OOC: I’m going to share my incomplete RP just so I don’t miss deadline. Sorry I couldn’t complete this the way I intended.
==========

There is a house in Sin City
They call The Rising Sun,
And it’s been the ruins of many’a poor boy
And God, I know I’m one

January 22, 2017
Las Vegas, NV

“Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner - and still SCW World Heavyweight Champion - J2H!”

JT scoffs, he raises his glass to the TV. He tilts his glass to his lips, taking a drink; the familiar warmth of smooth Jameson Irish whiskey wraps him up like a blanket. The setting was one he knew all too well, as he spent many late nights at this bar - usually feeling sorry for himself. Shoulda been me, he thought to himself. It wasn’t true, of course. JT knew that.

His brief return to SCW hadn’t exactly set the world on fire the way he had anticipated. It wasn’t for lack of trying. JT’s plan was simple: he had managed to align himself in the camp of J2H - the man who would be known as the longest-reigning SCW World Heavyweight Champion in history. The idea being, sooner or later, JT would betray his teammate and stake his claim as the new champion. This was the classic, tried-and-true formula that had worked so well in the past.

JT watched on, via television, as J2H had his arm raised in victory, championship belt in hand. The truth is, JT wasn’t making appearances for SCW anymore. Why should he? His best friend had long abandoned the company by then, and JT wasn’t the best at making new friends. It was much easier to kick back and do what JT did best: drink.

JT:
“Barman,” he called out to the bartender, tapping the rim of his glass.

The bartender approached JT from behind the counter, retrieving the empty glass.

Bartender:
“You sure you want another drink? You’ve been sitting here all day, my dude.”

JT:
“Do I look like a man who doesn’t know what he knows?” His response is slurred, as he jabs his finger into his own chest. “I’m JT-fucking-Midas, and I need another drink!”

Bartender:
“Look, buddy, why don’t you call it a night?”

JT:
“Why would I do that? I’m cool, I’m having a good time. I’m not bothering anyone. Am I bothering you?”

Bartender:
“You’re not bothering me, bud. I just don’t like seeing you this way. I have a lot of respect for you. Your friend Caleb, too. I was sad when I heard the news.”

He extends a hand to JT, a warm smile on his face. This was a man who had become a regular fixture in JT’s life over the last year. It was clockwork: JT would show up in evening, close out the bar, and repeat the next day. Every day, he would see JT show up just a little bit earlier and drink just a little bit more. The minutes add up and, over the span of a year, JT would arrive at noon on this day. It had become dangerous, and the bartender was worried for this patron, who had become a friend.

Bartender:
“Look, you’ve been here all day. You’re a mess. Let’s settle and get you home, yeah?”

JT slaps the bartender’s hand away.

JT:
“Fuck you. You think you can judge me? I keep the lights on in this dump!”

Bartender:
“Come on. You’re drunk. I’m open same time tomorrow. Come on down, I’ll save you a seat.”

JT laughs mockingly.

JT:
“Really? You have the balls to invite me back tomorrow. Nah, I’m here now, and I’m ready for another drink!” He stands up, pushing his barstool aside, as he leans over the bar and grabs the nearest bottle. “If you won’t pour, I’ll do it myself. Save you the trouble.”

The bartender grabs JT by the wrist.

Bartender:
“Seriously, man. You’re done. I’ll call you a cab.”

JT:
“Don’t fucking touch me!”

JT throws his hand back, nearly smacking a nearby patron in the head.

JT:
“Who the fuck do you think you are? You talk down to me like I’m just another drunk asshole in your piece of shit bar. Take a look around; I’m nothing like these people!”

He climbs up onto the bar, kicking glasses of liquor onto the floor as the other patrons jump back.

JT:
“Come on, y’all think I don’t hear you every night, whispering about me? ‘That JT Midas, he’s nothing but a low life drunk.’ Fuck you! All of you people, you’re just like J2H and the rest of those cowards back in SCW. You stick your noses up like your shit don’t stink, when the reality is, you are the shittiest of all. You think you’re so much better than me? Step up to the plate and take a swing!”

Finally, someone decides he has had enough. He grabs JT by the angles and yanks his feet out from under him, dropping him hard on the bar. JT gets up and gets in the man’s face, who shoves JT hard in the chest. JT stumbles back, and retaliates by grabbing his empty glass and smashing it over the man’s head. An audible gasp comes from a small crowd, who rushes to the man as he crumbles to the floor in a heap. JT forces his way through the crowd, drunkenly staggering out of the bar. He turns around, shouting back at the bar as he stumbles away.

JT:
“I don’t have a problem. I’m JT Midas! I’m the king of the world!”

As he continues walking, a group of four bar patrons emerge from the door - including the man from before, holding a cloth towel to the side of his head. They shout at JT, who stands his ground against the small mob. He throws a punch at the one of the men, connecting a right hook to his lower jaw, before being taken down.

The men all take turns kicking and punching him, beating him senseless. This goes on for what feels like minutes, before one of the men pulls a pair of brass knuckles out of his pocket, and slips them onto his hand. JT spits a glob of blood from his mouth, before looking up at the man - not knowing if this will be just the next incident in his fucked-up life, or the last. The man rears his arm back, seemingly in slow motion, before throwing a heavy punch. Then we fade to black.

 (OOC: Caleb informed me via text that he wouldn't be able to RP tonight, so in the interest of fairness I am posting only a portion of my RP, and would like to not be counted against Roxi if that is at all possible. Again, this is only a portion of what I had written. I just did not want to be counted as a no-show. Sorry for letting people down.)

It had been two weeks removed since Caleb Houston and I became the SCW Tag Team Champions. It seemed like so much time had passed between the night of Inception and now. Quite frankly, I was growing bored.

Still, it is hard to ignore that these past two weeks had been incredibly busy for Caleb and me. And that's not even counting our post-victory celebration after we destroyed Big B and Despayre, ending their tyrannous seven-month reign as champions. People might be thinking, Come on JT. Who parties for an entire week straight, sleeps with dozens of women, and still has the stamina to prepare for his next challenge? Well, those people can suck it, because the obvious answer is...

"Caleb!"

Not what I was expecting, I think to myself, as Johnny bursts onto the scene through my front door, red and livid. I can't help but notice there is a large, exposed area of raw, red flesh under his left cheek, showing off what was left of his once magnificent beard.

"Please, Johnny, come right in," I mumble under my breath, as he slams the door behind him, startling me a bit. "Bro, what's got your panties in a bunch?"

