The second deadline has now passed

 The second deadline has now passed

 The second deadline has now passed

 The second deadline has now passed

 The second deadline has now passed

 The second deadline has now passed

 The second Deadline has now passed

 

 My time in St. Louis helped me to realize what needs to be done.  This Mister Nice Guy needs to disappear.  I am tired of getting raped at every corner I turn.  Whether it be schedule mix ups, or young punks named Kevin Carter who want to take away what is mine, or someone like Jordan Williams who takes advantage of a slight lapse in judgment… it comes down to me looking like a fucking fool, and that stops right here… right now.

The past two years, I have made it my mission to watch other people’s backs.  I have been looking out for the best interests of everyone around me, but who has had my back?  Nobody is exactly right.  I have been nearly stripped of my SCW title, had schedules mixed up on me twice, dropped on my head, smacked with a chair and pinned in a match that, in all rights should have been a disqualification, banned from competing in a match I was rightfully admitted into, framed for a beat down on somebody while having my locker room trashed, and verbally smashed by people who only wish they were good enough to come near either of my titles.  I had taken the majority of it in stride, but I am tired of looking like an idiot.

I am not the champion of my region, AND of the world, because I am this spineless, dishonorable piece of shit that everyone is making me out to be.  Call me lucky all you want, but it wasn’t by luck that I won and defended my NWA World Heavyweight title.  It wasn’t by some coincidence that I have held onto the SCW Heavyweight title for over five months.  I have earned every single one of my accomplishments, and I’ll be damned if I stand idly by and allow it to happen.  If Sean Jackson is good enough to beat me, then he is going to get me at my best.  He gets to meet the real Spike Staggs, the monster that has been dwelling inside of me, begging to be let out, even just for a few moments.  The insatiable bloodlust from within me will get a small taste, Mr. Jackson.  That is a promise…


**********************************************************************


Today, the sun has prevailed on this beautiful day in St. Louis, Missouri.  The birds are chirping, basking in the warm reverie of Spring time.  A gentle breeze wisps by as the families flock to the world famous zoo in Forest Park.  The joyful squeals of children echo throughout the parking lot.  Off to the right, a little league team plays baseball on the small diamond as their parents competitively cheer them on.  Just behind them, children fly brightly colored kites with their friends and family.  All in all, it is a perfect day to be outside.  Just about fifty feet away, Spike is seen sitting on a concrete wall, enjoying the shade and the crisp breeze that comes along with it.  He has his feet propped up as he lies across the upward slope of the wall.  His eyes dance across the scene unfolding before him, wandering over to his 14 year old son, Tim, and his 5 year old daughter Eden.  He watches as his ginger son chases his daughter around the green field before him.  She is carrying a Frisbee, but rather than throw it, she simply runs from her big brother, squealing in delight.  Spike slowly lifts his sunglasses off of his face and tucks them into his shirt pocket.  He dangles his black boots off of the side of the wall as he sits up.  He soaks in the joy of his children that he has missed so much with being on the road.  He watches as Vixen comes into the fold, playfully shouting with them as she chases them around in a circle.  Eden turns around and hands her the Frisbee and runs far into the distance, shouting for Vixen to throw it.  Spike’s lip curls up into a smile as he leans his head back to observe it.

Spike:  Sometimes, you just have to take a step back to really enjoy what you find most important to you.  My family has always been, and will always be, number one to me.  I am fortunate enough that my children have grown up in this business, and they understand.  I miss the opportunity to tuck them in at night.  I miss the opportunity to hear their laughs.  The last four weeks have been hell for me in that respect.  Finally, I have the opportunity to truly unwind and spend time with those most important to me.

Spike eyeballs Vixen and the kids to make sure they aren’t looking right at him.  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette and a lighter.  He breaths it in deeply, enjoying the bittersweet tingle in his lungs.  He holds it there for a moment before slowly exhaling.  He leans back slightly, holding the cigarette between his fingers as he leans off of the wall.  He drops down to the ground, leaning against the six foot wall.  He takes in another puff before turning to face the camera.

Spike:  I have been criticized for allowing my children into the spotlight.  I have been told I use them as a storyline.  Sue me if I have pride in my creations.  I love them more than life itself.  I might have had my issues in the past, but my children make me a better person.  It is because of them that I feel like I have a reason to be an upstanding person.  Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to convey to them how to be strong, integral, and independent.  For them, I feel like I must undergo another metamorphosis.

Spike takes another long drag from the cigarette, flicking the ash off of the end before exhaling a big cloud that gleams silver in the sunlight that pokes through the budding leaves of the trees surrounding him.  He kneels down as the camera follows him.  He takes in a deep breath, enjoying the smell of the fresh cut grass around him.

Spike:  No more Mister Nice Guy from here on out.  Being naïve has never been my forte.  I was much better off when I only trusted people as far as I could throw them.  If I haven’t spent a great deal of time around someone, the chances are, I will take my eyes off of them.

Spike kicks his feet out, trying his best to conceal the cigarette from his children who run in his direction.  They swerve, shouting to get his attention.  “Dad! DAD!” He smiles and waves at them as Vixen winks in his direction.  Spike chuckles a bit as they circle around the tree and back onto the field.  He slowly brings the cigarette back to his lips, taking in another puff before he continues talking through the exhaled cloud.

Spike:  Right now, I don’t trust my opponent Sean Jackson.  Out of any opponent I have faced in recent years, he is the one I will have my eyes wide open for.  Does he have talent?  Yeah, he does.  Does he have intelligence?  Minimal, but yes.  Does he lack common sense?  Hell yeah he does.  I understand trash talking your opponent as much as the next guy, but damn son…

Spike takes the last long drag from the cigarette, putting it out in the nearby grass.  He savors the last bit of smoke, holding it in a few extra seconds before slowly releasing it.  He slides the butt into his pocket as his eyes wander back to the camera.

Spike:  Let me speak to you directly, Sean.  I’m not good at talking about someone because I like saying things directly to them.  Since it is in your best interest to stay hundreds of miles away until we meet up in ACW, I have to settle for talking to a camera, visualizing you are right in front of me… You are poking a sleeping lion, and you think it is funny.  I know your type, Sean, and you want to get a rise out of me.  Everyone likes to get a rise out of good old Spike Staggs.  I have to ask you something, kind sir...

