A clip plays of “Godly” Ken Davison fighting an opponent on top of some scaffolding surrounded by some railings. Ken is covered in blood and leaning against the railing. He’s trying to regain his bearings, but there is one other issue, he is handcuffed to a pole next to him. There is a bright flash of light as a flare gun goes off, striking Ken in the side and searing his flesh. He falls to the ground with so much force the pole he is handcuffed to comes loose, freeing him. Blood is spilling from the wound and there are scorch marks along his rib cage. The opponent, busy trying to reload the flare gun, doesn’t realize that Ken has freed himself. In a last ditch effort, Ken lunges at his opponent, but sails underneath a surprisingly graceful somersault. The man turns around and tackles Ken, causing them both to spill over the rail and to a web constructed by razor wire beneath them.



“Yep, that's me. You're probably wondering how I got into this situation,” Davison’s voice says. “The honest answer is, I don’t know, either. I didn’t ask for the match, much less a day after competing in the first round of the Blast From The Past Tournament. Yet, there I was standing in Gnaw Bone, Indiana in the middle of a Circus Death Match. What the hell is a ‘Circus Death Match?’ you may ask. I asked the same thing. It would seem as though it is a scaffold match where the objective is to throw your opponent off of some scaffolding and onto webbing made from razor wire down below.”

“I suppose that’s part of the problem with this business, promoters will put you in any kind of match they want to. Then there is my problem… I won’t back down.”

The video unfreezes and the two men crash down onto the awaiting razor wire, with Ken landing first. Both he and his opponent lie there, almost motionless. If not for the heaving of their chests, one might think they were dead. The bell rings and the announcer states the name of the winner. Though distorted, it is obvious enough that it was not the name of Ken Davison that was called. A pair of paramedic teams in their pristine blue scrubs rush down with stretchers. While Ken’s opponent is loaded onto the stretcher, you can see the smile on his face as he laughs. Davison’s reaction is much different. Davison waves off the medical team, leaving a pool of viscous crimson around him. He stands up under his own power and simply glares at his adversary, the mob roaring in approval. The video fades out with a close up of Davison’s sanguine visage and turns to Ken laying in a hospital bed. You can see the stitches in his head and one of his eyes is completely black from the damage. Despite this, he seems to be in a relatively decent mood.

“I may have lost the match, but I got the last laugh. As I watched one man loaded onto a stretcher, I knew what I had to do. I had to stand up. I had to stand up for my wife… for my family… I had to stand up for Courtney Pierce. Now, I know the audience watching at home is probably wondering why, at that moment, was I thinking about Courtney Pierce. It is because I had to make sure that my partner, and everyone else left in the Blast From the Past tournament, would believe.”

Davison sits up, hanging his legs over the side of the hospital bed and standing up.

“One thing I have learned is that you cannot hide from the truth, but it sure as hell can hide from you.”

Davison paces back and forth, allowing the words to simmer, to marinate, to resonate with anyone listening. You can see him wincing in pain, though he is trying his best to hide it.

“They say the artist is the one who uses lies to tell the truth. One thing’s for sure: It’s impossible to tell the whole truth, especially when you are talking about yourself. Sometimes the lie is in the omission. Sometimes the lie is in the spin. But there is always an element of fiction, because the talking is not the thing itself - the gap between the word and the moment is always too wide. How honest can you be with yourself? How does it feel to tell the truth?”

Davison pauses, sitting back down on the hospital bed and groaning as the burns and cuts react to moving around.

“I suppose the real question here is this: How possible is it to see yourself clearly through your own supremely biased eyes? However you choose to use this opportunity, think about “the truth” before you speak. At least then, you might know if you’re lying or not.”

Ken holds up a few sheets of notebook paper that had a moment ago been sitting on the table next to him. Though the words aren’t clear, there’s quite a few areas where you can see things heavily crossed out.

“Handwriting is like a fingerprint, a singing voice, a footstep: unique. Each person’s handwriting style betrays as much in and of itself as in the intention as the intention with which it is used. You give yourself away when you take pen to paper. In the age of infinite and instant reproduction only the unique is still beautiful. Ever wonder if our descendants will read our Facebook timelines? Save something for the real world, which remains, after all, the only place where we can really be ourselves. Write something beautiful by hand and you can be sure it will last for eternity. Even these scars will heal and one day fade. When I die, they will decompose like the rest of my body. But my words, they may just last forever.”

“That is why, prior to recording this, I wrote down my words, my truth. I do this with every promo because I want my children to know who I am. I want my students.to be able to tell their students about the man who trained them. When they see my words, when they learn about who I am, each and every one of those words will be the Kendamned truth.”

He puts the pages down back on the table and the camera catches a glimpse of the blood covered pad on the back of his hospital bed. He then reaches back and rubs the back of his neck, like that’s actually going to relieve any of the pain. He has refused pain medicine, as he has always done. Pain medication was just another lie, tricking the body into feeling better than it had any right to be.

“I’ve talked about the truth around here before, and I feel it needs to be repeated. The truth of the matter is Courtney Pierce is one of the elite talents in this tournament. I am one of the elite talents in this tournament. Joe Montessori or what his name is, even he is one of the elite talents in this tournament. Zoey Lukas… well… she’s Zoey Lukas. But that doesn’t change a damned thing to me. Joe Montague, you have a reputation much like Peter Vaughn did coming into our match. Though no one can actually say your last name everybody knows the name jaymont. Just like last week, I'm not going to worry about Zoe Lucas. I am not going to sit here and pretend that I have to worry about anything but your side of the coin.Be that as it may, you need to realize one thing about myself and Court, it's the thrill of the hunt, we're going to kill you for sport. The only reason you are here is because you want another accolade. you want another trophy to put on your mantle. Courtney and I have bled for this company. We have given everything we have for this company.We didn't just Waltz here off the street because we smelled an opportunity. We started at the bottom and we scratched and clawed and climbed the proverbial ladder rung by Kendamned rung. you know that is the truth. everyone knows that is the truth.”

“The question I have to ask myself is do I have the ability to beat someone with the track record, the reputation, the ego of Joe Marinara.There is no question that you do have the ability to back all of those things up. When climax control is over, only one of us will walk away from that match knowing that we are the very best. Of course, I fully expect you to blame your partner if you should happen to fall short. That's what men like you do. they don't confront the truth, they place the blame.Those things don't matter to me. they should matter to you. This should be something that fills you with trepidation. it should Eat You Alive deep down inside. it should make you wake up in a cold sweat, make you have nightmares, because you realize that as good as you are, the GKD, “Godly” Ken Davison, is just better.”

The blood pressure monitor next to Ken begins going off. He reaches over to shut it off, knowing the nurses will take forever to get to the room.

“With your arrogance, a lot of people are going to believe this match is a personal matter. maybe it is for you. Maybe it is for Zoe. I can feel fairly confident when I say that for Courtney Pierce and I this is simply a business transaction. don't get me wrong, I've never liked you. but you and I, we've never crossed paths. to see you ranting and raving about something as simple as your name, it makes you Look like a joke. It makes you look unprofessional. it makes me realize that while your reputation as an athlete, as a wrestler proceeds you,  your reputation as a baby back bitch has not. The truth is that I was winning world championships when you were still wrestling for crowds of 100 people in high school gyms. you may think you have all the tools, all the assets, to defeat me. I've knocked down men just as big as you, just as strong as you, and definitely a lot smarter than you.Courtney Pierce and I are not looking to make our names at someone else's expense, like Zoe is. we're not looking to climb the ladder in Sin City wrestling. We have been the top of the ladder. We have been the Pinnacle of this company. We are the ones who set the example. We proved that in our first round match and we are going to prove it again against you too.”

Ken stops again, imagining JMont’s reaction in his head.

“I am going to do whatever is needed to ensure my victory. If you doubt me, ask anyone who knows me. I am simply one of a kind. the fact that I'm going into this match less than 2 weeks after going through all of this…” Ken turns around and all of the wounds on his back can be seen through the back of his gown. ”That should tell you everything you need to know about me as a person. See you on Sunday, Joe.”

At that point, whomever is recording cuts the feeds off and Ken just lies back down on his bed, exhausted. He passed out and enters some kind of pain induced nightmare. In his dream state, he lays across the horrible orange and brown fabric of a couch seemingly found at an estate sale of a couple who hadn’t bought new furniture since 1974. With his arm resting on the arm rest, he is surprisingly comfortable. The walls are covered in a wainscoting, similar in look to the wood paneling you would see on the side of an old Station Wagon or an Atari 2600. It is exactly as Ken remembers his grandparent’s house back on Vernon Street from when he was a kid. It was one of the few safe havens he had from his mother’s mental hubris. In between moves, it would always seem as though that would end up back in Rockland. When his father left, when they were between moves, when his mother just couldn’t, or wouldn’t, find a job… this was the closest thing he had to a permanent home.
In his surreal, absurd, bizarre, crazy, fanciful, fantastic dreamworld, Ken still felt anxious, despite the odd familiarity of the room. He lays, arms across his chest, fingers interlocked but refusing to hold still. Ken keeps looking up at the ceiling while he is speaking.

“You have to understand something. I don’t understand how I can fly across the world, win a World Championship in another country, then a few months later drop three matches in a row I didn't even drop two matches in a row last year.”

The truth of the matter is that Ken wasn’t upset about losing three matches in a row. In fact, those were all singles matches against quality opponents.

“It’s like I can’t buy a win here. I won that match against Finn then the new year hits and I can't win shit. I wish Kyra was around. I feel like not having her on the road has made a difference. That makes sense, I suppose. Kyra and I can beat anyone that the put in front of us. By myself, I am nothing.”

“That’s cuz you ain’t good enough for my mommy!”

Ken sits up, snapped fully into this unreal reality by the voice of his stepdaughter Adina. He rubs his eyes, confused. Adina looks at Ken with a look of anger which is like a miniature version of her mother’s.

“You win cuz Mama helps you. You’re not good. My daddy won all his matches by himself. You ain’t good like my daddy is.”

“What the fuck?” Ken says aloud. He places his head in his hands, covering his eyes. The words sting like a scorpion’s tail and feel just as venomous.

“You aren’t worthy to be a champion.”

Looking back at the chair, Adina has been replaced by Mac Bane, the man that had inderectly taken Ken's Sin City Wrestling World Championship from him.

“You aren’t good enough to be a World Champion. You took advantage of me, took advantage of our friendship and you took advantage of what is going on with my wife. That is the only reason you beat me. You knew I was vulnerable and stabbed me in the back. You are not my brother. You’re a Goddamned small, petty, jealous, little man. That's why you won't be good enough to win Blast From the Past, either.”

“I’m not a snake,” Ken pleads to this reality displaced apparition. “I challenged you, face to face, man to man. I showed you respect, damnit!”

Ken turns away from Mac, clutching at his non-existent hair in frustration.

“I love listening to lies when I know the truth.”

“Of course you…” Ken spins around. He finishes his sentence, but slowly, shocked at the sight of Chloe Hawkhurst sitting where Mac had be a moment before. “...know… the… truth.”

“The truth is that you will never be a real father.”

Another voice, another venom entering his consciousness. At least in his dreams, he remembered that his wife was pregnant with his child. The words still felt like another flare gun to the ribs.

“You are a horrible person. No amount of good will ever make up for the things you have done. Just because you adopted Adina and took me in doesn’t make you a father. God killed your fiance because you don’t deserve to have children. Kyra should leave your ass before she gives birth so you'll never be around that kid.”

The words are sharp, cutting like a knife. At the same time, they ring true to Ken. He looks around the room frantically, looking for somewhere, anywhere to run. The four walls have no doors, no windows. If Freddy Krueger wanted him dead, this would be the time and the place to do it. Ken falls to his knees, sobbing. He doesn’t have any words. The walls close in around him, the lights darken, the room moves with his emotions, representing how he feels in this dream state. He cannot leave. He cannot escape. He cannot wake up. Face down on the ground, he curls up into the fetal position

“Know your worth, Ken.”

Ken is once again snapped back to this false reality. This time, he does not hear Adina, Mac or Chloe tearing him down. He hears his departed fiance, Crystal. He looks up, and through the magic of some stressed induced fever dream, sees her now sitting in the same chair.

“A bottle of water can be fifty cents at the supermarket, two dollars at the gym, three dollars at movies and six dollars on a plane. Nothing has changed its value but its place. If you feel like you are nothing, maybe you’re in the wrong place.”

As she speaks, the lights come up slowly, the walls seem to slide backwards into their original place. Even the decor changes, morphing from 1970’s chic to 2020 modern. The clean white walls, black molding and window frames that have suddenly appeared, allowing a bright moonlight through them. 

“I’m doing the best I can. I only wanted to make you proud, to do your memory justice. That was always my place.”

“It’s not your place anymore, Ken. This is…”

Instead of the sudden disappearances Ken has experienced so far, Crystal slowly dissipates, replaced by Kyra who appears in the chair, comfortably sitting with her legs crossed, eating a banana and making aggressive eye contact with Ken.

“I told you not to do that, it’s distracting,” Ken deadpans while trying to dry his eyes. He can’t. Where there were tears of frustration and sadness, there are now tears of joy. “Even in my dreams you do this shit to mess with me. What the fuck?”

“You know you like it,” dream Kyra coos seductively. Ken looks over at her baby bump and his face literally glows.

“I do,” Ken says, still collecting himself. “But, is THIS the time?”

It was a dream. Kyra would say anything Ken’s imagination told her to. Ken was somewhat unaware of this fact, even though he realized it was a dream.

“You need to stop doubting yourself. Carl Jung said: “We are not what happened to us, we are what we wish to become.”
Ken realized that had to be his subconscious talking. For all of her positives, quoting Jung was not one of them.
“Listen, asshole. I don't care who you are, where you're from, what you did, as long as you love me.”

“Backstreet Boys? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Kyra smiles.

“With everything we have been through, I’m not going to let you talk shit about yourself. Now , wake the fuck up.”

The room seems to fade away, almost dissolving around him.

“Ken! Wake up, dammit!”

“Huh?” Ken groans, somewhere in between sleep and reality. “What?”

“You were talking in your sleep. Something about the…” there is a confused pause on Kyra’s part. “Backstreet Boys?”

Ken sits up, quickly putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

“I’m a good man. Right? You still think I'm doing alright even though I'm not home as much?”

“Of course, other than this deathmatch bullshit, you are. Why would you ask?”

“Adina likes me? She's not mad that I'm gone?”

“She adores you! Sometimes I think the little shit loves you more than she loves me.”

“And Chloe?”

“It's been rough at times, aside from her absolutely loving the hell out of Adina. But, since you made her a trainer at the school, I think she's showing a lot of maturity.”

“What about Mac?”

“What's with all the rapid fire questions? You want to tell me where this is coming from?”

“I just had THAT dream again. Adina was telling me how you're carrying me, then Mac was telling me I stabbed him in the back, the Chloe popped up and told me I wouldn't ever be a real father, and,” Kyra puts her finger up the Ken's mouth, interrupting what could have become the world's longest run on sentence.
 
“We've told you, it's just a dream. They don't really feel that way.” Kyra straddles Ken, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him. Ken groans as Kyra remembers her man was recently fileted like a fish. “Sorry.”

“And then there was the Crystal part, where said my place is with you. Why the hell do I need constant reassurance, even in my dreams?”

“I don't know, but you need to rest up. If there's no signs of infection, they're going to let you come home tomorrow. Do you want me to call the office and see if they will postpone your World Title match with my sister?”

Ken smiles. taking the time to really appreciate his wife.

“Hell no. I'm not going to back out of Blast From the Past, either. Sin City has been too good to me. Besides, I've got people that believe in me.”[/color]

“Last night I dreamt I was at my funeral again.” Ken says stoically to no one in particular. Sitting in the middle of the room, in one of the fifteen or so chairs placed nonchalantly in a shape vaguely resembling a circle. Unbeknownst to his friends, his family, his peers, Ken Davison has been going to a support group to try and manage his anxiety. The fact that he is going to be a father is weighing heavily on his heart. Given the fact that his first child would be twenty five years old, no one could blame him if they did know about these meetings. To Ken, it was a sign of weakness. It wasn’t so much that he was getting help. Rather, it was the fact that he felt he needed help. “I don’t know why. Ever since I found out my wife is pregnant, I’ve been scared. Living in fear.”

Ken doesn’t look around the room for a reaction. That’s not what this is about. This is his confessional. There is no Holy Spirit here to cleanse his mind of his own perceived transgressions. There were only people who were as damaged as he was, perhaps even moreso. These were his people.

“In my life, I’ve done unspeakable things in the name of love. At least, I thought it was love. Right now I have everything, literally everything, that I have ever wanted out of life and it’s made me realize that I’m scared that I will lose it. I’m scared that I don’t deserve it. My wife and I have been through so much, I know she loves me unconditionally. Yet I still think that I’m not good enough for her because of what I’ve done in the past.”

“What do you think that represents?” Greg, the counselor running the group, queries.

“That I’m going to die, obviously.”

Greg can only shake his head. He does, however, manage to stifle his laugh without anyone noticing.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because God hates me and just wants to fuck me over,” Ken says slapping his hands audibly on his knees. “I don’t know. I just know that I can’t handle the thought of anything happening to my wife and kid so I guess I imagine that something is going fuck this up and that it’s going to end up hurting me.”

Greg points over to a woman, somewhere in her mid-thirties, who has her hand raised. She’s got a bit of a Stevie Nicks vibe, wearing a black flowing dress, black rimmed hat and, of course, a black shawl over her shoulders.

“Yes, Ophelia.”

“So, like, when you dream of your own funeral, there’s a spiritualism to that, man. Sometimes, it can mean you need to make some changes to your life. But it usually means that it’s the end of one chapter of your life and the start of another. I mean, you’re about to become the patron of a tiny, sweet, soft, innocent, cute, giggly, precious bundle of joy. That’s the start of something beautiful.”

Ophelia stops and scrunches her nose.

“But if you're dreaming of being buried in a coffin, that means you feel trapped.”

“That’s the polar opposite of helpful. You know that?”

Greg puts his hand up, stopping Ken in his tracks.

“Hold on. She’s actually onto something, on both counts. Is your wife’s pregnancy giving you the feeling that you’re trapped? It’s a very common thing, you know.”

“No! I’ve been waiting for this my entire life.”

“I’m telling you, you’re scared of this next chapter of your life, Ken. Who wouldn’t be? It’s, like, a whole new world.”

“This is… This is… It’s different,” Ken stammers. “I’ve been having this dream for years, twenty five fucking years. Okay? The difference is now it’s me in the box instead of Crys…”

Ken stops dead in his tracks. Are these REALLY his people? Can he trust them with this?

“My finance was killed by a drunk driver. She was pregnant when she died. For twenty five years I’ve dreamed of her in that box and now, the past few months, ever since I found out my wife is knocked up, it’s me in that fucking box. I suppose your hippie mumbo jumbo bullshit can explain that, Ophelia.”

Ophelia is completely unphased by Ken’s outburst, looking through the window at the snow beginning to fall in the illumination of the streetlight outside. She waits for Ken to finish before returning her attention to him.

“Yeah, my dude. I can explain that. You loved your fiance, having her taken away by death's cruel embrace never changed that. When going to the funeral of someone who is already dead in your sleep symbolizes that you’re still grieving their loss and that you’re not able to move on. So, it symbolizes your own feelings of guilt or regret in regard to that person. How would you have stopped her death? That’s such a burden to carry for as long as you have.”

