Recent Posts

Prologue
Fixin' Cars

Dean Residence
Atlanta, Georgia
6/19/2016

"Hand me that three quarter socket if you don't care."

"Are you really going to try and fix up this hunk of junk?"

"It's not fixing, but restoring a classic."

"C'mon Josh." Jason says, handing me the socket wrench. "The amount of time and work it would take to get this thing up and running is ridiculous. Just take it to a scrap yard for parts."

"Sentimental value bro," I assert while loosening the lug nuts on the engine manifold. "I can't just trash it."

"Yet it's taken you at least ten years to get around to working on this thing."

"Where have I had the time?" I ask, reaching into the engine. "Don't forget to drain the oil before we take the block out."

"You still don't have enough to rebuild this motor, and that's just what's under the hood." He says, slapping the front fender before continuing, "Don't even get me started on the body."

Courtesy of a telephone pole, and that mistake is a big reason why I won't get rid of my old T-Bird. Shortly before I started taking bookings as a rookie, Robbie gave the car as a means to get around. It was his, and we spent as much time keeping that car in pristine condition as in the ring. Five speed, V8 engine, I wasn't ready for what it could do. The torque and acceleration was too much for me as a kid, and I found that fact out one day a couple years after he died. Like Robbie, I've spent a lot of time under the hood with Jason. He knows his way around a car and while he sees the monumental task in reviving its former glory, I look at what we can do as a team.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with it being Father's Day and you not being able to see the kids, would it?"

"She's bitter, so I'm not surprised." I say before removing the manifold. "You know I thought about passing it down to Drake for his first car."

"And let history repeat itself." He replies while taking a drink of beer. "You probably f*cked up the frame when you wrapped it around that pole. This thing don't have a governor on it to keep him from going too fast."

"It's not a matter of speed, it's respecting what the car's capable of."

"Yeah, but you can't tell a kid that when he's sixteen and expect him to understand."

"I guess that's why I've got good insurance." I say before sliding the jack over to Jason. "Besides we're still a few years away from that."

"If you're going to spend all this money, at least get some of it back at the auction." He retorts before sitting on the ground. "The car is as old as us, and I'm sure finding parts is going to be a real b*tch."

"It's a project, so it's not like I'm trying to get it done tomorrow."

*****

You know, they say you got to ruffle a couple feathers if it means getting what you want, especially in this business. Such a strange phenomenon, yet really true. No one seems to get motivated unless they're pissed off, choosing instead to remain content with complacency. While it may or may not be true, that's the perception. But see it's easy to look at things that way when your pedestal is already well established, those days of being a young upstart standing so far in the rear view mirror that you eventually stop turning around to look at them. I guess what makes me a different breed from others in my position is I simply haven't lost that perspective. I've been doing this as a primary source of income for roughly half my life. It's been as much a part of my identity as anything else I've ever endeavored, so I've consequently experienced every emotion and cliché one can endure. Right now I'm at the top, but understand it hasn't always been that way. I've been forced more times than I care to count to reassess, rebuild, and reassert myself when I've been knocked down. Therefore the current juxtaposition I find myself in is nothing new, even if I do think I'm wasting time with anything that isn't my inevitable rematch with a certain fellow Tag Champion.

But if I'm being completely honest, I can't help but develop a soft spot for the Thunderbirds. "Jersey" Frankie Lynn and Mike "The New York" Jette, a couple of new guys doing whatever is needed to catch mine and Drakz's attention. I understand that chip one must have firmly placed on their respective shoulders, the one saying, "I have arrived." And I appreciate it more so than my partner, believe me when I tell you that it's about time someone came in and aimed straight for the top. I mean, isn't that why we get into this sport? Personally I don't give a sh*t why you came here, but I know why I did.

And it's not to play games.

