[The Good Shepherds]

What Goes Around Comes Around
Saxon Hotel Bar, Las Vegas, NV 6/13/2021

Sure, it’s typical, right?  Anyone going through some sort of life changing event is going to, at some point, find themselves sitting up in a bar, downing drinks, wallowing in their own self pity, looking for “feel better sex” if one is single or just an asshole.  If you look around me, you will see, I am, in fact, in a bar.  I’m surrounded by businessmen and women, Vegas performers who have finished their shifts and are looking to unwind, and tourists taking advantage of some of the COVID restrictions being lifted.  Plenty are single, and plenty are already drunk at 7pm on a Sunday, the Lord’s d… sorry, it’s going to take a minute to stop doing that…

But, this is completely atypical.  This is not about me trying to come to terms with what happened at Into the Void X, or since then.  This is about me being free to be myself.  Sure, I can’t say I’m not a bit depressed.  I can’t say that I’m not angry.  I still don’t believe lying is an acceptable behavior.  But, I’m in a good place.  I recently joined a dating site and found that I am quite attractive based on the number of responses I’ve gotten.  But, one person really caught my eye.  There was an instant attraction from the moment I swiped right.  The conversation was good, and we decided to skip the show and we agreed to meet here.

That’s right.  I am on a date!  I’m moving on in the world, like I didn’t spend ions hating myself instead of celebrating myself.  He should be here any second now, and I’m beyond excited.  Is it wrong that I’m already imagining what it would be like to find someone who makes me happy.  Get married.  Have a couple kids from a friendly lesbian surrogate down the street, boys of course.  Lucas and David Jr.  A dog, probably a husky, to grow up with the boys.  The whole white pickett fence fantasy.  That’s weird.  I’m being weird.  But I’m just so nervous.

I keep looking at my phone until I receive a text saying “Here. Parking now”.  The doubt leaves my face, and I wave to the waiter for a glass of water and a bowl of pretzels.  Thinking ahead, just like a gentleman.  The waiter brings the pretzels and goes to fetch the water.  My mind begins going all over the place.  How big is he.  Will he actually like me once he gets to know me?  Is he the type that eats cookies in bed?  Does he snore? How big are his feet? And every single bit of that comes to a halt as I feel the ice cold sting of water splashing across my face.

I’m jolted back to reality, and I look to the bartender as if to say “I didn’t ask for my water to-to” when I realize he has a full glass in his hand, and looks just as shocked as I do.  It only takes a second to realize who is standing in front of me, using one crutch to balance herself.  Virginia Mae Putnam… my ex-fiancee.  Luckily she follows up the water with a slap, because otherwise, every vein in my body would have been ice cold.  Her cheeks are redder than a tomato, and her knuckles are white from clenching her fists so tightly.

Virginia:  You scum!  You cretin!  You… You…! Rrrrrrgh!

To be fair, she has every right to do this, and I’m not above admitting that.  She clubs me on the shoulders and chest as fast as she can on one crutch, and it hurts.  She is a trained wrestler afterall.  But I take it.  The names she deserves to call me are well beyond what she calls me.  I grab onto her wrist to stop her as her front of anger begins to dissolve into tears of hurt and pain as she rests against my chest.

Pause scene. As a little refresher course for those who are just tuning in, The Shepherd family were once no-good pieces of shit who lived in a rundown apartment building in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  Father was an alcoholic army veteran with PTSD.  Mother was a depressed pill junkie turned heroin addict.  Esther was the most normal of us all, just trying to survive the environment.  I was, well, a closeted homosexual who picked up habits from both parents, and brought numerous skanks and sluts home to try to “fuck the gay away”.  My parents split up because they were just a little too toxic together to work out anymore.  Father stepped out on mother with a young blonde with the greenest eyes you’d ever seen, and her name was Virginia Mae Putnam.  She encouraged him to form the Church of the Good Shepherds.  His side whore while he “fixed” mommy and me.  Once we were “fixed”, she was to be my wife.  I never truly got over the fact that my to-be wife once had my dad’s staff parting her pink sea.  And, unpause.

