Post by jdfranchise on Sept 1, 2022 22:17:17 GMT -5
Prologue
Severance
Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
September 12, 2021
Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
September 12, 2021
Business is strange sometimes.
The Saudi deal fell through, and Kash decided he didn't want to play ball anymore. Our last conversation eats at me, because that sniveling sonofab*tch got one over on me. What good is all the hell I endured physically and places I had to go mentally, now that I'm basically walking around with a dead title.
I guess there are some foes that always manage to escape.
Thankfully, I do have my business to keep me busy while the next steps are figured out. You always have to be ready to pivot, and while I didn't expect to have this much time available, I can be a little more hands-on with the daily operations at the very least. We have some new recruits coming in through the 'Be a Champion' initiative. While they aren't the best choice of prospects, myself and the team have been able to make something competent out of them.
Oh who am I kidding, it's a sh*t sandwich.
I know I got my work cut out for me as I open the door to my office. I'm scheduled to do a jiu jitsu seminar this afternoon for the recruits. Penny told me sugar holds are what she and Jason were working on with them. When I stopped by the gym on the way up, I didn't see her. Every now and then she'll come in late, but those instances are becoming fewer and farther between. I reckon she's due. If she trains the recruits anything like Wayne and I, they'll probably appreciate the break.
I notice the yellow legal pad full of writing. Not a big shock considering the amount of notes I take on deals being made over the phone. Only I didn't leave one out and that isn't my handwriting. Whoever wrote this took a lot of effort to hand write it. I begin to read aloud:
The Saudi deal fell through, and Kash decided he didn't want to play ball anymore. Our last conversation eats at me, because that sniveling sonofab*tch got one over on me. What good is all the hell I endured physically and places I had to go mentally, now that I'm basically walking around with a dead title.
I guess there are some foes that always manage to escape.
Thankfully, I do have my business to keep me busy while the next steps are figured out. You always have to be ready to pivot, and while I didn't expect to have this much time available, I can be a little more hands-on with the daily operations at the very least. We have some new recruits coming in through the 'Be a Champion' initiative. While they aren't the best choice of prospects, myself and the team have been able to make something competent out of them.
Oh who am I kidding, it's a sh*t sandwich.
I know I got my work cut out for me as I open the door to my office. I'm scheduled to do a jiu jitsu seminar this afternoon for the recruits. Penny told me sugar holds are what she and Jason were working on with them. When I stopped by the gym on the way up, I didn't see her. Every now and then she'll come in late, but those instances are becoming fewer and farther between. I reckon she's due. If she trains the recruits anything like Wayne and I, they'll probably appreciate the break.
I notice the yellow legal pad full of writing. Not a big shock considering the amount of notes I take on deals being made over the phone. Only I didn't leave one out and that isn't my handwriting. Whoever wrote this took a lot of effort to hand write it. I begin to read aloud:
I immediately recognize the handwriting.
She knows me better than I thought.
I flip the page over the top of the pad.
I glance at the WFWF Championship hanging from a wooden display box on my office wall. I haven't taken it out of that display box since I returned home from Wembley. It's just a gold-plated leather strap, sure, however its symbolic recognition of excellence is what I care about. I should be proud of it.
I flip the page over the top of the pad.
I'm floored. This feels more like a breakup letter than a resignation. Even as icy as I've been towards Mary, I'm impressed with how much thought she put into her letter. She stated her reasons clearly, and her pleas come from a very loving place.
Business is strange indeed.
I gently tear the paper from the legal pad before folding the letter up and pondering her words for a minute. People find their purpose through different avenues. Mine just happens to be through combat that's little more than entertainment for those who pay for it. We base so much of our identity on our profession, and wrestling has always been where I measured my worth, and I have the hardware that proves it. I've spent so much of my life engrossed in it that I barely know about anything else outside of it. I had to lose it to realize just how much I need it.
With a small flick of my wrist, I toss the letter into the trashcan and grab my gym bag. I walk out of my office without so much as turning back.
*****
Business is strange indeed.
I gently tear the paper from the legal pad before folding the letter up and pondering her words for a minute. People find their purpose through different avenues. Mine just happens to be through combat that's little more than entertainment for those who pay for it. We base so much of our identity on our profession, and wrestling has always been where I measured my worth, and I have the hardware that proves it. I've spent so much of my life engrossed in it that I barely know about anything else outside of it. I had to lose it to realize just how much I need it.
With a small flick of my wrist, I toss the letter into the trashcan and grab my gym bag. I walk out of my office without so much as turning back.
*****
Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
Present Day
"Hey babe," I say as I open Nikki's office door. "Is my lunch in your fridge?"
"Yeah." Nikki says, looking at a chart graph. "You left this morning and forgot it."
Nikki walks over to her dresser in the corner. Ever conscious of appearances in the business world, she had it brought in for those in case of emergency situations last year. She pulls a t-shirt from the top shelf and tosses it to me.
"Please?" She asks, motioning me to change my sweat soaked shirt. "I have a meeting this afternoon, and I don't think they'll be too fond of sitting in sweat."
"They're an athletic apparel company, honey." I retort as I take off my sweaty shirt. While putting the fresh one on, I assert, "They know there's people training…"
"And we still need to continue showing we're a highly professional organization." She interjects before I can finish my rebuttal. As usual, she does have a valid point. "They wanted to speak to you, but I know you have jujitsu this afternoon."
"What'd you tell them?"
"I told them the truth," Nikki says as she grabs my lunch out of the fridge and hands it to me. "I said you were competing full time again and would be out of the office."
I place the tupperware container into the microwave before Nikki reminds me without looking, "Make sure you take the lid off."
I take the lid off and place it on top of the microwave and ask, "Are you ready for it?"
She glances over her shoulder and gives me a stare. I nod, fully understanding her commitment to being successful in this venture.
"If I'm being honest, I am concerned." She says as she walks back to her desk. "The last few media engagements weren't good looks, especially the sit down interview."
"How so?" I ask. "I did the damn interview."
"And came across like an a**hole." Nikki says as she swivels around before sitting at her desk."I thought we agreed you were going to be vague, not rude."
"Well you saw the line of questioning." I say while leaning back in my chair to dig into my lunch; two whole grain grilled chicken wraps."I wasn't going to look good no matter how I answered them."
"I know, which is why I agreed to Diedre Barlow's proposition."
Who the f*ck?
"Wait, you did what?"
"Diedre Barlow works as the editor for Ringside Observer," Nikki says, shrugging her shoulders before opening her laptop. "He contacted me last week. Now before you get pissed, let me explain."
This better be golden.
"Ok…go on."
"I've been doing some research, comparative analysis so to speak." Nikki begins, and she pulls up a spreadsheet. I slide the chair closer to her desk to see for myself. "Here are the ratings numbers side by side for your sit down interview versus EBR's over the same quarter hour time slot."
It's not a pretty sight. His numbers stayed consistent throughout the segment, while mine dropped. Between that and the press conference, my image is turning to sh*t before my eyes.
I've spent much of the past ten years trying to correct the reputation I built early in my career, just the same as E's doing now. His pursuit of career restoration has something that mine never did, however, the unconditional support of Bobby Abadi. I can't help but come to the conclusion that every promotion I've been in has had this impression. Kash was the only one who ever explicitly said it, and it's stupid to think Bobby would see it any different. He doesn't know better.
Nikki sensed my rumination leading me to a dark place. She's seen me make too many decisions from it lately.
"Look, going second is going to be more difficult because the questions ARE always directed in response to his comments." She adds. "Going first always sets the tone."
"Ok," I say, taking a bite from my wrap. "I suppose you already set it up."
"Don't you want to know what the plan is?" Nikki asks.
"No, don't need to." I reply, taking a sip from my water bottle. "If I wanted to worry about it, I wouldn'tve let Mary go last year."
"I thought that was because of what happened to Drake."
"Oh, it was the reason I gave her." I clarify, trying not chew with my mouth open. "But Mary didn't show any ambition to learn the business when she was with us."
"Don't you think you should've been a little more forthcoming about it with her?"
"I was," I say as I take another sip of my water. "That was just the final straw."
"And this has nothing to do with Penny?"
"If Penny wants to be treated like a big girl," I say matter of factly as I continue eating. "... then she can hold herself accountable for her career."
That sounded harsh.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for all the work Mary did on the 'Be a Champion' initiative." I begin to explain. "It really helped in terms of community outreach."
I pause so I can take a bite and a drink of my water.
"But what are we teaching these kids?"
"They're learning a skill in a structured environment."
They can get the same sh*t in prison.
"There's other options though," I say as I take the final bite of my lunch. After taking a drink of water, I ask, "What exactly separates us?"
"Not many can say they're getting free training from multiple World Champions," Nikki says before pointing at me. "...including the current one."
"There wasn't much thought outside of it being a program to get teenagers off the streets."
"Well, why don't you promote that?" Nikki asks. "You're not bound to one thing."
"I just don't know if it's worth the effort."