Spike leans forward; his eyes wide open as he pauses for emphasis.  His joyful expression melts from his face as it is replaced by a very stern, serious look.  He takes in a deep breath, doing his best to stifle his anger.

Spike:  Is it funny?  Do people think it is humorous to piss me off?  There seems to be a lot of that going on around me, and since you are the mind master, please answer this for me…  Are you a masochist, son?  I can understand the first few people thinking they are tough shit, so stuck in their own little world that they don’t pay attention to the asshole before them getting their ass handed to them.  I get that, but what I don’t get is why every stupid fucker lines up to throw shots at me like I were some outcast in high school that the populars like teasing, only to get their heads bashed in ever… fucking… time!

Spike shrugs his shoulders, shaking his head in a mimicked confusion.  He rolls his eyes, sighing as he leans back against the wall.  He takes a moment to adjust his demeanor, refocusing on the matter at hand.

Spike:  I find it pretty funny that you think I am like the suits that run this company, Sean.  I find it fucking funny, as a matter of fact.  You come around, making accusations, telling me that I am this, and that I am that, right after accusing me of doing the same fucking thing.  Let me tell you something, Sean…

Spike slowly stands up and the camera follows him.  He stares deeply into the camera, showing off the intensity of his eyes.  His nostrils flair up as he tenses his body.  He takes in a few forced breaths before continuing.

Spike:  You don’t know a fucking thing about me.  At least I admitted I don’t know you.  I know your type, but I don’t know you.  See, you act like you know my whole life story, which if you looked hard enough, you could find it in paperback now.  You think you can get inside of my head by comparing me to Brad fucking Batee.  You think you can get to me by talking about my girlfriend?  You want to go on down the line and insult every fucking person I ever came in contact with?  Go right ahead, Sean.  Beat around the bush some more.  Tell me I am worthless.  Tell me I rely on suits to win matches.  Bring up the fact that I *air quotes* LOST to Spectre.  Ignore the facts, man.  Prove your own fucking ignorance without me having to say one word.

Spike stretches his arms out to the side, popping them loudly before doing the same with his neck.  He begins walking forward toward the blacktop walking path, stepping into the sun.  He walks as we follow him along the way.

Spike:  The truth of the matter, Sean, is that I abided by the rules through my entire match against Spectre.  I played it clean, because ‘thems’ the rules.  If I wanted to play dirty, I am no stranger to extreme, hardcore, backyard, underground, bar room brawl-style fighting.  I would have knocked Spectre out in three hits and put him through a flaming table if it were allowed.  The fact stands that they were not.  Spectre bashed me with a chair when I wasn’t looking.  He should have been disqualified for doing that, and I would have walked away with my title.  Instead of whining and complaining about it, as I am sure someone like you would do, I spun him around and I knocked his ass out…

ONE! *clap*

TWO! *clap*

THHHREEEEE!

With one final clap, Spike continues walking again.  He has an almost wicked smile on his face now as he continues on.  A child runs a few feet in front of him with a dog on a leash.  Spike pauses just long enough to let them get some distance before starting back at his original pace.  He looks over to his side at the camera as he moves along.

Spike:  Batee can take credit for restarting the match, and claim that he is the sole reason I am still the champion, but the fact of the matter I that he helped me save face.  Instead of walking out with a win by disqualification, I walked out with a pinfall victory.  If you think that I don’t pay attention to what is going on around me, then you are the fool, Sean.  You and Batee might think I am his champion, but I am the World’s champion.  I am not owned by anybody.  Of course, you will find that out come next Sunday.

Spike comes along to a bench now to bask in the sunlight.  He has the perfect view of his children and girlfriend now, watching as they frolic around together.  The joy of watching them mixed with the anger boiling within him is shown as a purely stone-like expression.  He studies the scenario a bit more, stroking his chin lightly in his silence.  He straightens out his black jeans, removing the annoying ruffle as he speaks again.

Spike:  And then you want to talk about blindsiding a champion who had no idea he was supposed to defend his title.  You have the nerve to call me out for the way things went down with Spectre and I, yet you went way below the belt by doing what you did to him.  He came out to promote the match he and I were about to have, and you put a knife in his back.  If you are trying to lecture me on honor, then anything you have to say on the subject is falling on deaf ears.  Pot calling the kettle black?

Spike shakes his head, baffled by the claims of his opponent.  He offers a soft chuckle at the ridiculousness as he lifts up his shirt just a little bit.  He shows off the NWA World Heavyweight Championship belt, giving Sean one last look at it before their meeting as a silent warning that it will never happen.  He brings his shirt down with a cocky, devious smile on his face.

Spike:  Each second that passes makes me want to kick your ass that much more.  Hearing the hypocrisy that comes spewing out of your mouth makes my blood boil.  At no point have I ever agreed to get help from Batee.  As a matter of fact, I don’t want it.  I don’t need it.  See, the reason I asked you to meet me in the real world is because you are so delusional, dumb, naïve… I haven’t figured out which of those yet… and you jump to all of these conclusions about me.  When I asked you to join us in the real world, it was a legitimate request.

A gust of wind sends leaves blowing past him on the bench.  Another crowd of children, carrying balloons and stuffed animals from the zoo, walk by, chattering with each other as they move along.  Next, a bicyclist rides by on the path, but Spike hardly pays them any mind as he is focused on the task at hand.

Spike:  Your head is so far up your ass.  Am I repeating myself?  Yes I am, but that is because you just… don’t… get it!  I am the best in the world, and you couldn’t hold a candle to me.  I find it heartwarming that you believe you are.  It almost makes me sad that I have to crush your dreams, but I am not done realizing mine.  You are right about one thing, though.  I knew I could beat Jack Kraven.  I was even more sure that I could beat Chris Xtreme.  The difference is that I could, and I did.  Call me a cocky prick, but there is no way in hell I will ever let you beat me.

Spike gets intense as he goes along with his rant, poking his finger into his chest as he speaks.  He is leaned forward on the bench, his eyes and nostrils are nearly the size of saucers as he pauses.  He takes in a long, deep breath as he tries to calm himself down a bit.  He closes his eyes and moves his lips as if he were counting to himself before slowly opening them to speak once more.

