Scars and Stripes RP - Zero Dark Thirty

::: Zero Dark Thirty :::


Staring at the hotel room door he attempts to collect himself. There’s no need to get into a panic or go into some type of rage. He should just check his pockets again. It might be in there and then wouldn’t he look like quite the fool for overreacting for nothing?

Motherf*cker it is definitely not in there. God f*cking dammit. Who knows where it must have fallen out of? You know who wouldn’t have lost their hotel room key? Someone who was busy sleeping in their hotel room and not at a Drake concert at 5 in the f*cking morning after having just spent several hours playing casino games before going to a nice restaurant and then heading to an amusement park to ride on a rollercoaster before stopping at Ripley’s Believe It Or Not because Drake wanted to see the world’s tiniest car, all because his boss asked him to.

He balls his hand into a fist and contemplates smashing it into the door but cooler heads prevail once he takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales. It’s a hotel room key; they’ll give him a new one.

He heads down the hallway and towards the elevator. It’s not a big deal. He knows he’s just a little cranky cause he hasn’t been getting enough sleep but this will only take five minutes. He begins to stop as he reaches the elevator and notices the sign which informs him it is currently undergoing maintenance and thus unavailable.

Alright, a bit longer than five minutes. He descends the stairs, heading down towards the lobby to get this all sorted out. Once it is, then he can sleep and then he can figure out whatever it is he needs to do to beat Josh. The schedule is still very doable. Once he reaches the bottom floor he heads towards the front desk, greeted with a friendly smile from the front desk clerk as he does so.

EBR: Hello … Looking at name tag … Jillian.

By acknowledging Jillian by name he hopes that she will recognize that he sees her not as service, but as a real person.

Jillian: Hi, how can I help you?

He appreciates you, Jillian.

EBR: This is embarrassing, but I happened to lose my room key.

Jillian: … Really?

EBR: That can’t be that unusual … surely that’s had to have happened before?

Jillian: Probably … but first time since I’ve been here, and I’ve worked here for five years. How’d you lose it?

EBR: … I dunno … must have fallen out of my pocket or something - I’m really the first person this has happened to? Really?

Jillian: Most people are very responsible.

EBR: … Right. Awkward pause S … sorry?

Jillian: It’s okay. Mistakes happen, I guess. What room?

EBR: 520.

Jillian: Can I see some ID?

Producing said identification, he hands it to Jillain while feeling very disappointed in himself. Jillian is right; he is supposed to be much better than this. He’s the de-facto face of a multi-million dollar wrestling company and here he is still up at … well damn, he doesn’t even know what time it is, cause he hasn’t slept in over 24 hours by this point. That’s on him. Do better. Act like a damn professional and he wouldn’t even be in this situation. At least he can take solace in the fact he’s taking the necessary steps to fix it. He’s getting a new key, he’s going to go to his hotel room, and he’s going to take a nice, much needed, nap. It’ll be great. Very refreshing. Very needed. Such a simple joy. Best things in life really are free, and so very very rejuvenating and -

Jillian: Sir?

EBR: Quickly shaking his head as his eyes open Hrm? Yes?

Jillian: Sir ... according to our records this room was booked by a Mr. Abadi ...?

EBR: Oh ... oh yeah, right.

Bobby paid for everything because he’s a good guy, that Bobby is.

EBR: But the room is for me.

Jillian: I understand, but there's nothing here that indicates that.

EBR: My stuff is already in the room, wouldn't that indicate it?

Jillian: How do we know it's your stuff?

EBR: Well I can tell you what's in there - you know what, how about you just call Bobby’s room and he can help clear all this up?

Jillian: It’s hotel policy to not disturb guests or allow them to be bothered by strangers.

EBR: We’re not strangers.

Jillian: Maybe so, but there’s nothing here that indicates you even know Mr. Abadi.

EBR: He's my boss.

Jillian: Allegedly.

EBR: … You know what, I’ll call him and we can just put this whole thing behind us, okay?

He brings out his phone and calls Bobby. It rings several times. It is never answered. Jillian stares at EBR the entire duration until he sheepishly puts his phone back into his pocket.

EBR: … I really do know him.

Jillian: From my perspective that sounds like something someone who doesn’t know him would say.

EBR: I understand that and I totally get where you’re coming from, so let me just clear up any confusion so we’re both on the same page here; I promise you, this is not an elaborate plan to break into another person’s hotel room for the sole purpose of committing some type of crime, possibly of a violent or sexual nature.

That outta clear it up.

Jillian: We have a very strict policy for a reason.

EBR: ... Is that a thing that happens here?

Jillian: I'm not at liberty to discuss such matters regarding this hotel's history.

EBR: Okay ... you know what, can I just get another room?

Jillian: I can check, but it might be difficult because most of our rooms are already booked. It’s a busy weekend on account of the presence of a certain celebrity … Leaning in and whispering Drake.

EBR: I'm aware.

Jillian: Checking computer Well, you're in luck. We have one room remaining. Now full disclosure; they are doing some construction outside so it might be a little noisy, but I can’t imagine you'd be spending the day inside anyways …? And don’t worry, they’ll be long gone by tonight obviously.

EBR: Yeah, it’s fine.

He hands Jillian his credit card. If it has a bed and a pillow it’ll do. It’ll have to do. He’s gotta get this train moving.

Jillian: Finishing typing … Alright … Handing key card Now be careful. Remember, this is a lot of responsibility. We hope you enjoy your stay.

With a polite wave EBR walks off out of sight and towards the stairs. It was the earnestness in which it was said which made it so demeaning.

He begins the modest ascension, eagerly awaiting the sweet sweet sleep which will soon greet him. From there, it’s all hands on deck. He will channel his utmost focus and energy and will formulate the plan which turns his dreams into reality. It’s been a moment he has envisioned for so long, the precognition which would play in his head on a continuous loop to inspire and motivate him to push through the rainy days and drown out any fleeting thoughts of giving up during the grueling workouts and monotonous, dull hours full of repetition. It was the vision that served to remind him what he was doing all of this for in the first place, and that just because it’s awful now he’s doing it so that it won’t be awful later. He was doing it so that one day, that vision wouldn’t be a vision anymore. He wouldn’t have to imagine any of it.

He wouldn’t have to imagine himself on his hands and knees in the middle of the ring, his sweat drenched face pressed firmly on the canvas as the bell rang. He wouldn’t have to imagine himself dragging his exhausted and drained body off the mat after giving everything he had physically and mentally, tears streaming down from his eyes. He wouldn’t have to imagine looking up as the confetti would fall from the sky while an arena full of people collectively serenade him with a standing ovation and acknowledgement they just watched one of the greatest performances in one of the greatest matches by one of the greatest wrestlers to have ever competed. He wouldn’t have to imagine the indescribable emotion as the object of his affection is delicately placed into his shaking hands, and he wouldn’t have to imagine staring at its shiny glare and knowing that he finally did it after so, so long. He wouldn’t have to imagine he was the World Heavyweight Champion.

Because he would be the World Heavyweight Champion.

As he reaches his floor, he walks towards room 237 and swipes the keycard which he’s made sure has never left his hand. He enters the room, placing the card on the nearby dresser before he collapses onto the bed.

He closes his eyes. He’ll deal with conquering the man who stands in his way when he wakes up.



Beep ... beep ... beep…

Just relax. Don’t pay attention to the construction outside. Eye on the prize. The World Heavyweight Championship.

Beep ... beep ... beep…

... Though in this case, the prize would technically be getting a good eight hours of sleep. Which is what he will do.

Beep ... beep ... beep…

... So don't think about anything else. Block out all the noise, literal and otherwise. Think about sleep. That’s what he should focus on.

Beep ... beep ... beep…

Focus - actually no, what’s he thinking? Don’t focus on sleep and how much he needs it in order to beat Josh and prevent a premature death. Focus on just relaxing. Then it’ll come. Boy, what a blunder that would have been. Crisis averted.

Beep ... beep ... beep…

... Crisis has still been averted. Just stop thinking.

Beep ... beep ... beep…

He’s EBR. He can do this. He just needs to -

His eyes jolt open as the pulsing, clangor, tortuous sound of a jackhammer demolishing the concrete in the parking lot directly in front of his window rings throughout his head. FUUUUUUcking … relax … take a deep breath … don’t explode …

Bolting up from the bed, EBR storms out of the room, careful not to slam the door behind him but rather close it gently because even though he’s really, really, really frustrated he doesn’t want to show it. No one likes an irrationally angry man, even if it’s not irrational anger and he is completely justified in said anger because this is some bullsh*t up in here.

He takes more deep breaths to calm himself down. It’s fine. Just another slight bump in the road. He just needs to find Bobby. Bobby will clear up all of this bullsh … all of this confusion, and then EBR will be back in his original hotel room and everything will be a-okay. Bringing out his phone, EBR begins to call Bobby before he thinks better of it. He has to honestly ask himself; is this really urgent? Like, actually call someone urgent? He is so very, very tired … but no one has died … so no, it is not. It is more respectful to text. He wouldn’t want to be a bother. After texting “hey man, where you at?” with the question mark because he wants Bobby to know that he respects him enough for proper grammar, he simply waits in the hallway. Bobby’s good at responding to texts. He should get back to him any minute now. And once he does … boom, sort all of this out, get some sleep, and then … game time. Then it’s on to Josh Dean.

Josh Dean.

Hell of a wrestler. Hell of a competitor. EBR hears he has a lovely family. That’s nice. Josh deserves it. He’s had some unfortunate setbacks in his career, so to see him rebound as effectively as he has is inspiring for all of us. While yes, he only received a World Heavyweight Title shot in the first place because he literally stole the belt and refused to give it back like a small child who was pouting because he didn’t get his way, he was at least justified in doing so … probably, maybe. Who is EBR to judge? If nothing else, Josh Dean essentially called his own shot and then to his eternal credit backed it up when he defeated his arch nemesis and the widely considered to be piece-of-sh*t-but-hey-maybe-he’s-not-so-bad-if-we-just-give-him-a-chance-to-change-if-he-makes-the-effort-and-then-maybe-we-can-grow-to-love-him-? Drakz. Josh finally got that monkey off his back and created a moment that would be replayed for years and years to come. While EBR may not condone how he went about orchestrating it, he certainly admired his ability to identify his goal and see it through to the very end. There’s a lesson to be learned there, for sure.

… Even if he doesn’t quite know what it is.

It has been several moments since EBR has texted Bobby and has yet to receive a reply. This is somewhat urgent. Maybe not life or death urgent … but then again with sleep deprivation being linked to an increase in the risk of hypertension, diabetes, and cancers thus increasing his overall risk of mortality, one could make the argument by waiting for Bobby to respond EBR is, in fact, dying at this very moment and the results will only be seen in 30 years. It is indeed death by a thousand papercuts.

He’s gonna do it. He’s gonna call Bobby. F*ck it.







… He can’t do it. It’s just too rude. He already called him earlier at the front desk. Two phone calls? Who does he think he is? He’s EBR, the all mighty important being and thus the whole world needs to stop functioning because God forbid he might need something in a particular moment? That’s some selfish sh*t and it’s no way to conduct himself. Bobby’s probably busy. He shouldn’t be expected to stay on standby and drop whatever he’s doing to immediately respond to EBR’s text in the off chance EBR needs to get a hold of him. If EBR wants something he should do it himself. That’s what the great Josh Dean would do.

Or he’d pickpocket someone’s room key and then sneak into their room. Possibly go through the belongings and pick out some things he’d like to take with him.

A moral quandary, the Josh Dean story is.

Whatever the case, EBR knows the only solution is to simply reach Bobby in the flesh, and to find Bobby he must first think like Bobby, however difficult and complex that could -

… He’ll be in a club. There was one around the hotel. He may be sleep deprived and functioning on decreased cognitive awareness but he still knows he’s right.

No problems, only solutions. Descending down the stairs and to the lobby, EBR commences putting his plan into motion. It’s time to be proactive, and it starts with finding Bobby so he can get some sleep. Exiting the doors of the hotel, EBR steps outside and his quest begins. Walking down the sidewalk, he thinks back to the press conference he shared with Josh Dean almost a month ago when they stood face-to-face as the cameras flashed.

