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.

 

There have been doubts….

People have questioned it….

Some have outright challenged the fact….

But Thatcher Rex is, in truth, everything that he ever claimed to be.

My first match in SCW was December 2, and not one soul could pin me up until April 14. I picked up the Roulette Title, liberating it from a spoiled brat that couldn’t be bothered to make appearances until I showed up. I picked up this belt despite the interference of three other individuals, one of which I just recently knocked the piss out of with a dog chain. Duke Ata Tupoi, the guy who’s been running roughshod all over ACW, the guy whose dominance has been raved about in many circles, finally hit an obstacle that just wouldn’t cave to his momentum. Sure, he was tough when he jumped people from behind, but when he came face to face with a true competitor, he fell flat on his ass. He looked around in shock, absolute shock, as the realization dawned on him that there is no one on this planet that can push Thatcher Rex and get away with it.  

James Huntington-Hawkes III tried it, and failed. Giani Di Luca tried it, and failed. Duke Ata Tupoi tried, and failed spectacularly.

So I’m putting the rest of you on notice. This is my ring. If you want to step up, that’s wonderful. Kudos to you for the courage. But all you’re going to get is knocked on your ass, because I won’t suffer some jackass with an attitude problem. I won’t put up with you just because you think you deserve something you don’t have.  I won’t tolerate you because you think I have something I don’t deserve. I’ve earned everything I have. I’ve shed blood and sweat in that ring and out of it. I haven’t been in SCW as long as Spike Staggs, or Jordan Williams. I haven’t established factions such as NXT or the Sins in this company… but you’d be a damn fool to think I haven’t been busy elsewhere. Sure, some of you think that only SCW matters, that nothing beyond it should count. Some of you think that the past is the past, and it should stay out of the present. What company is there, other than SCW? What else possibly matters? And it’s that mindset that has me shaking my head. The mere existence of NeWA proves such detractors to be short-sighted buffoons. The things that I have done, the things that I continue to do, are all part of who I am. The wars fought in EPW, the victories achieved in CWC, they’re who I am. I’ve proven that I still have what it takes to accomplish such things.

But there are some of you out there who choose not to acknowledge it. There are those who want to limit everything to SCW. They want to take away my accomplishments, to tell me that they don’t matter. You know who else had that mentality? Each and every person that I’ve bulldozed through. There is an oft-used saying, but it is ever relevant: those who fail to acknowledge history are doomed to repeat it. Past accomplishments are in the past, and that’s the truth… but you need to take a look at the man who has achieved so very much and ask yourself one. Simple. Question.

Is he still that man?

If not, then you have nothing to worry about.

If that man has proven otherwise, then you’d best start chowing down on some Wheaties, because you’ll need to be in your pique physical condition to even think about bringing him down.

And yes, Matthew Kennedy, I am talking to you.

I’m not facing you in this Mixed Tag match, true enough, but you’re the Number One Contender to my Roulette Title, so we’ll be facing off soon enough. This is your one warning, though: call it fair. Call it down the middle. Be the referee, not the lackey of Team Erik. Because I guarantee, if you screw Faith and I over, then you won’t just fail in your bid for the Roulette Championship… you’ll be hospitalized over it. You’ll wake up to the sound of an EKG machine months later, only to realize that Team Erik has dissipated, fallen apart, shattered. So before you decide you want to get your shots in when you have the prime opportunity, remember to ask yourself that one question: is Thatcher Rex the same man he was two years ago?

Yes.

Yes I am.

Just ask Casey Williams. You and I met in the ring before, Casey. I remember it well. I’d teamed with Sinful Obsession against James Huntington-Hawkes III and Giani Di Luca. They had a card up their sleeve from the beginning in the fact that they had a mystery partner, an individual whose identity was kept secret until the very end. Lo and behold, the surprise turned out to be the seven-foot monster known as Casey Williams, who… did absolutely jack-all. Despite his size, despite his power, the Freight Train of Fail proved just how impotent he truly was in the ring. You stepped up, tripped, and fell flat on your face, buddy.

Now, you were a member of PrYde, were you not? I remember PrYde; it was to a member of that place that I lost the CWC North American Championship. It was an individual that went by the name of Alexander StarZoe. That match took out of us everything we had, and then some. A great competitor, and a worthy successor to that belt. But I don’t see that greatness in you, Casey. You’re a brute, a bully, a big bastard that thinks his stature is all that he needs. Well, you don’t impress me, big man, and you certainly don’t intimidate me. You’re bigger than anyone in SCW, but you’re going up against the one man who can chop you down to size, then continue until you’re nothing but a stump. You once stated that I remind you of, well, you… power, strength, and so on. But there is so much more to Thatcher Rex than brute force… and I think you learned that the last time we faced one another. You’re no weakling, and anyone who makes that claim deserves what’s coming to them. But at the same time, I’m simply better. Back when you were revealed to be the mystery entrant, you said you wouldn’t allow me to stop you, that you weren’t going to fall short to Sinful Obsession once more.

But you did.

And for the second time, you’re going to fall short of Thatcher Rex.


And Necra Octavian Kane is going to fall short of my partner, Faith.

Faith, I’ll be honest… I don’t know much about you. I don’t know much about the woman whose ass your going to kick, either; there are a few Bombshells who have my attention, generally for negative reasons. Misty and Odette are at the forefront; the former for being a treacherous, selfish twat, and the latter for being a friend. I have interacted with neither of you, though… but I do know one thing. Faith, you can run with the best of them. You have the potential to step up and reign over the Bombshell Division. All you need is a little push, that extra incentive to whet that appetite. Defeating the current Bombshell Roulette Champion will do just that, and I know for a fact that you can do it. Necra’s a tough broad, no mistake. She’s not some pushover, not some cardboard champion. She has some fire, and she’s going to give you a run for your money. Focus on your goal, and keep with it. You’ve got it in you to be one of the greats, Faith, and I want to see you shine like a beacon on Sunday.

This is Roulette Rules, ladies and gentlemen. My territory. I’ve had more stipulation matches than normal ones since I signed the SCW contract, and one thing is certain: I’m good at them. Very good. There’s a reason it took six months for the Tyrant King to actually be pinned; I know how to play these games, and I play them with the skill of a veteran.