Spike:  I called myself your nightmare, because I am the one who will shatter your preconceived notions of this sport.  I will take you to your limits, and I will make you feel pains that you never though possible.  I am making it my mission to make you regret coming up against me, and I will make you wish you never tried getting inside of my head.

Spike knocks on the side of his head for emphasis.  He straightens his back out, popping it as he leans back on the wooden bench casually.  He places his hands on his knees as his eyes darken.  He relaxes his posture a bit before flicking his tongue across his lips, getting a sick joy out of the demented things he is beginning to imagine for Sean Jackson.

Spike:  Now… as for your claims about my girlfriend…

Spike’s eyes wander over to Vixen who is still running with the kids.  As if she knew he was thinking of her, she looks back to him and gives him a heartwarming smile.  He forces one of his own in return, but as soon as she looks away, it turns even darker than before.  Spike lets out a bellowing laugh and then quickly covers his mouth to stifle it.

Spike:  I’m sorry.  Is it unprofessional for me to laugh?  Better yet, am I going to be in the dog house for laughing, or even better, what I am about to say?  You must think you are carrying some big balls, don’t you Andy Kaufman?  As if it is supposed to impress anybody that you beat on a woman who is half your size?  Trained military or not, it is still sad my friend.

Spike nods his head along with his statement.  His skin crawls in utter delight as the demented thoughts continue to pile upon each other.  He flashes his pearly white teeth at the camera as his eyebrows jolt up in ecstasy.  He knows he shouldn’t feel this joy building up in him, but the wait is simply killing him.  However, he controls it as his eyes continue to dance over Vixen as she tumbles onto the ground with Eden.  They laugh as Spike turns back to the camera.

Spike:  Vixen is pretty headstrong about things, I will give her that.  However, where I come from, you don’t hit a lady.  It is disgusting, and it proves just how much of a man you really are.  If it were strictly business, unfortunately the lines are rather fine in this line of work, but you enjoyed it…  You must be awfully proud of yourself for it, aren’t you?  You busted her open.  You made her bleed and the thought of it makes my blood boil.  I didn’t say a thing because it was Vixen’s decision to get involved with BACW, and I have to respect her decision.  See, it is one thing to get through the match and win because that is what you were booked to do.  To take things as far as you did speaks volumes about your character.  Where I come from, people would line up to take turns kicking you in the balls, because you don’t deserve to have them.

Spike pulls on the crotch of his pants to emphasize his point.  He gives them a couple jiggles before letting go and leaning forward.  He scoffs at the thought of Sean Jackson being a member of the male gender, leaning back on the bench as he runs his hands over his head, sliding them back over his messy black spiked hair.

Spike:  You brutally attacked her she had to get stitches all over her body.  You thoroughly enjoyed it, and it makes me fucking sick to my stomach with just how despicable you are, Sean.  And the icing on the cake is that you are bragging about it!  You really, truly do make me sick.  I will take pleasure in manhandling you to the point that you beg me to stop. I want to hear you plead with me, Jackson.  The thought of doing so makes me feel all tingly inside.  And that is all because you are a creep.  You are despicable, and I will make sure someone like you doesn’t get to represent this company as their World Heavyweight Champion.  I will ruin you, and as long as I am the champion, I will make sure you never lay a finger on MY championship.  Not to mention that I have been waiting for the time when I could get a match against you to treat you the way you treated Vixen.

Spike watches as his children come running in his direction from across the long field.  They shout out for him in excitement as Spike gives one final thought on the matter.

Spike:  This match is more personal than any match I have competed in recently.  I am dying to get in the ring with you.  I am itching to kick your ass all over that ring.  I long to watch the crimson regrets pouring out of your body.  I yearn to hear your screams of pain.  But most of all, I am looking forward to putting you exactly where you belong… back in the shark tank after I pin your shoulders to the mat for the three count.  If I have it my way, you will be on the verge of a career-ending injury.  But I won’t destroy you, because I want to see if you learned your lesson.  I will see you on Sunday, Mister Jackson…

Just as Spike says this, his daughter comes crashing into him, nearly knocking the breath out of him with her velocity.  His mood changes like the flick of a switch as he begins laughing with her.  Vixen comes up to them, her chest heaving as she smiles.  She sits down on the bench next to him as his son reaches the bench. Eden begins incoherently chattering on about something as the scene fades… TO BLACK!


***********************************************************************


Whether she likes it or not, I will avenge her.  I will avenge my own honor by proving to the world that I am not a champion because of luck.  I get to kill two birds with one stone.  I am counting down the days, Mr. Jackson.  The opportunity to achieve your greatest dreams is ticking away.  Your days of hopes and dreams are numbered.  If you don’t believe me, let’s consult the angels, shall we?  Let us see what the cards have to say about you and your chances of winning this match…

Interesting.  What have we here, but the “Freedom” card.  The angels never have a negative message to convey to the reader of the cards.  They have put it in a delicate manner.  You are free, Sean.  You are not to be saddled with the weight of being a World Champion.  You are free to do whatever you please, whenever you please without failing anyone.  You feel trapped by life conditions.  By drawing this card, the angels ask you to realize that you are your only jail keeper to surface in your own life.  Everything that you do in your life involves choice.  You are free to choose and choose again.  Ask God and the angels for guidance in your choices, and they will show you alternatives.

The angel cards are always peaceful and positive, and they never put things in a negative manner.  Unfortunately, I am not quite as positive.  This card means you WILL fail.  It means that you better start making a back up plan for what you are going to do after I humiliate you.  It says that you fucked up royally by pissing me off, and you better pray to God that I can stop myself from putting you on the shelf, son.

In other words, you don’t stand a chance…  If you want to live under the delusion that you do, then by all means, please continue.  It only means that when your dreams come crashing down on top of you, shattering into a million pieces, that you will feel the crushing blow of it that much harder.

