Smack. Slap. Bang. The sound of taped hands hitting a punching bag. Alex is punching away, sweating up a storm on the punching bag. His hands look a bit raw, the tape doing little to protect him from the continuous force and blows. His beard is dripping with sweat, and the small fuzz on top of his head shimmering with the beads of sweat and cold.

Early morning hours, the only light coming from the multitude of ceiling lights in the small gym he finds himself in. No one else was around at the time, which is somewhat strange. Normally there is one or two other gym junkies getting their early morning pump in. Today however, he was alone. Good Friday. It’d been a long time since the Easter weekend had really meant anything to him. Even as a kid, it wasn’t a major aspect or part of his life.

He was kind of glad for the silence today. It gave him time to just be alone with his thoughts. To be alone with the only person that was really sabotaging him these days. He continued pounding away on the bag, his knuckles threatening to give up beneath each of the blows. He breathed deeply, exhaling with each punch throw. Breathing in between each focused strike.

Easter Weekend and he was going to be getting beaten and bruised for Easter Sunday. It was therapeutic in a way. He could punish others for their insolence. Punish others in the way that he couldn’t punish himself. Be punished for simply existing. For wanting something more from life. For wanting to be part of something. To be fucking acknowledged. For people to stop staring down their nose at him.

A split knuckle, a splatter of blood landing where his fist did. Then another, and another. He didn’t pay attention to it. Continuing to hit away. Continuing to land blow after bloody blow.

“You’re going to kill yourself, rockstar.” A voice in his head said.

James’ voice. His body stiffened, and he stopped. Stopped before the next hit. Stopped before he busted his hand up anymore. Leaving himself a broken mess. He looked down at his hands. At the bleeding knuckles. At the tape that was soaked with blood and sweat. Hissing as the rush of pain finally came to him. He turned, looking around. He was alone. Of course he was alone. James was dead.

James was just another ghost of his mind. A kinder ghost, trying to soothe him. He breathed deeply, and grabbed his towel that was hanging over the top bar holding the bag. Dabbing his forehead, and then wiping his hands. The wounds were small. Just grazes, but enough to be speckling with those crimson beads. He breathed in deeply and picked up his water bottle. Taking a long drink.

“Who are you trying to hurt, daddy?” The voice again. A whisper into his very mind.

He closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head a little. Attempting to shake the ghosts from his very mind. Drinking deeply from his bottle, face towards the floor. Swallowing heavily, he slowly opens his eyes. His mind refused to stop playing tricks on him. There James stood, shimmering and spectral. A ghost of his own creation. A hallucination. The image of a sick man.

“Please, Jimmy. Not now.” Alex managed to squeak out.

James’ ghost smiled and shook his head. Stepping forward and through Alex. Stepping past him.

“Sorry Rockstar. This is all you.” James said.

Alex turned and watched as the hallucination began to pace the nearby area. Pacing the floor of the gym. He wouldn’t look at Alex. Looking around, at the empty gym.

“Do you think what you’re doing is the right thing? Are you happy, baby?” James asked, instinctively cocking an eyebrow from beneath his sunglasses. Half turning back to Alex.

“I don’t know James. I really don’t. I keep trying to find ways to be the person I envision. To be the person I want to be. I’m out there, always trying to be better. I'm here trying to get stronger, quicker and better. We’re always in the fucking ring trying to be better. No matter how much I seem to try, I just can’t seem to get over that hurdle.” Alex said. No longer attempting to clear the hallucinations from his mind.

“Always living in other’s shadows. You’re a disgrace, Alexander.” Another voice this time.

His father. He could feel the cold and sharp hands on his shoulders. Threatening to squeeze around his throat. He didn’t need to see him to know the sneering look on his face. The look of disgust. Alex shrugged the hands off his shoulder and walked forward. Walked through James.

“I’m not living in anybody’s fucking shadow. I’m not you, Vater. I’m not someone who pretends that this is anything but my own fault.” Alex grumbled out.

“That’s not what it seems like, rockstar. You’ve always been self-hating, but you blame the world for it. You blame him.” James said coolly, turning to look at Alex. Looking past him, looking at the father Raven.

“Even your own friend doesn’t believe in you Alexander. How unfortunate. Maybe this is just a bit of schadenfreude for him, hm?” His father said, laughter following it.

Alex shook his head, screwing his eyes up again. Kneeling down on the floor, and pressing his bleeding fists against his temples. Pushing down. Attempting to push them from his mind. Pushing the ghosts out of his mind.

“Maybe it’s time to walk away from it all, sweetheart. Live your life with Luna. Live happily. Be happy.” Another voice.

Lauren. His dead wife. Apparently Easter brought all the dead back to life. He could feel the tears welling. His mind was attempting to tear him apart. The silence he was so desperate for was torn away by his very own brain. He knew they weren’t real. He knew that they weren’t, but no matter how much he tried. They just never left him alone.