You two had your fun courtesy of a couple guys that probably won't be in the company a year from now, ok cool we've established that you're the new cowboys in town. Let me guess, this is where you channel your best impersenation of the Duke and talk about cleaning up this place. Talk about irony, a couple of yanks ripping off old western movies and getting called out on it by a southern guy. Hollywood can't write that. Now here's what you guys failed to consider. There's already a "sheriff" and instead of looking for my successor, I'm searching for guys willing to fight in the trenches alongside me because you can never have enough infantry. Guys that are willing to scrap and claw when sh*t gets real, needless to say I didn't see that when I met your acquaintances. We're probably going to disagree on that and well...you're entitled to your opinion, even if it is wrong. So while I appreciate the sentiments and flattery, a few poorly executed jokes aimed at yours truly isn't smart considering my current mood. I, by my own volition, placed myself in this position all because I demanded a fair shake and wasn't going to settle for anything less. Do I like Drakz? No, in fact I can't stand his ass quite frankly. My accepting your challenge was done for a few reasons, one because f*ck Drakz. The feeling is mutual I'm sure which makes our tension pretty obvious, so if you've been paying attention for the past year congratulations on having at least a smidgen of observational skills. But he is a goal oriented man like I am, so we tolerate each other long enough to be successful where it counts. Number two and more importantly, I need to find out if the research I've conducted is accurate. There isn't a person walking through these doors that I haven't studied, no matter if they're immediate threats to me or not. That's where you two, my latest antagonists, come into play. I digress though because my current mood is what should concern anyone stepping in the ring with me moving forward. I am the best wrestler in this industry, period. That means I'm unquestionably better than either of you, a fact I will make abundantly clear. Yet I don't have the proper crown to show for it, which makes me a little agitated because of the hoops I've been forced to jump through lately. Sure it was nice to deal out a beating Trace Demon won't forget anytime soon. It was still a distraction however because it wasn't extensive enough, but it also deterred me from the important issue.

Drakz is still wrongfully in possession of MY World Heavyweight Championship.

Now I've been a good partner and a champion that respects his obligations, so I let him handle the animosity he had brewing with Sam. I'm certain with the way their match transpired, Sam will be clamoring for another shot and that's fine. He should know though that I will mow through anyone standing in my way starting with you two, just like I did in route to initially capturing the title. I can only hope Drakz isn't too broken down from Boston, because we have these straps to defend and I don't really care if he's spread too thin or not. This isn't about him, not anymore. This is a cautionary tale that when you mess with Josh Dean, you better prepare for the onslaught coming down the pike.

Timing is everything in our business, hell it's that's way in life. When you sign your contact, that promo you get noticed with, even the match of your life all is predicated on when it happens. Now you may be asking me why that is, and it's really simple. Without that perfect mix, how can you expect anyone to care if they didn't see it? All that work, passion, and fortitude for nothing. And with it being SuperBrawl season you're trying like hell to get on the card, praying that a monumental upset will do the trick. I can empathize with that sense of urgency though I think you should take a look at how I'm lying in wait, because there's a substantial payday and the chance for ultimate revenge in Pasadena. But for you two when you lose you'll just look like fools, like there was ever a question based on your "call to arms". Not taking the opportunity to use the numbers advantage really makes me question your situational awareness, considering you two already picked a really bad time for your first foray into uncharted territory. Now I'm the one that will ensure you pay dearly for such a bush league snafu, particularly because you need to learn better habits.

And I'm going to have a blast doing it.

Welcome to the learning tree.

Josh Dean Presents
Birds of a Feather

Dean Residence
6/19/2016

"Look at these hoses, Josh." Jason says as the brake line hose disintegrates in his hand. "And the rotors are rusted out to basically nothing."

"I'm just looking to see if we can salvage anything."

"Hey, did you put a new carburetor in this thing before you wrecked it?" Jason asks as he pulls the carburetor out. "This sh*t's almost brand new."

"I started working on it about five years ago." I reply, pulling the grill off and setting it on the ground. "Just couldn't stand looking at it."

"Your first is always the hardest."

"I think I tried too soon after I retired."

"Duh." He shot out, pulling out more decrepit hoses, or what's left of them. "What the hell were you doing trying to fix a car after neck surgery anyway?"

"I don't like sitting idle."

"Well you didn't do the car any favors."

"Yeah." I concede, trying focus on taking out the clutch. "How's the wires coming along?"

"What wires?"

