PARADIGM SHIFT XV // MANIC
FEAR HITS LIKE A DRUG IN THE VEIN, HARD TO STOP LIKE A RUNAWAY TRAIN. LOOK AROUND, BUT THERE’S NOBODY TO BLAME. OH, WHAT A SHAME.
WAGE WAR






••••••


The cheers of the crowd never got old, especially when you’d won the big one. As he pushed the curtain upwards and let it fall behind him, a grin slid upon his face. Two championships. Double champion. The words that people uttered to him the entire time about being selfish, about not trying to ascertain glory by only having one championship…

Well. Fuck what they said, right?

Finn Whelan wasn’t selfish, by any means; but he certainly was competitive. Things like championships only became a factor when they became part of a game. The game this time? Proving himself. Not only to everyone else who sat there and berated him for being who he was, for willing to work with a tag partner who didn’t like nor want him around, for being infinitely observant, and for having a brain when so many people in this business didn’t. For having to listen to bitches on the other side of the aisle who would never amount to what they were, or what he was.

Go cry about it.

There was a part inside of him that had he had long since buried that crept up every once and a while when there was a celebration to be had. A part of him that wanted to seek out Kayla, find her wherever she was in the back and…well, there were no words that he could use to continue that thought. It was part that wouldn’t see the light of day, so he swallowed his feeling and pushed back into the arena. A few of the production staff clapped him on the back, and eventually, he knew he’d see either Christian or Mark before he left for the night.  They would no doubt congratulate him on a second win of the championship, but somehow, he felt that might be a hollow victory.

A cleared throat behind him as he headed down the long hallway to the locker rooms made him stop, close his eyes, and then turn his head, looking behind him with an annoyed expression. He knew the voice; in fact, he knew it so well, he was actually surprised that he’d dare to show his face tonight. Finn exhaled, and moved his whole body in the direction of the sound. Perched upon a production box, an eyebrow raised, was Kei Hideshima. How he got backstage?

He had his ways.

He raised his hands and started clapping, slowly. Finn hiked the World Championship on his shoulder and held onto the Mixed title with his other hand, staring the Japanese man down with contempt across the entirety of his face.

“Kyodai,” he smiled through his words, though Finn knew the tone and the phrase far too well. Little brother, he called him. He wanted something, that was for certain. “Congratulations on the championship win. We all knew you could do it.”

See, Finn had gotten into a habit of not opening his mouth unless it was required. Too many times, he’d gotten himself in shit for mouthing off, and tonight wasn’t going to be one of those nights. He was in too much of a good mood to let it be sullied by a man who continually couldn’t take no as an answer. He tilted his head and nodded, refusing to say thank you. It wouldn’t serve a purpose except for allow pride go to Kei’s head.

Nevertheless, Kei continued on, stepping down off of the box and standing face-to-face with Finn, just mere feet away. “A large shame it was only because of business.”

Finn’s eyes narrowed.

“You know, some money may have changed hands in a trade. A quick count for the ending, you know…keeping down a monster wrestler like Goth…”

Finn knew what this was. This was Kei trying to manipulate the situation into something that it wasn’t – that he’d paid off the referee to count him as the winner, that he had a hand in Sin City business. But he didn’t, and Finn wasn’t stupid enough to believe that. He exhaled slowly out of his mouth, trying to keep his temper in check. It would do nothing for him if he snapped.

“That is how things go in this business. The best win because they use their resources prominently. You do not have to thank me, Callien…I just hope you can look past your shortcomings and pride to realize that as a team once more, we could take this world by storm. Think about how strong you could be. You could have whatever you wanted.”

Finn’s eyebrow raised and he tilted his head to the side. “Whatever I want?” He repeated, slowly. Smoothly. Deadly.

“Whatever–”

“Funny, because I stand in front of you with two championships that I earned on my own. I don’t buy your claim that you had anything to do with this, because guess what – you and I both know that you wouldn’t have spent a dime on me if it meant that I could rebuff you. Which, let me remind you, is over and over and over again.”

“Now, Finn–”

“How many times do I have to say no? How many times is it going to be before you realize that even though you can wheedle my brother out of his freewill doesn’t mean that you will ever have that chance to do it again. I have the Mixed Tag Team Championships because Kayla and I worked our asses off for them. This one? I have because I was the better man tonight, and you can’t tell me otherwise. I don’t need manipulation and bullshit tactics to win everything I want. I’ve already made every fucking step that I’ve needed to be successful and they do not include you.”

Kei said nothing, but a slight smile raised at the corners of his lips. He let the American Irishman snap off on him, his speech flowing to an Irish brogue as he got more agitated. The calm facade that he kept on most occasions snapped off. It probably wasn’t good that Kei could still do that, but nevertheless, it happened.

“Ever since I dropped your ass, I have done nothing but flourish. With you, I kept failing miserably; you were an atomic bomb on my career, my standing, and my wellbeing. I don’t need you, Kei. Clearly, you still need me but the fucking option isn’t there. For the last fucking time, stop showing up, stop trying to get me to work with you, and for fuck’s sake, stop acting like a jilted lover who needs me more than I will ever need you.”

He turned then, walking away from him with solidified steps. He didn’t bother looking behind him, only stared directly ahead of him, watching where he was walking with grit teeth and anger in his features. He was tired of this. Tired of people like him and Aaron who constantly pushed themselves into his space, refusing to back off when asked. Tired of being persuaded to do something that he didn’t want to. Dickie had very little ability to say no to anyone, but not him. He was done with this shit.

“You will regret this, Callien.”

Finn didn’t bother to respond.


••••••


Kei didn’t show up for the next couple of weeks, and finally, Finn felt he’d taken control of the situation and finally got through to his brain. The Seattle Saint went through the motions at Wolfslair, being celebrated for returning with the championship in his hands, congratulated even by Alex Jones, who continued to despise his presence on most days, but couldn’t deny that the gold looked good for the gym. And that it did. Dual championships, returning wrestlers to the scene, wins across the board, and even Aiden with his tie with someone like Ben Jordan, the team was doing wonderful things.

It was a quiet day for the most part. He sat in his office, like he did on most occasions that we found him. Finn wasn’t an extrovert, and he preferred to be behind the scenes, reviewing people’s promotional videos and trying to figure out how to help them bring out their own style while simultaneously hitting the weaknesses of their opponent hard. It was easy to do when once he knew who everyone was and how they approached things. Now, most of them simply wanted a review rather than a full class.

He looked up every so often, glancing out the window of his office onto the floor. From his spot, he could see Austin training with Alicia in the ring, Alex on the apron barking orders at both of them. Johanna and Kallie were seated at one of the open areas with Aaron, completing some yoga positions. Kayla was there with them, and she was rolling her eyes entirely at all of the options – that she was even doing yoga, and that she was listening to, of all people, Aaron. He could see her expression quite clearly, and he knew it well.

Aiden was standing far off at the weights, probably forlornly missing his best friend still. Finn still needed to solve that.

All and all, it was quiet. It was peaceful. It was a regular day.

Until it wasn’t.

Chaos ensued quicker than anyone could have ever expected. Weapons, assault rifles, held tightly to chests as they descended, men wearing masks appeared out of nooks and crannies that no one had even been aware of. Also the front door, where someone had grabbed Sonja and was dragging her with them, though she valiantly was stabbing them in the chest with her elbow.

Kei followed them in, and behind him trudged a very hesitant and very quiet Dickie Watson, who did not look at all comfortable with any of this.

He stood at the entryway, his arms crossed as he surveyed all of the people within the building. He noted Aiden, who was staring at Dickie like a long lost puppy dog returned home, though that expression was quickly covered with fear as one of the lackey’s Kei had pointed one of the rifles at him. Kallie scrambled up behind Johanna and Kayla, the latter of which had her eyes narrowed as she stared at the Japanese man with an intense amount of venom within her features. Aaron rose to her feet, and then snapped at the man who had the audacity to point a gun at her in Japanese.

Alex, Austin and Alicia were all struck dumb by the now three men who surrounded the ring with their weapons. At least until Alex realized Sonja was in the hands of someone else, and he moved towards them – only to be stopped with a muzzle pointed directly in his face.

Kei looked around at the equipment, raised an eyebrow, and then commented. “Kono jimu ga hoshī.” He demanded, stating that he wanted the gym. He looked at Dickie, who seemed to pale in front of his eyes. “Get rid of–”

A bullet went whizzing past his head before he could issue the statement. He paused, and then he turned his head, looking at the man across from him, a gun with a silencer raised, directly pointed in his direction. Kei smirked slightly, although he could have also been praising Finn for not killing him.

“That’s unfortunate,” Finn snapped, staring down the end of the gun in his hands. “I don’t think it’s for sale.”

“Finnegan,” Kei smiled, recovering from the fact that he was shot at, raised his hands from his crossed arms and bowed slightly. “It is lovely to see you again.”

“The sentiment isn’t returned.” Finn stated, and though Kei was raising his hands in surrender, he didn’t bother lowering the weapon. Kayla’s eyes were widened as she stared up at him, as if she were seeing someone that she didn’t even recognize. “You have two minutes before the wall behind you is spattered in your brain matter.”

Kei chuckled, “But it is so beneath you now, is it not? Taking someone’s life? It was so easy to do, especially when asked. And what was it you received in return? Confidence, training, strength, things that you always lacked in yourself. For the mere contract to be completed as my second.”

Finn’s lip twitched. This was what he meant, he thought, when he said I’d regret it. In front of all of his friends, his confidants, his teammates, Kei was outing him for what he had been, for what he’d left behind so many years ago. Six years, he hadn’t been a part of Kei’s schemes, and now here he was.

Aiden’s eyes fell upon Kei, and he tilted his head as if he recognized him. He glanced at Finn. “Oi, mate…” He started, but was hit in the stomach with the butt of the rifle that the man next to him held. “Ah, fuck…”

“That was a long time ago, Kei. A long time ago since you’ve had a right hand, and now you’re using Dickie for that, which has been harder for you because he’s softer than I am. You, of all people in this room, know what I’m capable of, and what I will do to protect the people I care about.”

“The people you care about?” Kei questioned, looking at everyone. “You mean to tell me you care about Alex Jones, the man who single-handedly almost ruined your relationship with your sister? Or Alicia Lukas, who you’ve called McWafflecunt since the dawn of time? Or shall I bring up your dear ex-wife, Aaron, who brought you to me in the first place when you couldn’t manage to find yourself. Oh but of course, then there is Kayla–”

“Yes,” Finn cut him off, and his voice appeared to sound even more deadly the second he mentioned Kayla. “The people I care about.” He lowered the gun and walked down the steps, keeping his eyes focused on Kei until he stood in front of him, face to face, eye to eye. “It won’t take me but a second to break your neck.”

“You are a changed man now, are you not?”

“Old habits die hard.” Kei smirked. Finn tilted his head, glancing at Dickie briefly before looking back at the Japanese crime boss. “Or, shall we play the other game? Instead of physical intimidation, we’ll go with verbal manipulation. Shall I let Hideyaki-sama know you’re planning to overthrow him?”

Kei’s smile dropped.

“It’s not like I don’t have a direct line to the fucker whenever I want. Speed dial, nine.”

“You would not.”

“I would, if it meant keeping everyone in this room alive and happy. You need me, but I don’t need you, Kei and the more you do this shit means the less I’m going to continue putting up with it. Now, everyone in here has heard your plan, including all of your little lackeys, so if the info goes to the head of the family, then your ass is grass, right? And you have no fucking clue who it’s going to be, so let’s do this. We’ll forget this ever happened, and you’ll go on your merry-fucking-way, and you’ll leave me, and everyone in Wolfslair, out of your bullshit.”

Kei did not look pleased with this, and he glanced around at the people around him.

“Or I blow your brains out and take over your position. Cuz that’s how it goes, right? I’ve only been out of the Yakuza for six years, but I’m pretty sure I remember how to take over from my immediate superior.” Finn narrowed his eyes.

Kei exhaled through his nose, and then raised a hand, signaling to his staff to retreat. He walked backwards, keeping his eyes on Finn, and headed behind Dickie, who began to follow. Finn watched them both, and when the danger was all gone, he exhaled slowly, raising his chin to the ceiling and looking upwards.

“MATE WHAT THE FUCK?!” Aiden screamed, charging up to him.

Finn raised a hand, shaking his head, and then turned back to look at Alex, who was helping Sonja to her feet. The two stared at each other, and then Finn nodded.

“I’ll pack my shit.” He replied, not even waiting for Alex to say anything. His eyes floated, as he walked back to his office, and he found Kayla.

She’d come to him, weeks ago now, stating that she knew there was something up, that he was involved in something. Kei had freaked her out, and now with all of it revealed, he wondered if she’d look at him any differently. She’d yelled at him that she could help him, that she was there for him, and now? She’d also snapped that she cared about him, but that was something he couldn’t have. Not with this shit. The further away from all of this she was, the better it would be.

They were just tag partners, after all.


••••••

I know people were hoping that I wouldn’t show my face, so you could get your rocks off on X or Twitter or whatever the fuck Elon Musk wants to call it. It’s easy to be critical when you’re not in the business, and yeah, I’ve had a rough start on this whole fuckin’ being the face or whatever…

Or so everyone would like me to state and believe.

I’m of a different opinion. Traditional shit like stepping out and having this big ass fucking celebration of winning a championship is definitely back in the early two-thousands, and I’m really not about that life. A lot of people like putting a lot of stock into winning the championship, and maybe that’s why it’s hot potato’d for the past few years relatively quickly. I’m not a celebratory person. I did my job.

I fulfilled my obligation.

I’m not going to say that I didn’t fulfill it well, because I won the World Heavyweight Championship against someone who was salivating at the bit for it almost as if he was one of Pavlov’s dogs. Screaming about everyone under the sun but underestimating me because he thought he was a fuckin’ shoo-in for the championship. That was a fallacy and it cost him in the end. At My Bloody Valentine V, I became a two-time World Heavyweight Champion when everyone in the world was telling me that I wasn’t going to be.

Fuck you and your opinions, to be perfectly honest.

See, this is what I’ve always hated about social media, and maybe let me point this out to people like Mikah and Julianna DiMaria. It’s easy to run your shit-slobbering mouth when you stand on the other side of the aisle, screaming at the heavens about your rotten place in the world when you don’t have to own up to it. When there is no consequence. Mikah is retired, but has not one ability to drop her attachment to sucking off leadership because she thinks it’ll garner her points on an invisible stick of favorability. Julianna jumped on a horse that she doesn’t know how to ride because she thinks she’ll get points and it’ll make her look good as the Bombshells Champion.

All it makes you look like is pathetic little bitches with nothing to do with your time except bitch and complain on social media like a female boomer complaining about gender-neutral pronouns.

In any other company, spats on social media could be solved by a scheduled match. One where the people doing the bitching face the person they’re bitching about. I could have that match. I’m happy to face whomever is put in front of me because that’s how I was trained, and that’s how I’ve worked for the past ten years of my career. This is the only company on this side of the world that has separated genders, and let me tell you right now, that is the only reason that they can continue to run their mouth and not get their words knocked the fuck out of them.