I look forward to meeting up with you in the ring, Sean.  I have been waiting for a very… very long time.  Good luck, because you are damn sure going to need it…

 I am not one who likes dwelling in the past.  Sure, I could sit here, pissing and moaning about how bad my childhood was, but what is the point?  What good would that do me right now?  At the end of the day, I would still be sitting here, polishing up MY SCW Heavyweight Championship that is sitting next to MY NWA World Heavyweight Championship, reading MY Twitter feed, laughing MY ass off at these jokers who want to put me down, and put my organization down.  And for what?  Because they tried to screw me out of my SCW title, and it backfired on them?  First off, you have my uncle all but denouncing me all over Twitter, saying that his meal ticket, Kevin Carter, could beat me any day of the week.  If that were true, why did he have to single out the one day of the month that I am unavailable for SCW booking?  Why didn’t he come at me for a fight when I would actually be there?  It is because he is a coward, Erik.  He couldn’t beat me on my worst day.  He couldn’t beat me if he barged into my house at four in the morning, waking me up with a chair shot to the head.  It just couldn’t happen, kind sir.  Side note, both of those words are used VERRRRRRRRY loosely.

Speaking of Mr. Carter… Oh, I have got a lot to say about him, but most of that will have to wait for my lovely interview.  However, he said many things about me.  He is more ENTERTAINING than me?  Funny, because when his face winds up anywhere near the fans line of sight, you can hear them yawning between boos.  The asshole gimmick was played out by Blade Alexander.  He is more OVER than me?  Interesting, because people in the locker room are still trying to figure out who the hell this guy is, let alone the fans…  He is BETTER than me?  Like I said before, if this were true, he would have cashed in his title shot on a day where I would actually be there.  He is BIGGER than me? HA!  Literally and figuratively, I tower over him.

And Ms. Andretti… The bubbly little dim-witted blonde from Los Angeles.  We have had many problems in the past with you sticking your nose in my business, my brother’s business, and my ex-fiancé’s business.  Of course, we were on opposite ends of the spectrum at that time, as everyone hated the sight of my face back then.  Then, you come back into our lives on Climax Control last week.  I had to wonder what my uncle told you that would make such a sweet, innocent little girl decide to join up with him.  Then I realized, any idiot could spin a web of lies around you, and you would believe it was cotton candy.  Just know that when he is done with you, he won’t hesitate to have you disposed of very quickly.  Then your shockingly, half way witty jab at me on a social media site from hundreds of miles apart might not seem like such a good idea sweetcheeks.  Unlike my uncle, some broad with an open mouth can’t persuade me to put my neck on the line for her worthless ass.

Now children, I have said this before and I will say it again.  I don’t plaster my every thought and every grudge over Twitter.  I promote my matches and promos, say an occasional thought on a match, and sign out.  I am not a child who thinks it is “cool” or “awesome sauce” to flame others online.  Maybe I am just ”OVER the hill” that way.  Call me old-fashioned all you want, but I prefer to keep the trash talk for my promos, and the ass beating in the ring.  I have never, and will never, back down from a challenge.  Call me a coward all you want, but if any asshole wants to jump in the ring with me, I will put them in their place the way I have for the last year and a half around here and through the NWA.  If not, I will give it all I got, but I will NEVER run away from a fight.  EVER!

I swear I had a point that wasn’t about childish actions.  What was it, what was it…?  Never mind, it was about my uncle Erik, so it actually was about childish actions after all.  If I had one thing that ever bothered me the most, it was how my uncle and I got to this point.  He used to be the cool uncle that would slip you candy when your parents said it was too late for it.  He was the guy who would come over with “WWF: There Goes the Neighborhood” on NES, and play on two player with Jamie and I, letting us win so we felt like hot shit.  How did we go from being best buds to going for each other’s throats?  If he and I could have a civilized conversation, I would ask him that…


***********************************************************************

The young, spiky raven-haired kid sitting in the back row of chairs is wearing a numb expression on his face.  He doesn’t move his head, only his eyes.  Everyone around him is crying in their fanciest black clothing, which for a lower middle-class family, that doesn’t say much.  He is wearing a cheap little black suit with a thin black tie over a pressed white shirt.  His hands rest calmly in his lap as he hunches over, taking in the entire picture.  His mother is wailing loudly next to a display of white roses.  She falls into a much younger looking Erik Staggs’ arms, weeping into his shoulder as he leads her off to a side door with a curtain hanging in front of it.  He can’t help but hear the elegant music playing in the background because it makes him think of a classy dinner party in a big banquet hall, like off of The Shining during one of Jack Nicholson’s famous hallucinations.  He finds it tender and comforting for only a mere minute until he looks around the room of strangers who are weeping.  He spots a five year old Jamie walking with a baby Tommy, holding his hands up above his head, taking it extra slow with Tommy as he whispers words of encouragement.  Spike looks just a little to the left, seeing an elderly man pulling out a padded bar from in front of the shiny black box everyone is making a big fuss over.  The man kneels down, placing his index and middle finger against his forehead, before moving it down to his stomach.  He moves it to his right pectoral, and then to his left before pressing both hands together.  He whispers some prayer as he runs his fingers over a set of rosary beads.  This intrigued Spike just a little bit as he watched the silver cross dangle from the necklace.  Each glossy bead holds onto his attention until the next one comes along.  There might as well be nothing else in the room besides the man, the beads, Spike, and that soothing music.  A few minutes later, a hand jolts Spike back to this past reality, and the young boy jumps.  He looks up at the person the hand belongs to, studying the sweet elderly face of the woman staring back at him.

Spike:  Oh, high oma.

Oma:  My sweet, dear Spike.  My poor boy, come give your oma her hugs, ja?

The thick German accent almost makes it hard to understand what she is saying at first.  Spike lets a faint smile appear on his face as he reaches over and gives her a big hug.  The sweet woman nearly purrs, speaking kind words to her grandson as she caresses him gently.  He sits there as she goes on in words he couldn’t even begin to fully understand as she rubs her fingers through his hair.

Oma:  I never thought I would see the day when mein Robbie would leave this Earth.  No parent ever should, mein kleines Wunder.  Ohhh how you look just like him.  As he looked like his father, and his father looked like his father before him.  Let me see that sweet face, kind.

Spike pulls back for just a moment.  He looks back at her, a single tear forming in the corner of his eye.  She forces a smile on her own face, but she isn’t as successful in holding back the flood.  The overhead light causes her face to become illuminated to the point she almost seemed to glow.

