[Thatcher Rex]

 


It always amazed Thatcher that despite the laws against smoking indoors, bars always seemed to have that hazy atmosphere reminiscent of cigarettes. Even in Vegas, a city in which money flowed like river and riches could be had around every corner, the scent of tobacco was still within the walls of virtually every establishment. Not that Thatcher minded; he’d been around his fair share of smokers. He never considered it the brightest of habits, what with the whole cancer thing, and always shook his head in dismay whenever he saw some young kid taking a puff. What was wrong with them? The previous generation had no idea about the dangers, but the information was widespread, now. Why would kids start a habit they knew to be self-destructive? Sometimes, he just didn’t understand people. Many choose the absolute worst thing for themselves and are surprised when they are faced with the consequences of their actions, of their bad choices.

And bad choices were being made left and right. The Odette/Gabriel debacle was getting worse and worse as time went on. Thatcher didn’t even want to think about that particular train wreck; it was obvious the two loved one another. That should be enough, shouldn’t it? Things like that got so complicated so quickly, over so simple a thing. He was no stranger to love, and love was one of the simplest things in the world. Others would argue that it was complicated, that it was never a black-and-white issue, but Thatcher knew better. It wasn’t love that brought in the difficulty. Emotions like jealousy, pride, anger, those were what tainted it, bringing out the ugliness that is the other side of the coin.

But those weren’t the only bad choices being made around Sin City Wrestling. Gabriel and Odette were damn near the top of the roster, but there existed more people in that company than them. People like Misty. She could lie to herself and her minions, but deep down, she knew she’d made a mistake by intentionally disqualifying them. Many an individual had made Thatcher Rex an enemy in the past, and all had lived to regret it.

“She still botherin’ you, Rex?”

Thatcher looked up as his old wrestling hero, whom he had run into at a Meet-and-Greet, sat down across from him. He said he’d have a beer with The Diamondback – Bill Clay – and they’d agreed upon a local place. Bill slid a mug towards Rex, foam spilling over the edge as he caught it. The guy had been a legend in his time, and he knew a contemplating look when he saw it. Having watched the latest Climax Control, he also knew what would be at the forefront of Rex’s mind. He smiled crookedly as Rex took a swig of his drink. Rex set the mug onto the table with a clunk.

“Not the first time someone’s betrayed me.”

“Won’t be the last, either. Woman like that, she’s a scorpion… she’ll poison her enemies all she can, but it’s only a matter of time before she tags the proverbial frog she’s ridin’ on. But it ain’t betrayal that’s botherin’ you, is it?”

The old man was perceptive, Thatcher had to give him that. He looked up from his beer, but Bill spoke before he could open his mouth.

“You don’t have to explain, my boy. I’ve been there. You wanted people to respect you, but you got nothing from her. You did all these great things, you put out a hell of a performance, and she’d rob you of that final victory. She’d steal it for herself, not trusting that you had the ability.”

“Spot on, Bill. I didn’t really get the chance to shine in the tournament. Her selfish actions prevented it. It was never a team... it was a waste of time.”

“Begging your pardon, Thatcher, but it wasn’t a waste.”

Thatcher took another swig of his beer, wiping away the froth that remained on his upper lip.

“Of course it was. Signing up, competing at all… what did I gain from that besides another enemy?”

“The most powerful weapon of all.”

Bill leaned in conspiratorially.

“Knowledge, Thatcher. You gained knowledge.”

“Come again?”

“Look at the people you faced, boy! Rage, Nick Jones, Jordan Williams… there you’re competition! Sure, you’re going after the Roulette Title now, but those are the boys that’ll be waiting for you when you come for that Heavyweight belt. Because of that tournament, you fought them. You found out what it was like to be in the ring with SCW’s top players. More importantly, they found out what it was like to be in the ring with you. They know that you’re not some fresh-faced pretender to the throne, or some nitwit who cheats his way to the top. They know that you’re a force to be reckoned with, someone who wants to earn everything he gets.”

The old man had a point, Thatcher was forced to admit. He’d even caught the attention of the boss, which was a difficult thing to do in SCW; one had to be a cut above the rest.

“All you have to do is trample that little brat on Sunday, and you’ve begun the road to starting a legacy within SCW. Think about EPW; you picked up the Television Title from Jason Riviera, then went on to set a record for the longest title reign in that entire company! Once you have the Roulette Title, history will repeat itself.”

“No, it won’t.”

Bill narrowed his eyes at Thatcher’s response, but it was Thatcher’s turn to cut him off before he could speak.

“I’m not looking for a repeat of history, Bill. I’ve been down that road many, many times. I’m looking to do something different this time around. These guys, they get the belt and are ecstatic, overjoyed, jumping around with happiness… and then next week, they go back to doing the same old thing. Look at the current champions in SCW. They hold the gold, but aren’t doing anything they haven’t done when they didn’t have possession of a belt.”

“You can hardly blame them, son. The championships, they’re a goal in and of themselves. Their soul is bent on the acquisition.”

“That’s my point! They’re so stuck on getting a belt that they forget to set a goal for after they get it.”

“Well, what exactly would you do, Rex? It’s fine and good to talk about this kind of thing, but if you want to go about makin’ a change, you need a plan.”

Thatcher reaches up, two fingers tapping his left temple.

“Already in the works, my friend. Already in the works.”