On paper, the 'Be a Champion' initiative looks great. Philanthropy always does. A program like this needs consistency and nurturing, like a garden. I honestly don't have the time or desire to cultivate it properly with Penny leaving the company. This was supposed to be her baby. I still have my best friend Jason on the staff, who isn't the most reliable person to lead it. He'd tell ya the same thing. Me being champion was one of the local selling points. Mary concocted this scheme with the hope that troubled youth could see an Atlanta boy who made good on a daily basis. There's so much more she missed.
Rhetorical question, what happens when you don't do your homework? You fail.
I didn't even graduate high school, and I know that.
"You don't need to make any changes right now," Nikki says as she pushes up from her desk and walks back over to her dresser."We'll reassess after Scars and Stripes."
"So when is Diedre supposed to come in?"
"Around three."
"Well, at least you scheduled it for after jujitsu."
"This is too big of an opportunity, honey." Nikki says as she walks over to me. She kisses me on my forehead. "I'm not going to intentionally mess it up."
*****
Someone asked me a seemingly strange question recently.
"Josh, why don't you smile anymore?"
I thought about it for a minute, then I answered,
"What reason do I have to smile?"
Smiling implies I'm happy with my circumstances. Take my family out of the mix and only talk about my professional life, and you tell me what's so f*cking great about it. Do you think it's because I'm the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion for the second time? That I've had the title for well over a year? Or is it because that title win came at the expense of my greatest rival? Nah, it has to be the lightened media schedule, because all anyone cares about is the featured attraction, right? It's become crystal clear since the June restart that person isn't me according to this regime. But I don't think the disrespect was intentional.
Unfortunately you can't take it back once it's been done in such a public manner.
Four years. Remember that number.
Four years.
And all I wanted was to come back to her.
I had my fill of the WFWF 'pageantry'. Being away from it will make you think about what's important to you. The first time I won this title, it was about validating years I spent toiling everywhere I went. I was forced to watch the revolving door of talentless hacks with no shame get pushed up the ladder and down everyone's throats. All because I had too much dignity to be little more than someone with a wallet's lackey. The money matchups usually aren't afforded to those with my reputation as a locker room nuisance. But I learned one thing about this business all those years ago. I learned it's better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
So I took what I knew I earned, and I'm not sorry about it.
That's the mindset one needs. And how true is it? You have to definitively beat the champion for the media and your peers to recognize your victory. I haven't lost sight of being on the other side, and I'm not very far removed from the things I said about him. I hate that I brought his personal struggles into the equation, though we're told turnabout is fair play. But all this talk about personable ambassadors, it's bullsh*t. It just sounds good for public relations to gain sponsorship.
A lot of the birds out there chirping will do just that, because that's all they ever do. Actually taking the steps to win when it counts is just too difficult, so this is what they settle for. They'd rather call my championship a fluke, and I don't understand how they reached such a conclusion the moment I won this title again. Did he all of sudden become a bum in the three plus years I was gone? If it were so easy, anyone could beat him. That's the logic we're using, after all. He should've never made it to SuperBrawl with this rationale, and it wouldn'tve had to fall on me to get the job done. He and I will never be friends, but I find it awfully insulting to a man who sat on top of the mountain for that long.
Besides, if you could beat him, then why didn't you?
All I can do is shake my head, disappointed the game continues to be played this way.
And people wonder why I left my give a f*ck back in Atlanta.
I guess I should be happy just being champion. But do you think I like having interviews set up to make me look bad? Or how about a contract signing that's more or less a big circle jerk… for my opponent? I'm the World Heavyweight Champion, and I fully plan on reminding all the piss ants in the locker room of that fact. But I'd be remiss if I didn't warn you of another fact. I take inventory of everything and use it all. I've had sixteen months to think, to engross myself in this petulence that surrounds my title reign. And yet I still hear the whispers that my silence is just a poker face that's part of the angle, and that I'm really terrified of losing my precious spot. Am I supposed to waltz into Scars and Stripes with my tail between my legs and hand my title over to the first person everyone in the office believes is 'more deserving'? Was that part of the business model I wasn't privy to?
Just keep that same energy when I'm shattering records, one hand picked successor at a time.
This is personal, you can bet the house on that. Not just the vendetta I had for him, but the journey and moving forward. Isaac was the amalgamation of all those times being told to wait my turn, only for that turn to never come. I used to ask why the concept of Josh Dean being World Champion made people nervous? Do I threaten the infrastructure, the same one that's put me in the hospital more times I care to count and nearly forced me to quit?! Whatever the reason, I really don't care anymore. I didn't re-sign to play politics. What I do care about is this company succeeding. I've always thought that was understood. I'm pretty reasonable, although what people witnessed me do to Isaac probably won't win any Employee of the Month awards. I feel vindicated, however, and I believe I rightfully should. There were still questions about my legitimacy as champion, however, and that's unacceptable to me. As a result, my dream of coming home for good will just have to take a detour.
I'm sorry, Nikki, but this is something I need to do for me. I have to see how far I can take this. One more run to leave no doubt where I stand. I know it's a lot, asking you to sacrifice again so that I can be selfish. I don't want any regrets when I decide to walk away for good. But most importantly, I need to ensure our family doesn't go through that kind of torment again.
You motherf*ckers wanted to know my motivation? I'm pretty sure I made it idiot-proof.
Now just in case I didn't, here's some friendly advice. Use Isaac as a cautionary tale of what happens when you make it about more than business with me. If you're feeling brave, I'm not hard to find. You're gonna take an ass whipping either way, and your approach dictates whether I let you walk away under your own power. I admit that I destroyed a man considered by many as the GOAT to reclaim this title. So ask yourself, if I'm willing to leave his life and career in ruins to win this title, what do you think I'm willing to do to keep it? And if you should so happen to be stupid enough to cross me, I may just be the one coming to find you.
I will never be overshadowed by ANYONE again. This belt is mine until I say otherwise.
But I guess someone failed to give you the message, E.
Hmm, looks like I'ma have to make you the first example.
And what can you actually do to stop me?
Josh Dean Presents
Obsession: Part 1
Coming Undone
Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
Present Day
"Ok guys, good effort." I say as Jason and I stand in the center of a crowd of prospects. "I have some business to attend to, so Jason is going to start conditioning at four."
They're exhausted. Good. Better to tire here than in front of an unforgiving crowd. We're tough on them, but it's important to keep their morale high and acknowledge progress.
"Alright, bring it in." Jason says as the nine prospects converge center ring. "Champs on three, one…two…three!"
"CHAMPS!"
Jason takes off his purple belt and his black gi top. He folds the gi top up and rests it on his forearm before draping his belt over his shoulder.
"You know, I would've never thought about using sleeve control on an opponent's pant leg." Jason says. "Where'd you learn that from?"
"There's nothing in the rulebook that says you can't." I say as I take my black belt off and begin to fold my gi. "Most opponents have shoes or pants on."
"So why not?"
"Worse case scenario, you're still getting kicked in the face." I shrug my shoulders. "Might as well make an effort to attack."
I see the gym door open and Nikki walks in with all smiles. The pitch must've gone well. She is accompanied by a thirty something year old man who is confined to a wheelchair. His rounded face is framed with a beard nearly as sexy as mine, while his hair is flowing in a soft wave and parted to stay out of his eyes. Very professional and intellectual. He adjusts his thin rimmed glasses and seems to be taking in the surroundings, his mouth agape in awe. I take great satisfaction in the gym's appearance, as it is the busiest part of our business and a flagship of our presentation. I want it to be an experience.
I learned his name earlier today. But where do I know this guy from?
"Yeah, Josh is very excited to get started on this project with you." Nikki says to the wheelchair bound man. "Just to make sure, this won't go to print until after Scars and Stripes, correct?"
"That's right." Our distinguished guest replies. "I have always seen the champion as an exclusive, and that's how I intend on treating him."
"You must be Diedre." I say as I walk up to both Nikki and our wheelchair bound guest. I shake his hand. "Man, I'm hitting it big time for the editor of Ringside Observer to personally make the trip down south."
"You're too modest, Josh."
"But I'm serious," I say as I release my grip. "I'm surprised you aren't on your way to Oakland to interview E."
"Well, you are the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, correct?"
"Yeah, last time I checked." I confirm as Nikki hands me a chair. She gives me a kiss on the forehead before walking back towards the gym doors. I sit down to face Diedre. "I just figured Bobby or somebody within the PR department would've been on the horn with you."
"Part of my job is to cover things in wrestling that don't usually get covered." Diedre says as he pulls out his notepad from the pocket on the side of his wheelchair. "I believe there is still more to the story of WFWF since the purchase."
"And let me guess, you're hoping I can blow this thing open for you."
"I wouldn't say… blow it open, as you put it." Diedre says in his pronounced London accent. "But one of your strongest attributes is your brutal honesty."
"Yeah, to a fault."
"Right, and public relations are always going to present the company in a positive light, despite the signs." He asserts. "You have a better understanding of how the company has been operating, since you are the champion."
I rub my chin for a moment, then say, "Okay Diedre, I'll bite."