"That cheeky little bastard," he huffs and wheezes, "replaced my shaving cream with super glue again!"

I narrow my eyes, carefully examining the missing patches of his thick, grizzly beard. I feel the urge to chuckle, and wisely keep that to myself.

"Come on, Johnny, how can you really be sure you didn't just have an awkward shave?"

"Because when I reached up to wipe that pasty shit off my face, my hand got stuck!"

Immediately, he extends his left arm and hand, revealing the thick fur covering his palms. Almost on cue, Caleb steps into room, halfway through his tuna sandwich. He shares an awkward look with Johnny.

"Damn, Johnny," Caleb eyeballs Johnny's hairy palm, "I know you ain't been gettin' any but you should probably cut back on the masturbating."

Johnny lunges at Caleb, but I intervene, blocking him with an arm as I step in front of his path.

"Johnny, Caleb's got a point," I try to calm him down. "You could even go blind!"

I exchange glances from Johnny to Caleb, who offers a sheepish grin and a shrug. Johnny steps back, exhaling loudly as he heads back to the door.

"You boys have your fun," he grumbles, as he turns the knob. "I'm goin' back home to shave the rest of my beard."

"Love you!" Caleb shouts, as Johnny shuts the door behind him. Caleb heads to the couch, plopping onto the soft cushion and propping his feet up on the table. He catches sight of a note I had been working on earlier, and slowly reaches for it. "What's this?"

"Well, I was thinking," I begin, as I sit down at the opposite end of the couch. "We've been getting a lot of bad press lately. Ever since our New Year's Eve shindig where Johnny was rolling balls on ecstasy and you almost jumped off the roof..."

"Bro, I was never gonna' jump."

A part of me wanted to believe Caleb. Maybe he believed himself, too. All I know is, that night exposed a different Caleb Houston, one I had never seen before, and one I would never wish to see again.

"The point is, we had lots of peepers that night, dude. Maybe not upstairs, but down at the party, we drew a lot of attention to ourselves, and not much of it was good. Johnny grinding up against the barstool, Hydro tryna' sweet talk that lady's poodle...I threw up on a guy!"

"Yeah, I heard about that."

"Anyway, I was thinking, maybe we should work on the way we present ourselves in public. That's where the list comes into play. It's a guide to how to attract more positive attention in public."

Caleb looked back down at the list, scanning it from side to side as he read each line.

"'Do:,'" he read aloud, "'sign autographs...kiss babies...fly in couch'? Really bro? 'Only one free refill at Chipotle'? What the hell are we, the Beverly Hillbillies?"

"There's more, bro. Read down, there's a list of shit we probably shouldn't say in interviews anymore."

"I saw that," he responds, as he reads on. "'Things we shouldn't talk about: Politics...race...sexuality...gender issues...people in general...abortion...the holocaust...Andrew Watts' smelly vagina...'"

"Bro, that ain't on the list."

"Kim Jung Un...Kim Jung Ill...' Aw, but he the Kim Jung Illest!"

"Sorry, dude. We gotta think about our careers."

"Oh, speaking of," he changes subjects, as he adjusts in his seat, "what you think about our tag match this weekend?"

"Who we facing?" I shrug.

"You facing Roxi Johnson, and me."

I raise my eyebrows, confused.

"But you my partner...?"

"Nah dude, that's Mercedes Vargas."

"Who 'dat?"

"Your partner."

"But I'm your partner!"

"Nah, Roxi's my partner."

I sigh, as I wrap my head around the sheer stupidity of this upcoming match.

"So the new Tag Team Champions are...facing each other, instead of working as a team?"

Caleb simply nods in response, still reading my note, probably for his own amusement at this point. What a load of shit...

 â€œMy name is JT Midas. Y’all might be wondering what it’s like to live like me, with more drinks than I can drink, and more money than I could possibly spend. Being a member of the Players Club might seem easy, but it ain’t all fun and games. Every day, we face difficult challenges and embark on impossible adventures that threaten our very lifestyles. Somehow, however, we always live to tell the tale. This is one of those stories.”

==========

The Outbreak
==========

“’Ey, bruh! Don’t be stingy wit’ it!” Hydro flashes me a frustrated glare, as I take a hard hit from his ceramic pipe. Although I could never describe the man as being stingy, Hydro definitely wore his impatience on his face when it came to smoking his weed.

“Shiiiiit,” I choke out in response, smoke bellowing out from my lips. “You’ve practically smoked two bowls to yourself in the past hour, and it’s not even noon yet. Quit whining!”

“I’m serious, bruh! You best not smoke all muh’ weed, dawg!”

We were chilling in the basement of the Midas Touch, because…well, what better things do I have to do? After handing down the reigns of the company to Johnny, I found myself in a predicament - What do I do with all this free time? Fortunately, I quickly realized, I also have more money than I know how to spend, so that helps. Lately, I have found myself more and more often sitting at the bar with a Jack & Coke. A little day drinking never hurt anyone, after all. Still, I think to myself, drawing in another long hit from the pipe, I need something more.

It was barely the beginning of another boring day, and I had a lot on my mind. I was still fresh off my loss to Gabriel, and now looked forward to a tag team match against Power Play. This would determine the new number one contenders for the SCW Tag Team Championship, which obviously would only be a step in the right direction for Caleb and me.  Then again, I wasn’t quite sure where Caleb’s head was right now. Soon, however, I would be too high to even care.

“Yo!” Hydro snatches the pipe out of my hand, just as I had raised it for a third consecutive hit. He thrusts his hand into his pocket, aggressively lighting the bowl of the pipe. I watch in bewilderment, as he takes quite possibly the largest hit I have ever seen, half-expecting his eyes to roll into the back and his face to turn blue. Instead, he proceeds to blow smoke rings from his mouth, as he passes the pipe back to me, muttering to himself. “God-damn babysittin’ ass mo’fucka…”

I take the pipe, anticipating my next hit. I can already feel that sensation of floating as I flame the lighter to the bowl.  As I take in another harsh hit, I’m suddenly overcome with a case of the giggles, and I choke in my laughter. Hydro giggles as well, that awkward, high-pitched squeak of his. Of course, this only serves to make me laugh harder, and I couldn’t tell you how long this lasted before slowly dying down. Eventually, though, the laughter subsided, and Hydro finally helped himself to the pipe.