He remembers that look in Josh Dean’s eyes so very clearly. The look of a determined, self-assured man who had everything going for him and all the cards stacked in his favor. He looked at EBR and without saying a word told him everything he needed to know. It told him that Josh had a resentment towards him for becoming the face of the WFWF while it was he, not EBR, who was the World Heavyweight Champion. It told him how he felt slighted by this turn of events and would use it as motivation to prove EBR and the entire company wrong. It told him that EBR could have the all interviews, all the press, all the pats on the back, all the adoration, all the smoke blown up his ass … but come Scars & Stripes, it was Josh who would have this, which EBR knew was the World Heavyweight Championship.

It told him that Josh knew exactly what was going on, and that Josh knew that while EBR was burdened with the responsibility of carrying a recently returned and thus still financially unstable wrestling company on his back, Josh Dean could just sit back and train on a schedule EBR just didn’t have. It told him that Josh had all the time in the world and he was using it to his utmost advantage, and that he would allow EBR to stand up front and play make-believe savior for now, but come one month’s time he’ll take great satisfaction in hammering in the finals nails which keep EBR’s limp and lifeless body attached to the cross. And perhaps most importantly, it told him that Josh had so much confidence that he really, truly believed he’d do everything he just implied.

It was a very declarative and layered look.

Walking like the man on a mission that he is, EBR only stops once he reaches the don’t walk sign. EBR just had to come to terms with the fact Josh had several legitimate gripes and it wasn’t something EBR was particularly proud of. Josh probably should have been the face on the marquee, but it wasn’t like it was even EBR’s decision. He didn’t want or demand any of this. It was asked of him, a natural byproduct of being the most affable and most decorated in the company, and the results do speak for themselves. When WFWF events end with EBR they end on a positive note and with people entertained and happy they tuned in, while shows he doesn’t close end with the depressing images of immolation attempts on women, destruction of historic venues, and whatever the hell Alex Sean wrestling in 2022 is.

The light changes as EBR crosses the street, his eyes staring straight ahead to his nearby destination until the corner of his eye catches a glimpse of a taco truck only feet beside him. He is pretty hungry …

… Is this motherf*cker seriously getting distracted by f*cking tacos now? For real? He was just out here thinking about the infamous Josh Dean “I’mma f*ck you up real good” look and he’s out here thinking about tacos? Do better. See, this right here is exactly why he’s in this situation in the first place. It’s almost surreal how one year off could disrupt the strict, disciplined work ethic that would become his foundation for over eight years, yet here is. You know who wouldn’t be thinking about tacos at a time like this? Josh Dean. Josh Dean would be using his energy far more productively. The guy has probably earned a red belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu in the course of 60 days while EBR’s been out having to spend those two months promoting the WFWF’s return. He’s already at such a disadvantage by causes out of his control, he can’t afford to make mistakes and widen the gap even further.

EBR just needs to concentrate and keep his eyes on the prize. To reinforce that, he plays that vision in his head of himself victorious with the World Heavyweight Championship in his hands, looking out into the screaming and adoring crowds and small children whose lives can be enriched by witnessing such an event at such an early age. They’ll know that anything is possible if you just apply yourself. Some of them may even go to space.

That’s what he’s competing for and he can never lose sight of that. And you know what? He didn’t. It was a momentary lapse in judgment, a brief slip up which was immediately addressed and became a non-issue. It never even needs to be mentioned again, and he nods at this observation as he takes the first bite out of the burrito that is now in his hand.

… Oh. Well, whatever. He’s been up for a while anyways. He needs the energy. He’s going to go into this club, he’s going to find Bobby, he’s going to take a nice, relaxing, much needed nap, and then with full clarity he’ll figure out how to deal with the Jujitsuka known as Josh Dean.

Approaching the club, EBR walks in between the velvet ropes and walks the red carpet preceding the entrance until he approaches the doorman. He nods as they meet eyes.

EBR: Hi.

Doorman: ‘Sup.

There’s an awkward silence as EBR looks around, just kind of assuming that since he’s literally the only person standing there that would be a good enough reason to let him in.

EBR: … Can I come in?

Yet here we are.

Doorman: You’re gonna have to wait like everyone else.

Temporarily confused but not wanting to be presumptuous he looks around. It stands to reason his currently impaired cognitive condition just had him missing some other people.

It did not.

EBR: But I’m the only one here.

Doorman: It’s at full capacity.

EBR: Really?

Doorman: That’s what I said.

EBR: …? It’s full capacity, at this exact moment, conveniently when there’s no one else out here, at this time of …

It occurs to him he doesn’t quite know what time of day it is and doesn’t want the possibility of getting called out on that fact and looking incredibly irresponsible.

EBR: Just … really?

Doorman: Look man, I don’t make the rules, I enforce them. I don’t know what your problems are with rules, but they’re your issues, not mine.

EBR: I don’t hate rules. I appreciate rules. Rules provide structure. Rules are cool.

Doorman: And it’s because of those rules we’re able to prevent fire hazards caused by overcrowding. It’s about being responsible, which is something you obviously care very little for.

EBR: That’s not true!

He takes the final bite of his burrito.

EBR: Just tell me …how many people are allowed in there anyways?

Doorman: That’s really none of your concern.

EBR: And shouldn’t you have a clipboard or something to keep track of -

Doorman: Look, I don’t know what to tell you, man. You want it one way, but it’s the other way.

EBR takes a deep sigh. He really didn’t want to have to do this, but desperate times and what not.

EBR: Okay … on a completely unrelated note … do you like Drake?

Doorman: Motherf*cker, of course I like Drake. Everyone likes Drake. Who doesn’t like Drake?

EBR: I know him.

Doorman: Bullsh*t.

Rummaging through his pocket, he reveals a photograph taken at the fastest juncture of a rollercoaster’s on-ride camera of himself and Drake screaming with distorted faces.

Doorman: Oh sh*t. My bad, man … Unclipping rope … go on in, you’re cool. OVO!

Putting the picture back in his pocket, EBR modestly enters the club doors. Playing the name dropping card was not his fondest moment, but he is a 40 year old trying to get into a club so it comes with the territory. Once in, he’s instantly blinded by flashing red and blue strobe lights and further disoriented by the rhythmic pulsing of music that, to be perfectly frank, will eventually lead to hearing loss after repeated exposure. He attempts to navigate his way through the maze of bodies which are now all up in his personal space.

EBR: Bobby? Bobby? Are you here, Bobby?

He is repeatedly bumped into by people paying no attention to their surroundings.

EBR: Sorry. Excuse me.

It wasn’t his fault.

EBR: Bobby? Louder and continuing to be drowned out Bobby?

This was a poorly conceived - if not futile attempt - which is further reinforced when he takes a stray elbow to the face by someone who very much agrees with the overlaying message of the club’s current soundtrack which is that rhythm, is in fact, a dancer.

He notices a set of stairs leading up towards the second floor. That should provide the vantage point he needs. Attempting to scoot past the club’s various occupants while doing his best Ethan Hunt impersonation, albeit badly, he nears the stairs. He is abruptly walked into by an inebriated couple.

Boy Clubber: Hey! Watch where you’re going!

He very clearly was.

EBR: Sorry.

He also very clearly is. That’s just the kind of person EBR is.

EBR: Honest mistake.

Boy Clubber: Yo why you’re looking at my girl like that!?

He was literally looking at him the entire interaction.

EBR: Taking deep breath … Sorry, didn’t mean anything -

Boy Clubber: We having a problem!?

Girl Clubber: Don’t do it Tommy, he’s not worth it!

Choosing to ignore the subtle insult, he turns to the girl. When you speak to someone, you should make eye contact. It shows people you value them. It tells them “I see you”.

EBR: Look, if I did anything to make you uncomfortable I deeply, deeply apologize -

Girl Clubber: Pervert!

She throws her drink in EBR’s face.

He takes a deep breath. He inhales through his nose. He exhales through his mouth. Calm down. Let it go. He doesn’t have time for this.

He turns and walks away, heading up the stairs.

Boy Clubber: Yeah get out of here you f*cking p*ssy!

Girl Clubber: I love you.

Boy Clubber: You’re so f*cking hot, babe!

Ascending the stairs while he presumes a very heavy and intense make-out session occurs beneath him, he keeps his mind on the task at hand. He reaches the second floor, and the search begins.

EBR: Bobby? Bobby? Slightly louder Bobby?

Sluggishly, he approaches and leans over the railing overlooking the bottom floor. He surveys around the room. It is very dark. It is very crowded. It is very disorienting. He is very, very tired. All said, he does not see one Bobby Abadi. It’s incredibly disheartening, and not just because he always prided himself on his aptitude in finding Waldo as a child.

He runs his hands over his withered, old man face. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Scars & Stripes was supposed to be the culmination of a twenty year career. The defining moment which would be played for decades to come. When people heard the name “EBR” that was the moment that would play in their heads; the exceptionally talented and gifted competitor who reached the top of the industry and cemented his status as one of the all time greats, before sadly succumbing to the negative influences and impulses which had befallen so many of the greats before and after him. Until one day, the phoenix would rise from the ashes of his own spurned legacy and soar majestically up in the sky, reaching heights never previously seen.

That day was to be Scars & Stripes. Right now, as he stands overlooking a club in Atlantic City at a time he’s not exactly sure of but what he has to deduct is in the vicinity of 24 hours, give or take, he can’t help but feel he’s lost the plot and the moment is beginning to get away from him.

Or perhaps he’s just not thinking straight because he’s so very, very tired.

Dragging himself away from the railing, he walks towards the empty booth in the corner of the room. He plops himself down and away from the blinding lights and incessant noise. He just needs time to think. He just needs to concentrate. Eight years. He remembers it so vividly. The day eight years ago that he looked himself in the mirror and finally had enough of seeing what was reflected back to him and vowed to make a permanent change which led to him dedicating his life to reaching this moment. Eight years. He cannot just blow that all away. He has one opportunity to show everyone he’s different this time. He cannot fail. The previous EBR didn’t fail. The previous EBR was a winner. He unfortunately happened to be many other things, but he was a winner. If EBR returns to cement his greatness yet fails at the first opportunity to showcase that? Then he’s not a winner.

Which means he’s not better than what he was.

Which means he just wasted eight years of his life.

He’s forced to keep that uncomfortable truth in his mind at all times. There’s stakes involved. This isn’t just “some” match. This is the only match that matters. Never f*cking forget that.

He just needs some sleep. Some sweet, sweet sleep. Once he gets that he can start the process of getting down to brass tacks. Josh Dean is good. He may even be very, very good. But he is just a man. Just an obstacle that EBR must overcome and overcome he will once he gets some shut eye and gets his mind and body right. There is still time. He’s pushing it, but there’s still time and as soon as he finds Bobby and can start the process everything will be a-okay but to do that he must first get some sleep. Some very relaxing, some very soothing sleep which will fix everything and make everything okay because then he’ll be reinvigorated because he’ll finally have gotten some much, much needed rest -

Eldon: E?

EBR: Quickly shaking head as his eyes open … Hrm? What? Oh … oh, hey! Thank God you’re here.

Eldon sits down across from EBR. This day is finally starting to turn itself around, even though EBR isn’t 100% sure if it’s still technically day at this point.

EBR: Hey man, where’s Bobby at? Is he here?

Eldon: No, he left maybe twenty minutes ago?

...

EBR: … Did he say where he was going?

Eldon: I didn’t ask him. Let him be his own man, you know?

The disappointment level is immeasurable and cannot be adequately quantified, thus it is very easily picked up on.

Eldon: What’s wrong, bro? We’re in Atlantic City. Cheer up.

EBR: I need some sleep, man. I’m running on fumes here.

Eldon: Yeah, Bobby told me about your big day tomorrow.

EBR: He did?

Eldon: Of course, he’s very excited. How about you?

EBR: Yeah …

Concerned, Eldon looks at EBR. It tells EBR that Eldon actually sees him. By making eye contact it allows Eldon to non-verbally communicate “I see you”. It’s an emotional bond that allows EBR to open up, for lack of a better word, emotionally.

EBR: … It’s just … at this point it’s fair to question whether I’m as prepared as I should be? I really don’t want to screw this up.

Eldon: I understand your concerns and you’re talking to the right person. Did Bobby ever tell you what I do?

EBR: No.

Eldon: Leaning in and whispering I’m a dream coach.

EBR: … Oh … I see … actually, no I don’t … are you going to expand on that or am I supposed to know what that is?

Eldon: It means I help make people’s dreams come true.

EBR: … Right, but like … specifically -

Eldon: I help people identify their dreams, and then I help them achieve them. So, tell me - what can I do for you?

