Reykjavík, Iceland...
Three weeks ago
At this time of year, the weather in Iceland was anything but comfortable. At this time, the temperature was a mere 38 degrees, and the rain that was coming down from the gray skies that hid the night stars and moon, had the knack for sapping the strength from the limbs. Kristjan had kicked himself for neglecting to take into account the weather for his native Reykjavík. Perhaps he had called the deserts of Las Vegas ‘home’ for too long and his body and mind were too used to the dry, warm climates there at this time of year as opposed to the natural cool and wet weather of Iceland. It was just after 6pm, and by now night had fallen. He could see lights on inside, and knew that the family would be seated for the evening meal around this time, if his mother’s set schedule for such things continued to hold true — and it always did.
The family home was, as Gabriel Stevens had once described, inviting. From the outside, it had a feel of old world European charm, which all but matched the interior. While it was the home that Kristjan Baltasarsson and his siblings called home the entirety of their lives, they all knew that this was Eva, their mother’s home from the very start, before any of them had been brought into this world. Bendikt had known she wanted something preferably sheltered within the trees and away from the main bustle of the city. She got it. She wanted to decorate it in simple wood furnishings with a distinct European flare, and she did.
It was home, and it was the only place Kristjan could think to go to in order to escape after what had happened, happened. Everywhere else, everyone else, the few genuine friends he had made thus far in the States, such as Gabriel’s family, Dani and Daniel Morgan and his crew, they were out. Friends or not, it would be an uncomfortable experience when they started asking questions — and they would. He would have enough drama to deal with once they learned he had left the States without informing anyone beforehand. For now, all he wanted was to get as far away from Las Vegas as he possibly could to escape whatever emotional turmoil he was going through, and home was the answer. He had taken Aron aside and asked him to watch over Kyssa until he got back. When Aron asked when he would be back, his older brother had no answer. All he could do was silently shake his head and close the door behind him, trying to put his brothers marked look of concern and the audible whines of his beloved Siberian Husky out of his mind.
And then here he was, standing on the doorstep of the one place he felt confident that he could escape, but then if that were true, why then did he hesitate to simply set foot inside? He could, as it was his home as much as any. Why did he not knock? Perhaps because he had not warned his family that he was coming, and they had no idea that he and Ty were no longer together. His mother absolutely adored Ty, and the rest of his family liked the man as well. This would possibly hurt Eva the most, for she had been so thrilled that her oldest boy had met someone. It would hurt her more were she to discover the truth.
He could finally wait no longer. He reached up and rather than simply open the door and startle everyone, he rapped on the dark, cherry wood frame. It may have been home, but was it ‘his’ home? He had, after all, moved out many years ago once he made his first foray into the world of Mixed Martial Arts. But his mother and father always said he, as well as Aron, could come back any time. But then he was pulled from out of his private thoughts, as the door opened and he found himself staring at the surprised expression on his father's face.
”Kristjan?” Bendikt said in their native Icelandic tongue. ”What are you…?” but something in his son's eyes caused his words to be caught in the back of his throat. There was a pain deep in those beautiful blue eyes that was evidence enough that fathers, like mothers, could read their children. He said nothing else and simply place his hand on his son's arm and guided him inside through the door and onto the threshold of the family homestead.
“Benedikt, who was…?” But his wife’s question was cut short, as Kristjan was steered around the corner and into the kitchen’s interior. Eva’s face lit up as any mother’s might at the sight of her boy, and she rose from her usual seat at the kitchen table, fully set for their dinner and Kristan’s three sisters all looking up in surprise at his unannounced arrival.
“Kristjan…” Eva said softly as she walked up to him and she clasped his face gently in her hands and she looked into his eyes, and like her husband, she immediately read something was wrong. The smile fell from her face and she looked behind him, as if for someone, before she looked back to him.
“Aron?” She asked, almost hesitantly, but he shook his head and whispered hoarsely, “He’s in Las Vegas with Kyssa.”