Because I’m a gentleman…and it’s not allowed.

Here. Find me outside SCW, and we’ll see about that. While it’s in SCW, Kayla can knock every word back down their throats if she so chooses.

No, I’m not going to be that champion that shows up to everything and lords my abilities over everyone else. I’m going to work. Work means actually being in the ring, doing the job that I’m paid for, not just showing up and looking pretty.

And before you start mouthing off, Mikah, Kay and I have already surpassed you and your hubby on days as champions, and it’s just going to continue on even after this week. Wolves-dash-one. Or three, however you want to look at it.

Kayla and I both have singles gold as part of our quest to succeed. As a dual champion, I represent both the Mixed Tag Team division and the Men’s division as their top competitor. I’m undefeated this year, I’m pushing for greatness, and while I have two separate divisions that I work in, I find it quite easy to focus on where I need to be in the moment, in that particular time frame. I’m not putting a championship ahead of another championship, but when I’m booked as a Mixed Tag Team Champion, that is where my focus is. That’s where it needs to be, and that’s where it’s lying when we take on this postponed match.

Ariana Angelos and Helluva Bottom Carter.

Team Go.

I’ve been here before with Carter. There and Back Again, isn’t that what you said last time? That my presence within the company was similar to a hobbit’s journey? You’re not the first to point it out, the lack of consistency, the lack of continuation. It seems to be the only thing that ultimately brings me out of my hidey hole, but you know what? That’s the only thing that anyone ever says about me that’s true. It’s easy to come up with shit, throw things in a corner, act like a bitch. Be a cunt. Whatever floats your boat, you do you, but it’s literally the low hanging fruit that everyone picks, thinks is sweet, but is really just rotten inside.

We met back in January. Second round for the World Heavyweight Championship that J2H vacated, and the story ends in that I won. It was a sad night for you, right? Because you had a rope break and still, I was declared the winner. Lucky me, I guess. It’s not my fault when people don’t recognize shit, but you know what, some of us are wishful and hopeful in our lives when maybe we shouldn’t have been. Sorry that your foot wasn’t recognized, kind of like how you are rarely recognized for greatness.

Then, you said we had similar outlooks, similar styles. I disagree. I have a very different outlook than you. You are a wishful thinker, someone who puts optimism ahead of their goals. You’re one of those people that probably talk about manifesting your greatness, and that’s what will earn you the greatest things in life. I’m sure you’re happy with Miles. That, I’m certain of. But you couldn’t manifest yourself to greatness when it came against me…and why?

Why is that?

You’re good, Carter, but your eyes are constantly elsewhere when they should be focused on the match in front of them. You carried on with Rodrigo about how Ben Jordan said you would be a future World Champion, but I disagree. You could be. Just like Miles could be. But not until you get your head correctly on your shoulders and focus on your shit. I have a multitude of shit going on in my life, but when I’m in that ring, I am solely focused on that ring, the people in it and the outcome that I want.

And I strive to make it happen.

I’ve been here before. I’ve fought these same roads over and over again seeking for the thing that made me smarter, or wiser, or just simply better than the people around me. I’m not every one of those things at any time, but my outlook has changed over the years. I tried to sit there and say to people that they were the best, that we were going to have one of the greatest knock-down, drag-outs of the century and wish them well. But I don’t anymore…and why is that?

Because I’ve learned that if I give an inch, motherfuckers like you will come in and take a mile.

Maybe I’m jaded, or simply vindictive, but I’m not a kind soul anymore. I fight with every bitter bone in my body to be the best because I finally have realized that the only person that is responsible for making things happen in my life is me. It’s not my friends, it’s not my pals, it’s me doing my utmost every time I step into that ring. When it comes to tag teaming, Kayla and I have always remained the same on this conversation: it’s a professional relationship where we put ourselves in the thick and thin of it because we only rely on the other to do our job. There are no feelings involved, we are not friends. There is no I have your back, you have mine. It’s goals and the creation and subsequent continuation of that goal.

When we faced Limitless for the championships the first time, we held strong to that fact. Feelings were wiped from the mat and we won. The second time, they expected to come back with this hero story that they would get their shit together and they would win. Nope, wrong. When we faced Miles Kasey and Alexandra Callaway, they also had this feeling within their bones that they would back each other up with their feelings.

Ben Jordan and Samantha Marlowe were the closest to winning these championships from us, but…even so, they didn’t.

Because of feelings.

Ben wanted so much to win those for Sam, and it just didn’t happen.

Kayla and I don’t do feelings. We don’t do friendships. We do this for us, for longevity, for power and strength. To prove our worth in this business, and make sure everyone is able to take credence. There is no wishy-washy, lovey-dovey bullshit behind our motives. It’s simply do our job and move on.

Now, I don’t know what possessed you to work with Ariana, but I’ll put that on the backburner because I know what the two of you are capable of. You’ve been friends, partners, for a long time. And that’s good for you, I guess. To know and echo one another in the ring. And you want gold so badly together that you’re just going to fight like hell for it. You drew against Ben and Sam, and so now, you’re given an opportunity to face the best in this company. We all want greatness, Carter. It’s all about how much you actually want it.

Kayla has her sights set on dual championship territory, and she’s going to do everything in her power to get there. Ariana is a hard-worker, always pushes herself to do well, but when it comes down to it…she’s not a match for Kayla. Kayla is out for blood, not just gold. If Kayla wins at the next supercard, she will be a grand slam champion in this company, and everyone is going to have to recognize her for her greatness. And I can tell you tonight, that she’s not about to let Ariana get one up on her at all.

And me?

Why the fuck would I be any different? After all, I am the World Heavyweight Champion, and I am the Mixed Tag Team Champion that has knocked down every challenger. I’ve stood down the ring looking at people who didn’t think I had it in me to do what I’ve done, and I’ve taken their pride and their glory right out from under them. And that includes you, Carter. I moved on when you didn’t, and maybe that win was a bit tainted, but nevertheless I’m the one standing here…and you’re fighting again for recognition. Over and over…oh look, there and back again.

I’m not going to wish you luck, I’m not going to shake your hand. I’m going to keep telling you to listen and to learn. We are competitors, we are fighters, and Kayla and I are going to fight until we have nothing left within our bones anymore. We plan on being at this position until someone has to tell us to drop the damn things. And even then, they might get told to fuck off.

The Wolves of Gheimhridh are not here to play around and make friends, nor are we here to let people who couldn’t get a solid win over their previous competitors win anything at all.

Come and try to take our championships from us. Try.

It’s not our fault if you’re missing your confidence for the umpteenth time when you come back from the ring. Just like you’ll be missing the championships from your waist.


••••••

Helluva Bottom Carter had his foot on the ropes, and yet it was Finn Whelan who had his arm raised in victory. He was moving on, taking the step towards the most coveted of championships in the company. It was a championship he’d held before – and perhaps, had he been the wiser, the hot potato game of 2023 from Harris and J2H wouldn’t have quite been the chaotic hodgepodge that it’d been because it would have never happened. Things may have been different.

But that wasn’t what happened. J2H, in his indignance and power, dropped his rightfully earned championship and created a tournament for it. Eight superstars, selected from the men’s roster, selected as whom he thought could best contend for the championship, all the way from tried and true veterans of Sin City like Goth to newcomers to the entire business in Oliver Zahn. Now, only four remained in the tournament to contest for the World Championship.

It would be these four that would contest again for the championship that was so easily tossed aside. These four that would truly prove to the masses who actually deserved to be the champion that they all wanted to be.

One of them was Finn Whelan.

Call it greed, call it avarice, call it whatever you wanted: the argument could have been made that Finn Whelan was a selfish prick who just wanted everything all to himself. Hell. It had been made. And while his Irish blood imbued him with the love of a fight, his cerebrality caused him to necessitate a reason for the fight. His reason? Gold? Fame? Or was it truly jumping someone and popping them in the face?

Perhaps it would never be known.




“Mate, I have never seen this much snow!”

The boisterous voice of Aiden Reynolds, one of Sin City’s newest signings, echoed off the high, almost cathedral ceilings of the entryway of a rather large house. Situated in Dillon, Colorado, Finn’s Colorado home that he inherited from his divorce from one Aaron Asphyxia, who was stomping her feet on the marbled tile, was not a place he frequented, but was nevertheless useful for this leg of Sin City’s Colorado tour. He pulled off his hoodie and looked at the grandiose staircase that led to several bedrooms, taking his son, Dax, from Kallie’s arms as she tried to remove her jacket.

“Do they even have snow in Convictalia?” Aaron quipped, raising an eyebrow.

Finn, having had to listen to everyone bickering in the vehicle on the way up Interstate 70 in torrential, blizzard conditions, threw his jacket onto the decorative bench near the hallway and left the scene. His patience could only be tested so far, and all he wanted right now was either multiple glasses of Jameson or a bullet to the brain. He flipped a switch in the culinary-chef equipped kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Despite his lack of staying in the house, he always had this place equipped with food once every two months. Just in case.

“I thought I was a cunt, but I swear to god, she puts me to shame.”

She was silent in the car, but Kayla Richards indeed came with them. Of course, that was because she didn’t want to stay another night in the hellhole hotel she was staying in within the Denver city limits, but that was okay. Finn didn’t mind her there.

Although, it would be their first night staying in the same house since she up and left last year.

Finn grunted his agreement and, despite his vice-filled thoughts, merely reached for a soda and popped the can. Part of him was unsure that he was actually okay with her staying, or if he was happier just burying his head in the sand.

“I’m taking the master!” From somewhere in the house, Aaron yelled, informing them that they were all shit out of luck. Kayla turned her head and looked back at the doorway, leaning against the counter.

“See?”

Finn nodded, leaning lackadaisically against the counter himself and looking out the window in the pure, white blowing snow. He could barely see anything just a few feet from the house. But at least it helped him to look out the window instead of at Kayla.

He could handle work. He could handle the gym and public places, but he found himself struggling with this. Like a twitch that would end, it crept up his neck and buzzed in his ear, putting him on edge.

Kayla pushed off the counter and moved behind him, opening the door and looking into it to grab a soda of her own. She paused for a second, as if she was looking at something, and then pulled her head back, letting the door shut on its own. She chose to stand next to him – close, but not too close. Like they did when they were friends.

“How are you feeling?”

Finn clenched his fingers of his free hand briefly before looking at her. “What do you mean?” Did she have some unknown ability to read his thoughts? See the uneasiness in his stance? The stupidity of his mind? No matter how hard he tried to shove it under the rug, the fact that Kayla was the one person – no only person – he cared about in this house as much as he cared about himself would always haunt him.

“The win against Carter. I mean,” Kayla raised an eyebrow, “I thought you had it from the get, but Carter wanted it so bad I thought he might have it. And the foot on the ropes.”

“Not gonna lie,” Finn replied, pressing his freehand into the counter and looking straight ahead. “I’m kind of tired of the close calls and the possible dramatics involved with any of my wins lately.”

Kayla was quiet, and then she narrowed her eyes. “A win is a win, Finnegan.” She said, not at all quietly. The Dreamkiller crossed her arms and stared him down, turning her whole body toward him. “I don’t know why you care about it at all. Any win at any cost.”

Two parts of Finn waged war for dominance in his head – the side that told him that she was just reacting to what she thought was a snipe at her and the side that screamed epithets of Honor: Above All Things, and if people didn’t get that, then burn them at the stake.

Burning at the stake won.

His eyes narrowed too. “Wins are sacred, Kayla. They prove your mettle as a warrior, as a fighter, and when they’re tainted–”

“They’re still a win.”  She countered. “Your win against Carter was a win. The little bitch would’ve taken another fucking beating from you twenty seconds later and succumbed. Rope breaks during pins are for the weak.”

“Oh yeah?” Finn replied, tilting his head. “You’ve used them.”

“I’m not weak. I’m calculated.” She rolled her eyes. “And you should be too. Lately, it’s just like you can’t even accurately figure out that you’re in the ring or not.” She was referring to his inability lately to capitalize in matches. Especially in tag matches. How many of their last wins were because of Kayla? “What the fuck happened to the Finn Whelan that would have ripped someone’s balls off in the middle of the ring if it would get him an advantage?”

Finn sighed and leaned back, pushing away from the counter and also away from her. “Go on. Push me away. Try to say you’re pushing me towards some vindictiveness that will keep me going out of spite. I’m not doing this.” He replied. It was easy to say things that you didn’t mean, and tonight, he truly felt that he might. He didn’t want that. Not when they’d finally figured out how to at least work with one another smoothly. “You can have the second bedroom on the left when you get upstairs. It stays warm in there, and doesn’t have the sun in the morning.”

“Finn–” Kayla quipped as he walked past her. He threw up an arm, waving her off.

He wouldn’t bury his professional working relationship because she knew how to piss him off just as much as she didn’t know how much she could be the sunshine in his eyes.

Not today.[/font]




“I guess I need to take a note out of half of the Mixed Tag Team Champions and say it. A win, no matter at what cost, is a win.”

The wintry mix whirls around the black figure standing in the center of an almost pitch white scene. Blizzards in Colorado were no exception, and this time, it seemed to engulf the Seattle Saint as he stood with his hands at his pockets. He was in stark contrast to the setting, just as much as he didn’t seem to fit into his surroundings.

Just like maybe he was the one that didn’t fit into this situation.

“As much as I hate his fucking name, Carter is a phenomenal superstar, and it took trying to complain to a referee for him to feel like he did his best. It’s funny, when you sit there and you think you have it, when you scream from where you stand out into the vast, open world above you that you are the be all, end all…that you’re better than everyone else in this business. And what happens?

You slip.

You make a wrong move, something you do hasn’t been noted. Something you missed and now you have to suffer in the silence of your wrongdoings, your failures, your…what do they call it, your mistakes…”

Finn smiles slightly, and inclines his head forward.

“Live those memories over and over in your head, telling yourself where you’ve been, what you’ve wanted to do, where you’ve wanted to go, and how you’ll never get there. You know, it’s funny…the only time anyone looks to the past is to tell you where you fucked up. Never to tell you where you did a good job, where you succeeded. It’s kind of like Yelp! Reviews, you know? Google, Facebook…all those social media websites only get reviews whether or not something has really gone wrong. The food was cold. The staff was shitty, and heaven forbid, they allowed people who couldn’t be deemed worth a damn thing in the door.

As the owner of the thing being reviewed, you look back at those reviews and you cringe because the thing that you’ve put effort into obtaining, that other reviews and customers have told you that you’ve absolutely won and pushed forward. No, all you can focus on is everything you’ve ever done wrong.

It’s like that in wrestling.

Look at what Carter had to say about me. Good things, right? About how good I am, how even in my slip-ups, and that he knew he had his work cut out for him. But the one thing he said was that I’m in and out of the company.