EBR: … Honestly man? I’m really tired so if I could just crash in your hotel room for a bit that’d be perfect -

Eldon: No E, I cannot let you do that to yourself. Do you know the number one reason why people fail to achieve their dreams? They put it off. “Oh, I’ll start tomorrow” - no! No! Start today! Start right now! Don’t chase it, tackle it!

EBR: … I’ve just been up for a very long time …

Eldon: The hours you spend sleeping are hours you will never get back. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. They just fade away, like tears in rain.

When phrased as elegantly and originally as that, it’s near impossible for EBR to argue. A wordsmith such as that must carry infinite wisdom, most of which should be adhered to.

Eldon: Sleep is what lazy people use to justify their complacency. What are you doing when you’re sleeping? You’re doing nothing. Do you know what you could be accomplishing? Anything you desire. Don’t let time sinks prevent you from achieving pure happiness. It’s there if you want it. Do you want it, E?

EBR: I do want it.

Eldon: How much do you want it?

EBR: Badly.

Eldon: Perfect … Pulling out a stack of documents … Then make it so.

EBR: … What’s that about now?

Eldon: This … is your key to happiness.

Pushing the papers towards him, EBR takes a look.

EBR: … The key to happiness is a bungalow in Saskatchewan?

Eldon: With that floor plan? In that neighborhood? Do you even need to ask?

EBR: I thought you were a dream coach?

Eldon: I am.

EBR: Oh … just cause now it’s looking like you’re a realtor or something.

Eldon: For that price? In this market? You better believe I help make dreams come true!

EBR: Hey man, I didn’t mean to offend …I used to be engaged to a realtor … you guys do really great work … it’s just that I live in Los Angeles so … you know …

Eldon: Los Angeles won’t make your dreams come true.

EBR: Really? Cause it’s even called the City of Dreams -

Eldon: And has it done anything to help you achieve yours?

EBR: … Not me personally, but my wife -

Eldon: So you’re a family man. This is the perfect location to raise a family. You got kids?

EBR: Not yet. I would like some.

Eldon: Where would you prefer to raise your family? In Los Angeles, which is sinking into the ocean and will require your children and future generations to develop webbed feet and gills just to survive ala Waterworld … or in this beautiful 1454 square foot bungalow located in Erindale with four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a fully finished basement, and within walking distance of not one, not two, but three different schools?

EBR: … It’s a nice place, I’ll give you that.

Eldon: And it can be yours right now! Don’t wait! Take it! Grab your dream!

Eldon jingles the pen in front of him as EBR gives a quick ponder. He’s made a lot of solid points regarding EBR’s quest for sleep being nothing but a distraction to his current goal. Here he is going from location to location when he could be preparing for the very-prepared Josh Dean. He is just wasting time at this point.

So naturally, it stands to reason that if Eldon is right about that he’s also right about this, and EBR just didn’t see it at first because he’s so very tired.

EBR: … Oh what the hell. I want happiness.

Taking Eldon’s pen he enthusiastically signs his signature on several different pieces of paper because there’s nothing particularly peculiar about purchasing and establishing home ownership to a bungalow he’s never seen in a country he doesn’t reside in while in a club which doesn’t care about the dangers of fire hazards caused by overcrowding in Atlantic City.

Eldon: You’re making a great decision. It’s obvious that you care very deeply for your hypothetical children and their welfare.

He is showing great parental responsibility. He remembers that Waterworld starts with Kevin Costner having to drink his own urine.

EBR: Would you mind holding onto these for me?

Finishing signing all of them, he nudges the papers back towards Eldon for safe keeping. When he thinks of the name of a trustworthy individual, the name that immediately pops in his mind is that of “Eldon __”. Unfortunately he doesn’t happen to know his last name.

EBR: Anyways, I gotta get out of here. I got some more dream chasing, amirite!?

Eldon: Best of luck to you, my old friend. I believe in you.

EBR: That means a lot to me, man.

Pulling himself off from the chair, EBR departs down the stairs and makes his way through the club.

The opportunity for a nice rest has long passed. No point crying over it, he just needs to move forward. He’s put off dealing with Josh Dean for too long. The time is no longer nigh. The time is here. Eldon was right, and so is Nas. Sleep is the cousin of death; he won’t let it murder his dream like that fedora wearing burned dude with the red and green sweater and the glove with claws. He can’t remember his name at the moment.

Exiting out the front, he fist bumps the nearby bouncer and marches back towards the hotel. Surely Bobby must be back in his room by this point. Bobby will clear up that room situation and then EBR can start scouring through the various Josh Dean matches he saved onto his laptop aka the YouTube links he bookmarked. Oh Josh Dean; he thought he had EBR in the ropes, and for a minute maybe he did, but he’s coming out swinging and once he does the world will be privy to the same images EBR’s had rummaging through his head for the past eight years.

They will witness the dividends of years upon years of hardwork and dedication. They will see first hand the level of expertise and skill from someone who has honed his craft tirelessly. They will appreciate the dedication to improving himself, and the humbleness needed to recognize he had to change in the first place. They will admire the grit and courageousness to finally see it through. They will be in awe as they finally watch him soar, the way he was always meant to soar. The peacock will fly, and it will be the comeback of all comebacks. A real turn around, truly.

Striding down the street, EBR relishes his ability to get this sh*t back on track. He’s got work to do, and son, it’s time to start hustling. Grind time has officially begun and he’s about to dissect film like no one has ever dissected film before him. The benefit of extensively studying film for eight years has, presumably, left him much better equipped to cram as much knowledge as possible in a shorter period of time than the average, less studious competitor. He knows what key points he needs to evaluate to maximize efficiency. He’s heard that Josh Dean has a new manuever he’s very keen on, so EBR knows to break that down into two steps so it’s not as overwhelming.

Step 1; find out what exactly that move is.

Step 2; don’t let Josh perform said move.

His analysis skills are as sharp as ever. He reflects on that as he walks down the street, until he’s distracted by a woman’s scream.

Lady: HEEEEELP! HE STOLE MY PURSE!

Turning his head to look behind him, he spots a man sprinting down the street with the aforementioned purse and its straps swinging wildly in the process as he rushes past EBR. The woman trails after him, looking frantic, panicked, and desperate for some hero to help her. She doesn’t realize she has nothing to fear and she doesn’t need a hero.

Because EBR is here.

Chasing after the robber, EBR attempts to make up the distance between them. There’s a reason he does all those resistance band assisted squats and lunges, and it’s not just for the impressive physical appearance of his glutes, quads, and hamstrings. It’s for practical reasons just like this. Which also reminds him; he had that video he needed to upload showcasing a band assisted glute bridge. It perfectly activates the glutes and serves as a great warm up and should be a staple of any lower body workout. But there’s no time to think of that.

But it needs to be in the back of his mind. His subscribers are relying on him to reach their fitness goals.

The thief continues to dodge various pedestrians while EBR continuously bumps into several of them and is forced to offer several non-verbal apologies. He keeps his eye on the robber the entire time, not wanting to lose him in the crowd of people clogging the sidewalk. EBR begins to breathe heavily. This is taking him much longer than he thought and he was already so very, very tired and it occurs to him he can’t remember the last time he’s drinken anything and he may in fact be technically and medically classified as “dehydrated”.

So all said, while this may not find itself on his personal highlight reel of impressive physical feats, some slack should at least be cut when the distance between EBR and the thief stretches from feet, to meters, and then to several more meters.

Keeping his eyes on him the entire time, EBR’s luck appears to turn around as the crosswalk light begins to change. That’ll give EBR more than enough time to catch up -

… He’s running through the intersection on a “don’t walk” light. What the … that means stop. The hand means don’t walk. Why can’t people just follow the rules? They’re rules for a reason!

Two cars coming from different directions are forced to slam on their brakes as the thief runs between them, leading to several rounds of honking but as EBR has so recently discovered, if he’s going to ignore the “don’t walk” light’s jurisdiction a car horn probably won’t deter him. It is indeed unfortunate how the world doesn’t function in a just and fair way when people only look out for themselves and put their own satisfaction above society’s, which is a concept EBR continues to ruminate on until a car making a right turn almost runs over said thief.

Wow. Karma hits some people so quickly, and sometimes in the form of a 2019 Hyundai Sonata.

The car skids to a stop as the thief smacks the hood of the car and flips off the driver before he continues to run. However, the universe has spoken and this is just the distraction that EBR needed before he turns on the jets and finds a second wind which allows him to make up the gap. Once he gets close enough he heroically dives at the robber from behind, locking his arms around his waist and driving him chest first into the concrete sidewalk, the stolen purse flying through the air in the process before ultimately landing in the middle of an outdoor water fountain display. It is a very elegant and visually appealing piece of artwork.

EBR brings himself up, collecting his breath and dusting off the front of his pants as several pedestrians and onlookers approach the situation.

Pedestrian: Hey! That man just attacked that other man!

EBR: … Huh?

Pedestrian: He just tackled him!

Various concerned people check on the thief’s condition, making sure he’s okay.

Pedestrian 2: That’s not cool, man! There’s no place for violence here!

EBR: … He … he stole that woman’s purse back there.

Pedestrian: That doesn’t give you the right to physically assault someone! You could have killed him, you animal!

EBR: I … I uh … was just trying to help …

Pedestrian 3: Helping up thief Are you okay, sir?

Thief: Ow … I dunno .. I hope so … kind of hit my head … feeling a little woozy …

Pedestrian 3: It’s okay … we’ll help you. Turning to EBR Are you happy with yourself now?

Pedestrian: Shame on you … just shame on you …

EBR: … Uh …

Eventually, the woman whose purse was stolen catches up. EBR walks over to the fountain, pulling out the dripping piece of brown leather

EBR: I recovered your purse, ma’am.

He hands it to her, in the process getting her wet.

Lady: Oh my God it was a Louis Vuitton! Nooo! My phone was in there! How could you let this happen!?

She storms off, shaking the bag as the onlookers shake their heads in disappointment and judgment.

EBR: … Sorry.

With his head hung low and feeling very Charlie Brown-esque, EBR continues on his journey back to the hotel. That didn’t get the expected results, but on the positive it can only go uphill from here. Fortunately, the chase was in the direction of said destination so EBR only has to think about the ways he can do better next time for a short duration until he reaches the front doors and enters the hotel. He turns towards the stairs, and to his relief sees that the elevator is now back in operation.

See? It’s all uphill from here, metaphorically and literally.

A man several yards ahead of EBR enters the unoccupied elevator as EBR calls out to him.

EBR: Hey man, can you hold that for a second?

Man on Elevator: … No.

He presses the button as the door closes in EBR’s face just as he reaches it. He watches as the elevator ascends.

Don’t think about it. There’s no reason to blow a gasket. How mad can he get about being denied something he didn’t even know was an option until twenty seconds ago? Just … relax …

Taking the stairs, EBR begins the climb to the fifth floor on his exhausted legs, thankful for his resistance bands. If this is this difficult with them, imagine where he’d be without them? He doesn’t even want to, so he doesn’t. He just focuses on the real end game. He’s so very, very close. The secret to defeating Josh Dean and realizing his dream is only mere moments away. It’ll be far sweeter than any current discomfort caused by the buildup of lactic acid. In time, this will just be a fun story to be told. An anecdote which proceeds the greatest moment in EBR’s life, chronicling the time EBR found himself sleep deprived and alone in Atlantic City with nothing going his way only x amount of hours aways from a match against the marvelous Josh Dean. It was looking very bleak, but it ended up just being another piece of adversity he had to work through.

And work through it he did.

Reaching the fifth floor, EBR walks past his hotel room and lands on the one next to him. Oh, he can’t wait to tell Bobby all about this one day. In due time, they’ll laugh and they’ll laugh and they’ll revel in the camaraderie. He should be thankful he works for such a good guy like Bobby who wants to give him such a good time. Not everyone is so fortunate to get to meet Drake. What a fine young man.

Relieved there is no “do not disturb” sign on the door cause EBR doesn’t even know what he would have done if there was, EBR very lightly knocks on Bobby’s door. He may not be sure exactly what time it is, but he doesn't want to disrupt any of his fellow guests enjoying their vacations.

EBR: Whispering Bobby … Bobby … you in there, Bobby?

He knocks slightly louder, but still not very loud.

EBR: Bobby? Hey, Bobby? … It’s E, by the way.

Several moments pass. He’s being silly. He just knocks normally. He doesn't do it loudly. He doesn’t bang on the door. He doesn’t yell. He just knocks like a regular person would knock when they’re going to knock on a door.