Oma:  It is okay.  Let it out child.  You are far too strong for a boy your age.  The burdens you carry…

Mutter, ist es Zeit… (Mother, it is time…)

She chokes back her tears and gives Spike one last strong embrace, speaking indistinctly in German once more in between sniffles.  Spike nods his head as the elegant elderly lady stands up from the seat.  She walks toward the exit as Spike watches her.  His eyes follow her as she meets up with Spike’s father in the doorway.  Spike smiles slightly as his father tips his top hat in Spike’s direction before the two disappear into a haze of light.  Spike doesn’t have much time to relish in it before a small hand tugs on the sleeve of his jacket.  Spike is sitting sideways in the chair as he slowly looks over.

Jamie:  Tommy pooed his self.  Dumb babies don’t know how tuh use the big boy potties.

Spike:  You just stopped pooping in your pants last summer, Jamie.

Spike rests his eyes on Jamie who scrunches his face up at him.  Spike nudges him playfully, but Jamie doesn’t find it very funny as he slaps Spike’s arm.  Meanwhile, Tommy is fussing as his knees buckle.  Jamie keeps his hands held tightly while pushing his upper lip against his nose in dismay.  Spike sighs and picks Tommy up along with the bright blue diaper bag.  He drags the bag on the way toward the viewing room’s exit.  He shoves his way into the bathroom, on his way over to the changing table stall.  Tommy cries as Spike sets him down on the cold steel table, flinging the bag up next to his little brother.  He clinches his eyes closed as the floodgates open.  He whimpers as he tries to power through the changing.  The door flings open as a low toned grunting is heard, followed by a loud, drawn out sigh.  Spike sniffles, trying to hold it back, but it doesn’t seem to work very well now that his guard has been let down.  He unclips one side of the diaper before letting out a whiny voice as low as he can.

Spike:  Ohhh, Tommy… What’d you eat, a skunk?

Soon after, he hears a familiar voice call out his name questioningly.  He tries to choke it all back, letting out a small whimper.  The door slowly opens as Erik walks in with his eyes planted firmly on the ceiling.

Erik:  Are you okay, kiddo?

Spike wipes at his face quickly and sniffs up what he can to hide the evidence of crying, but it is of no use.  Erik slowly looks down with a grimace on his face.  He pulls off a few pieces of tissue and cleans Spike’s face up before leaning down to his level.  Tommy kicks as he squeals in dismay, but Erik tunes it out for just a second.

Erik: This is the kind of garbage I told them about.  You are not an adult, you are a kid.  You shouldn’t have to change shitty fucking diapers.

Erik sighs, running his hands over his slicked back blonde hair.  He unsnaps the other side of the diaper and winces, making a face as he pulls out a few wipes.  He hesitates for a few seconds longer before getting hands deep in the mess.

Erik:  You should be running around, playing with your cousins, trying to get your mind off of things, not taking care of your brothers.  I should be the one doing this for you after such a loss.

Spike:  It’s okay.  I just miss him.  I read in a book that it’s okay to feel like that when you lose a parent.

Erik:  That… that right there is maturity well beyond your years, and I hurt for you every fucking day I hear you sound more adult than your own parents ever fucking did.  I have half a mind to get custody from her and let you be a damn kid for once in your life.

Spike looks at his uncle with bloodshot eyes as the tears start to dry from his cheeks.  He lowers his head in disappointment but doesn’t make a sound as Erik continues on with his speech.  Erik throws his hand up in the air, looking up and shaking his head in response to what he is saying.  Finally, Spike looks up slowly with a quizzical look on his face.

Spike:  Did I do something wrong, uncle Erik?  If you want, I can run around with Sebastian and Gunter and Jamie, but mom needs to watch Tommy.

Erik drops the diaper in a waist basket as he dusts his hands off for a job well done.  He slides Tommy’s pants up and picks the child up.  He leans down and looks at Spike with a bit of life we no longer see today.  He gulps a bit as he studies Spike’s face, looking apologetic and disappointed at the same time.

Erik:  No, you are just being who you have been taught to be.  The only thing wrong with it is that you haven’t been allowed to properly mature to the age of nine.  You went from diapers to silently wearing the pants in the family.  You are the strongest man in that house, and you always have been, but you should be allowed to be a kid.  If you want to play with them, I will watch Tommy.  It’s your choice.

Spike thinks it over for a moment and then a smile creeps onto his face for a faint moment.  Erik goes to ruffle Spike’s hair, but stops, shaking his head side to side.  Spike pushes the unlocked stall door open and they both move over to the sink.  Erik puts Tommy down and he holds onto Erik’s leg as both men wash their hands.

Spike:  Before I play, I want to see him.  I’m afraid to look all by myself and Jamie won’t look at all.  He’s too scared.

Erik:  Let’s go take a look.  I will be there the whole time.  It is a good way to say goodbye one last time.  If you change your mind, it’s okay too.

Spike nods his head as he grabs onto the towel machine and wipes his hands dry.  He picks Tommy up as Erik does the same, and they both walk out of the bathroom together.  They walk back into the room and Spike would swear to this day that it was the longest walk he has ever taken.  He steps slowly toward the casket, one inch at a time.  Erik puts one hand on his shoulder as they move forward.  Everyone around them whispers to one another as they watch Spike move.  Spike gulps once they pass the chairs, and he looks back to Erik who gives him a warm smile.  Spike looks back to the box and continues walking with Tommy in his arms.  Spike gets to it, but can’t look yet.  His eyes rest on a senior picture of his father.  Spike clams up a bit, wanting to shy away when Erik starts to pull him away.  Spike shakes it off and walks over to the casket, looking on the other side of the roses.  They feather across his line of vision, softening the tone ever so slightly.  He looks down at the pasty man.  He looked like he was wearing lots of make up, but in essence, it still looks like his father, sleeping peacefully.  Tommy’s dark eyes light up as he reaches out.

Tommy:  Dah-dah!  Wekup dah-dah.

Erik purses his lips, showing the same restraint as Spike.  He gently takes Tommy from his arms as Spike places his small hands on the casket.  He looks down as if he was trying to say something in his mind.  He stares there for a total of a minute, but it felt like an hour.  He nods his head, as he and Erik walk off.  Jamie comes running up to them quickly as if he were so amazed.

Jamie:  You looked?!  Whudareyou crazy?  Yer gonna have nightmares for like a year!

Spike shakes his head gently as Tommy looks back at the box, grabbing his hands out at their father’s body.  He fusses to go back, so Erik takes Tommy from Spike to return to the casket.  Spike shows a relieved face.