“Please.” Alex croaked out, pounding his fists into the side of his head, over and over.

“Please leave me alone. Please, please.” He said, the tears beginning to fall now. His breathing is heavier now, on the edge of a panic attack. It had been so long since he had had a panic attack.

“You’re nothing but a mistake, Alexander.” His father said.

“You’ve got the power, daddy. You can fix this, I promise you.” James said.

“We love you, Alex. We just want what is best for you.” Lauren said.

He banged his hands on the ground, and yelled out. A visceral cry for help. A scream of pain, sadness and sorrow. He just sat there, screaming. Yelling, a mess of sadness and anger. Trapped in a hell of his own making. A suffering of his own.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” He yelled out between the cries of pain and agony.

And then silence. Sweet, beautiful silence. Moments passed by. His eyes slowly opening, his hands loosening. He was alone. He was alone again. Or so he thought.

“They’re back, aren’t they?” Luna asked as she stepped past him. Kneeling down in front of him. Hands on his cheeks. Holding his face, looking into his eyes.

“Why are they doing this to me?” Alex asked, his eyes filled with tears. A broken man, trying to find peace.



“Hello Benjamin, I see you got my message. Are you finally paying attention? Are you finally ready to face that of which you have started? I’m looking forward to this Benjamin. I’m looking forward to you showing me how to wrestle. That’s what you said, isn’t it? That you were going to show me how it was done? That it was going to ‘mess me up proper.’”

The scene opens to a small gym, akin to that of a BJJ studio. Rolling mats laid out, small bits of tape laid down to indicate different starting spots. Alexander Raven is kneeling on the mats, sitting on his legs. Bare foot, a pair of plain black tracksuits, and a loose tank top. A crudely drawn picture of a dick stapled to the front of it.

“You might be right, Benjamin. If there is anything I’ve ever been honest about, it's that when it comes to this. To this business, to this sport. To wrestling as a whole, I’m not god’s gift. I don’t pretend to be the most technical athlete. I don’t pretend to be the best of the best. I’m no amateur turned professional. I don’t have the background, I don’t have the skill, I don’t have the acumen. These are things that I admit, because I am not afraid of the truth of who I am, Benjamin. I don’t care if people see me one way or another. I’m not a wrestler, I’m a fucking fighter. I’m a brawler, a battler and bare-knuckled boxer. I may not be a better wrestler than you, Benjamin. But I am a much better fucking fighter.”

Alex slowly pushes up, rising to his feet, linking his hands together and rolling his wrists. Loosening himself up.

“I want you to think about this clearly, Benjamin. Who do you think people are more invested in right now? I’m offering you a renaissance of your career. I’ve been doing everything to get you fired up, to get you ready to fight. I’ve been going over and over it. I’ve attacked you, Luna has attacked you. I’ve threatened to turn you into a literal dickhead. Luna has done her very best to mash the brains and skull of Samantha Marlowe. We’ve even got ourselves a pretty little street fight lined up. I’ve done everything for you, Benjamin. And you haven’t even fucking thanked me for it. You’ve just talked down on me. You’ve just gone out of your way to belittle me.”

Alex shakes his head, frustration etching its way across his features. He releases his hands from each other, balling his hands up into tight fists. Pressing them tightly against his temples.

“You haven’t even thanked me, Benjamin. I’ve done all of this for you, and you somehow think I’m the villain. No, no. Benjamin, I’m not the villain in this story. I am just a puppet of greater forces. Forces who won’t let me be free. I’m just a puppet of the people who pamper and give to people like you. Who placate fighters like me, but give us unenviable tasks so as to keep me blinded. But they’ve learnt now, Benjamin. They’ve learnt that I am no Michael Harris that they can simply cast aside when it so benefits them. That they can simply throw to the wind because they no longer enjoy playing with this toy. No, I’ve got them trapped now, Ben. Because I want to be free. I want to be let loose, I want my contract ended. I made the call and I was fucking denied it.”

He begins to grind his fists against his temples, shaking his head back and forth vigorously. His eyes closed tight, the anger heavy on his features.

“So now, I’m trying to give back. To build layabouts like yourself into something worthwhile. To teach ‘wrestlers’ and ‘kings’ how to be the fucking fighters they need to be. To be the fighters needed to fight off the machinations and manipulations of these puppeteers that deem themselves fucking gods of us. But I’m the villain for wanting to behead these bastards that think themselves above us. And you’re taking their side Benjamin. Everyone takes their side. But that’s okay. Truly, I understand, Benjamin. We’ll walk into Climax Control. You’ll swing your gusto and bravado around. You’ll flex and you’ll mess me up proper. You’ll put on a masterclass in wrestling and make me look the fool. Punish me for punishing you. Placate your masters and beg for their acknowledgement. So the two of you, you and Samantha, can go and get your wind back and take those Mixed Tag Team championships.”