It was in this state of mind that everything going on in my life; all the aches and the pains that come with my line of work, as well as the stress and that drama, just seemed so funny and unimportant to me. I remember watching a long, boring promo last week that Giana DiLuca cut to hype some match or something. I recall he spent an awful lot of time spewing a bunch of disgusting homosexual remarks about Caleb and me, and thinking about how small and petty the guy really is. Of course, Caleb and I aren’t gay, so his words do no harm to either of us. I just thought it was tasteless, and boring. We’re not in junior high anymore. When was the last time somebody truly thought they could hurt somebody by calling them gay? In this modern day, when gay and lesbian marriages are happening all over the country, it just don’t make any sense. Unfortunately, it almost feels as if that’s the only insult anybody in this company knows how to sling at us. I chuckle to myself, as I remember a Twitter exchange Caleb and I had with a couple inflated egos earlier.

Yeah, one could say I may spend just a bit too much time on Twitter. In fact, quite a few people have said that…over, and over again, actually. I’m starting to see a pattern here, as it seems like everybody I have faced so far seems to cling to the same subject matter when talking about me, or my brothers in the Players Club. Every week is the same promo in a different voice – You guys are attention whores. You guys must think you’re so cool and edgy. Are you sure you and Caleb aren’t gay? It’s obvious these so-called renegades and visionaries think they are the cream of the crop, when really they’re not crud on the bottom of the barrel. Eventually, though, SCW will catch on to these lame acts. They’ll realize they have nothing to offer but the same tired material every week, and they’ll come down from whatever high they’re on for these kids. I’ve seen it happen so many times already. These guys will stick around for a little bit until they realize nobody is buying the shit they’re trying to sell, and once that happens, they’ll tuck tail and run. Reputations tend to precede you in this industry. That’s why Players Club has a shot at becoming the next contenders for SCW gold, while all these guys have left are contracts that just ain’t worth the paper they’re printed on.

“Wha’? Wha’ happened?” Hydro is squinting at his phone, which is held out about an arm’s length away from his face. “Bruh, somethin’ wrong wit’ Caleb. He say he dyin’ or some shit. Here, read ‘dis.”

Realizing he won’t be handing the phone to me anytime soon, as he maintains his gaze on the small screen, I reach out and snatch it from his hands. His arms remain locked in position, as if he were still holding the device in his hands. I squint my eyes, struggling to stay focused on the tiny words as I read them aloud.

“'Dro, I’m at the hospital. The infection has spread and I’m afraid I don’t have much time left. It was nice knowing you. Take care of bae for me.'”

I try to make sense of what he’s saying, but at this point I should just be astounded that I can even form a coherent thought. I slide the phone back toward Hydro’s feet. He blinks as it hits his toe, and he reaches down to pick it up.

“Shit, I musta’ dropped it.” He holds the phone out to me. “Hey bruh, read ‘dis text from Caleb.”

“I just read it, fool!” I shake my head at Hydro, who pulls his arm away with a slight whimper. “He said he’s sick, and doesn’t have much time left. You know how he tends to overreact, though. He probably caught a cold or some shit.”

“Either that,” Hydro begins, a pensive tone to his now-raspy voice, “or he finally got it.”

“Finally got what?”

I raise an eyebrow at my friend. Hydro has this tendency to run away with these crazy conspiracy theories, so I always prepare myself for the worst. Of course, he didn’t let me down.

“The zombie virus,” he croaks, with a gulp.

“Th-the zombie virus?” I feel a shiver run down my spine, but I immediately shake it off. “Nah, that shit ain’t real. It’s all some made-up garbage for shitty TV dramas.”

“Really, bruh? How can you be sure?” Hydro narrows his eyes on me, as I start to ponder whether or not he could be right. “There gotta’ be some truth to ‘dat shit, man. Otherwise how they come up wit’ it all?”

A million different images raced through my head, and none of them were pretty. What if Caleb really had been infected? It wasn’t an idea that I cared to humor.

“I don’t know, man,” I try to shake the theory off my mind. “I’m pretty sure he would have told us. Besides, how do you even catch a zombie virus?”

“I dunno’, bruh. It could be anythin’, if ya’ think ‘bout it. For all ya’ know, that shit coulda’ spread to the whole town by now.”

“…The whole city is infected?” My eyes widen, and I feel a lump in my throat. “Shit, Hydro, I can’t die right now, man! I’m too handsome to be a zombie!"

“I know, bruh,” Hydro shrugs. “I can’t even. I jus' can’t.”

“Well, shit,” I begin, but I’m not quite sure what I can even say. Losing Caleb would be hard enough as it is, but now we’re dealing with a full-on outbreak. I feel a bead of sweat drip from my forehead, as I realize this may be the biggest challenge I have ever been faced with. “We got enough alcohol in this bar to last us at least…three days. How are we doing for weed?”

“Not good, bruh,” he grunts, as he takes a hit from the bowl he had just lit. “That ain’t all, tho’. I’m hungry as fuuuuuck, man. We gon’ need some grub!”

I watch nervously as Hydro slowly staggers to his feet and approaches the stairs. He grabs his coat and immediately reaches into one of the front pockets, pulling out a bottle of eye drops. He applies a drop to each eye, before handing the bottle to me.

“If I ain’t back in an hour,” he warns me, placing a hand on my shoulder, “I ain’t comin’ back. ‘Dat means it up to you, bruh. Take care o’ yo’ self, JT.”

Hydro turns away, slowly climbing the stairs and exiting through the door. I hear his footsteps overhead, slowly fading out, as I’m left to fend for myself, all alone, in the cold, dark basement of The Midas Touch.

==========

Sole Survivor
==========

"Listen to my story. This...may be my last chance."

I stared into the camera of my iPhone, recording what could very well be the last promo I ever cut in my life.

"It's been three hours since Hydro left for the store, and I'm afraid now that he won't be coming back at all now. That means it's only me. If I'm wrong, and you're watching this, then that means I'm actually dead. As of the time of this recording, however, I may be the only man alive. Therefore, consider this video the thoughts of a dying man.

This coming Sunday, I am scheduled to compete alongside my friend, Caleb Houston, who coincidentally is patient-zero in this whole viral outbreak, in a sanctioned SCW tag team wrestling match against Ringo and Giani, collectively known as the Power Couple. These two clowns have had it out for Caleb and me ever since the comments I made on Twitter about Ringo's gigantic head. While I may have been a little out of line in making those comments, I'd be lying if I said they weren't funny, so I can't really apologize for saying it. What I can apologize for, is the absolute beating I won't be able to give Ringo and Giani at Climax Control. Let's be honest, though...the match would have been a total wash! Everybody knows that Caleb and I would make quick work of those tools, just like we did our first opponents just two weeks ago. That being said, I would just like to get a few random thoughts off my head."