“So what you’re telling me is that I’m feeling trapped because my wife is pregnant? Is that what we’re going with?”

Greg gives Ken a reassuring smile.

“Actually, I think you are being trapped by fear. You keep looking for things that could go wrong, whether or not they actually could. You feel like you no longer care about anything else except protecting your life and kid. And perhaps, you even feel like a prisoner in your own life. Right?”

“In some ways, I guess. But I’ve always wanted to protect my family.”

“Yes, but that feeling was never connected to feelings of loss. When you have something to relate your fears to, you feel like you are stuck. It’s completely normal. The good news is that it’s temporary. Like a kidney stone, this too shall pass.”

“When? Seven months from now after she gives birth?”

“So let’s dive in if you want to get unstuck. Usually, the reason we get stuck is because we hold on to some previous ideas we had, just like you are. What you need to do is get moving, make small changes. Think about the world and how different it is. You can’t keep your wife prisoner and you can’t keep her encased in bubble wrap. What can you do?”

“I mean, we have these apps on our phones that we can see where we are. We can always call each other. But I don’t want her going out alone, especially at night.”

“You are a professional wrestler. You travel around the country, sometimes around the world. What you can do is talk to your wife and let her know your concerns. In your line of work you need to focus on what you are doing in the moment or you can get hurt. Talk to your wife, and I am saying that again, because that is the best advice I have.”

Greg looks down at his watch.

“It looks like that’s all the time we have for tonight.” The group stands up and begins folding up their chairs, with the exception of Ken himself. Greg stops and clasps his hand on Ken’s shoulder. “I think that you and I need to schedule an individual session. Call my secretary tomorrow, please.”

“Sure, I’ll do that.”

Greg continues towards the back of the room to put his chair back where it belongs. Ken stands up and walks out, making it as far as the second step in the front of the building before practically collapsing on the cold concrete. He pulls out his phone and quickly dials the phone. It barely rings before Kyra answers.

“Hey, babe… I love you.”

“What do you want?” Kyra responds jokingly.

“You. I’ll talk to you when I get home,” he says with tears rolling down his cheeks.

The tenor of Mrs. Davison’s voice changes.

“What’s wrong? Don’t try to bullshit me, either. I can hear it.”

“I’ll explain when I get home. I just… I’m feeling things right now. I’ll hit Starbucks on the way home and bring you a coffee. You want anything else?”

“We’ve got DoorDash on the way. We’re good.”

There is an awkward pause in the air for just a moment.

“Are you sure you’re good?”

“I will be. I just wanted to let you know in case anything happens, that you are sun. My world revolves around you. You’re the light in my life and I’d be lost without you.”

“Don’t be stupid. Take your time and collect yourself. Skip the coffee and get your ass home. Understand?”

“Sure thing, mama. Love you.”

“I love you, too. Be careful.”

“I will.”

Ken hangs up the phone and stands up, holding onto the railing to support his weakened knees as he meanders the rest of the way down the stairs to get to his car.

______________________

“The world is full of people who tolerate Jack Michaels. The reason I mention his name is because he was the last man that stood across the ring from me who claimed to be a quote unquote icon. He was a man who thought himself a leader and deserved to be revered as an icon because of it. The man even led a stable known as “Paragon” and I believe the irony of that was lost on his pompous ass. The reason I mention him is because I see the parallels between of two of you. Even moreso, I see the parallels between you and I.”

“Much like yourself, I returned after a fairly prolonged absence in the sport. When I came back I didn't come in with a whimper the way you did. I returned with a roar. During an outdoor event, I walked into a wrestling ring that was located in the middle of a parking lot in downtown Baltimore, Maryland. I didn't wait until I was booked for a match. I didn't wait for some grand announcement to be made. I marched through that crowd, announcing my presence by having my theme music played through a boombox. I hopped that barricade.  I strode into that ring and I announced to the world that The GKD, “Godly” Ken Davison had returned. I did so with a sense of swagger that a man of your stature would still look at, jaw agape, and stand in total awe of. I returned 8 months after having a Widowmaker heart attack. I sat in the middle of the ring and I told the world that no man, woman, or child could keep me down. God himself tried to smite me and couldn't finish the job. I stared death himself in the face and I laughed. That moment, that was the exact moment that I realized that I was a leader in this industry. That is why I surround myself with men like your future opponent, Mac motherfucking Bane. Right now, you shouldn't even be worrying about Mac Bane. You should be worrying about if you will even make it to Mac Bane.”

“The men and women that comprise the Saviors, not just at the present moment, but those who have come before, we are all leaders. We have all put in our blood, sweat, and tears, not just in the Sin City Wrestling ring, but throughout this entire industry. I'm going to explain this in a way that it was explained to me. I don't know if it will make sense to you, because you're so full of shit you've got brown eyes. You are so full of yourself, that I doubt you have room for food. Your arrogance assures me that you won't hear a word I have to say because you don't want to listen. You think you know it all. I understand that. I’m going to give this a go anyway, because I want you to understand who the hell I am.”

“All the way back in 1994, when I first began training for a career in the wrestling business, I had a trainer who was explaining what it meant to be a locker room leader. The way he explained it to me was to ask me if I loved my girlfriend. It was an odd question given my surroundings, but I answered him honestly and I told him yes. Then he told me to prove it. He asked me to give him a number. So I'm sitting there trying to figure out what he's getting at and before I can answer he continued. He says to me “ When you met your girlfriend, you didn't love her. Now you love her. Tell me the day that love happened.” I couldn't tell him. there was no magical number. There was no set date. I didn't know. He asked me an impossible question. He explained “It's not that it doesn't exist, it's that it's easier to prove over a period of time.” Leadership is the same thing. It's about transitions. I'm going to pause a moment to allow that to sink in. Leadership is about transitions.”

“Another way that I could explain it, one that might make more sense to you since I'm pretty sure your girlfriend inflates, is take the gym for example.When you go to the gym and you work out, You finish your routine and then you go to the mirror and what change do you see? nothing. absolutely nothing. You go to the gym the next day, repeat the process.  I want you to tell me what you see, what is the change after two days? Nothing. There's no results. So, most people at this point, quit.”

“However, if you believe in yourself and you believe in process, like a relationship, “I bought her flowers. I took her out for Valentine’s Day. I wished her a happy birthday and she doesn’t love me. Clearly, I’ll give up.”  That's not how that works. In both situations if you believe in the process and you believe there is something there and you put in the work, over time you will see the results.You don't have to be perfect. you can screw up. You can skip a day at the gym. You can have that piece of chocolate cake, so long as you maintain your dedication to the regimen. No one knows the exact date they fall in love. No one knows the exact day when they look in the mirror at the gym and notice that they are getting in shape. The same goes for leadership. It's not about the events. It's not about the intensity. It's about the consistency.”

“The problem is that most people base leadership on the intensity. If we were to liken this to my career here in SCW, some would say I am a leader because I held Championship gold three times last year. For me, those are highlights, but it's the monotony that makes me a leader. It is the fact that I get up every Kendamned morning and go to the gym. It's the fact that I prepare what I am going to say before I say it. I don't just turn on the camera and decide to start rambling about something. I do each and everything with purpose. My wife didn't fall in love with me because I remembered her birthday. My wife didn't fall in love with me because I took her out on Valentine's Day. She fell in love with me because the first thing I did before I got  out of bed was text her good morning. She fell in love with me because I made her my number one priority not just on those special occasions but every day. That is how leadership works. That is why I am a leader.”

“In a group with the paradigm that the Saviors have, we do not recognize any one member as our leader because we all lead by example. There is not one event that made us magically start trusting each other. It is an accumulation of lots and lots of little things, things that are insignificant on their own. They are literally like a single brick, useless on its own. but when you stack brick upon brick and create layer upon layer, you forge a foundation of trust. If you do these things just once people will look at you and tell you that that will not work and they would be 100% correct. I do these things consistently in combination with many other little things and people see my success. That success is predicated on all of those little things becoming one larger thing.”

“Max spent number of years in the service. and there's something he said to me a good many years ago that has stuck with me even after more than two decades. He served under a three-star General who told him this very same parable. The measure of a good leader is when you stop and ask a fellow soldier how they are doing and you care about the answer. if they brush you off or make excuses to try to leave, those aren't good leaders. If you ask the question, you should be sitting there and listening, actively listening to the answer. A leader will do that.”

“In business, there are colleagues and coworkers. The Saviors, we have brothers and sisters. That's how we think of each other. If you have a culture, a strong culture, you may hear people say things. “It's like a family.” Not us. It is a family. Brothers and sisters. It's a deep love. We fight amongst ourselves, but the love doesn't go away. We bicker. The love doesn't go away. And I'll fight with my sister, but if you threaten my sister you’re going to have to deal with me. We will fight internally. We'll argue with one another. But nobody is going to hurt each other. If anything from the outside shows up, you're looking at a united front.  Now, ask yourself, how do you create brothers and sisters out of strangers? You do it by being yourself, by being honest, day in and day out.”

“The reason why I am telling you all of this is because I know the type of man you are because that's the type of man I was. I don't have to come down to the ring, take a microphone, and tear you down. I see your resume. I know your credentials. I know what you are capable of. That brings me back to the parable of Jack Michaels. You and he are very much the same person. you think because of the things you've done before that you're something special. You think because you're giving a world title opportunity right out the gate, that you're deserving.  You are not deserving. I see that with no slight and no malice. When I signed with this company I started at the bottom and I climbed to the ladder by putting in the work weekend and week out. If I wasn't on television, I was in the locker room supporting my family. Over the summer I was flying back and forth between India and Chicago to work two shows in two days for two companies because I would not let my family down. That is who I am as a person.”

“I will acknowledge how good you are. you're a damned fine talent. I'm not going to walk into this match and underestimate you. What I am going to do, is I am going to warn you. I became a leader here because I'm not afraid to lose. I became a leader here because I give everything of myself each and every match. Win, lose, or draw, I can walk back into that locker room, look in the mirror, and feel a sense of pride. This match probably feels like a warm-up for you. For me, This match is where I once again show everyone in the stands, watching at home, Backstage in the locker room.. I am going to show them once again that “Godly” Ken Davison is the epitome of what they want to be. I am going to be the man who walks into this match with a chip on his shoulder. They rolled the red carpet out for you, which is probably a good thing. At least the bloodstains won’t be so obvious.”

November 23rd, Midday

Sitting inside of the Enoch Pratt Free Library, I’m at a table with my laptop in front of me. I’m slowly scrolling through the Google results for “Maryland divorce forms,” because of everything I’ve been dealing with. The constant strain on my marriage, and despite what Adina and Chloe have told me, I figure that Kyra wants out. She’s been cold, unreachable. Those rare moments that we’ve had the chance to talk to one another have pretty much blown up in my face. One wrong word, one wrong reaction, one moment of saying the wrong thing while trying to hold my ground in the middle of a hurricane of anger and sadness and frustration… Let’s just say I haven't helped my situation. Since it was Kyra’s birthday, I figured I should give her what she wants, her freedom.

That’s why I’m sitting in the corner of the library, facing the wall trying, and failing, to hold back tears while trying to figure out how to print these fucking forms. My phone rings, momentarily distracting me from my misery. I glance down at the caller ID and I see that the number is coming from my adoptive daughter’s phone. ’Jesus, this is exactly what I need right now,’ I think to myself. I quickly close the laptop before I answer the call, whispering as to not bother the other patrons.

“Yeah… what’s up?”

“Um… Daddy…” came Adina’s voice through the phone. ’That’s unexpected,’ I thought as Adina continued. “Imma gonna need you to come get me and Chloe. We went to the park an’ Chloe fell and bumped her head. We need you right now.”

I begin packing up my stuff as quickly as possible. At this point, I make no effort to remain quiet as my only concern is my children.

“Alright, is she bleeding?”

“No. But she’s saying weird stuff and the black part of her eyes are like, really big.”

“Sounds like a concussion. Where are you? I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“I dunno. Lemme find a sign.” There’s a pause and I hear Adina’s breathing as she sprints around. “Um, yeah. It’s ‘M T Ver-something.’ That’s where we are.”

“Mount Vernon?” I confirm, trying to conceal the sense of urgency as I step out the door. I don’t want Adina to panic. I notice the chill in the air, instantly regretting my choice to leave the house without dressing in warmer clothing. “I should have put on my coat.” 

“Yeah, Vernon. That’s what Chloe said when we gots here.”

“Alright, babygirl. Hold tight and call 911 if Chloe starts to fall asleep. I’m at the library nearby. I’ll be there soon.”

“Yes, sir!” Adina says, almost proudly before disconnecting the call. It was weird that Adina seemed so calm, but I figure everyone handles stress differently. Right?

Right?

Thankfully the park is less than a mile away. I may or may not have broken some speed limits and possibly run a stop sign or two. I roll up in my ‘89 Pontiac Grand Am, parking it and running over the scene, where I see my wife standing there. Makes sense that Adina would call her mother, except that it looks like Chloe is taking care of Adina, not the other way around like it was explained to me. There’s fuckery afoot.

“Come on, let’s get her out of here.  What happened?” I hear Kyra’s voice slowly get louder as I hustle over to her. I watch as Chloe, acting completely normal, helps Adina to the bottom of the slide.

“I don’t know.  One minute she was playing and the next…”

Just as they reached the ground, Chloe stopped talking as I ran up. I say nothing. I’m sure my face relays a look of unparalleled confusion as I try to piece things together in my head, moving my finger from point to point while connecting the dots in my head. The pieces fit together in much the same way that\ Chuck E. Cheese pizza slices never seem to belong together.

“Someone has some explaining to do… NOW!” I bellow.

Upon hearing my voice, Kyra turned around - completely shocked and even more so when Adina suddenly comes to life and drops out of her arms. The little girl rushes over to Chloe and now the two of them are coming face to face with their choices, and the two people they’d manipulated to this very location. 

“It’s a..”

“It’s a miracle!” Adina finishes Chloe’s sentence, putting on her best innocent face as they look between my wife and myself.

“A miracle that you’re not hurt or a miracle that Chloe isn’t so concussed she can smell colors?” I add. I don’t know what the two of them are up to, but I know when I’m being played.

“What the hell is going on here?!” Kyra finally chimes in, staring daggers at both girls. I know that look. They just stepped in it. 

“Seriously. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t ground the two of you.”

“Well” Chloe interrupts with a mischievous grin, “I’m 19 so you can’t ground me.”

“I can change the Wi-Fi password. Don’t make me do it.” I look at Kyra, taken aback for a moment. It’s the first time we’ve been in the same book, let alone on the same page, in almost three months. “Um, Happy Birthday, by the way.”

Kyra stops for a moment, turning her head slowly towards Ken.

“Um...Thanks?” In that moment, she breaks out of the moment and she turns her attention back to Chloe and Adina. “Is that what you two were trying to do?”

“Let’s be honest, we know it is. I just want to hear the two of you admit to it,” I say, tapping my foot impatiently on the ground. “So, which one of you two is the mastermind?”

Chloe and Adina look at each other for a few seconds, smirking and after a minute or so of complete silence, Chloe grabs Adina’s hand and the two of them back away. 

“Hey, I just remembered that Adina and I need to go..”

“Yeah we needs to go!  See you later!”

“Are you two brown wording me right now?” I yell as the scamper off. But neither of them bother to turn back to acknowledge me, leaving Kyra and I  by ourselves.  We turn and look at each with an amazing cocktail of emotions containing frustration, confusion, defeat and… maybe hope. 

Finally, Kyra sighed. “We live with a bunch of shitheads, huh?” she mused uncomfortably while staring at me.

“You think?” I quip back at her, holding my gaze perhaps a little too long. I’ve missed this. Surprisingly enough, Kyra’s gaze never wavered from mine. Perhaps she missed this too.

“Listen.. I-I’m sorry.” She began, shocking even herself with her words, but she kept going. “I was just so worried, and hurt by what you said.  Like, I know why you were doing what you were doing, because I’d do the same damn thing.  But you didn’t want me to, and it just… I don’t know.  It just really fucking hurt.”

Kyra finally pulled her gaze away from mine, moving to and sitting on one of the swings, lowering her head so she was staring at her shoes as they moved through the dirt and mulch.  It was no real surprise that Kyra wasn’t exactly the type to tell all about her feelings, especially if they were anything besides anger. I know it makes her feel vulnerable which in turn makes her feel uncomfortable. I figure now would be the time to make some sort of gesture, so I follow Kyra and sit on the swing next to hers.

“Um… thanks. I'm not apologizing, though,” I tell her. Kyra's face is overtaken by shock. Before she can respond, I start talking again. “Hear me out. Every time I try to apologize I say something stupid and step in it. I know I fucked up. It's just… I just… every time I tried something different, it still blew up in my face. You know I'm not smart with this shit. But, you should have known I was trying. I know I hurt you, but I also felt you were too angry to meet me halfway.”

Kyra nods her head. 

“Yeah.  I was.”

I thought that was going to be it. The way Kyra turned and looked into my eyes, I knew it would be best to just shut up, but for good reason. 

“But all of that ‘I’m not smart with this shit’? That’s just an excuse, Ken. There ain’t no owners manual for this… But you know me. You know who I am deep down. You’re one of the few who knows what I am beneath the surface..I don’t know. I know I didn’t give you enough slack, and I’ve been told some shitty things by the people I love, but this one just hit differently.  This entire situation just hit me differently. Maybe it’s because it’s you. Regardless… I should have let it go. It’s not worth ruining what we’ve got over…” 

I pushed back with my feet, allowing the swing to rock back and forth. Might as well lay it all on the table. After all, what do I have to lose?

“You weren't listening, at least I felt you weren't. You were so hellbent that I was trying to… I don't fucking know, shock you into listening.”

A sad smile crosses Kyra’s lips as she looks down into her hands. 

“I was listening. To everything. That’s why I was so angry. That’s why I wanted to protect you.  It’s funny, we’re both out here trying to protect each other, but neither of us can handle the possibility of something happening to the other to the point where we’d rather be ignorant of who we married than let them risk hurting themselves for us.”

She lets out a sigh and shrugs her shoulders. 

“I was wrong for expecting you to back down. That’s just not who you are, and I’ve known that as long as I’ve known you.”

“To be fair, we are both the two most stubborn people that I know.  Not going to lie, I am very confused by all this Mr. Miyagi, words of wisdom bullshit you've got going on.”

Kyra couldn’t stop the chuckle that escapes her lips. 

“Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think.”

“So did I, but it's been far less productive. I don't want to talk about it. Let's just leave it at that, you are smarter than I am.” I sigh as soon as he finish my sentence. At that moment, I am feeling a mixture of shame and embarrassment.

“Oh, stop it with that… please?”

Kyra gets up from her swing and moves in front of mine, extending her hand to me.  

“I’m not smarter than you.  But I’ve missed you, and I love you… and.. And I–”

“I was at the library looking up divorce paperwork. I figured if I couldn't make you happy that I shouldn't hold you hostage. So, yeah, you're smarter than I am,” I blurt out, cutting her off. Kyra sits there, stunned for a few moments, digesting what I just told her.   

“Oh, Ken.. Why...”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head.

“Maybe you're right…”

I let go of her hand and mine fall to my side, defeated. As is tradition, I tried to hide it, but there was no way to stop my eyes from welling up with tears. 

“I mean, if that's what you want. You can have the house and all that, it was always meant to be yours.”

The lack of comprehension crosses her face.I can only imagine her wondering “What the fuck is he saying?” in her head. In what seems like the moment my words started making sense to her, she reaches down and grabs my hands and pulls me up to my feet. 