Virginia:  You’re a real piece of shit, you know that, David Shepherd? If it wasn’t bad enough what you did to your family last week, you gone and kissed that man at Into the Void, all while your fiancee is recovering from a possibly career ending injury!  What kind of man are you?

Me:  I…

Virginia:  You don’t get to speak, David Shepherd!  You lost that chance when you ignored my calls for a month!  You knew you gave up that chance when you locked lips with that… that… unrepentant heathen!  But I could have forgiven that if you’d have just talked to me.  We coulda gone through your therapy together as the Lord intended!

Me:  I don’t think no one intended for me to get beaten and shocked like some animal, or else I wouldn’t be here about ready to go on a date.

Ginny’s eyes widen.  Uh oh.  The crazy is about to really come out.  She laughs, and her eyes glaze over in a way that lets me know I’m about to walk through hell.  She drops the crutch out of pride, and she begins limping around to any man that is not with anyone.  She picks up the arm of a balding businessman in a nice suit, and his watch is expensive.  But he’s not really my type.

Virginia:  Are you here to date my fiancee?  Did you know he was engaged to a woman?

Me:  Ginny… Come on now.

Virginia:  NO!

She turns to a pretty hunky backup dancer type with just enough tattoo work to let me know he’d be a wild ride.  But the frosted tips let me know he’s not relationship material for me.

Virginia:  How about you?  Where did you two meet, a Lady Gaga concert?  Liza Minelli show?  In some heathenous establishment, dancing bare chest to bare chest to Kylie Minogue? TELL ME!

Man 2:  No, but I like the way you think, sis.

He gave me eyes that let me know I could ask for his room number.  Snap out of it, David!  This is not the time, nor the place.  I walk over to Ginny and I pull her away from Frosted Flake.  She instantly rips her arm away from my hand.

Virginia:  DON’T YOU TOUCH ME, FILTHY MONGREL!!! Do NOT put your hands on me ever again.  You’re disgusting, and I hate to admit that I can no longer make direct comments about your sexuality per church law, but do not mistake that I’m not thinking them right at you, David!  Just you!  Derek Barry backup dancer here is okay.  And if you are looking to find God, I’ve got a pamphlet for you.

Man 2:  I’ll have what you were having.  I’m sure I could find God twice as fast, hon.

Ginny ignores that and starts over to… my date for the night.  Nate - 29 - post grad, working in urology.  Non-smoker with a cigarette fetish, knows how to cook, and would love to prepare a meal for me sometime…

Yeah, not anymore.

Virginia:  Or you?  I bet he told you he was hung like a horse.  But I think he meant to say “seahorse”.  He has horrible morning breath, and thinks he can sing Johnny Cash, but he sounds like someone is strangling Foghorn Leghorn.  He is a man child, with no maturity.  Heck, he couldn’t even tell me our engagement was broken off, and yet here you are, on a date with an engaged man, because he’s too chicken shit to confront me!

Nate:  That sure would make for an awkward sleepover, wouldn’t it?  Shower time would be a real drag. I’m sorry you are going through all of this.  Can I buy you a drink?

And just like that, Lucas and David Jr evaporate, along with the husky, the fence, and the friendly lesbian down the street.  All gone as she lets go of his hand.  He seems to have calmed her down.  They go to the other end of the bar with Frosted Flake, and the three share laughs at my expense.  My only reaction is that the bartender never even once tried to call for security so that I could play the good guy and tell them they weren’t needed.  We could’ve gone to a more quiet place to talk and maybe we could’ve been friends still.

No, that situation is fucked beyond all repair.  Instead, I take a deep breath, look at my phone to see a new text alerting me of my match with Mac Bane next week, and I just roll my eyes.  Of course I have to fight this one right now.  But, not exactly “right now”.  I slap a twenty down on the bar because I refuse to be that guy, lonely and humiliated at a bar.  It’s too typical, and I’m not ready for that level of normalcy right now.