"Splendid." He says, pulling a pen from his shirt pocket. "I have it on good authority that Nikki's contract was not retained with the purchase."
"I can confirm that she wasn't re-signed." I can feel my face becoming solemn. "I know a lot of tough decisions have to be made in business, but I don't understand this one. She's retired and will never be physically cleared to wrestle again, but she was just starting to find her footing as a commentator. And for what, Kurt Burton and Matthew Werner?"
"I've found Kurt Burton to be very entertaining in his short time announcing."
"My issue isn't with him." I say, barely shaking my head. "It's the rumors that suggest the extra money is paying EBR's salary, and that he may have had a hand in bringing Weiner back to be the punchline."
"Do you have heat with EBR because of it?"
I make a humming sound with my lips and swish my tongue around my mouth for a second, then declare, "I tolerate E."
"That's an interesting word choice."
"Well, it's not hard to see that E has novelty value." I express, and I can feel my upper lip starting to curl into a sneer. "The uhs and whatevers are captivating, bombastic really. I can't compete with that. That's why he's getting the red carpet treatment."
"I'll take note of your sarcasm." Diedre grins. "What do you make of his relationship with Bobby Abadi?"
"Look, if I were in Bobby's position of being able to fantasy book my favorite wrestler, I'd probably do the same thing he's doing." I scoff before taking a drink of my water. "He'd be front and center, never having to answer a difficult question again."
Meanwhile, Bobby can just sit back and jerk it to E's matches from twelve years ago, the last time he was the man. Any more ass kissing and we'd have to rename WFWF the EBR Appreciation League. But that man is who Bobby still thinks he is.
If only it were true.
Diedre is quick to scribble notes in his notepad. I probably should be a little uneasy, considering how sideways these interviews go. People in the media have a history of twisting my words around, and many of my thoughts missed the mark as a result. I don't fully trust him yet, but it's likely that he paid for this trip on his own dime. I'll give him his money's worth.
"Don't get me wrong, you couldn't pay me to do his job." I continue. "I just think he's finding out that everybody says they want the job… until it's time to do the job."
"So are you implying he's in over his head?" Diedre asks as he takes a bottle from the cup holder on the arm of his wheelchair. He takes a drink before continuing. "And that his personal bias is clouding his decision making?"
"He certainly hasn't fully grasped keeping your locker room happy." I reply. "He's not dealing with a team sport anymore, and being a fan isn't gonna cut it."
"So how is it different?"
"In a team sport, you have so many different front office personnel and coaches to be fall guys." I rub my chin. "Wrestling is individual egos. Bobby can avoid the same mistake as his predecessors by letting those he hired do their jobs."
"It's true… why hire out if you have a tendency to micromanage?"
"Right. If they're doing their jobs, then maybe my issue should be with them." I say to echo his sentiment. "But Bobby's been out in the public eye enough that he's drawing attention."
"So is this your way of saying you aren't happy in WFWF anymore?"
"My biggest problem is that you don't separate a husband and wife who work for the same company." I lean forward in my chair, and blood starts to boil. There's a good chance I could've misunderstood what was said in those early meetings. "I can't imagine Sheila being away from E if she worked for the company. Talk about sh*tting on your champion."
Diedre flashes me a sideways glance to inform me I'm treading close to the line. Was I not allowed to name drop E's wife? Or did Diedre forget that as celebrities, we're not afforded the luxury of privacy? We never considered it because timing has always worked out, but what if my kids were on the road with us when this happened? You're talking routines and stability being thrown out the window, f*cking up even the most mature and well mannered child. This is people's lives at stake, ones who have very little say in the outcome.
I hate making this personal, but this is the third time I've had food taken off my table when E's been involved. I don't appreciate having my family and my money f*cked with, and bringing it up again just reinforces that thought.
"What's concerning is that all his promotional efforts are centered around the Rated X boys." I say with a contemplative tone. "Aging stars do have a limited shelf life."
"But aren't you in the same age bracket as them, nearing forty?"
"You just proved my point, Diedre." I say, successfully calming myself down. "I'm in my prime sure, but that can all be taken away…" I snap my fingers and notice him freeze up like a deer in headlights. "just like that."
I wait for him to compose himself. That really got to him. I'll just keep talking to get him back.
"I say that for this reason." I continue. "Nostalgia eventually runs its course, and the next generation isn't gonna wait around forever. I was in their position once upon a time, and I didn't."
That seemed to get Diedre back into the conversation. Welcome back, buddy.
"Are you talking about when you left WFWF in late 2007?"
"I am." I say, looking back on that decision and laughing. "Worst contract I ever signed." My laugh slowly fades. Diedre is still not all the way back from his PTSD episode, but he's listening intently as I lean forward again in an almost hushed tone. "But who do you think encouraged me to take all that up front money?"
*****
Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
7/7/2022
"It must be close to time for a title match." Dr. Tim Remke says as he sees me leaning against his doorway. "Seems like that's the only time I see you now."
"Well, it worked pretty well last time."
"You were ready for that fight long before we talked."
"I probably was." I concede while Dr. Remke motions into his office. I close the door behind me. "But the timing got everything in line so I could be my best self."
"What about now?" He asks while opening his desk drawer as I sit down. "You haven't wrestled a match in over a year."
He reaches into his black filing cabinet and pulls that familiar manilla folder, along with a pack of cigarettes. Our last impromptu session took nearly an entire day, so Tim is getting his supplies ready.
That match took so much out of me, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I really was ready to walk away, win or lose. Let's be honest, there was only one way it could end, either me or him. And me losing was the ideal situation for Kash. He gets the match he wanted, and the thorn in his side suddenly disappears with a whimper, only paying out his minimum obligation. I would've probably taken the smart bet too, having been gone nearly four years with doctors telling me to retire every step of the way. Tim's help was vital in keeping me balanced so I could leave the rivalry in the ring where it belonged.
I just didn't think about was next until it got shoved in my lap at the press conference.
"I know you don't care as much about how I feel physically."
"Only if it doesn't align mentally." Dr. Remke asserts, cracking his window before pulling a cigarette out of its pack. "And let's just be honest, Josh, you wouldn't be here if they did."
"So it's that cut and dry, huh?"
"That's an oversimplification." He says as he lights the cigarette. "But no one could blame you for being a little off with everything happening in WFWF."
"I just thought SuperBrawl would end everything."
"It did," Dr. Remke says as he takes a drag from his cigarette. "With Isaac."
I raise an eyebrow. Interesting insight. I take a drink from my water bottle, knowing he has more.
"But let me ask you," He says rhetorically. "Do you want your career to be over?"
"It'd be nice to have a way of wrapping it up neatly within the next few years." I reply while crossing my feet in front of me as I lean back in the chair. "I know the time I have is finite."
"Here's something I don't think you've really considered." Dr. Remke takes a drag from his cigarette and flicks the ash in his ashtray. "Athletes find themselves trying to figure out the twilight of their careers all the time."
"But would you say I'm in the twilight of my career?"
"I'm not the one who can judge that, aside from the data I've taken over the seven years I've worked for you."
"Ok, what data are you taking?"
"Josh, I take data on all types of things you may find obscure," Dr. Remke turns around and stands up in front of the black filing cabinet.As he opens the cabinet, he scans through and pulls out two thinner manilla folders than the one that contains my file.
"Ok," He continues. "I have two athletes from different professions and the notes on their careers from when I started working with them until I stopped working with them."
"The names are blacked out."
"Yes, for privacy." Dr. Remke replies, taking a small drag from his cigarette. "Information like this would be devastating in the wrong hands."
"But shouldn't I know these things about my clients?"
"They're former patients from my time in private practice." He retorts. "The point I'm making is that there's a pattern of changing attitudes towards their profession in their early thirties."
He takes a drag from his cigarette.
"So you could fall into that category." He puts a finger up. "But you're in your late thirties, which is more of an exception."
"What kind of changes?"
"Well most of them start losing desire for their profession, depending on what they've accomplished by a certain age." Dr. Remke reveals. " It's always about legacy."
"And I'm the outlier, how?"
"You achieved your greatest accomplishments after thirty."
"Do you think it has anything to do with me retiring once before in my twenties?" I ask, taking a drink from my water bottle.
"It's a factor," He replies, taking a slow, methodical drag from his cigarette. He lets his hand hang just above the ashtray. "Your prime started later because you didn't take any extra damage in your layoffs…"
He pauses, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray.
"But that isn't why you came to my office today of all days." Dr. Remke states matter of factly. "No, today is something of significance to you, and you've been consuming yourself with it since the match was made."
Damn… he's good, and worth every penny I pay him. I suppose my pattern has become predictable, a far cry from what I am in the ring. The most unpredictable thing I've done these past few months is the lack of things I've done. Everyone was expecting me to come out guns blazing, smashing motherf*ckers every TV and going after E with every promo. But that's the thing, it's what people expect me to do, E included. He knew what he was doing in that sitdown with Katherine Fabiani, trying to goad me into worrying about his next media appearance and what he'll say, especially since he's received much more time than me in those circles. If I focus on that, then I'm not making the best use of my time. It's the same tired playbook so many others have used in the past twenty years, and E has perfected it. It's passive aggressive and f*cking nauseating, but I can respect the willingness to stick with what works, despite the new leaf he's turned over.