Those of you in the crowd will fill the building to capacity on Sunday night, eyes glued to the squared circle in the center. You’re going to knowingly nod when Thatcher Rex makes his entrance, and you’re going to elbow your friend to make sure he knows that I don’t fall. Stipulation or not, I will not be bested at my own game. I’ve played the games of others for far too long, and have been able to leave them helpless and sniveling, cursing my name while simultaneously wondering how they were beaten at something they thought they were so good at. So will it be with you, Casey Williams. So will it be with you, Necra Ovtavian Kane.

Casey, you held the Roulette Title for three months. The only person whose held it longer than you is James Huntington-Hawkes III, who held it for four months. I’ve only had it for two, but believe me when I say my reign is going to surpass yours. It’s going to surpass my predecessor’s. I’ve set records in every company I’ve been a part of, and I’ll be setting one more soon enough.

Longest reigning Roulette Champion.

Count on it.

 


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.

 


Ow.

The first word that came to my mind, the first feeling that my body directed to my brain two weeks ago, was ouch. I was swarmed, beaten, and embarrassed by the entirety of Team Erik who, livid over my rejection of their offer, decided that I required a lesson. A lesson that left me on the floor of the arena, blood dribbling down my chin and stars flashing before my eyes, unable to stand under my own power for a good long while. There is no time in recent memory when I’d been attacked by do many individuals, when so many arms reigned down upon my form. There hasn’t been a time in recent memory when I was so brutally dominated, then discarded like a piece of trash. I was punched, kicked, and tossed out of the ring like the drunken troublemaker a bouncer would handle. The odd thing about this entire situation is the fact that this whole Staggs vs Management thing wasn’t my fight. I didn’t join up under the banner of either camp, content with my procurement of the Roulette Title. I had plans to do great things during my reign. I had ideas to pitch, ideas that would revolutionize SCW. But that all changed when Erik Staggs decided he wanted me in his camp. And who could blame the guy? The Tyrant King, fresh off his win over one of Staggs’ own, had once more proven to the world that he truly deserved his moniker. I’d proven just how good I am not only in securing another title reign to add to my illustrious career, but by fending off the surprise attack of Duke Ata Tupoi. I smashed him through the roof of a limo right before pinning James Huntington-Hawkes III and claiming the belt as my property. Of course Staggs would want such a force on his team. I wanted no part in this company war, but like the pull of a black hole, I was sucked into the singularity. And when I refused, I was summarily punished, intended to be held as an example to all who refused to join Team Erik. Well here’s news for you, Staggs.

You just made an enemy.

And not just any enemy. I’m sure that you have a list of enemies so long that you can’t even begin to recall them all. Man like you, it wouldn’t surprise me. But you made an enemy out of the man who took the brunt of everything your team had. You made an enemy out of the man who, though your team swarmed him, is still standing. Did you truly think that I would hide away after such transgressions? Did you think fear of your army would find its way into the heart of the Tyrant King and render him a sniveling husk, huddling in the corner? If so, then you have badly misjudged me, Erik. You have fatally misjudged me, because now, I have a reason to get involved in this war. I have every reason to lead the charge, to call for your blood, under the banner of Mark Ward.

And that charge starts this very Sunday, against the likes of Giani Di Luca, James Huntington-Hawkes III, and the mystery opponent.

I don’t know who you people have chosen to hide behind a veil of anonymity. Personally, my money is on Tupoi. That little bastard is likely still smarting from when I put him in his place, and vengeance is certainly on his mind. In truth, though, it doesn’t matter what lapdog you’ve summoned. Mystery opponents leave me in the dark, but have you taken a look at the people I’ve aligned with? Gabriel and Despayre. Darkness is practically the home of Sinful Obsession. Gabriel himself plays the game of deception very, very well, as evidenced by the recent game he and Odette played on Jordan Williams. He is a master of the game, and one can hardly play a master. Despayre was a guest of the Broodmore Mental Facility. And me, well… you’ve seen what I can do. This mystery opponent keeps himself hidden in the shadows, but we three, we know that the biggest threat strikes from darkness. One only has to look into the dark to know how a threat will strike from it, and the three of us… we’ve all looked directly into the abyss. We’ve stared in straight in the eye, and not a one of us has blinked. So keep your hidden ally a surprise. Keep his identity a secret until the final moment, because when all is said and done, his ass will be sent back to the shadows of obscurity.

The other two opponents, however, are very well known to me. Both are delusional meatheads who are tired of not being taken seriously, who are tired of being considered jokes in SCW. Well, boys, here’s a tip: stop acting like jokes.

James Huntington-Hawkes III. What can I say about the Kindergarten Kid that hasn’t been said before? I brought you down, James. You trembled with fear both times we met in the ring, and you practically pissed yourself. Now you’re ranting and raving about how it wasn’t fair. What do you know about fairness, boy? You’ve cheated your way to the title, but when your tactics don’t work, you decide to call in your cavalry. You best take a good, long look at who you’re coming up against, James, because the people you’ve called upon for help aren’t going to do you any good. They’re tough when they assault someone from behind, or in groups… but face to face? They’re going to fold just like you did. You threw Simpson at me, and I tossed him aside. You paid Duke Ata to stop me from taking the Roulette Title, and I dropped him like a bad habit. Then, when you thought I was distracted, you finally emerged from your hiding place to assault me. The result? I put you down like a dog.

Do you still think you’re better, James? Do you still think this “old man” is irrelevant, even after he thoroughly kicked your little half-a-ass? If so, then you’re more of an idiot than I thought… and I thought you were a damn big one. You and your boys couldn’t stop me when it was just the Tyrant King you were dealing with. Tell me, how exactly do you think you’ll fair when Sinful Obsession is by my side? I’ll let you know, now: about as well as you would against any other member of the roster. You want to know why it is that your boss, Staggs, sent you off with Misty? You want to know why he wanted you by her side? It’s because you’re better suited for the Bombshell Division. He’s training you to play in that particular arena, because you have more in common with them than you do the division you’re currently in. Misty will be training you so you can go after the Bombshell Roulette Title. Maybe when your voice cracks and your balls drop, you’ll be allowed to take another shot at my Roulettle Title.

Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, Giani. You’ve been asking for this for a long time, what with your constant attacks. If anyone deserves an ass-kicking more than James, it’s you. You’ve poked, you’ve antagonized, and now, you’ve finally got my attention. You’ve been asking for a foot up your ass for a while, Di Luca, and on Sunday, you’re going to get it. James has organized the attacks, but you’ve been leading the charge since I started going after the belt. I have no idea what it is that has you so intent on inflicting pain to me, and frankly, I don’t give a good Goddamn about the why. You wanted a fight, and I am more than happy to provide. You’re going to learn the lesson that many others before you have: you don’t pick a fight with the Tyrant King unless you want to wake up to the sound of an EKG machine.

Yeah, you’re a big guy. Yeah, you’re young and in your prime. You’re mean, you’re tough, blah blah blah. Thing is, big guys like you are a dime a dozen. You’re all the same; arrogant pricks that sorely need their teeth kicked through the back of their head. And Giani, you’ve been needing it for a very long time. Now let’s see what you’re made of now that you’re meeting me face to face instead of ambushing me from behind.


*  *  *


Thatcher’s head snapped up as the door slammed open, the vivacious Madelyne McTaggert pushing through without so much as permission. He cocked his head, puzzled as to her disheveled appearance; she’d been gone for weeks, spending time in California with her old friends. She had only returned the previous night, and had a lot to catch up on.

“Your mystery opponent. It’s Casey Jones.”

Okay, so she was more caught up than Thatcher.

“…the Ninja Turtle guy? The one with the hockey mask?”

Maddie blinked for a moment, then gave an exaggerated eye roll.

“Jesus. Williams. Casey Williams.”

“Are you sure? I mean, can we be certain that the Foot Clan isn’t trailing behind somewhere?”

“Shut up.”

Rex never could resist teasing the blonde. She didn’t foul up much, but when she did, he jumped on it.

“Casey Willaims, you say? I’ve seen him. The guy is a grade-A jackass, worse than Giani, if that’s possible.”

“Yes, he is worse than Giani. He’s stronger. Better. Nastier. Giani may be some full-of-himself jackass, but Williams is truly dangerous.”

Thatcher pondered her words for a moment before responding.

“Of course he’s dangerous. There are very few men in this business that aren’t dangerous. But I’ve made a living fighting men like Casey. I’ve made a career out of not backing down.”

“You’re not afraid of him?”

A lopsided grin formed on Rex’s face.

“Madelyne… how many times have you seen me actually afraid of another man?”

The buxom Brit returned the smile.

“It’s mostly the women that frighten you.”

“Let’s not get into that.”

“If Team Erik were really that smart, they’d recruit your ex-girlfriends.”

“Who’s side are you on?”

 


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.

 


“And that’s who I am, James.”

Rex shot a glare towards the current Roulette Champion before heading to the back, the battle over for the night. He and Misty had achieved further victory by defeating the team of Vixen and Nick Jones, advancing further into the tournament. He ventured through the halls, the roar of the crowd reverberating down after him. They loved the show, and were clamoring for more. Oh, they would get more, that much was assured; numerous contests were on the horizon, and the future of the Tyrant King was looking bright, indeed. He stepped into the shower, the droplets cascading down upon his body. Madelyne McTaggert, who seemed to be his shadow these days, was right outside, leaning against the wall.

“You know, you’ve been antagonizing a lot of people lately.”

“What, you mean the kid? James is hardly a threat.”

“I’m not talking about the boy. I’m talking about people who would otherwise be your allies. You’re really pushing them.”

For a moment, the sound of water was the only response given, then silence as Rex turned it off. His hand came out, grasping a towel and pulling it behind the curtain.

“Not intentionally.”

“Intent has nothing to do with it, Thatcher. The fact that these people are getting angry is what matters. You’re alienating them! Keep it up, and the day will come when you won’t be able to call on anyone for help. And you will need help, eventually. You’re tough, but you’re making enemies left and right. You’re going to end up one man against an entire roster, and I don’t care how tough you are, no man can beat those odds.”

Madelyne averted her gaze as Rex emerged from behind the curtain. He pulled on a pair of jeans, buttoning his shirt before he responded.

“Your concern is touching.”

“I mean it, Thatcher. Staggs, Gabriel… these are top players, and they’ll come after you if you don’t leave well enough alone. You’re not invincible!”

Thatcher turned towards her, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder.

“I know. Trust me, I’ll handle it. These guys, they just need things to be cleared up. I’ll talk to them.”

A look of skepticism crosses the British blonde’s face.

“And I mean talk. Not fight. If they’re good men, they’ll lend an ear. If they’re not good men… well, best I learn it now instead of later. Now, don’t you have a plane to catch?”

Madelyne checked her watch and began to head towards the exit. Before departing, she looked back.

“You’re sure you’ll be alright?”

Rex let out a chuckle.

“I’ll be fine on my own while you’re out in California. Now go. Mend your friendship with Syren.”

Syren had been Madelyne’s closest friend in a different company, ironically another SCW; Supreme Championship Wrestling. The two had a falling out some time ago, and both were too proud to step forward. Rex eventually wore Madelyne down, convincing her to head out and make amends. She would be gone for a week or so, which would be odd to Thatcher; there would be no one for him to converse with in Nevada.

Well, not yet, anyway.


*  *  *


Blast from the Past. From the beginning, that has been the name of this mixed tag tournament. From the past, it may be, but a blast, it isn’t. Don’t get me wrong, victory far sweeter than defeat ever will, but there have been very few people that have purely enjoyed this competition. There has been animosity between most teams; one teammate dislikes the other, or both despise one another. There is very, very little trust. The only team that I’ve seen get along is that of Odette Ryder and Jordan Williams. From the beginning, they’ve understood one another, working like a well-oiled machine. They celebrate together, cheer, and revel in the victories they’ve attained. I’m rather envious of the two of them; when I signed up, I was hoping for a team like that. I was excited at the prospect of joining forces with someone I could trust… a person I could not only rely on, but actually enjoy the company of. Not in any romantic way, as one James Huntington-Hawkes III seems to think; I’m talking about someone that I can call friend.