Suddenly, a door from down the hall swings open.

Man in Room: WOULD YOU SHUT THE F*CK UP! JESUS CHRIST SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO RELAX!!

He slams the door before EBR even has the chance to apologize, leaving him standing there like a dolt.

Calm down. Don’t explode. He takes a deep breath. Inhale through the nostrils. Exhale through the mou-

Oh stop with this breathing sh*t enough is e-f*cking-nough. All he f*cking does day after day after f*cking day is the nice thing, and the decent thing, and the kind thing, and the considerate thing and all he gets in return is a heap of sh*t shovelled in his f*cking face which he is then expected to eat with a smile on his sh*t stained lips while saying “thank you sir, may I please have some more?”.

It’s never enough. He treats everyone like the star they are and yet all they ever want is more, more, more.

“Hey E, I know how busy you’ve been but do you mind flying out to Omaha to do the “Slammin’ Saturday” podcast?”

“What do you mean the reservation is for 7:30? We have plans later and that won’t give us enough time!”

“We’re glad that you’re so enthusiastic to volunteer and we understand that you were just trying to treat the children, but at the LA84 Foundation we try to encourage healthy eating habits. That’s to say nothing of the fact they contained nuts.”

“Guess what? We just booked a slot on WBFF’s morning news program to promote Ascension! You get five minutes before the weather report!”

“Would you do me a favor and hold my purse when we get to the gala?”

“Again, we know that you meant well … but what were you thinking? Peanut butter cookies? How about you go back to the store and pick up some yogurt instead?”

“downvoted cuz how am I supposed to know how many sets and reps to do???”

“Yes, I understand that none of the children have a nut allergy … but what if they did?”

“5:30? That’s the reservation you made? I’m too busy to make it that early … you know what, I’m just going to have Vivian handle this from now on.”

He gives and he gives and they take and they take. No one ever tells him that it’s good enough or even has the courtesy to sincerely look him in the eye and thank him for giving them his time, or effort, or even just for trying. A thank you; that’s all he wants, just once. The fact that it’s such a low bar only makes it more demoralizing that it’s never cleared.

He continues to stand outside of Bobby’s door, silent steaming if not borderline pouting. It’s really not fair. No one ever gives a damn about what he wants or what his needs are. All he’s wanted for the past two months was just a little bit of time to prepare himself for the biggest moment of his life and he can’t even get that. He needs to prepare. He’s facing the sublime Josh Dean. The phenomenal Josh Dean. The impeccable Josh Dean …

… oh why the f*ck does he have to try and be polite? F*ck Josh Dean. He’s an entitled, whiny, arrogant, bullying prick and he’s sick of having to walk on eggshells around it. The second he returns in 2020 he makes sure the entire company has to revolve around him because he’s Josh Dean and everyone needs to stop what they’re doing because suddenly Josh Dean is back and suddenly Josh Dean has decided he wants something.

Josh Dean wants a World Heavyweight Title shot? Sorry, Destroyer. We know you just won the Survival of the Fittest and earned a title shot thirty minutes ago, but Josh Dean is here so piss off. Actually, forget even getting a title shot, how about Josh Dean just take the belt and try and hold it and the WFWF hostage in the process, and then prance around with the belt all smugly like it was some impressive feat. Wow! He walked to the ring, took an inanimate object, and then left with it. So daring. So brave. So boisterous and self-congratulatory about it. Indeed, we should all marvel in Josh Dean’s cunningness. How did he ever summon the mental and physical fortitude required to complete a feat which could be accomplished by a raccoon?

That’s something EBR could look past. He understands it all stemmed because of long running and unresolved issues with Drakz. Maybe Drakz deserved it … well, it is Drakz; he most certainly either deserved it or something akin to it. What rubs EBR the wrong way is the pure arrogance and entitlement about it. Josh Dean never accounted for his actions, never reflected on them sincerely, never apologized for any inconvenience he may be causing. No, instead the only words he’d bellow were hollow justifications used to excuse his selfishness. They were things that couldn’t be quantified, like how no one has left such an indelible footprint on the wrestling industry like Josh Dean, so he should be allowed to do whatever he wants and take as many shortcuts as he pleases. They were things that just didn’t add up, like how Josh Dean earned this title shot more than anyone despite not even competing in a match since the beginning of 2017. They were things that didn’t track, like how he had to do it so he could finally put a stop to Drakz’s reign of terror and make the WFWF a better place, despite standing idly by and watching Drakz bludgeon Billy Broom with a chair in front of him and doing nothing to save the poor janitor. And they were things that no one could buy, like how the WFWF owed Josh Dean this and he was just cashing in that check, when in actuality all he was ever really doing was trading in his once respectable reputation for a piece of gold he could sling over his shoulder despite bearing a nameplate with another man’s name.

And even then EBR could maybe look past all of that if he didn’t feel the need to mock those he believed to be beneath him. Maybe no one else does, but EBR remembers the Josh Dean and Johnny Mason interaction after Animalize. He watched Josh Dean belittle and talk down to him before cheapshotting him in the face with a microphone, and then he listened the following month when Josh Dean once again attempted to mask himself in virtue while unnecessarily and disgustingly questioning Johnny’s parenting skills in regards to his late son. What kind of person says something so uncalled for yet so nonchalantly?

That was when EBR knew exactly what Josh Dean had become. Just a sniveling, whiny, arrogant, entitled, bullying prick.




And then Josh Dean got rewarded for it.

Meanwhile, EBR remains standing outside of Bobby’s door at God knows what hour in Atlantic City, very tired and very unprepared. He continues to stew over this fact until he abruptly turns away from the room and proceeds back down the hallway and towards the staircase. He descends. He can’t be here right now. He’s too mad. He needs some air or something.

Stomping down the stairs and towards the hotel lobby, he’s forced to remember and replay that f*cking look on Josh Dean’s face. That accusatory, judgemental, slighted look like somehow EBR was the bad guy and somehow EBR had wronged him in some way and Josh was coming to collect his vengeance. That dude was looking at EBR like that? What. The. F*ck. And for what? Because EBR became the face of the WFWF? He knows Josh isn’t very personable anymore, but he’d like to think even if he could appreciate and laugh at the schadenfreude involved in being the same man who spent a year screaming from the rooftops that he was a main event player and a champion a company could be built around, only to win the title and watch as the WFWF immediately files for bankruptcy.

So yeah, EBR had to pick up the slack. He didn’t ask for that responsibility and he didn’t want that responsibility. Do people really think answering rudimentary and repetitive questions with rudimentary and repetitive responses is how EBR wanted to spend his time? God, what EBR would have done to trade places with Josh for the past two months. Enough free time to train three times a day? If only he could be so fortunate. Must be nice.

Storming through the front lobby, he reaches the entrance and exits the hotel. He takes a moment to get some air in the hope that it will help calm him down …

How dare Josh look at him that way.

… It does not.

He strolls down the street in an attempt to keep himself occupied and relieve some of the stress and frustration. F*cking Josh with that f*cking look, like somehow EBR’s the bad guy or is supposed to feel awkward or guilty about being receiving the bulk of marketing and promotion. The WFWF didn’t have much of a choice, and despite being a pretty smart guy Josh Dean apparently doesn’t understand that for every action there’s a reaction. He was the same dude who spent a year throwing hissy fits and threatening to not re-sign and leave with the WFWF title because he claimed didn’t need or like the WFWF anymore. Turns out when you’re brazenly non-committal, a company might not think you’re particularly trustworthy. Shocking concept, indeed.

That’s what it all boils down to; Josh dealing with the repercussions of his unwelcoming personality and instead of taking ownership he pouts like the little brat he is. Josh could give engaging interviews if he wanted to. Instead he opts to give surly and laconic answers to Stacy Grey. Josh could be charismatic during press conferences. Instead he’d rather make corny and, quite frankly, prejudicial jokes about members of society who happen to have pale skin, red hair, and freckles, thus reinforcing a harmful and meanspirted connotation that it’s okay to pick on someone if they look different, indirectly leading to thousands of children getting harrassed in the process because their tormentors saw Josh Dean do it so it must mean it’s okay. He’s supposed to be a f*cking role model, not spreading hate.

He continues to flounce down the Atlantic City streets. He’s not even sure where Josh gets off giving him that kind of look. It’s not like Josh has shown him any respect. EBR isn’t the one refusing pens that have been touched by him or leaving handshakes hanging. What? Does Josh feel disrespected that EBR actually brought up how he stole Drakz’s title and wouldn’t give it back? Shame on EBR for describing what literally and exactly happened. The past two years have shown Josh is much more interested in conjecture, so maybe EBR should have made up some imaginary stories or something. Ah, nah that wouldn’t work. Then Josh would just get upset about EBR yet again being a much more entertaining sound bite. It’s a real catch-22.

He’s not even really sure why Josh even cares. It’s not like he hasn’t found ways to needle EBR for his past transgressions or try to discredit why EBR even got a title match, both of which EBR just shrugs and lets go. To the former, EBR can actually take accountability for his behavior and admit when he deserves to be called out, unlike a certain someone. Fair is fair. To the latter, if Josh is of the opinion EBR hasn’t beaten enough worthy or quality competitors that is ultimately just his subjective opinion and EBR can’t do anything to change that. It doesn’t bother him personally, but he does feel bad for Penny Shannon. Does she know how little her good friend Josh actually thinks of her?

He continues walking down the street until it dawns on him he has no idea where he is or where he’s actually going. He’s just sort of been following the pedestrian signals and going in whichever directions they told him he could go. He stops momentarily to collect himself.

He does feel a little better. Still rather tired, unfortunately. That’s just something he’s forced to accept at this point.

He takes a deep breath. The time is dawning ever closer to the biggest moment of his life, and despite his criticisms of Josh Dean, the one thing he will never accuse him of is being ill-prepared. Sadly, EBR cannot currently say the same about himself.

But that will change.

He continues walking in whichever direction the signs, crosswalks, and lights tell him he can walk. He’s been down this figurative road thousands of times in his career, to the point it might as well be muscle memory at this stage. It’s EBR in a big match, forced to overcome some type of obstacle which impedes the path to his goal. Just as the doubts and uncertainties are beginning to take over, through pure happenstance or some type of divine intervention EBR encounters a situation and/or conversation which dramatically and
metaphorically impacts his life and gives him the inner strength and/or knowledge needed to find the fortitude and gumption to overcome said obstacle.

It’s kind of his signature thing.

It happens every single time, so it’s only apropo to happen once again before his career defining moment. He doesn’t know what he needs to do to defeat Josh Dean.

But by the end of this day, or night, or whatever time of it is … he knows he will.

He’s worked too long and too hard to fail now. He will not blow this after all of this time. He refuses to allow that to happen, and any thoughts to the contrary are wrong. They’re dead wrong. They’re Johnny-Mason’s-son-dead wrong.

He continues on his stroll, determined and with a new resolve. He should have stopped for some snacks, however. He is indeed rather hungry. It is a feeling he must block out, along with his dehydration and need for sweet, sweet sleep. They are things he cannot think about. They’re just distractions from his goal, which is why it’s even more important to block them out because he’s not clear what exactly that goal is. He might have to perform CPR on an elderly man. The task will reveal itself when the time is right.

Making his way down the street, he forces himself to ignore the exhaustion and depleted cognitive ability and instead focuses on the beautiful images which play on in his head. The images of a better tomorrow as the seeds bear their fruit and EBR relishes in finally completing his magnum opus. With the World Heavyweight Title firmly and finally in his grasp he raises it above his head, blinded by the sharp glares and flashing lights of an arena full of people capturing the moment on their camera phones. They clap in unison to his music while cheering and chanting his name as he exits the ring, a feeling of numbness reverberating throughout his body as he walks in what feels like slow motion. It is all so surreal, yet so transcending.

As he makes his way to the back he is immediately met with the warm and full embrace of Bobby Abadi, his head nestled on EBR’s bosom. He looks down at Bobby with a sense of gratitude in his eyes for making this moment a possibility, before he looks up and sees himself surrounded by the WFWF roster convening upon him. There is a moment of silence before DGX steps forward, beginning a slow clap which is reciprocated by the rest of the WFWF roster. He looks his former tag team partner in the eye as both smile, ready for their upcoming clash to be competed under gentleman’s rules for World Heavyweight Championship after DGX’s earlier WFWF Rumble victory. EBR surveys the roster around him. He sees Trace Demon and Shuggy, standing side by side with their arms around each other’s shoulders having just buried the hatchet. He sees Mesh, no longer suffering from the otherworldly entity which has taken residence in her cerebral cortex. He sees TITUS!, rubbing the belly of an undetonated canine. He sees Johnny Mason, holding his reanimated son. He sees Alex Sean, who has his dignity.