One could almost hear the exhale of relief escape from her, but then another name came to her thoughts, and she frowned, “Ty? Is he…?” And Kristjan’s downtrodden expression, a shake of the head, and the sudden aversion of his eyes was answer enough, and she knew.
Mothers always knew. Eva took her oldest son into her arms and did what mothers did best; she held him. After what did not seem like enough time, she gently steered him into the dining room, none of his sisters saying a word, perhaps surprisingly so. Eva sat him down at his ‘usual’ spot at the table while Bendikt proceeded to fetch a place setting for him.
“What is this shit? I mean, seriously! If you were me, would you be happy right now about the state of things in the World title scene? Okay, don’t get me wrong. Mark Ward’s idea of six men fighting for the World championship in December is an interesting one. I’m just pulling for it to be elimination rules where there’s no room left for doubt and luck has little to nothing to do with the outcome. Matches like Triple Threat and Fatal Fourway where the first to score a pin or submission are the winners?”
“That does not prove anything. It does not prove who is best; just who is luckiest. I was in one of those fucking Fatal Fourways for the World title in London. Myself. Caleb Storms. Ty West. And the champion. The man who beat me for the title in the first place, Austin James Mercer. Austin made for a great champion during his run, and that belt will be his again. But in that Fatal Fourway? I should have won. I would have been the new champion, save for one thing — one person. Ty West. I had Austin down. I had him pinned, and Ty pulled me out of the ring, costing me the championship. A little bitterness still?”
“I’m not too proud to admit that. But my point is, while I was dealing with Ty on the outside, Austin took advantage and got the win on the inside. Again, circumstances and luck decided the outcome of that match. Not who was the better man, like when Mercer pinned me in March did. That is how a match should be decided! That is how a champion should be determined! Not any of this shit involving who can climb a ladder the fastest or a match where the champion doesn’t even have to be beat in order to lose the title! So this rant is not aimed at him, or at Mark Ward.”
“It’s more or less aimed at the fact that I have to jump through hoops in order to get something that I should have been given a long time ago! A shot at the World Championship! One on one, which is something I have not been given since I lost to Austin eight fucking months ago! Granted I didn’t push for it the way I could have, because I said it once and I’ll say it again; while some were happy with me as the champion, others bitched and moaned I had no business holding the title for this bullshit reason or that! And frankly, I got fucking sick and tired of listening to them whine! And yes! I did say that I’d trade my rematch for that Lion’s Den match with Caleb Storms, but how many times have people went on to challenge for the championship without asking for the shot or doing jack shit to earn it?”
“But me? Oh that’s a whole other story altogether. I’m just to be content by running around in fucking circles, watching everyone else get shots at a championship I should be holding right here and now! I debuted in April of 2017, and since then I have been beaten once. Once! And after I lost the title to Austin I haven’t been beaten since! If that doesn’t scream ‘deserving’ then the whole system is fucked! But look at me now. A six person match for the championship, and apparently I have to earn my way into that. Like saying I haven’t already proven myself, time and again! That I don’t deserve the spot. Well fine!”
“I’ll quit playing nice. People have been calling me ‘weak’ for months. You want the ‘old Fenris’ back? Fine. You’ve got it.”
Kaffibarinn…
Current
So! Have you read Ben Jordan’s roleplay like good little boys and girls? If so, this upcoming piece will make a LOT more sense! If not, well I have never been more ashamed! What are you waiting for? Trust me - go!
Ben slowly sat his glass down and sat back against the cushioned back of the booth. Ben was a good judge of character. It was probably a reason why he felt relatively comfortable at having made this trip in the first place, and right now he felt that the man seated opposite of him was going to need a little time and a lot of understanding for whatever was about to come. It was probably for the best that Evie had not accompanied him for this particular part of their visit. Much as he loved his wife, he wasn’t altogether confident in how patient she would be able to remain in the given circumstance.
Kristjan’s eyes seemed lost, unfocused, as if the world around him had all but vanished. But it was the sudden pained light in his eyes that gave Ben the most cause for concern. It had taken quite a bit of time, but slowly the two men had grown from mere drinking buddies to genuine friends. It was why ben had come all this way. You don’t go to such lengths for strangers or mere acquaintances.