“Ken, I didn't mean that!”

“Oh…” I reply sheepishly.

“You're not getting rid of me that easily." She replies and before I can say anything else, she puts an exclamation point on her statement with a kiss. The kiss is deep, passionate, like our first kiss all over again.

“Could we do that again? I kinda missed that.”

Without a word, Kyra obliges me, pulling me in and kissing me once more. 



Standing in front of the Hershey candy factory in Hershey, Pennsylvania, I wait for the camera crew to finish setting up. Underneath my robes, I am wearing two layers of clothes, just to keep warm in this near freezing temperature. I’ve chosen, very appropriately, a chocolate brown color. I’ve forgone the usual matching glasses as finding a pair in that shade is nearly impossible. Seeing we are almost ready, I take my place standing with the front entrance of the factory behind me. One of the crew counts me in and I am ready to go.

“Despite what you may think, Whelan, I am not the man that’s been turned into Masque’s puppet. When I sat alone in the darkness, my personal hell, it was Masque who reminded me of who, and more importantly what, I am. In this company, I am a target for several reasons. Whether I am a champion or not, I am one of the elite in this company. I have faced the best and I have beaten the best. Mac Bane, Mark Cross, Austin James Mercer… the resume speaks for itself. I know you won’t acknowledge any of this, boy. In fact, there is absolutely no need to because in your eyes, I am nothing more than the man you beat for the World Championship.”

“I can admit this because I am, above all else, honest. I wear my heart on my sleeve and tear the intestines from my stomach. I understand that you think that I am the hunter because you hold the World Championship, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. You need this victory more than I do.You need to show the world that his victory was not a fluke. Finn Whelan, you do not understand the juxtaposition of your reality, which frankly works in my favor. You think I am the hunter, but if I was, would I really be stupid enough to seek out a wolf in his den? Not unless I was the bigger threat, the larger predator. If need be, I will tear the flesh off your bones and become the ghost in your head. I will be the nightmare that haunts you when you think of what could have been. That’s exactly what is going to happen because like all of the other people who have doubted me, I will prove them, and you, wrong.”

I point to the camera, furthering my point before continuing.

“I know you will try and pick me apart. Go right ahead, homeboy. I am a man who isn't afraid of your scrutiny. I'm not scared of the truth, which makes me immune to whatever bullshit you are going to spew at me. You still have dreams, but those are all things I’ve already accomplished. I got there by coming back from adversity time and time again. This situation, this injustice, is just another hurdle that I will have to jump over.”

“What happened at High Stakes was very similar to “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.” I don’t mean the new one with Johnny Depp. I mean the old school, Gene Wilder, acid trip on the glass-bottom boat movie. Yes, Charlie won. The question here is, SHOULD he have won?  Much like your championship win, “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” is a favorite story for kids of all ages. I mean, think about it. What could be better than being a child, opening up a candy bar, going to a candy factory, and then finding out you won that factory? Maybe having a grandfather who wasn’t an asshole faking a health condition like Grampa Joe did. Aside from that, there aren’t many things I could think of that would be better. Now, most people accept Charlie winning the factory at face value. It’s what Roald Dahl, the original author, intended. The thing is, why did Charlie win and why wasn’t the winner Violet Beauregarde?”

I smirk, taking a moment to allow the audience at home to process what I am saying.

“I know that I’ve already lost some of you, but stay with me and I will show you the way like a shepherd tends to his flock. While most of you have no idea where this is going, I assure you, it has everything to do with Finn Whelan and myself.”

“Violet Beauregarde should have been the rightful winner of Wonka’s contest. You all remember her, right? Violet Beauregarde, the World Chewing Gum Champion of the World. Violet Beauregarde, the über competitive girl who, above all else, wanted to test herself. She made it pretty far, but was eliminated for chewing the three-course-meal gum that Wonka warned her not to. As we all know, she turned into a blueberry and was rolled away.”

“Violet Beauregarde is the most committed to not only winning, but knowing what she was walking into. She was easily able to switch from gum-chewing to candy-bar-eating at the start of the competition. She was also the one, the only one, who know the different candies Wonka talked about. At one point in the film, he even holds up a yellow piece of candy and she could recognize it from across the room. Obviously, Violet would have no problem understanding her supply list.”

“Much in the same way Violet Beauregarde dedicated herself to what she was involved with, I have very much done the same. Not only did I watch as many of Finn Whelan’s match and promos as I could find, I went looking for him at the Wolfslair so that I could get a look at the man’s work first hand. I know that Finn isn’t the type to outwardly mess with someone, but that is because he isn’t willing to take the measures needed to be successful in this industry.  I wanted to walk into Wolfslair, slap him across the face and look him dead in the eye to see how he’d react. I am a man who will do whatever is necessary, no matter the cost.”

The wind picks up some, so I place my hands in the pockets of my robe to keep them warm.

“Furthermore, the largest similarity between Violet Beauregarde and myself is that we both have the know-how to work within our individual endeavors. Beyond that, we both have the traits needed to succeed in any business. We are both competitive, determined, hard-working and willing to take risks. Violet Beauregarde proved that she was willing to take a risk by trying the three-course-meal chewing gum. I proved that I was willing to take risks by challenging Mac Bane. I proved that I was willing to take risks by confronting Masque in the first place. I proved that I was willing to take risks by listening to Masque because, despite our differences, she was right in the things she told me.I climbed the ladder here rung by damned rung by damned rung and I didn’t work that hard to be knocked to the bottom of the pile by you, Finn.”

“Here’s another thing that bothers me, a little off topic, but allow me to indulge myself. Violet Beauregarde's choice to chew the gum Wonka told her not to is pretty much the exact same thing that Charlie and his grandfather do later on when they partake of the Fizzy Lifting drinks.. Why was Violet punished for it but Charlie gets a factory? Plus, Violet shares her experience with everyone, while Charlie and his grandfather indulge in private. Everyone else's mistakes were purposeful but Violet's was simply an accident. Anyhow, I digress.”

“Say what you will about those other little monsters at the factory, Charlie Bucket, much like Finn Whelan, is a meek boy who never asks for more than he has been given. He was a passive naive boy and if that isn’t Finn Whelan to a t, I don’t know what it is. Finn, you know for a fact that you didn’t ask for a World Championship match. You sat and waited until the opportunity presented itself and, credit where credit is due, you took advantage when it did. That won’t change the fact that you won’t hold onto that championship because you lack the qualities to succeed in the long term. You aren’t proactive. You will never take charge. You don’t value yourself to ask, let alone create your own opportunities. You just leave things up to fate and let the river take you where the water flows and you stay in your comfort zone. Well, kiddo, the waters have taken you to the brink and whether you like it or not, the GKD, “Godly” Ken Davison is the waterfall that is going to bring you crashing back to reality and bring the demise of your championship reign. Charlie Bucket shouldn’t have won and the fact of the matter is, you shouldn’t have either. ”

I can feel that one vein in my head start swelling and pulsating. The thought that I let Finn Whelan beat me has never sat well with me.

“I’ve waited, Finn. I’ve patiently waited. On Sunday, it will have been 35 days that I have been forced to wait. Each and every day, I have gotten angrier and angrier. I’ve tried to be a good guy, Finn. I tried to be respectful. I just can’t do that anymore. I need to listen to that old song that Masque speaks of, the harmony of dissonance, the symphony of destruction. I made the mistake of wrestling you before. Now, I have to do more than beat you. I have to make this win definitive. I need to tear you asunder because I need to remind people that this isn't a comeback, this is the second step of another streak. You think that you can really take my place? When you sit there, it’s just a seat. When I sit there it’s a Kendamned throne.You think you’ll beat me again, but I’m going God Mode. History won’t repeat itself because you don’t get a fucking sequel.”

I step towards the camera, asserting my presence.

“Some people just don't get it. And, quite frankly, I'm gettin' tired of repeating myself. I deserve to be treated in a certain manner. Finn, I know the people of Seattle, or wherever the hell you’re really from, are not known for being' very smart... but even you should know that I deserve to be treated with respect, which is not something you’ve shown me so far. That’s why you need to realize that I’ve got blood on my hands, some of it I’m proud of it, some of it, not so much. What you need to realize now, Finn, is that there's blood in the water now and I am the Great White Shark.”

“All my life, Finn, I’ve had people like you in my ears: It’s gone from “Hey, Ken,, you’re not 6’7’’, 300 pounds, you’ll never do anything in the wrestling business.’ Then it became, ‘Yo, Ken, aren’t you getting a little too old for this?’ and ‘Ken, even though you battled every day to recover, your heart will never allow you to wrestle again.’ There has always been someone telling me I can’t, which is exactly what I know you will do. You will tell me that you are better than me, that I will never beat you, that I will never beat you. No! That’s not how this is going to play out, homeboy. By the grace of God, I am beating those demons. I am overcoming those obstacles… That’s because I hear voices like yours in my head. I remember the things that have been said to me and that is why it has been so important that I sing my song. Just like I’ve been seeing and hearing all those people saying: ‘You can’t do it, Ken!’ That’s what I see in you, Whelan. I see nothing but my next obstacle.” 

“See, Finn, at Clmax Control,, you’re not gonna be facing Ken Davison, dedicated father, honorbound friend, conflicted spouse, uncertain person. You’re gonna be facing all the anger and frustration within me. All the fire that burns within me. YOU’RE GONNA BE FACING “GODLY” KEN DAVISON, THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING AND I AM GOING TO DEFRAUD YOU TO THE WORLD AS NOTHING MORE THAN A PRETENDER TO THE THRONE!”

Monday October 3, 2022
12:07 PM

“THAT BITCH!”

Yep, this was going about as well as I expected it to. Let’s go back in time to about fifteen hours ago. During Masque’s match, I managed to wriggle myself free. Knowing what I do about Masque, I could only assume that it was intentional. Especially after the… well, I guess you could call it a conversation that we had. But, that is another story for another time. 

I didn’t wait around to find out who won the number one contender’s match for my Sin City World Championship. It could be Finn Whalen for all fucking cared. Turns out that was exactly what happened. Regardless, I peaced the fuck out of there as soon as I could. I grabbed my shit and made for the airport. I hopped on the red eye and flew out to Nashville where I am going to both defend the Cooperative Championships that my wife and I hold and then compete in the UGWC Massive Melee for the second year in a row.

I wanted, no, I needed to get to my wife as quickly as possible. I even booked a flight with a layover in Chicago. Fucking O’Hare, the absolute worst worst airport in America. I was willing to deal with that bullshit just to get to her. I did all of the usual post-flight rigamarole and got in the first cab and headed to the Hotel Fraye Nashville Midtown where we are staying. It was about noon when I got there, all I wanted was to take a quick nap, have a nice dinner before Kyra, Chloe, Adina and myself headed to the arena. Of the three of us, Adina was the only one of us that isn’t competing tonight. As the old saying goes, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry and that plan most definitely has.

I walk down the hall, so tired and stressed out that I could even tell you what color the carpet is. As I get closer to the room, I hear the one thing I’ve missed the most, my wife voice. But, I hear it at a volume that is more and more alarming.

“MAC, WHERE THE FUCK IS MY HUSBAND!?”

I walk into our room, with a comfortable looking king bed and a view of the city below. She can tell that there’s something off. Adina is crying in her mother’s arms, while Chloe stands up from her seat in the corner. I expect a “where the fuck have you been?”, but that wasn’t the case at all.

“He's here, thank God, but I'm still coming down there and killing that bitch myself!"

I hear Mac say something, but I can’t make out what it is. I’m exhausted. I’ve been awake for something like a day and a half at this point. This isn’t what I need five hours before I have to be at the arena. Thankfully, what I do need is here in the hotel room with me.

“I… uh… um…” I stammer. I don’t know where to begin or what to say. Things are still… fuzzy for lack of a better word. I don’t even remember the Masque, I just remember her eyes staring through my soul. They stabbed through my psyche, sharp, cold and lifeless. I look at Kyra, probably with an expression that is probably as pathetic as I feel at that moment. All I want at that moment is some reassurance.

"Shhhh…" Kyra just approaches me and wraps her arms around me.  "I'm glad you're okay…" 

She pulls away only slightly to look me over.  "You're okay, right?"

“I think so. She was trying to send a message. Why she would try to use me to get to Amber is beyond me. Guess they have some kind of deal where Masque won’t hurt Amber’s loved ones, from what I gathered. We all know how much Amber and I love each other. Maybe the idea is to piss off Mac, which might piss off Amber but some kind of fucked up domino affect. So… yeah. That’s all I’ve got.”

I can tell Kyra's doing her best to check her emotions right now as she looks into my eyes.  But I can see it.  She's seething.  But she closes her eyes and pulls me back in.  

"Daddy!" Adina rushes in and forces her little body between her mother’ss and mine, hugging me with all the strength she can muster. I look over and Chloe and roll my wrist to beckon her.

“Ugh! Just this once,” she says with a sigh “But, I’m not calling you Daddy.”

“That would be weird,” Adina giggles, causing me to smile despite how I’m feeling. Chloe joins in and squeezes. Seems like the first emotion she’s shown anyone aside from Adina since she’s moved in. It feels like the first ray of sun breaking through the winter clouds, solely to thaw the ice below.

After a few very nice moments, Kyra pats Adina on the shoulder and pulls herself out of the hug.  

"Alright guys, he needs to rest.  Chloe, would you mind taking her down to the park for a little while?"  

Chloe nods her head, her eyebrows raising. "Uh oh.. come on, Kiddo…"

I’m semi cognisant of what’s going on. I don’t want my family to leave, but Kyra’s right, I do need my rest. I should probably eat, but I really don’t have the stomach for it right now. I sit on the bed, pulling my shoes off of my feet. Kyra's face changes the second the kids are out of the room. All hell is coming, and now, we are back to where this all started. The moment, I swear, the exact moment that the door finishes closing she screams.

“THAT BITCH!”

“I’m fine, mama. I promise.”

"And I'm glad.  I really am."  She replies as I watch her step across the room and begin grabbing a few of her things and stuffing them into her bag.  

This can't be good. This is right up there with ‘Im fine.’ Whenever a woman says she’s fine, she’s not.

“What are you doing?”

Loaded question; I know. I should know better, but it’s too late.

"I'm gonna put that bitch in the ground."  She states matter of factly, all while never looking up from the bag.  I’m going to regret this, but I made a promise.

It takes all of my strength, but I stand up and answer her just as matter of factly.

“No, you’re not.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear the Law & Order ‘dun-dun’ noise while picturing Ice-T and Marishka Harfitay finding my lifeless body. I stepped in it. I knew I stepped in it. The worst part was I stepped in it on purpose. I know Amber is trying to protect Kyra, and after what Masque had done to me, I wasn’t keen on the idea of Kyra having to endure the same thing.

She stops and turns her eyes up at me, and if I didn't know better, I'd swear the gold in her eyes had turned red.  "What the fuck did you just say to me?" 

I straighten my spine, correcting my posture as much as I can. I know that I can’t assert my dominance, but I sure as hell don’t plan on backing down, either.

“I said, and I quote, ''No, you’re not.” I take a deep breath. I lower my tone hoping that Kyra will pick up on that and lowers hers. Not bloody likely, but let’s give it a shot. “I don't want you getting hurt, not for me and certainly not because of me.”

Without missing a beat, she steps towards me, narrowing her eyes.  "Adina was absolutely fucking thrilled to watch you on TV.  Then that happened.. and she fucking thought her daddy was dead, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do.  I don't think you quite understand, Ken… I'm going to fuck that bitch up whether you give me your permission or not." 

Yeah… that went as well as expected. At least the make up sex will be amazing, if she forgives me some time in the next two months or so.

“This isn’t about permission. This is about YOUR safety. This about YOU being there for Adina. This is about US not ending up in side by side hospital beds. This is about more than just you and I. Damnit, woman. If this was something that could be contained to a wrestling ring, fine. You’re the baddest bitch I’ve ever wrestled. But, this… THIS is so much more than that. You know I can’t stop you, but you know, sure as shit, I’m going to try.”

This is our first argument, I mean our first, legitimate, big blow out. To make matters worse, she’s as stubborn as I am. How in the fuck am I going to protect her without hurting her? I’m watching her face carefully. She’s talked herself into a corner, at least I THINK she has. The problem with that is, when she’s backed into a corner, that is when she’s at her most dangerous. I don’t know if it’s just that the seconds feel like hours, or if she is legitimately taking that long to come back at me. I’ve never seen her like this before. But after a few minutes, she simply turns away calmly and steps towards the window of the room.  At this point I'm watching her with a sense of trepidation because I honestly don't know what she'll do. Out of nowhere, she takes the bag she's holding and she slams it into the ground. 

"Fine.  I won't go now.  But next week?  Or the next time you go… I'm going with you and I'd love to see you fucking stop me."

Normally she'd say something like that in a playful tone but when she glares across the room at me, there's nothing playful about it. If looks could kill, I’d be a chalk outline. 

“I’m going to have a fun time explaining THIS to Amber,” I say under my breath. Kyra stops dead in her tracks and looks over at me. Fuck.

“What you say?”

Oh, well. I’m stuck. She knows that I can’t lie to her. But maybe that’s why I can get away with it. The trick to being a good liar is making people believe you’re a bad liar. I know, I’ll just tell her part of the truth. That’s not lying. Right?

Right?

“I said Amber’s going to be thrilled to hear you’re coming.”

If Kyra picks up on my sarcasm, I’m technically not lying. I hope she doesn’t. At this point, I know I’m in the middle of the proverbial fire. I’m just trying to escape with as few burns as possible.

"I'm sure."  She returns sarcasm with more sarcasm as she stares at me, her mind racing - I can see it behind those eyes of hers.  But instead of questioning further, she sighs and points at the bed.  "Just lay down and rest.  I'm sure you'll find a way of trying to convince me to not go after we're done with the Melee."

Wait. What? She’s letting it go? This never happens. I must really look like shit. I sit down on the edge of the bed and swing my legs onto the bed. I pat the bed, hoping Kyra will join me. She gives me a look, but finally gives in, nestling her body in the crook of my arm. Even here, in a hotel room in the middle of Nashville, she feels like home.

“I’m still mad at you,” she affirms, just in case I wasn’t aware.

“I know, mama. I know.”

That’s the last thing I remember. The next three hours don’t exist in my world. I don’t care that she’s angry with me, so long as she is safe. All I know is I am back where I belong… she is where I belong.



It was a cold, wet morning. The dampness is everywhere. I see it on my window. I see it clinging to hedges, the blades of grass, even on the light poles and porch railings. There was even a bit of a fog, the kind of mist that is both light and concealing, a true juxtaposition. I had rushed outside while I had the opportunity. I, “Godly” Ken Davison, feel confident that this is perfect. Several feet away, Kyra stands with a camera. I remain still, allowing my words to cut through the murky clouds.

“A common mistake is underestimating the ability of others to succeed. Those who are weak of heart give up because their minds cannot, will not, drown the disturbing sound of adversity. If they only listened to their inner voices, odds be damned, they can win.”

At that point, I stride forward. I have my hands held together with the index fingers out. I move my hands towards the camera, as though I am pointing to whomever is viewing.

