[Thatcher Rex]

 


Ah, Meet-and-Greets. They present the opportunity for fans to finally speak to their favorite superstars face to face, to hold a small conversation and take a photo standing next to them. While it’s virtually an everyday experience with those of us in the business, it is the chance of a lifetime for a fan. Meeting their hero, discovering that he or she is all they are cracked up to be, is a dream that many a young fan dares to hold. Years ago, Thatcher Rex knew that feeling when he’d met one of his wrestling idols, known as The Diamondback. He could barely contain himself, all of nine years old, standing next to that hero and having his picture taken. Joy and excitement had coursed through him, shining through his eyes like a beacon. It was just another day for that wrestler, but to Thatcher, that experience meant so very much. He’d told each and every one of his friends when he’d gone back to school the following Monday. It was all he could talk about!

It is that very memory that drives him to attend the Meet-and-Greet events today.

Not the money, not the aspect of fame, but the chance to make a child’s dream come true. His experience was a unique one; the wrestler he favored had given him a little pep talk, which was probably off the top of his head and out of a kindly nature rather than any true belief in a nine year old. Just a few words from someone you hold so high in regard can go a long way, and after that day, Thatcher truly believed he could become a professional wrestler. He’d told everyone that would listen, The Diamondback himself had said he could enter the business, and that lead to hopes and dreams that would define the young boy for years to come. Looking back, they were just words… but to a child, strong words. Words with meaning and purpose.

A table is laid out before Rex, various 8x10 photos of the Tyrant King neatly arranged in little piles, primed and ready to be signed by the silver Sharpie resting by his hand. It always amazed Thatcher, the amount of fans that would show up to these things; it was supposed to be a small event at the local Frank and Son’s Collectibles Show, but a large line had formed with people of varying ages. Kids were all over, waving and shouting, from toddlers to teens. The adults were about as numerous. Some had even brought old Mass Extinction t-shirts, the ones sold during his days of Evolution Wrestling. There were female fans as well, most of which preferred a more, for lack of a better term, intimate pose. One had even slipped her phone number into his pocket! Fans were a different breed, that was for sure, but they are the fans. Without them, there would be no need to enter the ring.

Rex smiled at each and every fan, giving friendly and encouraging words, posing for pictures, even letting one child put him in a headlock. Seconds of his time provided a lifetime memory for people, and that’s what this was all about; it wasn’t so he could bask in glory. He wasn’t so narcissistic as that. It was for them, all for them. Another smile was flashed as another individual, looking to be around nineteen years old, stepped up to the table.

“And what can I do for you, today?”

The young man sneered, arms crossed over his chest.

“You can sign my ass crack, you colossal dick.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly expected. Thatcher blinked once at the display of disrespect, which bolstered the youth’s confidence.

“What, got nothin’ to say? That’s what I thought. You’re just a geezer that thinks he has what it takes, but your time’s up, old man! You’re going to face James Huntington-Hawkes III, and he’s going to kick your wrinkly ass!”

“Watch your language, son.”

That voice hadn’t come from Thatcher. Rather, it had come from the fan behind him, an older gentleman. The youth spun around.

“Hey, you know what? Fuck you! What are you, his dad? Lick my balls, old man!”

He turned back to Rex, uncrossing his arms to reveal a t-shirt decorated with the face of the current Roulette Champion. He pointed to it with both fingers as he leaned over the table, shouting.

“You see this face? This guy is the future! He’s going to put you down like the dog you are! So why don’t you just grab your walker and get back to the retirement home, like he said on Twitter? You’re gonna fail, and we’re all gonna laugh while you do!”

Thatcher took it all in stride, not letting anger settle into his face. He nodded as if he were having a pleasant dinner conversation. When he spoke, his voice was calm and even.

“I have a question for you.”

The youth seemed taken aback for a second, then his brow narrowed downwards.

“Yeah? What’s that? You want me to drive you to the hospital when the Champ is done with you?”

The corner of Rex’s mouth turned upwards, knowingly.

“How much did he pay you?”

“The hell you talking ‘bout?”

It was at this point that the older gentleman behind the punk once again spoke up.

“He’s asking how much James Huntington-Hawkes III paid you to come out here and harass him. Because people like you don’t have the damn balls to do this on your own. Because actual fans of that spoiled brat are about as rare as a good deed from Misty.”