What else is becoming a pattern, one of more consequence to me, is that I'm seemingly having to resolve something within myself to feel at peace for the fight. I reckon that's a byproduct of keeping my mouth shut and my feet on the pavement for so long. I made a deal with myself before I came back in 2014, that I would eradicate all those skeletons and make one more honest push to reach my potential. I just didn't expect the one I'd be handling now to rear its ugly head again. Then again, I didn't expect him to get involved with me directly so quickly.
I sigh, as I know there's no point in keeping it from Tim, probably the only person amongst my closest associates who can truly help.
"It's been exactly fifteen years since I made the biggest mistake of my career." I finally utter, and drop my head into my hands. "When I proved even I can be bought and coerced."
"Fifteen years, huh?" He asks as I nod to confirm. "That would've made you…twenty one?"
"Yeah," I say as I run my fingers through my hair. "I'm still ashamed that I let it happen."
"Why though?" Dr. Remke ask, nursing his cigarette around the edge of the ashtray. "It's not like you still think that way."
"I know I don't, Tim," I say as I begin to raise my head. "But this day is a constant reminder that I'm just as full of sh*t as E. I sat on my high horse preaching honor. All anyone has to do to poke a hole in it is cite that day."
"Well, what's the truth?"
"Truth is, I like the power I have." I finally sit back up, and I can't help but smile. "I didn't realize it until I was in the ring with Isaac."
Tim doesn't say anything immediately. I fully anticipate my disclosure to be met with a sort of shock and terror, considering that my occupation consists of doing another human being harm. That other person across from me has ambitions of their own, and my job is to act as a harbinger of bad fortune. That's what I was to Isaac, and every day I've spent in the gym since, honing my skills, makes me even more lethal. I expect the look in my eyes to dredge up an emotion of any kind. But Tim remains stoic, listening in fascination as he always does.
"Do you remember what you said your goals were when I first started working for you?"
"To be the best ever." I say with a smirk. "Of course I remember."
"Is it still the same?"
"If anything," I state hushly, just in case someone is eavesdropping. But this is a space where I can give into those dark urges. "I crave it more."
"Then why fight it?" Dr. Remke asks as he snipes out the cigarette in his ashtray. "You already walk a fine line between organized combat and assault. You don't need to justify it."
The last thing a drug user needs is to be enabled. And make no mistake, the prestige of being World Champion is very much a drug. I had a taste of it in 2016, but a fellow junkie's addiction took my high away. He was as deep into that euphoria as I am now, a fact I'm fully cognizant of. The more I think of it, he and I aren't much different. I'm just better at hiding my crazy.
The fixation on one's vices manifests itself depending on the individual. Some are just happy with the title and the perks that come with it, fair weather guys. But my reputation plummeted with the company, which was beyond my control. It's a forever stain on my legacy the media can use as a narrative. Lord knows those jackals do backflips whenever they have something juicy spoon fed to them. I've been chasing the dragon for years, and finally caught that sonofab*tch. But the moment wasn't what I was having withdrawals from.
It was the command of my own domain.
I NEED to be the best. And the only way to exorcise my skeletons is to eliminate them completely by succeeding. Tim is giving me license to do just that, and I think he finds some satisfaction in it. Hopefully Nikki and Drake will understand the discipline and commitment this endeavor takes. The last thing we need is another me, a man haunted by the expectations of his latent talents. It might be good enough for E to have that special moment, and kudos to him. However, he doesn't carry the same responsibility I do of setting a real example. He can talk it sure, and he will. But for me, I'd rather let my actions speak by dominating everyone in my path.
"I guess I wanna still be able to say I'm a good man." I say, sitting perfectly straight now and laser focused on Tim. "And I just don't know if that's possible."
"SuperBrawl was as close to a perfect ending as anyone could want." He says before closing the files. His eyes stay locked on me. "Your decision basically amounts to what that means to you."
"Well, it worked pretty well last time."
"You were ready for that fight long before we talked."
"I probably was." I concede while Dr. Remke motions into his office. I close the door behind me. "But the timing got everything in line so I could be my best self."
"What about now?" He asks while opening his desk drawer as I sit down. "You haven't wrestled a match in over a year."
He reaches into his black filing cabinet and pulls that familiar manilla folder, along with a pack of cigarettes. Our last impromptu session took nearly an entire day, so Tim is getting his supplies ready.
That match took so much out of me, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I really was ready to walk away, win or lose. Let's be honest, there was only one way it could end, either me or him. And me losing was the ideal situation for Kash. He gets the match he wanted, and the thorn in his side suddenly disappears with a whimper, only paying out his minimum obligation. I would've probably taken the smart bet too, having been gone nearly four years with doctors telling me to retire every step of the way. Tim's help was vital in keeping me balanced so I could leave the rivalry in the ring where it belonged.
I just didn't think about was next until it got shoved in my lap at the press conference.
"I know you don't care as much about how I feel physically."
"Only if it doesn't align mentally." Dr. Remke asserts, cracking his window before pulling a cigarette out of its pack. "And let's just be honest, Josh, you wouldn't be here if they did."
"So it's that cut and dry, huh?"
"That's an oversimplification." He says as he lights the cigarette. "But no one could blame you for being a little off with everything happening in WFWF."
"I just thought SuperBrawl would end everything."
"It did," Dr. Remke says as he takes a drag from his cigarette. "With Isaac."
I raise an eyebrow. Interesting insight. I take a drink from my water bottle, knowing he has more.
"But let me ask you," He says rhetorically. "Do you want your career to be over?"
"It'd be nice to have a way of wrapping it up neatly within the next few years." I reply while crossing my feet in front of me as I lean back in the chair. "I know the time I have is finite."
"Here's something I don't think you've really considered." Dr. Remke takes a drag from his cigarette and flicks the ash in his ashtray. "Athletes find themselves trying to figure out the twilight of their careers all the time."
"But would you say I'm in the twilight of my career?"
"I'm not the one who can judge that, aside from the data I've taken over the seven years I've worked for you."
"Ok, what data are you taking?"
"Josh, I take data on all types of things you may find obscure," Dr. Remke turns around and stands up in front of the black filing cabinet.As he opens the cabinet, he scans through and pulls out two thinner manilla folders than the one that contains my file.
"Ok," He continues. "I have two athletes from different professions and the notes on their careers from when I started working with them until I stopped working with them."
"The names are blacked out."
"Yes, for privacy." Dr. Remke replies, taking a small drag from his cigarette. "Information like this would be devastating in the wrong hands."
"But shouldn't I know these things about my clients?"
"They're former patients from my time in private practice." He retorts. "The point I'm making is that there's a pattern of changing attitudes towards their profession in their early thirties."
He takes a drag from his cigarette.
"So you could fall into that category." He puts a finger up. "But you're in your late thirties, which is more of an exception."
"What kind of changes?"
"Well most of them start losing desire for their profession, depending on what they've accomplished by a certain age." Dr. Remke reveals. " It's always about legacy."
"And I'm the outlier, how?"
"You achieved your greatest accomplishments after thirty."
"Do you think it has anything to do with me retiring once before in my twenties?" I ask, taking a drink from my water bottle.
"It's a factor," He replies, taking a slow, methodical drag from his cigarette. He lets his hand hang just above the ashtray. "Your prime started later because you didn't take any extra damage in your layoffs…"
He pauses, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray.
"But that isn't why you came to my office today of all days." Dr. Remke states matter of factly. "No, today is something of significance to you, and you've been consuming yourself with it since the match was made."
Damn… he's good, and worth every penny I pay him. I suppose my pattern has become predictable, a far cry from what I am in the ring. The most unpredictable thing I've done these past few months is the lack of things I've done. Everyone was expecting me to come out guns blazing, smashing motherf*ckers every TV and going after E with every promo. But that's the thing, it's what people expect me to do, E included. He knew what he was doing in that sitdown with Katherine Fabiani, trying to goad me into worrying about his next media appearance and what he'll say, especially since he's received much more time than me in those circles. If I focus on that, then I'm not making the best use of my time. It's the same tired playbook so many others have used in the past twenty years, and E has perfected it. It's passive aggressive and f*cking nauseating, but I can respect the willingness to stick with what works, despite the new leaf he's turned over.
What else is becoming a pattern, one of more consequence to me, is that I'm seemingly having to resolve something within myself to feel at peace for the fight. I reckon that's a byproduct of keeping my mouth shut and my feet on the pavement for so long. I made a deal with myself before I came back in 2014, that I would eradicate all those skeletons and make one more honest push to reach my potential. I just didn't expect the one I'd be handling now to rear its ugly head again. Then again, I didn't expect him to get involved with me directly so quickly.
I sigh, as I know there's no point in keeping it from Tim, probably the only person amongst my closest associates who can truly help.