I walk out of the bar as Nate and Flake wave goodbye, and Ginny laughs, taking the red wine as the blood of Christ a little too heavily right now.  I go to my room, and I slam the door shut, kicking at it.  I tangle my fingers up in my hair and I lean against the door, taking in a deep breath.  Eyes are closed, and I can hear the sound of my own breathing, and somehow, I smell the scent of cigarette permeating off of my body from the bar… that was smoke free…

Esther:  Look here you little annoying vaginal itch…

Grooooooooaaaaaaaaan… My eyes slowly open as I see my sister sitting on my white pleather couch, looking directly at me with her legs crossed, looking all proper and shit, despite wearing a pink letterman’s cheer sweater and matching skirt.  She stands up and walks over to me.  She wraps her arms around me in a hug that is sadly too genuine for my liking.  However, I let her have that comfort while returning none of it.  She lingers with it too, and just before I’m about to break free from her emotional grasp, she lets go of me.

Esther:  Don’t you know how to return a call, bitch?  You had me worried.  Like, as in, still worried.  Because you’re off your rocker, big time buddy boy.

Me:  I’m fff…

Esther:  Don’t feed me that “I’m fine” bullshit.  You’re not fine, at all.  Clearly.  You’re forcing yourself to go through this alone, which is… fucking stupid.  You nearly burned down the Las Vegas chapter of the church.  And while I find that extremely funny, I know you wouldn’t have done that.  Or that horribly awesome paint job you gave it.  I’m pretty sure I can’t give you credit for the wicked graffiti, but it looks pretty cool. I would go to that church.

I rolls my eyes as Esther ushers me over to the couch.  She points to the bottle of water on the table, and had it been opened, I’d be afraid of what she might have tried to slip in there, and I would not have drank from it.  But, it is sealed, and I crack it open and take a sip.

Me:  You’re blowing this way out of proportion.  Yeah, I had a little misstep, but I said my piece to the family, and now I’m chill.  I mean, I just had a bad date, so I’m a little annoyed by that, but I’m good.  Doing really good, actually.

Esther looks over to the empty bottles scattered near the bed, and then slowly looks back to me, like she’s asking me “Really?”  I sigh and try to change the subject.

Me:  So, how are things now that dad has openly accepted you and Andrey into his loving arms?  Is Andrey converting?  Has he pressured you for kids yet?

Esther:  Nice try, dickwad.  This is your one person intervention, and I’m not leaving this room until you spill it.  You act like I don’t know you like the back of my hand, and you lying is really starting to piss me off.

She’s not going to give up.  That much is clear.  I don’t want to talk, but I also don’t want a sleepover with my sister either.  I’m trapped between a rock and a hard place, because I’ll rip anyone to shreds should they ever put me in this position, but this is my sister, and we’ve gone through so much together that I would never dream of it.  Sigh. Deep breath.

Me:  I’m not doing great, honestly.  I mean, I don’t know to make heads or tails of any of this.  One minute, my head tells me this is what should’ve happened years ago.  The next, it says that dad is an asshole who put us through hell for literally no good reason.  And mom allowed it.  Suddenly, it’s okay to be gay, and every poke, prod, shock, flay of the whip means nothing, and I’m supposed to unpack all of that like it’s no big deal.  I’m supposed to just move on with my life like none of that ever happened.  Up is down, wrong is right.  I can’t… I can’t keep up with this.

I stop so she can say some smartass thing like she always does.  But she doesn’t.  She looks as if she wants to cry, but her pride in the overly applied mascara stops her from doing it.  Her lip quivers as she looks away from me, because she can’t even stand to look at me.

Me:  I chose the wrong time to come out against my own will.  I truly hate that man.  I hate Kristjan.  I hate him, and yet he won’t get out of my head.  He’s truly wicked, and this is coming from the man who just burned a Jesus statue two weeks ago.  We can say that we were playing head games, and that’s fine.  But the fact of the matter is that I lost that match in so many ways.  On official record, I lost.  Mentally, I lost.  Physically, I lost, Spiritually, I lost.  I was humiliated in every single way, where for a split second, before I even knew what was happening, time stood still, and all of those booing assholes at ringside were quiet.  The warmth of the lights shined down on us, and… everything felt fine.  I felt free.  I felt trapped.  I felt at ease.  I felt overwhelmed.  I was overtaken by his warmth, and it felt just as if what dad always said was true of God himself.  Nothing made sense, but I felt so… good… but my senses kicked in, and I realized that I wasn’t meant to feel good because of this man.  Then and there, I decided I hated him.  Even as he stole his gum away from me, I hated him so deeply for opening that door and letting everything just flood out.  All of that pain, all of my will, he took from me, but continues to make me stare it right in the fucking face.  I fucking hate Fenris so much that I never want to see, taste, touch, smell, or feel him ever again.