Silently Kristjan then slid his half-drained glass away and reached into his jacket pocket, fishing out his cell phone. Ben waited silently as Kristjan seemed to be searching for something briefly until he clicked on it, and then turned it around so that Ben could see. Ben reached over and took the phone in hand, and looked at the picture that had been drawn up. There on the screen where to teenage boys dressed in high school uniforms against the background setting of a local school gymnasium. One of the boys was obviously familiar in appearance, with short cropped, spiky blond hair, and what was even then an obviously gifted, if not leaner athletic physique. The only unusual thing about the familiar visage was the fact that his space was alight with a bright smile.
Ben glanced up over the brim of the phone and asked, “This you?” But before Kristjan could answer, Ben looked back down at the screen and said, “`Course it is. I recognize the fish lips.” This remark drew a knitted frown from, as Ben nicknamed him, the “grumpiest man in Iceland.” Then he asked, “Who’s the other kid?”
The other boy that stood beside the teenage Kristjan in the picture looked to be of Asian descent, and was a head shorter than Kristjan, and slimmer in physique. But his face bore an adorable smile with dimples, black hair straight past his ears and his arm reaching up around Kristjan’s shoulders. It was obvious from the picture alone that there was a bond forged between the two boys. Those familiar with confidences on Kristjan’s past would know this to be the tragic young figure of Jökull Kae.
Kristjan told Ben as much, but Ben could hear the catch in his voice as he did so.
Kristjan finally found his voice, even if it did seem hoarser than even a few minutes beforehand. He said, “We met when he was transferred to Borgarholtsskóli. My family’s school.” He added to relieve Ben’s momentary confusion. “His mother was Icelandic and his dad was South Korean. A military man.”
“Was?” Ben caught that, but Kristjan acted as if he had not heard Ben and continued on from where he left off. “You know what kids are like. Outright bastards and cruel little fuckers when there was something new or just something different around them. Most of the kids at school didn't really pay any attention to him, which I think hurt him more than any real bullying did. Ignoring him like that just made the poor kid feel alone and ostracized, like he didn't even exist.”
Ben nodded with a curt sign of acknowledgement, saying, “I imagine being invisible could be worse than being a target. At least being a target tells you that you are there in the eyes of your peers.”
Kristjan nodded, taking Ben’s point of view in agreement, and said, “But a few kids didn't notice him. Face it; Jökull was adorable and quite a few of the girls openly said so, which made his presence known to some of the guys in sports. They didn't like that there was another boy, especially but they called a half-breed, taking attention away from them in the girls eyes. He was also probably the smartest kid in our grade so that didn’t help him in the eyes of the bullies. He became a target to vent their frustrations out on. They never outright attacked him or beat him up, because at our school that was grounds for immediate expulsion. But they had their little ways. I was coming from out of class when I saw them start their shit with him again. They tripped him and one of the kids stood on his fingers.”
Kristjan looked at Ben and said, “I walked right up and slammed the little fuck’s head into the locker. I hate bullies. Always have.” To which Ben smiled with a genuine nod of admiration toward Kristjan’s stance on bullies. He took his glass in hand and rose it in a silent toast too him, and Kristjan scoffed back a laugh but shook his head.
He said, “I can’t explain it, but I met someone special in Jökull that day. I helped him up, gathered his books and we just started hanging out at lunch together. Just talkin. Before I knew it, I was inviting him over for meals on the weekends or he was asking me to stay the night at his place. Hell! Even my sisters loved him! They couldn't understand why he was hanging around with me, and if I'm going to be perfectly honest? I didn't understand it either.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit, mate.” Ben observed, and this brought a genuine smile from Kristjan who said, “You sound just like Jökull’s mother. She was always saying how much I helped him or how I was always there when he needed a friend. She told me when he was away from everyone else's eyes, he tried to put on a brave face but he really felt lonely in school until we became friends. I was one of the headboys of my year, and when he and I became close, it's sort of opened up the way for others to get to know the kid. And they liked what they got to know. Just like that, Jökull became one of the most popular kids in our grade.”