"It's been exactly fifteen years since I made the biggest mistake of my career." I finally utter, and drop my head into my hands. "When I proved even I can be bought and coerced."
"Fifteen years, huh?" He asks as I nod to confirm. "That would've made you…twenty one?"
"Yeah," I say as I run my fingers through my hair. "I'm still ashamed that I let it happen."
"Why though?" Dr. Remke ask, nursing his cigarette around the edge of the ashtray. "It's not like you still think that way."
"I know I don't, Tim," I say as I begin to raise my head. "But this day is a constant reminder that I'm just as full of sh*t as E. I sat on my high horse preaching honor. All anyone has to do to poke a hole in it is cite that day."
"Well, what's the truth?"
"Truth is, I like the power I have." I finally sit back up, and I can't help but smile. "I didn't realize it until I was in the ring with Isaac."
Tim doesn't say anything immediately. I fully anticipate my disclosure to be met with a sort of shock and terror, considering that my occupation consists of doing another human being harm. That other person across from me has ambitions of their own, and my job is to act as a harbinger of bad fortune. That's what I was to Isaac, and every day I've spent in the gym since, honing my skills, makes me even more lethal. I expect the look in my eyes to dredge up an emotion of any kind. But Tim remains stoic, listening in fascination as he always does.
"Do you remember what you said your goals were when I first started working for you?"
"To be the best ever." I say with a smirk. "Of course I remember."
"Is it still the same?"
"If anything," I state hushly, just in case someone is eavesdropping. But this is a space where I can give into those dark urges. "I crave it more."
"Then why fight it?" Dr. Remke asks as he snipes out the cigarette in his ashtray. "You already walk a fine line between organized combat and assault. You don't need to justify it."
The last thing a drug user needs is to be enabled. And make no mistake, the prestige of being World Champion is very much a drug. I had a taste of it in 2016, but a fellow junkie's addiction took my high away. He was as deep into that euphoria as I am now, a fact I'm fully cognizant of. The more I think of it, he and I aren't much different. I'm just better at hiding my crazy.
The fixation on one's vices manifests itself depending on the individual. Some are just happy with the title and the perks that come with it, fair weather guys. But my reputation plummeted with the company, which was beyond my control. It's a forever stain on my legacy the media can use as a narrative. Lord knows those jackals do backflips whenever they have something juicy spoon fed to them. I've been chasing the dragon for years, and finally caught that sonofab*tch. But the moment wasn't what I was having withdrawals from.
It was the command of my own domain.
I NEED to be the best. And the only way to exorcise my skeletons is to eliminate them completely by succeeding. Tim is giving me license to do just that, and I think he finds some satisfaction in it. Hopefully Nikki and Drake will understand the discipline and commitment this endeavor takes. The last thing we need is another me, a man haunted by the expectations of his latent talents. It might be good enough for E to have that special moment, and kudos to him. However, he doesn't carry the same responsibility I do of setting a real example. He can talk it sure, and he will. But for me, I'd rather let my actions speak by dominating everyone in my path.
"I guess I wanna still be able to say I'm a good man." I say, sitting perfectly straight now and laser focused on Tim. "And I just don't know if that's possible."
"SuperBrawl was as close to a perfect ending as anyone could want." He says before closing the files. His eyes stay locked on me. "Your decision basically amounts to what that means to you."
*****
Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
Present Day
Diedre is staring holes at me. He must've caught what I just said. He's fumbling through his notes in an attempt to keep the interview on course. It hasn't went off the rails yet, but I know we're teetering into some explosive territory.
"Right, so ahead of your title defense against EBR, he's been speaking to and about you in a great deal of backhanded compliments." Diedre says as he follows the lines of his notebook pages with a pen. "Do you think he's being given immunity?"
"I don't think so," I reply, taking a drink from my water bottle. "Immunity's never really mattered in WFWF because most just say what they want anyway."
"So you don't find it ironic that he's been utilizing the same tactics you used against Drakz without any sort of reprimand?"
"Whatever helps him sleep at night." I state plainly. "At least I had a leg to stand on, but I'm not mad at the deflection."
"Will you elaborate on that?"
"Diedre, you're smart enough to know pro wrestlers are probably the worst at being hypocritical." I assert, and Diedre nods his head in agreement. "But notice, how many times have I aired his dirty laundry, sh*t stains and all?"
"You gave a little call back to it during your interview with Stacy Grey."
"Yeah, maybe a little to let him know I remember THAT guy. But I don't need to say anything about it, because I don't care. There's already enough people who do, which is what he wants." I shrug my shoulders. "His game ain't complicated and neither is mine. He just happens to be standing in the way of my respect.
"But do you think he was expecting you to comment on it publicly?"
"Bobby probably was for the hype packages because he does have a pay per view to promote," I reply, taking a moment to tie my hair back and get it out of my face. "But that's what happens when you base everything around one guy who never had to do any heavy lifting. Now I personally could give a sh*t less if E bet Sheila's career on me running my mouth."
I pause, allowing Diedre to write my quote down.
"He's made the right play, in my opinion." I assert. "Shift people's attention to my etiquette against Isaac and hold me accountable for it. Wonder who helped him with that plan?"
"It seems like you want to address that match."
"I mean since you insist, yeah, let's talk about Isaac." I retort. "Ultimately, I made sure he was going to see me on my terms and that WE were gonna finish what WE started. I didn't hide my motives."
Here's your invitation to further prove my theory about the company strategy, Diedre. E's made my pursuit of obtaining Isaac's signature on a contract the focal point of a character assassination campaign. By using this one selective thread, he's ignoring the five years Isaac spent avoiding a rematch with me. Convenient.
I'm still waiting for someone to tell me what I actually did so wrong. Isaac could've said no, and we would've had ourselves a good ole fashioned, catch-as-catch can wrasslin' match. Maybe things would've been different. I just wanted him in the ring and didn't care how I got him there. In the end, Isaac made the choice to walk into a gunfight with a knife. So why are we crying over his decision to come ill prepared for someone of my caliber and motivation?
I'd gladly ask E the same question to his face just to watch him dance like the puppet he is.
"You know they aren't even honoring the past in this process of minimizing me." I say while raising my eyebrows out of curiosity. "Isaac only lost four times in the past decade. You'd think that'd mean something."
I pause.
"What truly matters is at Scars and Stripes, E's gotta get in the ring with me." I continue, and a smile crosses my face. "Then, he's gonna have to back up everything he said and answer for it. Stranger things have happened. But from where I'm sitting…he's not up for the task, and that's not my problem."
"You seem to be alluding to your staredown at the contract signing."
"Bingo!" I shot out while pantomiming an explosion with my hands. "He looked in my eyes the same as I did his… and he was shook."
"I hope you're not reading too much into it, considering his past reputation does come with merit."
"What merit?" I ask. Seriously, I'm curious. "Do you mean that he may decide to start juicing again?"
"Well…"
"If he does, so be it." I say, annoyed at the insinuation that what E does has any effect on me. "Wouldn't be the first time I fought someone on the gas, won't be the last. Hell, it might even make the match more interesting."
That's the version I hope shows up at Scars and Stripes, the EBR who'd put me in the hospital just because it was a slow day. I need THAT EBR to come for my title so I can be my best. When I'm at my best, I AM the best, simple as that. I want HIM to come out and play. PLEASE come out and play, because this third rate version sucks. That guy will get smoked.
But I doubt that's what I'll get, because he's a grown ass man with appearances to keep up.
"And precarious…"
"That's the risk you run in this business." I cut him off. I understand his concern, his own physical state notwithstanding. "But I choose to look at the situation a little differently."
"It's foolish to dismiss it, Josh, especially since you acknowledge the possibility of it being there."
"And I really don't think you understand the lack of f*cks I give about what EBR may or may not do." I point at his wheelchair. "I get it, Diedre, and thank you. With my history of neck injuries and his reputation, you're worried that I'm gonna join you in a chair…"
"I'd just hate to see your career end just as you're reaching the zenith of your abilities." He interrupts as he adjusts his glasses. "This is arguably the best version of you."
"I agree," I echo back. "This is my best version to date, and not his. I'm not the one in a no win situation."
"A no win situation? How?"
"Because if he loses, then he's past his prime and can't get it done without the baggage." I take a drink of water before continuing. "If he wins, then he went back to his old habits in order to get it done. Kinda sh*ts on all those lectures about morals he gave everyone within earshot for the past two years."
"Sounds to me like you don't buy his sincerity."
"Your words, not mine." I say with a smirk. "He's saying and doing the right things to fix his image."
"But…"
"Let's see how long he can maintain it when the going gets tough." I scoff. "When the resident Boy Scout leader gets his morals called into question again like I have."
"I do think it's unfair how yours have been under attack in the past couple years."
"Well, I'd be lying if I said I didn't take offense to SOS's good name being bastardized." I confirm. "But tell me, how many World Titles did we win as a unit? Better yet, how many shots at the title did we even get?"
Diedre rubs his chin and starts to think.
"One of each, when the group was decimated by injuries and Dave's legal trouble." I answer my question before he has a chance to. "I basically had to go it alone, like I am now. But yeah, we were just some low down, dirty scoundrels playing the political game, huh?"