Spike:  No.  I kinda feel better coz I feel like I get to see him again.  He just looks like he’s asleep.

Jamie:  Nuh uh!  You just want me tuh have nightmares too and I ain’t gonna look!

Spike:  I promise.

Jamie:  Cross yer heart?

Spike:  And hope to die…

Jamie:  … an stick a needle in yer eye?  You really mean it?

Spike nods his head slowly so Jamie understands how serious he is.  Jamie reluctantly turns as Spike holds his brother’s hand.  They walk up to the casket and Jamie puts his hands over his eyes.  Spike nudges him a little and Jamie slowly pulls his hands out like blinds.  He stares for a moment at his father as Spike holds an arm around him.  Erik wraps an arm around both as they pay homage together as a family.


************************************************************************


I don’t know when it happened, but I know that there is no turning back from it now.  What is done is done. Moving on to the present, we have a power hungry jackass who has a large portion of the Sin City roster drinking his Kool-Aid.  He has so many people fooled into thinking he can magically attain power from “Hot Stuff” Mark Ward and Christian Underwood.  I have not heard him come out with any real information that would make me believe it was true.  The only way it would be true is if more and more people step forward and side with him.  Then it isn’t about him anymore, it is about the roster and the empty promises he is making them.  When it is time to cash in those promises, he will find a way to get rid of them, or get rid of you.  That is how he is, and how he always has been.

Never once has my uncle been successful in his career aspirations.  He tried to be a top tier wrestler.  He failed.  He tried to run an underground wrestling company in St. Louis.  Aside from getting some notoriety for a few current SCW stars, he failed.  He tried running a wrestling talent agency that showcased wrestlers abilities once every few months.  After a year… he failed that too.  He tried coming into a wrestling management role where he was sure he would be successful with two of the hottest wrestlers from five years ago.  What happened there?  He failed, so he through a big baby fit and started organizing a rebellion.  If the past is any indication on how that’s going to turn out, he will fail there too.

The only thing he didn’t fail at was pushing me further into my dream of becoming a professional wrestler, and showing me how to attain any goal I set my mind to.  No matter how much I try to show my appreciation, the jackass rubs it in my face while hiring someone to drive a knife in my back.  He raised me from the age of nine, and played a significant role in my life since I was born.  Over the last decade, that role has been a pain in my ass.  I always showed respect toward him for everything he’s done, but I will not stand by any longer.


************************************************************************


The screen is dark, but a low buzzing sound can be heard in the background.  There is a mediocre pop as the light flashes on for a brief second.  During that time, you are able to see a leather chair sitting in the middle of a room.  As you try to take in more of the scene with your eyes, the light goes out.  That buzzing sound gets just a little bit louder, causing a tinge of feedback in the microphone in the form of an electrical squealing that lasts about four seconds before dying down to a background noise.  Another surprise pop shows a championship belt sitting on the left arm of the leather chair.  It is the NWA World Heavyweight Championship.  As our eyes try to focus in the short timeframe we have to study the scene, the light goes off again.  Within a few seconds it pops back on, making a crackling noise.  We see the SCW Heavyweight Championship sitting on the right arm of the chair.  We catch a glimpse of what appear to be snowflakes gently wafting along in the air.  After only a second longer, the lights go out again, but not before we see the image of a ghostly face moving in from the shadows slowly.  With the lens focused on the chair, the face is blurred beyond any sort of recognition.  The footsteps echo within the dark room as they slowly approach us, getting louder as they come.

”These are dark times.  These times where hopes are merely quick flashes of light, surrounded by nothing but darkness.”

The low toned, booming voice belongs to none other than... Spike Staggs.  Well, who did you think it was?  What?  You knew?  Even Michelle Andretti knew that one?  DAMN!

The footsteps creep up upon us as yet another flash of light shows Spike Staggs sitting in the chair, dressed in his usual black leather jacket, stylishly tattered black jeans, studded leather boots, a tow chain wrapped around his neck, and a ring on every finger.  The gem upon his face is the piercing blue-grey eyes, staring directly at us, as cold as the arctic tundra.  He simply stares into our souls as the lights flicker out once again.  A soft chuckle escapes Spike’s lips in the dark, echoing throughout the large, mostly empty space.  Periodically, a few glowing embers fly across the darkened screen as Spike speaks once again.

Spike:  To borrow a line from Aaron Eckhart, a la Harvey Dent of The Dark Knight… “The night is always darkest before the light.”  People are probably laughing at me right now because of the context.  How could I possibly compare the reign of Terror on Gotham City caused by The Joker to what is going on right now in SCW?  It is simple…

A loud popping noise causes a faint flicker of light, followed by another as the florescent light above the chair fights to stay on once again.  It fails its first attempt, but another pop causes an intense light to pulse through the long bulbs.  Spike’s eyes are still training on the captivated audience or the camera lens at least.  The look on his face is more serious than any other time that we have seen him.  The light fizzles out once again, as the gentle stream of white flakes turn to small, glowing orange dots, floating along the cameras line of sight.

Spike:  With the exception of last week, we have seen multiple attacks on Bombshells and male stars alike.  Even I fell victim to these attacks.  All of NXT did, and many others.  Very few have put the pieces together, but the orders and executions all came down from our very own version of The Joker, and his thugs.  Furthermore, no one has been able to stop them.  They sneak in when we have our guards down.  They terrorize us, and few have stepped up to try stopping them until last week.  We are united, but that doesn’t give us an advantage over them.

Another pop sends the lights back on long enough to see Spike sitting forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees, and his palms pressed together, tapping the soul patch of his chin.  He is slowly shaking his head from side to side.  The light fades out, and then pops again, and again, causing a strobe effect for a few moments as Spike’s eyes widen.

Spike:  Why would it?  They have shown time after time that they are more united than we could ever be.  Think about it.  Other than Giani Di Luca considering jumping ship, they have shown us nothing less than a united front.  They get along with one another perfectly.  Even two arch enemies have buried the hatchet, and not in each other’s backs for once.  No matter how much we try, many of us will never be able to trust Mark Ward.  We try to deny it, but we won’t.  I hardly respect the man, but I fight by his side because it is what I feel to be right in my heart.