I take in a deep breath, and slowly let it out.

"First, I would like to say...Hydro, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let you go out there alone, baby bro. It's my fault this happened to you. I should have been there for you when you needed me most, and I wasn't. I'm so, so sorry. I know that if you had made it back here in one piece, there's no doubt you would have gone on to kick Gavin Stephen's smug ass on Sunday. That's an honor that I robbed you of, a moment you will never be able to get back. I can't give you back your life, Trey Porter, but I can keep you alive in my memory, which probably is only another hour or so anyway. May God bless your soul, baby bro.

Caleb Houston, you were my oldest and closest friend. You've felt more like a brother to me than anything, and I want you to know just how much I appreciate that. We've been there for each through it all, bro...both good times and bad times."

I sniffle, and wipe a tear away from my eye.

"Remember that one time in PWO, when we slipped ecstasy into Maverick's 7-Up, and he spent the rest of the night licking his pet raccoon, Gilligan? He coughed up the nastiest hairball I've ever seen that night. What about in EWA, when we wrestled our first ever match as a team, and beat the piss out of Shane Knight and Michael Santiago? Santiago was so scared that you'd kick his teeth out, he actually shit himself right there in the ring. Everybody was laughing so hard that night, except for you, Caleb...because you ended up kicking him, after all. I will have some of the fondest memories of you, bro. I just hope you can forgive me when I'm forced to shoot you through the head.

Gavin Stephens...fuck you, Gavin Stephens.

Johnny, my good friend, I hope you found peace in your life. I know it couldn't have been easy, dealing with my antics and over-the-top drinking these past few years. I never really appreciated just how much you would put up with for me, especially after surviving a gunshot earlier in the year. To be fair, though, you snore pretty fucking loud, and some nights when I crash at the bar, I can't get a wink of sleep because it sounds like someone performing an exorcism in your bedroom. So, I guess we're actually even. Still, I wish you could have lived through the outbreak long enough to see me, JT Midas...the sole survivor."

I look down at my feet for a moment, realizing now that saying goodbye is much harder than I could have imagined. I won't get another chance, though. It's now or never. I look back up at my phone, stoic, but focused.

"That leaves me with just one last order of business to take care of. Ringo, Giani, if by some twisted miracle of life you two happen to survive this viral pandemic, just know that this was never personal between you and me. I ain't never had a problem with either of you, in all the four weeks I have known you. Just because Ringo's got a huge hot-air balloon for a head, and Giani looks like he bathes in baby oil, that don't mean a thing. You two have been around SCW much longer than I have, and I'm sure somebody's gotta' like you two! Just please, when all is said and done, know that our little feud was never about hatred. I just really can't get over how big Ringo's head is.

Make no mistake about it, though. This Sunday, at Climax Control, Caleb and I would have beaten you two, and gone on to become the next SCW Tag Team Champions. Y'all know it, and I know it, and Caleb knows it, too. I don't think there was ever a human being on this earth who believed either of you would stand a snowball's chance in hell at beating any member of the Players Club, and it's a shame that we won't be able to demonstrate just how pathetically over-matched you two would be against the two of us. Regardless, you two were always good for a laugh or two, albeit at your own expense. I think I will miss you most of all, Power Couple."

At that moment, I heard a rattling at the door. Fuck, I think to myself, they've finally found me! I slowly creep up toward the door, slowly making my way up the stairs. The door slowly opens outward, and I lunge at the looming figure before me.

"Not today, you undead fuck!"

I tackle the zombie to the floor, and he collides with a sick thud. Grocery bags filled with all kinds of goodies are suddenly tossed aside, and I quickly realize the mistake I've made.

"Hydro, it's you!" I take my friend in a warm embrace, although he's unconscious from the collision. I look up, as Johnny stands over me, arms folded, with a scowl on his face. I return a sheepish grin, as I glance around at the various snacks that lie scattered on the floor. "Hey, is that a pudding pack?"

I grab a small cup from the floor, peeling open the cover and scooping some chocolate pudding into my mouth. Surviving the zombie apocalypse had never been so delicous!

 My name is JT Midas. Y‘all might be wondering what it’s like to live like me, with more drinks than I can drink, and more money than I could possibly spend. Being a member of the Players Club might seem easy, but it ain't all fun and games. Every day, we face difficult challenges and embark on impossible adventures that threaten our very lifestyles. Somehow, however, we always live to tell the tale. This is one of those stories."

"Ow! What the hell?"

"Dude, you're stepping on my toes!"

"That's because you've got big fuckin' feet!"

"Fuck you!"

    Caleb and I bickered back and forth like a married couple deciding what's for dinner, as we stumbled over one another in the cramped storage room. We had been here for an hour already - We would have left sooner, but Caleb heard the floor creak outside and grew paranoid that we would be caught. Still, we both knew we couldn't wait forever. Any longer, and we would miss our opportunity.

"Bro, how much longer are we going to wait? I gotta take a piss!"

"We're gonna have to get out of here soon," Caleb whispers, a sense of urgency in his words. "I just farted. You'll smell it in a second."

"Oh, good lord!" I shove my way through the door with my right shoulder, covering my mouth with my left hand. I stagger forward, coughing into my hand. "Man, that is killer! When did you eat asparagus?"

    I take a quick glance around, carefully surveying the area. The hallway is empty, dark, and cold. Fortunately, whatever made the noise Caleb had heard was nowhere in sight. Taking in a deep breath of fresh air, I look back to Caleb, who wears a sheepish grin on his face.

"It's not funny, bro! I read in a book somewhere that flatulence can be toxic if inhaled in large quantities, and that shit you pushed out was not some tiny tooter!"

"It's not that," Caleb takes a step forward, smiling as he leaves the dark storage room. "I just always knew you'd be the first one to come out of the closet."

    I punch him hard in the chest. Caleb takes a step back, caught off-guard by my sudden attack as he no doubt feels the sharp sting that is a well-known side effect of a JT Midas straight jab. He looks up at me, disappointment in his eyes.

"That was uncalled for," I admit, extending a hand to my friend. It is not in my nature to hurt the people I care about, and it was evident to me that Caleb was suffering, both physically and mentally.

"It's a'ight." Caleb accepted my gesture, nodding his head in respect, "You still bae."

"Where the hell are we, anyway?"

"I'm not really sure."

