[Thatcher Rex]

 

You know, at first, I didn’t want anything to do with this battle royale. It had all the potential of a major clusterfuck; men from all over converging on SCW, clamoring for the ultimate prize. Nowhere was there a better recipe for mayhem and violence. Enemies would be everywhere, and they would not only be intent on picking up the contender’s spot for Jordan Williams’ belt, but they’d be looking for any and all chances to inflict career-ending injuries upon their opponents. The members of Team Erik, in particular, would be looking for this. But that’s not the cause of my reservations. No, fear is an old ally of mine; it doesn’t control my actions. Rather, it was the conundrum of going after the title while a fellow member of Team SCW was in possession of it. I was hesitant to take an action that would cause a rift in the only group of people who were standing up to Team Erik. It is said that a house divided against itself cannot stand, and I heartily agree with that. So you can understand why I’d have said-reservations.

But then I had a revelation, if you will.

I wondered what would happen if someone from Team Erik did indeed win that battle royale, and received their shot at Jordan Williams’ belt. Worse, what would it mean for SCW if that person was able to beat Williams? You can bet your ass that Erik Staggs would do his damndest to stack the decks in his representative’s favor. While many of us can overcome such things (my own reign as the Roulette Champion being an example of it), there are times when no matter how good you are, shit can just happen. A bad referee, a stipulation that tips the odds out of your favor, something. And with Staggs involved, it likely would happen. He has a history of trying to screw people out of their titles. Look what happened in my last match with “Primetime” Matthew Kennedy. Staggs sent a crooked referee down to the ring, in hopes that it would lead to me losing my own belt. Fortunately, I was able to overcome it. But not everyone can do such things, and no one can keep it up forever. Not even the Tyrant King.

So instead of leaving it to chance, I’ve decided to throw my name into the hat. Make no mistake, I fully intend to win at this battle royale; I’ve consistently done so in the past, and look forward to doing so again.

Now, Jordan and I, we have a bit of unfinished business. I bear no hostility towards him; in fact, I truly respect the man. But a few months back, we had a match in the Mixed Tag Team tournament; it was Misty and I versus Jordan Williams and Odette Ryder. The match was tough, and Jordan was a strong competitor. But he did not defeat me, nor did Odette defeat Misty. In point of fact, Misty defeated her own team, getting us disqualified when she shoved Jordan off the top ring post. Granted, he was about to deliver a devastating move to me, and I still maintain that I would have moved out of the way at the last second… but that’s the “what if” game. The fact of the matter is, Jordan and I have never truly had a proper match, and I relish the thought of facing him for the SCW Heavyweight Championship. I feel, in that match, we could truly show one another, as well as the world, what we are capable of.

Of course, I won’t get there unless I kick ass and gain contendership. It’s the mighty roadblock that stands in my way; various individuals, competing for the chance at greatness. The prospect of being the only man in Sin City Wrestling to not only hold the Roulette Title and Heavyweight Title, but to hold them both simultaneously… that is certainly a worthy goal. I’ve set records in my previous companies, and I’m looking to set yet another in this one. In the most recent edition of Wrestlecast Radio, I was ranked at Number Five of the Top Ten. It was said that nobody ever talks about Thatcher Rex. Well, I guarantee, after this battle royale, my name will be the only one spoken of for weeks to come. The popularity of Thatcher Rex among the fans is not in question, as there are those who have followed me from my humble beginnings in Pennsylvania Championship Wrestling all the way tomy current home in Sin City. They buy my shirts, they watch my matches, they cheer my name. The only people I now need to win over are my peers. Many have given me credit for what I’ve done, yes, but there are also those who wish to put me in a box, to laugh at every accomplishment.

Keep laughing, Philistines. Laugh, laugh, laugh it up.

We’ll see who’s laughing when I stand over each and every entrant, triumphant, a title shot guaranteed to me.

And this isn’t just about preventing Team Erik from getting a shot, oh no. It would be just as bad to have an outsider picking one up. This is the SCW Heavyweight Title we’re talking about, folks. This is the biggest belt in the entirety of Sin City. It’s fine and good for “Hot Stuff” Mark Ward to open up and invite all of these individuals, but to have one actually defeat the roster of SCW, Team Erik or Team SCW, would be absolutely embarrassing for us. I’ve defended one title from being swept away by an outsider when I slapped down Duke Ata Tupoi, and by God, I will protect yet another.

Pride is on the line, folks. Pride, one of the most powerful forces that exists in this company. SCW pride is on the line.

I, for one, will not forsake it.


*  *  *


The eyes of Thatcher Rex were glued to the screen. His hand covered his mouth, index finger absently rubbing against his mustache; his brow was furrowed in thought, eyes unblinking. The images flashing across the screen were those of the most recent Climax Control. Specifically, his match with Matthew Kennedy. Any who looked upon him could tell that he was certainly not happy with the result. Sure, he’d won the match. The outcome had never been in doubt as far as Rex was concerned; he could take Kennedy, and many others on the roster. What he wasn’t happy about was the way it had ended.