“Let me ask you this? Who predicted that Buster Douglas would defeat the unbeatable “Iron” Mike Tyson in 1990? That would be Buster Douglas. Who foresaw the Phoenix Suns besting the defending World Champion Los Angeles Lakers, led by Lebron James? If you guessed the Phoenix Suns, you’d be right. Being the underdog means having little chance of winning. Being the underdog means being considered lower, being considered less than. Most importantly, being the underdog means that you can use that to your advantage. The underdog is overlooked, often expected to merely sit on the sidelines.”

“There have been various occasions when I have been a target of ridicule. I was told that I should stay in the midcard, that I lacked the skills and abilities to move up to a higher position on the card. Rather than sitting here, whining, pissing and moaning about it, I took a different direction. I used my strengths to create projects outside the four ropes. I made myself a commodity, a name with proven value. I earned my opportunities by forcing my people to recognize my value.”

I pause, inhaling deeply to allow the overall tone to come down  

“Now, when I was a kid, like all kids, I got asked what do you want to be when you grow up. For me, I knew. There was never any doubt. There was no gray area. I wanted to be a professional wrestler.  When that finally happened for me, it was the proudest day of my life. Then, I started  coming here, as a Savior, it opened doors for me that I hadn’t dreamed of in many, many years. I’ve come in here and I’ve been able to wrestle some of the greatest wrestlers in the business, in places like Sparks, Nevada and all across the globe. Since that day, I have woken up every morning and tried to uphold the standard that I, along with the other Saviors, have set for ourselves. We are out here doing exactly what we said we would do from day one, and that is dominate. We do exactly what we set out to do. We don’t wear white hats. We use any means necessary. Simple as that.”

“And THAT is the only thing simple in this entire situation. I’ve got to look over my shoulder, watching for Masque. I’ve got Finn Whalen off on the horizon. How the hell’d he win? I don’t know. What I do know is that I should have a direct path to Finn Whalen. I should be walking into this match and handling my business? But, no, I have to do it the hard way. They want to stick this man, this almost seven foot, three hundred plus pound pile of dogshit in front of me. They want me to do it the hard way. That’s all well and good, I got on top the hard way and if that means that I have to take the hard way again to get to Finn Whalen, I’ll do it. You want to put this goofy ass sasquatch in front of my way? Fine. You want me to go and dig up every former member of the underground? Fine. I don’t do things the easy way, and this will be no different.”

“You know why I brought that up? You know what I am tired of? I am sick and tired of this company trying to make new stars at my expense? There was Tamagotchi. There was that random underground reject that I smashed next. Now, you think that this guy is going to beat me? No, because I am sick and tired of making stars. Guys like you, Armageddon, guys that are big and tall think that you can try and intimidate men like me? Why, because you sucked so bad you couldn’t even get on your college basketball team? Because somewhere in the back of your mind, you’ve got that “you can’t teach size’ mentality? Yeah, you and the seven other Armageddons I beat back in the late 90s. You’re not a wrestler. You’re an actor. This isn’t about acting. I’m a fighter. I’ve been fighting my whole damned life. This is not acting. This is as real as it gets. You think that I am going to cower at your feet? You think I am going to beg you for forgiveness? Nuh-uh, motherfucker. You will bow before me.”

So much for that keeping calm thing. Just mentioning Masque makes me skin crawl, but I know for a fact that Kyra is out of bounds. Masque promised that she wouldn’t hurt Amber’s loved ones. I might not qualify, but my wife certainly does.

“I learned very early in my career, that if I depend on these,” I say as I hold my fists up. “That yes, I am at a disadvantage against a man of your size. Sooner, rather than later, I realized that I have a far greater weapon at my disposal, that being my mind. When I started in this business, companies would sign men like you all the time. You were a dime a dozen. That’s how little value you had then and you have even less value now because I learned my craft against men like you. I was the anomaly. I was the unknown. I was the shift in the paradigm. I was the man who learned to tear my opponents open, just so I could sew them back up and do it all over again.”

“Armageddon, you hven’t done a Kendamned thing in this business. When I retire, I’ll get you to wash my clothes and cut my lawn and buckle my shoes. You aren’t anything but a big, fat slob. I’m gonna take out your knee and I am going to humiliate you. I figured I would ruin your debut, but imagine my surprise when I found out that you did so well if your first few matches that I hadn’t even heard of you. Then again, losing to Austin James Mercer is nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, I’ve never done it, but, you know…”

I smile, quite proud of myself. This isn’t going in the direction I rehearsed. It’s going even better.

“Finn Whalan, this match is going to give you just a glimmer of what I can do. You’re not going to be the next Matt Knox, slipping through the cracks the way he did. I am going to put you down, the same way I put Alexander Raven down and the same way I am going to put Armageddon down. You might think I’m being arrogant, but I really am just this damned good. If you don’t believe me, get your popcorn ready and watch me put on a show.”

“In all seriousness, I know the threat that Armageddon possesses. That is exactly why I’m not concerned with him. He is simply that, a threat. He is unfulfilled potential. He is a cocked gun that has a broken trigger. He is all of those things, while I am the exact opposite.I am not a threat. I am a promise. My potential is reality. I point. I shoot. I kill. I realize that is the proverbial David and Goliath scenario. I also realize that I am David in this situation, Not because you have all these physical advantages. You are clearly the underdog. I am David simply because when this is over, it will be the GKD, “Godly’ Ken Davison, that is standing in the middle of the arena victorious while you will be on the flat of your back.”

I fold my hands in prayer in front of me, giving Kyra the signal to stop the recording.

Days have passed since Ken Davison’s assault and subsequent arrest and hospital trip were brought to a close; unfortunately the same can’t be said for that feeling of weight on his chest. The images are still fresh in his mind and flash back to him in no particular order and for no particular reason; silently staring down the creep at the bar, the bit of memory blacked on in his fit of rage, of Kyra holding his hand and looking at him in a way she never had before. The confusion as she waited beside him, the face she made when the doctor told her he was just exhausted, and the smile on her and Adina’s faces after he came backstage from his match with Señor Vinnie. Other images flash through; the look on the face of Mac Bane when he challenged him for the Sin City Wrestling World Championship, Mac was shocked, yet still… poised, like he wasn’t about to go through hell. The last time the two of them had met as foes in the ring, Mac ended up laying in a pile of splintered table, wrapped in barbed wire. The force of Mac’s body crashing through the table had at least put out the fire. But it’s the eyes he keeps coming back to. Something about Mac’s eyes that he just couldn’t figure out; he’s seen enough fury and rage over the years to know those looks … but Bane’s eyes held something different, just as they did during their last fateful encounter.

It was all there in those eyes. It was a look of respect.

Davison opens his own eyes to the waning sunlight streaking in through his bedroom window. Squinting he tries to look at the blinking neon light glaring at him from the bedside table.

”Ugh, quarter to eleven … what the hell?”

He rolls to his side, propping himself up on his elbow and looks towards the open window. Outside he can hear the gleeful sounds of children playing. The way the city was going it was nice that he had such a nice neighborhood full of friendly families. The McLaughlin’s next door had two children, Matthew and Kimberly if his memory served correctly. They were the All-American family living the American dream lifestyle. Tom McLaughlin was an investment broker and spent the majority of his time flying from the home office in Baltimore to any of the smaller satellite offices in Scranton, LaSalle and Portland. Mary, his lovely wife, was a stay-at-home mother who never had a negative thing to say about anyone. She was a pleasant woman who always had something nice to say about everyone in the neighborhood. She was known both for her love of classical literature, as well as her love for home style country cooking. Their two aforementioned children, eight and ten respectively, took part in after school activities, extracurricular sports and had active roles in their church; they were the picturesque American family. In fact, they could be the polar opposites of the Davisons. But there was much more to the McLaughlin’s than met the eye.

Davison rises off the bed and holds a hand to his face, stretching the skin as he rubs from his eyes to his chin. He cocks his head backwards as a loud pop is heard. He continues cracking his neck from side to side before he stands up. Lactic acid has built up and aches a bit when he moves, but it’s that pain that feels good … lets you know you’re alive. A few new bruises had popped up since his match against Señor Vinnie, expectedly so, one would say. Everything had gone swimmingly for the most part. Vinnie put up a hell of a lot more fight than Ken had imagined he would, but perhaps that’s because he had been used to the Underground, still adjusting to life on the surface. Still it was time to look ahead to the future, Davison thought to himself. If there was anyone outside of his wife or Mac Bane that he would rather go to war with, it was The Gothic One. There’s just something about having your own personal wrecking ball at your disposal. Stretching his muscles, Davison moves from his bedroom into the bathroom as he shifts his thinking from last night back to the McLaughlin’s and their secret lives.

There are those people in neighborhoods like this around the country. They’re the picture of normalcy and All-American goodness; for all intents and purposes they were a nuclear family living very ordinary public lives, but behind the scenes they were hiding more than their fair share of skeletons in their closets. It doesn’t take much to offset public perfection; in fact, one could say that the more ideal your family is perceived, the more your peers search for fault. The McLaughlin’s were no different; the picture of perfection as far as their neighbors are concerned, most of them, at least, but even these pillars of the community have more cracks in their foundation than the old church down on Greenmount Avenue. Matthew McLaughlin, a young man of eight, has already found himself a hobby for after school. His parents, both firm believers in living active lifestyles, have Matty signed up for a number of activities meant to broaden his mind and body. Between Pop Warner football, practicing his trumpet, lessons with his French tutor, lacrosse practice, and any of the other activities his parents have signed him up for he and his friends still have discovered a secret hobby. They meet behind the gymnasium right after school to huff paint thinner that Matty’s friend Chris steals from his father’s hardware store. It doesn’t matter that the boys have all heard the stories about Billy Tanguay, a high school kid who died a few months back from inhaling the stuff. They can be safer than he was, that’s why they never huff alone. They talk about him and through their actions are keeping his memory alive as their brain cells slowly die. Matthew doesn’t know about the blood clot forming in his brain, less than a month from now his parents will find him face down in his Frosted Mini Wheats.

Kimberly, at the tender age of ten has experienced more than girls twice her age. Due to the joys of over involved parents; Kim has always been on the go from the moment she could walk. Ballets, tap, jazz and hip hop; it didn’t matter the style – she was always involved. When she wasn’t dancing, Kim could be found playing her clarinet, practicing the piano or rehearsing lines for her next performance with the community drama troupe. She was as busy as the day was long, but it came at a price. Having recently recovered from a small bout with a stomach bug, Kimberly discovered she was behind on her usually tight schedule. She began skipping lunch at school to sneak into the girl’s room to do homework or study lines. Before long she discovered the world of dietary supplements which would help stave off the hunger pains and give her more time to focus on her work. But hungry or not, Kimberly had to sleep at some point. At least she did before her friend Heather gave her some of her mother’s pills. Kim didn’t know what they were but they were GREAT. She could take one or two and stay up for hours practicing and perfecting. She was the ideal daughter – so it will certainly be a shock for her parents to find her, two months after the tragic death of their son, lying motionless on the floor of her bedroom. An empty pill bottle will be sitting on her nightstand, the name of her friend’s mother on the label.

In less than three months the McLaughlin’s will have lost both of their children to needless tragedies. Heartbroken and grief stricken. they’ll turn to the things that have helped them before.

Friends and family?

Pfft.

The church?

HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! NO.

Tom McLaughlin will remove himself from the pain by retreating to the comfort of the apartment he keeps in Portland with a woman who he met dancing at a local strip club. With an affair that has been going on for the better part of the last year, Tom hopes to leave the pain of his ‘former life’ behind him every other weekend when he goes away again on ‘business trips’.

Mary, on the other hand, will retreat to the only place that has kept her company all these long months; the bottom of a wine bottle. Admitting that she’d rather go through life drunk and pain free then to allow the mourning process to strip her to the bones; but for Mary it’s her form of ‘medical help’ that finally ends the McLaughlin’s story. Tom, having come home to find Mary unconscious, calls 911. Upon arrival it is discovered that Mary’s blood alcohol level is nearly four times the legal limit for driving and she’s quickly rushed to the nearest hospital with alcohol poisoning. Mary slips into a coma that evening and the doctors believe that with the damage she’s caused to her system with the drinking, her chances of recovery are slim at best. Tom leaves the next morning for Portland, ready to leave his life behind him and start a new life with Brittney, the dancer from the Jade Dragon. He’ll be struck head-on by a drunk driver heading down the wrong side of the interstate. He’ll be instantly killed.

From the bathroom he can still hear the sounds of Matthew and his sister playing with the neighbors. Maybe their stories will actually have happier endings than the ones he’s envisioned – maybe. Perhaps these macabre thoughts came from Ken’s very own fears. The fears that haunted him before his defenses were shattered by a woman trying to concuss him with a bottle of Jack never truly left his psyche. Ken would never go down that road, but for some reason, he could never truly let go of picturing people in their worst case scenario. Personally and professionally, Ken himself was always prepared for the worst case scenario. That is why a loss meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Two handfuls of water splashing him in the face sufficiently do the job and wake him up enough to snap out of his morbid daydreaming. One hot shower and quick change later and he’s out the door and ready to head downtown for a lunch meeting with his brother Sean, who was in town on business, and a buddy of his.

Kate, the lovely female British accented voice emanating from his cell phone had instructed him that he was nearly at his destination. Two more turns to the parking garage and the restaurant was only one more block away. He enjoyed driving in the city during this time of day; the rush of the morning commute was over and now he was able to enjoy the scenery without worrying about the typical driving conditions. Two right turns and a parking spot later, Davison found himself stepping from the darkness of the garage into the blinding light of the afternoon sun. It was a cloudless sky, warm 86 degree afternoon made the perfect walking weather as he began his trek towards the restaurant. It seemed Sean had picked a Mexican restaurant. Outside of Denver, Ken found Mexican food to be more Tex Mex, but he was willing to give it a chance.

“Hola señor, how many in your party?”

Ken pulls the sunglasses from his face as he enters the restaurant. Tucking them into the neck of his t-shirt, Davison shakes his head as he smiles at the hostess.

“Hi, there are three … but I’m running a little late so they might be here already.”

He scans the restaurant behind the small glass partition for some sight of his lunch guests. Being closer to one o’clock the restaurant has several full tables but even at maximum capacity there was no way to hide his brother’s head. At six foot four, he was tall even when he’s sitting. Davison politely smiles at the hostess one more time as he passes by.

“I see them actually, grassy ass.”

He laughs to himself knowing full well his Spanish is worse than Matt Knox’s concept of contraception as he pictures these two men and how much they don’t fit in with anyone else around them. While not a stereotypical ‘Mexican’ eatery, this place was primarily frequented by those of Hispanic descent. So when you sprinkle in a man like Sean, he generally doesn’t tend to blend in as well.

Davison weaves his way through the tables, his eyes locked on Sean, who catches his sight and begins waving him over as if he had a secret of dire importance. His brother is out of his chair and pulling Ken’s out before he makes it to the table. Placing his cell phone down near his silverware, Davison takes his seat and looks across.

“Well, other than the food, why’d you drag me here?”

Sunlight from the window behind his head reflects off of his bald head, but wearing his own pair of sunglasses, it doesn’t seem to affect Sean.

A waitress suddenly appears at Davison’s right elbow looking to take his drink order. Instinctively he looks around the table to see what everyone else is drinking. Sean, not surprisingly, is drinking water. Surprisingly, there’s also a Jack with no ice.

“Miss, I’d like …”

Before Ken can continue he’s cut off.

“A virgin margarita … ”

“Diet Coke, please.”

Ken is in a serious mood, wasting no time in getting down to business.

“Alright, Sean, who’s your friend and why do you want me to meet him?”

Sean smiles slyly.

“Brohan, allow me to introduce you to the future Mrs. Davison…”

“That’s the current Mrs. Davison, thank you very much,” Kyra says to Sean as she walks up behind her husband, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek. “You were there, asshole.”

“What? Why?” Ken asks, legitimately confused.

“Because you haven’t relaxed since that attack. We worry about you, man.”

“You think I don’t see you tossing and turning at night? That’s my gimmick.”

“I’m fine and I’m dealing with it. I’m just scared of the fact that I blacked out. You heard the doctor, the dude didn’t even hit me. So why would I lose it like that? What if I do that against Mac? I’m not okay with that thought.”

“You’ve been through some shit, hun.  Of course you lost it.  But anyone with a brain sees the difference in some motherfucker coming at you in a bathroom and the man you call a brother.  There's no way you'd do anything like that to Mac.”

“She’s right, hombre. You need to just chill. Adrenaline took over.”

Maybe the two of them were right. Maybe Ken just needed to let it go. There’s still no explanation as to why Ken was automatically assuming the worst in people, such as the McLaughlin’s. There weren’t just evil thoughts. There were ‘What in the Stephen King?’ level evil thoughts. Something has to change.

1Everything about the set up is simple. “Godly” Ken Davison stands in front of a plain black backdrop wearing an orange sleeveless shirt.

“Sometimes, I enjoy a good crowd, as evidenced by the last time you saw me in front of the cameras. Sometimes, I like to let my environment speak for me. At his moment, I feel that the only appropriate thing to do is speak to the two of you, plainly and directly.”

“As one of the few men in this company that has a victory over over myself and Goth, I'm certain that Ben Jordan is feeling pretty good about himself. And that's one of the things that I really enjoy about Ben Jordan. Ben, I love your confidence. You're always telling yourself how you're a great wrestler, how you're talented, how you're gonna win... You're also a pathological liar.”

Davison takes a moment to smile, pleased at his verbal jab at the Cockney King.

“I know I usually come in here and talk up my opponents. Under normal circumstances, that is exactly what I would do. The higher your standing is in the eyes of the fans, in the eyes of the office, the better it makes me look when we beat you. However, we all know that with the size of your collective egos that won't be necessary. Because I am certain, infallibly certain, that you both will talk yourselves up and try, and try is the operative word here, to cut us down. However, you will not succeed. Look at what we've done collectively the past three months. In the last three months the only match I've lost is against the man standing next to me. In that time, that very, same man has captured the Internet Championship.”

“ We don't need to coast on our reputations reputations when our resumes speak for themselves. We don't need to walk into a company for a warm up match. We only need to show up to show up and put you down.”

Davison stops for a moment, shaking his finger at the camera knowingly.

“ Chronic Chris Page, I know what kind of chronic you think you are. But the fact of the matter is you're chronic like a disease, not Colorado's finest.  One of the first things that I saw was that you weren't seeming to be yourself lately. It's a noticeable improvement.  My biggest problem with you is that you're walking in here like you matter.. You're coming in here to try to use the Saviors, men that stand beside your friend Mac Bane each and every Kendamned week, and make an example of us? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I just don't understand your motivation here. In this business, it's so hard when you have to fight your friends, which is why this should be
easy.”

“You see, some of us don’t have to force our reputations to get the main event. But, you, Page, you walk in here thinking your the greatest thing since sliced bread. Do you know what makes you the number one fan favorite of all the time? Neither do I.”

Davison looks at the camera confidently.

“But enough of the witty rapparte. We all know who Ben Jordan is as a person. But for CCP to walk in here, to see him given this reverence against the two best men in this company is a slap in the face. Make him earn his place in the main event. Let him face people like Milo Kasey. Let's see him square off against Romano. Shit, let him have an opportunity sharing anyone else here, anyone who has spilled their blood, sweat and tears in the Sin City ring. Let him do what I did and his his place here? Not a damned thing.”

“So, let's see if the two of you can get along. Let's see if Chris Page deserves the place his reputation has given him. I have shown that I deserve every opportunity through hard work. Sunday, I'm walking into the stadium,  matching to the ring, and sending Page and Jordan back to the end of the line where they return.”