Sure. I am.

It’s a talking point for everyone. Ms. Irrelevant over in Jet City tried to say it was because I was mad I lost – nah. Inconsistency has been argued. Yeah. But you know what is the most consistent? The most literal consistent thing when I get into the ring here in Sin City?

It is rare that I lose, and when I do lose, it’s because I don’t give a flying fuck about what I’m doing.”

A nonchalant shrug accompanies his words, and he doesn’t at all look remorseful.

“I’ve been around the bend a few times. My record proves it, my reigns prove it, and the fact that I consistently make strides here even when the going hasn’t been going for me. Came in this cycle with a loss, and what did I do? Two tag matches later, I had a championship in my grasp by a team that was trained by,” he holds up his fingers and airquotes, “‘the best mixed tag team in all of SCW’. They failed to recapture the championships when they had a chance, no matter the bullshit they spat in all of their arguments. Miles Kasey spouted a ton of shit and he ended up on the other side of my boot while Kayla got the win.”

He tilts his head. “Or did…did you guys forget that Tag Team wrestling relies on each other to do their part? Kayla and I have had equal wins and losses, as of this year, as singles champions. As tag team champions, it’s been a combined effort that has been planned. But that's, you know, the low part of where everyone goes when it comes to tag team wrestlers.”

He leans in once more.

“You know, that we can’t wrestle on our own.”

Finn leans back then, looking at his surroundings for a moment before chuckling and then tilting his head again.

“Here’s the thing. I’ve been a singles wrestler for nearly ten years. Over that time, I’ve done amazing things. I’ve done things where no one thought I would amount to anything, and then I held a chokehold over their championship until I dropped it because the company was so fucked in the end that I never wanted to represent it again. I was undefeated in WWH. I lost twice in Union Underground, and when it came to other companies that I’ve been a part of from their birth and their death…if I lost, it was a surprise. My record in a deathmatch company was nearly spotless – I think it was sixteen four before I lost, and one of the most prominent companies in all of this side of wrestling, 4CW, I lost four matches.”

He leans forward again.

“Here? Every loss I have ever had was because I didn’t give a shit. The Roulette Championship was something that I abhorred having because there is no honor in holding it. The World Championship? Yeah, I made a mistake and didn’t really focus well on that match and lost it back to the person I was told I would never win it from. Shit happens. Besides, poking at when someone doesn’t do their ultimate best because something came up in their lives? A little bit on the low brau side, but you know, that’s what I expect from people with egos the size of their balls.

They think they’re bigger than they are but, ya know…

It’s never unfixable. It’s never unmanageable. And when I want something, you best believe I’m going to annihilate you to get it.”

He takes a step forward, and then presses his hand over the camera, leaning forward into it.

“So while we’ve taken a trip down memory lane, let me focus in on the person of the eve…the target, so to speak.

Peter Vaughn.

You’re up.

Let’s play.”




For some people, nighttime was when everything in the brain started to work in overdrive, causing disturbance to sleep schedules and constant annoyances. For Kayla, that night, it seemed to be her malady.

With a creak at her door as she opened it, she stepped into the darkened hallway sometime in the middle of the night with a sigh, her oversized shirt and short shorts not necessarily keeping her completely warm. Though she was loathe to admit it, she didn’t like the thought of her previous interaction with her tag partner. For a moment, she considered that it was too personal. They weren’t like that anymore.

She heard a tapping noise from downstairs, and made her way down the staircase, holding onto the rail for solid standing. She turned and made her way into the open living room, finding a crackling fireplace and, no surprise, a very awake Finn. She approached him, making sure to make noise as she stepped into the room so not as to startle him. He sat on the sectional, legs propped up along the length of the side.

As she sat down, he wordlessly handed her a blanket, keeping his eyes on the fire. Tucking her legs beneath her, she looked at him and started, “I wanted to say I was sorr–”

He waved her off. “It’s fine.”

She knew him well enough to figure that he was actually being truthful. Not a lot got under his skin on a regular basis, but lately, he seemed to be on edge. And she knew why. He’d told her outright about Kei and Dickie, and if he wasn’t at Sin City’s productions, his mind certainly was on his “brother” and how to deal with the situation.

“Have you heard from him?”

Finn inhaled, and then turned his head, pressing his arm on top of the back of the couch and resting his head in his hand. “Yeah. He’s changed, but he’s…” He trailed off, pursing his lips. “He’s still Dimitri. I keep thinking maybe I just need to take a step back, make sure he’s safe, but now that I’m in this…championship tournament, I don’t really have a choice. If I want to reclaim and make certain on my own merits, I have to fight in this, and I have to fight like hell. But half the time, I wonder…is this worth everything?”

Kayla tilted her head and thumbed her fingers into the blanket. “What do you have left if you don’t?” When Finn stayed silent, she exhaled and looked at the flames, watching as they danced back and forth with no care to the world or the whirling air above the flume. “You can’t help him now. The little shit has to see it for himself, and until he does, you’re just going to be fighting a battle that you can’t win.”

“So I should just let him go be a fuckin’ moron?”

She nodded. “For now. Look. There’s…things going on too, in my circle. And I find myself focusing on work more than anything because it’s…well, to be honest, it’s easier to do that than it is to face any of the other shit. At work, I can do my job effectively, I can fight and put all of my effort in and see results. Maybe it’s Eiley three shows in a row for me, but you can’t say that I proved a point. That feeling, it resonates and makes it feel better. And I fight for the Mixed Tag Titles because it’s not just me. I’m motivated to do my best because we rely on each other to push each other. Ultimately, it’s easy enough to do because you’re the only person I can be myself around.”

Finn turned his head more, narrowing his eyes slightly, his eyebrows furrowing. The meaning of her words wasn’t lost on him, but he was also confused. If it was so easy to be around him because she could be herself, she didn’t need to move out. She didn’t need to step away. All of the hardship of the past few months could have been assuaged and fixed with a simpler situation. Maybe they wouldn’t have been at each others’ throats. Maybe they wouldn’t have felt their friendship blew up into smoke.

Or maybe she didn’t mean anything about them at all. He hesitated, and looked at the flames like her. Their warmth was inviting, just like their relationship used to be. How many evenings did they sit together and watch stupid television shows, make  comments, and destroy people? The only thing that put them together now was the championships.

Right?

“Look, Kayla, it’s not that simple. You don’t know what it’s like…” He frowned and leaned back, crossing his arms. “It’s not like you have a choice in the things you do. There’s always something hovering over you, a looming threat that they can ruin everything. Dickie wasn’t Dickie, and you know how unabashedly brash he is about himself. He was a shadow of himself, and being in that environment…it turns you into something you don’t want to be. It turned me into something I didn’t want to be.”

Kayla jutted her head upwards and snorted. “You think you’re the only one with secrets? I have demons too, Finn. You’re not special.”

Both glanced out the window then. Somewhere out in that wilderness, both were certain they were watching. Like they always were, like they always had been. Even when they thought they were both long gone from the chaos of their respective families, they were never quite far enough away from them than they’d ever liked. Certainly, they could have both thought that they were out there, in the blizzard itself, situated in the mountainside above Dillon Lake. Easy enough to be swept up if they made the wrong move.

And Kayla nor Finn had told the other about it.

Finn chuckled, shaking his head. “No. It’s not just demons, Kay. I don’t think there’s an amount I can atone to fix all the wrong I’ve done.”

Kayla looked back at him and furrowed her eyebrow. “I know you worked for him. It’s hard when they have such sway over you, isn’t it? You almost feel powerless.”

“Do you know what I did? What my role was in all of that?” He grinned slightly, almost manically. “I finished things. It wasn’t being powerless, Kayla. I had all the power in my hands. I was the right hand, I was the one that easily made the call to end something, someone.” He looked down at his hands. “It didn’t matter what it was about. If he didn’t care for it, he asked me to end it.”

He ground his teeth together and clenched his fists.

He hated what she might think of him, now that he’d opened his mouth.

Surprisingly, she leaned forward, laying a hand gently – almost awkwardly – on his arm. His fingers unclenched.

“We all do things that we don’t want to. You felt like you had to. You’re still the same person.”

His lips turned up into a slight smile. Slight, only because in the front of his mind, he was assuaged. Kayla accepted his fault. But only because she didn’t know the other part. The back of his mind would never relay it, but even as he sat here, his eyes back on the fire, he knew it was only half-lived. Because he liked it. At one point or another, he liked who he was all those years back. And even though he fought to be out of it, to live on his own again, he knew one thing.

If he got involved again, there would be no stopping him from returning to the monster he used to be.


••••••

“It’s not a secret that I’ve been seeking the Internet Championship since I’ve been back in the company,” Finn begins again, now inside the house. He drops down onto the couch, next to a roaring fireplace. The sounds of people cackling in the kitchen just a few steps away can be heard. “My goal probably for this year contains becoming a Grand Slam Champion, but I also take what falls into my lap and work with it to the best of my ability.

So when I was told that I was going to be vying for the World Championship again, I laughed.

I laughed, Peter, I laughed.

A trip backwards goes to a few weeks before High Stakes in 2022. I came back, already champion of another company, sold a bill of goods for Sin City again that it was the place for me. I believed it. Like it always seems to do whether I want it or not, I do a good job in that first match back against someone of no import, and then I get thrown into the lion’s den. A fatal four way. For a chance to win the contendership in regards to the World Championship.

Austin James Mercer.”

He holds up one finger, and then two fingers.

“Goth.”

A third finger and a snicker.

“Chris Page.

You know Chris Page, right? Pretty sure you fucks with each other. He disappeared shortly after that, but only after pointing out that other people in my life or around me had done better than me, so what the fuck was I going to amount to?

Anyway, I won that one. Went to face Davison. Got told again that I was in the wrong league, wrong place, that I didn’t deserve that championship.

Won that too.

Shit happened. Lost it, lost a lot of things in life…drive, motivation, didn’t really give a shit.

Not like you thought, right Peter?”

He takes his hand and chugs it like a choo choo train.

“You just chug along like Thomas the Tank Engine, raring to go. Like a good little bitch, you’re told where to be and you do the thing. Roulette Champion, and you wear it on your sleeve like it’s something to be proud of. That you’ve brought honor to a championship that means very little in the course of things. Maybe it’s because I consider it the Easy Difficulty Championship. You know, the one you pick when you just want story mode and you just want to know what happens without the difficulties of the battles. I mean, look at your list of challengers.

Miles Kasey. Three times, and we all know Miles hasn’t figured out how to be a wrestler until he was getting proper attention from his boyfriend.

Jack Washington, twice, as a shadow of himself.

Bill Barnhart. Three times. All snorefests.

Malachi. Twice, and I have to give the kid a prop because he tried.

Carter. I already think he could be great once he figures out how to actually compete and succeed.

Mercer and Tempest. Eiley and Zahn. Raven and Vanity.  All in your cutesy attempt to be a mixed tag team with Kimmie, who fucked off again. How’s that going for you?

Mercer by himself. Been there, done that. He’s a little wonked out anyway now, so I’d be watching for him in this tournament.

The Troll. I’m not even going to point out anything here.

Every single one of these human beings except for Tempest and Vanity, I have a win over as well. Every single one of these competitors, I’ve faced and I’ve come out on top. Are you saying that you’re the only person in this company that could do such a feat? I don’t see you facing anyone in the top echelon here. You don’t have any Davisons or Banes or anyone that you seem to bump uglies with because you’ve figured out how to be friends with the top of the company.

You wanted to face Knox, but he fucked off to nowhere.

Looking at a list of your previous accomplishments before here, you’ve been a whatever-time-champion, but I’m not impressed by the places you’ve been. OCW? GCWA? We all know WGWF has no reputation except for the people that circlejerk one another, and Thunder Pro? Yeah, I’m going to reiterate it– I ain’t impressed.

Let’s get this straight, Vaughn. There’s no amount of reading that you can do that will give you a perfect picture of who I am, and I bet one hundred percent you think you’ve got me all summed up into ten minutes of promo time, if that. You think your cute little quips have gotten you by, but I’m not Miles Kasey, and I’m not Jack Washington, or Malachi.

Hell, I’m not even Helluva Bottom Carter, and I was right when he was a tough cookie to crack. My name is Finn Whelan, and I’m nothing like anything you’ve faced here in Sin City. This isn’t going to be a pushover match for you, because you think you have more charisma and prowess than anyone you’ve ever faced. It’s a constant theme in your matches. Little quips about people, thinking you’ve gotten inside their head. Every time you’ve had a match here you’ve gotten a little bit more and more insufferable, to the point where you think because you were part of the Junipers or whatever the fuck they were, you mattered. And you sat there, week in, week out, with your cute little gimmick championship thinking you mattered.

Carter sat there and told me who I was, what I’d done, how he might defeat me, how he’s going to face me using a piece of paper. List out all of my names, what I’ve done, be sure you know who I am.

And watch like everyone else does when they face me as you fall apart. Your eyes are going to be staring up at the lights like you won’t even know where you’ve been. There won’t be any kind of shit delivery of the end…pinfall, submission, whatever the fuck gets the job done at this point, because I’m sick and tired of worthless fucking wrestlers like you getting high and mighty in companies that suck the intelligence out of people and then coming into places where the things you say and do matter.

I don’t like you. I don’t like what you represent. I don’t like what you’ve done. I don’t give a shit what you have done, because at the end of the day, in Sin City? You’re on Easy Difficulty, and you haven’t tried to do much since. Those championships you gunned for?

I have half of them.

You’ll never be anything but gimmick central in SCW. You’ll never be World Champion. Not if I can help it.

Retribution and restoration are key. And when the championship is mine again?

It won’t be like last time.

Maybe you can paint a narrative differently next time.

See if any of us care.”

[/font][/font][/font]

A collective groan issued from the crowd surrounding the ring as a decisive crack issued and reverberated through the floor. A thud issued as a trainee known as none other than “Kyle” – or maybe it was “Steve” – hit the canvas with a finality that signaled to everyone outside the circle that the moment was done. Sparring? Ended. A trickle of blood from broken capillaries at the knuckles of Callien O’Hanlon’s right hand slipped down his fingers as he lazily hung his closed fist towards the floor, his blue eyes focused on the lump of a human who had been smarting off just twenty minutes earlier. Callien, known the world of professional wrestling as Finn Whelan, didn’t whoop and cheer when he brought his opponent down to the ground. No – he only stared at him as if he was less than nothing.

Viciousness hadn’t even settled into the man’s bones, and yet most people thought he was the quickest to get angry. And perhaps he was. Perhaps he was angry, but it no longer showed on his face like it would have in months – years – past. Stoic calm, the type that most people hated because they couldn’t read the truth in the expression, laid like it was at rest across the face of the Seattle Saint. People began to disperse, and yet Finn could only look down at the body in front of him.

“Pathetic,” he muttered.