He sees a better WFWF. The way it should have always been.

And he sees himself, finally righting the many, many wrongs of his past.

Trudging along the sidewalk, EBR lightly slaps himself in the face in an attempt to keep himself up. He cannot stop. He cannot give up. He must push through the various afflictions that are attempting to temporarily derail him. They are just that; temporary. His legacy is what will be permanent. His legacy is what will live on forever. Never forget that.

He has the opportunity to show an entire generation of wrestlers - nay, an entire generation of people that you don’t need to take shortcuts or drive on the shoulder just because it might get you there quicker. You stay on the road and drive the way you’re supposed to because those are the rules and they’re there for a reason. They’re there for everyone’s well-being and protection. Without them, we dissolve into a society based around chaos and greed and ego and self-satisfaction before ultimately collapsing upon itself.

Sluggishly, he continues to drag his enfeebled body down towards a destination he’s not remotely specific of before he’s ultimately forced to stop. Just for a minute. Just for a moment. He needs a quick breather.

He can still see Josh’s face like it’s right in front of his own. It’s just … there. Just staring at him, intently and devoid of an expression yet somehow still laughing at him. It’s right in front of him and it never wavers. EBR stares back. He’s not going to look away this time. He won’t give Josh that satisfaction. Not this time.

The stalemate continues for several minutes. Neither give an inch. Josh Dean has the advantage but the courageous EBR will never back down regardless how tired and in need of sleep he may be. His cognitive functions will not fail him and his body will not allow him to stop. Rest is just rest. It’s a vague concept but Josh Dean is real and he’s right in front of him. He’s a bad hombre, not like sleep which is delightful and soothing and lovely -

Drake: Yo, E.

EBR: Shaking head as he opens his eyes Hrm … wha … oh … D… Drake …?

Drake: Laughing Son, what you doing hanging in front of a dumpster?

EBR: … In front … in front of …?

Turning back, he faces the dumpster which looks back at him.

EBR: I don’t … I don’t … I dunno …

Drake: Just use the washrooms inside, bro. You don’t want to risk getting a public indecency charge. C’mon, let’s go.

After taking a brief survey of his surroundings, EBR follows Drake out of the parking lot and enters what he believes to be some sort of club of some sort of kind. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself by confessing he currently has no idea where they are or going, so he makes the conscious and responsible decision to just continue to follow Drake. Drake wouldn’t steer him wrong. He’s a swell young man.

EBR: So … are Bobby and uh … what’s his name … Snapping fingers … Bobby’s friend … El…roy ..?

Drake: What about ‘em?

EBR: They in … there?

Drake: Nah I dunno where they are. We were supposed to meet up here but it’s cool. It’s Atlantic City, amirite?

EBR nods in agreement, both at the factuality of said statement that Atlantic City is in fact Atlantic City and in appreciation of the confirmation that was where he still was. He was pretty sure, just not positive.

Drake: At least you showed up. A man of your word, respect.

That does sound like him.

Drake: So you ever been to one of these shows?

EBR: Ye … no … may … be?

Drake: They’re the best, man. You’re gonna love it.

Walking to the front of the room, they sit down at the closest table to the front of a stage while he is still very confused about where he is and what they’re doing here. Fortunately for him he has Drake to guide him. He has his complete trust.

Drake: Oh hey, you mind giving me your wife’s number?

“Complete” might have been too strong a word.

Drake: I got a sick idea for a collaboration. A Drake and SHE track? That sh*t will be a hit, boy.

He sighs. She would love that.

EBR: Yeah … I’ll text it to you …

Drake: My man. The charts ain’t gonna know what hit ‘em.

After having texted Drake the number because he is very much a man of his word, EBR takes a few seconds to assess the foreign room and current situation. He looks around, for the first time noticing the various other tables and occupants who accompany him, all sitting patiently in the dimly lit room. He takes a much needed drink from the glass of water on the table, finally relaxing in his chair, enjoying near silence. It’s very peaceful. It’s actually very calming. He needed this, just some time to stop thinking and just … relax. Maybe he’ll just rest his eyes for a second …

Abruptly, various lights turn on in the room as a voice bellows from a rather distorted microphone. Whoever is speaking is standing far too close.

Emcee: Ladies and gentleman would you please put your hands together for Atlantic City’s own Siegfried & Roy tribute act … “The Siegfried & Roy Experience … ence … ence … ence”…

Emerging from the side of the building to a round of applause from everyone in attendance are the aforementioned Siegfried & Roy tribute act, clad in very glittery and chest revealing matching leotards. Not wanting to feel alienated,, EBR claps as well..

"Siegfried": Over the top Austrian accent Argh, you’re too kind, argh.

"Roy": Swedish accent maybe? What a great crowd, yah?

"Siegfried": Argh, but please put your hands together for the star of our show …

They both approach the end of the stage and the large, square shaped object covered with a black tarp which EBR did notice but had just assumed was a coffee table of some kind. Siegfried & Roy each grab one end of the tarp before dramatically pulling it off, revealing a cage occupied by a white bengal tiger.

"Siegfried": Kubie!

The room claps enthusiastically as the cage door is opened and Kubie is led out by a leash.

Hrm. EBR’s never seen a tiger show but he was always under the impression that’s something that would take place in Vegas in a big arena and not something that looks more akin to a comedy club. It’s true what they say; you really do learn something new everyday.

"Roy": Say hello, Kubie!

Kubie looks very startled, nervous, and uncomfortable. Probably just not used to so many people.

"Siegfried": Now who wants to see some tricks?

With the sound of an entire room hollering, the Roy of this act produces a tube of tennis balls which he throws at Kubie’s face. Kubie catches one of them after taking several on the nose.

Drake: Oooooh you dropped some there, buddy! Get your head in the game, boy! Gotta do better than that!

EBR: Hey man … if you’re gonna yell maybe offer words of encouragement instead?

Drake: Naw it’s fine.

Next, Siegfried produces three hula hoops which he lines up vertically with a stand, each one a few feet apart. Roy pulls on the leash to get Kubie to move, but the feline is very persistent that he does not want to do so

"Roy": Come on … come on … you don’t want to disappoint these fine folks do you, Kubie?

The room claps in agreement, but not EBR. He won’t engage in shaming Kubie. Hang in there, Kubie. EBR believes in you.

The leash is roughly jerked, finally bringing Kubie towards the hula hoops. Very slowly, one could say reluctantly, Kubie attempts to step through the first hula hoop. He does not clear it completely. He attempts to step through the second hula hoop. He knocks it over. He attempts to step through the third hula hoop. He does it. Kind of. And very slowly.

"Siegfried": Kubie’s very proud to show off his agility!

Kubie looks out into the audience, very scared and appearing to very much be in distress. It is perhaps amplified when Drake leans over the stage and begins clapping in front of Kubie’s face.

Drake: C’mon, kitty cat! Don’t be a p*ssy! This is why you’re endangered, bitch!

He sits back down.

EBR: You shouldn’t trash talk him in his face like that. I don’t think he likes it.

Drake: I’m telling you, it’s fine. I do it all the time at NBA games.

EBR: I don’t think they like it either.

Drake: It’s all part of the show. Trust me.

Producing a bottle of lighter fluid, Siegfried pours it over the hula hoops before lighting them on fire. It seems pretty suspect and unsafe for a variety of reasons but they probably have extensive knowledge and are complying with building safety codes.

"Siegfried": Now … prepare to be amazed!

Again Roy pulls on Kubie’s leash repeatedly, the carnivore refusing to budge and growling in defiance. The crowd claps in support, which is kind of nice. Well, everyone except one audience member in particular.

Drake: Do it, you coward!

Grabbing EBR’s glass of water, he throws it in Kubie’s face.

Up until this point of his life EBR didn’t know for sure how far the emotional spectrum could range for members of the felidae family. But as of today, he knows for sure it can get up to somewhere in the the vicinity of “flipping the f*ck out in a fit of uncontrollable rage”, as evidenced when Kubie lets out a ferocious roar and rips free from the leash that was previously held by Roy.

Also, EBR was planning to finish that glass of water.

"Siegfried": Very thick and native New Jersey accent Oh sh*t!

"Roy": Equally distinctive New Jersey accent Bail! Every man for ‘emself!

Both men run off the stage, exiting to the back as Kubie roars in the direction of the crowd, eliciting screams of terror from the audience. Well, it’s a very good thing there are precautionary measures in place and this venue has animal handlers and trainers on hand in the case of such an incident.

EBR surveys around the room. He doesn’t see any. Well, it's a very good thing this venue has security on hand who are explicitly trained for this sort of thing. His eyes move around the room, attempting to find them. There are none.

Hrm. Knowing what he knows now, this is a much sketchier operation than he previously thought as shrieks of terror ring out behind him as the tiger continues to roar and the occupants dash to their nearest exits. Eventually the tiger’s eyes meet EBR’s. They stare intently as time slows down and suddenly it all makes sense.

Right there.

There it is.

This is the event he was waiting for.

It’s all so clear. The tiger is just a metaphor. It symbolically represents Josh Dean, while EBR represents EBR. By courageously conquering this apex predator in a feat of strength, he will harness his resolve into a previously unknown and untapped level of perseverance found deep within his character, the knowledge of which he will then use to defeat Josh. He will save this room full of people, much like he will save the WFWF from the uncertain and bleak future led by a World Champion who possesses the narcissism of one Josh Dean.

Heroically, EBR rises from his seat. His and Kubie’s eyes never leave one another. It is trial by fire, reinforced by the flames which emit from the hula hoops as a backdrop.

This is the moment everything changes. Kubie is a magisterial, beautiful creature. His sacrifice will not be in vain. God speed, sweet prince -

The tiger lunges directly past EBR and begins to maul a man behind him, viciously devouring his neck before lifting and shaking his blood squirting body from his mouth as patrons let out blood curdling screams.

… Huh. That … didn’t go the way he thought it would. He feels his arm getting pulled.

Drake: We gotta get out of here, man!

EBR: But … but … I didn’t … I didn’t do the thing …

The tiger heads towards the front entrance of the room, tackling another man down from behind before he mounts him and much like earlier, rips out the back of his neck with his mouth. That’s apparently Kubie’s go-to move. He chews on it as pieces of flesh and blood drip on the floor.

Drake: Quick, fire escape!

EBR: That’s specifically for fire related emergencies -

All this commotion causes one of the hula hoop stands to tip over, in turn igniting the edge of the tarp which previously covered the tiger’s cage.

EBR: … Right.

Keeping his eye on the tiger the entire time and directed by Drake’s arm pulling, EBR leaves the club through the fire exit. The last thing he sees is the tiger claw another man in the chest before Drake closes the door shut. The tiger never once looked back at him. It was very “Life of Pi”.

Outside, EBR and Drake simply walk the streets. With his hands on his head in disbelief, Drake looks over at EBR incredulously as EBR remains perplexed. Befuddled even.

… What the hell was that?

What is that supposed to mean?

The f*ck is he supposed to do that with that?

Drake: Oh man … oh man … I don’t know how that could have happened … this is Astroworld all over again …

Was … was EBR supposed to be the tiger, maybe? Then who did EBR represent? Was Josh Dean EBR? Maybe that wasn’t the metaphor? Maybe it didn’t mean anything? Maybe nothing means anything? Maybe this entire experience is just a complete waste of his and everyone’s time?

Maybe that’s the point?

That ultimately there is no point and this is just nonsense?

This is just nothing?

Then why?

He runs his hands over his withered, old man face. Wearily, he takes a breath and continues on his journey. He’s gotten far too far in his pursuit of his dream to stumble at this point. He will not allow it. It doesn’t mean nothing. It means everything. He’s sure of it. This is everything he has worked for. He just … has to figure it out. He still has time. There’s still time. Everything will be okay.

Sluggishly and weakly, he forces his body to continue to move. He is so very, very tired. The road in front of him begins to get blurry. He must fight. He must show his resolve. He cannot quit. Not at this juncture. He can’t fail before he reaches the finish line. He refuses to do anything but win. He will not sh*t the bed. He is not Amber Heard.