The words feel so painful coming out of my mouth as I say them.  It’s like my chest is being ripped open from the inside out.  Not in an emotional sort of way, but physically, like a xenomorph is trying to escape my chest.  Esther lights another cigarette and puffs on it softly before putting a hand on my shoulder.

Esther:  Brother?  Can I give you my honest opinion?

I look to her and nod my head, even though I’m not sure I want to hear it.  She offers me a warm smile.

Esther:  To me, that sounds like true love.  I felt the same way about Andrey at first.  As I got to know him, I realized all of those feelings were meant to be, and we just… were.  I threw away everything because I knew that those who cared would be by my side no matter what.  And you were there for me during that time.  That’s why I want you to understand that this is a good feeling.

I laugh because, if I didn’t, I’d probably chuck the glass coffee table well across the room.  Or I’d start screaming at her to get out, because, how much more wrong could she possibly be about my feelings for Kristjan?

Me:  You have no idea what you’re talking about.  Just because you like being mentally abused by Boris Fuckwadzikov doesn’t mean that I’m looking for that kind of “love”.

Esther:  I would’ve expected a better insult from you, Dave.  Something about being a commie, maybe?  At least it was kind of original, but man…

Me:  I guess I need to work on that for when it comes time to talk up my match next week against Mac Bane, huh?

Esther nods her head, but isn’t letting me out of this conversation just yet.

Esther:  If you’re going to suck, then suck with Kristjan.  At least then, some of his greatness might rub off on you, or in you at least.

Cringe.  That’s all I was thinking at the moment.  But then, it turns into a situation of “maybe if I’m quite, she’ll leave it be” situation.  The embarrassment of it all gets to me.

Me:  I’m not in a place for a relationship right now, with anybody, let alone Fenris.  I can’t even start to figure that out right now.  My head is such a mess, and I really have a lot to unpack.  Like, where do I start, honestly?

Esther:  I don’t mean this in a bad way, but you need help.  If you try to do this on your own, you’re in for a long, hard road.  And since you’re too damn stubborn to let anyone help you, then maybe you should see a therapist.

I shake my head.

Me:  Nope, not happening.  Simply not, huh-uh, no way.  I don’t need help.  I can handle this the way I was meant to by nature.  They didn’t have therapists way back when, and people did just fine.

Esther:  Yeah, with their sky daddy complexes, wars to make up for their small penises, burning people at the stake for being “witches”, stealing, murdering, raping… that’s all very healthy, isn’t it?  Fuck that, David, go see a therapist.  If it helps, I can give you the name of mine.  He really helped me through some tough times.

Me:  Hard pass, sis.  I’ll do just fine on my own.  I doubt I’ll be waging genocidal wars or murdering anyone.

Esther:  Just drinking yourself into a coma like a stupid piece of shit.  Got it.

I am about to start fighting back on this matter, but she pulls her phone out and overtalks my attempts to object.  She grabs a cocktail napkin and writes down a number on it.