The newest recruits to the gym weren’t plucky, they weren’t punctual and they certainly weren’t any form of perceptive. He may have stopped his career for the time being, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to pop someone who mouthed off to him. And mouth of they did. Kyle-Steve had been in a promotional class that Finn was giving and asked the simple question as to why someone would want to learn from him when he wasn’t even actively participating in the ring.

Finn showed him why.

He shook his head and swung a leg through the ropes, leaving the knocked out body in the ring to be tended to by his classmates. Alex would probably have his head, but Finn didn’t particularly care…not that he ever did. Sonja had hired him, and Alex and he had a tenuous relationship at best. Most of the people in Wolfslair respected him, but he didn’t really care either if they did. It was a badge of honor for the men and women who chose to call Wolfslair home to exist in such a facility, but for Finn, it was just another day at the office. It wasn’t as if he didn’t appreciate his place, but at the same time, he didn’t wear the company on his sleeve.

Like everyone used to think he did.

He climbed the steps to the offices and dropped into the chair at his own desk, tilting his head back and shaking his head. He stretched out his fingers, cringing as the skin opened a little more around the joints of his knuckles, twinging with pain. He couldn’t deny that the action of knocking the kid out felt good. Maybe he was just going too hard at it. Maybe it was just a minor frustration. Maybe…maybe he was just fucking frustrated because Miles Kasey pretty much up and abandoned everyone and everything without a word and then got a nice little cheap win on his name.

Yeah. That was more likely the culprit.

He tried to immerse himself in reading his emails. It wasn’t like Finn didn’t know what it was like to lose. He’d done it multiple times before. He just didn’t think it would be so fucking callous and disrespectful from a kid he’d trained, that he’d mentored. Miles threw it in his face, and then would go on to lose against another wordy bitch in Harris, fuck around on Twitter and maybe somehow save face in front of everyone because of his beau. Every word uttered, every move made, it was a performance that needed to be handled appropriately, and all he could think was that he was made a laughing stock by thee laughing stock.

Finn placed his hands over his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He was tired, that he knew. Ever since she was gone…well, he hadn’t slept. Not very well anyway.

Maybe he shouldn’t have stepped into the fray. Maybe he should have just sat back again and trained people. Godforbid he wanted something for himself, wanted to step into the world with something other than a chip on his shoulder. The story was trite and overplayed at this point. Maybe this wasn’t worth it anymore.

There was no point in waiting around here. He was fed up, tired, and clearly didn’t have the constitution to stay here today without laying everyone he talked to flat. Finn wasn’t particularly keen to have a conversation with anyone, or more than that, he wasn’t keen to get into an argument with anyone either. Instead, he sighed to himself, rose to his feet again as he slammed his laptop shut, and slammed the door of his office on the way out. Annoyance settled within his bones, and he just wanted to be out of the building. He beelined for the doors.

“Mate!” Behind him, he heard the deep cockney accent of his “little brother”, one Dickie Watson. For those of you who knew him, he was an ever present force in Finn’s life now, kind of the conscience that he’d once lost. The kid knew him better than most. “Hol’ up!”

He was also the one who knew where his mind was at a whopping ninety-five percent of the time.

“Not now, Dickhead.” Finn nearly snarled, rolling his eyes childishly.

“Classic insult,” Dickie replied, stopping briefly. Finn didn’t see him, but he knew the little shit flipped him off. Nevertheless, he heard his booted feet hit the floor and run up behind him, catching up easily at the crosswalk. “Not gonna get rid of me that easily.”

“Your mother should’ve swallowed you.”

Dickie contemplated this, pursing his lips slightly as people began to crowd around them. The streets of New York City would forever be busy, this they both knew, but they’d both long grown used to the chaos. “Yeah? Well, yours should have gotten it in her eye.”

Finn turned his head, looking at Dickie in muted surprise, and also annoyance. “Are you insulting my mother?”

“No more than you’re insultin’ mine, Mr. Male-Period.”

Finn sighed. He wished he’d taken his car instead of walking today. It would have gotten him back to his destination (i.e. his house) in a shorter amount of time. Actually, a bike would have done better. Maybe he should purchase a good ol’ crotchrocket, one that he could weave in and out of traffic like a douchebag. That could be his midlife crisis. Go down in a burning mass of flames because he zoom-zoomed a little too quickly and played chicken with a semi.

“Just had a question, to be honest. And then I’ll leave ya to talk your ass home.”

“What?”

“I mean, kinda obvious question, but are you nervous?”

Finn scoffed and shrugged. Nervous? For what the fuck reason for? To make an ass out of himself again, to fail miserably in the next match that Sin City placed him into because he wasn’t ready to return? Or maybe he was to be the new chopping block for the shitheads in brass, destined to fail over and over again. “No,” he replied with a derisive tone, “Why would I be?”

They began walking across the street, following the crowd, melding into them despite their statures and their appearances.

“I mean, because you’re teaming with Kayla–”

“I’m doing what?!” Finn snapped, stopping so abruptly that the person behind him rammed into him, jolting him forward a bit. Dickie’s eyebrows shot into his tousselled hair and he grinned slightly.

“You’re teaming with Kayla. Didn’t you look at the card that you were sent? It was up on the board this week. Figured you’d at least seen it by now.”

Finn felt like the scenery around him was shaking. He knew that he’d eventually run into Kayla backstage at one of the events, but he hadn’t considered that they were going to actually make them into a tag team. Not after their dissolution of even remotely a friendship, not after the fact that she’d bounced into a different dimension, different playing field, different…different wants, desires, needs, whatever the fuck you wanted to call them. Dickie grabbed his arm and pulled him with him as the light began to turn yellow, and then to red. He didn’t stop until they were safely standing by a storefront, the edge of the pavement more than ten feet from their last position.

“I didn’t.” Finn replied.

Dickie’s eyes narrowed. “You mean you didn’t put it together? You and Kay aren’t even talking?” His eyes widened then and he cringed. “Fuck, man, and you’re teaming against siblings…”

Finn swallowed and stared at his little brother with his face growing pale. Fuck wrestling, how the fuck was he supposed to even be in the same vicinity with the woman? She hadn’t spoken to him in months now, not after the Emily fiasco, and he wasn’t about to reach out to a woman who would more likely tell him to go fuck himself with a rusty spork than even listen to anything he had to say. He told her she didn’t have to leave, and yet, she did. And now?

Now he was forced to work with her in close quarters.

He was fucked. This he knew.






“I’ve never been great at the whole tag team thing.”

With his right combat boot propped up against a metal railway, Finn Whelan sat lackadaisical – elbows keeping his body upright behind him, lazy hands, relaxed position as he stared down the lens of the camera like a barrel of a gun. The empty alleyway behind him could have been in any major city, what with unfocused cars visible as they passed across the frame in the back, the dumpster that was overloaded with trash and the general uncleanliness of the area.

“The last time I found myself as a tag team partner was back in twenty-eighteen, when my godforsaken sister and I not only took the whole of the company on our backs, but we also took it by storm. We weren’t only good, but we knew each other like the backs of our very own hands. I didn’t have to question their abilities, and she didn’t have to question mine. We were fluid, but we knew what to do. And now?”

He frowned, dropping his leg with a thud on the ground.

“Now, I’m saddled with the fact that not only do I have to tag with a person I’ve never worked with personally before, I have to tag with a person that despises my very presence. A silly trick of the powers that be, right? These two don’t even interact backstage now, but we heard whispers that they were going to tag a long time ago, and now, all of a sudden, here we are.”

He raised a hand, his mouth twitching in irritation slightly, but nothing more. His face remains as impassive as it always has been.

“But before we even get back to that, let’s talk about everything up until now. End of 2022, sometime in October, I rose to the prominence of this company in less time than it took for Ariana Angelos to make a fool out of herself for at least the billionth time and I did the thing that everyone expected me to implode upon. I beat Ken Davison for a hot potato’d World Championship. He wanted to come at my throat, wanted to treat me like I was a fucking idiot and had no way of winning the match against him. And then I did. And the whole Saviours bullshit faded away for a little while as Mac Bane and Goth and whoever the fuck was a part of that little shitshow disappeared. For a while, it was good.

Then I lost it, because I got too lackadaisical. I’m not even going to say it was erroneous and blame other people. I lost it. I lost a lot of things that day, and maybe it was just involved with my will to even be present in this business. Maybe I thought it was just that I didn’t give a shit. Maybe I just wanted to stop dealing with the bullshit that surrounds people in this sport. Maybe it was just because the barista at Starbucks put oatmilk into my pumpkin spice latte, I don’t fucking know. I mean, when I discussed with Christian what I was going to be doing briefly, I centered my eyes on the Internet Championship because hey, I might as well triple-crown the shit. Roulette, World, the only one I was missing was the Internet one. Lo and behold, the fuckin’ Internet Champion is too busy fucking around with Miles Kasey, trying to make himself look good so when he goes up against someone with more skill than a Twitter Shitposter and loses, it’ll garner him points and he won’t look quite as bad. Not only that, he blocked me because he’s a little bitch, but more on that next time, am I right?”

A smile crossed his mouth and he pushed himself forward, crossing his body with his arm and propping it up on his knee. Finn was always one to give commentary on what he thought about the rest of the company, and that wasn’t going to stop because someone didn’t want to face someone else. You didn’t get the choice of your coworkers, right?

“But you’re going to tell me, right, the following: You lost to Miles Kasey. Why, yes. Yes I did. The little shit won on luck, and let’s be honest on that. I came in because Austin made the match. I could have thrown the whole thing, you know. Could have given a shit less, as well. Why? Because even if Miles sits there and is so happy about his little win against me, the fact of the matter is that he’s still scared of me. I could come up and whip his ass, and he knows it, I know it – hell, the person in the highest row that got in at the show for less than fifty bucks knows it too. And maybe for longevity’s sake, I’ll always be waiting in the wings so that when he mouths off to me like Eddie Lyons trying to look like a threatening Ed Sheeran, I can turn around and pop him and kill his vibe like I always have and always will.”

Finn rose to his feet then, crossing his arms as he did so and turning his head slightly as he smiled at the camera.

“I’m always watching. Vaguely, though. It’s not enough to capture my attention by simply being present in the company, but as always, I am taking every bit in when I need to. And I think that’s what you all need to recognize. I don’t just look at the last couple of weeks. I dig into everyone and I don’t give a flying fuck who you are, new, old, or…what the fuck was said, talented? Keep in mind…talent is just like beauty: in the eye of the beholder. It’s all about perception…and if you’ve got an inflated sense of that, well…you’re just not going to cut it here. You’re not going to cut it against me, and you’re not going to cut it against anyone fucking else.

My failure last week in losing to Miles really only resulted in me getting to this point. A few months ago, Kayla Richards and I were floating around as whispers to be a tag team. The Mixed Tag division was floundering, and we were set to work with one another…which was all fine and dandy when we were fucking speaking to one another. And now? We haven’t spoken in months, and honestly, I’m fairly certain she’d rather slit my throat than tag me in. But nevertheless, here we are. Stuck in a match, forced to work with one another…and to be honest, I’m not thrilled. I don’t like to think that through the entirety of this match, I’m going to have to make sure that I watch my opponents and my own partner.

See, I know Kayla Richards well enough to know that she’s more of a threat than most people would like to give her credit for. She singlehandedly took the Internet Championship division from the tyranny of a fucking psycho and made it something to not laugh at. When she lost it to Aleesha, it was at a point where there was no fucking problem. She was ready to move forward, and that, we all knew. I may not have been here, but I was always watching. Always waiting for her to be greater, to step forward, to do more. She doesn’t step out of her circle, she doesn’t try to be something she’s not. But she is great. And she is vengeful. Malicious. Angry. No matter how deep you think your venom goes, hers goes that much further.”

It’s almost as if despite his words, he still respects her. And maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s more. But he doesn’t say anything else on the topic.

“We’re both good, and that cannot be denied. But this? This forced bullshit makes me cringe. You see, Kay and I could have been good together,” he paused for a second, as if he didn’t realize what he was saying. He shook his head slightly and continued on, “as a team. But now? Now, she’s angry, and I’m just as annoyed. And that…well, that’s just not the best combination for our lucky, plucky new team gracing the dastardly Sin City with zero talent on its roster.

The Rat Pack, hailing from ye ol’ yonder Tennessee. One Tyler McCulligan and his ickle sister, Jane. Strong words, you know, from the ol’ princess when she faced Harper Mason. Something something Go Gym, something something Hero Academy, something something better than everyone in the world…if that’s what I recall your promotional vid was on. How’d that go for ya? Hm?”

He waited for a second, tilting his head. A long thought out pause, one that was surprising, but nevertheless, disconcerting. His words were, obviously, filled with mirth because Jane hadn’t come out of that one well enough. The light Irish accent that Finn held in his voice was pronounced as he snorted and continued on.

“Aye, pretty sure Ms. Mason won, and props to her, even though she has a porn sounding name. But now you’re back and ready to face myself and Kayla, right? You’re gonna win, beat us to a pulp, because you’re so fuckin’ talented and you’ve fought from the bottom all the way to the top. Right. Everyone sucks.

Maybe look in a mirror.”

He shook his head again, dropping his arms and shoving them into the pockets of his skinny jeans. He grins, his pearly white teeth contrasting with the dark hair and the persona he wore. Finn wasn’t goth, but he wasn’t emo, and he just certainly might have fit rocker boy with a penchant for problems.

“You see, I don’t give a flying fuck where you and your brother come from. Tyler, right? Haven’t said a fuckin’ word and from the dossier on you, essentially you’re a good little boy within a bunch of angry little fucks. Well let me tell you, bro, it’s a dog-eat-dog world, and you’re now facing two of the most single-handedly pavlovian dogs in this business. You ring a bell, and we both salivate at the thought of tearing a piece of meat to shreds…and the meat in this equation is our opponents.

When you face me, mate, when your sister is so drawn out and tired from fending off every attack Kayla has shoved down her throat, you’re getting a bloodthirsty, angry motherfucker who is tired of being thought of as anything less than great. Tired of being considered to face two fuckwits that don’t even belong in Sin City, let alone a wrestling ring on this side of the Colorado. Especially not two fuckwits who don’t know their ass from their mouth. You’re not special, you’re green. And like little babes on an Autumn night, whisked away by the fae, you’ll come back in a changed state, as changelings who have learned they’re not ready for this business, no matter how many times someone says they are.”

He shrugs then.

“I’d say I didn’t warn you, but the warning is there. You don’t want this. So maybe be good little kids and stay backstage to preserve yourselves. Because Finn Whelan is back in Sin City, and no one…not even those who think their shit doesn’t stink…are going to want to stand across the ring from me. I have something to prove with a vengeance more than anyone else, and now that you’re in my way? You’re not going to be seen in this ring for a long fuckin’ time. Kayla and I are going to come out on top. And you?

Gonna need floodlights to find your remains.

Good fuckin’ luck.”