    As we venture down the hallway, it becomes more and more apparent that there is nobody around. Normally, this would make for an easier mission, but tonight it means that there is nobody to have our backs if we get lost in this maze.

"Really though," I ponder aloud, "how difficult can it be to find our way around a sperm bank?"

"Doesn't matter how long it takes us. We have a job and we need to stick to it."

    We approach a double door with a placard indicating it is the lab. I pull one door open, slowly creeping in. The room was pitch dark, as the moonlight entering the hallway through the small windows in the wall had no access to this room. I soon discovered this darkness could be hazardous to my health, as I smash my knee against a nearby table edge. I grunt in pain, and Caleb punches me in the arm.

"Bro, you're making too much noise!”

"It's too damn dark in here! You bring the light?"

"Yeah, give me a second."

    Caleb turns on the flashlight, and immediately the room seems somewhat smaller. He takes charge in the search, patiently scanning the room. I follow closely behind, carefully checking each corner for any lead I can find.

"So," I find myself veering off-topic, "I got a text alert from SCW today. Wanna know who our opponents will be this week?"

"Don't care."

"I know we're on a mission right now, but our careers are almost as important, bro. I think we should talk strategy."

"Alright," he gives in somewhat dryly, focused on the job, but also opening an ear to the subject of our upcoming match. I know Caleb has never been one to talk strategy, as he tends to find himself at his best when he goes in blind with only one goal: to fuck shit up. However, in a tag team situation, strategy is key.

"We got Stephens and Kaelin."

"Who?"

"Gavin Stephens and Alex Kaelin."

"Never heard of her."

"I don't know anything about Stephens, and Kaelin was with us in Combat just long enough to enjoy a cup of coffee. I saw him in action. He fights dirty, but it ain't no thing. We move faster, we hit harder, and - most importantly - we're prettier."

"Real talk, my dude."

    Even though he was keeping his cool, I knew Caleb well enough to know that he was savoring his return to the ring as much as I was looking forward to my own. I always thought a little piece of me had died when Combat closed, but I knew it wouldn't be long before Caleb and I were back to doing what we do best, what we have done since day one. When the call came from SCW, I knew we had something we could sink our teeth into. Gavin Stephens and Alex Kaelin can be as good as they want to be, and it will just simply never be good enough. They may be good individuals, but Caleb Houston and JT Midas are a better team. Always have been, and always will be.

==========
Monday, October 27, 2008
EWA Most Wanted!
==========

    It was my first night on the job, and I was anxious to get started. My meeting with EWA owner Elizabeth Black went as well as expected, and I left her office feeling as if the entire world were waiting for my star to explode. I was never one to be overconfident, but I felt it was safe to say that both Elizabeth Black and I knew what I had to offer this fledgling promotion. Whether anybody else would admit it or not, JT Midas would be the catalyst that sets the Elite Wrestling Academy on fire.

    I walked down the hallway, nearing the start of my match. I was booked against Paul Blair, a ring veteran of many years, and a local legend. Blair had made many enemies in the EWA with his recent victory of the Lionheart Championship, a title the promotion had intended to be earned by the upcoming young stars. Ms. Black knew the decision to book me against the champion would be controversial, to say the least, but she was a smart businesswoman, and she knew an opportunity to make money and create stars when she saw one. She knew that as hated as Paul Blair was, it would please her roster to no end to see him knocked off his perch by EWA's hottest prospect. I was focused, I was confident; I was ready.

"Heads up, kid."

    I look up, realizing that I had almost bumped into this guy in front of me. He was about an inch taller than me, but appeared smaller as he stood somewhat slouched. His blue eyes seemed worn and tired, and his dirty blond hair was matted. Even as I stood there, slightly embarrassed by my own carelessness, he didn't seem to acknowledge my presence.

"Sorry about that, man. Didn't see you there."

"Yep." He spoke soft and clear, as he stared down at his boots. He was in his gear, so my guess was that he was preparing for a match.

"Well, hey, I'm JT. This is my first time wrestling for a big promotion."

"That's funny," he chuckled, looking up for the first time. "This is my hundredth time not caring tonight."

    He had a young face that seemed so much older than was possible, and he had stubble that suggested he hadn't seen a razorblade in weeks. It took me a moment, but I finally began to recognize the face in front of me.

"You're Caleb Houston, right?"

    No response, as he had gone right back to starting at the floor. I started to wonder if this guy was always such an asshole, or if there were something else going on.

"You've got a big match tonight, man. You could become the number one contender for Keith Daniels' Elite World Championship! It looks like I'm facing Paul Blair tonight."

"I don't care."

    Caleb was quick to respond, and never looked back up at me again, but his words didn't come across as cold. He just seemed like he wanted to be left alone.

"Well, good luck out there, man."

    I gave him a nod, which he didn't see, of course, before heading on my way. As much as I would benefit from having an ally to watch my back, it didn't seem like it would be in the cards for me. In that moment, as I heard my music begin to play, I had started to realize that if I wanted to succeed in the industry, I would have to do it alone.

==========
My story, continued...
==========

    We had been inside the sperm bank for two hours now, for what was beginning to seem like a fruitless mission. Caleb and I carefully (and recklessly) scoured every corner of the lab, and I began to grow restless. I ran my hand slowly along the clean, white surface of the counter, brushing a couple of glass beakers over the edge. Caleb jumped slightly as they shattered on the hard tile floor, and he immediately shot me an angry glance.

"Bro, what the fuck?"

"Suck it, Opie," I groaned. "I'm bored as fuck, dude. Can't we just let it go? I'm sure you'd make a loving father."

"We ain't leaving until our mission is complete, dickwad."

    Caleb remained calm and collected as we pushed forward, eventually coming to a room marked "Samples." I notice a short grin on his face as he opened the door, and suddenly his expression changed to one of bewilderment as we both realized the task that lie before us. There had to have been hundreds upon hundreds or small glass tubes, organized numerically by an unknown method, and arranged in rows that seemed never-ending. A breathy sigh escaped my friend, as he approached the nearest row of sperm tubes.

"How much semen do they keep in this fucking place?"

"No idea, but we best not waste time talking about it. Let's find your unborn children and kill the fuck out of 'em!"

    We each found a section of the room and started browsing through the labels. I had no idea how they arranged those things! There must have been some sort of system in place, but it was definitely lost on me. I searched carefully through the different samples, examining the name printed on each label, but I truly could not have been any less interested at that point. This had become such a painfully boring adventure that I found myself daydreaming of many different things, my favorite being the exciting schoolteacher fantasy of the lovely Melody Grace. Eventually, though, my mind found its way back to the same subject it always would, and I decided that Caleb and I needed a better strategy for our upcoming match than to just wing it. It's always difficult to plan for opponents you don't know very well, of course. That, and Caleb just didn't seem to be with me on the idea.