Ken crosses his throat with his finger, telling the crew to cut the feed.

Telling his wife and daughter that they were going to “Indiana” was the easy part. Trying to explain to the kid why he had challenged “Uncle Macky” to a fight was a whole different story. So, sitting in the kitchen of his Baltimore home with his daughter Adina, Ken Davison was trying to handle to barrage of questions that the five-year-old was throwing at him rapid fire. When she asked about her Mom and Ken fighting each other in the past, it was easy to explain that we weren’t friends yet. But this… this was something else.

“So why you gonna beat up Uncle Macky?” Adina says with a side eye that rivals that of her mother.

“Well,” Ken awkwardly chuckles, not expecting this to be the conversation he would be having this early in the morning. “It is the only way I can win that championship.”

“My dad fought Mac’s son Jimmy and they were best friends.” Chloe Hawkhurst says as she enters the kitchen, grabbing an orange and throwing it up in the and catching it. “It’s just a thing you do when you’re a wrestler.”

“Why you wanna do that?” Adina presses.

“It’s not that we want to beat each other up. We both want to be champions. It’s the same thing that Rogan and I are going to…”

Ken doesn’t get to finish as Adina’s eyes go wide.

“You’re gonna beat up Aunt Lucy’s boyfriend, too?” she ponders out loud.

“You know, squirt. For someone who’s grown up around this business, you sure don’t catch on.” Chloe quips, missing her orange and watching it bounce on the table where it comes to a halt in front of Adina.

“How do I explain this? No. I am not trying to beat up Mac or Rogan. I am trying to beat them. That means that I just want to pin them or submit them as painlessly as possible.”

“Like THAT is ever going to happen,” Chloe interrupts.

“You’re not helping. You know that?”

“Yup.”

“Mac and I, Rogan and I, we respect each other. Mac and I have faced each other more times than any other opponent I’ve ever had. We all understand we are in a physical line of work. We’re trying to beat each other, yes. But we aren’t trying to hurt each other. At least, not on purpose.”

“Accidents happen, kiddo. But we love you anyway.”

“Chloe!” Ken yells. Before he can even turn his head, that sassy little Mini-Kyra was already at it.

“Well, you was born by the highway cuz that’s where most accidents happen.”

“Are you two serious?” Ken says as he slowly removes his eyes from behind his hand. “Anyway, can we finish our talk?”

“I’m heading out to the gym, Ken. I’ll be home around noon. That cool?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Besides, you’ve helped enough.”

“Glad to be of service.” Chloe continues as she walks out the door, laughing at herself. “SOOOOOOOO triggered!”

Ken takes a second to turn around and grab his coffee cup, one that coincidentally reads “I WISH YOU WERE FLUENT IN SHUTTING THE FUCK UP.” ’Where was this two minutes ago?’ he thinks to himself as he turns back to Adina.

“OOOOOH! It says the orange word! I’mma gonna tell momma!”

“Who do you think bought it for me?”

Adina’s face drops. Thinking she was going to get Ken in trouble, this was a bit of a letdown for her.

“So, do you haveta beat up Uncle Macky and Rognar?”

“Rogan, and in a manner of speaking, I do. It’s part of being a wrestler. It’s how your mother and I provide for you.”

“And Chloe!” Adina chimes in.

“Yes, and Chloe. That’s how we’ve been able to take all these trips this summer. You know how we’re going to India tonight? That’s for work. But, back to the point. When you do something, what do you want to be?”

“A ballerina cage fighter!”

“Okay,” Ken says dragging out the word as he tries to refocus. “And wouldn’t you want to be the best ballerina cage fighter?”

“Only the best in da world!!!”

“So, in Sin City Wrestling, where Uncle Macky and I work, he’s the World Champion. What do you think that means?”

“That he’s the best!” Adina blurts out enthusiastically.

“Exaclty. That he’d the best. So, if I want to show that I am the best, what do I have to do?”

Adina looks at Ken and then drops her eyes to the floor.

“Oh. I get it,” she says flatly. “Is that why you gotta beat up Aunt Lucy’s boyfriend?”

“No. I’m doing that for fun.”

“Really? That’s mean, Daddy. You're a big ol' stinky doo doo head.”

“Remember when we took you to Wrestlestock and I won that match with all the flags?”

“Yeah! That was fun! You got to play dress up and got to slide around and the ice and... uh... oh, yeah. Hit dem with ladders. that was the bestest.”

“Well, the winner of that match earned a shot at his championship. Let me tell you, kiddo, that’s going to be a tough one. You think I’m ready?”

“You beat a buncha different people. You can beat up one guy.”

Ken takes a sip of his coffee.

“I hope so, kiddo. I certainly hope so.”


“Godly” Ken Davison sits in the bleachers of the nearly empty Sawai Mansingh Indoor Stadium watching as the ring is being assembled for Climax Control.  He wears an almost cotton candy-colored soccer jersey with baby blue sleeves emblazoned with the Jaipur Pink Panthers logo over his right pectoral muscle.  A few rows back, you can hear Ken’s daughter Adina squealing in the background as she is running through the rows as quickly as she possibly can followed in close pursuit by her mother.  Somehow, Ken manages to tune the distraction out, looking out onto the field, focused on the task at hand.

“I cannot believe, at 44 years old, that I am sitting here in Jaipur, India for a wrestling show.  The fact that my family and I are 12,109 kilometers, which comes out to roughly 7,525 miles, the fact that we are this far from home, seeing the world as I pursue a title that can truly be called a world championship, amazes me.  What also amazes me is how far I have come professionally.  Four years ago, I had been enjoying retirement.  I was done. Out of the game.  Then, I had my heart attack.  I came back to prove to myself that I could still do this.  I think I’ve done a Kendamned fine job of proving to myself, and everyone else, that I am still one of the best in the world.”

“Now, most of you know my story, so I will not rehash it for Alex Rush. Instead, I wanted to share another story, one that is admittedly not my own. It’s a story that many of the people here in India are familiar with.  It is the story of V.Unbeatable.”

Ken stands up and walks down to the railing that separates the field from the seating area.  He leans over the railing, arms folded in front of him to support his weight.

“Not many people, outside of fans of the television show “America’s Got Talent,” are familiar with V.Unbeatable. V.Unbeatable is an Indian dance troupe from Mumbai that began as simply “Unbeatable.” In 2012, two brothers from the slums of Mumbai, Vikas and Om Prakash, formed the dance troupe. A couple of years later, tragedy would strike. Vikas would sustain an injury in training that would eventually kill him. This is what led them to change their name… Vikas Unbeatable.”

“What makes this group unbeatable is their sheer and utter determination. They tried to get on various talent shows, getting rejected from all of them. Still, they did not give up. Eventually, the group expanded to over 30 members. They continued to audition and continued to get rejected. Still, they did not give up. Finally, they got their break. V.Unbeatable managed to get on the Indian dance show ’Dance Plus’ they came in fourth.”

Ken turns around to face the camera.

“In their next step, V.Unbeatable then made their way over to the United States. They auditioned for the aforementioned ’America’s Got Talent.’ going so far as the make the finals. They got the first round. In the second round, they got the Golden Buzzer, giving them a trip directly to the quarterfinals. They amazed the American audiences with their well-choreographed feats of organized chaos. You had men, women and children flying through the air in such a way that is was almost impossible to fathom. Despite all of this, just as they did on ’Dance Plus’ they came in fourth. Fortunately for them, this was not the end.”

“As a matter of fact, it was only the beginning. Another opportunity arose for the dance troupe, as just a few months later they would gain a chance at redemption. They auditioned for ’America's Got Talent Champions Season 2.’ Now I don't have the time to waste going through all of the details. what I will do is tell you that their journey through this season mirrored that of their first season. Long story short is that they repeated almost oh, he word here, almost step for step their journey from season 14. Where their path deviated is that this time the V Envy unbeatable good for victorious. the group, through all their adversity,  through all of their setbacks, were able to improve. season 14 what's a season just like any other, we're whomever and whatever acts wanted to audition were able to. Champions was not like that. Champions were the best acts in the history of the Got Talent series from around the globe. Not America. Not India. The entire freakin’ globe.”

Ken's wife Kyra can be heard in the background yelling “Listen here, you little have shit!” About six rows back you can see Adina running through the row of seats with her mother still in close pursuit. Ken turns back, momentarily distracted and can only shake his head. Taking a moment to compose himself he takes a deep breath in before focusing back on the camera.

“What I want you to understand, Alex, Is that being here in the country of India under these circumstances, is what made me think of their story. There are quite a few parallels between V.Unbeatable and myself. You need to understand where I come from. I know when everyone sees the man that I am now oh, they see a man who is happy. I got it all. got the wife. I've got the kid. I've got the house with the white picket fence. I'm living the American dream. That's who I am today. But I've never, could never, forget where I came from.”

“I became the man I am today I'm leaving home at the age of 12. When you live on the streets, you live off the scraps of others, you fight for every single Kendamned breath. You do whatever you asked of yourself just to survive one more day. You lie. You cheat. You steal. It's not something you do hoping to sell t-shirts. it's the reality of life in that situation. I grew up on the streets of Boston. That's where I cut my teeth. Although out here in the real world, that man no longer exists,  he certainly does exist within the confines of the wrestling ring.  The motivations may be different. I do things out of necessity I supposed to doing them out of aggression. What you need to understand, Alex Rush, is that inside of the squared circle I am still “Godly” Ken Davison. Same name. Theme game. Not a damned thing changed.”

Davison slams his hand down on the railing emphatically, his wedding band catching the metal with a loud ping that pierces the near silence throughout the empty stadium.

“Since you weren't there on the cruise, I'm not sure if you saw what I did to your former Sin City Underground colleague, Himatashii at Summer XXXtreme.I smashed him, trashed him, and left him laying. Everything I have seen thus far makes me believe that's Sin City Underground was a joke. Himatashii is a joke. You are a joke. Any and all of the Championships that were collected while part of the Underground are jokes because of men like you. Men like Mac Bane, men like myself, men and women like the rest of the Saviors, oh, we are the real deal. We have practically all of the gold in this company. We are at the point where we have to challenge each other because there is no one left. The members of Wolfslair like to puff out their chests and let out of howl every once in awhile, but they cannot compete with the Saviors. They claim to be wolves, Fenris even naming himself after one of the most famous wolves of legend, and yet, there is not even a single Alpha among them. What I’d like you to do now is look at me. Now look at yourself in the mirror. Now look back at me. One more time, look at yourself. Now turn and focus on “Godly” Ken Davison. This is what an alpha looks like. This is the last thing you see before a predator shows it’s fangs. This is your future.”

“I want to come down to the ring and I want to fucking kill you. Not in the literal sense, but when you go out there week after week, some us multiple times a week, you realize right quick it’s either you or them. If you’re not thinking that in your head, then what are you doing in that ring? If you’re not thinking that you’re going to go across and you’re going to kill this guy — and you’re going to annihilate this guy — what are you doing there? I am here to win. When I win, I put food on the table. Do you think I am going to allow you to walk in here and take food out of my daughter’s mouth? Not on your fucking life.”

The vein on the front of Davison’s begins pulsing, his blood pressure having risen considerably. Ken stops and puts his hand over his heart. Feeling how fast it is racing, Ken stops and takes a few deep breaths. After waiting a few seconds to make sure his ticker is slowly down, Ken continues.

“Like V.Unbeatable, I came from absolute shit. Like V.Unbeatable, I worked my up to be where I am today. Like V.Unbeatable I am a motherfucking champion and you are but one more step on my way to becoming a champion once again. Despite who you are and where you come from, I can and will do exactly what I need to put you down because when you’re God, you don’t have to break the rules. You make them!!!”

Ken snaps his fingers loudly.

“Narrator!!!”

Adina runs over from about two rows behind Ken, leapfrogs over the seats and lands with her tiny little 5 year old arms wrapped around his neck.

“Daddy was wanting to fight Uncle Macky… Wait why do you wanna fight Uncle Macky?  Ohhhh… yeah.  Daddy's next step towards winning the… Sin City World Championship?  Yeah.  So he beated that guy, Alex Rush.  Oh, he's gonna go all the way to Indiana to beat that guy.  And it's gonna be worth it.  Right, Daddy?”

“That works, baby girl.” Ken says, smiling as his face is contorted by the same child atop his shoulders. The camera cuts out as Ken reaches back and gives her a squeeze.

Ken Davison sits in the car, driving North on the I-95 corridor, heading to Philadelphia. He had chosen to leave Kyra at home  Normally, this would be something they would handle together, but with Adina at home and this was no situation for her. It was hardly a situation for him, in his current state of mental health. He was supposed to be celebrating his newly found wedded bliss. In the almost two weeks that had followed, his best friend’s wife, who coincidentally was his wife’s best friend, you may know her as Amber FUCKING Ryan, had been assaulted in a show she was working on almost two weeks ago. As the Sin City audience knew, she had been in the  hospital. Unfortunately,  Ken’s commitments had kept him a couple of thousand miles away. She and Ken had been bitter rivals, many moons ago. This was common knowledge. What most people did not know is that the two of them were in the process of making their peace. Then, the attack happened.

’How could it get any worse?’ Ken had thought to himself. At this point, he should have known better than to challenge the universe. He should have fucking known. It was later that day that he got on Twitter and saw a tweet from @demonofsobriety, his former student, Dorian. Except, it wasn’t Dorain. It was his daughter, Chloe Hawkhurst. It would seem she had taken over the account.

“i dont know howto say it. dad;s gone. he got stabbed trying to stop this guy from beating his wife. we're keeping thigns private. i dont want any of taht im sorry bullshit. this fuckng sux.”

Chloe, barely 19 now, was now an orphan.

“Dorian Michael Hawkhurst passed away on Monday, June 6th, 2022, after injuries incurred while breaking up a domestic dispute. He was 38.”

“Dorian was born on February 29th, 1984, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania…”

That was as far as Ken could get reading the obituary before scrolling down to the bottom to find out where and when the funeral was. That was where he was in the process of driving to now. Chloe did not know he was attending. Ken know about her desire to keep it private, but Dorian and Chloe started training with him when Chloe was only 9. That was ten years. ’Sorry, kiddo. You’re family,’ he thought knowing how she’d probably react to his arrival.

Thankfully, traffic on a Saturday morning was nowhere near as hectic as it would be had the service been held during the week. Ken gets off at the exit and deftly maneuvers his ‘89 Pontiac Grand Am through the streets of Philadelphia. The trees are scattered around perfectly manicured grass. He finally pulls onto Kelly Drive, the pebbles crunching beneath rubber. He pulls to a stop and looks over to his left.

Day after day, almost ritualistically, peoole would flock to the bottom of the stairs below the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Showing up to take a picture with the Rocky statue was a Philadelphia tradition. Originally, the statue had been created and installed for a scene in Rocky III, but now stood as an actual, honest to goodness, real-life document to a film here, a fictional denizen of the City of Brotherly Love, who is accepted as though he was a native son of flesh and blood.

After the obligatory photo op, many of the visitors then partake in the second, less obligatory part of the ritual. They try their hands and hustling up the grand stairway, Most then raise both arms in the air, mimicking the pose of their fictional hero. The beautiful view of the Philadelphia skyline was an added bonus. While running up those stairs was the goal, Ken wanted to neither take a picture of the statue nor did he want to pose at the top, though both of those things were considered a rite of passage. He was here to honor Dorian.

Being a native of Philadelphia, Dorian knew the ins and outs of the streets. He had taught Ken things about the city that he never would have learned on his own. The honor of wrestling in 2300 Arena, formerly known as Viking Hall, was one of the first things. Though known by many names throughout the years, the building in and of itself was hallowed ground among many wrestling fans. Dorian had taught him that you get your cheesesteak at Tony Luke’s and avoid the tourist traps known as Pat’s and Geno’s. Lastly, he taught Ken about how he had trained every morning by running up and down the “Rocky Steps.” Ken had never done so himself, but now was as good a time as ever.

Ken Davison took a moment to lock his car before looking both ways and crossing the street. He strides across the sidewalk and makes his way to the bottom of the stairway. ’You have got to be fucking insane,’ Ken can’t help but think to himself. Maybe he was. He was standing at the bottom of the Rocky steps, in near eighty degree heat, less than two hours from attending a viewing, ready to run up those very stairs.

“Fuck it!” Ken yells as he bolts up the stairs. Underestimating the climb, he starts to become winded about two thirds of the way up the stairs. “Come on!” he grunts as he guts out those last few steps. Getting to the top, he falls to his knees, the adrenaline allowing him to ignore the feeling of concrete forcibly connecting with his kneecaps.

Tears well up in his eyes, eventually streaming down his cheeks as he remembers Dorian; his friend, another one of his adopted brothers - One of the few people Ken truly cared for in this world.  Gone.  Too soon.  Always too soon. 

Ken looks around at the hustle and bustle around him, people going in and out of the museum, others occasionally running up and down the stairs,and he feels invisible. It was a nice moment of reprieve, to be honest. No fans bothering him was actually a bit strange considering all the time he'd spent wrestling in Steelside Wrestling.  He was a bit of a well known commodity in Pennsylvania, at least he liked to think so.

’Steps,’ he ponders silently.

In short order, Ken had taken many steps recently. He got married. He started to make peace with Amber Ryan-Bane before she was attacked, and now… this, the loss of a dear friend. There were so many questions in his head. ‘Will Chloe be okay?’ being the most imposing of all of them. Chloe had just turned 19, but to Ken’s knowledge, didn’t have any kind of contingency plan in place. ’Which reminds me,’ Ken thinks as he pauses to look down at his watch.

13:37

Ken wiped his eyes, he straightened out his shirt and he brought himself back to his feet.  He had a service to attend.  He had a young woman to support.  He needed to be strong for Chloe in her time of need. He knew that's what Dorian would have done for him.


Ken Davison is dressed in a black button down shirt and black pants. The moon hangs in the night sky, the Philadelphia skyline behind him. It is obvious from the Philadelphia Museum in the background that Ken has returned to the Rocky stairs. His face is streaked with the stain of tears, Ken had no concern about them. Sure, he should have washed his face or tried to perhaps do something, anything to cover them up, but in his present state, he didn’t particularly mind or care.

“Sometimes, in our lives, we have to take a step back and look at the bigger picture. We have to recognize where we are in life, but also how we got there. My career, not just my time in this company, I have defined by the steps I have taken.  Successful debut. Internet champion. Subsequent losing streak. Most recently, I have taken out two former World Champions when no one expected me to do so.”

“Believe it or not, Kasey, that actually doesn't matter. That is not what defines me as an athlete, as a wrestler, as a man. It is the steps I have taken outside of the squared circle that make me who I am today.  Losing a championship is nothing, this is nothing when you've lost everything you hold dear in life.  Having to come back from a few losses in no way, shape, or form compares to having to come back from losing your unborn child.”

Ken speaks those words with a tinge of sadness in his voice. The surprise to those who know his tragic history is that he is not sobbing and crying about his loss, rather, he seems to have made peace with it. There is a calm in his voice, not usually found in this situation.

“In my career I have been put through burning tables, one by our very own Mac Bane. I have wrestled in Japanese death matches. I have walked through the hostile crowds of Puerto Rico and lived to tell the tale. Hell, I still bear the scars of being crucified.”

Davison holds up his hands directly in front of the camera, the vaguely circular scarring of his hand goes directly through his palms. He allows them to linger for a couple of moments, letting the severity of the wound sink in.