PARADIGM SHIFT I | BAD DECISIONS
BITTER ENDS TO THE NIGHTS / I’M ALONG FOR THE RIDE / OUT OF BREATH, OUT OF TIME / EVERYTHING HAS A PRICE - BAD OMENS


The home used to be his. His and hers. A woodland, mountain chalet that was quiet, opulent, grandiose. High ceilings, mahogany floors, granite countertops, custom-made cabinetry, a pool and a large stone deck that overviewed the Dillon Reservoir in Colorado. They’d purchased it, giggles in their voices, and they’d picked everything out together. It was as much his as hers, and they’d once been happy in it. Before they’d picked up and moved to Garrison, before they’d given up everything they had for his fuck-up of a family. This was their everything.

He still had a key. Aaron had never made him return it, and he’d never bothered to do so anyway. He was surprised when it still worked – or maybe the door was already unlocked, but he’d shown up with the rest of the CONQUEST roster over at Pro Wrestling EXCELLENCE after their second successful show that saw him at the opposite end of a win at the hands of Aiden Reynolds, and that was simply because he’d gotten so fed up with the fucking Australian that he’d slung him around the ring and gotten himself disqualified. His boss said that if he’d use his finishers, he’d be out so quickly. While it was cathartic to have Aiden’s head bouncing off the mat with a dull thud, it cost him.

Everything had a price.

He envisioned it. It wasn’t quite as good as his win over Jack Washington, slamming his head into the mat with the same conscientious vigor. But in slow motion, he could see the surprise in Aiden’s face as he vaulted himself over the man, hooked his arm around his neck and brought both of their weights down into the canvas and wood. The bell had been instantly rung and Aiden held his head, but the damage was done. Finn stood over him with his busted lip pouring a river of red onto his chin, an almost sadistic smirk crossing his expression. The crowd rallied for the Australian favorite, but he didn’t care. He’d never cared about what they wanted. He showboated for the fans, but if they booed him, who the fuck cared?

Nevertheless, the General Manager – who happened to be his ex-wife – held an after-work party at their old abode on Swan Mountain. He’d arrived at the behest of his newest trouble-making friend, the contortionist and all-around rabble-rouser, Sybil Halter. He wasn’t going to go. He didn’t want to walk into this house again and relive all the bad memories that would continue to haunt him just as much as the good ones. But he still showed up. He still walked through that wooden, opulent door. He’d still arrived, and he’d still grabbed the only bottle of Jameson that was there.

He’d stopped drinking years ago. Sobriety was hard, but he’d made it. But Sybil…fuck, with everything going on with Kayla, he couldn’t keep himself from imbibing.

Extrapolation on sobriety, where he was mentally

Finn leaned back against the wooden back of the chair, fingers wrapped tightly around the neck of the whiskey bottle. The flames of the fire pit rose into the air, cracking and dancing in a myriad of ways. It was mesmerizing, the way it shimmered and swayed. He was by himself – he’d made it that way. He didn’t feel like parlor tricks with Sybil and he didn’t feel like small talk with Aiden and Kallie. Their match was all business, and it didn’t change the fact that they still lived in his house. He didn’t want to watch Bella’s face, he didn’t want to deal with Aaron’s disapproval. He just didn’t.

He just wanted to be alone. Why was that so difficult?

He’d closed his eyes for only a moment, he felt like. And yet, he could feel her presence. He could hear the click-clack of her heels against the stone. Long strides, ones he’d gotten used to hearing. When she wasn’t wrestling, she had a habit of appearing provocative, particularly when she wanted to hone in a point. She might have been comfortable enough to wear sweatpants and her hair up in a ponytail – and that was, honestly, much more preferable if he was being honest – in his presence, but there were just those few moments where she tried to entice him. The moments she thought he wasn’t even noticing.

It took everything for him to stay away. EVERYTHING.

His career mattered. His life mattered. Engaging in fucking chaos with her would ruin everything. He knew it would. She’d take him with her black-coated talons, bequeath unto him hope and serenity, and give him everything that he wanted. He would fall into supporting her and her only, he wouldn’t maintain focus on his journey, wouldn’t be able to handle his own priorities when he was constantly elevating hers. He would forsake his own progress to only find pride in her achievements. And when all was good and well, she would turn those talons of hers to his chest and rip his heart out. He’d give up everything for her, and she would walk on him. She would leave him desolate, alone, destroyed. Just like he’d been before. She relished in destroying lives, didn’t she?

This time, the bottom of the bottle wouldn’t save him. It would be his end.

He couldn’t.

And yet…

Her hands slid down his shoulders, wrapping around his chest as she knelt down and leaned into him. She was just as warm as the fire was. He didn’t move, but his fingers tightened around the bottle. Maybe if he didn’t move, she would leave. Maybe if he froze, she would realize that he wasn’t what she wanted. Maybe if he acted like she wasn’t there, she’d get frustrated with his rejection one more time and finally put an end to all of it.

But she didn’t. Her breath was warm on the back of his neck as she pressed her nose into it, nuzzling him slightly. “You should do that again and again.” Her words were low, deceiving, though clear with her accent. He could feel his pulse begin to beat faster. He swallowed. She pulled back slightly. “I kinda like it when you spike their heads into the mat.”

Nothing sputtered from his lips. An ‘I know’ would be too much of an invitation. Of course he knew she liked when the matches got a little more violent than the last. Anything else in his response would lead to more of a disaster. So he did what he was the worst at: he stayed silent.

Her body language didn’t adjust. She took her hands from hugging him to running down the sides of his arms, glossing over his tattoos with a smile on her face. He didn’t have to look at her in order to know it was there. “And I’m a champion again.” She added – her voice carried pride in herself for proving that heroes didn’t always win. “Queen of the Internet.”

“Congratulations.”

“Why, thank you, Finn,” the grin was apparent in her voice as she took hold of his hands and slid her fingers between his. Her chin rested on his shoulder. “Soon, you’ll have everything at your own fingertips too.”

“Eventually.” And it was true. He would eventually have everything in his hands. Her. Championships. The championship. The World Heavyweight one within his fingers, handled with clenched claws that would take and burn everything mercilessly, unforgiving and unrelenting.

She let go of him, but didn’t stray far. Kayla crossed the way, her black hair falling across her face gently in loose, placed curls. Her makeup was immaculate, and her provocative clothing hugged her in all the right places. Finn dangled the Jameson bottle from his fingertips and he exhaled slowly out of his nose. It was difficult to be such an ass to her all the time, but at the same time…what else could he do? Give in?

No.

She peered at him with her brown eyes, looking over him as he leaned forward, dropping his head slightly. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know. I didn’t expect that to change.”

“Let’s let it lie where it lies tonight…” Kayla said, looking at him and cocking her head to the side. She leaned forward, adopting his stance. “Why are you mad at me?”

Finn tilted his head to the side. He stared at her, peering through his cerulean eyes with a question in his features. It was true. He was mad at her. He hated how she made him feel, hated how she set him off and on his guard at the same time. Hated that she buried herself within his psyche so completely that he couldn’t separate himself from her. Never had he ever wanted to be reliant on someone else again, but even now, he realized that she was one of the reasons he kept going, kept trying to persevere. He wanted to rise to the top against all odds again because that was who he was, but there was the ever-bitty small part of himself that wanted to make himself good for her.

What a fucking bad decision.

“I’m not.” He started. If he expressed his feelings, expressed what he was thinking, it would be the death of him.

“Bullshit.” She knew better. They sat for a moment, before she leaned forward, kneeling down on her knees and walking her way across the firepit towards him. She set her hands on his knees and tilted her head, looking up at him. “You’re mad at me.”

He sighed, looking away from her finally. The fire and the flames danced in front of his eyes as he tried to avoid her stare. “You keep me from realizing my potential.”

She said nothing. He didn’t even expect her to.

“You keep me from focus. You keep me from being the best I can be in the ring.” He stated more, adding slowly with rising venom in his voice. “You keep me from excelling at what I do best because I can’t focus on my matches and what I want. I keep focusing on what we could do, what we could be and I don’t have time for that. I don’t have time for you fucking me up. I don’t have patience to sit through making us something only to have it fall apart because this is a fucking game to you.”

It was more words than he’d spoken in a long time. And even if he hadn’t wanted to say it, he still did. He still spoke to her, he was still honest with her. And that was difficult, because even at this point, even if he wanted to focus on his rise to stardom in Sin City, hold onto his championship at Next Level, become something more anywhere else he wanted to walk, it would always come back to fucking Kayla.

She was his bad decision.

She was his bane.

She was his fucking end.

“You know deep down that this isn’t a game, Finn…I-”

“Don’t.”

He shook his head and looked back at her. She pursed her lips and tilted her said, accommodating. Smiling. Softly, but ever so cynically. “But–”

“Don’t. I don’t have time for this, I don’t have time for you.”

“But Finn, I lo–”

Thunder struck, the rumble of the heavens sounded, and Finn crashed upwards, the blankets of his black comforter around his feet as he was thundered awake. He stared at the dark walls, frowning as sweat dripped down the back of his neck. He’d been sleeping, but he’d been so certain of the smell of her, the crackle of the flame, the light that danced across her face as he looked at her.

He stomped out of his bed, ran to the adjoining bathroom and splashed water on his face.

She was fucking him up.

And he couldn’t.

He couldn’t do this with Kayla. He couldn’t do this whole fucking thing with her and still be the wrestler that he wanted to be. He couldn’t have both. He couldn’t take everything in the world that he wanted and be fearsome. She couldn’t be his right hand. He couldn’t be a champion and have her.

He couldn’t.

And yet…



• • • • • •


Arrogance.

Everyone in this match coming up holds arrogance in the palm of their hand. Each every single one of you, all you have within you is fucking arrogance. Hell, everyone in this fucking sport holds some form of arrogance, and it bleeds out when we have matches like this. A chance for the new pretty shiny thing that the men in the back are going to put up to us like they fucking matter, and two previous world champions where one continually gets shots even though he’s been dropped by better time and time over, and the other appears, disappears, reappears and maybe, just fucking maybe can get over himself for about two point five seconds like he got over his fucking haircut a few weeks ago.

All of you are fucking arrogant.

But none of you have the right to even be.

Last week, it was one and done. Jack Washington put his all into the match. I put my all into this match. But if we’re being accurate, it wasn’t me that had anything to lose. Everyone in this fucking company equates me to be that motherfucker who decides to use weapons as a means to an end. Look at what Washington had to say, after all. In his mind – no, in everyone’s minds, I’m that bro in the back that is trying to edgelord their way up to the top. They don’t give a flying fuck who I am, what I’ve done, what I could do – nah, instead, they’re all so fucking busy ramming as big of a fucking shovel of false gold up their own asses and hoping they can stretch their fuckin’ hole wide enough that someone will be able to see the gaping black hole of a miserable failure that they are from space.

There are no fucking Whales in this sport, Jackie, unless you’re counting some cunts that used to be in this company that needed to lay off of catering.

But how did it feel? How does it feel to be knocked off your own fucking pedestal by a six-foot-four fucking nobody? Jack, how does it feel to project the bullshit that happened to you in your own high school life out onto other people in a pedantic plea for you to be recognized for what you are. You grew up fighting, right? All of us grow up fighting. Tell me one person in this world that didn’t have a rough time growing up and then not turning around to be the biggest fucking whiny shit in the entirety of Sin City. You’re better than me, hm?

That fucking Fenian Rising took off your goddamned head and I’m not even fucking sorry.

So while you spent your day railing about how fucking stupid I am and who I was, who is the one with egg on their face now? Because it certainly isn’t me – but a word to the wise…reading a list of personality traits about who someone is is far different than someone that’s on a piece of paper and using that as your background? Not the easiest nor best thing for you to do. It didn’t work, and neither did your achievement of putting me in the ground.

You didn’t shine bright, motherfucker.

You’re about as dull as fucking neanderthal Goth over here that I have to face in a goal to become something that none of you have ever seen before.  Shut the fuck up and bury yourself in the hole that you crawled out of, Jacky. Fucking stay there.

And while I’m sure Chris Page is going to start equating everything to every little step he’s ever taken in XWF and how many shits he takes at the Velvet Rabbit, I’m also certain that Goth is going to spend a good amount of time boring us with the details of his rise to stardom again through the failure of Jackie Wash-wash and his ultimate demise at the hands of a star who doesn’t spend thirty-thousand years detailing the things that don’t fucking matter.

This is the thing that I’ve noticed about this company over and over again. We like to mention people that don’t fucking matter. I have stood above the depths of despair and seen the sorrows of many men that have crossed my path over and over and over again. People that I have wrestled against in the early nineteen-hundreds are in my list of mentions, but where the fuck are they now? In a path to be different than everyone fucking else on this roster, Goth goes overboard trying to tie in his past to every fucking moment of his career.

No one gives a flying fuck what happened six months ago, much less a year or two or ten.

No one gives a fuck what happened last week.

So how many more times is Goth going to sit there and tell me that he’s dismantled me? That he’s killed my will? I listened the first couple of times and then I started to realize that I was looking at someone who also fucking projects their own goddamned pedantic bullshit in finery onto the rest of the roster. There’s a reason you lost to fucking Lachlan. Did that hurt? How high and mighty that you thought you were, and yet, here you are now, titleless and fallen to a member of the gym that you all so abhor? Are you going to stand there, your hands folded in prayer like a priest that no one wanted and talk to us like we’re all so sycophantic and idiotic that we could even imagine ourselves to fail? Or are you going to talk about the Saviors like they matter?

Hint: you don’t. Mac Bane is slowly becoming irrelevant and you? You tried to cash in on a cow that is dwindling into hell. It’s like Goth is the bus driver on the bus that leads them all into the underworld where no one will tread because we don’t even want to fucking follow you, much less see you there.

You’re a stain on this company. As many attibutions of your accomplishments rise to the surface, you fail to also note your flaws. You’re clunky. You’re slower than a sloth. Me being frustrated in the past about facing you? I don’t care. You hold no worth to me, and you never have.

Here, let me reflect back to when you faced me on your own terms. Was I at my best? No. Did I look like I even gave a sliver of a shit? No. You talked about yourself on a plethoric rise of your fucking ego and extremely large fucking head about how much you you you you you you. You are doing all these wonderful things, you’re equating people to other people, but you’re talking about how you sit on the precipice of your own personal gains and that you’re wonderful and that you’re the best fucking thing to sit on this roster and yet…

You failed.

You failed.

You fucking failed.

Over and over and over again we all rise and we all fall, but you can’t even look in the mirror long enough to see your own faults and failures. How many times have you fallen to men better than you in this company and then turned around and sounded the exact fucking same the week after? You can use your intellectual verbiage and try to sound and act better than everyone on this roster, try to sound and be better than me, but when it comes down to it? You’re a fucking numbskull with no interesting attributes except that you have big fucking feet and an ugly ass girlfriend.

You wanted to talk long ago about me wanting everything to be handed to me on a silver platter.

You know what?

Yep. And you want to know why?