Three months I’ve been in Sin City, and as of yet, there isn’t one person I’ve called friend. I’ve kept my eye on many a person around here, and I have yet to trust any of them. Quite the opposite, actually; instead of friends, I’ve been making enemies. It seems I’ve stepped on the toes of one Gabriel, the boyfriend of Odette. Well, sort of; no one is exactly sure what their current status is, but let me tell you something, Gabriel: if you keep on treading down this path, you’re going to lose her forever. Posting that picture on Twitter wasn’t intended to step on your toes; it was meant to bring a bit of levity to Odette’s life… which, if I recall, is your job. But since you’re the cause of a lot of heartbreak in recent weeks, I figured I’d do the nice thing and bring some laughter back. And you know what? I succeeded. It brought a smile to Odette’s face, something that you should have been doing from the start! Now, I can see how this can be misconstrued as me trying to steal Odette away from you, Gabriel; when I was younger, I would have bristled much in the way that you are right now. But I’m going to level with you, son, man to man. I am not after your girlfriend. I don’t break couples up, nor do I wish to see you two end it. So I’m going to give you a bit of advice: stop what you’re doing. End the jealousy, get beyond the bitterness, and accept the woman for who she is and what she does. That’s the only way you’re going to keep her, because I’m telling you right now, you’re pushing her away. Recognize Odette as the woman you fell in love with, and embrace every aspect of her. Love her and cherish her, or you will surely lose her.

As for you and I, well, we have a different sort of issue. I confess to being a bit pissed off at your method of letting me know you had a problem. Did you come backstage and find me? Did you attempt to contact me in any way to let me know that there was a problem? No. You let it stew, then chose to air your grievances not to my face like a man, but from behind a camera. “Boohoo, Thatcher doesn’t follow me on Twitter! Waah, Thatcher posted a picture of my girlfriend’s butt!” I expect that kind of behavior from people like Nick Jones and James Huntington-Hawkes III, but you… I thought you were better than that. We’re not exactly buddies, but neither were we enemies, and I’d like to keep the latter the way it is. We can even meet for a beer and work this out like civilized men, as it should be. Hell, I’d welcome that. But know this… if you come after me, if you come looking for a war, then you will get the biggest war you’ve fought in your career. Make no mistake, Gabriel; my desire to be on good terms is not one borne of fear. Rather, it is out of recognition that you are, in fact, a good man. I dislike going to war with good men, but I will not shy away from one if you bring it to my doorstep. Are we clear?

I’d hoped this tournament would bring friendship to my door, would associate me to different circles. I had hoped to team with one of the good people of SCW; Vixen, Odette, someone I knew I could rely on. But I was teamed with Misty. Misty is not the type of person that I tend to spend my free time with, nor do I have anything in common with her disciples. In point of fact, her disciples seem to hold animosity towards me, possibly because I don’t bow low and lick Misty’s boots as they do.

Now, don’t get me wrong. As much as I dislike Misty, she’s proven to be quite capable in the ring. One could hardly ask for a more skilled partner. She’s good at what she does, and I did extend a level of trust last week. She herself didn’t do anything, but the aid her disciples rendered… that in and of itself puts a black mark on our victory. I would have preferred a partner that didn’t have an uncontrollable pack of dogs following in her wake, but as is often the case in life, we don’t always get what we want. Life deals us a hand, and we have to play the cards, good or ill. Sometimes, you can work them into a straight flush, sometimes two pair. Other times, you just have to fold. But it’s not in my nature to fold, nor is it the nature of any individual found in Sin City. Well, aside from Giani Di Luca, anyway. Many people have walked away from the table, their hands just not enough to win the jackpot, and only a few players are left. This week, Misty and I go head to head with Odette and Jordan. This isn’t going to be like the other teams we’ve defeated, not by a long shot. For one, my esteemed partner cannot make the same claim as she did last week; Vixen is tough, and the Bombshell champion on top of that… but Misty had beaten her before. The same can’t be said for Odette. Quite the opposite, really, and it’s no small feat to claim victory over the Queen of the Damned.

You have your work cut out for you, Misty. This is your shot at redemption against Odette, and for the sake of our team, I hope you can pull it off. But this time, no disciples will accompany us to the ring. Last week, I allowed it simply because Jones’ Entourage was making its presence known, and even cost us an early victory; ol’ Nick was about to tap out before his little pal intervened. Your disciples did come in handy with that, I’ll admit; it evened the odds. But this week, there will be no entourage to justify their presence. It’s just going to be you and me against Jordan and Odette, no one else. You’ve got a score to settle, and I understand that. I can even respect it; in my time, I’ve had many a score to settle, and I can tell you, it is far more satisfying settling them on your own, under your own power. It’s difficult, but nothing worth doing is ever easy. Odette is a fighter, and she’s going through a turbulent time. One might think this makes her weak, but I’d think it would make her far more dangerous. She’s going to be wild, unpredictable. Pent-up aggression is going to be a factor, and she’s going to use every ounce of it against you, Misty; being her chief rival, you’re the prime candidate. She’s going to come at you with a fire that you’ve never seen from her, and I truly hope that you’re prepared for it.

Odette, I would wish you luck, but that would seem a bit contradictory, as I’m hoping to win this tournament. Instead, I will just say that I hope you fare well. Knowing who you are and what you can do, I’m sure you will.

Your partner, on the other hand, I don’t have such kind words for.

Jordan Williams.

The self-proclaimed God of Professional Wrestling.

He’s different from the likes of Nick Jones, or Rage. This man has entered retirement and come back out of it, much as I have. He’s a veteran of the business, and has no doubt faced the same “should have stayed retired” quips. He’s accomplished many, many things in his career, and all of them are worthy of recognition. They say that this is a man who is not to be trifled with.

Funny thing is, I’ve made a career out of trifling with those kinds of people.