Kristjan then laughed, despite his obvious discomfort. He said, “The funniest thing was that's some of the boys that didn't like me and hated him tried to stir up shit by accusing us of fucking each other.” He scoffed. “That just made the girls like us even more.”
Ben chuckled as he took a drink and allowed Kristjan to continue, knowing it was needed.
“I think what really would have shocked everyone if they had realized just how right those assholes really were.”
Ben blinked, taking that little fact in, then almost chided himself for not having drawn the same conclusion from the picture alone. The bond he could see in their mutual expressions and eyes was more than just friendship. He could see it now. It practically screamed love.
“How long…?” Ben had started to ask when he was interrupted, “Not long enough.” And now Ben could see it clear as day; the pain. The anguish that was welling up in not just the man’s voice, but his eyes. And that was what concerned Ben Jordan the most. He had known Kristjan to be an arrogant and mean bastard for as long as he’d known him, and not display a single trace of human emotion other than simple anger. But here he was right now, displaying perhaps the most pained of all human emotions, or trying not to rather; sadness.
“What happened?” Ben finally found himself asking, a rooted feeling in his gut already telling him a feared answer.
Kristjan swallowed hard and answered, “It was winter. One of the worst storms of the season, and my judo class was cancelled. Like a fucking idiot, I called Jökull ans asked him to stay the night. His mother didn’t want to drive but he persisted and she finally headed out and …” Kristjan’s voice cracked as he went on, “And a truck lost control and hit them on the passenger’s side. Jökull’s side struck a post and…” His eyes closed and there it was; ben saw the tear streaming down his face and pooling at the cleft in his chin.
“He didn’t make it.” Ben observed in a quiet voice, feeling the pangs of loss through his friend’s own experience. Kristjan could only answer by silently shaking his head.
“The doctors tried.” Kristjan finally whispered after several seconds of uncomfortable silence. “But he was bleeding internally.” He swallowed and said, “There was nothing they could do.”
Ben always had the habit of taking someone’s pain and making it his own, and right now the amount of pain his friend was currently going through in remembrance of one of the worst times of his life was absolutely unbearable. A boy of 16, perhaps 17 years of age, having his life tragically cut short. Robbed of having been able to experience life at its fullest. But it was obvious that in those short years, this stranger to him, had indeed been loved very deeply by the man across from him.
Kristjan finally opened his eyes and quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, as if that would fool Ben into thinking the tears had never existed. Kristjan whispered, “I’m always wondering if I hadn’t called him that day…” And Ben knew where this was headed, and sought to cut him off at the passe by saying, “Mate, don’t. Just … stop. It’s not your fault.”
“Well,” Kristjan exhaled, his eyes vacant. “I blame myself. Every. Day.”
Ben closed his eyes. He never could have known that Kristjan had experienced such a painful loss as the one he was sharing right now. It was clear the love had been there, and still was. It always would be.
Kristjan spoke, drawing Ben’s attention, as he casually said, “The worst times are when I dream he’s still alive and wake up, half expecting Jökull to be there beside me. When I realize he’s not…” He shook his head. “I feel like I lost him all over again.”
Ben paused for breath, taking everything in that Fenris, no — Kristjan, had just told him. Because for this once, it was about Kristjan the man, not Fenris the wrestler or MMA fighter. And everything the man had just confided in him about something — someone — so personal to him so as to draw such an emotional response? To Ben, it seemed a floodgate ready to open, whether the man was ready and willing, or not.
“Do you believe in sálufélagar?” The question came from out of nowhere, and Ben had to wait for a moment before he realized Kristjan had slipped back into Icelandic and he shook his head.
“Sorry mate,” Ben had to explain. “I’m less familiar with your language than you are with Cockney slang.”
Kristjan paused, trying to think what the English equivalent was, as his English was still not perfect and some words yet eluded him. He finally shook his head and corrected himself, “Soulmate.”