Me:  No, I don’t need it, but thank you.  I appreciate your concern, but…

Esther:  I’m just going to leave “this” here.  After your bad date sets in, and your encounter with Ginny resonates, you will…

Me:  Wait, how did you know about Ginny.  Did you…

Esther:  Byyyyyyeeeeeeee…

Esther chuckles a bit, but she knows I’m going to chase her down for answers, so she hurries out of the room and closes the door.  I can hear the scuffs of her tennis shoes against the floor in the hallway as she rushes back to her room.  I plop back down on the couch and pick up the napkin.  Dr. Kenneth Mansfield.  Sounds like a douche…

Revelations (Part 7)
Church of the Good Shepherds - Las Vegas Chapter 6/18/2021


The place is a real dump.  The paint is splashed all over the walls, reminding me what a headcase I was.  The burn marks make this place look as if it should be condemned.  Yet, there is a group of people inside, seated in the pews, others sleeping on the floor.  And not to be judgmental or anything, but they seem like the bottom of the barrel of society.  And I don’t mean this in a bad way, because I feel like I’m right there with them.  Sure, I might not be a junkie.  I might not be an alcoholic yet.  I might not be as dirty as they look, having to squat in an abandoned church, but my soul is even more filthy than theirs.  And I’m here to celebrate it.  To own it.  No one bats an eye as I walk down the aisle and right to the damaged pulpit.  I walk up to the podium and I look out at everyone, half of whom are still not looking at me.  I check the microphone switch, and after a whir through the speakers, it is functional as is evident by my breaths into the mic.  The sound gets everyone’s attention immediately.  Those on the floor crawl into the pews, so not to be disrespectful, while others make a run toward the door.

Me:  This is private property, owned by me, and I ask that you all stay.

A few wary folks leave through the main doors, but most stay seated, about 20 or so fellow miscreants.  I am silent, because, obviously this wasn’t planned.  It was supposed to be working off some stress by getting things done around the building.  But inspiration has struck, and here I am.

Me:  Jesus did this, Moses said that.  Abraham hit me with a wiffleball bat…

A Little Nicky reference seemed appropriate at the moment.  However, some of the younger crowd doesn’t get the reference.  Two more people get up and walk toward the doors.  I hold my hand up.

Me:  I'm a good Catholic girl in the way that Madonna is. In the sense that I'm not that good at all.

The two headed toward the doors as I quote Heather Graham.  They turn and stare curiously at me for a second.  I think I’ve got them.  I take a deep breath and give my favorite Stigmata quote.

Me:  You know what's scarier than not believing in God? Believing in him. I mean, really believing in him. It's a fucking terrifying thought.

Woman:  Why are you quoting movies?

I shrug my shoulders.

Me:  Why are you squatting in my establishment?  I mean, we all have our reasons, even if they don’t make sense to others… or me… at this point… “I ain't through with you by a damn sight! I'm gonna get medieval on your ass.” Pulp Fiction.  "Mama always said life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get." Forrest Gump. “That is one big pile of shit.” Jurassic Park.

As I look around, I see people are as confused as can be, because they are scratching their heads.  I guess they weren’t prepared for me right now, and that’s okay.  I’ll let them in on it soon enough.

Me: Welcome to my world.  Confusion has been the way I’ve been living life for the last several years, but especially the last month or so. Everything has been jumbled, but I’m starting to see a moment of clarity.  No, I’m serious.

They still don’t know what I’m talking about, and I truly feel most of them are hanging around here because they have nowhere else to go.

Me:  I might… just maybe… I might see things like I’ve never seen them before, and I think I’m going to be okay.  But then, BAM! Blindsided! Knocked over in… shock isn’t quite strong enough of a word to describe it, but… confusion is the theme of the day.

As I say “BAM!” I knock over the podium and begin walking back and forth across the stage.  I’m channeling my inner Father Gerald now, and I kind of think some of the crowd is here for it now.

Me:  You’re confused! I get it, trust me. Only now, you know how I felt when I saw the card for this week’s Climax Control.  I admit, I expected something along the lines of Caleb Storms.  A sad little man who is trying so hard to rebound from only winning a title because it was handed to him.  All the way up to Alex Jones, so maybe I could get my rematch for the Roulette Championship.  Or, even a competitor worth the trouble.  Or, let’s say I’ve impressed people enough, then maybe I could go on to face Mark Cross for a round two, to bring that historic Sin City Underground match to life for the SCW fans.  But no.

I shake my head and shrug my shoulders.  I can tell now that the group gathered before me has pieced together exactly who I am, even if they don’t fully know me.  My exposure in SCW has given me something, at least, for better or for worse.