Spike looks up to the camera just as the light crackles on once again.  He remains silent through the flickering for a moment until he adjusts his posture.  His back cracks loudly, followed by his neck as he jerks it to the right.  His jaw tightens as he sighs in relief.  He closes his eyes as the light goes out again.

Spike:  The only thing I will agree with my uncle on is that Team Erik isn’t a joke.  Everyone watched us clear house last week, and they loved every minute of it.  It boosted morale in the locker rooms for Team SCW, but I hardly found it worthy of celebration.  If I know my uncle at all, it is because we think alike.  If it were me, I would be plotting revenge of the worst kind right now.  I would step up my game, and stick it to each and every person who made a fool of me.  With a group of such immensity backing me up, I would expect a lot of retaliation this week.  My point is that we are still a while off from the darkest moments of the night.  I am considering this the twilight.  When the time comes, call me… Batman.

The light struggles to come on once again, but to no avail.  The burning embers floating across the screen grow in size as an orange flame ignites to the right of Spike.  It crackles as it slowly rises, half an inch per minute on average.  Spike takes in a deep breath as the flame only illuminates the upper left side of his face.  The flame dances in his eye as he continues on.

Spike:  As your Dark Knight, I am ready for a battle.  Clash of the Champions part two and it is an honor to be in it.  It is a time when the Heavyweight and Roulette Champions must find a way to team together, despite the fact that neither has likely ever worked together before.  We must face off against a group of men who have made it far enough as a team to take out any other tag team in the company, many of which share such strong bonds that have been able to withstand the tests of time.  In Sin City Wrestling, you have to be prepared for anything.  I am more than ready to prove myself once again. As a matter of fact, I am giddy as a fucking school girl to get the opportunity to step in the ring for this match.

The corner of Spike’s eye curls up slightly as it narrows, glowing joyfully in the light of the flame.  He lets out a muffled giggle as he contemplates the possibilities and the brutality that will likely take place.  He is completely overcome by the thought, but he finds the restraint within himself to compose himself once again.  After a deep breath, he focuses once again.

Spike:  Before I send out messages to my opponents, let me first show a sign of respect to my partner.  Thatcher Rex, I am happy about the opportunity to team up with you.  I have seen what you can do in the ring, and I am very impressed.  You represent exactly what the New X-Tremes is all about.  You go against the grain, you do it in style, and you get results.  I understand the lone wolf act, but if we expect to give Team SCW the edge in this match, we need to co-exist in the ring together, and figure out a way to get on the same page.  If we want this match to swing in our favor, we need unity, because our opponents definitely have it.  Do you think you could make an exception, just this once, in the name of loyalist unity?

Spike hangs on the question for a moment, allowing his message to resonate.  He softly blinks as his eye seems trained on us again.  The flame has risen up enough to where only his eyes, his defined eyebrow, and the mess of black spikes are seen now.  The soft glow gives an almost menacing look as it goes higher.

Spike:  “AMAZING” Ace Baldwin… Simply amazing, you say?  You definitely have potential here in Sin City.  Sadly, you killed it the second you decided to join Team Erik.  You could have gone places if you stood on Team SCW instead.  Now, you are on a slippery slope to the bottom of the barrel along with the rest of his angry and jealous team of misfits.  Many of us in SCW are making it our mission to ensure my uncle doesn’t make it very far, and every one of you will be remembered only as those people who threw a bitch fit because they weren’t handed unearned opportunities.  It really is a shame, because you have the talent.

Spike looks as if there is some sort of regret in his eyes.  A faint shadow of Spike’s shoulder rises up beside him as the regret melts away from his face.  He sighs and then looks over toward the flame.  He studies it for a second and then returns his focus back to the camera.

Spike:  Had you decided differently, this match wouldn’t be as exciting, now would it?  Not only is this the second installment of Clash of the Champions, but it is also Clash of the Alliances.  Thanks to your poor choice, at least we have the opportunity to get more recognition for this match, and make it a true Main Event.  Because of your idiotic decision, there is more than just pride riding on this match.  Whoever wins this one will put an important mark in the win column for which ever side takes it, leading up to Hostile Takeover.  I hate to break it to you, buddy, but that will be Thatcher Rex and Spike Staggs bringing it home for Team SCW.

Spike’s eye opens up widely as he steadies it on the camera.  Another loud pop causes the light to turn on for twice as long as it had previously been on.  As it fades out, the flame is seen as more intense than it had previously been.  They lash out from the corner of our line of vision, barely making their presence known aside from the faint light cast upon Spike’s body.

Spike:  Let’s see.  Who am I forgetting to mention…?  Who has been a pain in my ass for the last couple of weeks?  It is someone who I am very happy about the prospect of wrapping my hands around his throat and choking him until he turns blue in the face.  Hang on, it will come to me.  It is someone who has this undeserved sense of entitlement that walks around here with this expression that makes me think he’s got a stick up his ass… and he is loving it.  Who could it be… OH!  Erik Staggs.  No… He matches the description, but that’s not right because he’s too old to do anything inside of a wrestling ring these days.  But I can’t help feeling like I’m getting warmer here.

Spike thinks about it really hard.  He taps his chin, deep in thought.  He points up as an excited look takes over his face before quickly disappearing.  He shakes his head from side to side in disappointment.  He throws his hands up in frustration.

Spike:  Obviously this person doesn’t mean shit around here, or I would remember them.  Is it Giani Di Luca?  That has got to be it.  Wait, he’s too afraid of actually getting near an SCW championship, or else he would work his ass off to try getting one.  Plus, no one could stand him long enough to be a Tag Team Champion with him…  Hawkes couldn’t be it for the same reason.  I’m going through this list, and I’m not coming up with anyone who makes sense.  “Primetime” Matthew Kennedy talks big game, but he always comes up a little short.  I think that is why every bombshell laughs when he walks by.  Tom Dudely was dead to SCW since he lost the tag titles a year ago…  Kevin Carter?

Spike’s eyes light up once again, but this time they stay that was as a silhouette of his lips curls upward.  He chuckles in satisfaction before leaning forward for the camera.