Ben nodded, then answered, “I’d like to think so, yes. I’d also like to think that I just so happened to marry mine.”
“Lucky man.” Fenris nodded. “I have no doubt that Jökull was mine. If he hadn’t died…”
“You’d still be with him.” Ben finished the thought, and Kristjan nodded. Ben then asked, “Is that why you were with Ty?”
But this time, Kristjan shook his head and answered, “I know you did not like him. Maybe you don’t understand but in all fairness Ben, not everyone likes Evie or understands why you are with her. As for Ty, I was with him because I wanted to be. For the first time in years, I felt happy. But apparently that made me ‘weak.’” And before Ben could say anything, Kristjan talked over him with a casual observance, “Still, much as I loved him, I wasn’t ignorant to his faults.” He nodded. “Ty was a hypocrite, and I told him so.”
This drew Ben’s full attention, and a slight flicker of surprise to his face. For all of Kristjan’s hard personality traits, he (like many others) thought Fenris had a blind spot where Ty West was concerned. This revelation came as news, and a great relief, to someone that believed in him.
Ben found himself asking, “Is that what broke you two up?”
“It did not help.” Kristjan leaned back against the booth, his face downcast and shoulders slumped. “But no.” He looked up into Ben’s face and the Cockney saw a flicker of the old anger, the rage, that made Kristjan “Fenris.” Kristjan went on, “I know what Effie said about you. About faking your … sickness. I was visiting when she thought she could say no wrong where we were concerned. Ty must have felt the same because he agreed with her. Joke was on them. I did not agree.”
“I got pissed. I lost my grandmother to breast cancer and my five year old cousin to leukemia, so the topic of cancer is a sore subject. And claiming someone ‘faked’ it? No fucking excuse for that shit! Called her a fucking kunta…”
Ben closed his eyes and said, “Without even knowing Icelandic I think I can tell what that means.”
“Ty went off.” kristjan said. “That’s when I called him a fucking hypocrite. Any time anyone says something about Effie or him, he’d bitch and say that’s not what a ‘face’ would say or do, but Effie can say whatever the fuck she wants and Ty makes the same, tired old excuses for her; it’s just Effie or she’s just trolling people. It’s always someone else’s fault, never hers. So when she asked Ty what I said and he told her, she hit me.”
Kristjan then stared Ben right in the eyes as if he were daring him to react, as he said, “And I hit her right back! Backhanded the bitch and knocked her on her back. Split her lip open… that was pretty much when Ty ended things between us.”
Several long, tense moments of silence passed between the two men, as the truth as to why Ty West and Fenris broke up so suddenly and from out of nowhere had just been passed between them. Ben doubted Evie was privy to the secret, nor London Underground or even the Stevens. Ben was tempted to ask if Krostjan’s family knew the truth, but shrugged off the temptation to ask. As Kristjan sat and waited for some sort of reaction, he expected ben to be repulsed over his striking a woman.
He was not prepared for the laughter that escaped from the “Cockney King.” Kristjan looked up, startled as if Ben had lost it, but Ben just smiled and shook his head before he said, “I don’t go in for men hitting women. But mate? If you hadn’t done it, then I would have been damn sure tempted to do it meself!”
“Small consolation.” Kristjan said, but albeit this time with the faintest whisper of a smile ghosting his lips. “Just wish it had never come to it. Ty was the first person in years who ever made me feel … healed, I guess. But now I wonder if it were a bandaid on a more serious wound.”
“Wish I could have met this kid.” Ben smiled, and he truly meant it. Kristjan looked away and whispered, “You would have liked him … and he would have loved you.” He then looked to Ben and shook his head, asking the man, “You believe there was the right one for me. You believe in soulmates. How do you go on knowing yours is gone … and never coming back?”
Ben leaned on the table of their shared booth, cast a quick glance around and was grateful that what limited crowd there was here in the bar was distracted by the game on the television above the bar, or lost in their own world of conversation. He picked up his pint of NR. 47 Surtur and said, “To Jökull.”