I didn't say the job would be easy, in fact we haven't even scratched the surface of what lies ahead. But to be fair, the car was in no working order to begin with. So once we get past the deteriorated parts, we can start over from scratch. I really am glad Jason agreed to help me with this, and when I think about my current relationships his is the one I can relate to most. It was our appreciation of the precision instruments known as automobiles that helped us find common ground, something I'm in pressing need of. I'm of the theory, and he is living proof, that everyone speaks a common dialect. So maybe there is a beacon of light, even if I'm having trouble locating it.

"How'd we do it Jay?"

"Do what?"

"Function so well as a team during our infancy." I say as I work the clutch loose. "I've tagged with a lot of partners in my career and you're still the only one that I had pinpoint timing with."

"We were unique Josh."

"But we made it work."

He looks up from the hood. "This about Drakz?"

"I guess, more about those Thunderbirds guys."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Drakz and I have been teaming together for nearly a year now and we're just as defective as the first time we teamed up."

"Remember our first time teaming up?" Jason asks, chuckling while popping the hood from it's frame. "Here, grab the other side, this motherf*cker ain't fiberglass."

"Yeah, didn't you try to smack me in the face with a chair?"

"So see, we didn't just conjure up chemistry out of thin air." He asserts, examining the hood. "I still tried to kill you."

"I guess it helps when you get some of the hostility out of your system."

"And you don't think you ever will with Drakz?"

"Not while he has the title, and I'm smart enough to realize that winning doesn't fix everything."

"It kinda helps though."

Our success has made it easier to put aside what happened at Show Time and focus on Trace, but it still doesn't take away from the urge I have to sabotage our title reign before he could. Then I wouldn't be tied to him in any other way than a fist to face affair, a situation I'm sure he's okay with. Like me, Drakz is a very proud man and his championship accolades are something he takes pride in. Screwing him over wouldn't make us even, but beating him for the World Title again would, at least in my eyes. Jason being here is a reminder that stranger things have happened, but professional respect is what I want as much as the title.

"I started realizing we had a good thing because let's be honest, neither of us had much to lose." Jason says as we pull the rest of the engine out. "We had to do what was best for us."

"What's best for me hurts this team though, and as much as I hate my partner I like having gold."

"That's what you should've considered before agreeing to team with him."

"I didn't want to give him an excuse, and I'm not going to give him one."

"How important are the belts to you?"

"You know the answer to that."

"I do." He says, sitting down to polish off his beer. "But is it worth losing your chance to get the belt you really want back?"

"You're going to need to be more specific."

"As long as you're teaming with him, you stay at arms length."

I join him on the concrete, where he hands me a beer. I take a large swig before saying, "I guess I just want to do it the right way. So much for that happening."

"Our profession has always straddled the line of good and bad, so you're just going to have to accept that you can't worry about being liked."

"As long as I can look in the mirror with my shoulder draped with gold, I think I'll live."

*****

The Sheridan Hotel
Chicago, Illinois
6/29/2016

"Call me back, Dave," I blurt into my cell phone's speaker. "I'm going to fly up to Toronto tomorrow. I got some papers I need you to sign and I'm not about to make an empty trip."

If there's one part of running an agency that becomes tedious, it's chasing down clients to give them the bad news of pending legal trouble. Normally I'd send one of my assistants to track them down, but Dave is a special case. It was disappointing to see him turn into a complete ghost so suddenly after his release from prison. I lead the collaboration effort to help him rebrand himself away from his stigmatized moniker, and I suppose I'm a little hurt by the lack of appreciation. I thought maybe the fresh start would revitalize him, but soon found out that Dave's troubles were more than just running from skeletons. His passion for the business waned significantly as well, and I believe he was afraid to tell me.

I open my contacts and scroll to her name before calling, with another voicemail greeting filling the other end. Clearing my throat, I say at the beep, "Amber, it's Josh. Listen, I'm having trouble finding Dave and it's urgent. If you talk to him before I do, have him call me."