Sapped of almost all energy, he still refuses to give up. He won’t be stopped by any debilitation. It is not real. It is just a concept. A state of mind, one which can be pushed out once he continues to play those beautiful images in his head. The images of himself victorious and celebrated. The images of himself accomplishing something. The images of himself at the top of his craft and at the top of the world. They’re so vivid and real because at one point in time, they were real. They’re mirror images of himself at SuperBrawl V, the World Heavyweight Championship held high above his head having scaled the turnbuckles and taking in the adoration from his hometown crowd having competed in one of the greatest moments in WFWF history. He had everything. He had the World Heavyweight Title. He had respect. He had honor. He had purpose. He had completed his life’s work.

Then he had to go and f*ck it all up, ruining all of that goodwill like a critically and commercially acclaimed television program that goes on just a few seasons too long, leaving a horrid and rancid taste in people’s mouth as the celebrated days are forgotten, replaced by the lamentations and complaints that everyone’s favorite protagonist started committing vile acts which were believed to be far too out of character.

He ruined it all. He ruined everything. His career defining moment was overshadowed and forgotten. It faded away like tears in rain, an expression he believes he’s heard somewhere or another.

There is still time to fix it. He can get this back on track.

The images of the good days and the soon to be better days continue to flash through his tired, run-down mind. He did it once. He can do it again. Just so long as he focuses and figures it out. No distractions. No nothing. Just EBR. Just greatness. Just actual greatness. One which doesn’t get interrupt-

Cashier: Sir?

EBR: … Huh? What?

Confused, he surveys his surroundings. There is no Drake. There is no outside. He doesn’t remember coming here. He was, admittedly, very distracted.

Cashier: … Can I take your order?

EBR: Uh … yeah … I’ll take a 12 piece … spicy.

He’s not as young as he once was.

EBR: Sorry, mild.

He taps his credit card on the card reader. If only Josh could see him now, witnessing his opponent forced to overcome such hardships and hurdles ahead of their match. He can just imagine the look on Josh’s face. That expressionless look which still emits such confidence, knowing his opponent is at such a monumental disadvantage. He doesn’t know which God it was that Josh feverishly prayed to, but as EBR is handed his bucket of chicken and exits the restaurant to return to his hotel to finally get an opportunity to devise his gameplan, it is clear that Josh is much more devout to his spirituality than his cordiality or sportsmanship.

It will make it all that more sweeter when the bell is rung and Josh bears witness to the fulfillment of a 20 year legacy. Josh can train three times a day. Josh can skip his son’s baseball game to stare silently at a picture of EBR’s mug. Josh can find all the added motivation of being overlooked and disrespected he so desires. It will not save him. That will not be all he needed. No matter how much he wants, Josh Dean is not the Michael Jordan of this situation.

Josh Dean is the other guy in the poster getting dunked on.

Ravenously, EBR replenishes his protein intake as he makes his way to his destination. He needs to return to his hotel. He needs some quiet time. Just some time to think. Just some time to process. Some time to figure it out. Some time to himself, as he walks along the deserted, empty, and hushed street.

Josh may act aloof and shrug at the prospect of facing EBR, but the truth has always been so very clear. He doesn’t want to face him. He never did. He comfortably sits at a post-SuperBrawl media scrum and confidently talks about EBR and DGX being dream matches, yet immediately pivots to talking about how he can’t wait to face some young guys so he can help them along the way.

By what? Denigrating them? He did so much for Johnny Mason. Taught him that microphones can be an effective way to cut open a nose when the recipient doesn’t believe someone would be that much of a bitch to jab you in the face when you least expect it.

All Josh wants to do is find people he can pick on to make himself feel bigger, and he knows that’s not EBR. Why else, one month later, did Josh do everything in his power to put off the inevitable clash between himself and EBR by hiding behind a supposed obligation to face Devilkiller? That was who Josh Dean wanted to make his first title defense against. No offense to Devilkiller, but yeah, no sh*t he’d rather face him than EBR. Josh Dean finally slays his dragon and defeats Drakz for the World Heavyweight Title, and then has to turn around and face EBR in his first defense?

No one wants to spend all their quarters learning how to defeat Shang Tsung before they even get to Shao Kahn.

Yet through sheer divinity, it all works out for Josh. He gets to put the match against EBR off for 12 months, and then he gets gifted a training schedule and regiment unavailable to his opponent. Everything's coming up Josh Dean. Josh Dean so very much craves the ability to call himself the greatest wrestler today, and against most opponents he’d be right. But EBR’s sights are higher than that.

He’s in the greatest of all time discussion, and he’s tired of it even being a debate.

If Josh Dean doesn’t know, or if he forgot, or if he just doesn’t care he’s about to learn very quickly - this is the definitive EBR. The best EBR. The greatest EBR, and sorry, but it’s going to come at Josh’s expense. Perhaps Josh always knew, and that sudden personality shift is just the realization and melancholy which follows. Perhaps he just accepted his role as foil, eager to just be a part of the production even if it means getting conquered by the end of the third act after an inspiring and iconic montage. Or perhaps Josh just knows how important and monumental a match this is for EBR, and is pouting because he knows how inevitable the outcome is. That would explain his previous declaration that he would have done anything to face EBR ten years ago and the sudden faux-indifference in the present, which even as an act of false bravado still seems very strange; it doesn’t sound like there’d be a worse match up for someone with Josh’s history of injuries and soft melon than the guy who caused so much early-onset CTE he made the NFL blush.

This thought causes EBR to stop. Hrm. God, he used to be such a piece of sh*t. No wonder everyone has forgotten SuperBrawl V. With great shame, he finishes his last drumstick and places the empty bucket of chicken in a nearby garbage bin. It’s stuff like that why he has to keep doing this. He has to leave people with a better last impression. He can’t change the past, only try and course-correct it. Let those repulsive acts be the motivation to never be that again. One mustn't ever forget where they came from. It helps make them who they are, for better or for worse.

He continues walking. That past has helped and will continue to help make him who he wants to be. He just has to be … better. Just be better.

He must focus on the positives and not the negatives. He must play those images of better days ahead on an infinite loop, so that they draw out the images of Josh Dean and that smug look on his face which juxtaposes everything EBR now stands for. That look that says “don’t do the right thing - do the easy thing”. Don’t be kind, be selfish. Don’t worry about what happens to other people because they’re not you. Don’t achieve true and eternal happiness, achieve momentary fulfillment. That look on Josh Dean’s face that tells EBR he actually believes it because he doesn’t have a reason not to, because Josh got everything he ever wanted.

He got the title match. He got to retire Drakz. He got the World Heavyweight Championship. All it cost him was his reputation, morality, and whoever he thought he once was. It’s a tale as old as time, and ‘tis what happens when one drills it into their psyche that they’re the victim and then spends much of their time consumed by their obsession and motivated by extracting revenge against the villain who wronged them, to the point they no longer care how they get it so long as they do. Eventually the lines begin to blur so gradually you can’t tell who’s who anymore, until that day you find yourself standing in front of a mirror wondering what the f*ck just happened to you and how you got there, and the only way out is to uproot yourself and go somewhere far, far away just to get your life back on track. When the realization finally dawns on Josh hopefully he gives EBR a call.

He knows all the best sushi places in Tokyo.

Finally reaching the hotel, EBR walks through the front entrance and crosses the lobby, heading towards the elevator. Naturally, it is taped off with a nearby signing informing him it is out of order. He begins to take the stairs. He may not be particularly sure what time it is but they have to be finished with construction by this point. It was a smart move to get a second room earlier. It gives him a place to just … think. To truly reflect on the task he must embark on in what, he can only presume, is in less than 24 hours. The day that will signify the end of his old life and the beginning of his new life. The life he actually wants.

Reaching the second floor, he walks to room 257. He rummages through his pants pocket for several seconds before coming up empty handed.

… For f*ck’s sake.

He stares at the door in front of him. He thinks about it rationally. He paid for the room. They have his credit card on file. He’ll pay for any damages. Time is off the essence. F*ck it. He’s doing it.

Backing up a few feet, EBR charges at the door and smashes it with his shoulder. That didn’t do it. He does it again. Still doesn’t do it. He does it once more. The door flies open, the momentum taking EBR off balance as he stumbles and rolls into his hotel room. He looks up, spotting a man with a dog-inspired masquerade mask kneeling in front of a bed, directly between the legs of another man currently wearing a bear mask. Simultaneously, they turn their heads EBR’s way.

This … was not his room.

EBR: … Uh … sorry …

He brings himself up awkwardly, looking around the room at the other occupants, all with their own fancy and jewelled adorned masks. His favorite is the penguin.

Woman in Bunny Mask: You could have just knocked.

EBR: … Sorry.

Woman in Bunny Mask: If you’re going to stay, at least close the door.

Noticing there are several vacant chairs on the other side of the room, EBR closes the door as requested. A room is a room and he was invited. This will more than suffice in his desire for a long, hard think, regardless what Eyes Wide Shut activities may be occuring. He’s not one to judge. Live your best life.

Scooting past the two dolphins on the floor in front of him he makes his way to the opposite end of the room and the empty chairs, first stopping at the tables next to them. He takes a handful of cookies from a nearby plate. He is very tired and very hungry, so those cookies will help replenish his blood sugar levels and give him the quick burst of energy he knows he’ll need to help carry on with his day or night or whatever time it is. His cognition may not be firing at its best, but he’s proud of himself that he can still make smart, nutritional choices.

Moving on to the next table, he scans the selection and opts for the masquerade mask of the majestic peacock before sitting down on one of the unoccupied chairs. He places the mask on his face, receiving eyes from the owl across the room. Politely, he shakes his head and declines any advances. He doesn’t want to be a creep or anything. He’ll just watch.

He relaxes into his chair. This is what he’s needed all along. Just some time alone, relatively speaking, with himself and his thoughts. Nothing else to distract him. Nothing to cause his mind to wonder. Just himself. He’s a smart man. He can figure out what he needs to do to defeat Josh. There’s still time. No problems, only solutions. Don’t think about anything else.

Just think.

Just think about it logically.

Just think about it realistically. It will come.

He sees himself, standing in the middle of the ring, holding the World Heavyweight Champ -

No, not that. Not right now. No distractions. Live in the now. The now. Think about it.

Think logically.

Think realistically.

Assess the current situation. He thinks about where he is, and how it gets him to where he wants to be. He is currently sitting and thinking. He wants to become the World Heavyweight Champion. Okay, now just draw the connections. Do it logically. Do it realistically. To help him do so, he separates himself and operates as an outside observer. It’ll help him view it objectively. Now what does he see?

He sees a 40 year old man sitting in a hotel room in Atlantic City watching an orgy anywhere from midnight to early morning on the biggest day of his life having not slept for over 36 hours and desperately and irrationally trying to convince himself he won’t get wrecked by the incredibly talented and motivated individual he’s spent the past two months neglecting to adequately prepare and train for.

He sees nothing but a f*cking dope. A f*cking clown. A f*cking failure.

He sees nothing worth looking at whatsoever.

That’s what he sees because that’s what he f*cking is.

Shaken to the core and numb, EBR remains frozen in his chair. It’s … over. It’s dead. All that hard work, all those years … wasted. There is no do over. There is no reclamation. There is no dream. There is no potential fulfilled. There is no happiness.

Just a very pathetic man, shoving cookies in his face like that monster who eats cookies whose name he can’t quite place at the moment because he’s so very, very tired because he’s so very, very stupid and somehow, someway actually dropped the ball at the worst possible time to drop the ball having spent literally years telling himself he would not drop said ball.

He remains perfectly still. Incredulous, perplexed, even befuddled.

He doesn’t know how that could have happened.

For the first time in several moments his attention diverts from his impending and spectacular failure as his eyes dart across the room, moving from the couple of foxes performing simultaneous cunninlungus and instead to woman with a wolf mask, pegging a man clad in a tiger mask. His eyes stay glued, his bitterness growing with each pelvic thrust. That fella is really taking it, by the way.

With a very justified resentment, he jolts from the chair and steps over the occasional person lying on the ground and very much enjoying both themselves and the festivities. Swiftly, he opens the door and storms down the hall towards the staircase. He paces himself for several moments, running the past two months through his head. Sleep deprivation notwithstanding, it is a very accurate recollection of events. At this point, one could say he is very much wide awake. He tries to think what he would have done differently, and admittedly with the benefit of hindsight he knows he can pick several. But there’s one thing that continues to gnaw at him profusely, fueling his indignation.