“When I say that I have seen it all and done it all I can say so with the utmost confidence. That was not always the case. When I started in this business, the fact that I even got signed at a mere 5' 10" tall, was a minor miracle. I made my debut as a character known as Tunzafun. I came to the ring, clad in a set of pajamas, gave a Teddy bear to one of the young fans, you get the idea. Typical early to mid nineties schtick. Still, I recognized that I had to start somewhere. I took that first step.”

“At this point, I am losing almost every match. Back then if you weren't at least 6' 4", or 300 pounds… let's just say you were in for a bad day at the office, bud. I stuck it out. I evolved. I learned to use my size as an advantage instead of a detriment. After all, you can't punch what you can't catch. I evolved. I took another step.”

Ken starts rolling his wrist, making the “this is going on and on and on” motion with his hand.

“Now, I could go on and on and give you the entire rundown of my career and how I learned to adapt. The cliff notes version is that each and every time I faced adversity, I never once took a step backwards. I always moved forward, ever forward.”

“Which brings us to where we are today. I've been in this business for 26 years, almost as long as you've been alive. Think about that, just for a second. You may be too young, too brash, too wet behind the ears to understand how intimidating that should be. To be honest, I prefer it that way. When a whelp tries to prove himself, to show that he belongs, he brings a certain tenacity that I always find entertaining. I’d like to hope I see that fire.”

Ken pauses just a moment, whipping his head back and forth to crack his neck.

“Moving right along, I have been saying since the moment he won the World Championship that I want my shot at Matt Knox. It's not even that I want an opportunity at the World Championship. Mac Bane has that opportunity and Mac Bane deserves that opportunity. When he takes that World Championship, he knows that I've got his back. He knows that I will not pursue that championship. I've said it before and I will say it again. Saviors don't work Saviors.”

“What you're probably asking yourself is what does this have to do with you? You probably think that I'm looking past you as a warm up to whatever opportunity comes my way next. That couldn't be farther from the truth. I know that you're running with the wolves. I know the group you roll with wouldn't keep you amongst their pack if you couldn't pull your own weight. Still, amongst the wolves you are but a cub, a mere… little… cub. However, the phrase ‘hungry like a wolf’ exists for a reason. Much like when I had to prove myself after losing the Internet championship, I was hungry to re-establish myself as a legitimate threat to any athlete in this company, I know you are looking to use me as I used Austin James Mercer. I know that you want to cut in front of me in line for any opportunity, like I did to Mark Cross. They were steps that I had to take. This match is another step that I have to take. I am going to take that step and continue to move forward, ever forward. That means that you need to know your place and take a step back. You… You need to realize that in this pack, you are not the alpha. You are not even an alpha.”

Ken waves his finger back and forth, like Dikembe Mutombo saying “No, no, no,” after a block.

“The thing about wolves, the thing that I think you and the entirety of Wolfslair fails to remember is that being an alpha does not always mean being at the front of the line. When wolves travel, there are also alpha's at the back of the line. The reason for that, the reason I am willing to stand behind Mac Bane and any member of the Saviors is because an alpha that is willing to stay at the back of the line, until the time is right, is an alpha who is watching out for the good of its pack.”

Ken sighs deeply, taking time to de-escalate from the level of intensity he had elevated to.

“I recognize that in my time here I may have sent some mixed signals. I know who I am as a person. That's a phrase that I'm rather fond of using. In fact. I'm sure that you hear every single week. Who I am as a person, what you need to have in the forefront of your mind, is that I am a person that is willing to do whatever needs to be done to handle a situation. If that means beating you in the submission, so be it. If that means giving a spinebuster to a former women's World Champion, so be it. If that means that I am going to leave a trail of victims in my wake while I wait for my opportunity, so be it.”

Ken smiles slyly, making sure the audience at home is hanging on, waiting for his next words.

“If that means that my next step requires you to be under my boot, so…. be… it.”

“Godly” Ken Davison sits in the hallowed halls of St. Anne’s Catholic church, an old abandoned church on the outskirts of Boston, Massachusetts that he had repurposed many years ago to serve as his base of operations. He had not been in the hallowed halls in quite some time, but due to the ongoing care and maintenance he paid for,upkeep was routinely performed. Upon his arrival, Ken was pleased to find the building immaculate.

“Wooooooowwwwww” his soon to be step-daughter Adina says with a sense of amazement. “You have your own church?!”

“Yeah, baby girl. I bought it over twenty years ago.”

All Ken could do at this point was stop and breathe. His travel schedule this month has been hectic. He and his fiancee had defended their UGWC Cooperative Championships for the second time in two weeks. Then, he endured the 12 hours of flight, 7 hours of layover, just to become vilified when Amber Ryan, his beloved (read: hated to the utmost extent of the word), little “Blood Stained Hurricane” decided she had enough of his banter and charged him. Running on instinct, he grabbed her by the legs and drove her into the mat. He was worn down from it all, and Kyra was stressed out, and rightfully so, by all of this drama. Even now, in what should be a moment of peace, he was replaying that spinebuster over and over and over again.

“That’s, like, forever ago.”

“Back then, most of us didn’t have phones in our pockets. Most of us had these things called pagers where people could leave their number and you called them back when you got to a phone.”

“Nah uh.”

“True story. Even the phones were wired into the wall.”

“Hey, baby girl,” Ken says as he spies Kyra walking into the sanctuary out of his periphery. “I’m going to head to my office to talk to your mother. If you head downstairs, there should be a room with a bunch of dolls and other toys. Why don’t you do some exploring?”

Ken stands up, placing his hand on Adina’s shoulder and gently pushing her in the direction of the door. Instead of leaving, Adina rushes at her mother and unsuccessfully tries to tackle her mother. It became more of an attack hug than anything else.   

Kyra’s taken by surprise, but she quickly kneels down in front of Adina and wraps her arms around the little girl.  “Hey, baby girl.  Whatcha doing?”

“Daddy told me to go play, but I–”

“But you didn’t listen, huh?”  Kyra interrupted, shaking her head.  She might not have been happy with her fiance, and his recent actions - but nevertheless, she wasn’t going to allow her daughter to defy him.  “Maybe you should go play.”

Adina sighs and releases her grip on her mother.  “Fiiine Mommy.”

As Adina scampers off, Ken looks up at Kyra. There is uncertainty written on his face. The two of them had faced every challenge before this head on. This was the first time they had disagreed this badly.

“Hey,” Ken says sheepishly. “Can we talk about this?”

Ken pauses and is only met with silence.

“Please?” Ken pleads.

Kyra lets out an exasperated sigh as she shrugs her shoulders, unwilling to meet Ken’s eyeline.  “Fine.  What do you wanna say?”

“What the hell do I say? Amber asked for the match. Not me. Amber is smart enough to know that I was going shit talk her the entire time. Amber is the one who came at me. It’s not like I sat there and continued to beat on her. And then, you go on a Twitter rant and compare me to…” Ken scowls, his voice elevated, but not to the point of yelling. “I don’t even want to say his name. We have fought too long and too hard to get to this point. I’m sorry, but I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Finally, she turns to face him.  “What a coincidence, Ken.. Neither did I.  You wanna be butthurt over my little comparison.. But from where I’m sitting.. You’re both completely fine with putting me right in the Goddamned middle again, just like I was before.  You remember that, don’t you?  Oh yeah.. Because you’re the one that told me I was BETTER than the position they put me in.”

Kyra shrugs once more, her scowl equal to Kens at this point. 

“Yet here the fuck we are.”

“I never wanted to put you in the middle. I never wanted to be in this position in the first place. After the match, she goes off running her Macpleaser trying to goad me into a match with her in another company that will allow it. Why the fuck would I ever do that? Why would I put us in jeopardy? She has nothing I want. There is no world championship. If I were to take that match, there is nothing to gain and everything to lose. You are more important to me than some throwaway match with Amber. I was half a world away and all I wanted to was to hold you in my arms and tell you that everything would be okay. But, that couldn’t happen. Amber’s picking a fight with me. You started picking a fight with me. Then you two started going at each other and all I could do was sit in a hotel room and cry myself to sleep. All I wanted was you. All I ever want is you.” Kens posture shrinks, the energy in his voice is lowered. “For fucks sake, Kyra. Why was it so hard for you to see that?”

In this moment, all Kyra can do is laugh.  A dry, humorless laugh as she stares Ken down.  “Don’t you think I WANT to see that?  Christs sake, Ken.  I believe you.  I know you’re telling me the truth, as you know it - but what you’re missing is how BOTH of you fuckers can’t let your shit go, even if that means hurting me.  Even if that means putting Mac.. You’re so-called BROTHER in the same position that I’m in right now.  And no, it isn’t just you.  It’s both of you and if either of you respected the people you love.. You’d both stop being so Goddamned short-sighted!  So stop with the fucking excuses, stop with the finger pointing and figure your shit out Ken Davison because I can’t do it for you.”

“Shit, Kyra. I am trying to. I didn’t pursue this beyond that match. What more do you want? I wasn’t trying to drag you and Mac into this. She was the one trying to make this a couples invite. You know me. You know that if she comes at me, I have to say something. I’m not perfect. I’m just a man. Once I was able to sort out what was actually going on, I told her I didn’t want a match. I disengaged and backed off. I’m trying the best I can. I really, truly am.”

“I know.”  She replies softly, shaking her head.  “..But it’s not good enough.”

Kyra takes a step forward, her face moving closer to Ken’s. 

“You knew that she’d do anything to rile you up.   And she knew exactly what she needed to do to get you to play right into her hand.  And you fell for it, hook, line and sinker.  You just couldn’t resist.  And that’s fine.  I get it.  But don’t expect me to just take this and roll over like I was expected to do with…Jack.  You know how I feel about this, and soon enough.. So will she.”

Kyra turns to walk away. Ken puts his hand on her shoulder, stopping her, at least for the moment.

“Jack didn’t put you in the middle of anything. He flat out abandoned you. Amber put you in the middle of it. I never intended for you to get dragged into this bullshit. If you need time, that’s what I will give you, if you want. What I want is to make this right. Tell me what I need to do and it’s done. No questions asked.”

Ken simply looks defeated, realizing that he had unintentionally pointed a finger at Amber. He realized it a moment too late, because he didn’t have time to apologize for it.  Letting out another sigh, Kyra slides out of Ken’s grasp.

“Just… let it go.  All of it.”

With that, she steps away - heading downstairs where Adina was currently playing. Ken can only sit and watch as Kyra disappears out of sight.




“Austin James Mercer,” Davison says in a slow, deliberate cadence, “You are being given the opportunity to step into the ring with history in the making. You are being given the opportunity to see, first hand, the world as it is evolving.  You are the first hands being given the opportunity to mold the legacy of Sin City Wrestling going forward. That legacy is “Godly” Ken Davison.”

Davison strides across the plush ruby carpeting, walking between the two rows of golden embroidery that lines each side of the aisle as he walks towards the front of the Sanctuary.

“In my very first appearance here in Sin City Wrestling, I very clearly stated that I was here to be an avenging angel. At no point in time did I say I was going to spare anyone based on their gender, on their current standing, on whom they're married to…  Those words have never and will never come out of my mouth. In fact, the only words that you will ever hear coming out of my mouth are the truth. That is because I am a man of integrity. I am a man of conviction. I am a Paragon of virtue.”

Davison winks knowing only Amber Ryan and Mac Bane will understand the subliminal message in that last statement.

“The fact of the matter is, in this day and age, there is no reason why I should be getting any blowback for what I did in my match with Matt Knox and Amber Ryan. I should not be getting vilified by the very company I work for simply because I acted in self-defense. If the roles had been reversed, if Amber Ryan hit me with a spinebuster, no one would have batted an eye. That’s just who she is as a person. It’s like a built-in “Get out of jail free” card. If you act like a twat, then people expect you to act like a twat. However, when I lay my hands on Amber Ryan, it’s like the end of the world. I keep hearing “What kind of man would hit a woman?” I would, that’s who.”

“You see, I stand for women. I believe that Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Lucretia Mott, and other leaders of the Suffrage Movement would be proud of me. While I will be the first to tell you that Amber Ryan ranks just above Matt Knox, who is the human personification of venereal disease, on my list of people I can tolerate, I still respect the things that she is capable of in the ring. I believe that even she would be the first to tell you that my self-defense spinebuster was only meant to prevent her from attacking myself or Kat Jones. I put her down on the mat, gentle as a baby. She knows what intent feels like. She knows what it feels like when the GKD, “Godly” Ken Davison intends to hurt you. A mere spinebuster? Amber Ryan can handle it. Amber Ryan can handle much, much worse. Striking Amber Ryan showed the world that I do not think less of Amber Ryan. I view her as a peer, an equal. Anyone who believes that I am a horrible person for treating Amber Ryan like a professional wrestler and not a diva, knockout, or bombshell; a professional… wrestler, simply does not understand the meaning of equal rights. I should be hailed as a hero, not treated as the pariah I will undoubtedly become.”

“It is no secret that I’ve been struggling as of late, but that does change or undermine what I am capable of. That is a fact that you would be wise to remember, Mercer. What happened in that mixed tag team match a couple of weeks ago, at least within the ring, was exactly what I had planned. From the moment I found out that Amber Ryan had foolishly requested the match, I knew exactly what I was going to do. If Amber Ryan could be summed up in one song, it would be ’Baby’s Got a Temper’ by The Prodigy. As I have said, Amber Ryan is one of the best wrestlers to ever lace up a pair of boots, not in this company, not in this industry, but in the entire history of the sport. If she honestly thought that I wasn’t going to try and gain any advantage I could find, then that was her mistake.”

A sly smile crosses Davison’s face.

“Then, in the aftermath, when she completely lost her shit on Twitter, I knew that while she had won the match, I had won the war. Until Supreme Machine showed up, distracting her like a new shiny object, I’m all she could talk about. I was living in her head rent free.”

“Now Mercer, onto you. I don’t know you, but I know your resume. Like I said earlier, I’ve been in a bit of a slump lately. Setbacks are temporary. Matt Knox could not beat me, but he still showed why most people compare him to a cockroach. The man will not die. I may not be happy about the fact that I lost the Internet Championship to Jack Washington, but I can at least hold my head up knowing full well that I fought until the bitter end.”

Davison lowers his guard, if only for a moment.

“I’m going to be real with you Mercer. This entire situation with Amber has caused a plethora of problems that I didn’t see coming. I am dealing with the consequences of her actions, as well as my own. I don’t want this match with you. I need this match with you. I need to prove that coming to Sin City Wrestling, pulling myself away from my fiance and my kid is worth the time I could be spending with them. This match might be some kind of throwaway match for you, but it means the world to me. My fiance barely talks to me. Mac Bane, my best friend in the entire Kendamned world, isn’t talking to me. Kat Jones hasn’t said a word to me since the match.”

“I am walking into this match with a purpose. At this point, it truly doesn’t matter if I am facing you, Matt Knox, Jack Washington or anyone else in this company. Austin James Mercer, your name doesn’t worry me. Your resume doesn’t matter to me because I can match you accomplishment for accomplishment and easily outpace you. What does matter is what I have done here. It has been two months, two long months, since I have tasted victory in Sin City Wrestling. If I can’t win this match, if I can’t defeat you, then I have no business being here in Sin City Wrestling. I would be lying if I tried to pretend that I wasn’t doubting myself. Regardless, I know what I am capable of. I know who I am as a person. Maybe I forgot who I really, truly was. Being in the ring with Amber Ryan reminded me of the man I am. She reminded me that there was a time when “Godly” Ken Davison was one of the most feared competitors in this business. Mercer, I don’t know if you are a religious man. If you are not, I highly recommend you get on your knees and pray to God, Allah, Jobu or whoever you think will listen to you. I know that there are things worth fighting for. There are things that are bigger than my career. That is what I am fighting for, not championships, not pride. So, again, I ask you to pray. Pray for mercy. Pray for forgiveness. Pray for victory. Pray for all of those things, but realize that sometimes God is too busy to answer your prayers. Then, as the bell rings and you find yourself on the flat of your back, you can at least thank whomever heard your prayers that I at least spared your dignity.”

Davison smirks as the camera fades to black.

It's 11:58 in the evening on this quiet Baltimore evening. Sitting on his front stairs, nursing a bottle of Stewart's Root Beer, he sits, pondering his future. The rain outside falls, but Ken Davison is oblivious to it. In his mind, it is just him and his thoughts. It had been a long time since he had been anywhere near Matt Knox, directly, at least. The last time they shared a company together, Ken was the World Champion and Matt Knox was leaving the company in a fit of frustration after amassing an impressive 4-6 record.
Ken looks up, his introspection is broken by the creaking of a screen door. His fiancee, Kyra, steps through the door, carrying another couple of bottles of root beer for Ken and herself. Ken originally came from a train wreck of a family. His father disappeared and his mother was abusive. He learned to handle himself on the streets, but eventually fell into a good home. Staring off into the streets of Baltimore, his past was haunting him. With how good his life has been, there has been a continual series of ‘what ifs’ in his head.

“Thanks,” Ken utters, still staring off into space.

"What are you doing?"

"Just thinking."

"Lay it on me."

"I am just sitting here and thinking about how I got to this point. Ya' know?"

"What do you mean?”

“I mean, everything. For some reason, I got to thinking about us. I started thinking about my father, my fuck ups, and how I am doing everything I can to make this life work. I guess my meeting got me thinking about my journey.”

That meeting was Alcoholics Anonymous. Over the years, Ken had attended on and off for the last 25 or so years. He got a lot of love and support from those meetings. They were his safe space. But this wasn't just a regular meeting for Ken. He just got his twenty five year chip. Ken was proud of that. Not the type to brag, or open up about his feelings, he had kept that to himself. Still, he knew Kyra was going to press him, so before she can ask, he reaches into his pocket and tosses the coin over to her.
“OH MY GOD! I'M SO PROUD OF YOU!!!” Kyra says before practically pouncing on Ken. She places both hands and his cheeks and kisses him. Ken is trapped. His only recourse is to smile and kiss Kyra back. The thing about the two of them is that they coped with things very differently. Even though Kyra drank, she knew and respected the reasons why Ken chose not to.

“It's been a ton of work, but worth it. I just can't help but think of everything that has happened along the way.”

Kyra stands up straight. Ken looks at her with a gleam in his eyes.

“You ready for Vegas?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“You gonna be there for Sin City?"

“Might as well. We’ve got the Denzel thing.” Kyra puts her head on Ken’s shoulder. “So… Knox, huh?”

“Yup,” Ken says and he rubs his hands together. “It’s kind of weird to think that he’s out here in the city somewhere. Too bad I never got a hold of him back in Carnage.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve just wanted to get my hands on him for a long, long time. Why? What do you think of him?”

“He’s kind of insufferable, to be honest. Ego all over the place.”

“EXACTLY! I can’t stand the way he constantly runs his mouth.”

“Um… babe… have you met yourself?”

“I suppose.”

“Suppose? It’s literally your entire gimmick.”

“Kendammit!”

“Way to prove my point.”

“Seriously, though. Every time he ran his mouth, I said I’d face him. Then he ran off to one of his million other companies he’s working for and disappears. For all of my faults, I always stand and fight.”

“True.”

“I mean, we’ve got a couple of days. I think I need to head up to the city tomorrow.”

“We’re in the city, dumbass,” Kyra says as she playfully punches Ken in the arm.

“New York City.”

“What in the hell do you have to go there for?”

“I just have to make something right.”

“Want me to come with?”