“Reliving glory, hm?”

Rex turned to face Madelyne McTaggert, fresh from California. She’d been on a trip with friends from her old company, and it had been a long trip. She’d come back a mere four hours ago. Confusion was written on her face, her head cocking to the side.

“Why the sour face? You beat him. You should be proud of that.”

Thatcher shook his head.

“It shouldn’t have ended there.”

“Pardon?”

The screen paused, and Thatcher pointed at Kennedy’s foot, which was resting firmly upon the ropes at the point the referee made the three count. Rex’s finger tapped against that particular spot.

“Right there. His foot was on the rope, Madelyne. The referee should’ve seen that, should have interrupted the count.”

“Jesus Christ, Thatcher. Are you ever happy with a outcome?”

He turned a questioning glance towards her.

“You’re not happy when you lose, you’re not happy when you win!”

“It’s a black mark against me. Do you have any idea what kind of things people can say? I’d be a hypocrite to not let this aggravate me.”

Madelyne shook her head.

“Thatcher, you’d have every reason to feel guilty… if it was anyone other than Matthew Kennedy. You were there, you should know better than anyone! If you were facing, say, Spike Staggs or Aleksei Koji, the good and decent individuals of Sin City, then you’d be right to feel guilty over that kind of win. But ‘Primetime’ Matthew Kennedy? The guy cheated the piss out of you in the week before your match against him. He and Erik Staggs tried to cheat you with a crooked referee last week! If you ask me, it’s called karma. His own game was turned around on him.”

Rex looked a bit skeptical, though he was finding himself in at least partial agreement. He still didn’t like winning in such a way, but Madelyne was right; Kennedy deserved nothing less.

“If you still want to give him a rematch, though, that’s your business. You kicked his ass once, and you could kick it again, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

“What if I want the satisfaction?”

That caught Madelyne’s attention.

“What… what for?”

A predatory grin spread across Rex’s face.

“To leave him with no excuses. ‘Rex screwed my chances!’ is not a phrase I want to hear for the rest of his time with SCW.”

Madelyne sighed, shaking her head.

“Like I said, it’s up to you. Personally, I’d leave the bastard hanging… but if you want to smack him around again, by all means, go for it.”

Rex nodded. Smack Kennedy around again, he would. All he needed to do was make one little phone call....


*  *  *


James Huntington-Hawkes III.

Simpson.

Duke Ata Tupoi.

Giani Di Luca.

Each of these individuals, diverse as they are, all have something in common. No, it’s not that they’re assholes. It’s not that they’re pals. It’s not even the fact that they’re all the gigantic douche rags of the biggest pussy in the business, Erik Staggs. They’ve all tried at some point to halt my progress in SCW, and they have all failed. Hawkes was just business; he held the Roulette Title, and therefore had a target painted on his back. Sure, he was and is a little jerk, some punkass kid who thinks his money will win matches for him. But still, going after the belt was a business move. And what did we see in response? We saw it become personal. We saw little James open up his pocket book and hand a few bills to Duke Ata. He paid him to attack me. Some might argue that it was business as well, since money was the heart of Tupoi’s motivation, but then it became personal when he again tried to attack me. Giani Di Luca did the same, and they got the best of me for a time… a time in which surprise was on their side. Once that element had been removed, a different outcome was destined to happen. And happen, it did; on the night that I picked up the Roulette Title, the very night that I made it my own, they once more tried to put me in what they deemed was my place. But I knew they were coming. I expected it. How could I not? They’d been harassing me for weeks on end, interfering with my matches. So I correctly assumed they’d try again in the title match and… well… we all saw the result. Giani, put down like a dog. Tupoi, slammed through the hood of a limousine.

But they cried foul, didn’t they? They took it as a personal insult. They just couldn’t comprehend that Thatcher Rex could foil their little plot, that I’d turn the tables and put them in their place. So Tupoi came after me, intent on robbing me of my hard-earned, well-deserved belt. But, much like James before him, he lost. When he decided to step into the ring with the Tyrant King, he fell. He ranted, he raged, but in the end, he did the very thing that all the rest have done: he bowed. He came into SCW looking to embarrass me, hoping he’d defeat me on my home turf and walk away with a belt over his shoulder, laughing all the way. He certainly walked away… but it wasn’t in triumph. His head was bowed, his shoulders were slumped, his ego busted wide open. It’s something so few understand: this is my world. This Roulette Title, it’s my property. I fought for it, I earned it, and by God, no one will take it from me.

Certainly not Giani Di Luca.