An unknown number pops up on my screen as I finish the message. I usually don't answer these calls as the assortment of people with hands out seems to grow. Auditors, credit card companies, and the occasional lawyer now gets ignored, except for this instance. I'm hoping it's Dave with a new number, which is why I decide to answer.

"Hello?"

"Let's get one thing straight Josh..."

"Whoa," I interrupt defensively. "If you're going to call me with that tone, we have nothing to discuss."

There's a pause on the other end before he responds, "There's going to be a car, a black sedan to be exact, waiting for you outside the hotel. When you see it, get in."

"Smells like a set up." I quip, placing my finger right next to end call button before adding, "Sorry, I'm not interested..."

"No set up," He retorts forcefully. "Five minutes."

Just like that, static.

I've set up my home base in Chicago in between shows, which is becoming more commonplace than I'm comfortable admitting. Work never stops, especially when I'm on high alert. I've become something of a marked man in recent months, so the prospect of Trace's hired goons trying to give me a receipt for Boston did weigh on my mind. I guess you can say this battle has effected my other business ventures, likening it to sending them down the toilet. I've had these papers for a couple months now, and I couldn't tell you if I'm putting it off to spare Dave the grief or myself. His DUI arrest wore me down with the back and forth trips to Arizona, many sleepless night that undoubtedly took a toll on my marriage. But hindsight only gets you so far in life, a belief that's taken me years to develop as a way of reminding myself to never concede. I wanted to work as hard for him as he did for SOS during our ascent, a void in the enforcer role that we've struggled to fill. While I'm happy that others have stepped up there's confusion relating to personal responsibility within the new ensemble, all signs pointing to an overall failure in communication.

Cautiously, I walk to the hotel's front lobby. No car in sight, so I let out a big sigh and lean up against the wall. I scan the area looking for anything when I spot headlights in the distance. Normally this is where I'd have a bout with the PTSD doctors probably kept from me for years, but I instead toss my duffel over my shoulder and wait as the car creeps to a stop. I know the driver and he motions for me to sit in the back.

"Ok, so we're not talking."

I close the door and immediately this darkened cab is set aglow by a golden shine as a fixture on his dashboard. Now he's just p*ssing me off.

"You know, I had a nice long think while I was watching you out there making a c*nt of yourself." He begins, adjusting the belt so that it redirects out of my direct sight. "And I wondered how anyone thinks you're an asset in this company?"

"Well, that was rude..."

"I think we're past being cordial."

"I agree, so what's with the mafia get up?" I quip, looking straight ahead at the rear view. He has his face blocked with the night sky and a pair of shades. "Don't tell me, you watched The Sopranos box set again."

"And you wonder why SOS is imploding."

"We're doing just fine."

"Oh spare me." He interjects. "The f*cking chumps you replaced Dave and miss Nicola with are going to drop you without hesitation first chance they get. Now why is that?"

"I figure it's because I am where they want to be." I smirk, watching his fist clench the steering wheel. "It's a competitive sport after all."

"Now where is it you think you are, mate?"

"We can stop with the rhetorical questions," I say, motioning towards the belt, now shifting in plain view toward me. "You know damn well where that is."

"I want to hear you say it right here where I'm close enough to smack some sense into your head."

"C'mon, you're smarter than that," I announce, leaning forward before inquiring, "Besides, why would I give you the satisfaction?"

"Because what you think you're entitled to, I'm standing in the way of." He says, adjusting himself just enough to keep his face out of view. "You obviously wanted to make a big show, what with your little baseball bat and your subtle hints. So why don't you just state your business? Because the way it looks to me, you've already got yourself in one big f*cking mess."

Well this is pretty transparent.

"Oh...I see what's going on here."

"What's that?"

"You're basically threatening to just not show up and take a chance of losing the titles in a handicap match." I reply, folding my hands together. "We both know that's not going to happen."

"I won those belts in a handicap match, and you..."

"Never lost them in the ring." I interrupt, before beckoning him, "But please, go on."

"You haven't shown you're capable of keeping them without me being there to bail you out."

"It's called a tag team," I huff, my own fist starting to clench. "Meaning I'm not going to do all the work and you get the credit for it."