When you’ve traveled as much as I have, when you’ve been at the top for as long as I have, when you’ve been as good as I have and have the recognition for it across several countries, companies and capitulations, you expect to be treated as good as they’re just fucking giving to Chris Page. I am one of the best wrestlers to grace this company, and I will be damned if I see you treat me like an imbecilic fool of the same caliber of a man who talks to a fucking cactus. It’s easy in this company to be a gimmicked piece of shit with their foot out in a drag queen venue while sucking the left toe of someone else within management, and it’s extremely easy to be someone that thinks with their head in the clouds – oblivious, self-serving, and defiant of the things that truly matter.

Wrestling.

Fights.

Not words. Not how infinitely intelligent we sound.

It’s how we take the fight and I am so ready to lob off your fucking head and hit a home goddamn fuckin’ run.

So no, you got it right on the head: I don’t care what you have to say. I don’t care what you have coming out of the drivel that is your goddamned mouth. I don’t care that you’re a complete piece of shit. I don’t care that you’ve done all these things. THIS IS WHERE IT ENDS. Are we clear? Your so-called meteoric rise, while mediocre in all of its entirety, ends. I am done with, Goth. Done with your gatekeeping, your bullshit, your speeches, you in general. You’re not innovative. You’re not interesting. You are less than the gum that I pulled off my shoe this morning when I stepped into the streets of New York City.

You are lesser than everyone in this company. You are just as bad as the people you argue with you because you’re just like them. You have been handed every single shot you’ve ever recieved here not because of your hard work – no, if this were my company, you would have been booked against Bill Barnhart for a few weeks like I was stuck doing. Of course my fucking will to wrestle dwindled – because my fucking will to live massively failed in that time. You’ve no idea how many times I stared at the rope backstage wishing it was a fucking noose.

Please don’t report me to human resources, I’m really okay. I’m not going to cut myself, I promise.

Oh so sorry, was I mean?

Hold on. Let me reiterate.

Garbage is as garbage does, Goth. You belong in the dumpster fire outside, not in my ring.

And while we’re speaking of garbage, let’s talk about the new shiny piece of rotting carbon that they’ve brought in from XWF. I’m fairly certain, if we’re being honest, there’s a drive to pull people out from the sunshine and into the depths of Las Vegas. If we want to talk people who are shinier than a dime, and worth even less, of course we can talk about Chris Page.

You know, the Chris Page that jumps around to company after company sounding the exact same.

The Chris Page that comes in with guns blazing and a fire in his step, but when he starts failing, he disappears.

The one that keeps bringing up XWF like it matters. Like they have a roster of men and women who are decent fucking human beings. Yeah. I said it. We can all paint stripes on an orange cat, but that doesn’t make it a tiger, Page. And you? Yeah, it’s nice you’ve done all this shit, and it’s nice that they want to put a shiny little silver hat on you and call you relevant, but let’s face it – you’re on your retirement run, and it’s only a matter of time before someone says something mean to you and you whine about it on your fucking podcast.

You’ve talked about being a shining beacon, but you’re a shining piece of hypocritical bullshit. Let’s talk about the fact that you bring in irrelevant bullshit into every promo I’ve ever seen you do, because you promo like you came out of the early twenties. Call out men for what they look like, try to find something personal about them that you can dig your teeth in and pull back. You think it’s like a game of Battleship.

D5, insult about family. D6, insult hair color. D7, puff self up to be greater than you are like an implant. Boom! Sink!

But Chris, implants go bad over time. They become inflexible, rigid, hard, and eventually, they break down and pop…and then it just really isn’t pretty, is it? You become saggy, and you become a hazard. And while I’m sure you’ve heard all of this before, let’s look at it this way too…you think you deserve better than you do, and I doubt you came in here without signing in your contract that the only way you were going to wrestle for Sin City was if you got an immediate shot at a title you don’t fucking deserve.

I said it.

Everyone else in your little enterprises group seems to have the same overinflated ego that you do – that you matter in the grand scheme of things, that we can’t exist without you.

Funny concept.

You’re not going to like it.

But we can.

I can exist without your demands. I can exist without your buffoonery. I can exist without you mucking up my ring with your bullshit. From FIGHT! to Pro Wrestling EXCELLENCE to XWF to CULT to whatever the fuck dumbshit company that actively projected you to be a hit but ultimately realized you were a goddamned dud in the making, I’m not interested in Sin City becoming another stop on your way to try and make yourself relevant. I’m not interested in watching you take your theatrics and your pull in of “notable” figures in this game to aggrandize yourself and make you look like you’re the cream of the crop.

I’m not interested in you coming into my company and making it the Chris Page show when none of give a flying fuck who you are.

You are the man that every company hates having because you don’t know how to adjust yourself to the company and make it better. You think your mere presence does something, but you know what it does? It makes people vomit. It makes people quit. It makes us all wonder why the fuck we aspire to anything because Chris Page gets what Chris Page wants and not because he’s good at what he does, but because he’s a giant fucking crybaby who blasts you when you call him out.

So no, Chris. I’m not going to worship you. I’m not going to say that you joining the roster that we have laid out in front of us is even good. I’m not going to even say that we’re lucky to have you.

I’d like to first introduce you to my fist, followed by my foot, and then the fucking door when you get knocked to the goddamn curb and don’t get your way. You represented how many wrestlers in CCPE? I don’t see any of them sitting at the top of this company, and I don’t see any of them sitting at the top of their companies. Joe Montuori thinks he’s better than he is. He’ll get a rude awakening. Dane Preston? Whining.

You?

Irrelevant and not worth anything. I’m going to enjoy ending your shortlived rise ascension…you know, the one that doesn’t exist. I knew Dickie’s mama had better instincts than he did.

Also, note:...I don’t have to mention other people surrounding me to make me look better.

I can do that on my own.

Just like I’ve sat in Wolfslair, but I’ve always been on my own. Raven a couple of weeks ago had the audacity to come at me and my group, but he failed to realize that while I back it, while I represent it…I am not it. It’s not my identity, and honestly, if you wanted to insult Wolfslair, cool….you wouldn’t be the first and you certainly aren’t the last. But the last man in this four way for this championship is someone that I know fairly well. At least…I did. You know.

The man who cut off all his hair and got a few tattoos and thought that made him scary.

I’ve watched him walk through wrestlers since he returned. Armageddon. Raven last week. I know what Austin wants to do is be this intimidating hulk of a man who destroys everyone and everything that he comes in contact with…

But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

No.

I’m not afraid of Austin James Mercer. I’m not afraid of the name, I’m not afraid of the family attributions, I’m not afraid of what he’s become, who he is, what he may or may not have done. The truth of the matter is that he’s not ready to be here. A former SCW World Champion, I’m sure that he fits the mold of everything that this company wants, but he’s not ready.

You can’t give a broken man a shot at redemption when they’re not ready for it.

You can’t give a broken man anything until they’ve repaired themselves.

AJM is a fuckin’ broken man. A man who will do anything to make himself known, a man who is crying out for fucking attention and desire after he’s lost everything dear to him. His wife is dead. He is alone. And so he reaches out to try and crush everyone else to find some sort of understanding about himself. Maybe answer why he’s had such a rough lot in life. The death of his father, the death of our mutual relative…fuck that bitch tho.

The death of his wife.

Crazy is as crazy does, and I am ready, willing and able to put crazy down.

This is my wrestling ring. This is my place to be. And I am gunning for that championship.

This may be my ticket to the top, and even if I do fail here, I’m not going to stop until I am standing across from the belt. Because right now? The hot potato of the title indicates that it could be anyone taking it. Anyone.

But eventually, it will be mine.

It will be my own.

And then?

None of you will be able to fucking stop me.

Good fucking luck.

All of you are going to need it.

Being nice? She was flirting with you.

The waves rushing against the side of the cruise ship, no matter how far up from the cabins it was, was audible in the silence. It cascaded upon him as he laid there, eyes open as he stared at the ceiling nonchalantly. A bottle hung from his fingertips – Jameson, the thing he used to drown his sorrows in over and over again, a favorite – off the side of the bed. The room spun. It tumbled and weaved, but he knew it wasn’t from the seafaring voyage. They’d made these boats ridiculously smooth over the years. They were moving, but he wouldn’t even have recognized it.

The way she touched your arm, the way she looked at you…

The way her nose flared, the terse pose in her body. Of all the things in the world to be mad about, it was an unimportant little girl who he’d ignored not only because she was probably half his age (or at least looked it), but because he wasn’t particularly the type to flirt with waitresses at a nondescript diner.

Yes, you made that abundantly fucking clear.

Not only was it the anger in her voice, it was the fear that settled within it. Hidden beneath the overtones of aggression and frustration was that miniscule bit of her fear that she thought she’d disguised well enough. But his question was a true question, and it wasn’t bullshit just to piss her off like he so easily did. Her excuse to live in his apartment was that she just needed a place to stay after her break-up with Billy, but eight months later, she was still there.

She was still there, walking around in her short shorts and her tank tops, trying to pull down the collar just enough for her cleavage to be abundantly visible.

She was still there, leaning up against him as he watched television, her back against his body as he lazily laid it across the back of the couch.

She was still there, her toothbrush laying haphazardly on the bathroom counter and her haircare products laying on the floor of his shower.

My game?

She wouldn’t speak to him after that. Refused to open her mouth as they (he) lugged their belongings up the ramp to the boat. Refused to look at him as they went to their separate, but adjoining rooms. Slammed the door in his face once he’d gotten her suitcase into her room. She was the typical woman scorned, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why. At least…in that moment.

He got it now.

Even in his quest to just continue pissing her off, he’d hurt her. And for someone like Kayla, that was significantly difficult to do. Everyone who knew her knew that it was impossibly difficult to get through the layers and layers of self-aggrandizement pushed from trauma that Kayla had to even remotely cause her pain. She was conceited with walls as strong and tall as Fort Knox. She was not a happy person, at all, but somehow, he’d broken through all of those with a statement that, while completely true, seemed to affect her more than it should have.

They weren’t together. And they wouldn’t be together either. While there was a level of obvious comfortability that they seemingly had, there was a lot that Kayla needed to figure out about herself before Finn would even touch the topic. He wasn’t going to jump into a relationship with a woman that barely trusted herself, let alone him. And no matter what Kayla said, that’s how he saw it. She was used to making herself the bad guy in every situation because it didn’t require her to feel anything, didn’t require her to own anything. He got it.

But he didn’t want that.

He didn’t want to lose their comfortability. Didn’t want to lose their friendship because he turned out to be what she didn’t want. He already went through this once, he didn’t want to lose another significant person in his life simply because they thought they wanted something they didn’t want. As much as he was an asshole on the outside, he was still a remarkably good person whether people believed it of him or not. He helped people when he could, he pushed people to do better. He was a guide when he needed to be, and how absolutely altruistic of him, if someone needed a place to fucking live, he gave it to them free of charge.

She had a perception of him that wasn’t particularly true. That he was all aggression and anger, ready to chomp on someone else the second they bared their own teeth at him. And maybe she was prodding at him to get him to do that with her. Gnash back. Get angry. Treat her with aggression that she might somehow get off on. No. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. So he treated her with indifference and much more, he ignored her. It would make her rise.

And he dearly wanted to see how she rose to the occasion.

He had a hand over his Jameson as he leaned against the bar earlier in the evening, and he seemed to be conversational with the bartender. They had odds on the match: Finn said he was definitely losing and when the bartender asked why, he said he had bigger fish to fry in this sea. The man chuckled and went off on his way to help the next guest. Which was when he saw her, talking to some fan who must have gotten her attention. Their eyes locked for a second, and for that second, he could see that a glimmer of happiness flood her eyes. No one else would have recognized it, but it was there. And then it was gone, the second his eyebrow raised, he remembered their tweets and lack of texts, and he turned his head, ignoring her entirely.

He could envision her face going red in irritation. But he didn’t look. He smiled slightly, chuckling to himself as he shook his head. The bartender handed her a drink and she sat with the fan. She was trying to make him jealous – as jealous as she had been about the vapid waitress who asked about his tattoos while probably just trying to get a better tip.

“You know that one?” The bartender was an American, like many of the people on the cruise. African-American, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, actually,” he replied, setting down his glass of Jameson. His eyes settled on the mirror, watching the usual expression of annoyance cross her face as the guy started talking to her.

“Ex-lovers?”

“Not even,” he snorted, shaking his head as she looked up at him one more time. He could feel the sneer she adopted as the guy obviously came onto her. He looked at the placement of his hand, the way he leaned into her. The way she leaned into listen, but immediately turned her head away and ripped her hand back. An inner eyebrow raised, but Finn had learned how to keep his emotions from showing on his face. He’d learned to keep his thoughts from rising in his expression. That was the benefit of having been trained by someone in the Yakuza.

But he was surprised.

She got up and began to make a beeline for him, and he was about to suspect that Kayla would sit next to him, ignore him as he’d ignored her, but stay nearby. And he was prepared. But plans never went the way that they were expected. His phone rang. He swore, reaching for it out of his back pocket and looked at the name. Addisyn. She never called.

The call was inconsequential, but it forced him out of the bar area and out onto the ship’s deck so he could hear her. She asked him why he hadn’t posted any videos and he gave the same reason that he told everyone. She asked about Kat, and she asked about Kayla. He gave nonchalant answers and shrugged his shoulders. By the time he’d returned to the bar, Kayla was gone.

So he stayed. With Miles until his god awful girlfriend went too far. With Lach and Malachi until they got too knackered to survive. With (godforsaken) Alicia until they had no more insults to give one another. By the time he was done, it was early morning hours and the bar was closing for the night. He ordered a bottle of Jameson, stumbled his way down the stairs and into his room. He struggled with his boots, knocking over into the opposite wall, chucking them at it a second later. His pants (why in the fuck did they have to be so tight?) were next, followed by the ripped up shirt he wore. He landed with his eyes upwards and looking above him at the ceiling.

He didn’t know for how long he laid there, the half-empty bottle of Jameson dangling from his fingers, the sound of silence echoing across the ship. The pleasant buzz of something that destroyed and dulled his senses overcame him and he finally felt himself smirk slightly. Maybe finally he’d sleep.

“Fuck,” he muttered, closing his eyes for a moment. He didn’t drift. He couldn’t drift.

“UuuuuuuugggghhhhhhHHHHHH!”

Finn tilted his head and looked at the door. There was stomping, and there was a commotion as the lock was fumbled with until it turned. Without any warning, or a knock, there she was. Kayla. Like a hurricane, she battered her way into the room and left chaos in her wake without even the slightest provocation. She, too, had a bottle of alcohol she must have taken – vodka – and her eyes were alight with anger.

“Why, hm?” She snapped at him. Finn sat up, dropping the bottle of Jameson on the floor and tilting his head. “Why did you just allow that stupid little brat to flirt with you?”