"Bro; check this out."

    Caleb stammered out, a tinge of shocked urgency underlining his soft voice. I leave my row of samples and approach him, peering down over his shoulder, trying to figure out what it was that had him so rattled. I read the labels on each sample, one by one. "Porter, Trey." "Porter, Trey." "Porter, Trey." Nearly dozens of samples labeled "Porter, Trey."

"Holy shit, Hydro! Get some, baby bro!"

"Nah, dude. That ain't cool."

"What? Why not?"

"You really want think the world is ready for more than one Trey Porter? Right here in front of us is enough juice to create an army of Hydros! That is not a war America needs to fight, bro."

"I guess you're right." I continue staring at the rows upon rows of Hydro semen samples, absolutely stunned. "So, what do we do?"

    We think for a moment, before taking the only logical action we could think of. We reach out and grab as many samples as possible, and heave each handful hard against the wall. After about two minutes, each capsule had finally been destroyed, and a huge pile of white goo slowly made its way down the wall.

"Oh, hey," Caleb interrupts, a quiet gleefulness to his voice. "Here it is."

    He reached down and grabbed a capsule labeled "Houston, Caleb." He examined the substance within carefully, carefully looking it up and down.

"Yup," he expresses proudly, "that's my semen, alright."

  He dusted the capsule off, before cautiously inserting it into the front pocket of his faded blue jeans. I pat my friend on the back, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. Caleb pulls a lit cigar out of his other pocket, and takes a big puff. He clenches the cigar in his teeth, a hearty grin on his face.

"I love it when a plan comes together!" He says through his cigar, a large puff of smoke billowing out from his mouth.

    Okay, that last part didn't really happen. What did happen, though, was a security guard happening across the room and chasing us away. Fortunately, just enough semen had made its way down the wall and onto the floor, and the bumbling guard slipped and fell flat on his back,

"Thanks, Hydro's sperm!" I express in gratitude, before Caleb and I make our daring escape.

==========
Monday, October 27, 2008
EWA Most Wanted!
==========

    I had beaten Paul Blair. It was my first night on the job, and I had managed to take down one of Elite Wrestling Academy's most formidable competitors. As I walked through the curtain, I held my head high, as several superstars applauded the efforts of this rookie. Some even approached me to shake my hand or otherwise offer me their congratulations! It seemed that everybody from Claire Pure to The Calhouns wanted to tell how impressed they were by my debut, and how happy they were to see the local icon Paul Blair knocked down a peg or two. Of course, the match was not contested for the title. However, on my premiere night in EWA, I felt like a champion.

   As I walked approached the locker room, I heard a couple of voices chatting to one another. I knew I recognized them, but I couldn't quite put my finger on who they belonged to. Instead, I just listened.

"Who does that jerk think he is, anyway?"

"Yeah, Santi-Man, who does he think he is?"

"Well, to hell with him! Nobody picks a fight with us and gets away with it! I'm Michael Santiago, and you're Shane Knight. We're the Wave of the Future! People will be talking about us for years to come, and after tonight, we'll make sure nobody hears from that asshole again!"

  I enter the locker room, catching a glimpse of the two wrestlers whom I had heard from the hallway. Indeed, I had overheard a conversation between two local indy veterans, Shane Knight and Michael Santiago. These two had quite the reputation for their in-ring prowess, along with their close friend Odin Balfore, otherwise known as the legendary Maverick Elite. They also were known to be quite the whiners, throwing frequent fits backstage when things didn't go as they had planned. Regardless, seeing as I was the new kid on the block, I thought I should introduce myself.

"Hey there, kiddo!" Santiago bellows out to me before I have the chance to speak, his high, gravelly voice scratching at my ears, causing me to wince. "I saw your big win over Paul Blair. Nicely done!"

"Yeah," Shane Knight trails behind, his voice squeaky but deep. "Nicely done, kid!"

"Thanks, guys." I can't help but feel a bit uncomfortable as they beam at me through gritted teeth. "My name is JT Midas. I'm humbled to meet you guys!"

    The longer the conversation went on, the more I began to feel like these two were trying to con me. Santiago couldn't say anything without turning it into a sales pitch, and Shane really just nodded and reiterated whatever  his buddy had already said. I really was not buying into these guys and their false friendliness.

"Say, friend," Santiago inquires, "you weren't outside very long just now, were you?"

"Nah," I lie, shrugging it off. "Why, did I miss something?"

    Santiago laughs, an annoying chuckle from deep in his belly. I almost groan, as I watch Shane stare admiringly at his pal, laughing quietly, as if he weren't in on the joke. I wasn't sure who they were talking about earlier, but they had to be up to something sinister. Neither of them were scheduled to wrestle tonight. Deciding that it may be best to keep a low profile, I inform them that I need to get home, as I dig in my gym bag for a change of clothes.

=====
And the beat goes on...
=====

    We arrived on-schedule at the Midas Touch Bar, our mission having been completed. I entered first, dragging my feet through the door as Caleb followed, a huge duffel bag full of equipment we "absolutely needed" slung over his right shoulder. The interior had changed quite a bit since I handed control of the club over to Johnny. Most notably, it was much cleaner. I immediately noticed the lack of Caleb Houston slouched over the bar counter in a drunken stupor. My friend Johnny had certainly done well.

"Where the hell you boys been?" Johnny's voice is deep and gruff, and a bit tired, as he asks in his thick country accent.

"Oh, you know," I look nervously over my shoulder at Caleb, who simply drops his heavy duffel at my feet and heads up the stairs.

"Gotta piss," he hollers, as he enters his "office." You see, Caleb Houston does this thing where he hops on his laptop and records his thoughts in a blog. It has been his pre-match ritual ever since we were together in EWA. It usually involves melodramatic inner dialogue, and ends with a silly one-liner. It works for him, though, so I just let him have it.

    Johnny picks Caleb's duffel up from the floor and carries it to the bar counter. I watch as he unzips it and reaches in, pulling out the assorted items Caleb had packed for the mission. Johnny sets each item down on the counter as he retrieves it from the pack.

"Eye drops? Baby powder? A hockey puck?" Johnny grimaces. "Is that a live hand grenade?"