That should do wonders tying his panties in a bunch. Oh I'm crushed! I've learned in my interactions with him one character flaw, the overriding desire to be seen as superior. Sure I'll placate his ego enough to where he's at least useful, but I refuse to take any sh*t and there's an understanding in place as a result. So why are we convening in such a back room, shady way? One last attempt on his part to asservate power over me is my theory, though for me it's more about going into business for myself. That seems to be the popular trend with Sam's inclusion into this fracas some months ago and now Cam's deal with Trace. Maybe he has a point ultimately, but I'll be damned if I let that be known.

"We can cut the bullsh*t now." I finally blurt out to break the uncomfortable silence. "It's a done deal."

"Not unless I veto the match."

"Are you scared?"

"Why in the hell would you think that?"

"I don't know, the perfect platform for a showcase and you're fighting me about it." I reply, finally leaning back in the seat. "Don't you think you'd like to put some rumblings to rest."

"I have nothing to prove." He huffs, directing my attention to the other belt sitting on his dashboard. "Go ahead and count them. Two belts, ergo double the responsibility. The amount of directions I have to look are more than you can possibly fathom."

"You signed up for it, so let's make this less complicated." I assert. "I told you many months ago that I wasn't going away."

"You also lost in Boston mate."

"And you lost in Vegas, to me."

"But yours hurts your standings a little more than mine." He says, grabbing both belts and dropping them in the seat. "You lost to Trace, therefore your rematch is null and void. Sad too, I was actually hoping you would win so that I could have the pleasure of erasing that f*cking blip from the radar myself."

"Instead of being known as the guy with a fist stuck up his ass." I quip, combing through my hair with my fingers. "Tell me, how does it feel?"

"See you think I'm the dummy." He says, twiddling at his mustache. "And that's where you're wrong. You don't know who's really in charge, only seeing the champ and the boss as cohorts. I've guaranteed that I remain champion for as long as I deem necessary, watching all the while as you and everyone else b*tch and moan about why you can't overcome. So march Josh, and give hope to the urchins. They'll follow until they realize you can't deliver."

This is what we call an impasse. Neither of us backing down on our convictions, not that I expected one conversation to relegate two years of disdain. I can see with the vitriol in his words that we aren't going anywhere, quite frankly putting us in jeopardy come Minneapolis. I guess we're done here.

"My patience has run its course, so we're going back to your hotel."

"There's one more thing I want before I leave this car."

"I told you, no rematch..."

"No. Show me your face, Isaac." I request while opening the door. "I want to see what a 'dominant' champion looks like these days."

One last parting shot at him, addressing him by his given name. But surprisingly, Drakz obliges by turning around, where the wounds from his match with Sam are still prevalent. Bruises, cuts all line his face, making every mannerism extremely painful. If I didn't have such malice towards this man, I'd almost feel pity on him for such a grueling bout. Being helped out of the arena for the second time in as many title defenses is taking a toll on his well being, that much is obvious. But he is still a dangerous man, which I'm sure gave him the confidence to do this. I swore to protect him leading into Show Time, but he changed the rules so I must evolve my strategy. He will make it to SuperBrawl, but I will dictate his condition.

"This is where you get out."

"I know." I say before exiting. "You're losing your touch, so don't f*ck me over in Minneapolis.

*****

Mike. Frank. I'm going to amend a statement I made a bit earlier when I said that I was unquestionably better than either of you. It was awfully rude of me to make such a rash judgement of your skills when we haven't crossed each other's paths yet, though that will be rectified in short order at Exodus. Then, you'll have your chance to prove something. You have a chance to prove that you belong here, in a high profile bout, with the elite in this business. Let's not forget boys... Drakz and I, while the most dysfunctional team you will ever see, have had a stranglehold on these belts since November with three increasingly impressive title defenses. That's on top of us being the last two WFWF World Heavyweight Champions. Going back even further, at least one of us have held these twin championships in some form or fashion since May. In case math isn't your strong suit that's over a year, which eliminates any ridiculous notion of dumb luck. No really, think about that long and hard. It's our ability to evolve and adapt to conquer any challenge put in front of us in spite our differences that makes us nearly unbeatable, thus giving me the green light to accept a challenge on his behalf. I know whatever's left of Isaac Cray will drag his barely able ass to the Twin Cities to defend these straps, only because he has an ego in dire need of repairing.