Me:  I get Mac Bane… Not to take anything away from the Internet Champion, but why the fuck am I facing Mac Bane?  Where in the fuck does that make any sense at all?  It’s like they booked everybody and decided they needed one more match, and we were the table scraps left over.  Otherwise, I don’t see a point in this at all.  I mean, in what universe is this logical?

I stop moving back and forth across the stage and stop as people are getting interested, even if they didn’t gather here to hear me talk about my match.

Me:  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m honored to fight the Internet Champion.  During my time as a star on the rise, I’ve thought long and hard about where I’d like to see myself within the next couple of months, and it certainly is as the Internet Champion.  Hashtag career goals.  And what better way to prove that I’ve moved on to the next level than to beat the Internet Champion?  Newsflash, there isn’t.  And some might say “Well, that’s your explanation right there, Dave!”  First off, don’t ever call me Dave or I’ll fuck you in the butt.  Second, they don’t know that’s my next step.  So I have no issues in fighting the Internet Champion.  As a matter of fact, that made my day.  It’s just a shame that the champion is Mac Bane…

There are a couple of “ooooh’s” from my makeshift audience that let me know I’m on the right path to touching some nerves.  But, they don’t know me well enough to know that this is just child's play.

Me:  Let’s rewind a bit here.  Let’s talk about O’Malley.  This man was a jurassic waste of roster space.  He’s as shit in the ring as he is at being a father.  He’s a student of the great Gabriel Stevens, but somehow finds a way to suck ass.  It doesn’t make sense.  And the social media representation he gives any title he touches makes the company of said title look like absolute shit to be held by such a whiny, bitchy, poor excuse for a human being.  And yet, as I stand here, reliving that “feud”, which should be heard as “the few times I royally kicked his ass and embarrassed him and took a title off of him”... I also find myself wishing I was fighting him instead.

Murmurs escape the lips of the crowd as they seem more confused than before.

Me:  At least… AT LEAST… O’Malley had a reputation.  His idiot brother brought fans to his side, and he put asses in seats.  What does Mac Bane do here in Sin City?  Fail.  He’s a failure as sure as I am standing here before you all, he’s nothing.  Being in a match with him is like advertising that I’m fighting a useless sack of flour.  Sure, professional wrestlers have drawn big fighting inanimate objects, but let’s keep in mind that this one is a human being somehow.  He’s more dry than The Troll’s sex life.  He’s big, yeah, and he smells like manly man, but what else is there?  He’s dicking down the World Bombshell Champion?  Cool, give me something else, because that doesn’t mean a thing to me.

I feel it welling up inside now.  That sneer that lets people know I’m taking things personal, and acting in kind.  I begin pacing again as I deliver it like a sermon given from God himself.

Me:  “He almost won the Blast From the Past 2021 Tournament”.  Almost.  As in he failed.  He’s a failure, and that’s the first bit of solid proof, heathens.  He couldn’t get the job done against Mark Cross.  It’s a big, gaping hole in his armor, his biggest weakness.  Either he wasn’t man enough to take down the half man known as Mark Cross, because he lacks the skill to do so, or… OR… he purposely tanked for his lady friend.  She must be as wild as she looks, or else there is no way that snap trap would be enough for him to tank a match that would give him supreme power here in SCW, where he could have become the World Heavyweight Champion, just like Mark Cross did.  I have to believe that no one is simp enough to give all that away from the kitty.

I throw my free hand up in the air, as if to ask God “Why?”  It just doesn’t make sense, further adding to my own confusion.

Me:  Mac Bane has to be such a sad sack of shit for that to happen.  But then, I question… is it worse to lose to Mark Cross?  That’s a pain I’ve felt before.  It’s humiliating, and yet somehow encouraging.  I lost to him, and I took the next step.  I came to SCW, I won the Roulette Championship in my second match here.  I moved on to bigger and better things.  And Mac Bane very well might have done the same thing.  I would bet money on it if he didn’t feel the need to brag about being part of Carnage Wrestling as one of their champions.  That’s literally the home of literally literal bags of excrement.  Like, human, dog, bull, horse, gorilla shit.  That’s worse than the time Tim Staggs mentioned joining Carnage Wrestling, and everybody shit on him for like a month.  You’re just inviting it, Mac…

Duh!  What is he, an idiot?  Wait, wrong question, because...