“I’ve had just enough of you, old man! I’m gonna kick your ass like-“

He turned around, fist cocked, to face an angry crowd of Thatcher Rex fans, each and every one staring him down. His words faltered as he just now began to realize the position he was in; a terrible position indeed. He backed against the table, eyes widening in fear. He about leapt from his shoes when Thatcher spoke.

“I’d suggest getting to your car before the signing’s over, kid.”

The outspoken youth gulped, looking from Rex to the crowd, then bolted for the exit as fast as he could. Rex shook his head, then turned to the old man that had spoken up, about to offer his thanks for the intervention, but the old man brushed it off.

“Bah, ain’t your job to put people like that in their place. Heroes fight for their fans, but fans need to defend their heroes, too.”

“I do appreciate it.”

“I know. Not one of these souls would be waiting in line if they thought you didn’t.”

Thatcher nodded his appreciation, then paused. He’d seen this man before, but where? He stood there and smiled knowingly as Thatcher tried to put the pieces together. How did he know this man? Had he been at one of the shows before? Had they encountered one another at a Meet-and-Gr-

Thatcher’s jaw dropped as he made the connection.

“Figured it out, eh?”

Damn right he figured it out; standing before him was the individual who was one of the most influential in Thatcher’s career decision.

“You’re The Diamondback!”

The former wrestler took a bow.

“In the flesh! What’s left of it anyway.”

The old man laughed at his joke. Thatcher began to call up another chair for his old wrestling hero, intending for them to sign side by side, but The Diamondback declined with a wave.

“Nah, this is your show, Thatcher. Besides, I have a few errands to run… but I’ll gladly join you for a beer later on.”

Thatcher clasped his hand, and they agreed to meet after the signing. After he left, Thatcher shook his head, amazed; he’d come here so people could find joy in meeting their hero. He’d never thought he’d be doing the exact same!


*  *  *

*  *  *


The title defense. It’s the moment when a champion proves to the world, and himself, exactly why he holds that title. It is the chance to show how truly great one is, how formidable their skills, how indomitable their will. What other opportunity is there to prove to the world that the victory that brought them the title wasn’t a fluke? There’s always the chance that you could lose it, of course, but that’s what makes the whole thing exciting; the adrenaline rush, the fear of someone taking something so valuable from your possession, the pride at risk… there are few other feelings quite like those of a title defense. So much is on the line.

I guess that’s why our current Roulette Champion spends his time hiding away in his mansion.

I guess that’s why James Huntington-Hawkes III refuses to show his face, unless he’s behind an announcer’s table.

Oh, he can complain about SCW brass not booking him, but really, kid, we all see through that veil of lies. If you wanted to be in that ring, you’d be on management’s ass day in and day out for a match. Instead, you’re content with watching from afar, feeling an undeserved swell of pride at the fact that you own a belt. I watched the match, son. I saw what happened; you, Mr. Badass of the World, were on your knees begging, begging, for mercy from Goth. Tears streamed down your face like you were a five-year-old girl. You gasped and wept and begged in the face of adversity, scoring victory only after someone else dispatched your opponent. You did absolutely nothing in that match, Hawkes. You were a punching bag, a minor obstacle, until Simpson interfered on your behalf.

Are these the actions of a champion?

Hell no they’re not. They are the actions of a spoiled child, surrounded not by authority figures, but sycophantic yes-men and new-age bullshit. You do know that word, right James? Bullshit? Or has your fourth grade teacher still forbidden you from using such bad words? Regardless, the rest of the world knows it, and that it is synonymous with your entire career. We all know that you, James Huntington-Hawkes III, are nothing but a joke. A sad parody. Without the watchful eye of your pal Simpson, you would have lost your fortune and faded into obscurity long ago. See, the mark of a man is what he can do without relying on outside influences. Take away your money and your babysitters, and what are you? Nothing, kid. Nothing. You’d be sitting all alone on a cot, unable to change your situation in life. You think your wealth somehow puts you above everyone else. You surround yourself with mirrors, staring at your reflection for some hint of greatness. I hate to be the one to break this to you, but mirrors can’t talk, and lucky for you they can’t laugh, either. Because all that’s reflected is a joke. A spoiled little boy who has to shell out cash for friends, for opportunities. You can try and shell it out for greatness, but money goes only so far.