“Why are you still hung up on this?” He retorted, turning to look at her on the bed. “It was fuckin’ inconsequential, Kay–”

“It wasn’t!” She snapped, pointing a finger in his face. “You think it was, but you couldn’t even see what she was doing!” Kayla reached over, mocking the girl again, tracing one of Finn’s colorful tattoos upon his arm. “Oh ehehehe, that’s such a cool looking upside down cross. Did you get it before you colored in the rest? Oh, your hair accents your eyes so well, it looks good!”

“Kayla, she was wanting a better tip and learned that if she complimented her customers they might give her more,” he replied dryly. That was partially a lie. He knew she was flirting. He just didn’t give a shit. “And even if it was flirting, I’m pretty sure it was not reciprocated.”

“And then you ignore me for four days straight the second we get on this stupid fucking ship.” Her words were slurred slightly and she too dropped her bottle of vodka. She took a couple of steps closer and crawled onto the bed. “There was no fuckin’ game, Callien. I know your shitty little weasel brother weaseled his way into your brain and told you that there had to be some ulterior motive as to why I’m…I’m…”

“Still living in my apartment?”

“Kick me out.”

“What?” He did a double take.

Her head was tilted upwards, her makeup smeared at the corners of her eyes. She was defiant, her nose twitching in irritation. Her lip moved with just the smallest fractional frustration. “Kick me out. No balls. You won’t.”

“Kayla.”

“Kick me out!”

Even drunk, Finn still seemed to have all of his faculties. Or at least, all the ones that mattered. She reached out, grabbing hold of his arm and clenching her nails into his skin. He didn’t know if she meant to claw him, or if she was just trying to tie herself to him physically. Regardless, Finn’s opposite hand closed around her wrist and he quickly pinned it behind her back and himself, guiding her semi-forcibly back to the door.

“That–hey!” She growled, trying to adjust her stance as her feet stumbled against the floor. With careful footsteps of his own, he led her – rather pushing her – towards her room, following her without a word. “Finn!”

At the foot of her bed, he gently pushed her and she dropped onto the end of it. Her head whipped around and she looked at him, almost surprised. A slight smile came to her lips, but it was quickly diminished when she realized that he’d already turned back around and was heading back to his own cabin. She scrambled to get up, but he had the door halfway shut behind him.

“Go to bed, Kayla.”

The door slammed behind him with a finality even she couldn’t deny.




You know the only way to feed a Troll is to recognize its existence, right?

I don’t know how long we’ve been perusing the internet with Facebook statuses and bullshit aimed at one another for the sheer pleasure of disrupting the norm. It’s easy to hide behind identities and not have to answer for our sins and our transgressions. It’s easy to hide behind a bluster of confidence and an angry disposition because you don’t want someone to see who you are. It’s also easy to hide behind arrogance and gatekeeping in the attempt to be a good competitor, but a lot of others don’t see it that way.

Regardless of the fact, I’ve been semi-listening to the airwaves regarding me and I’m just so fuckin’ tickled to tell you that I literally do not give a shit about anything that a majority of you dipshits have to say. This is the thing that happens, over and over again. You get content in your positions within the company you work in for more than a year, thinking that over and over again, you’re going to do well and that the higher ups give a shit about you, but at the end of the day…they don’t. You get complacent because you think you’re the greatest gift to wrestling and you think that this sandbox is the only thing out there.

Also pleased to tell you that I’m a fucking champion come this time on tape delay Sunday. World Champion. You see, Alexander Raven over there can sit there and talk about how I have all these failures and Goth can…I dunno, I didn’t even honestly watch that last promo because I’ve solidified myself out of contending for that championship because I’m not fuckin’ interested.

Yes. Finn Whelan isn’t interested in a championship.

It’s not a crazy thing though. It’s not the right time. Not the right time to contest, not a right to fly, not a right time to do anything but create for myself the name that I’m known for. Relentless. A pestilence upon people. A fucking nightmare to face. Why? Because I don’t give any shits about what happens to my opponents anymore, and maybe that makes me an unsafe worker, but what would expect from a man who considers brawling a fun time?

Right.

But this week, I’ve got the Troll. Who’s spent about 3 hours on Twitter trying to troll people, and sorry, but I’m not engaging. Why?

Because that’s how you feed trolls.

Instead, when we get to Jaipuri, I’m going to do what should be done to Trolls.

I’m going to make sure this fuckin’ dumbshit gets kicked in the teeth, and I’m going to break his fingers so he can’t tweet dumb shit to fill my timeline for at least another month. And in the process, I’m going to ensure that people remember that idiots shouldn’t be in the wrestling ring. It’s a hazard, and quite possibly a biohazard when it comes down to it.

Nah, definitely a biohazard.

…

Yeah. Biohazard.

And the following weeks? Keep an eye on me when you see me. I’m not gunning for the low brau shit anymore.

Rise high.

Rise mighty.

Rise relentless.

His feet paced the floor. Back and forth, back and forth. Over and over again. If he kept doing it, he’d wear a hole through the floor in front of his nearly floor to ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. He held his hand lightly over his mouth, thoughtfully as he seemingly stared ahead, boring into nothing, but truthfully, something. The skin of his arms, visible from the oversized t-shirt he wore, still carried the bruises of the thumbtacks that buried themselves into his flesh at Blaze of Glory.

Finn Whelan wasn’t used to failing. He wasn’t used to a zero and something record when he first stepped foot into a company. He wasn’t used to being considered a failure, wasn’t used to the fuck-ups that he’d made. He’d come in, guns blazing, to join a competition that failed him. And when given another opportunity? Squandered that. Eliminated by some Great Value Walmart Version of Marilyn Manson and a so-called monster. That’s what was left. And Goth, a man who rose from his own ashes, won the whole thing only to probably fail against Mac Bane…or whomever was going to be the champion.

That didn’t feel so good.

Given opportunity after opportunity, Finn had really fucked up, hasn’t it?

But he hadn’t said anything. In fact, he took his elimination, walked into the backstage area, and hadn’t said one word about his fuck ups. Not only because they were grating on his own nerves, but because he had nothing to say. All of the things he had said, all of the gravitas and bullshit he’d thrown out without care…yeah, they’d been thrown into the breeze and shot down like a Russian Fighter Jet by a Ukrainian Soldier with an anti-aircraft missile. They were annihilated. Useless. Feckless.

Tap, tap, tap, across the floor. Rhythmic. Slow, not frantic. If he were his younger brother, he’d be like a little hamster, running up and down the cage hurriedly chewing his nails. If he was his sister, Addisyn, she’d be sitting on the windowsill, trying to get both of them to calm the fuck down. But neither would be able to. Both were so high strung, lost in their own heads, it was a wonder if they were actually the ones that were related.

He was sure Alex was sitting in his office, laughing at the failed luck of the Seattle Saint. He wasn’t living up to his promise. He wasn’t living up to be the man that faced him all those years ago and beat the fucker. Now, the SCW Multi-Time Champion had a tidbit that he could hold over Finn’s head, sit there and smirk like a little bitch when they sat in their meetings, across from each other at Wolfslair. Knowing that he’d done better, that he’d succeeded where Finn seemingly couldn’t gain any ground…it was frustrating, to say the least.

Still, a person like Finn was not daunted by the task in front of him. Somehow he’d make it through. Somehow, he would rise above and do exactly what he came here for. It wasn’t going to be a repeat of a failure over and over again. It wasn’t going to be a continual moment in which he’d be considered a fucking joke. He was one and three in this company, dating back to the previous year. So many times in his career he’d been knocked down, but that was the thing about Finn Whelan: he never quit. Never laid down. Never surrendered, and all that fun bullshit the military threw down the throats of the low.

But what if this was the time that he should? What if this was the beginning of that continual fall that would only mean he should retire? Maybe get a day job. Maybe start a pub in the center of New York City like his athair did in the center of Seattle. Maybe do anything but fight for a living.

But that’s what Finn was. A fighter. A brawler. He wasn’t always as technically sound as he was now, and he always preferred weaponry when it was allowed. Thumbtacks, light tubes…fuck, he lived for that shit. But it’d been years since the days of So-Cal Ultraviolent, since KINGDOM Pro. He would have to rely on the technical, the submissionary, the strikes and the throws of the sport, just as he’d been doing for the last couple of years.

He wasn’t aware when his not-really-roommate-but-roommate Kayla Richards appeared from the hallways leading towards the bedrooms and the media room. If he hadn’t been lost in thought, perhaps he would have, what with her wearing a pair of cheeky boyshorts and one of his shirts. Certainly, he would have snapped at her for stealing his clothing yet again, but that didn’t happen. She’d pulled her black hair up into a messy bun, hadn’t bothered to put on shoes or socks, and her makeup was slightly smeared on her raccoon eyes. If Finn hadn’t cut off all thought of playing into her hands as she wanted, he probably would have still found her beautiful in that moment. But he wasn’t there, and this made her frustrated.

She stopped before walking to the couch, dropping into it and pulling her tattooed legs up and grabbing the remote. “Pacing up and down isn’t going to give you any special insights.” Her brown eyes watched her walk up one way, and then back the other way, and he didn’t even bother giving her the satisfaction of looking at her. “I don’t even get why you’re pacing anyway. It isn’t the end of the world.”

His blue eyes shifted across the room to finally lay upon her, but they didn’t stay trained on her. Instead, he frowned deeper and crossed his arms. Kayla raised her arm, placing it on the back of the couch and pressed her hand into the side of her head, propping her chin up on it. “You’re being a pussy about this. You know what they say: you are what you eat, and as much as I’d like you to be that, it’s not working out for you. So what? You’ve lost a couple big shot matches. It’s nothing that you can’t grow from.” Her British accent was filled with sarcasm and disdain. Not for him, just her usual tone.

He stopped.

His feet stopped for a moment.

And it wasn’t because she said some outlandish or crazy truthful thing. Inwardly, he knew she was right. He knew that he wasn’t acting right, that he wasn’t consciously correct in his own personal thought process. But this seriously bothered him. The fact that he, a multi-time world champion, couldn’t get his own ass in gear against even the simplest of people.

That he was considered less than.

That people saw him as the stone they had to step on to get across the river of success, and that he was nothing more than that stone. He wasn’t the waves, he wasn’t the river, he wasn’t anything but…a stepping stone. Not a gatekeeper. Not someone that people respected, or even should have respected. It didn’t matter his championships, it didn’t matter what he’d done prior to this moment. All that they saw was a waste of their time.

He was saved from answering when the doorbell rang – a low, calming tone that alerted the occupants that there was someone indeed standing outside his door, waiting in the private hallway for him to appear. He half-thought that he’d just let whomever it was stand there, and then maybe they’d disappear, but when he didn’t move for the door, Kayla sighed an immensely annoyed sigh and got up. Finn watched her as she disappeared down the long hallway past the immaculate kitchen and swung the door open.

He didn’t hear who it was. He turned and looked out the window, watching the light snow coat the trees of Central Park. But his ears pricked as he heard a voice. Not Kayla’s. Her’s. He snapped his head in the direction of the voice and he turned his entire body, walking towards the dining room  so that he could see into the hallway. Kayla rolled her eyes as she led the guest into his abode, heading for the kitchen and leaning against the granite counter, chewing on her lip.

She was his ex-wife. The mother of his deceased children. The ones that came too early. A flood of memories coated his brain, taking him to a time that he’d rather forget. The echoes of a sob, carried out as she clutched to him. The crying as she stood at their doorway, screaming at him to return. Screaming, anger, frustration…that was all that came out of their relationship. And even seeing her now, her multi-colored hair, platinum with variegated purple, pink, blue and green peeking out through her curls. Her own pristine makeup, the judgmental face that she wore as she glanced at the art on the walls, the opulence that was his apartment. The movie screen television that hung on the wall, the high-class tweed furniture and then, back to Kayla, who at this point was looking her up and down with muted interest as she opened a bag of Takis from the pantry.

“Aaron.” Finn muttered.

“Callien.” She always called him by his real name, even if he preferred “Finn”.

He didn’t ask why she was there. Hell, he didn’t even know how she figured out where he lived. All he knew was that he wanted to do the same thing he’d done that rainy, summer night he’d caught her with one of her wrestling students: walk away. Disappear. Come back and smack her upside the head with another lawsuit. The feeling of rage temporarily coated his disappointment in himself as he stood there, his black hair falling into his icy eyes, his lip twitching over his sharp, white teeth.

“I wanted to see what the lawsuit bought,” she commented,  pressing her hand onto the granite, just a couple of feet away from Kayla. Her eyes traversed the high ceilings, the windows and the view. She raised the opposite hand and ran her fingers across her hairline, pulling some of the more colorful hair up and out of her way. Her oversized eyelashes fluttered slightly as she let herself take it all in. “I didn’t think you’d have a roommate so soon.”

Kayla, in the process of eating her Takis, had placed her finger in her mouth and was licking the flavoring off. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Finn realized what it looked like: Aaron’s perception of Kayla was that she was his new flavor of the week, and no matter how much Kayla wanted that, that wasn’t what he thought of her. After all, she’d just come off an extremely long relationship where she was engaged to another person – he didn’t want to be that rebound she was bound to get. Kayla, however, took the comment in stride, ostentatiously pulling the finger out of her mouth and making a loud pop. “Kayla.”

“Nice to meet you, Kayla.” Aaron replied in a tone that wasn’t at all nice.

“I’d say the same, but I realized that would be as fake as your tracks.”

Aaron turned her head and looked at her with slight surprise, before smiling slightly, snarkily, and looking Kayla up and down. “Or your tits, whichever you’d like to go for.”

“What do you want, Aaron?” Finn cut through them before Kayla could respond – he saw her stand up straight and look at the four-foot-eleven Transglobal Spectacle.

“Like I said, I wanted to see what the lawsuit bought.” She repeated, and then looked up at her with her own hazel-brown eyes, glancing at him up and down. “And I figured we could actually talk since we’re going to be working together in the same building again.”

Finn weighed his options. It was true that Aaron was consulting as a cruiserweight trainer for Wolfslair’s Kallie Reznik, a wrestler who worked out of PWS: Apex and VICTORY PRO now. He’d suggested her when Alex had been looking for someone, and Sonja moved immediately to talk to her. He would have to manage to be civil whenever she was around, and perhaps if they could solve their differences now, they would make a decent team. Like they’d done before, when they were married. Or, he could continue to treat her as if she were the trash she was.

He opted for the former rather than the latter. He nodded slightly and gestured to the living room, heading for the couch. Aaron nodded, hanging her jacket on one of the chairs in the dining room and then following him to the couch. Her Louboutins clicked against the floor, though he had no clue why she was wearing them in ice and snow. She wore her skinny jeans, rips all through them, but a nice top. Clearly, she thought she was still a stunner. And maybe she was. But all Finn saw was betrayal through her.

“Nice apartment.”

“He owns the floor,” Kayla commented, walking past them and into the opposite hallway she’d come out of earlier. She cast a look at Finn as Aaron sat down on the couch, crossing her legs and trying to look far more superior than she was. The look completely read “She’s a bitch”, which was a thousand percent hilarious because so was Kayla, but nevertheless, she walked, carrying her no-pants self into her room and slamming the door behind her.