You’re the God of Professional Wrestling, aren’t you, Jordan? A god. An interesting choice of title. A god is supposed to be above mere mortals, a powerful entity that even kings pay homage to. But there’s a problem with gods, Jordan: they’re replaceable. In our history, mankind has worshiped over three thousand different gods. As time dragged on, earlier gods were rendered obsolete by the belief in new, better gods. In point of fact, gods were far more disposable than any mortal; gods sat back and watched their subjects while it was the mortal who progressed. Eventually, they progressed so far that they’d moved past the point of needing them at all. Zeus, Osiris, Poseidon… all were abandoned once societies had decided they were far enough along that they didn’t need them. That they were better than gods.

If you truly are the God of Professional Wrestling, Jordan, then you are destined to be left behind. You’re the top contender for the heavyweight title right now, so enjoy it while it lasts, because time is against you. The Tyrant King is on the march, climbing the road to Mount Olympus.

But taking charge is not his intent. He is not looking to place himself upon the existing throne. He intends to overthrow.

And he will cast down the final god to the realm of mortals.

So you know exactly how it feels to be one of us.

 


Madelyne McTaggert leaned against the doorway as Thatcher inspected the latest card. She was tense, apprehension evident in her expression. She’d already seen the decisions, and she knew that Thatcher was not going to like it.

“Are you serious?!”

Nope, not one bit.

He turned to Madelyne, one finger pointed at her like a weapon.

“This is your fault, McTaggert.”

“My fault? In what way is it my fault?!”

“You jinxed it! You had to say it, and it happened!”

He was of course referring to her little jibe, from but a few days ago. She had jokingly suggested that he’d be tagged with Misty. If Madelyne were honest with herself, she’d find the entire situation hilarious; she liked Misty, found the woman to be a breath of fresh air. Power, cunning, and so on… had Maddie still been in the business of wrestling, she’d approach the raven-haired competitor about an alliance. But Thatcher… he was one of the good guys, as he put it. Not a nice one, by any stretch; she’d seen him do terrible things in the ring, powerful, decimating things. But he was all about fair play and sportsmanship, and that was not her style.

“Oh come on, Thatcher… this could be fun!”

“In what way does fun factor into this, Madelyne? In what conceivable way could this turn out alright?”

“Well… you could win.”

Rex rolled his eyes, turning away from the buxom blonde. He began to pace the room.

“Thatcher, you know she’s good. Very good. The girl can fight, and she knows how to win.”

“She knows how to cheat. She doesn’t understand the meaning of winning under your own steam, your own strength. She likes to win at the cost of her dignity, though she pretends otherwise. Nothing is beneath her. Winning with that is not winning at all.”

Madelyne bit her lip. To her, a win was a win. Misty displayed cunning that few could match, but Thatcher didn’t appreciate cunning. He respected honesty. Madelyne was more inclined to be in Misty’s camp, but she was here for Thatcher… she had to try and at least aid him, even if she did think he was misguided.

“What about… what about making her win on your terms? You’re a strong guy, after all. You know how to handle shady people; you’ve dealt with many of them.”

Rex arched his brow in her direction; she was one of those shady people. He had no illusions otherwise.

“So why don’t you steer her instead of letting her try to steer you? Make her play your game. I’ve seen you do it before, you know.”

“I know. But I’d rather have a partner that I could trust.”

Madelyne gave a sigh.

“We don’t always get what we want, Thatcher. Sometimes, we just have to play with the cards dealt to us.”


*  *  *


It’s been a very long time since I last participated in a tournament. Even then, it was a singles competition. A Tag Tournament is something that I have never been a part of, and the prospect of going the distance with one partner is quite daunting. Especially if you consider the individual I have been saddled with. Like as not, she’s about as unhappy as I am; Misty has never been too fond of me, nor I of her. We’re polar opposites if ever there were any. She’s built around herself an entourage of sycophants, of yes-men and suck-ups. She enjoys their adulations, their praise, and she soaks it up like a sponge. The fact that she deserves none of this doesn’t even factor into her thought process; she’s done nothing to earn anything but scorn, but she still holds herself in the highest esteem. To me, this is despicable. Pathetic, even. And here she is, my partner for the duration of this tournament.

A tournament which, despite my misgivings, I intend to win.

I intend to win right, however. I’m no cheat. As the fans and roster of SCW alike has borne witness to these past weeks, I win my matches without resorting to underhanded tactics. I’m shrewd, and I can be mean… but I’m also fair. I will be ensuring that Misty does the same; her little group won’t be sticking their noses into any match that I’m a part of. Not unless they want those noses kicked through the back of their heads. I won’t stand for that kind of crap, Misty, and I’ll expect you to abide by the rules of the game. The only way to win this tournament in any way that matters is by doing it clean. We earn it, or we taste defeat. As it is, I have yet to taste true defeat in SCW; not a single person has pinned me since my arrival, and it is my intent to keep that record growing. If you are to be the reason it ends, Misty, I will be very… upset.

So are we going to act as a team? My gut says that it’s not likely. I don’t trust you, Misty. I don’t believe for one instant that you’ll put yourself on the line for anyone else, and that makes me wonder exactly how much punishment I’m going to take in this tournament. It makes me ponder sabotage and expect betrayal.

I would have loved to step into the spotlight this week and do nothing but praise my partner. I would have loved to brag about her… but all I can do is shake my head. You’re one of the most hated individuals in all of SCW, Misty, and all because you want to drag one of its most beloved stars into the darkness. You want to bring Odette Ryder down to your level, and have been doing nothing but pushing her buttons at every opportunity. And why? Because she’s happy all of the time? Because she has a smile on her face for the majority of the day? She’s loved by the company and fans alike, and you hold that against her. I don’t know why, and frankly, I don’t care. All I see of you is the selfish child that wants to take away another child’s toy.

I don’t like you, Misty. I don’t trust you. You know that you can trust me to fight hard for this tournament, to put my body on the line, but I cannot expect the same effort from you. In point of fact, I don’t know what I can expect from you. You’re unpredictable and, therefore, a danger to everyone, even your partner.

Those of you tuning into this are probably wondering at the rage and anger in my words. And you’re right; I do have anger against Misty. She reminds me of past enemies, of people who had no compunctions about stepping on each and every person that stood in their way. As far as I’m concerned, she’s no better than Kris Keebler. But there is an upside, as loathe as I am to admit it.

