

"I don't give a f*ck about what was right for you, Josh!" He finally raises his voice. "I had the one dream match no one else could make, and you sh*t all over that by coming back with your bullsh*t rematch clause!"

"Well, Kris." I say, finally calling him by name. He's earned it. "You got your sellout…"

"It's not just about the house gates, you idiot." Kris's temper is starting to boil over. He might actually be a bona fide red head. "I would've done double to projected buy rates with EBR in the main event instead of you."

I'd like to see those numbers.

"So you got your big main event moment, Josh." Kris's smile creeps up. He's enjoying this. "Congratulations. But it's going to be rather difficult to prove your worth with no company."

I forgot to mention how much I hate this guy. Give him credit, he's more shrewd than I originally thought.

I'm pretty sure I still have Isaac's number.

I think it's the lack of transparency that sat wrong with me. In the couple of conversations I had with Bobby, that wasn't as much of an issue. I still have a little apprehension, but I'm at least willing to work with him until he proves untrustworthy. The problem with billionaires, it doesn't take long for their true colors to show.

"I'm going to change how this title and the people holding it have been perceived! Gone are the days of sociopaths and junkies! With every last breath I have in me, I will carry this title with the true honor it deserves!"

Fans in the crowd once again begin chanting "Ar-chi-tect! Ar-chi-tect!" I'm pumped, and I don't even care who my opponent is.

"Sorry to inform you, Bobby, but what you thought a true champion was is factually incorrect, and I'll prove it! I couldn't lead by example if I sat at the house!"

I meant every word I said. This new era in WFWF is my legacy, and a chance to cement myself firmly in the discussion of greatest wrestlers ever. I've already beat the man leading that discussion, so who's next?

As I finish up and have a seat, I can spot a saxophone player coming to the stage entrance. I guess we're having a jazz concert after the press conference. Classy.

"…Ladies & gentleman, please put your hands together for Grammy winning record artist Billy Ocean!"

Bobby claps his hands as the saxophone player takes his cue and jogs out onto the stage, and then the icon himself, Billy Ocean!

What? I was born in the 80's. I like Billy Ocean. Wanna fight about it?

But maybe I was vibing out a little too much when I saw EBR waltzing out onto the stage. Bobby looks like when a preteen girl meets Justin Bieber. So this is the big surprise. I suppose contenders matches don't mean sh*t anymore. He told me before the shut down not to be surprised if he was the one facing me. Maybe those parting words the Ginger said to me had more weight than I anticipated.

"You may call yourself The Franchise." Kash says, with that smug grin. "But you're not really the guy a smart businessman builds a company around."

As EBR continues to ham up his red carpet introduction, the good time I was having quickly dissipates. Am I really thought of as just a transitional champion?

We'll just see about that.

And when I prove you wrong, all eyes will be on me.