But I digress, because it's the confidence we both possess gentlemen, whether or not he and I can agree on... well anything else relating to in ring business (spoiler alert, we can't). However, I can rest assured that Drakz's quest to solidify himself as the best of all time is as strong as mine. Which is why after we violently dispatch you clowns at Exodus, and it will be violent, myself and Mr. Cray are going to have a particularly uncomfortable conversation regarding our unfinished business. He will not want to face the reality of his tainted World Title and I will have to force him to understand that I am THE big money fight in WFWF, a closure he absolutely needs to go along with it. In fact, by virtue of me accepting your challenge, I just made you a**holes more money than you'll know what to do with. If you want confirmation just check the ratings afterward, although we don't need to go into that particular bit of information right now. You know where you truly stand, and it would be awful petty of me to continue harping on something so inconsequential during such a critical time in this company's history.

But you're welcome, not that either of you deserve it.

Because yes, I'm in a bad mood. Big surprise, right? And really, I don't know what to attribute it to. I could say it was not finishing the job in Boston, but nah, I understand what that was. I knew that Trace would predictably pull every shady trick in his repertoire to survive my arsenal because it was the only way he could. I suppose you can say I was walking into a no-win situation with the best possible outfit for battle. It wasn't enough, but you do the best you can to account for all variables. I may be a transcendent competitor, but I'm not invincible or a soothsayer.

Neither are you.

So that places us in quite the interesting crossroads, doesn't it? This opportunity that's often times few and far between to begin with doesn't happen for young upstarts, so let me explain why you really "caught a break" as it were. Here's a hint, it doesn't involve you. Myself and SOS acccepted a challenge, and we took on fighting the establishment two years ago for fair competition which includes: rookies, transplants from other organizations, sports, and professions, so on and so forth blah blah blah. We knew the only way WFWF could continue to grow is if individuals got a fair shot to prove their worth based on merit and not reputation. Was it easy, hell no it wasn't, you'll find out very soon that nothing worth having in this business is. But we did it, and even though the lineup has changed significantly since our inception we created a culture that still exists. So understand two things about this history lesson boys. One, what you have right now is a byproduct of the groundwork we set in motion. Two, I may be teaming with a guy that has something belongs to me, ok yeah that's a bit odd. I do understand the concept of working together for a common goal however, which means I don't have to like someone to do business and be effective. You need to realize assumptions like that get people hurt, as if the result wasn't already predetermined. But I have a strong feeling that you won't heed this bit of goodwill advice and The Thunderbirds are gonna crash hard into the brick wall known as reality, a consequence of trying to go from curtain jerkers to main eventers without earning the privilege.

But I'm getting ahead of myself by telling you two the end game (pun totally intended) without explaining the why. See there's a misconception I need to address about your approach going into this match. You know... the one where my mental faculties are called into question. Same ole song and dance that people have been trying to pin on me for years just because I have a southern accent and I choose to bring a ball bat to a potentially hostile situation. So please, keep trying in the one upsmanship department. I'll be waiting for a joke that cures insomnia.

But since the question coming and going seems to be why I took issue with your over the top celebration, here's why. I have no problem being completely forthright with expressing how disgusted I was at how disrespectful you were for the exact titles you covet, all in the name of trying to make a point that you were coming. LA DEE F*CKING DA YOU SACRILEGIOUS SH*TS, I DON'T CARE! But see here's where it gets really messy for you guys. In the process of trying to be funny, you just spit on everyone that made these titles worth having. That tells me how ill prepared you really are to carry on the tradition of being a representative of this company, one that I've been busting my ass to leave in better shape than when I came back two years ago.

You sh*t on my sacrifices I made for you, and now I'm in the mood to ruin someone's career before it gets started. Yup, just set the whole damn thing on fire and be done with it.

But I'll settle for shattering someone's glass jaw.

I'm not picky.

I'm just through doing people favors.