People like Misty want to win.

They don’t want to jeopardize their chances of attaining more glory. And Misty, you are hungry for glory. You have to be. Your way hasn’t been working so well in SCW, has it? You haven’t met much success, so we’ll be doing things my way.


But I’m not the only one facing such a situation, am I?

Rage, you may be my opponent, but you have my sympathies. We’re in the same boat, you and I; stuck with people that we’d rather not share a building with, let alone rely on as a tag team partner. But that was the risk we took when we signed up for this thing, isn’t it?

I realize that you have a history with Misty. I won’t pretend to be clear on the details, but from what I understand, you have ample reason to hold a grudge. This match, to you, is about evening a score. Given who is involved, I would normally say, “Man, go get her.” But unfortunately, these are not normal circumstances, Rage. These are not times in which you have free reign to do as you wish. Because a loss for Misty is a loss for Thatcher Rex, and by God, that is not going to happen. In the short time that I’ve been here, I’ve become Number One Contender for the Roulette Title. I’ve beaten a contender for the Heavyweight Championship. I have steamrolled virtually everyone that has set foot in that squared circle, and I will for damn sure continue to do so. I came back to wrestling to prove that I still had it, and I’ve proven to myself, to the people, to everyone that I do, in fact, have it.

So now that I’ve proven that, where would the next logical step be? Where does the Tyrant King go next? I’ll tell you. He goes on to win a tournament the likes of which he has never participated in. The Tag Team Tournament of Sin City Wrestling. You have a grudge, Rage, but I have a dream. I dream of standing among the greats, being entered in the Hall of Fame, and truly becoming a legend within the eyes of all who call themselves fans of wrestling. Winning this tournament will be a big step in that direction, my friend, and I’m sure you realize it. I’m sure you’re just as hungry for that coveted spot as I am. But you’ll have to settle for something else, because on Sunday, you will be eliminated, terminated, cast out of this tournament.

And don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, Angel Kash. Little Miss Moneybags, the spoiled rich kid. Spoiled rich kid, as if there is any other type of rich kid in existence. Well listen here, Daddy’s Girl. Nobody is handing you a damn thing on any kind of platter in this place. Nobody is going to cater to you. You can’t buy your way to the top in Sin City, sweetheart, no. No no no. You’re going to have to do something that your manicured ass has never, ever done. You’re going to have to do something that is absolutely one hundred percent foreign to you.

You’re going to have to earn it.

Oh yeah, you’re a bad bitch. You’re the baddest bitch on the block. You’re beautiful, you’re dirty, you’re rich. Well let me tell you something, sweetcheeks; when you step into the ring on Sunday, you’re going to find out exactly what bad is. I’m not allowed to lay a hand on you, for which I thank the SCW management, because God knows how many damn STDs you have. Everything from herpes to gonorrhea. Yeah, you got the dirty part right; a guy could get warts by just looking at you. But no, you don’t step in with me… you get to step into the ring with Misty, and as much as I dislike her, I know for a fact that she can tear you apart, limb from limb. See, she ain’t like you. She hasn’t had everything handed to her. She’s a cheating, conniving bitch, but she has the killer instinct, the determination, and the sheer ferocity to drag your Jugs of Jello to the ground and beyond.

This ain’t high school, Kash. You can’t buy people like me, and you can’t hide from people like Misty. You’re not top dog around here.

You’re practice.

You’re the warm-up.

Because make no mistake, Misty and I will progress through this tournament all the way to the top. It’s not what we were born to do, it’s not what we’re destined to do.

It’s what we want to do.

 


As was the case with virtually every show, the air crackled with energy. Roars of approval came from the crowd in waves, washing over the participants of the most recent battle. Thatcher bathed in them, arms raised high in victory, adrenaline coursing through his veins. His opponent was just beginning to get up, the agony of defeat written across his face. Most people would laugh at the poor fool, taunt him, possibly drop a foot into his shoulder and continue the humiliation. To be completely honest, there was a time when Rex would have done the exact same thing. Hell, even today, he would do it… if the circumstances were right. There were people who deserved it; Keebler, Riviera, and Thunder were just a few. But this wasn’t a blood feud he’d taken part in this night. It was no grudge match; just a chance for a kid to test his mettle against the experienced Tyrant King. And test his mettle, he did.

Rex leaned down, helping the kid up to his feet, giving him a good pat on the back.

“You fought hard, kid. Be proud of what you did.”

To the mass approval of the crowd, Thatcher lifted his opponent’s arm in victory. He turned away, heading for the ropes, when he felt the cold steel of a chair slam against his back. With a shout, Rex hit the mat. Stars danced before his eyes, and he had just enough time to get to his knees before another shot dropped him back to canvas.

“You want something to be proud of?! How about THIS!”

A third shot sent an explosion behind Rex’s eyes. Beyond the sound of the blood pumping in his ears, he could hear the angry shouts of the surrounding crowd; the kid had decided to make his mark in a different fashion, and they were none too happy about it. Rex wasn’t exactly thrilled himself, crawling to the ropes, vision slightly blurred.

“You know why I wanted this match, Rex? Do you?”

The kid was circling him like a predator after wounded prey.

“Because relic though you are, you’re still held in high esteem by certain circles… like the sheep that inhabit this arena!”

Another chorus of boos met his words. Keep talking, numnuts, thought Rex.

“You’re still heralded as one of the top competitors out there… so, if I take you down, what is that going to do for my reputation? Guaranteed title shots, old man! Publicity and fame, with fortune following soon after. Your time is over, ‘Tyrant King!’ You should have stayed in retirement, where it was safe!”

He raised the chair above his head, bringing it down upon Thatcher’s skull with all his might, and everything went dark.


*  *  *


Thatcher awoke in the locker room he had used for the indy show, his head throbbing like the dickens. Light stabbed into his eyes. His hand raised up to shield them, eyes squinting in the brightness.

“Hell of a shot you took, old boy.”

His head snapped to the side, finally becoming aware of the person sitting next to him.

“Relax, it’s just me.”