Spike:  DING! DING! DING!  We’ve got a winner folks.  The self proclaimed “Main Attraction” of Sin City…  That is very debatable.  See, a Main Attraction fights to win matches.  He doesn’t rely on count outs and disqualifications to win matches and maintain championships.  He goes out there and gives the fans a worthwhile fight that leaves them satisfied when they leave the venue.  I think I fit that bill way better than you ever could, little man.  I have held the championship you tried to screw me out of two weeks ago.  I held it for five months now, and I have done so by going out there and putting everything I have into winning.  If somebody told me I would be in a wheelchair by the time I was forty, I would tell them it has been worth it.  You would follow in the Nick Jones tradition and find easier ways to cheat for an easy victory.

Spike furls his eyebrows, becoming aggravated with the idea of someone like Kevin Carter becoming any champion.  He nearly shakes from the intensity of the anger he feels from such an absurd idea.  His hands contort in an odd formation as he tries to pull himself back to a state of calm.  He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath through his flared nostrils before finally calming down.

Spike:  Unlike my feelings toward your tag team partner, I actually hold a contempt for you.  I have this deep-seeded hatred for you, Kevin.  You remind me of Nick Jones, the man I worked so hard to defeat so that I could restore honor to our top championship.  Worse than that, you remind me of Blade Alexander, a self-entitled little prick that bitches and moans when things don’t go his way.  Both men made a mockery of me, and both had their dreams and aspirations gutted right before their very eyes.  I have been in this business for more than a decade, and I have dealt with your kind before.  They are a dime a dozen

Spike adjusts himself in his seat, crossing one foot onto his knee.  He leans back in his chair, tapping at his labret piercing as he contemplates.

Spike:  The ones who surprise me are the cocky ones who talk the talk, and then step in the ring and back it up without having to use cheap tactics.  Unfortunately, that isn’t you, Carter.  If it were, then you would have called me every name in the book, and then waited for me to get back from Manhattan to challenge me for the heavyweight belt.  Instead, you wanted to try to make me look like a jackass and challenge me when you knew I wasn’t going to be there.  You tried to break a fragile Team SCW by taking away my championship, my pride, and my fans.  Not only did you fail in all three of those categories, but you made Team SCW stronger and more united.  You fucked up, Carter.  You lit a fire under my ass, and now I’ve got the scent of your blood on my mind.  You’ve awakened my bloodlust, and it won’t be satisfied until I see you bleed.

Spike gets a wicked grin on his face as he pauses, allowing another moment for his point to get through.  He puts his foot back down on the ground, leaning down and putting his hands together as he licks at his teeth.  He doesn’t allow the raging fire to his side to distract him any as he continues on.

Spike:  You might think that you are what every wrestler in this business wants to be, but last time I checked, nobody wants to have they nose up Erik Staggs’ ass.  Nobody wants to stroke an ego to get recognition in this world.  Of course, you are so full of yourself that you don’t even realize what is going on around you.  You think he is kissing your ass because you got some defunct championship belt that I held for a year, and several after the company went under.  He pried my name off of that belt before he gave it to you, Kevin.  You are lusting after my property so bad, because what?  Do you want to be me?  Is that what this is all about?  Are you some grade school child who has a crush on someone, and instead of having the balls to admit it, they sit behind them pulling their hair and throwing spitballs at them?  Get a fucking clue and grow the fuck up!  This isn’t the second grade, it is adulthood.  Please join us at your earliest convenience.  Maybe when your testicles drop from your abdomen, then I will take you seriously, Kevin.  I am bigger, better, stronger, more over, more talented, more experienced, more entertaining, more liked, and more hung.  Face it. I am better than you in every possible way.  That is why I come home to someone like Vixen while you dredge along on your home to someone like Amy Marshall.  That’s got to feel like making love to a herpes infested paper bag, you ball-less sonuvabitch!

Spike nearly hisses at the camera as he lunges forward.  His eyes are wide and his nostrils are as round as saucers as he stares, shaking.  He holds onto the arms of the chair, keeping himself seated for the moment.  The burning to his side snaps him back to reality finally, and he simply clinches his jaw before calming himself down completely.

Spike:  Who do we have to thank for this man child running around acting like he means something in this company?  That’s right, Erik Staggs.  His ego is contagious.  Look at Giani Di Luca under his leadership.  He can’t own up to a single loss even though he has suffered a number of them.  He is the only undefeated wrestler that I know who has lost like three times in recent history.  My uncle has that effect on people because he has never earned a damn thing in his life, other than my momentary respect as a child, and he shit all over that.  He is pompous, and that is his most redeeming quality.  He wants to take this from a beef with the bosses and make it personal?  This is a realm I am familiar with, uncle dearest.  Send your boys my way, and Thatcher and I will turn them into Bitch Du-Jour.

Spike finally stands up from the seat, pulling a small chain on the malfunctioning light.  The buzzing in the room stops as we see bigger chunks of flaming embers fly in the direction of Spike.  He stands amidst them, pulling his jacket over his bare chest and abdomen.  He picks up his titles, putting them over his shoulders and smiling as he slowly walks toward the flames, one very slow step at a time.  He pauses just short of the wall of fire, turning back to the camera with a finger pointed in the air for importance.

Spike:  I am going to walk out to that ring on Sunday, Erik.  I am going to stand side by side with Thatcher Rex, and I am going to dominate your little meal tickets and prove that Team SCW has the best of the business.  Do you want to know why we always get the title shots, Erik?  Unlike your pathetic fools who follow you, we win… consistently.  We climb up the ladder, one rung at a time.  We don’t expect things to be handed to us because they are worth nothing unless you fight for them.  TRUE champions prove their worth so that their title belts mean something.  Not only will we beat them, Erik… we will watch as they go up in flames!

Spike takes a few more steps forward, standing right in front of the fire.  His sweat begins to trickle down his chest as his jacket falls open once more.  His hair slowly sticks to his forehead as he smirks.  He poses for the camera, putting his arms out to his side as if flexing.  He holds it there for a second until he slowly points up at the ceiling.  He nods his head as he begins laughing a sadistic laugh.  The camera slowly works up the walls of fire to see the flames eating up two twenty foot banners with pictures of both “Amazing” Ace Baldwin and Kevin Carter.  The flames whip at their faces, leaving scorch marks as Spike’s laughter gets louder.  We focus on the raging flames that consume the faces of both men as we fade out… TO BLACK!