“Yeah, but no. I have to do this one on my own.” Ken takes another sip of his root beer, finishing it off. “With all the driving, I don’t want to be up too late.”
"
Speaking of not wanting to go to bed late, think we should head to bed?"

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Hope you don’t mind if I keep you up a little later,” Kyra says with a sly smile. Ken grabs his unopened bottle of root beer with his left hand and Kyra's hand with the other. He pulls the screen door open with his foot and holds it open for Kyra, slapping her ass on the way in.


The Sony Jumbotron looms high overhead standing out even amidst the skyscrapers of New York City. Cabbies fly past in a yellow flurry, cutting each other off with the precision of a NASCAR driver. People hustle and bustle past each other, shoving each other out of the way, not caring one way or the other who or what is blocking their path. On every corner there is some sort of food or craft vender, or some homeless person begging for money. Even Madison Square Garden, the “World’s Most Famous Arena” houses various vagrants and miscreants. Police officers stroll past, seemingly mindless of all the hubris surrounding them.

The streets of New York City have always been, for lack of a better word, a special place. When you look around lower Manhattan, you can see people from all walks of life. The city doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care if you are a man, woman, child, black, white, red, green, blue, or purple. There is a lot you could learn from the city. From the dealers selling drugs in Harlem to the Asians selling bootleg DVDs on Canal Street, from the beggars taking whatever money they can to the men and women who endured the tragedy of the Twin Towers, this city will teach you one very important lesson… survival.
Davison stops in front of the entrance to a decent sized brick building. He takes a moment to survey his surroundings before he walks in. This is not his first time here. The room on the inside still looks something like a high school cafeteria. You can see the stains from years of use all along the black and white checkered floor. A few seconds in, people of various ages begin sitting in the wooden seats, mostly older teens and young adults. As they all sit down, they begin introducing themselves. Ken waits outside of the door nervously.

“Welcome to Life Support. We are a group for people living with or dealing with HIV and AIDS. First, let’s begin by introducing ourselves. Shall we?”

“Daren.”

“Um… I’m Jenny.

“Geoff.”

“Pam.”

“Sue.”

“I’m Paul. Let’s begin.

“I’m Ken.” The interruption catches the group off guard.
[color=#80800]
“This is that stupid son of a bitch that showed up here a couple of years back.”[/color]

Daren was right. The last time Ken had “graced” these halls was just over two years ago. He came in and belittled each and every member of the Life Support group.

“Now. Now, Daren. Let’s hear him out.”

“Thank you… Paul, was it?” Paul nods before Ken continues. “But, he’s right. I don’t deserve any kind of politeness. When I came in here before, I was way out of line.”

“Out of line? You told Gordon that his mother should have swallowed.”

Ken visibly winces. That was definitely not one of his finest moments.

“Where is Gordon, anyway?”

The somber faces give Ken the answer that he didn’t want to hear.

“Gordon passed away last year.”

“Fuck. Was it…”

“No, it was COVID.”

“He didn’t even let AIDS get him. Damn. Either way, I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“Time waits for no man, as they say.”

“I’ve come to realize that. That’s why I’m here. I do not plan in any way to whitewash my sin. I do not call it a mistake, a mendacity; I call it sin. I’m not a Christian man, but to use any other word would cheapen the severity of my words. I would much rather, if possible, make it worse than it actually is. My words, my intentions, were to come in here and hurt you for no reason other than making for some good television. I was cast as the villain and I lived up to that. I have no one but myself to blame. I do not lay the fault or the blame of the charge at anyone else's feet. For no one is to blame but myself. I take the responsibility. I take the blame. I take the blame.”

“That’s why I came here today. No cameras. No pretense. I came here tonight because I have changed. I know that I hurt you all in ways that if hell were to exist, I would surely be cast to the seventh circle of it. And, yes, I rehearsed this a hundred times in my head because I wanted to say the right thing. But to each and every one of you, I’m sorry.”

“So, like, what happened in your life, man?”

“I met a woman… fell in love. But, that’s not really it. She’s got a five year old daughter and we’re trying to teach her accountability. I have to be one of the people that sets that example.”

“So where’s the damned kid?”

“I didn’t do it for the kid. The way I figure it, I have to set that example all the time, not just when the kiddo’s there.”

“How sentimental.”

“Listen, I’m not expecting you to forgive me. Shit, I’m not even asking you to forgive me. I know how fucked up what I did was. All I could do was come here and offer my apology. Do with it what you will.”

“Well, Ken, we appreciate the gesture. It’s like the song from ‘Rent’ says. “Forget regret or life is yours to miss.” That’s what we’re all about.”

“I appreciate that. Is there… um… anything I can do to help?”

“Well, you can stay for the meeting, if that’s okay with everyone else.”

There is a slight murmur amongst the group, but surprisingly no objections.

“Thank you. But, I don’t belong here. Besides, I’ve got a three and a half hour drive back to Baltimore.”

“Hold up. You drove all the way up here… from Baltimore… in rush hour traffic… just to apologize?”

“It was something I felt I needed to do.”

“Well, it’s not the best, but you could take a cup of coffee for the road if you like.”

“Thank you and thank you again for listening to me. You could have asked me to leave and I understand that.”

“Get home safe, Ken.”

Ken walks over to the makeshift coffee station and pours himself some coffee into a small styrofoam cup. He happens to see an empty coffee can with “coffee fund” written on it in black Sharpie. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, turning to make sure no one is looking. Ken takes a hundred and folds it up as small as he can and puts it in the can. He then slips out the door unnoticed, as the group is sharing their stories with one another.


Hours from Baltimore, “Godly” Ken Davison walks with Kyra Johnson outside of the still strange stomping grounds that are the Sin City Wrestling corporate offices. Ken is decked out in full regalia, while Kyra is dressed more casually in jeans and a t-shirt. They continue walking through the parking lot when Kyra stops to point and laugh as they reach a portion of the brick walls without any cars parked near it.

“Perfect generic brick wall for a wrestling promo.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you were alive in the 90s.”

“Sorry, old man. Just watched a lot of your old GPS tapes.”

“VHS, smartass. Come on, you’re not [i[that[/i] young.”

“But you are that old.”

”For fuck’s sake. Just get your phone ready to record this. Will ya’?”

Kyra slaps Ken’s ass before he walks over in front of the wall and gets situated. Kyra hits the button to begin recording and signals to Ken to begin.

“As we all know, people cannot live forever. While many of us thought someone might step forward to defy the odds of humanity… that simply hasn’t happened yet. I can’t remember who said it first, thanks to all those comedians out there recycling each other’s jokes, but someone mentioned the fact that we used to cure illnesses like it was our job. Polio, measles, tuberculosis none of these stood a chance when the greatest minds of the world were put to work. So, explain why we used to have someone wheeling Jerry Lewis out on stage every year for his Jerry’s Kids foundation? With all the money that old racist bastard rakes in you’d think they’d have found a cure for little Billy, right?”

Davison puts out his hands in such a way as to emphasize his point.

“Of course, not.”

“The fact remains that this world is run by drug companies all in business to keep us sick … not dying, just enough to stay managed. It’s like putting a band-aid on a bullet wound. At some point that little adhesive bandage isn’t going to cut it and you’ll need another one, and another one … and another one. That’s the thing about you, Knox. You’re a fucking disease. But the wrestling world hasn’t tried to cure you or eliminate you. They’ve simply treated you. They have allowed you to go on and on and on infecting company after company after company. You left the last company we were in before I could put an end to you. Now, I have the opportunity to do the very thing that I, like so many others, have wanted to do… stop the Raven from mindlessly squawking.”

“Even under the best of circumstances, this business isn’t one that’s easy on the body. Chair shots, falls from a great height and listening to the likes of you, Knox, really take their toll after a while. They have drugs for everything these days… managing pain, calming the nerves, helping you feel like a man… anything to keep ignoring that little tap on their shoulder. But I’ve got news for you, boy. That little tap… that’s life, wanting to let you know that it’s time to give up; time to give up on all the frivolity that you’ve probably grown accustomed to; and for Ken’s sake it’s time to give up the spandex wardrobe. “

“Yet, for all the clarity we pretend to be seeing things with on a daily basis, our own mortality continues to be a foggy subject. In this business the possibility of getting hurt is fairly obvious. I take responsibility for the fact that I serve as judge, jury and executioner when I walk into the middle of the ring. Each time we step into that ring we run the risk of sustaining anything from a broken finger to a broken back. We might be out of action for a week, a month or the rest of our lives if we aren’t careful. So, we ignore those little nagging injuries. Bruises fade and fractures mend … but as time marches on, those bruises don’t fade as quickly and those broken bones don’t seem to mend the way they used to.. Bodies begin to fade, begin to become affected by gravity. Simple diet and exercise, the staples of healthy living, don’t cut it anymore and suddenly the panic sets in. “What if someone sees that I’m not the biggest or fastest anymore?”

“That’s the thing about you, Knox. You’ve never been the biggest or the fastest or the sharpest. You’ve simply been the loudest. I’ll be the first to admit, you’re good, damned good, but you are not, nor will ever be, the best. You will most certainly never climb to the top at my expense.”

“You see, Knox, this is my rebirth. In one’s life we are rarely gifted with the opportunity for a second chance. Call it what you will, redemption, reincarnation or rebirth; they all mean the same thing. A fresh start, a clean slate, starting in another new company where the sins and tragedies of your past are wiped from your record as you begin life anew. However, in this industry, our pasts have a tendency to follow us. Yes, we have the ability to either make whole new decisions, or damn yourself to another life of wasted opportunity. The idea of reincarnation or rebirth is something widely debated among various theologians. One thing that cannot be debated, Knox, is I know who you were. I know that in my eyes you have already been weighed, you have already been measured, and you have been found wanting. I believe that your merits and your actions in this life affect your transcendence into the hereafter, where your name and reputation shall either live in legend or in infamy.”
“Rarely in life are you given the chance, the opportunity, to start your life over. This doesn’t necessarily mean being reborn as an infant … but falls more under the category of reinventing yourself. I spent my entire life building myself up for the sheer purpose of breaking others down. Little by little the walls I erected to protect myself crumbled down until what and who I truly am was laid bare. I have sat crying for help, unable to fathom how I got to this point. Labels and stigmas mar my body physically as well as emotionally. Rebirth, in my case, truly means being given the gift to reinvent who I am. Whereas the “Godly” Ken Davison you once knew was a false prophet. This incarnation is an avenging angel.”

“I understand that to some people, such as yourself, this sport is a job; a means of making a living doing something you enjoy. For people like myself more than just their livelihood. This job represents something on a much deeper, more profound level. I have stayed with companies, Knox, until the bitter end. This is not because those companies were a paycheck, but because I cared. Before Baltimore, it was Pittsburgh. Before Pittsburgh, it was Boston. I have toured the world, becoming so marketable that I’ve transcended merely entertaining; yet, to be able to look around a locker room and know that each and every one of those men and women respects me because of my legacy. Because I have given everything I have had into a company, their company, those are the moments I live for.”

“I am sure that you understand that the big fish can’t thrive in a small pond forever. That’s why you leave companies at the drop of a hat. That is why you’ve sought out employment with so many companies. At some point, you’ve decided that you need either a bigger, or in your case, smaller pond in order to survive. I was the biggest fish in my pond for a few years; I had the respect, the admiration and the ability to tell management what I wanted knowing I’d get it. Look at where that got me? A reservation on the unemployment line when, what I considered to be, my professional world went belly up. I was faced with the prospect of starting fresh. I started over. I reinvented myself. I experienced a rebirth. There’s that word again. Few men in my position have the ability to learn from the sins of their past and use that knowledge to forge ahead and pave a path to their future. If there’s one thing people have learned about me at the point, it’s that I’m not like most people.”

“So, Knox, I am certain that you are going to try everything you can to get under my skin. Mock me. Threaten me. I wouldn’t be shocked if you went so far as to imitate me. However, I want you to realize the lengths that I will go through to maintain my status in this industry. I believe The Butcher from Gangs of New York sums it up wonderfully. "You know how I stayed alive this long? All these years? Fear. The spectacle of fearsome acts. Somebody steals from me, I cut off his hands. He offends me, I cut out his tongue. He rises against me, I cut off his head, stick it on a pike, raise it high up so all on the streets can see. That's what preserves the order of things. Fear." I have done things in that ring that would make a normal man question his very existence. I have taken men so far past their limit that they have retired. I have endured being crucified in a match. If you are not afraid of the things I can and will do, then there is something very, [i[very[/i] wrong with you.”

“The fact of the matter is that there is nothing you can say or do that I haven’t seen. Your whole generic bad ass number 544,367 is cute, but you are nothing more than an unimaginative man without an original thought in your head. That having been said, I know that you are still more than capable in the ring. But, child, I have  forgotten more about wrestling than you ever knew. Regardless, I’d like you to do me one teensy, tiny, little favor.You have your entire life to be an idiot. Why not take Sunday off?”

“Make sure you get all of this. This dude makes me nervous,” says the voice of whoever is in charge of the Sin City camera crew. They were making their way down the driveway on the way to their destination. To some, the property may seem isolated, inconveniently far from a 7-Eleven or a multiplex cinema. But for Ken Davison, whose pleasures would never be understood by most neighbors, relative isolation is the fundamental requirement when he is shopping for secondary real estate. His primary residence, back in Baltimore, was selected for the proximity to more modern amenities, designed for functionality as it pertained to his mostly public life. This property, however, was for some other purpose.

On a summer afternoon or evening, however, Davison could see himself sitting in a bentwood rocker on the front porch, gazing out at the deep yard and the acres of wildflowers in the fields cleared by the logger and his sons, or staring at the great spread of stars, even the meekest and citified man would agree that isolation has its appeal. In good weather, Ken Davison would have liked to take his dinner and a couple of beers on the porch. If the silences were to become boring, he could always allow himself to hear the voices of those who are buried in the field: their groveling and lamentations, the music that he prefers to any on the radio.

However, this was not the summer. This was winter and the cold air prevented any such activity. The vehicle carrying the camera crew rolls up the driveway, it audibly kicks up rocks underneath the tires as they slowly travel up the gravel. As they close in on the residence, they can see that in addition to the house, there is a small barn. It is not there because the original owner of the property farmed any of the lands that he cleared of trees but because he kept horses. This second building is of traditional wood-frame construction on a concrete footing and fieldstone stem wall; wind, rain, and sun long ago laid down a silver patina on the durable cedar siding, which Davison finds lovely. Since he owns no horses, he uses the barn as a garage. Now, however, the crew pulls to a stop beside the house, rather than continuing to the barn.

Switching off the engine but not the windshield wipers, the crew waits. The early-December morning is animate with slanting rain and wind-shaken things, but nothing moves of its own deliberation. Unbeknownst to the camera crew, four Dobermans are awaiting any intruders. They have been trained not to charge willy-nilly at approaching vehicles and even to bide their time with intruders who are on foot, the better to lure them into a zone from which escape is impossible. These guards know that stealth is as important as savage fury, that the most successful assaults are preceded by calculated stillnesses to lull the quarry into false confidence. They had been trained in the same ways as their master. The locker room, catering, the hallways backstage… no one in Sin City Wrestling was TRULY safe.

The first black head appears, bullet sleek but for its pricked ears, low to the ground at the rear corner of the house. The dog hesitates to reveal more of himself, surveying the scene to make sure that he understands what is happening, just as Davison himself would do. At the nearest comer of the barn, between the cedar siding and the trunk of a winter-bare maple, another dog appears. It is little more than a shadow of a shadow in the rain. Davison himself wouldn't have noticed these silent sentinels if he didn't know to look for them. As the camera crew began to unload their equipment, the dogs remained, still and silent. Their self-control is remarkable, a testament to Davison’s abilities as a trainer.

Two more dogs lurk somewhere, perhaps behind the barn or belly crawling through shrubbery where they can't be seen. They are all Dobermans, five and six years old, in their prime. Davison would not crop their ears or bob their tails, as is usually done with Dobermans, for he has an affinity for nature's predators. He is able to perceive the world to a degree as he believes that animals perceive it-the elemental nature of their view, their needs, the importance of raw sensation. They have a kinship. They are one and the same, the lone exception being that he is the Alpha.

The dog by the corner of the house slinks into the open, and the dog at the barn emerges from beneath the black-limbed maple. A third Doberman rises from behind the massive and half-petrified stump of a long-vanquished cedar in the side yard, around which has grown a tangled mass of holly.

“Achtung!” Davison’s voice booms out of a speaker nearby. The dogs’ ears perk up. The crew looks up. There is some kind of speaker attached to the porch directly underneath a surveillance camera. The Dobermans hear the voice of their master, however, they don't wag their tails or in any way exhibit pleasure, because they are still on duty. The fourth dog remains hidden, but these three drift warily around the crew through the rain and the mist. Their heads are lifted, pointy cars flicked up and forward. In their disciplined silence and indifference to the storm, they remind him of a herd of elk in a redwood grove. The big difference, of course, is that these creatures, if confronted by anyone other than their beloved master, would not respond with the timidity of elk but would tear the throat out of that luckless person.

The fourth comes out from behind their vehicle as the camera crew, still recording with their singular camera, remains motionless. The four dogs are all quivering with excitement still holding themselves in check, not wanting to be thought derelict in their duty. Davison could have the canines attack by speaking the name ‘Suess,’ at which point they would kill anyone else who walks onto the property. The irony of the command is that it is the name of the famous children’s author, This always amused him. They will remain primed to kill anyone who walks onto the property until he speaks a different name. “Rommel” comes Davison’s voice again. Upon hearing the name of the famous German war strategist, it is as though a light switch is flipped, the vicious guard dogs become as affable as any other group of sociable mutts-except, of course, if anyone unwisely threatens their master. “Box,” Davison further instructs them.  “Come inside. I am ready for you,” Davison commands the camera crew as the dogs scurry away to the back of the barn, leaving the camera crew alone in the rain. Still, they do not bark, for he has schooled them in silence.

The crew gathers the rest of their equipment and walks through the soggy grass to the old log house and climbs a set of fieldstone steps to the front porch. A mobile hangs at one corner of the porch, from the fascia board at the edge of the shake-shingle roof. It is made of twenty-eight white seashells, all quite small, some with lovely pink interiors; most are spiral in form, and all are relatively exotic. The bentwood rocker that Davison was dreaming about has been stored away until spring. The rustic aesthetic is otherwise intact.

The front room on the ground floor ran the entire width of the small house. It was illuminated only by the gray light from the window. There were hunter-green leather armchairs with footstools, a tartan plaid sofa on large ball feet, rustic oak end tables, and a section of bookshelves that held perhaps three hundred volumes. On the hearth of the big river-rock fireplace were gleaming brass and irons, and on the mantel was an old clock with two bronze stags rearing up on their hind legs. The decor was thoroughly but not aggressively masculine. No glassily staring deer or bear heads on the walls, no hunting prints, no rifles on display, just cozy and comfortable. For a man who proclaimed he wanted the best of everything, his second residence was surprisingly underwhelming.

The house was redolent of lemon-oil furniture polish and a subtle pine-scented air freshener, as well as the faint and pleasant smell of char from the fireplace. The camera crew, still nervous, hurriedly crosses the front room to a half-open door. They opened it and went through and found a kitchen. Canary-yellow ceramic tile with knotty-pine cabinets. On the floor, gray vinyl tile speckled with yellow and green and red. Well scrubbed. Everything in its place. Quite rustic. Taped to the side of the refrigerator was a calendar already turned forward to April, with a color photograph that showed one white and one black kitten-both with dazzling green eyes-peering out from a huge spray of lilies. Based on his recent behavior, the normalcy of the house was terrifying. The gleaming surfaces, the tidiness, the homey touches, It was too perfect. You could easily picture Rose, Blanche, Dorothy, and Sophia sitting down for a slice of cheesecake.