”Me” happened to be an old acquaintance, one who had served to set up this little bout; one Madelyne McTaggert, former wrestler, former owner of X3W. Given their history, one would expect them to be at each others’ throats. However, they had worked past it, mostly during McTaggert’s tenure at Supreme Championship Wrestling. The British bombshell wasn’t what one would call a stand-up citizen, but she had agreed to behave if she accompanied Rex.

Thatcher sat up, the world swirling for a moment as he did so. The back of his head, where the chair had impacted, was rather tender. It brought back memories of the Barbed Wire Massacre matches he had participated in; he’d fought wars in the ring, but it seemed as if that counted for nothing when it came to the newer generations. In Rex’s day, there was a healthy respect for the legends of yesterday.

“So what are you going to do to this kid?”

He looked up at Madelyne.

“Absolutely nothing.”

She gaped at him, her jaw dropping.

“Are… are you serious? This young punk introduces a chair to your skull not once, not twice, but four times, and you’re just going to let him get away with it? Not a smart move, Thatch. It’s going to broadcast the message that others can do the same. It’ll make you a target.”

“This place isn’t my territory. It’s not my home. If this were SCW, it would be a different story, but… no. There are those who will punish him for what he did. I don’t need to.”

Madelyne was shaking her head, blonde locks flowing.

“Not in this day and age, Thatcher. These kids… they respect no one.”

Rex arched an eyebrow at the use of the word ‘kids.’ Madelyne wasn’t much older than the chair-wielding opponent. She caught his look.

“You know what I mean! I’m living proof. The wrestlers of today, they don’t give a damn about previous exploits. Look at one of your opponents for New Year Rising; no respect whatsoever.”

“How do you mean?”

“He called you an up-and-comer, Thatcher. A rookie. You haven’t been a rookie since your debut in PCW. What was it that he said? Oh. I remember. ‘Can the two claim they have held a world title?’ I mean, really? The titles you’ve held absolutely dwarf the amount that whelp has even seen, let alone held!”

Rex was silent for a moment, then gave a shrug.

“Let him think it.”

“What?!”

“You heard me.”

“Are you daft? I could understand letting that idiot get away with what he did tonight, but this other guy, this Daniel Tyler, he’s actually at your home! He’s challenging you, and you’re going to let him?”

“I didn’t say that. I said let him think what he will. If he wants to make the moronic mistake of not scouting his opponents, then I’m not about to stop him. But by no means am I saying I’m going to let him walk away. He has no respect now….”

A smile formed on Thatcher’s lips, none too pleasant.


“But we’ll see if he sings the same tune after New Year Rising.”


*  *  *


Amazing.

Two matches into this company, and I’m already being considered for a shot at one of the titles. It’s about the fastest I’ve moved up in any company.

Oh, I still have a long way to go, of course. The contendership is not yet in my hands, let alone the title… but if the likes of Daniel Tyler is anything to judge by, I might as well.

I heard what you had to say, Tyler. You’re awful cocky for a man with, what, two titles to his name? Let me tell you something, son; you may be proud of your reigns, and you have a right to be. But if you want another, then you best start doing your research. You’re not just facing a former world champion, or a former television champion… you’re facing the former North American Champion of the Championship Wrestling Council. Ever hear of it? It’s a conglomeration of numerous companies; VWF, NEW, UWF, PCW, and others. All of these companies band together, sending in their best and brightest to compete in tournaments. And you’re talking to the man who was able to rise above all of them and not only secure the North American Title, but hold it for six consecutive months. During those six months, I held the top title of the company I’d signed on with. That’s right, kiddo; dual champion.

Now, I don’t exactly expect you to care about that. I expect you to sit back in your chair and laugh at the words I have uttered. I expect you to mock everything I say, because that is what you people do. It’s an attitude I’ve noticed many adopt, and you’re no different. I’m done sitting by while punks like you sit there and shoot off at the mouth. I’m done letting things go. You’re nothing but an arrogant asshole, and it’s about time to shut that loudmouth up. Come New Year Rising, you’re going to face something that you’ve never trained for. You’re going to find out exactly why they call me the Tyrant King.

And don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, Argento. You haven’t displayed the lack of respect that Tyler has; in fact, I haven’t heard a thing from you. That’s fine and good; you’re a big guy, and I’m sure your size and power tend to speak for themselves. You’re no rookie, having been in this company for months. You’ll be far more of a challenge than the third member of our little game. Believe it or not, I’m looking forward to going head to head with you; I like challenges, and gaining a contendership without a challenge is like winning a foot race with a paraplegic.

But make no mistake, I fully intend to walk away the winner of our Triple Threat. I’ve been hungry for another title reign, folks, and I won’t be satisfied until I have thirty pounds of gold strapped about my waist once more. First, I have to go through Argento and Tyler. Next, whoever wins the belt at NYR.

The Tyrant King is on the rampage once more.

And finally, you will have a champion that you can be proud of.

You will have a champion that brings glory to the SCW.

But the Roulette Title isn’t my final goal, not by any means. It is simply the first step on a long journey... a journey that leads to the biggest trophy of SCW, the granddaddy of them all: the SCW Heavyweight Championship!

It speaks volumes that after only two matches in Sin City, management has seen fit to put me on the road to a title. They can see the talent, the sheer power, of the Tyrant King. There are those in the locker room who have yet to see that.

But I promise, you will.

And when you do, you will think of nothing else.

 


Gravel crunched under heavy boots. The hot air was still, almost stifling. And after all, why not? This was the desert. Heat kind of came as a packaged deal. He approached the hole-in-the-wall he was renting; the red paint on the door was faded and chipping off, several dents decorating the front of it. The concrete around it was just as pockmarked; it was almost a slum. Thatcher Rex had lived in such a place before, but not since his debut in PCW had he done such a thing. He opened the door, entering the premises. The shag carpet was ugly as sin, as was the wallpaper. What, was this place built in the ‘70s? Looking around, it very likely was. He set his suitcase down, locking the door behind him. It was strange, moving to a new town. He knew nobody, knew nothing about Vegas. Truth be told, it was his first time in this particular city. Oh, he’d driven through it a few times in his life, but he’d never stopped, let alone lived, in it.