Maybe this never would have happened if he actually had someone who supported him as much as he supported her.

He brings out his phone and selects the contact. This warrants a call. This is urgent.

Shelia: Ye … Yawning …. Yes?

EBR: We need to -

Shelia: Dammit … another yawn Do you have any idea what time it is?

He looks at this wrist. He doesn’t wear a watch. If only he had access to some type of device that could have told him the time.

EBR: Speaking on phone This is important.

Shelia: … Is everything okay?

EBR: No -

Shelia: Are you in the hospital?

EBR: … Well, no … I’m okay physically, yes.

Shelia: Oh good. Look, can you just give me a minute? I really have to go to the bathroom.

While he is still very much exasperated, he admittedly does not want her to come down with a possible urinary tract infection.

EBR: … Yes, I’ll wait.

He takes this as the blessing it is. It allows him to take a moment to rehearse what to say and speak rationally as opposed to coming from a place of very justified anger. He has a lot of grievances and she’s about to hear about them. They’re supposed to be a team. They’re supposed to be at the top together. She got there first. That means she was supposed to extend her hand and help him up, not gawk at the view on the other side as he loses his grip on the ledge, slips, and plummets to his untimely and preventable death.

He.

Deserves.

Happiness.

Maybe he could have accomplished his dream if he actually had a support system. Maybe if someone actually picked up the slack and made sure he stayed focused. Maybe if someone wanted it for him as much as he wanted it for himself. Maybe if someone wasn’t so f*cking selfish and always putting herself before someone else. They’re a team, and all she wants to do is play iso-ball so she can get celebrated when she starts making dramatic and game-winning shots. Pass the f*cking ball. He wants to play too. He can be a star too.

It’s the f*cking arrogance, like she’s somehow so far above him that he couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to be so important. Child, please; he was on top of the f*cking world when she was still studying for her SATs, so maybe cool it with any subtle and unspoken condescension. She needs to be informed that - and this comes from a place of love - she’s been acting like a bit of self-centered c*nt lately. If anyone would understand what it’s like to achieve greatness, it’s EBR. It’s enchanting, and he wants another taste after throwing it away the first time because he didn’t know how to conduct himself. And now he doesn’t get that taste and it’s not fair. It’s not f*cking fair. He deserves it. He’s earned it!

…

He takes a very deep, intense, and very disappointed sigh once he looks past himself and realizes he is currently pouting like a petulant child who didn’t get his way in a stairway in an Atlantic City hotel. He takes another sigh once he understands exactly what he’s doing and is just trying to find someone to scapegoat or some excuse to make so he doesn’t have to accept who really f*cked up. But he knows it won’t work.

He had his chance at fulfilling and eternal greatness and then he screwed it up somehow. That's not on Shelia. That's not on Bobby. That's not on Josh. That's not on Atlantic City. That's on him. He is the one who gets to shoulder that blame, and he’s the only one.

That is what he deserves.

Shelia: Alright … what’s up?

Just because he’s drowning doesn’t mean he should bring her down with him. This isn’t her problem. She has so much on her plate and yet she’s somehow supposed to juggle her own immaculate success with his issues and impending colossal failure? She’s barely 30 and has accomplished so much. He’s 40, pushing, 41, and will very soon have absolutely nothing to show for it.

She was right.

She is the star.

Nay, SHE is the star.

EBR: Just … good luck on your performance tonight. Hopefully I'll be able to catch it live.

He’s sure he will. It shouldn’t take Josh very long.

Shelia: Uh huh … you … couldn’t have just texted me that?

EBR: Sorry. I screwed up.

Shelia: … I’m gonna go back to bed if that’s alright …?

EBR: Yeah … you’re gonna crush it.

Shelia: … You sure you’re okay?

EBR: … Never better … actually … there is one thing before you go …

Shelia: Yeah?

EBR: … If you could just … not sleep with Drake … I would really appreciate it.

Shelia: … Oh … kay … Bye.

As the call ends EBR remains in the empty and deserted stairway, completely alone. He reflects on this reality before he begins his ascension up the stairs. There is no particular reason. He doesn’t know where he’s going and even if he did he wouldn’t know why. There is no specific destination. There is no end. There’s no reason to go anywhere. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. It’s just … nothing.

He reaches the fifth floor and walks the hallway. He meanders down to his original hotel room, which he cannot enter because as he has learned today, he is an incredibly irresponsible man who somehow finds a way to screw up the most basic of fundamentals. Sitting on the ground, he leans against the door, replaying those images he created in his head for motivation to help him realize his dream, but which he now knows are just that - dreams; the make-believe images and illusions of grandeur orchestrated by a delusional, bumbling fool.

He envisioned himself standing in the ring with the World Heavyweight Championship held high above his head, celebrated by the masses and loudly proclaimed the greatest wrestler in the history of the WFWF. He envisioned himself capturing the hearts and imaginations of the entire world in the aftermath of his stirring and emotional triumph, and envisioned himself finally erasing the blemishes and removing the asterisk attached to his past achievements. He envisioned decades passing and the Alecia Matthews narrated video clip living on in eternity, played routinely to commemorate one of the greatest achievements of the 21st century.

“One … two … three! That’s it! He did it! EBR did it! The match is over! The wait is over! … The Golden State Heavyweight is now the Golden State Heavyweight Champion of the World!”

He envisioned it being his moon landing.

But it was never real. In reality, he would hold the World Heavyweight Championship above his head and receive a modest applause from the 800 in attendance at the 2300 Arena in Philadelphia, a venue which only seats 1300. He would look at the World Heavyweight Championship for the first time in 11 years, stricken by the fact it’s not as large or shiny as he once remembered. He would try to cry to express his joy, but his lacrimal gland issue caused by taking a boot to the face 17 years ago would prevent him from doing so. He’d walk to the back and receive no hero’s welcome or congratulations from his colleagues because they had far more important things to do, and then he’d fly to his house in Los Angeles which is sinking into the ocean and several days would pass before he’s even asked how it went. That was the best case scenario.

The far more realistic scenario is that Josh Dean just smokes him like no one in his position has ever been smoked before.

He’s reminded of that look on Josh’s face. That look that just confirms that Josh was right all along. EBR isn’t a winner. Josh is a winner. EBR is a loser. EBR is just some dope who let himself get paraded around like the WFWF’s official mascot, only one step above wearing a bison costume and shooting a t-shirt cannon into the crowd before hopping on a small trampoline and dunking a basketball into a hoop that wasn’t even at regulation height, and he willfully went along with it because it allowed him to relive what it was like to be important and remember how enchanting of a feeling it was. It was all a façade, as everyone will see once Josh exposes what was believed to be the best version of EBR. Maybe at one point he was Michael Jordan, but now he’s just stumbling to the hardwood floor having been crossed over while wearing a Wizards jersey.

Eight years ago he vowed to make a change and become the best EBR he could possibly be. He could have done so much in those eight years. He could have gotten a degree in criminology from Cornell University. He could have learned how to code and started a social media app designed specifically for helping people track lost cats. He could have developed a cure for cancer, or at least gotten to the clinical trial stage. Instead he spent it on the pursuit of a frivolous endeavor no one even cares about, and he’s probably not even going to do it. Eight years later, and he’s right back at square f*cking one with years and time he will never get back.

His chance at greatness sailed away a long time ago when he ruined it the first go around, and it is with deep sorrow he laments that he never even got the chance to wave goodbye from the dock.

Several moments pass as EBR ruminates on this fact until his attention is diverted to the door next to him slightly creaking open. He lifts his head, watching as a young lady in a fancy dress and several pieces of expensive jewellery shuffles out of the room and exits down the hallway. He notices she leaves the door open, which encourages EBR to bring himself to his feet before gently knocking.

EBR: … Bobby?

Bobby Abadi: E! Come in!

Invited, he nudges the door further ajar and sets foot in the room. Upon entrance he is greeted to the sight of Bobby across the room, seated in front of a foldable table decorated with a mirror on top while holding a rolled up $100 dollar bill in his hand.

… EBR closes the door.

Bobby Abadi: Hey man you want any!?

It’s an incredibly unprofessional and inappropriate question.

EBR: Shrugging … Why not?

It’s not like it really matters at this point. Absolutely nothing matters.

Grabbing the nearest chair he sees, EBR pulls up to the table and takes a seat before he bends over, the long beak of his peacock mask jabbing into the mirror in the process.

Bobby Abadi: Yeah I was wondering about that but didn’t want to ask.

Removing said mask, EBR stretches his arm to place it on the nearest dresser. Not quite reaching it, he rises up slightly to get closer, his knee inadvertently smacking into the bottom of the cheap table and knocking it over in Bobby’s direction, causing the illicit substance occupying the table to fly into Bobby’s face. It was, to put it mildly, very whacky.

EBR: … Readjusting table … Sorry …

Bobby Abadi: Snorting and laughing It’s fine … it was going there anyway, amirite!?

Forcing a chuckle, EBR squirms to get comfortable. Rather unfortunately he happened to pick a very small chair and has been sitting in it long enough that it would be weird if he goes to get a new one. Bad days spiral.

Bobby Abadi: So … Scars & Stripes. Excited?

EBR: Yeah … yeah sure, definitely. How about you?

Bobby Abadi: I’m super excited!

As evidenced by the remnants remaining on the mirror.

Bobby Abadi: Speaking of … Turning around … I made sure to get a lot of Scars & Stripes shirts made in advance … Rummaging through box … you know, so we don’t run out at merch … Producing a shirt which looks identical to the official poster … you want one? We have a lot.

EBR: … Sure …

He takes it, gently folding it and placing it on his lap, knowing with complete certainty he will never once wear it.

Bobby Abadi: Accounting tried to warn me about getting so many made but I’m telling you … this is gonna be a huge show, people are going to want something to remember it by.

EBR: It’s a neat shirt … I like the bull.

Bobby Abadi: That’s not a bull. It’s Raystown Ray. Looking at EBR like he’s supposed to have heard of that … You know, Raystown Ray.

EBR: Oh … okay, I think I remember. That’s that cheesesteak place, right?

Bobby Abadi: No it’s a famous cryptid.

EBR: Oh.

Bobby Abadi: … Maybe it was a little obscure. But, enough about the shirts. What about you? Title match, huh? I assume you’re ready?

EBR: As much as I’m going to be.

Bobby Abadi: I figured. You’ve been doing this for so long you know how to handle these big matches, so I figured this wouldn’t be like … a distraction or anything …? Like … you didn’t feel like you were obligated to come, did you ..?

EBR waves his hand and shakes his head, squashing Bobby’s concerns. What he would have had to do to win would have needed to start far earlier than yesterday or today or whatever it currently is. He knows that now. It is a fact which is quite clear to him.

Bobby Abadi: I just figured after all you’ve done for the WFWF in the past two months you could use some recreational time. Plus we get along so well … a lot better than some of the other guys. Dejected, sad pause as he looks at EBR … I don’t think Josh likes me.

EBR: What makes you say that?

Bobby Abadi: I mean … I don’t know … he just doesn’t seem very friendly towards me. Didn’t even say hello at the press conference last month. I hope I didn’t do something to offend him?

EBR: That’s just Josh. Pretty sure he treats everyone that way.

Bobby Abadi: Yeah, maybe … I know he had issues with the old management but I was really hoping we could all be friends. You don’t think he’ll make fun of me like he used to make fun of Kris Kash, do you?

EBR: Nah man, you’re fine. Don’t take it personally, he’s just a very focused, eyes on the prize kind of guy.

Plus Josh wouldn’t be able to list who Bobby looks like without appearing incredibly racist.

Bobby Abadi: He’s a great champion. Really happy he decided to wrestle for us.

EBR: Best in the WFWF for a reason.

Bobby Abadi: Yeah, it’s the match that everyone wanted to see. World Heavyweight Champion Josh Dean, defending against the legend EBR. You have no idea how fortunate we are to have this as our first World Title match under AGE.

EBR: I’m glad I was able to help make that work out then. I know it wasn’t that many matches since I returned, but it was the most wins in that time span and I dunno, I think that’s pretty cool. It’s at least … some kind of accomplishment.

It is also the only one he will have, as he prepares for Josh Dean to take him to the shadow realm.

Bobby Abadi: Oh yeah?

EBR: … You … didn’t know that?

Bobby Abadi: Not off hand necessarily, but I mean yeah, it makes sense.