I must've forgotten along the way that standards only apply to everyone else and not the person casting stones. Silly me.
Newsflash, just because one owns their transgressions now doesn't mean a clean slate free and clear. They're still an a**hole, just a reformed one. Thing is, I don't want to talk about his past because it's redundant, and it gives credence to things that should remain dead and buried. I guess I'm just tired of talking about the same subjects over and over again.
"Look, Diedre, I didn't cheat the game." I assert, looking him dead in the eyes. "But did I strongarm my way into a title match? You're goddamn right I did. What kills E is that I beat the system at their own game, just like I will at Scars and Stripes."
"And it's that simple?"
"What else does anybody need to know?"
*****
R.O.O.T.S
Dean Residence
Atlanta, Georgia
"I think I just need to go for a drive."
I can't sleep. I've done all I can to prepare for this match. I've studied, I've trained, left no stone unturned. But I am nervous, because this has all felt like a set up to get the title off me. My nerves always arise in my stomach. Have I tried to change too much to stay ahead of the competition?
As I stand in front of my garage, I have plenty of cars to choose from.
"Hello, old friend." I say as I walk toward the Thunderbird. "It's been a while."
It was broken. With Jason's help, I restored it back to its former glory. I slid into the driver's seat, feeling just like when Robbie gave me the car. I open the glove box, a rolled blunt still there where I left it.
"Just one, for old times sake."
I reach up and grab the keys from the space between the visor and the roof. As I turn the ignition over, I light up with the roar of that V8 engine. It's powerful, fearless, invincible.
"I forgot how good that feels."
I stopped dying my hair years ago. The do-rags have been replaced by a well manicured beard and tattoos. This car has seen all that evolution while it lay a dormant, twisted mess in my garage. But it knows the truth, probably better than anyone I love. It knows who I am because it's been there every step of the way.
I whip down past College Park, the projects I used to call home. I'm reminded how those nights of rumbling stomachs here lit a fire in me to do better. Where I learned the cold realities of the world and how I wanted to be more than just a self fulfilling prophecy. I stop at the sign and retrieve the blunt from my glove box.
As I inhale that first pull of smoke, I close my eyes. I visualize my mother's face before the fateful incident that took her and my father. It's become grey and grainy as the years wash away those images to a mere snapshot. I can't really even remember their voices now. I open my eyes again and notice a group of young men sitting on the corner watching me. They mean muggin', but that mean mug is only because this neighborhood requires toughness to survive it. They stand to approach me and the T-Bird. They're rough, similar to those I ran with in my youth. I raise my hand and I can see hands slipping back to their waistbands in the streetlights. But I continue to raise my hand holding the blunt to my mouth and nod as the smoke escapes the vehicle. It stops them and I begin to drive away.
Even though it's been twenty four years since I lived here, these are my roots.
I can't hate where I'm from, because where I'm from made me.
As I merge onto I-85, I decide to listen to some music. Being around the McGurks for so long, I've come to appreciate all kinds of music. It helps me think. I'm still a hip hop head at heart, and I smile at the thought of Wayne telling me to "turn that sh*t off" when we'd ride together. He'd hate that I'm going back to my default tonight. I take a drag from the blunt.
"It ain't that beautiful to write on overcoming stress." I begin to rap. God, it's been so long since I've done this. I'm probably off beat. "Top Ramen noodle soup, thank pappy for the fact I was fed."
No matter where I've been in the world, I always find my way back to Atlanta.
I thought about what Tim said, I thought about E, I thought about everything. I press down on the clutch and shift the car into another gear, weaving in and out of the light traffic at close to ninety. I haven't driven this fast in the T-Bird since that time I wrapped it around the tree. Tonight, we're turning back the clock; powerful, fearless, invincible.
"Can’t find a meal to a mil, only God know it. No record deal to a deal, I work hard for it." I rap along."Can I live too? I’m living like my Momma told it. Before you reap it, gotta sew it."
I'm talking bout roots, can't hate where I'm from
Where I'm from made me
Came from the bottom of the slums
And now I got me, me that's because of my roots
We're always presenting ourselves to the world. What we present informs others of our character, our values, our story. It helps people determine the amount of support they want to give us. For so much of my life, I've had to take myself seriously. If I didn't take myself seriously, who would? Josh Dean is a man few people know, and even less get to know. It might've caused me to miss out on millions more throughout my career, but it was done as a protective measure. We all can blame our character flaws on our upbringing, so can I.
But what's interesting is how we decide to use it. For E, he's leaned into the bad decision making, but he offsets it with this "gosh golly" approach that's equal parts charming and ludicrous. I consciously went the other way, meticulously enriching my image. I bought suits when I prefer jeans and hoodies. I read books, and not just any books. I read the dictionary and thesaurus religiously to improve my vocabulary. I stole economics textbooks from Georgia Tech to learn the foundations of business. It was all deliberate, to show that I wasn't just your typical stupid hood kid. I didn't thirst for knowledge per say, but I wanted to control how people saw me. In the end, it does matter what people think of you. And I protected my emotions just as fiercely so they couldn't be exploited.
Whose way is right? In Philly, so much more than just my title is on the line. Will excellence or grandiose reign supreme?
"Pain, I can't ignore it, you might say I'm ignorant. I’m mistaking for courage, victory so gorgeous." I rap, moving my hand up and down along with the beat, like I'm on stage at a rap show and the blunt is my microphone. "Make it through two Bush, I can make it through any forest. Hunger gave me the wish, but the bottom is so important."
I stomp the clutch and shift the T-Bird into the top gear. Shot past a hundred and climbing. I take a hit from my blunt.
"37 ave and 187 street. Miami, Carol City, now I’m part of a legacy." I spit, and man I'm feeling myself."I’m thankful for the hood, what is love without jealousy. There’s only five letters really help me."
I'm talking bout roots, can't hate where I'm from
Where I'm from made me
Came from the bottom of the slums
And now I got me, me that's because of my roots
There's no sense of dwelling on the fact I'm five hundred days deep as champion without a title defense.
It wasn't my choice, but that's the unfortunate circumstance I'm faced with here. By this point in my reign, I should be lapping everyone. And trust me, if my schedule were made by competent management, you can bet your ass I'd do exactly that. I'll fix it as best I can, soon enough.
But I can hear the talking heads…and it's f*cking with my vibe.
"He can't be the top guy when he's not even being asked to do public appearances," they'll assert.
"Oh him? He was old news as soon as the real star showed up to the press conference," they'll say as a follow up.
All I wanted was to prevent Logan Deville's title shot from being ignored before the company shut down. An opinion was formed and the media ran with it strictly because I brought up what he earned. I never once said anything about not wanting to face E, quite the opposite. I relish facing E because he's name value, and that's it. There isn't much more he can do that benefits me. He actually did the work for me, however, by staking his claim. Guess there's a first time for everything. Now if he really wants it, he'll have to stop being lazy and accept full responsibility of being the face of the company. I personally think he only got this match on reputation. That proves people's perception counts. None more so than a lovable doofus with daddy's money. I bet E can't even recall a time when wrestling was ever difficult for him, when he had to prove himself in a match other than the final two on a show. Probably have to go back to when Frost and Lenore were in their prime.
I guess doors open when you're willing to take it in the ass for the right people, wink wink.
But someone please spare me from the "I earned this" bullsh*t.
"R.O.O.T.S. before the branches, R.O.O.T.S. before the mansions. R.O.O.T.S. before your paper crazier than Marilyn Manson." I chant as the song reaches its climax."R.O.O.T.S., your grandparents, R.O.O.T.S. under your canvas. R.O.O.T.S. whether you black, white, or Spanish."
I'm talking bout roots, can't hate where I'm from
Where I'm from made me
Came from the bottom of the slums
And now I got me, me that's because of my roots
I take the last drag of my blunt and flick it out the window as I settle into a parking slot at a nearby scenic overlook. The music has since faded out and now I'm sitting in silence, just looking around at the picturesque view. My roots have taught me if you don't speak up, you get taken advantage of. I guess I took that advice literally.
"It's hard not to get caught up in the drama.
As wrestlers, so much of our livelihood revolves around creating tension. SOS fought for a world that was focused on sport and competition. There's purity to it, but we failed in this mission.
The loudest voices are ones who move the needle in the direction that suits their needs. I previously didn't carry the same cache as you, Isaac, Michael, or others of that same ilk. 'Men' who are revered for disgusting actions just because they have an appeal to certain sections of the audience. I had to stoop to that level to gain my bargaining chip. Where have I seen that movie before? Probably because it's playing out right in front of my eyes again. I didn't figure you would be so distressed over something so trivial in the larger scope. But something definitely jumped in your craw due to your relentless dedication in hiding that pile of broken bodies your pedestal sits on.
Hmm, real head scratcher there.