Me:  So we’ve established that you’re the human equivalent to a turd.  You simped out your biggest chance at winning “the big one”.  You’re more boring than Lincoln Daniels.  And just as predictable, too.  You somehow made it past O’Malley to win the Internet Championship, and it was considered the biggest upset of Into the Void X.  Against. O’Malley.  Ooooooooh’Mallllllllllleyyyyyy… That was the upset.  The more I talk about you, the more I feel sorry for you.  Genuinely.  Why don’t you just do yourself a favor and not show up on Sunday.  Disappear like you did before the tournament and don’t look back.  Because as much as I feel sorry for you, I won’t lighten up on how I handle business in the ring.  I’ll fuck you like I’m buying you dinner afterwards.  Because, unlike you, I don’t let my personal feelings interfere with how I perform in the ring.  And, bear with me, because I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, and that IS the best case scenario…

People are cheering like I’m paying them to, now.  Some are praising me as if I’m testifying the Truth before them.

Me:  Now, I have to admit something.  I have heard whispers backstage about Mac wanting to face me ever since my father got his gal’s panties in a twist on Twitter.  Apparently, there was hopes of a David Shepherd and Austin James Mercer versus Fenris and Mac Bane petition going on, and Mac was riding that train all the way to Relevenceville.  I know, I know, I should have listened and gotten this ass beating out of the way much sooner, but, priorities.  I guess I had forgotten until just now.  So, it’s some sort of justice really.  Kind of.

I stop pacing and step down from the pulpit, amongst the gathering of heathens before me, and I shake hands as I start to walk down the aisle.

Me:  But, not really.  See, this match is outshadowed by what should be instead of what hasn’t been.  See, the true injustice is the fact that Mac Bane has wanted to fight me, and yet he isn’t going to petition to put his belt on the line.  Evidence exhibit B.  He knows what would happen if his title was on the line.  I’d be the champion, and he’d fade back to obscurity.  He would lose the only thing that people pay attention to him over.  How sad would that be for him?  But, it also proves why he shouldn’t be the champion.  A REAL champion would be a fighting champion.  A REAL champion would be someone who would demand his title be on the line against any and all competition.  A REAL champion wouldn’t hide behind the “non-title”.  He would at least make an attempt to put that shit on the line.  And yet, here he is, being a sack of shit, and avoiding it.  Essentially avoiding me and trying to hide any legitimacy I might have.  And yet… I’ve beaten the last three champions.  And I’d gladly take the fourth most recent one too.

I turn back around and start making my way back down the aisle and toward the pulpit.

Me:  Make no mistake about it.  I’m going to leave my mark.  I’m going to destroy Mac.  I’m going to shrug him off, and I’m going to move on to bigger and more relevant things.  I’m going to remind Mac that he’s nothing more than a stepping stone to what he’s lucky to actually have.  And I’m going to make him regret hoping to ever face me.  As Brother David Shepherd, of Church of the Good Shepherds, I would have been half the battle I am today.  I would have been bound by rules and guidelines.  Now, I’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain.  As Brother David of the Church of Heathens, name in the works, I know no limits.  I have no guidelines or boundaries.  For you see, I, too, and a giant bag of shit.  But I’m a bag of shit that gets results.  And I ask everyone in attendance tonight to spread the word.  Come here to congregate amongst your fellow human waste.  Escape judgment, and be free.  As humiliating as it might be for Mac, even he is welcome. After I beat that ass on Sunday, that is.

Mic drop.  I’ve wasted enough time on Mac, and I have nothing else to say with my mouth, only my fists.  The group gathered before me cheers me on, for my message has been heard,  In this wasteland, there is reprieve, but that does not come at no cost.  The price is high.  It is their humanity and their humility.  I sneer as I begin walking toward the door to leave my building.  I turn back and give my congregation one last look of admiration before exiting.