"Don't pull the pin," I shrug. "I'd rather not see another one of your bars turn to rubble."

    I immediately flash back to last May, when Johnny was shot point-blank by a couple of thugs trying to send a message, and his bar burned to the ground. He was left for dead, and had Caleb not stopped by for a late night binge on tequila, he may not have even been discovered until it was too late. The whole reason I gave him this job was because I felt I owed it to him. I remembered how kind Johnny had been to me when I was broke, fighting punks on the street out of my own boredom. I had set up camp in an old store room there, where I slept comfortably on a futon mattress lain flat over two milk crates. Not the coziest of accommodations, but hell... it was home. When I hit it big at the tables, the first thing I did was make sure Johnny was taken care of. He's the closest thing to a father I will ever know.

"Really?" Johnny grumbles, and I snap back to attention. "Mozzarella sticks?"

    He waves the once-frozen, now-thawed box of the delicious snacks in front of my face. I feel my pupils dilate, my lips practically salivating over the cheesy, deep-fried goodness. Johnny throws the box aside, however, and a whimper escapes me.

"Listen, boy," he begins, in his soft, “father to son” voice. "I don't care what you kids are out doing at night. Just remember, you got a match coming up and that should be your priority. You two tend to get in over your heads with all the fun and games, and that can't be happening anymore. I got the dossiers from The Source today. He stopped in, helped himself to a gin and tonic, and left it on my desk. Go on, take a look."

    Johnny reaches under the counter and pulls out a couple of thick folders. I always know I can count on my boy to follow through. Caleb and I started calling him The Source once he began supplying us with info on anybody and everybody in the locker room. Once, he even gave me nude photos of Elizabeth Black, my old boss. He said they leaked from her cloud, whatever that means.

"Stephens, Gavin." I sit down on a tall stool, the top file unfolded on the counter. "I hope you ain't closed up shop back there, ‘cause I'm gonna need a drink."

"Knew you would, kid."

    On cue, Johnny pulls a glass of ice and begins pouring some Jack Daniels. He knows me all too well. I look up, just as he finished pouring some Coca-Cola and carefully slides the drink over to me. I nod to my friend - my quiet way of showing gratitude - as I continue reading the file.

"'Former Uncensored, Inc. Ironman Champion,'" I read aloud, as I take a long sip of my drink. I've always had a soft spot for good whiskey, and Jack was top contender. "For someone who seems as legit as this dude, he sure has been awfully quiet all week. I ain't heard a peep out of him since his debut, other than some shit on Twitter when I was high. Those brownies, though...holy shit."
"Touch my brownies and you die!" I hear Caleb yell from his "office," and I smirk to myself. I hear my drink calling to me, so I take another sip.

    Gavin is a bit bigger than me, but not much. He calls himself "The Visionary," because we don't have enough of those already. It seems like everybody who joins this business nowadays have to change things. It's easy to be a visionary, an idealist. Everybody has ideas, but not many people have a plan. I'm actually interested in hearing what this dude has to say. I bet he'll talk some bullshit about how Caleb and I are always just out having fun, stirring shit up on Twitter, and pissing people off. I'm sure he has his theories, just like everybody else. The truth is, though, Caleb and I don't talk shit to get into anybody's head. We don't care about throwing people off their game. In fact, we don't think enough about other people to really give a shit. No;  the truth is, we do it because it's fun. We do it not for the attention, but for the amusement. I don't exactly hold the record for most stellar hit counter. I don't give a shit about fake hearts and phony stars. ‘Like me,’ ‘Favorite me,’ ‘Follow me;’ I couldn't give a shit less. I just liked having fun.

    My intentions are pretty cut and dry. There's no act I'm putting on, no smoke and mirrors. I'm not the flashy one; that was my boy, Hydro. No, I was something else. Hydro brought the sizzle, and Caleb Houston brought the steak, but I was the fire underneath that brought it all together. That was probably the biggest advantage Caleb and I hold over Stephens and Kaelin this weekend. We are united, and it goes far beyond simply holding a common enemy. We have been on the same page since 2008, and there wasn't a force on Earth that could stop us now. Speaking of Alex Kaelin...

"Ya know, I heard somethin' today." Johnny interrupts my train of thought, and I'm suddenly back at his attention. "I caught an interesting promo from that Alex Kaelin kid. Some link The Source sent to my phone."

"Let me see."

    Johnny hands me his outdated iPhone 5S, trading it for my now-empty glass, which he instantly refills. I turn the device on its side, as the video begins to play. Alex Kaelin has always been an intriguing character, and whether or not he would admit it, Alex knew that he and I were cut from the same mold. The only differences between us were the paths we took to get where we are today. Alex Kaelin claims to be a renegade, and that may be true. I'm not one to call him a liar. I will call bullshit when I smell it, though, and the more I watched, the funkier his shit began to stink.

"This guy has a lot of nerve, calling me a wannabe." I reach for my Jack and Coke, my eyes glued to the video streaming on the phone. "I don't recall ever using his lazy-ass catchphrase. ‘I'm kind of a big deal!' Really? We ain't all heard that for decades now," I roll my eyes. "Everybody thinks they're the next big thing these days, and quite frankly, it's tired. Kaelin and his buddies think they're lightning in a bottle, but really, they're just a flash in the pan."

    I sip my drink again, as the video goes on and on and on. God, it seems like it never ends! This guy is saying the same thing everybody seems to be saying about us. The real joke is on the SCW locker room, because apparently Caleb and I have got them turned upside-down on themselves, trying to figure out what our angle is. Everybody thinks there's a catch that Caleb and I go home at the end of the day, stroke out beards with our "Muhahaha's" and our hairless cats. We ain't playing any games with anyone! We do what we do, how we do, when we do it, because it's what we want to do, and because there ain't anybody who can make us stop. I'm not afraid of Alex Kaelin, or Gavin Stephens. I sure as hell am not afraid of Andrew Watts. God, that guy just doesn't know when enough is enough. He claims to have been wrestling for many years now, but how long does he stick around before he gets tired of just not being good enough? No, I'm not sweatin' any of this. Neither is Caleb, and neither is Hydro. I know he'll handle his own with Watts, the way he always has. If Caleb and I didn't think he could do it, we wouldn't have brought him in with us.