Maybe your issue stems from the fact I punished the sonofab*tch who tortured me for seven years, and didn't stop until I was finished. I'd be pissed too if I couldn't say the same thing. It must be disheartening for you, to see the brains of an operation that effectively emasculated you be throttled so thoroughly by the kid you never thought was on your level and all but ushered out the door. Why E? Was I not supposed to be in that spot because I didn't cut my teeth in PRW or Eggswah, the only other promotions this company acknowledges exist? Is that the problem, E, I'm the outsider? I wasn't inundated by the 'blessed trinity' of pro wrestling. That must be why I have to run the gauntlet to get my flowers, Mr. Gatekeeper of Praise. See you don't have to concern yourself with much, because you've got everyone in the company ready to wait on you hand and foot if Bobby told them to. I just wish you'd be a little more honest with him about his investment. I wish you'd tell the truth for once about the most damning piece of evidence people can't get over, which is that you're a front runner. You're only engaged when you're in and around the top.
I wish you'd finally admit that the Poltergeist moniker is an appropriate metaphor for your career, ghosting promotions the moment you get exposed!
So I guess we can pencil in your next departure for September 12th?
You wanted to talk, big boy, so let's talk.
Now we're getting to the crux of the issue here, aren't we? Michael came in and took your title with little to no effort. All of a sudden, you were unceremoniously replaced by a guy that did your shtick better than you, including being a mercenary. You had the chance for revenge against any one of the Epoch and didn't take it, whereas I didn't take no for an answer. But you want this to be the alternate ending to the story, so that maybe they'll forgive you and recognize you as the EBR you want to be. The great and honorable. And believe me buddy, you've done a great job of projecting that messaging… at the expense of my wife who's done nothing to you!
But I suppose nobody strokes an ego quite like a Wiener.
But I suppose nobody strokes an ego quite like a Wiener.
It's tragic, watching you being reduced to a sh*tty virtue signaller. But it's gotta be better than being remembered as a placeholder until Papa Mike and Daddy Isaac decided they wanted their crown back.
Only the best for EBR, right? You sure bought that hook, line and sinker.
But what the hell do I know? I'm the f*cking loon talking to my steering wheel at a scenic overlook. But I'm also the loon who just happens to hold this belt and will take the heads of everyone who comes for it!
Maybe I got it wrong and I'm just delaying the inevitable return to a status quo that hasn't worked in twenty years. But it's funny that Kash wanted the belt off me so badly, yet wouldn't veto mine and Logan's match so that you could make it official. Probably because he didn't have the confidence in you to beat me, and pretty soon you'll see why.
But let me put the ball in your court for a moment, since you've got it all figured out. You tell me how that match and rivalry was supposed to look, E? How would the benevolent EBR fight a match with no rules against a man with no honor? You show me that example and I'll hand you my title with no questions asked, because you're clearly a better man than me.
Oh that's right...you can't. And until you can, you're better off keeping your f*cking mouth shut.
It'd be a damn shame if you had to go on Ellen again and explain why you got your face rearranged on worldwide pay per view. Better start rehearsing some answers to those tough, not so flattering questions.
And hopefully you still got Japan on speed dial. That's the only happy ending your story deserves to have.
Will the real EBR please stand up?
I repeat, will the REAL EBR please stand up?
Pfft, face of the company my grown a**... man.
Too bad Bobby's erection won't save you."
*****
Epilogue: Little Lies
Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
"Dad!" I shout as I push open the door to the gym. "I'm going up to your office to get a Gatorade."
"There's Gatorade down here." Dad says as he pushes the barbell off his chest on the bench press. Uncle Jason is behind him spotting, though he's seemingly more preoccupied with whatever's on his phone."Just get one from the machine."
"Your fridge is colder."
Dad sighs and steadies his hands.
"C'mon b*tch, you ain't at the nail salon!" Uncle Jason shouts as Dad slowly lowers the barbell down to his chest. "Do I need to get Nikki down here to show you how to do a proper rep?"
"C'mon b*tch, you ain't at the nail salon!" Uncle Jason shouts as Dad slowly lowers the barbell down to his chest. "Do I need to get Nikki down here to show you how to do a proper rep?"
"I'd like to see you do better." Dad quips while pushing it up. He starts to sit the barbell back on the rack. "Show me."
"Oh no-no-no," Uncle Jason asserts as he slaps Dad's hands. "You still got three more."
"Not if you try to break my fingers."
"Then rip 'em out." Uncle Jason smirks. "I THOUGHT you were the champ."
And that's all he needed.
I don't think I've ever seen a man hit three reps on the bench press that quickly, especially on his fifth set. I can see why my Dad keeps Uncle Jason around, he knows how to tweak him just enough to get a little more. I personally think he's nuts, because WFWF shut down last month, and Dad hasn't scheduled anything to my knowledge. Yet he's in here, training as hard as he did for the title match at SuperBrawl.
"Gotta stay ready," he always preaches.
That's why I'm here. I usually come in at about nine and do the morning mail run before I go to the gym for weights. It sucks, but hey, Dad pays me pretty good for it. I've been trying to build my shoulder back up since… well… you all saw what happened. Sh*t set me back after surgery because none of the adults wanted me to get hurt worse. It's professional wrestling, people wrestle hurt all the time. I've seen Mom and Dad both come home so beat up they could barely walk, but Dad was usually the one in worse shape. Truth be told, I still don't think he's all there after that last concussion.
"Hey," Uncle Jason shouts as he sits down on the bench. "I thought you were going upstairs to get Gatorade."
"Oh… yeah." I stutter. "Be back in a minute."
"Get me and your old man one, too."
I nod.
I get accused of nepotism by my fellow trainees, but they get to go home at night and take a break from the business. If anything, he's harder on me because wrestling doesn't have an off switch at the Dean house. I know for a fact that's Uncle Wayne's influence, but it's also why Dad's World Champion. He's been psychotic about staying in ring shape; six o'clock physical therapy, eight thirty in the weight room, then he and I usually work out in the ring from ten to noon. That's a pretty full day for any pro, but he's just getting started. He'd probably pay to build an apartment in his office if Mom would let him.
I have brought up the idea of a dorm, mainly for my own benefit. It got shot down… hard.
I pull out my vape pen and take a drag as I walk down the hall to the elevator. Dad would probably kill me if he knew it was a THC cartridge, now that he's made the choice to clean up his own habits. It's not like I haven't seen some combination of him, Uncle Jason, and Penny smoke pot before. That was their lunchtime routine. At twelve thirty, you could count on them going to the roof for a sandwich and a blunt to the head. It's not that big of a deal really. Besides, I'm eighteen and buying it with my own money. Mom knows, and her only request was not to do it in front of my little brothers.
It's kind of strange that my Dad didn't want me going into his office though. It's not like that time when I was ten and I accidentally shredded a quarterly earnings report, or when I was thirteen and may have set off the sprinkler system by pulling the fire alarm as a prank. I've been working the morning mail run for the past three years, and I hope that I've at least proven myself responsible in a work setting.
DING!
The elevator stops at the top floor.
It startles me for a moment, and I'm back in the gym.
"Come on!" I hear Dad screaming at a hapless soul in the ring behind me. "You think that's gonna help me in September? Let's go again!"
"Can we change the music, Josh?" My frequent training partner Tyler asks. "I can't take any more of this 80's pop sh*t."
"Oh, so you have a problem with my music, Tyler?"
"I…I…"
"Spit it out, son." Dad challenges Tyler. To be fair, Carribean Queen is getting old. "I guess you'd take the pictures off the wall too."
"Well, it's kinda…"
For the love of God man, don't say weird.
"Creepy."
That wasn't much better, dumba**.
Dad tilts his head from side to side, and I'm thinking Tyler knows he just f*cked up.
"I'm sorry the method I use for motivation doesn't work for you." Dad says, and he gets a smile on his face as he looks over at one of the pictures of EBR on the wall. "Tell you what, let's make this round interesting."
"Okay…"
"I'll put one minute on the clock." Dad says as he walks over to the corner before kneeling down. He sets a timer for one minute. "If you can either pin, submit, or last that one minute with me, I'll take the pictures down and change the music."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch."
Tyler thinks about the deal Dad gives him, then smiles. I like you, Tyler, but don't be stupid.
"Alright, bet."
Dad starts the timer. This is gonna be ugly.
Ever since that press conference, he's been on a warpath, ramping up the intensity of each training session. The grunts of struggle are a reminder, like I needed one. Within five seconds, Dad has Tyler on his back in side control after a double leg. As Tyler looks to frame, Dad traps his far arm and steps over into an armbar. To his credit, Tyler rolls to his knees… right into a waiting trap. Here comes the Omoplata, and a tap.
This sh*t's over.
"So how long did Tyler last?" Uncle Jason asks as he walks up to me.
"Twenty one seconds."
"Better than the last one who took the deal." He smirks. "What'd he catch him with?"
"Omoplata."
"Out of the armbar?"
"Yup."
Uncle Jason laughs.
"You enjoy this, don't you?
"Trust me, I can sympathize with these guys." He says as he takes a drink from his Gatorade bottle. Always Glacier Freeze. "Who do you think was the first one minute challenge victim?"
"Does he do it to run people off?"