To this, Kristjan was only too happy to raise his own glass to match Ben’s toast. They then both drained their glasses, and as the serving girl placed a bowl filled with meaty chunks on the tabl;le between the two men, Ben signalled for refills for them both. Once she turned away to fulfill his request, Ben caught sight of Kristjan scratching the untrimmed stubble that he had neglected these past few weeks.
“So? How about it?” Ben asked. “Are you going to come back to America, or not?”
Kristjan’s eyes shifted to the side as he sat there in thought, pondering the benefits and detriments of doing so. What would the future hold for him should he return to pick up the mantle where he had left off. After the bar maid returned and set their drinks down in front of them, Kristjan wrapped his fingers around his glass, looked at Ben — and nodded a single time.
Satisfied, Ben smiled and picked up his own glass with one hand, reaching into the bowl with the other. He plucked out a piece of seasoned meat and popped it into his mouth, saying between bites, “Not bad. What is it?”
“Marinated shark.” Kristjan answered with a smile before taking a swallow of his own Einstök white ale. Ben froze mid-bite, and his eyes slowly rose up to find Kristjan smiling quite sadistically.
“Call me ‘fish lips’....”
“Well, this could not have turned out any better had I planned it.”
Reykjavík…
The Blue Lagoon
Despite the cold of the autumn months here in Iceland, tourists and locals alike flocked to this geothermal spa, one of the capital’s most sought after attractions. Somewhere out there, Ben and Evie Jordan were partaking at Fenris’s insistence, soaking i the steamy water and allowing it to work its wonders on their minds and bodies. As for Fenris himself, he had emerged from the heated spring and was walking along the path, allowing the steamy mist to rise up over him, soaking his flesh and hair.
“It may have come to your attention that I have not exactly been thrilled as far as my current standing goes. A time or two I may have dropped a hint that I felt as if I was running in circles like a goddamn rat in one of those rodent wheels. No matter how hard I try or how fast I run, I just never seem to get anywhere! My match against Ben Jordan at High Stakes IX, or the match that should have happened but didn't, would have been the next logical step for either of us to move ahead in this company. Or one of or both of us to get where we belonged in the hierarchy. But circumstances for both of us with the same origin kept that match from happening. So we're back to square one with this series of qualifying matches we find ourselves in to move ahead and get to where we should already be.”
“Did I mention something about running in circles?”
“Now I took a well- needed sabbatical, so I suppose part of the blame can fall on my shoulders for he and I not getting our match that everyone wanted to see. But now I'm back, and my first match just so happens to be a qualifying match to decide who moves on to 2 Dismember IV and the World Championship main event. It's been over a month since I've set foot inside of the ring, and lesser men than me would be complaining about the quality of opposition. But I am not like most men.”
Fenris walked across a small bridge that overlooked a huge lagoon, the mist rising from off of the water’s warm surface and there were many bodies soaking, and somewhere out there, two of those were the Jordans.
“I could have found myself again against Caleb Storms, the same little punk who I spoke highly of but still turned his nose up at me and my offer to help train him in Mixed Martial Arts. I could have found myself against Jake Raab again, but no. I drew one hell of a wild card when I got booked in my first match back against Mark Cross.”
“Now, I know Mark has the world at his fingertips when it comes to being able to look up everything he thinks he might need to know to better his odds against me. I mean, I am me. ‘The White Wolf!’ I have been nothing BUT the talk of SCW ever since I first set foot in the ring back in `17, so whatever he needs to know? I’m there. I just can’t say the exact same about him, because if I’m going to be perfectly frank, I don’t pay that close attention to SCU as I probably should, and the first and only time I made an appearance on Underground was to, as Ben himself might say, bust his chops. But what I do know? It’s enough.”
“I know that Mark Cross is one-half of the SCU Double Down Tag Team Champions and that in itself in a remarkable feat. That is if you take into account that he and his tag team partner Valentina beat Chanelle Martinez, who was in SCW and was, if I’m not mistaken — a jobber? I mean, she wasn’t exactly what I would call a threat here on the SCW main roster, so beating her team for the titles just might downplay that accomplishment, just a bit.”