Thatcher downed the rest of his beer, then slid a few bucks across the table for the tip; Bill had already paid for the drinks. He stood up, slinging a coat over his shoulder.

“Speaking of which, it’s about time I head in. Big day tomorrow.”

Bill raised his glass in salute.

“I’ll buy you and your friend Emma another round when you walk away with that belt… if you two don’t have a celebration of your own planned already.”

Thatcher gave a crooked grin, saying nothing before departing the bar.


*  *  *

*  *  *


Never back down.

These three words form the core lesson my father imparted unto me when he was still alive. He not only preached, but practiced the philosophy in his every day life. No matter the odds, thick or thin, flush or bust, you never back down. Stick to your guns, stand tall, and greet the hostility of the world with your head held high.  

And throughout my life, I have kept to this philosophy. Not once have I backed away in subservience. Never has Thatcher Rex refused to take a stand; in point of fact, it’s that for which I am so well known. Some would say it’s the constant spotlight on me, that I’ve become the type of man who goes in to set a record. Those who say such things are not without a measure of credibility; most of my career has consisted of one record or the other, from being the only undefeated roster member of PCW to holding the EPW Television Title longer than any other singles belt, to being the second-longest reigning North American Champion in CWC. But it’s not for the belt that the cheers are intended. Impressive though they were, neither accomplishments nor victories have spread my name to the four corners of the Earth.

Sheer attitude has done that.

People of the world want a hero to save them. They cry out for one each and every day, a man whose heart is unwavering, whose courage is unmatched, to swoop in and fight the otherwise-insurmountable villains of their lives. They wish to have a warrior who has no compunctions about sacrificing his well-being on their behalf, a man who would risk everything for the sole purpose of halting the progress of an evil man. They have found that hero in the Tyrant King.

But it was not always as such. In my first match as a member of Evolution Wrestling, I faced a man who I truly believed to be outmatched in every way. He was clearly at a physical disadvantage, but he had the heart of a lion for even signing a contract with a wrestling company. Many have forgotten of who I speak, but his name will always remain etched in my memory: Jimmy Rettop. The One-Legged Enigma. True to his moniker, the man had only one leg to stand on, which was viewed as a weakness by virtually all who laid eyes upon him. I knew differently, however. That handicap, as most called it, was the source of his greatest weapon. The one thing that no one could take from him.

His heart.

He walked into a situation which, to all outward appearances was stacked against him, and pulled out a victory. Needless to say, I was taken aback by his victory over me. A strange occurrence, a fluke, is what I first thought. But upon reflection, I was convinced that Rettop simply wanted it more. He had something to prove, and he would go through hell or high water to show that he was not some crippled sympathy case. And so he did. Jimmy Rettop proved to everyone that night that he could stand among giants and keep in stride.

But I am not facing Jimmy Rettop on Sunday. I am not going head to head with Jimmy Rettop for the Roulette Championship. I’m going up against his complete polar opposite.

James Huntington-Hawkes III.

We’ve heard a lot from you, James. We’ve heard you spout off on Twitter, we’ve heard you run your mouth from your own private jet, we’ve heard you blabber on and on. That’s your specialty, James; you talk. Nothing more. You talk and throw tantrums when you don’t get your way. You grab your toys and stomp out of the sandbox and run home to the people that will feed you lies. “Oh, it’s okay James, you’re REALLY the best!” And then you believe those lies. You take them to heart, you hold onto them, because the alternative is to face the truth: you just aren’t good enough. You could be, sure. You could be one of the best some day. But it ain’t today, and you know why? Because of your attitude. You take no responsibility for your shortcomings, but claim victories won by others are one hundred percent your doing. No, kid, you ain’t great. You’re not the hot rod you think you are. You’re nothing but the cigarette butt tossed out of someone’s window, thinking you’re hot shit because you bounced off the pavement and into the parking lot of The Ritz.
 
There is a social hierarchy in any world, be it that of man or nature. It’s a way of life. Wolf packs have alpha males, ants have queens, and armies have generals. Every day, men and women must answer to their social superior, who then takes orders from his social superior. You see yourself as a social superior, James, because of your wealth. You think that I look down on you because of that wealth, but nothing is further than the truth. Some of my closest friends are ridiculously wealthy, but it is not money or riches that make the man. It is who he chooses to be that I make judgments upon. You’ve chosen to be a snobby rich boy, designating people as below you simply because they weren’t born into a life of luxury, and that’s why I look down on you. The life of one man is not worth more than another, no matter what you read in Forbes.

I’ve run into people like you before, and each and every time it is the same. They all come in with tough talk, then walk away smelling as bad as you when you left Georgia. Get used to that smell, James. Get used to the stink of failure. Deep down, you know that you don’t deserve that belt. You know that Simpson picked it up for you in the same way that he handles everything in your life. You may not want to admit it, but everyone around you knows it. Why do you think you were sent to train with a legend? So you could be prepared for what you’re about to face. And considering who you were sent to, that truly would have helped. I’ve heard of Austin Parker, and his reputation is well-deserved… but you didn’t take advantage of that. You, in your arrogance, believed yourself to be greater. You thought that you didn’t need training. You know who else thinks that? People who don’t win. People who find themselves winded, in last place, behind everyone else. That’s you, James. You can puff yourself up all you want, but in the end, all you’re going to do is pop.

You’re done, James.

Say hello to your new Roulette Champion.