Television and movies always portrayed Las Vegas in a grandiose fashion, a place of riches and fun. They never showed the residential areas, of course. Thatcher was by no means poor, given the successes in his career. But he always found that one fought harder in the ring when surrounded by desperation at home. If you lived in a penthouse or condo with an indoor pool, 70-inch television screen, plush furniture, and so on, your fighting spirit dulled. You had to know desperate, to taste it, feel in rattle around in your bones before you could fight like your life depended on it.

His eyes scanned the tiny room; calling it a studio apartment would be generous. The ring of his phone diverted his attention, and he smiled as he realized the identity of the caller.

“Hello, Shannon.”

For some time, she had been his protégé, but she was now running solo. The Indy circuits were very impressed with her in-ring ability, and Thatcher had been proud to hear it. But despite him being the mentor, Shannon had that ‘mommy’ mentality; she tried to look after Rex whenever she could.

“No, I didn’t forget my belts. They stay in Colorado; I don’t need them with me.”

Rex had won numerous titles in his time, but none mattered as far as SCW was concerned. Few would respect his past achievements, many more would mock them.

“The only way to earn respect with this locker room is not to talk about what I’ve done, but show them what I can do. I can’t do that if I have past accolades staring me in the face every morning. I have to stay hungry.”

And hungry, he planned to stay.

For a time, anyway.


*  *  *


A lot of people retire from this business, their bodies broken and unable to withstand the rigors of one more match. A lot of tough nuts and hardcases step into the squared circle and give it their all. After years of backbreaking work, they are left physically unable to compete, just one injury away from permanent paralysis or even death. They are forced to walk away, to never look back. The desire for the war still burns within their veins, but they literally can’t step into the ring. Their heyday is over, gone. It’s finished, and there is absolutely nothing they can do about it. Others retire for personal reasons; family, medical, even financial. All are factors when considering a departure from your company, but the desire is still there. These are the guys that not only want one more match, but are actually able to go and have one. Some try to take it further and re-ignite their career. They want to capture their old glory and live in the golden age once more, and who can blame them? The glory days are, well, glorious. They represent a time when you were on top of the world. No force on Earth could halt your momentum.

For a time, I was done with those days. The company I was a part of had closed down and I simply could not find a company that captured my interest. As such, I decided that I was done. It wasn’t about a broken body, or being burnt out, or other obligations. But here I am, two years later, a fresh contract signed with Sin City Wrestling. I’m in the best shape of my life, and I’m hungry for competition. I’ve been hungry. I’ve wanted to set foot in the ring and go toe to toe with the best that this business has to offer ever since I walked away from the closed doors of X3W. Those two years spent without a company consisted of scouting; I looked at various companies all the while trying to determine which had the best athletes. Simcoe, TFWF, the other Sin City Wrestling… all had very strong rosters, some of whom I was familiar with. But this SCW, this caught my eye. There was something special about it, something… unique. A type of flavor, if you will, one reminiscent of one of my favorite companies, Evolution Wrestling. The people were diverse, with different styles and outlooks on life. It was quite refreshing, and I see the same within the halls of SCW.  

Now, I’m used to being the big boy on the block, the mass of muscle that many are wary of. Very few in X3W or EPW before that could look me eye to eye. But I’m seeing some people that dwarf the Tyrant King in stature. One of these people is involved in the up-and-coming Triple Threat Match; Derek Thorne. While not a behemoth like Casey Williams, this guy is still big. Derek… you talk a big game, son. You’re stomping around like Godzilla, flexing your muscles and blubbering about strength and winning. It’s all very dramatic, and could be considered intimidating… that is, if you were talking to a fresh-faced rookie clamoring for his first match. But you’re not. I’ve gone up against some of the best this business has to offer, even achieving champion-status at a multi-company conglomeration. Strength and power are nothing new to me. I’ve taken on behemoths that could hurl my two-hundred forty-five pound frame across the ring, seemingly without effort. You look strong, and you may be strong. But it ain’t about how hard you can hit. It’s not about how much you can benchpress. It’s about how much you can take, how hard you can take the hit. It’s about how many times you can climb to your feet from the floor, and tell the other guy to bring on the pain. All fights depend on one thing, Thorne: attitude. Ninety percent attitude, all fights, and I can see that you have that in spades. But the rest, you don’t seem to have. You do have power in those arms, but you seem to be lacking a few essentials; namely, cunning and technique.

Technique always beats strength. You could have the power to benchpress a Volkswagen, but it doesn’t mean squat if someone kicks your kneecap out. Brute force can’t be matched savagery for savagery; you can’t overcome it, but you can redirect it. You’re not impressing me, son, and I guarantee that you’re doing nothing to intimidate the Winter Soldier. John Void, unlike either of us, has experience in the ring of SCW. He has homefield advantage for the moment, and we’re invading his territory. Naturally, he’s going to want to slap down these two upstarts, to show the world that he will not allow new blood to infringe upon his home.

John, I don’t know much about you. You’ve been here a month, and are likely wanting to show the world that you’re no rookie. What better way to solidify your position than by dropping the two newest signees to Sin City? Being the smallest man in the Triple Threat, the underdog as it were, you stand to gain most from beating the bigger men. How wonderful it would be for you to brag about how your skill could overcome the likes of two monster-sized individuals. But I’ll tell you right now, John, that dropping me will take a lot more than what you’ve got. I’m not looking to humiliate you, or take anything away from you. You’re not some enemy that I have a vendetta against; you’re just another guy that I’m competing with. Going head to head with you is not personal; I need to make my mark in SCW the same as you did when you signed on. As it turns out, you’re one of the guys that stands in the way of that. So let’s treat this as professionals, shall we? We’ll fight, the winner will shake hands with the loser, and maybe we’ll go grab a few beers afterwards.

I’m not looking to make enemies just yet. I’m new to SCW, and I’m sure I’ll find me plenty of enemies. Like the majority of the roster, I want a shot at the title. That particular road doesn’t make many friends. There are those that will resent your success, and those that will see you as the target to bring down to prove that they deserve the shot. But for now, I’d prefer to get to know the rest of you.

But I warn you now, don’t push me. If you cheap shot me, if you pull some shady BS, you’ll have a war on your hands.

And I’ll give you a war you wouldn’t believe.