    Each member of this group brought something different to the table. That's why it works so well. Hydro is fast-paced, high-energy, exploding with charisma! He'll hit you fast, he'll hit you hard, and he'll even do a little dance before you ever make it back to your feet. There's a reason he was Combat Entertainment's rookie sensation, and a top contender for both the Fusion Title and the World Title. Not a bad feat, when the only claim his opponent can make his trying to bang the boss' daughter. Nah, I know that as long as he stays focused, Hydro can dismantle Andrew Watts. Caleb, however, he was the opposite of my boy, Hydro. Caleb was a heavy partier outside the ring, oozing charm, always with a lady or two hanging from his arms. Inside the ring, however, Caleb Houston was a different man.

    As soon as his music hits, Caleb's entire demeanor changes. He gets mean. He gets vicious. He gets hungry. Caleb hits you, and then he hits you again, and he does not stop beating you into the ground until he is done playing with you. I hope the "Ironman," "Mr. Uncensored" Gavin Stephens, is ready for the greatest beating he has ever received. He may think he's "The Visionary," but after Climax Control, he won't have any vision left.

"Kaelin thinks he's some street-hard punk," I speak softly to Johnny as I sip from my glass. Even though the video had ended, I continued to stare at the screen. I pierced a burning hole through Kaelin's cocky grin, that familiar Cheshire smirk that stared back at me from behind the glass. "Fortunately for me, I know he has a track record of speaking harder than he hits. I've actually watched this guy wrestle, and we even competed together in the EWA, but our paths have never crossed before. It's funny, though, he seems legitimately rattled by my actions lately. You think he feels threatened by me?"

    For a guy who claims to be "kind of a big deal," he really seems to be worried that I might be after his spotlight. I ain't no "wannabe," though. I'm just having fun. It's time Kaelin, Stephens, and Watts face the cold, hard facts. Caleb, Hydro, and I are the ones with all the momentum. We picked a target last week, and we destroyed him. Did we do it to set an example? Did we want to mark our territory? Nah. We just thought it would be funny. Now, we got SCW talking. 'Why did they attack Chris Shipman?' 'Are they waging war on the Seven Deadly Sins?' Honestly, the Players Club doesn't care about starting a war. Wars a long, and exhausting, and boring. Who wants that? I mean, we are definitely up for a fight, always. If the Sins want to give us a fight, then yeah, we'll go to war. Now we got those clowns the #PowerCouple sniffing up our asses, and apparently these Uncensored assholes got beef with us too. It wasn't hard to tell that my boys and I had been shitting where we eat, but it's cool, because when it's all said and done, we'll be rubbing their faces in it.

    I finally look up from the phone, and notice that Johnny had dozed off. He was also snoring, which was completely lost on me, but apparently Caleb had taken notice. I stare up at him, standing above the bar from his balcony. He urges me to be quiet, with a finger to his lips, as his free hand dangles his sperm capsule over Johnny's head.

"Here comes the money shot!"

    Caleb yells out loud, dropping the glass container onto our friend's head. Johnny shouts in pain, as the glass shatters over his faded trucker cap, and white slime slides down his cheek.

"Dammit, boy!" Johnny glares up at Caleb, who now wears a sheepish grin on his face. He shrugs playfully, before turning and walking back into his office, arms still raised over his head. Johnny rubs his head as he grunts in pain. "What is this shit, anyway?"

    I watch him, a decision I immediately regret, as he stares at the semen on his hand. Narrowing his eyes, he sticks a finger into his mouth, sucking it clean. I feel my gag reflexes kicking in as he smacks his lips.

"Hmm," he mumbles with apprehension. "Tastes kinda salty."

This Sunday night, at Climax Control, I will stand before my audience in Laughlin, Nevada. For now, though, I'll be puking my guts out.

==========
Monday, October 27, 2008
EWA Most Wanted!
==========

    The show had been over for an hour now, and I had just finished my shower. I watched the main event of Caleb Houston and Krazy Konway, and I watched Caleb win. "The Gold Standard" was now the number-one contender for the EWA Elite World Championship. It was a brutal match! Caleb and Konway beat the living hell out of each other, and the mat was stained with enough blood to prove it. Apparently this was not cause enough for celebration, as Caleb Houston was nowhere to be found.

    As I made my way to the parking lot, I heard a scuffle from beyond the large double-doors. It sounded like a fight was going on, so I immediately push through the doors. Out in the parking structure, behind a couple of pillars, was Michael Santiago and Shane Knight, and they were putting the boots to someone, laughing and howling like a couple of hyenas. I rush to the scene.

"Hey!" I shout, and Santiago looks up, blood dripping from his nose. He must not have been expecting anybody to be out here, which was pretty stupid considering everybody needs to get to their car in order to leave. He grabs Shane by the shoulder, pulling him away.

"Come on, man, we've been caught. Leave that loser alone and let's go!"

"Right, Mikey," Shane squeaks. "Let's get out of here!"

    They scamper off toward the street, and I check on the guy they had been stomping at, shocked to see that it was Caleb! I kneel down, and notice that he is still conscious.

"Hey, somebody call an ambulance! We got a live one here!" I holler out with a sense of urgency, but Caleb grabs me by the ankle.

"Shut the fuck up, kid. I'm fine."

    His voice is raspy and strained, but he urges me to back away. Somehow, he manages to climb to his feet, leaning against a nearby pillar. His eye is blue and swollen, and I grimace as he spits a glob of blood from his mouth.

"What happened?"

"Pissed those clowns off. They pissed off I'm gonna be world champion before they are."

"Damn, bro. You alright?"

"Hell yeah," he spits again, this time smirking. "You should see the other guys. I mean, they were already uglier before we started, so I didn't have much work to do. Busted Santiablow in the nose pretty good, though."

    I stare at the guy, stunned. How can someone take such a beating from those two, after such a bloody battle with Krazy Konway over thirty minutes ago, and still be smiling? Caleb Houston was some special kind of crazy.

"Well, hey, I'm heading back to my room. You sure you can make it home in your condition?" He looked like he had been hit by a car, and I found it hard to believe he was standing, much less planning to go home after that attack.

"Kid, I ain't a Muppet." He must have noticed my confusion, because he continued to elaborate. "I can do just fine on my own without your hand up my ass."

    I chuckle, and was immediately embarrassed that I had. He spits another glob of blood, and I give him a nod before turning to walk away.

"Hey, kid." I had barely taken a step before I heard him call for my attention. I turn around to him, raising an inquiring eyebrow. "Paul Blair, huh?" He smirks. "Nice job."

    All in all, I'd say my debut was successful. I started off thinking that I would be going at this alone. I'm not going to lie, it was a bit scary to think about. I didn't know it then, but I would soon learn that I had just met the best friend I would ever know.