[Thatcher Rex]

 


The lighting was dim, flickering from the glow of a single light bulb. A hulking form sat at a wooden table, slightly hunched over; a plate sat before him, the meal half-eaten. Food was not on his mind, however. No, what occupied the thoughts of Thatcher Rex was the current war raging within SCW. He had lost a pivotal battle and, even worse, had been pinned for the very first time since signing his contract back in November. He knew it would happen eventually, of course. Every man or woman ended up being pinned at some point or another, but he had hoped that he’d at least push forward for a few more weeks with his record.

But he had more concerns than a record ended. Specifically, an annoyance that had been making itself known for some time.

Team Erik.

The clicking of high heels on a wooden floor interrupted his thoughts, and the smell of a specific perfume alerted him to the identity of the person approaching him before she even spoke.

“Hello, Madelyne.”

She stopped, surprised.

“That’s almost creepy, the way you know those things.”

“All it takes is attention to detail.”

Madelyne slid into the chair across from him, her elbows leaning on the tabletop as her hands folded together.

“You’re going to need that attention, Thatcher. Tupoi is no slouch, and him taking your Roulette Title is a very real possibility.”

Thatcher waved her off.

“This is just another showcase match, a way for me to even the score between he and I. The real enemy is Erik Staggs.”

“Oh lord. Not this again.”

“Yes, this again.”

Maddie’s fingers moved up to massage her temples, trying to ease away the inevitable headache.

“Stay out of it, Thatcher. No good ever comes from these group things. The only people that ever benefit are the leaders; all you are is muscle, the way Erik’s people are to him. It isn’t your war.”

“It was made my war when they attacked me.”

“Oh, here we go! Every time someone attacks you, it’s all of the sudden a war. All you’re doing is getting into more trouble! You did the same damn thing against Kris Keebler during the EW/PWO merger! You started a war against him, and he called in his reinforcements, sidelining you for weeks.”

“Your point being?”

“My point being that Erik has a legion under his command! They’ve already collectively smacked you around once. Do you want that to happen again?”

A wicked grin spread over Thatcher’s face.

“There’s one crucial factor that you’re forgetting, Madelyne. One significant difference.”

“And that would be?”

“I have a legion of my own. The Loyalists. They weren’t my team when I was attacked by Team Erik. I didn’t have a team when I was attacked by Keebler and his In Crowd. But now… I do. There are people that are willing to watch my back, and I’m willing to watch theirs.”

“You don’t even know these people! Are you so willing to trust them?”

“I am. I’ve seen the kind of men they are. They’re called the Loyalists for a reason. Loyalty is their creed. Loyalty to Mark Ward. Loyalty to one another. Team Erik is in it for the personal glory of each individual; Staggs himself promised them that. But we who side with Ward, we have the bigger picture in mind. We can unite, and we have.”

Rex stood up, pushing his chair back.

“We’re presenting a united front, Madelyne. And we’re going to win.”


*  *  *


Duke Ata Tupoi.

It is strange. Here is a man who has plagued much of my career in SCW, yet he is not even a member of the roster. He’s done his best to make my life a living hell, cracking me with chairs, jumping me from behind, and doing his best to make himself heard. Well, Tupoi, your pleas for attention have finally garnered some. You’ve finally made yourself known in SCW. You’re far more dangerous than someone like James Huntington-Hawkes III. You’re leagues ahead of that joke when it comes to threat assessment, but you and him have something in common: you leap to greatness by riding the coattails of others. You didn’t gain a shot at my title because of skill. You didn’t become a contender for the Roulette Championship because management recognized something special within you. No no, Duke Ata… you got this match because I, Thatcher Rex, gave it to you. You came to this fine establishment week in and week out trying to pick a fight with me, and son, you’ve got your fight only because I chose to give it to you. How does it feel, hm? How does it feel to know that all your efforts, all your attempts at bringing greatness to your name have been for nothing? How does it feel to have a match doled out to you, like a puppy receiving a treat from his master?

You’re probably at home, patting yourself on the back, congratulating yourself, on pushing the Tyrant King to the limits of his patience. You’re smiling, grinning, reveling at the idea that you goaded me into something. And that’s fine, Duke, that’s just fine. Think what you will. But we all know that thinking is not your strong point. Don’t believe me? Then let’s review.

You come to SCW, paid by a sham of champion – sheer courtesy for the intelligence of those viewing this prevents me from using the term “shampion” – to help him keep his title. But you attack after the match. You then proceed to continue attacking me, despite the fact that I’m a veteran of the ring, a multiple champion of numerous companies. But all that could be forgiven, Tupoi, all of it could be chalked up to goading and pushing… but this. This is the kicker. You decide you not only want to come after my title, but come after it on my home turf? Son, you just came to the championship game against the hometeam. You can do your best, but in the end, you’re going to strike out, just like you did when you tried to stop me from pinning little James in our second title match. Your only victories against me, I they can be called that, have consisted of assaults from behind. Whenever we meet face to face, you fold faster than the integrity of the cast of Jersey Shore. With about as much intelligence.

See, you think you’ve pushed me into this. Truth of the matter is, I’ve been preparing for it. Ever since that fateful night when Huntington-Hawkes paid you off, I’ve known that a showdown between the two of us would take place. I’ve known that it would come down to you and me, going toe to toe. You know how I know? Because I’ve come across men like you throughout my career. Some punk who thinks he can make a name for himself, to garner the public eye by causing what he calls controversy. You’re not controversial, Tupoi. You’re not even the topic of locker room conversation. All you are, is some jackass who wanted attention. And oh, did you get attention. More attention than you could handle, though you’re not aware of it yet. There’s an expression that is thrown out there quite a bit, Duke: don’t poke the bear. You poke the bear, and he mauls you. Well, I’m here to tell you that you didn’t poke a bear. You didn’t prod at a black bear. You didn’t antagonize a grizzly bear. You didn’t even annoy a polar bear. You’ve meddled with a force far more powerful, far more ancient, than any of those creatures.

You poked a Tyrannosaur.

The apex predator of its day, the T-Rex was not the largest theropod in the jungle… but as my father had a habit of saying, B-I-G doesn’t spell B-A-D. In point of fact, the T-Rex had the strongest bite force of any land animal that lived. Ever. That’s enough power to reduce bone to powder. It can shred steel, and makes even the Great White Shark look like a teething infant.

And you poked him.

You prodded him.

You went looking to get in a confrontation with him.

Not the smartest thing you could do, Tupoi. Throw in the added stipulation of my Roulette Title, and you’ve got one of the baddest, meanest bastards on the planet not only angry with you, but angry at you with his prized possession on the line. And your lucky ass gets to face him in the squared circle.