“Nice…roommate?” Aaron tried, looking at the hallway. “Girlfriend? Flavor of the week?”

“Unlike you, I’m pretty comfortable without someone in my life. Including flavor of the week.” Finn replied dryly, leaning back and crossing his arms. “She’s a roommate. Broke up with her fiance, needed a place to stay…and so here we are.”

“Mhm.”

“What?”

“No roommate walks around with tiny ass boyshorts and wearing shirts that otherwise belong to the male they’re trying to get into their own pants.”

“I dunno what you want me to tell you, Aaron.” Finn shrugged, rolling his eyes, his Irish accent taking hold of his words. “And I certainly don’t recall needing to ask your personal permission anyway.”

“Hm. Touchy.” Aaron held up her hand in mock surrender. “With Kallie needing my help,” she started, not bothering to wait for him to talk. She still knew him – he wasn’t going to, “I think we’re going to need to just set a baseline for our own behavior. I know right now we’re kind of at each other’s throats, but I would prefer it if we didn’t have to act like that. It’s been a couple of years, I think we can treat each other civilly.”

Finn stared at her for a moment, and he was brought back to that day. The sounds he’d heard, the sight he’d walked in on. The red he saw as he tossed the shithead touching his wife down the stairs, watching in satisfaction as he thudded against the wall. Aaron screaming at him to stop, and then the sound of his bootsteps in the rain, splashing up water as he walked away from all of it.

She raised her eyebrow, crossing her fingers over her leg. “Right?” She questioned.

“You cheated on me,” he started, cocking his head to the side slowly, “and you want us to be civil?”

Her cheeks flared bright pink, but she didn’t say anything. In fact, she even turned her head and looked away from him, down at the coffee table in front of them and adjusted herself to sit away from him. While it was true that she’d broken their pre-nup, and he’d sued her for every bit of emotional damage she’d caused (hey, the sum of two-thirds her worth), he still hadn’t anticipated seeing her ever again. In fact, he intended on being out of Wolfslair as much as possible when she was around.

They sat in relative silence for a few purloined moments. Finn scoffed and shook his head. But Aaron closed her eyes and swallowed slightly. “Remember when we met?” She questioned.

Another flashback for him. Though it was just as painful. He’d sat on the sidewalk outside a 7-Eleven in Seattle, even his bones shivering in the cold. He’d been on the streets for a few months, addicted to some of the harder shit. He figured that he’d fucked up so bad then that he didn’t have a way up from there and he’d probably die in some ditch sooner or later. But then there she was. Aaron. Standing in front of him, about to head to her car. She didn’t have such bright hair colors at the time, but he could remember thinking that she was rather attractive. Not that it mattered. She handed him a coffee, smiled, and then proceeded to lose her keys underneath her vehicle. Another one of his fellow addicts thought it’d be the appropriate time to try and rob the woman of her purse, and he thought that was pretty much bullshit, so he’d jumped to her defense and punched out the tweaker.

He never knew what she saw in him that day, but she was the one that helped him out of his misery. Out of his hell. And then, she carried him into her world, and he shot to the heavens. She offered him with a place to live, a place to get clean, and a place to thrive. They had a happy life, or so he thought. But then she lost the twins. And they grew distant. He was off wrestling. And she, to his knowledge, was too busy going through the beds of her wrestling students.

“I know you’re bothered by your performance at Sin City. And I get it, I would be too. Not only did you draw the short stick with your partner, you also got placed in a match with multiple other people for a chance to face a champion of the winner’s choice.” She started, looking up at the flashing colors on the screen. “You haven’t been wrestling full time, and I know you’d never use that as an excuse, but…I think this time, you can. You held your own as the third person standing in that match. It wasn’t easy. The thumbtacks were an added bonus, but I think…you have an opportunity ahead of you. I know you, Callien. You never just give up.”

“Who said I was?” Finn snapped back.

“Alex said you’d been quiet, that you haven’t been as lippy as your normal self.”

“Alex doesn’t know shit.”

“He knows a lot more about you than you expect.” Aaron countered, shaking her head. “And I know it’s hard for you to realize that there are people that give a shit out there, but we all look at you and see a slowly deteriorating competitor that we shouldn’t be seeing. Constant losses, yeah, they’re fucking irritating, but we’ve always known you to stand up and face your next challenge head on. And that’s when you usually rise. This shit you’re doing now? Not you. Has never been you.”

“You also do not know shit.”

“I was married to you for six years.”

“And?” Finn snorted and looked at her. “I’ve been trying to wrap my head around it. Trying to figure out where the fuck I went wrong. I hate the bullshit of looking at people who look like complete dipshits and knowing they’ve done better than I have, and for what? A couple of minutes of fame and a failed attempt to win? Goth didn’t get past Max Whatever the Fuck, and he didn’t defeat me one-on-one. I walked out–”

“You’ve done a lot of that lately too.” Aaron cocked her head to the side and wrapped her fingers around her leg. “Walking out of things. Taking a break when the going gets tough. Do you think you’ve experienced it all so nothing is viable for you anymore? It takes more than just sitting there, stating you’re going to win. It takes pride. Measure. Passion. All the things you used to have before, and I don’t get why you’re not carrying them with you into your matches now.”

Finn went silent. She had him there.

“I know that you’ve got it in you to do great things again. And maybe you’ve had opportunities that you’ve squandered here in Sin City, but it doesn’t look like they’re going to stop any time soon unless you royally screw the pooch here. An actual championship match, not just fucking around for the opportunity. And what are you doing? Pacing in your apartment, acting like a fool.” She shook her head and leaned back against the cushions as well. “This isn’t you. This isn’t who you were, this isn’t who you are, and this isn’t what anyone expects you to be.”

“Nah, everyone just expects me to be the fuck-up that they face and get a cheap win off of.”

“Stop it,” she shook her head and reached over to smack him.

As much as he hated to admit it, Aaron was right. She still knew him. She still understood him. Even if she’d made the mistake, she was still able to help him come to his senses. No, this wasn’t him. This wasn’t The Seattle Saint. This wasn’t the man they’d dubbed The Virulence. Finn Whelan was better than this.

Finn Whelan was championship material, and that championship line would begin with the Roulette Championship. Bill Barnhart wasn’t even going to be aware what hit him.




Multiple losses. Multiple losses, and still, I ride the wave. I guess that’s always who I’ve been in the past, never who I just simply claim to be. Yeah, it’s frustrating, and yeah, I would be stupid to think that I didn’t have a hand in my own personal demise, but at the end of the day, there are always going to be people who are better than another. I put my best foot forward, I fought with everything – literally everything at my disposal. But I didn’t succeed. At least, not where I wanted to be.

It sucks.

But I’m not full of excuses. Unlike others, I don’t immediately take to Twitter and start bitching about my failures. I don't start trying to wheedle into management’s ear that I deserve this that and the other because even if I did, it wouldn’t garner me anything. It wouldn’t push me ahead. It wouldn’t allow me to get past the people who earned their opportunities. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? All earned opportunities. I may have lost the last couple of matches, but it’s also been noted that I’m clearly capable of success, and for a second, I didn’t remember that. Didn’t remember the passion and the drive that’s needed to survive this business…

…while also carrying the inherent need to drive my opponent six feet into the ground and throw dirt on them until they suffocate. Figuratively, of course.

Excuses. I could give them. I could tell you it was an off-day, or that the sun wasn’t the right color, or that the world around me just wasn’t giving me the best juju so I was thrown off. I’ve seen people argue this shit left and right, stating that they weren’t really into the match so they just came down and did fuckall. Stating that the cards just weren’t in their favor, that other people win by luck. Now, I may be an asshole, but I’m not an idiot, and I know that the only lucky thing is this business is if you stumble into a match and somehow figure out how to win the damn thing because you wanted it so fucking bad.

Is that what’s happened here?

Bill Barnhart stumbled his way into a match for the Roulette Championship back in October and just happened to…what, continue to defend it? It was an astonishing thing for me to learn that a man who loses more than he wins somehow won a championship. Miles Kasey and Lincoln Daniels all faced off for it, right? Milo. Oh Milo. We’ve gone there, and I’m not going to go there again for the sake of not embarrassing my gym mate, but Bill Barnhart somehow got lucky enough to have a championship opportunity placed in front of him and he capitalized.

Congrats?

Bill Barnhart, the resident Georgian Redneck, who doesn’t understand the world around him and has a very boomer-esque attitude with all of his wise thirty-eight years of age…has a championship. Now, he’s only defended that title twice, which…okay, good on you mate, but the first defense was against Agostino Romano. The budget male version of Candy. It truly isn’t a surprise to me, but if you want to hold that on your laurels, good on you, lad. Good on you. And then you defended against Alexander Raven, who didn’t quite snuff up to shot, but you know what…good on you again mate. Stellar work. I can truly see why you were a champion the second you walked into Sin City Wrestling.

Oh wait, you weren’t? You mean to tell me from July in Twenty-Nineteen, all the way to October in Twenty-Twenty-One, you were single’s titleless. You mean you didn’t do a goddamned thing for three years of your career except take up roster space and act as everyone’s little bitchboy Bulldog? What a legacy. What profundity. What amazement. Much wow. Very great.

If you can’t tell, sarcasm is wafting off every pore right now. Please hear it with a grain of salt. Please understand that while I’m not interested in your woefully sad and pathetic career here in Sin City, I’m going to make you remember why you’re the stepping stone in this company. Your last match on Climax Control was yourself and Masque De Lune getting kicked out of the tournament by a very lovely competitor in Kat Jones and Mark Cross. A champion dismissed from a tournament such as this? How horrifying. And yet, you still did. Not that I’m surprised. Because the thing I’ve learned about you in all of this, Billy, is that you are a certified blowhard that talks a big game but can’t capitalize when it matters.

I’m going to rattle off some numbers to you. I want you to remember them, embed them and keep them sacred in your mind for however long that pea sized peanut gets an electrical pulse and suddenly you have the capability of thoughts.

Twenty One. Thirty-Five. One.

You should recognize these numbers, because they’re your record here in Sin City. Out of fifty-seven matches, your win percentage is thirty-seven percent. Thirty. Seven. Why do I say this? Why do I open my mouth particularly about this? Because I want you to realize that you’re not the sudden beast that you claim to be. You’re not a kick-ass anything, you are a fraud, man. I’m not going to sugar coat it like Raven did with his neutering and his ending talk. You have a losing record and you want to sit there and tell the rest of the world that you’re an “outstanding wrestler” and that you attended the big ol’ FOK-U…which I really think was just you trying to get a really fucking racist joke directed as Asian-Americans, since it’s Kentucky State University in Frankfurt, but whatever, you’ve got that Genius Fuckin’ IQ, right?

Coolbeans, bro. A plethora of positively supreme legumes, dude. Superb and quite dashing success, mate. Stupendous.

Except you sound like you just came out of a cornfield on a Friday night lookin’ for fuckin’ Wilbur and Charlotte to bring back to the pigpen. Maybe ol’ Bea can cook you up some chicken and waffles and some grits as a side course with your Cracker Barrel Buffet and finish it off with some fried apples doused in sauce and clog up them arteries some more, eh?

Would you like me to continue? I can tell you really like the South and all of its bullshit history.

No?

That’s fine.

So, let’s talk about this championship then. The one you carry with…success. The one I’m going to be stripping you and what’s left of your dignity at Climax Control this Sunday. I had it explained to me, the whole…roulette concept. The wheel gets spun, yaddi-yadda…could land on any kind of match that’s provided. Could get hardcore. Could get regular rules. The possibilities…well they’re not exactly endless, but they are profound. To be perfectly honest, I live in this world where I like hardcore, deathmatch fighting, so if it lands on that…

Sorry, you can’t see my smile right now, but let me know how wide and terrifying it should be for you to imagine.

You saw what I’m capable of at Blaze of Glory X. I don’t particularly give a shit if it’ll damage me, I’m going to absolutely go for your throat with every opportunity at my hands. I live and thrive in the deathmatch scene, I breathe in destruction, and I take it and make beautiful chaos out of it. And the amount in which I dislike you furthers how hard I go.

And Bill…I just really don’t like you, dude.

You really need to understand, I think, who you’re dealing with here. I think you, and a lot of others, attribute my affiliation with Wolfslair to mean that I am the same as all of them that have crossed paths within Sin City. That I am the same. Not only are you wrong, but you’re projecting and I need you to understand the difference between affiliation and raising banners. I didn’t come in here saying I was in Wolfslair. I didn’t come in here saying that they’re going to have my back. When it comes down to it, Alex and I rightfully can’t stand each other, so we’re more likely to be across from one another in the ring than next to. I come here alone. I come here to right my own wrongs. I come to Sin City to be one of the best that have walked through its doors. Perhaps I’m the tortoise for a moment, but if I remember correctly, that little shit won the race in the end. I tried to fast track my way up to the top, and then I realized that it wasn’t going to get me anywhere. So here we are. Earning spots. Taking names. Kicking the teeth of my opponents in and hopefully back down their own throats.

Yeah, my record isn’t spotless in Sin City. But you take a look at the achievements I’ve made possible in seven years of wrestling and compare them to yours…we are in two different leagues. I’m not that average wrestler that’s going to come in, say some surreptitious and salacious things and look like a dumbass every time I make sure I’m known. I’m not that bro that comes out and states that I’m the best wrestler to walk this Earth. Not right now. But I can tell you that I put every bit of effort into my matches and take everything from my opponents. Dignity. Respect. It washes off quickly when truths are laid out, and every false truth about you that you’ve tried to scream into the heavens will be forgotten.

You’re not the best.

You’re not even superior to the ground you walk on.

But with all that gusto, all that misogyny, all of that macho shit will come to an end. You will walk home with your tail between your legs, and if I hear you utter the words Roulette Championship again, it will be far too soon. I ran your last promo against Raven through a keyword density checker and you said it thirty-four times.

It doesn’t matter how many times you say something, it doesn’t make it true. It doesn’t make it any more yours. It doesn’t make it viable and credible. You cannot take possession through words, only actions. And that’s exactly what I’m planning on doing when it comes down to the end of the wire.

Now, I’m not going to repeat myself a thousand times in four different ways. I’m not going to leave you with shitty renditions of pop songs turned into abominations. I’m not even going to question why you’ve banned the Devil from coming for your soul, or…whatever the fuck. No analogies, no comparisons.

Just truths.

And that truth is that when Finn Whelan faces off Bill Barnhart, it will be The White Wolf with his hand raised. It’ll be the Seattle Saint with the title. And as it goes, I’ll be rising above my failures and finding my way up again. I’ll be correcting the wrong that is holding that championship for any longer – you.

I’d say good luck, but I don’t mean it. I wish for you every bit of discomfort that can possibly be bequeathed unto you at the end of this match. Then maybe you’ll stop making grandiose, false statements with that loud mouth and that pea sized brain of yours.

See you soon, Bulldog.