“Anyone else think this is weird?” one of the crew members blurts out. There is a collective murmur amongst the rest of the crew as they make their way through the kitchen. The ambiance was very much a physical representation of Davison’s skewed mentality. The house serves its purpose much the same way each and every person in his life and has their purpose.

Through the four glass panes in the upper half, they see a back porch, a green yard, a couple of big trees, and the barn. They make their way past the rear door, pausing only momentarily to see if anyone was on the other side of it. Without any partition, the kitchen opened into the dining area, and the combined space was probably two-thirds the width of the house. The round dinette table was dark pine, supported by a thick central drum rather than legs; the four heavy pine captain's chairs featured tie-on back and seat cushions.

The noise of a running shower was apparent in the kitchen because the pipes were routed through the rear wall of the old house. Water being drawn upward to the bathroom made an urgent, hollow rushing sound through copper. Furthermore, the pipe wasn't tied down and insulated as well as it ought to have been, and at some point along its course, it vibrated against a wall stud: rapid knocking behind the plasterboard, tatta-tatta-tatta-tatta-tatta. The noise could be construed as either comforting, as there theoretically should be someone else in the home, or rather disconcerting, as the vibrations make you feel as though everything is moving, even though all except the pipes are perfectly still.

At the north end of the dining area was another door. Adorning the door is a hand-painted sign, the color of blood, are the words “This way.” The leader of the camera crew, one would assume the producer, turns the knob as quietly as she could, hand visibly shaking. She crosses the threshold with caution, motioning for the rest of the crew to follow her. Beyond lay a combination of laundry and storage room. A washer. An electric dryer. Boxes and bottles of laundry supplies were stored in an orderly fashion on two open shelves, and the air smells like detergent and bleach. The rush of water and the knocking pipe was even louder here than they had been in the kitchen. To the left, past the washer and dryer, was another door-rough pine, painted lime green. She opens it and sees stairs leading down to a black cellar. Her heart begins to beat faster.

Black. Pitch black.

There are absolutely no windows at all below. Not even a turbid leak of gray storm light seeping through narrow casements or screened ventilation cutouts. Dungeon dark. It’s the sort of thing where you would expect to turn on a light and find someone locked up. But if Davison were that demented and was keeping a captive down there, how odd that he wouldn't have added a lock to this upper door. It offered only the spring latch that retracted with a twist of the knob, not a real lock of any kind.

But that’s part of the game for Davison. Even without his presence, he is deep in the collective minds of the camera crew. The hopefully hypothetical captive might be sealed in a windowless room deep below, of course, or even manacled. They would have no hope of reaching these stairs and this upper door, even if left alone for days to worry at her restraints, which would explain why Davison would be confident that one more barrier to their flight wasn't necessary even when he was away from home.

The producer is snapped back into reality by the lights that came on behind her. In this day and age, everyone had a flashlight on their phones. Her shadow cast against the wall, she is leaning through the doorway, feeling along the stairwell wall for the switch, and snapped it up. Lights came on both at the upper landing and in the basement. ‘How in the hell can they aim a camera but not a flashlight?’ she thinks to herself. The bare concrete steps-a single flight-were steep. They appeared to be much newer than the house itself, perhaps even a relatively recent addition. “Be careful of the stairs, everyone. We don’t need anyone busting their ass.”

Halfway down the stairs, she glanced back and up. At the end of a trail of her wet shoe prints, the landing seemed a quarter of a mile above her, as far away as the top of the knoll had seemed from the front porch of the house. Alice down the rabbit hole into madness without a tea party.

“Do we really have to do this? It seems a little outside of our pay grade,” one of the crew members questions.

“Unfortunately,” the producer responds. She had a feeling of uneasiness. To her, this feels like one of those haunted houses that you go to on Halloween. At the open doorway between the in-kitchen dining area and the laundry room, Davison hears the mystery woman call out, hoping to hear his voice. She and the rest of the crew are only a few feet away from him, around the comer, past the washer and the dryer. He stands blinking but otherwise motionless in the fragrance of laundry detergent and in the wall-muffled rattle of copper pipes. ‘This is going to be fun,’ Davison muses.

“Davison? Ken? We know you’re here… somewhere.”

The cellar door stands open. The stairwell light is on. The crew is not in sight. On those infrequent occasions when he has guests to the house for dinner or a business meeting, he always leaves a Doberman in the laundry room. The dog lies in here, silent and dozing. But if anyone other than Davison were to enter, the dog would bark and snarl and drive them backward. Völsung was his go-to for such things. As the runt of the litter, he vaguely reminded Davison of.himself Undersized when compared to most others of his breed, but still capable of putting a callous contravention upon a calamitous casualty. When the master is away, Dobermans vigilantly patrol the entire property, and no one has a hope of getting into the house itself, let alone into the cellar.

Truth be told, Davison has never put a lock on the door to the cellar steps because he is concerned that it might accidentally trip, imprisoning him down there when he is at play and unaware. With a key-operated deadbolt, of course, this catastrophe could never happen. He, himself, is incapable of imagining how any such mechanism could malfunction and trap him; nevertheless, he's too concerned about the prospect to take the risk. Just as he does inside of the ring, he considers every possibility outside of it.

After a hesitation, he leans through the open door and looks down the cellar stairs. The last member of the camera crew, a towheaded young man, short and slender, is only a few steps from the bottom. He's got one hand on the railing. His full attention is aimed in front of him, following the direction of the producer. as though she were the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Regardless, even if she were the piper, he was the puppetmaster pulling her strings. He could have just as easily met the crew somewhere else, but he enjoyed this feeling of control.

He eases through the doorway onto the upper landing. As close as they are, they do not hear him because all is concrete, nothing to creak. He aims his hand as though it were a pistol, pointing at the center of the blonde gentleman's back. The first shot would catapult him off his feet, send him flying with arms spread like an eagle. Instead of taking flight, the body would fall toward the basement below. The second shot would take him as he is in flight. Davison would then race down the stairs, firing the third and fourth rounds, hitting other members of the camera crew in the legs if possible. He would then tackle the producer from behind while she took in the carnage. He would drop on top of her, press the muzzle into the back of her head, and then, then, when he's totally in control of her, dominant, he can decide what to do with her. Just as the minds of the camera crew had wandered, so had Davison’s. This, however, was not that kind of hunt. For as much as the idea intrigued him, he was no killer.

The outer wall of mortared stone was to their right. There was nowhere to go in that direction. To her left was a chamber about ten feet from front to back, and as wide as the house. The crew moved away from the foot of the stairs, into this new space. At one end stood an oil-fired furnace and a large electric water heater. At the other end were tall metal storage cabinets with vent slits in the doors, a workbench, and a tool chest on wheels. Nothing that would seem out of the ordinary, with a lone exception. Directly ahead, in a concrete-block wall, a strange door waited. Click-whoosh. The sound of the furnace startles the crew, revealing exactly how on edge they are. Over the sound of the furnace, they could still hear the vibrating pipe. Tatta-tatta-tatta. It was faint here, but still audible.

The door in the back wall was padded like a theater door, in leather grain maroon vinyl divided into quilt-like squares by eight upholstery nails with large round heads covered in matching vinyl. The frame was upholstered in the same material. No lock, not even a spring latch, prevented her from proceeding. Putting her hand on the vinyl, the producer discovers that the padding was even plusher than it appeared to be. As much as two inches of foam covered the underlying wood. She gripped the long stainless-steel, U-shaped handle. When she pulled, the vinyl-encased door softly scraped and squeaked across the upholstery on the jamb. The fit was snug: When the door swung all the way free of the jamb and the seal was broken, there was a faint sound similar to that made when one opened a jar of vacuum-packed peanuts. The door was upholstered on the inside as well. The overall thickness was in excess of five inches. Beyond this new threshold lay a six-foot-square chamber with a low ceiling, which reminded her of an elevator, except that every surface other than the floor was upholstered. The floor was covered with a rubber mat of the kind used in many restaurant kitchens for the comfort of cooks who worked on their feet for hours at a time. In the dim light from the recessed overhead bulb, she saw that the fabric here wasn't vinyl but gray cotton with a nubbly texture.

Directly opposite the door that the producer held open was one more door. It was also padded and set in an upholstered frame. Finally, there were locks. The gray upholstery plumped around two heavy-duty brass lock cylinders. She and the rest of the crew couldn't proceed without keys. Then she noticed a small padded panel overlying the door itself at eye level, perhaps six by ten inches with a knob attached. It was like the sliding panel over the viewport in the solid door of a maximum-security prison cell. Tatta-tatta-tatta… whoever was in the shower seemed to be taking an unusually long shower. On the other hand, they hadn't been in the house more than three or four minutes; it just seemed longer. If he was having a leisurely scrub, he might not be half done.

Tatta-tatta-tatta. Beyond was rose-colored light. The port was fitted with a sturdy screen to protect the viewer from assault by whoever or whatever was within. The producer puts her face to the port and saw a large chamber nearly the size of the living room under which it was situated. In portions of the space, shadows were pooled deep, and the only light came from three lamps with fringed fabric shades and pink bulbs that were each putting out about forty watts. At two places along the back wall were panels of red and gold brocade that hung from brass rods as if covering windows, but there could be no windows underground; the brocade was just set dressing to make the room more comfortable… or maybe it was designed to make the room more uncomfortable. It was hard to say. On the wall to the left, barely touched by light, was a large tattered tapestry: a scene of women in long dresses and cloche hats riding horses side-saddle through spring grass and flowers, past a verdant forest.

The furnishings included a plump armchair with antimacassars, a double bed with a white headboard painted with a scene not quite discernible in the rose light, bookcases with acanthus-leaf molding, cabinets with mullioned doors, a small dining table with a heavily carved apron, two Directoire chairs with flower-pattern upholstery flanking the table, and a refrigerator. An immense dark-stained armoire, featuring crackle-glazed flower appliques on all the door panels, was old but probably not a genuine antique, battered but handsome. A padded vanity bench sat before a makeup table with a triptych mirror in a gilded, fluted frame. In a far comer were a toilet and a sink. As weird as this subterranean room was, like a storage vault for the stage furniture from a production of Arsenic and Old Lace, it housed terrifying horror and Halloween-based decorations.

On the side table next to one of the Directoire chairs is a severed pig’s head, covered in a rather convincing version of fake blood. Bookshelves are lined with several iconic weapons, a replica of Freddy Krueger’s bladed gauntlet, Jason Vorheese’s machete, as well as the pride of Davison’s collection, and a handmade version of Lucille from ‘The Walking Dead.’. Perhaps, the most disturbing of all the decor is a tree, carefully positioned in one of the darker corners of the room. The branches are adorned with several bloody body parts. From the size of them, one could assume that they belonged to a small child.

“What’s red and hangs around trees?” The entire production team jumps, startled by their host appearing suddenly behind them. “A baby hit by a snowblower.” The room was overrun with these kinds of things. The entire production team jumps, startled by their host appearing suddenly behind them. “What’s green and hangs around trees? Same baby three weeks later.”[/color]

Davison was obviously going for shock value, not that he needed it. His memorabilia was shocking enough. They filled the bookshelves, peered out through the glass doors of some of the cabinets, perched on the armoire, sat atop the refrigerator, stood and sat on the floor along the walls. Others were piled atop one another in a different corner and even some at the foot of the bed, legs and arms jutting at odd stiff angles, heads cocked as on broken necks, like stacks of gaily attired corpses awaiting transport to a crematorium. Two, maybe three hundred or so small faces either glowed in the gentle light or were ghost pale in the shadows.

“Get setup. Now. There is no time to waste.” Davison commands. The truth is that Davison has all the time in the world, he is simply done with his game The crew scurries to finish setting up while Davison walks over to a panel of some sort, flipping the switches so the ambiance changes from the gentle rose color to the harshness of a deep crimson. He takes his place in the chair next to the bloody pig’s head and sits down as though it isn’t even there.

“You know, despite my general hatred of people, I love my dogs. They live in an enormous kennel against the back of the barn, which they can enter and leave at will. It is electrically heated during cold weather to ensure their comfort and their continued good health. I have rigged electrically operated dispensers inside the kennel. The system clock has a backup battery to continue timing meals even during a power failure of short duration. If there is a long-term loss of power, the dogs can always resort to hunting for their food. The surrounding meadows are full of field mice and rabbits and squirrels, and the Dobermans are fierce predators. The water trough is fed by a drip line, but if it should ever stop working, they can find their way to the spring that runs through the property.”

“They constitute quite the efficient and reliable security system: never a short in any circuit, never a failed motion detector, never a corroded magnetic contact-and never a false alarm. Oh, and how they love me, how unreservedly and loyally, as no memory chips and wires and cameras and infrared heat sensors ever could. They have been taught to kill not merely in self-defense, not just for food; with a degree of iron self-control, they have been taught to kill for the sheer savage pleasure of it. They understand that I, their master, can and will match their savagery.” Davison raises an eyebrow. “Unlike them, I never needed to be taught.”

Davison smiles slyly. His mood certainly did not miss the macabre tone of his surroundings.

“I come into this match having the advantage of being a relative unknown, aside from reputation. However, I happen to have the good fortune to have first hand knowledge of Brandon Hendrix…”

Davison leans forward in his chair, hands folded. He turns his hands towards the camera, to make certain that he is the center of attention.

“...I think.”

“You see, I find it highly unusual that the company would simply give you a match without any kind of fanfare. You’re not even listed on the company’s roster page on the website. Yet, on your very own Twitter, your pinned tweet from October 6th is you proudly proclaiming your victory for the SCW Heavy Metal Championship. Bravo, Brand-o. Bravo, indeed. The problem here is THIS SCW doesn’t have that title. So, I don’t even know if that was the same guy or if there is a second, probably more talented wrestler, running around with the same name.”

“Brandon Hendrix, your only purpose, prior to offering yourself to me like Marvel and Glimmer, volunteer tributes from District 1, was to run around and take up space. You just happen to be enough of a name in this business to be somewhat recognizable, in that “I know him from somewhere but I can’t remember” sort of way. Despite how I am going to persecute you, you are not someone to root for. You’re just along for the ride. You do not belong in a match vying for a championship opportunity. You are not worthy of your position.”

Davison sits back and crosses his legs, giving a vibe of total relaxation.

“You remind me of the famous, or more appropriately infamous, document from the Mormon faith called “The Salamander Letter.” People initially believed the document to be a legitimate piece of history from within the Latter Day Saint history. The document was so convincing that it was accepted as legitimate, people believed that the document was authentic. In the end, it was proven to be a forgery, painstakingly crafted to make people believe that it was exactly what it appeared to be at face value. I would like to think that is what you are. I would like to think that you have crafted your persona in such a way that people would look at you and dismiss you as a joke. I have a hard time believing that any human being could possibly be as ignorant as you appear to be. You act like you belong in the ring with a wrestler of the caliber of the GKD, “Godly” Ken Davison.But, alas, you do not.”

“For all of my faults, there is one thing that I cannot be accused of. I am exactly the person I present myself to be. I have shown my intellect. I have shown my skill and physical prowess in the ring. When I say that I am going to knock you out for a ten count, it is believable. When I say that I will put you down for the three, you can take that to the bank. When I tell someone that I will shove my hand down their throat and make them squirm until they can’t move anymore, you can take that to the bank. I’d like to say that it will be easy, but that would be a lie. Whether or not you are authentic or not, one thing that I can say is irrevocably true about you is that if you are the Brandon Hendrix I know, you are a scrapper. You are the type of competitor that can hang around far longer than you have any business doing. That can be dangerous if that characteristic is downplayed or ignored. While I know that you should not hope to beat me, we both know that you do hope to beat me. We both know that you will not back down. So, I shall take my payment from you in a pound as though I was a loan shark. You may not be taking my money, but you are taking MY time, MY energy and MY focus that I should be using to prepare for an Internet Championship match. ”

Davison turns his wrist, giving a visible representation of dismissing Brandon to the audience at home.

“ Now, we have Austin James Mercer and Jack Washington. Is the 2 of you are former world champions peris champions. The 2 of you are exactly what I've been asking for since the moment I arrived.  Mercer, you in particular are like mana from heaven, the gift from God that I have desired. I didn't ask for just the best. What I asked for was those who have sinned.  I have asked for opponents that were not only amongst the elite, but those who deserve their own personal reckoning.”

“I want you to realize that people like you are the reason that I exist in this current incarnation. People like you need to understand that I will not only stoop to your level, I will go lower.  People like you need to realize that I will not only find your weakness, I will exploit that weakness, and I will enjoy your suffering.”

Davison sits up straight, no longer relaxed, but completely serious.

“Mercer, you, Washington, and myself all have resumes that speak for themselves.  What separates me from the 2 of you is that I am not a cliche.  Mercer, you walk around acting like you are something special.  When I started in this business, I was the anomaly. Everyone else was six and a half feet tall and almost 300 pounds. You claim that you're some kind of all around great athlete. You're like a Mary Sue with a penis.”

“None of your natural talents will mean anything once we meet in the ring.. I have got 25 years of experience in this business.. Just like your height, experience cannot be taught. Dare I say that my experience advantage makes me far more dangerous than any of your physical gifts. I am going to make it my mission to single you out. I am going to make sure that you suffer. However, I am a kind and benevolent God. I won't completely destroy you. I'll make sure there's at least a couple of scraps to send home to Lisa and Marcus.”

Davison smirks, knowing full well he was beginning the assault on Mercer’s weakness ahead of the match.

“Jack Washington, you are special in a different way. I see a lot of myself and you. Like yourself, I too only deal in facts. The fact is that that I am cut of the same cloth as Alex Jones. Is in fact Kala I was recently reminded that he and I were attacked him for a short while. Unfortunately, my personal life went to shit and I had to leave the company before we could both see the mutual benefits of that partnership. Is that having been said, you dropped the ball. By your own admission, you lost focus and you lost the match. I may not understand the way things work around here, at least not yet. What I do understand is that both you and Mercer are in this match, being given this opportunity, for no reason other than your resumes.”

“You used to be World Champion. Fact. You lost at High Stakes. Fact. You do not deserve an opportunity at the Internet Championship, nor any other championship. Fact. You have fallen from grace and will continue to fall. Fact. You lack both the warmth and the depth to be a cunt. Fact/ Everyone who's ever loved you was wrong. Fact. You state the obvious with a sense of childlike discovery. Fact. You aren't pretty enough to be the stupid. Fact. I am not insulting you. I am describing you. Fact. ”

“I could go on, but I think you get the point. While you may have bested Mac, I am not Bane. I was the one who first referred to Bane as the “Gentleman Wolf.” However, I do not have the reservations he has. I have the physical and intellectual prowess to end your career, but lack the conscience and remorse to prevent me from doing so. You think what I did to you back in Stanford was fun? That was just an introduction.”

Davison stands up, petting the pig’s head while looking directly at the camera.

“This match is a warning. It is a warning to Agostino Romero. It is a warning to Bill Barnhart. This is a warning to each and every man, woman, and child that would dare to stand in the path of the Saviors. Mercer… Hendrix… Washington…you are the sacrificial lambs. I am the slaughter.”

Davison pauses long enough to smirk into the camera.

“Fact."

Davison stands confidently as the camera fades to black.