In the ring, it doesn’t matter how rich or poor you are. In the ring, it doesn’t matter where you rank on the social ladder. When it comes to that squared circle, every man is on equal grounds; two combatants, ready to put the other down in an effort to bring glory to their name. But in this situation, my name is not what needs glory… indeed, I’ve attained that many, many times. No, what really needs some glory is the Roulette Title itself. It has been soiled by the Brat Prince of Whine, devalued by his touch. People look at it and think, “Wow, that guy is the Roulette Champion? The competition must suck out loud.” The term “paper champion” is thrown around quite a bit, but I can think of no better example than you, James. You didn’t earn that belt. You didn’t fight for it. You didn’t offer up sweat and blood for that belt. You had someone else do it for you. That doesn’t make you a champion, son, not by any stretch of the imagination. It just makes you the lazy little shit that everyone so loves to see get his comeuppance. And make no mistake, your comeuppance is inevitable. Make no mistake, the Roulette Championship is already mine. It was mine the moment I earned the right to be number one contender. That’s right, earned. In a Triple Threat match, I did not rely on someone else. I charged into the fray and fought for my victory. I emerged from that war victorious on my efforts alone, and no one else’s. I know you can’t say that, Hawkes. I know you can’t proclaim to the world that you fought for your title, because the world will call bullshit. We all bore witness to what transpired back in November; there is no re-writing history. All the money in the world can’t erase what happened, and deep down, you know that you’re in trouble. You’re sitting in your room, huddled in the corner, pissing your pants at the prospect of the Tyrant King taking that belt from you.

The only question is, how?

Will it be in a steel cage? Hell in a Cell? You’re probably hoping, praying, begging God that you’ll get a No Disqualification match, so Simpson can once again come to your rescue. Here’s a tip, Simpson: don’t get involved. This boy is paying you quite handsomely, I’m aware, but there is no paycheck that’s worth what I’ll do to anyone who tries to interfere. But you know what’s worse? The kid won’t give a damn what happens to you. You can leap to his aid, crack me with a chair, and he won’t give a damn. He’ll think it was due to his efforts alone. And when I rise up and toss your mangled form from the ring, he’ll see nothing but a lost asset. There is no value, Simpson. So don’t risk yourself. Many people focus on the ‘King’ aspect of my moniker, but few ever pay attention to what comes before it: Tyrant. I’m one of the good guys, but make no mistake, I am not a nice man. That ring is my territory, and I will expel with prejudice any who dare encroach upon it. Set foot in my ring, and you become my property. Remember that, Simpson, when your ward cries out for assistance. Remember that when the tears of terror stream down his face. This kid needs a lesson, a lesson that you and others before you have failed to impart. A lesson that I will administer on the third day of March, at Blaze of Glory 2.  

This won’t be a match for the ages. This isn’t destined to be some epic battle that people will remember for years to come. This is going to be a massacre. For you, boy, this is going to be the day you learn that you’re not invincible, that you can’t hide behind everyone else and then step forward and act as if you’re the hero of the story. It’s high time someone taught you how to be a man, and it starts with the beating of your life.

So how do you want it, Jimmy? This match is going down with a stipulation, no doubt about that, and it can be anything from a leather strap match to a ladder match. I’ve done it all, son; ladders, tables, cages, last man standing, I Quit matches… hell, I’ve been in no less than three Barbed Wire Massacre matches. I’m ready for anything that wheel has to throw at us. What have you done? What horrors has James Huntington-Hawkes III been through that have forged him into a hardened veteran? The answer is simple: diddly shit. You haven’t done squat, and that’s yet another reason why you haven’t earned anyone’s respect.

You want the respect of a man, but you still play like a boy. You’re the jackass in junior high that pays the smart kid to do his homework for him. You have earned nothing, you have fought for nothing. And just like that kid who has others do his work, it’s all going to catch up with you. Your world will come crashing down around you, and there will be nothing you can do to stop it. You’ll throw tantrums, you’ll stamp your feet, but in the end, all you’ll be able to do is crouch down, hug your knees to your chest, and cry.

You want to walk your little babynuts down to the ring and act like the big man on campus? You want to trade blows?

Son, you can’t even hit puberty.</c>