Sure, Giani, you have a title reign to your name. You strutted your stuff back in BACW, holding the Empire State Title for six months. Nobody can take that from you, no matter how hard they try, no matter who they are. Not even me. In that company, you were king shit. But here? In SCW? You don’t even amount to shit. You run your mouth off, you shout and you scream about how awesome you are, how tough you can be, how you’re such an amazing wrestler, but let’s get serious, Giani. You haven’t done a damn thing to warrant such a reputation. Not in Sin City. They may praise you over in BACW, and that is their right, but here in the big leagues, you’re just another rookie. Are you hungry for a title? Do you crave a career-defining reign, a legacy to brag about? Damn right, on both counts. You have the appetite, kid, but you just don’t have what it takes to put down the Tyrant King. I’ve met with your allies, I’ve faced them, and they’ve been found wanting. They’ve all come to the realization that they just couldn’t hang with Thatcher Rex and, like them, it’s a conclusion you’ll only reach after I kick your ass up and down that ring. See, there is a difference between you and them. Want to know what it is, Giani? No, it’s not that you’re going to beat me; it’s time to climb out of that fantasy world. It’s the fact that you’re more of a loud mouth than any of them could ever be. Even James, and that takes some doing.

You’ve run your mouth on Twitter, in the ring, in interviews, everywhere that you could. You’ve taken any and all chances to spout off, and it’s high time someone shut you up. What better person to do so than the man you think of as beneath you? What better than the man who has kicked your behemoth ass time and time again? You attacked me, and I put you down. You and your team stood against me, and me and mine tossed you aside. Open your eyes and see reality for what it is, Giani. I am the elite. I’ve met every goal that I’ve set for myself in this company. So stop listening to James’ encouragement; he’s far more delusional than the infamous Bryan Deas of CWC. James bragged, then cried. Tupoi boasted, then was sent back to his piss-pot of a company. Every individual that has in any way attempted to cheat me, to screw me out of something, has paid the price. Your cohorts were first. Matthew Kennedy was the most recent… and now, Giani, your time has come. You finally get to face me.

But you don’t get a title shot, no no no. You may have earned my wrath, but you haven’t even begun to earn a shot at the Roulette Title. I am glad, though, that the match will be according to Roulette Rules. I’m glad because it will give you a taste of what you would’ve been in for had you earned your shot. It will give you a glimpse into the reason why I am the champion, a glimpse into just who I am. And just who are you, Giani? What do you stand for? Is it personal gain? Is it glory? Maybe ego? Could it be for the pure satisfaction? Illusions, Giani, all of them. They’re all for you, and you get nowhere in this world if all your in it for is yourself. Do you want to know why the crowd chants my name week in and week out, why I am the man they cheer for at each and every PPV? It’s because I fight for more than just myself. I believe in something that is bigger than me. The crowd wants a hero, Giani, someone they can look up to and cheer for. They want a man that they can look up to, someone who was once one of them. I didn’t come from money. I didn’t come from a life of entitlement, where things were handed to me. I fought for everything that I have ever had, and I will continue to fight. That’s what they believe in: a man who fights as hard as he can. That’s what their hero is. Not a man who demands everything be handed to him on a silver platter. Not some jackass who thinks he’d God’s gift to the world simply because he exists. They don’t want you, Giani. You’re not one of them. Thing is, you’re worse than one of the enemy. You’re even lower. Simply put, you’re just a stooge of the enemy. A thug, a lackey. You have no genius plans of your own, no plot, nothing. You’re the Foot Soldier to Erik Staggs’ Shredder.

You like to proclaim that you’re a league above everyone else, don’t you? How fun it must be in that little fantasy world of yours. You’re in a league all your own, that’s for certain… but it’s not the Majors you’re playing it. It’s not even Little League. Giani Di Luca, the only league you belong in is Children’s T-Ball, ages five and under.

You’ve got nothing.

You’ve done nothing.

Nothing except run that mouth of yours. Well, keep running it, big man. Keep flapping those gums, because judgment day is coming. The day when you have to own up to all that you’ve said and done, the day of reckoning, is upon you. And the entire world is going to laugh, Giani. They’re going to be laughing at you. You’ve boasted and bragged about how you’re going to smear my carcass all over the ring. You’ve played at being the big, tough bastard… but the crowd is going to laugh at you. The locker room is going to laugh at you. I’m going to laugh at you, because it’s going to be damned hilarious watching you scramble all around ringside, looking for the teeth I so diligently stomped out of your loudmouth. So by all means, keep the flippant attitude. Retain the bluster. That’s all it is, Giani; bluster. Words and ego. That is the entirety of your arsenal. That’s the league you play in.

The league I play in, however, is the league of champions. Whose waist is the Roulette Title wrapped around? Who has possession of it, hm? Not you, Giani. No, the an who owns it is a man who came to this company after you. A man who climbed the ladder of Sin City Wrestling faster, the man who surpassed you in every way possible.

The Tyrant King.

Thatcher Rex.

Remember that name, Giani. It’s the name that will haunt your dreams for years to come. It’s the name of the man who refused to fall in the face of adversity, the man who stands strong.

It’s the name of the man that put you in your place.

The man who finally shut you up.