He pinched his thumb and forefinger close together.
“But credit where it’s due. Not every wrestler in SCU gets an open invitation to compete on the main roster like you do, Mark. I’ve sat back time and again and watched as Mark Ward and Christian Underwood brought you up from SCU to play with the big boys, and so far you’ve proven yourself capable of doing that and a hell of a lot more. Two wins against ‘Bulldog’ Bill Barnhart, a bad ass veteran who even I had a hard time against. That old boy took me to the limit in our match but I still won. Came close to winning the Roulette title, and yeah. You won that Fatal Fourway to place yourself right in the path of whoever books the championship matches around here. Like I said, you’ve been on one hell of a run.”
“But that all stops in Phoenix. You see, I’m tired of running in circles Mark. It is time for me to step back up and remind people who the fuck I am! I’ve been hearing whispers, little taunts now and again, that my relationship with Ty West had made me weak. Weak! Despite the fact that during the entirety of that relationship I was beaten just the one time. So someone out there kindly explain how the fuck I was weak! But right now, that is no longer the case. Ty and I are no longer together and although it hurt at the time, I am going to move beyond that pain and the only thing standing in my way is you.”
“I have Mark Cross standing in front of m, current tag team champion and a pretty kick ass singles fighter if you don’t mind my saying, but on my level?”
He shook his head.
“Not yet. You have a very long way to go before you’re ready to put me down for the count. You’re not the first man who I’ve been in the ring with that fancied himself an expert in the strong style form of competition. Jake Raab. Bill Barnhart. I’ve met each and every man head on and walked away with my head and arm both held high. The end result of meeting you in the ring will be hard fought, but no different. I imagine your ring style is where you got your nickname from, ‘the Dragon.’ Well being Norse, I am not unfamiliar with the Dragon aspect of mythology. Níðhǫggr, also called ‘Malice Striker’ by the ancients, was a dragon that gnawed on the roots of the World Tree, Yggdrasil. But there’s something else about the Dragon, Mark. maybe something you were not aware of. To the ancient Vikings across the continent of Europe, níð .. dragon .. was a social stigma, implying you to have no honor and the status of a villain.”
“Now maybe you weren’t aware, or oof you were, you didn’t care and thought maybe the nickname would add to your own personal mythos and help you with the mind games against inferior opposition. Well let me fill you in on something, Mark.”
He tapped a forefinger to his temple.
“I don’t play mind games, and I am by no means your inferior. My record speaks for itself Mark, and being my first match back? There isn’t a chance in Hel, that I will give you the satisfaction of being the second man ever to defeat me. You have already got your foot in the door where a title fight is concerned, but this match between us? It’s mine. My chance, my opportunity! My time and place to remind everyone, from staff to fan and everyone in between, just who the fuck I am, and what I am capable of doing! Chriistian suggested that there was the possibility of you winning by forfeit had Ben Jordan been incapable of luring me back stateside. I seem to recall you saying something about how nobody would want that?”
“I want you to remember that. Because Ben is a miracle worker, and he accomplished what he set out to do. ‘The White Wolf’ is back, bitches! The original make and model, the very same who took over the pack and fucked peoples’ shit up! Mark, that is what you have to face this weekend, a fucking force of nature! The days are long gone where I’ve been accused of being weak and not being the same Fenris that won the Blast From the Past VI, won the world championship in just his fourth career month, and second only to J2H as far as championship reign! A man that ended the career of that kid Kyle Kavanagh with one. Single. Kick! A man that is just as satisfied winning by knock out as I am separating a shoulder and making another man cry uncle!”
“That is what you are up against, Mark. You either drew the short stick, or you went and did something to piss off someone high up! I have a point to prove. And when you wake up, when you pop your shoulder back into its joint? I want you to do yourself and everyone else on this roster a little favor. I want you to go and find Ben Jordan and ask him one simple question.”
“What the hell have you set loose!?”