"I used to think so." Uncle Jason says as he motions me to follow him. "Then he started teaching me the finer points of jiu jitsu."
"What do you mean?"
"He's always done this." He says, opening the door that leads into his office. "Don't get it twisted, bub, your old man is still as athletic as ever. But that's what he wants opponents to worry about."
I nod my head. My training class started with about twenty five, and now there's maybe eight of us left. I've overheard the adults talking about kids needing to overcome adversity. I used to get mad when they'd say it, until I saw one day that I was one of the last people standing. But I feel bad for the rest of my class, because they don't have the same type of home life I do.
"I guess I just see him going hard on all these guys…"
"Sh*t, that's mild compared to the rolls we had back in the day." Uncle Jason shot out with a sense of pride. He looks at my face and realizes I'm still not sold. "What's really on your mind, Drake?"
"I dunno, Uncle Jay." I say, pulling out my vape pen and taking a hit. "Between what Dad's doing on TV, then in here, it just doesn't add up to me."
"Well…sit down. And put that goddamn vape pen away!" He asserts as he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a bag of weed and a grinder. "If you're gonna smoke, do it right."
I finally sit down and hear him mumble, "You f*ckin' kids gotta learn." while he sits down. He's such a boomer, the kind that'll slip you a beer while he tells stories about the men he killed in 'Nam. Reminds me of Hunter's last birthday party. Mom was pissed when she found me passed out in my bed when it was time for cake and presents. I don't know if I'll touch Captain Morgan again after that night.
"Listen, as talented as your pops is, it hasn't been easy for him."
"I kinda caught that with the promo he cut on Issac."
"There's a lot of truth to what he said," Uncle Jason begins as he places a bud into a grinder. He grinds it up and says, "But that's not even half of it."
"The media does get on him pretty bad..."
"Ha, those jackoffs entertain him!" He says, damn near spitting out his Gatorade. He opens the grinder and hands it over to me. "Well, they do now. Smell that sh*t, bub, Alabama Kush."
"Whew!" I exclaim. "It's strong."
"Yeah, strong enough to put hair on your nuts." That one makes me laugh. Uncle Jason pulls out a Philly cigar from his drawer, then a Switchblade knife. He opens the cigar and dumps the tobacco into the trash before saying, "Josh used to take everything they said personally. The one that always got to him without fail was being called overhyped. He'd go back and forth with the media over that because he knew it wasn't true." I hand him the grinder back and he empties the bud into the cigar before continuing, "He was smart enough to know he was getting a raw deal. But he always struggled with getting the clout to make sh*t happen." He licks the edge of the cigar and begins to roll it over. "Motherf*cker had to break his neck before he figured out how to play the game."
"He still had that halo on the first time I met him."
"What's worse is they crucified him for retiring at twenty six."
"Who did?"
He looks up from his task, plainly stating, "Everyone who mattered."
Uncle Jason seals up the cigar and pulls out his Zippo. He props the blunt into his mouth before lighting one end. With the blunt hanging out the corner of his mouth, he says, "I'll put it like this. You see him as the top guy, as you should. But I still remember a time when he was getting everything out of the mud, kinda like what's happening now."
"Is that why Dad''s been so distant?"
"No." He hands me the blunt. "Hit that."
I take a large inhale from the blunt. The smooth smoke enters my lungs at a rapid rate and I start to cough. Of course, Uncle Jason laughs. D*ck.
"Just when I thought I had him figured out."
"Josh's pretty straight forward." Uncle Jason says while motioning for me to pass him the blunt. "He's dedicated his life to being the best at wrestling. And he's one of the few guys that's still around who actually cares."
"How can you tell?"
"Experience," He replies as he takes a deep pull. Upon exhale, he continues. "I've been around the business for over twenty years. You just know when guys are phoning it in."
"Has Dad?"
"Once in the seventeen years I've known him." Uncle Jason says as he hits the blunt again before handing it to me. "Situation pretty similar to this."
"What happened?"
"That's a story for him to tell you." He says to deflect my question. "Now are you going to smoke that or just sit around campin'?"
"Sorry." I say as I take a pull off the blunt. This time I handle the rush better.
"See, that's something you need to stop real quick." Uncle Jason sternly advises. "You don't get far in life if you spend too much time apologizing."
"I feel like I've heard that before." I mumble under my breath as I take another hit. I hold it in for what seems like an eternity as Uncle Jason looks at me curiously. I guess I said that too loud.
"Point is, bub, Josh's going rouge, sure." He says as he takes the blunt from me. I'm so stoned I didn't even register a movement. "And what I do know is he's teaching you an important lesson."
"What's that?"
"That you gotta make things fair for yourself first." He replies, and takes a small hit from the blunt. "And that means possibly hurting someone's feelings."
"Maybe I'm just too kind hearted for this, Uncle Jay."
"Your pops is, too." Uncle Jason says as he ashes the blunt into his ashtray at the corner of his desk. "Broke his heart to fire Mary."
Maybe it's because he mentioned her by name, but I'm suddenly back on the top floor, walking towards Dad's office. I pull out my vape pen and take a hit off it before opening the door. As I walk into the office, the first thing I see is the WFWF Championship sitting in the display case on the wall beside his desk. It's beautiful, and something I want to aspire for. I walk over to the corner where his fridge is. As I open the fridge, I grab three Gatorades out, one for each of us. I've been in my Dad's office several times to get Gatorade, and something feels off about this time. Everything looks in place, but I can't help but wonder why Dad wanted me to get Gatorade from downstairs. It's never been an issue before. Is there something he's hiding?
I really shouldn't go snooping through his office, but I can't let the feeling go. Dad was very dismissive of my request, and it isn't the first time I've asked while training. As I continue to scan the room, I see an opened envelope on his desk. I walk around to look at the envelope. It's empty, and there's no sender or recipient name and address on the envelope. Now this is getting even weirder. I don't have much time before Dad and Uncle Jason start wondering where I am. If I'm gonna find any answers, I better do it fast.
Now where would you find something you didn't want people to see?
Duh… the trash can. Janitors do their evening pickups and all of a sudden, it's gone.
So this is where my curiosity takes me. Digging through a f*cking trash can to find something damning. It's equal parts weird and wrong. I really shouldn't be intruding. Wait, what is this yellow paper? I would've noticed it when I did the mail run this morning. It's folded up pretty neatly for a paper that's on its way out. Why isn't it shredded? I pull the paper out of the trash can. Is Dad f*cking someone behind Mom's back? He does work late, but he's always done that for as long as I can remember. I open the paper and begin reading.
"This letter wasn't easy to write. I've been considering this for a while, but some part of me has been hoping it's just a family quarrel and we could move on. Whether or not you feel the same way, I see you, Nikki, and the boys as my family, and I do believe we can come together again. But to do that, one of us needs to step away from the hostile situation that's been created. And why should you be the one? This is the company you started. It was always going to be me."
Hold up, Mary and Penny quit? Does Dad know about this?
Of course he does, stupid. That's why the letter is in the trash can. He doesn't want anyone else to know.
Oh sh*t, there's someone getting off the elevator. I better head them off.
I stuff the letter in my pocket and grab the Gatorades. Oh yeah, the trash can. Cover your ass, Drake. I pick up the trash can and walk towards the door in Dad's office. There's a large trash can just outside his office where the janitors dump the trash. Yeah, just dump it there.
"Yeah, I'd like to get Drake some bookings with Wayne first so he can get used to a crowd." I hear Dad's voice from the elevator. I dump the trash in the large can. "I guess he forgot about us."
"Nah, he's probably in the bathroom jacking off." Uncle Jason says. "What else would you expect from a teenage boy?"
"Oh, hey guys," I say to gain their attention. "I was just on my back down to gym."
"Took you long enough." Dad says, peering at me kinda close, and he notices the trashcan in my hand. Sh*t I'm dead. "Is that my trash can?"
"Well Dad, it was full." I say. Yeah that's it, keep going. "I went ahead and dumped it for you. One less office the janitors have to do this evening."
"Kid's got a point, Josh." Uncle Jason says, punching Dad in the arm. "You and your hoarding ass."
"Thanks." Dad says and shrugs his shoulders.
"Oh, before I forget… here's your Gatorades." I say as toss a Lemon Lime to Dad, and a Glacier Freeze to Uncle Jason. "Just let me put the trash can back and we can go to the ring."
I walk back towards Dad's office and sit the trash can down. As I join them to head back towards the elevator, Dad says, "Better make sure to get our work in before lunch. I've got to read Nikki in on all the new business deals since I had to let Mary go."
Mary's name stops me dead in my tracks. I probably developed a thousand yard stare in the process.
"Drake."
"DRAKE!"
I shake my head and I'm back in Uncle Jason's office. He's having a huge belly laugh. I must've zoned out again.
"I was about to draw a d*ck on your face."
"Yeah, that's some good weed."
"Yeah, Penny got me in contact with her dealer." Uncle Jason says. "I guess she figured Mary's days were numbered and was ready to leave too."
Dad, what are you telling them?