EBR: … So why did I get the title shot?

Bobby Abadi: Because you're EBR. You're a legend. Of course it was going to be you. We needed the biggest main event to celebrate the return of the WFWF, and no one is more synonymous with the history of the WFWF than you. When people think of the WFWF, they immediately think of everything you’ve done.

Which they have in common with the man himself. When he thinks of what his career amounted to and what his lasting legacy is, he too thinks of the the various backs he’s stabbed, the lies he’s told, the corruptions he enthusiastically engaged in, the steroids he popped, the opponents’ ACLs he tore, the titles he was stripped of for DUIs, the head injures he’s caused, the cousins of opponents he nearly paralyzed, the sex tapes he’s leaked, the drugs he paid for with company funds, the friends he literally stabbed in the abdomen area with an ancient Indian arrowhead …

You know - legacy.

Bobby Abadi: So many memorable moments … I don’t think I ever told you this, but you had my favorite match, period.

EBR: Running through the various matches he’s tried to seriously and permanently injure his opponents … Which?

Bobby Abadi: Against Thunder. SuperBrawl V.

EBR: … That was your favorite match?

Bobby Abadi: Of course. I followed your whole career. You were always my favorite growing up … Bumps chest with palm … Canadians, man; gotta stick together. To get to see you win the title and reach your full potential, the crowd going crazy … unforgettable. It’s the career defining match every wrestler strives for. One of the true feel good moments in WFWF history. And now? You’re even better. That Penny Shannon match last year? That was an instant classic. That’s the kind of match that inspires kids to become wrestlers.

Without responding, EBR just takes that statement in, taken aback and caught very much by surprise. He lets it process for a bit.

It just … it feels good, man.

Bobby Abadi: That’s why I’m so excited for Scars & Stripes. You and Josh are gonna tear the house down.

EBR: Well … I’m certainly going to try my best.

Bobby Abadi: Of course you will. You have my complete confidence. It’s huge too, because this will be the type of match that tells everyone that the WFWF is back and better than it’s ever been. This’ll show what this company can be, and it’ll show what kind of company I can run. This is my chance to be a part of something big. This is my chance to show I can actually be something.

Vulnerably, Bobby looks at EBR who makes eye contact, responding with a look which entails interest and subsequent concern. It tells Bobby that EBR sees him, and the warmth allows him to open up emotionally.

Bobby Abadi: Honestly … he never came out and said it, but I know my dad only bought the WFWF because he wanted me to step up and start applying myself. This is my chance to show him I’m responsible and I’m not the screw up he thinks I am.

Shamefully, he looks down at the table.

Bobby Abadi: … And instead of being a professional I come to Atlantic City and do … this, all because it’s my birthday.

EBR: It’s your birthday?

Bobby Abadi: Yeah … September 11th …

EBR: That’s … rough.

Bobby Abadi: Mmhmm … I was so excited for Jay-Z’s “The Blueprint”, too. Talk about a day that took a sudden turn.

EBR: In any case … happy … Still not entirely sure what hour and day it actually is … birthday …?

Bobby Abadi: Taking an appreciative nod It’s stressful, man. I’m still new at this and nobody tells you how to do it, and then I start panicking that I’m not doing a good enough job … I just wanted one more birthday to really go wild, just one last time and then I’d buckle down and grow up … but I dunno … I’m 31, or well, 32 now … I’m supposed to be running a wrestling promotion and I’m out here at this hour doing this? Maybe dad is right. Maybe I am the failson of the family.

The very sad Bobby Abadi looks at EBR, who looks back sympathetically and disappointed by what he’s heard.

EBR: You’re not a screw up. Like dude, you’re running a professional wrestling company that goes on tour and is on Pay-Per-View. That’s not nothing. That’s amazing. You’re still so young, man. You’ll figure it out. No one gets it right the first time, but you’ll get there. You’re a good dude, Bobby. Don’t let anybody make you think otherwise. Real talk? … I wish I was more like you when I was 32. Would have saved myself a lot of trouble.

Perking up, Bobby develops a heartfelt and thankful smile.

Bobby Abadi: EBR … you are a great wrestler … but you’re an even better friend.

Bobby looks at EBR, genuinely and wholeheartedly.

Bobby Abadi: Scars & Stripes … the entire WFWF comeback, really … we couldn’t have pulled this off with you, at least not as smoothly as we have. We knew the first few months would be rough seas, but your professionalism and leadership helped to steady the ship … thank you, EBR. Sincerely, thank you for everything you’ve done.

Caught off guard, EBR nods his head in gratitude after several seconds of experiencing this foreign feeling. The unfamiliar sentiment reverberates throughout his head as he remains seated in his rather diminutive chair.

He’s forced to assess the current situation. He thinks about where he is, and how it gets him to where he wants to be. He thinks about what it was that he ultimately wanted.

He wanted to live his best life. That was always the impetus for his desire to change. Eight years ago he would go to bed alone after yet another in a long line of tedious and lackluster days, the only part of his waking hours that filled him with any sort of intrigue or optimism. He'd rest his head on his pillow and close his eyes, feeling the same levels of anxiousness and excitement as a child going to sleep on the 24th of December. When the time came he would wake up, force himself out of bed, apathetically drag himself into the bathroom, begrudgingly looking himself in the mirror, and be dispirited by the reflection that looked back at him. He would resign himself to the unfortunate discovery that today would not be that day and he would just have to try again tomorrow. Maybe that’ll be the day he’s happy.

Day after day after month after month until he just couldn't do it anymore and couldn't let that perpetual disappointment stretch into years. If whatever life he had built for himself was built on a foundation full of cracks, he knew the only way to fix it was to tear it all down and start anew.

He went out and bought the Japanese edition of Rosetta Stone that very afternoon.

He would do it right this time. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes. If the decisions he made and actions he took amounted to a life he didn’t want, it stood to reason that by not making those same mistakes he could get the life he did. So he had to ask himself what he was that made him do those things, and what he was was an entitled, whiny, arrogant, bullying prick who was the personification of selfishness who only cared about what he wanted and how it could benefit himself, everyone else be damned.

So the answer was simple - he decided to not be that. He would be respectful. He would be kind. He would be thoughtful of other people. He would be curious, not judgemental. Or at the very least, he would strive diligently and try very hard to be those things. If he was good then maybe good things would follow, so long as he actually lived that way and didn’t allow it to just become another meaningless mantra. He could not stray from that path no matter how often he would be tempted or saw how much easier other people’s lives were who didn’t adhere to the same philosophy, because it doesn’t matter what other people do. They’re not him, and he should know better. Good begets good, but only if you’re actually good.

So he figured if he does that, and if he sets a goal that really matters to him, and if he stays focused, and if he then works really hard, and if he remembers that the journey is just as important as reaching the destination then maybe he could finally achieve the fulfillment he was yearning for and fill that empty void in his life and then maybe - just maybe - that day would come when he is ultimately happy.

Eight years later he finds himself reflecting on this concept while sitting in a very tiny chair only hours away from what he believed would be the biggest day of his life and when he would finally turn the page as he finally wins the World Heavyweight Championship, just like he set out to do so many years ago.

… But … why? Specifically, why was that the prize at the end of the rainbow that he decided to vehemently chase? He … doesn’t remember. He just remembers how reaching the top of his chosen profession was the only thing he ever cared about and was ultimately what he had used to measure his self-worth and identity, thus it stood to reason that if he was going to be his best self that would be contingent on once again laying claim as the World Heavyweight Champion … but wasn’t the goal to not be who he was the first time?

Why was his best self explicitly tied to a profession that once led him to a life of such unhappiness? Wasn’t that the tunnel vision which led him to that life in the first place? Wasn’t it proven that it was a goal which would never be enough, which led to him always desperately searching for his next rush of dopamine, which led to it becoming an everlasting pursuit that only triggered his narcissism further as he desperately clawed for further self-validation in the form of victories, which ultimately led to him not caring how he got them just so long as he did, which ultimately caused him to only see people as objects in the way of his goal, which ultimately caused him to develop a cold and inhospitable personality and character, which ultimately wouldn’t allow him to develop any real personal relationships or emotional connections, which ultimately is what led to him going to bed alone every night and hoping for a better tomorrow?

He thinks back on the kind, warm words and bond he just recently shared with Bobby. The kind he never had before.


Is it possible that in the pursuit of becoming his best self by way of winning the World Heavyweight Championship, it has already led to him becoming the type of person he wanted to be and now is? Is it possible the World Heavyweight Championship ultimately is meaningless to his happiness and was just a means to an end? Is it possible it really was the journey that mattered all along and the World Heavyweight Championship was just his MacGuffin because, in the end … the real World Heavyweight Championship … was the friends he made along the way?











… Was that the point?



He thinks about it in his petite chair while staring at his wedding ring.


… So then what is that even supposed to mean? It doesn’t matter if he wins? After spending eight years on this, the rug can just get pulled out from underneath him and he’ll be totally fine and cool with it because it turns out that wasn’t what he wanted all along even though he was actually really quite sure it was? Or is the point that his best self just isn’t dependent on the outcome and should just take whatever the result is in stride, even though that result has a 99% chance of EBR getting wrecked so very, very hard?

Or is the point that deep down, he knew this all along and it perfectly explains why someone who prided themselves on working hard and devoting time to things that matter to him would inexplicably suddenly neglect to put in said work required to win because somewhere in his subconsciousness he knew he would rather be spending his time with the people who matter to him or doing things that make him feel more important than holding a belt that always led to him embracing his worst qualities?

But … part of winning the World Heavyweight Championship was to symbolically shed and shun those worst qualities and show the world that he had changed, and for the better. So of course it matters.

… But isn’t that ultimately meaningless to actually having changed? Like, if he actually was better, why does he feel the need to make some big show of it when it ultimately wouldn’t change or erase anything he ever did? Wouldn’t the proper way to atone be to continue being the best person he can be and working towards making the world a better place for everyone involved? Why would some superfluous accomplishment suddenly overshadow a 20 year career? Isn’t his legacy in the WFWF and wrestling already forged, for better and for worse, and in the end all he’s fighting for is indeed an inanimate object which has no deeper meaning than serving as a pretty piece of gold to place on the mantle above the fireplace before it gets replaced by Shelia’s future inanimate pieces of gold in the form of Grammys and Billboard Music Awards, relegated to a box in his attic and forgotten until one day in the hopefully very far future when his adult children must go through his belongings?

And even if he won, which he won’t because Josh is going to thrash him so hard he’ll get the nickname the Atlanta Thrasher, what did he even think was going to happen afterwards? What does he do then? Does he just vacate it because he finished his goal and was now “done”, even though “done” is an abstract concept? Does he defend it enthusiastically? Does he still have that hunger inside him? Does he lose it immediately in a very anticlimactic “oh I guess that’s how it ends” conclusion? Does he lose it and then it becomes his life’s purpose to hold it once again? When does it end? What is enough ever enough? What would equal satisfaction? Why would he pick the World Heavyweight Championship as his end game when by design it has no end game?

He … never thought that far ahead.

He is very confused. He didn’t think living his best life would be this confusi -

Wait. If he wanted to be his best self to achieve happiness, and if he currently is his best self, does that mean he already has happiness? Is he, in fact, happy?





… He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what any of this means.

Contemplating this possible revelation for many moments, he turns to Bobby who sits peacefully with headphones on while reclined back in his seat. Slowly turning to the front of him, he meets eyes with Eldon who nods in his direction before taking a sip of his mimosa. EBR turns to his left, staring out the private jet’s window silently.

… Is it possible he’s just trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care if he loses or that it doesn’t matter to offset the crushing disappointment and feelings of failure when he inevitably does?

He takes a deep breath before rubbing his hands over his old, withered, and tired face.

… There is still time. So long as he focuses and just thinks he can decipher whatever … this … is. Whether it’s a mind altering epiphany or just another in a long line of distractions placed in his path which continue to give Josh Dean such an unfair advantage, he will overcome it. Whatever the case is, whatever it is he must do, he will figure this out. He’s worked too long and hard to get to this point and be surrounded by mystery.

He prepares himself, ready to work harder and more efficiently than any man or woman has ever worked before him. Years from now, stories will be told of the amount of adversity he was able to push through. He can achieve anything he sets out to do, so long as he just relaxes. He just needs to focus. He just needs to think.

Exhausted, he lets out an involuntary yawn as he leans back in his seat.




Maybe he’ll just rest his eyes for a minute.