He begins to pound the sides of his head with his fists now. Eyes still screwed tightly shut, his mouth pulled into a sharp sneer. Flecks of spittle flying from his mouth.

“Yet, maybe, I’ve finally gotten under your skin this time, Ben. See what I did to Jamie Dean, well. That was a message. A message that I don’t care if you can wrestle. I don’t care if you think I’m talking shit, making ‘bad jokes’ and pretending to be something I’m not. I do not live in delusion, I do not live in lies. I am who I am and I do not pretend to be anything else. I want you fired up, I want you to be ready to go to fucking war. If it takes hurting those around you to get you there, then I will hurt every single person between us. I will break every person you love, if that is what it takes to get you to stop being this prim and proper, cockney fucking asshole. Anyone can swing a chair, but only those who want to hurt someone can swing it properly. Anyone can brawl, but only those with the passion and hatred can do it well. Anyone can be you, Benjamin; but nobody can be Alexander Raven.”

His pounding stops, and a wash of calm comes over his face. A deep breath in, and a smile crossing his face. He slowly reaches into his pocket, and removes a heavy duty staple gun. Reaching into another pocket he slowly removes a folded up piece of paper.

“You haven’t even said thank you, Benjamin. That’s the worst part of all of this. I’ve done everything for you. I’ve done everything to help you. To make you a better wrestler, a better fighter. A smarter man, a more observant man. I’ve done everything I can do to light the fire under your ass, and you haven’t even thanked me. Why do you hate me, Benjamin? Why do you pretend to be a paragon of virtue, a man who lives with his life on display, yet you spew such hate for me. Hate for someone who has done nothing but try to make you better? That’s where we are different, Benjamin. I do this for everyone. I do what I do because I need them to be better. I need people to be true. And I know I’m repeating myself here, I’m well aware of it. See, I go in circles. Over and over.”

Alex begins to walk, walking in a small figure eight. Three or four steps each way. Lifting the piece of paper that had been folded up in his pocket and fiddling with it. Slowly unfolding it.

“But that’s because I feel like a trapped animal, Ben. I feel like I am stuck here, perpetually stuck. That no matter what I do, I’m banging against the steel bars of my cage. So when I see an opportunity to lure in one of the jailors. Then I have to do what I have to do. If that means, shoving a spike through your fucking eye, then so be it. If that means stapling things to your head, then so be it. If that means, I have to hurt those that matter to you to make you pay attention, then so fucking be it Benjamin. I’m so tired of pretending to be a good person. I’m so tired of pretending to be something I’m not. I’m so tired of being here.”

He places the now unfolded sheet against his forehead, and then presses the staple gun up against it. The snap sound of the staple embedding into his flesh. Sticking the paper to his forehead. Conveniently short enough to keep his mouth clear, but his eyes now hidden. A small stream of blood began to flow down his face. Like tears of blood. On the paper it simply read: ‘ETERNAL PRISONER’.

“Are you willing to face that which lies before us? This is not the end, Benjamin. This is a taste. This is a warning. This is the beginning. We walk into Climax Control, a bull ready to kill and the bird that has been mocking it for weeks. This is just a warm-up, Ben. Because a smart manipulator knows. The bull can be put to the sword early, if need be. That the charging animal, as deadly as it is, is the easiest to catch with a hidden blade beneath the waving flag. So I have to question you Ben. Can you keep your focus for just another few weeks? Or do you get put to the sword and laid to rest. You demanded this, because I put the fear of God into you. Will you regret it, when you’re too broken, battered and bruised to protect those that matter the most to you? I’m looking forward to being free, for just a minute Benjamin. To have those shackles released, to have the freedom to be who I am. To be who everyone seems to think I am, because I choose to be that person. The tireless beast. The man who can swing a jar, jab a spike and choke with a pole.”

He slowly begins to sit once more. Placing the stapler beside him, sitting cross-legged on the map. He turns his face down a little, the blood dripping from his chin onto the mat beneath him.

“I’m tormented by the ghosts of my past, Benjamin. Pulling and tearing me every which way. I can hear my father mocking me. Laughing that I can’t get to the heights I did at the start of my career. I can hear my dead ex-wife, begging me to stop. Begging me to forgive myself. To forgive others for their actions. I can hear my dead former friend and destroyer of my life. I can hear him telling me how I’m just not quite as good as him. How I will always be less than the man who took everything I ever loved. I can hear my dead best friend. My brother-in-law. The only man in my life that ever showed me absolutely unconditional love. I can hear him, telling me to stop hurting myself. To stop hurting those around me. To stop the pain. To stop destroying myself. I’m plagued by the ghosts of my past, Benjamin. I need to drown their voices out, and do you know how I drown them out? How do I stop them from tormenting me?”

He raises his hand smearing the drops of blood across his face. Then picks up the staple gun once more. Pressing it against his cheek, and stapling. And then to the other cheek and stapling again. All three sticking deep into the flesh beneath the paper.

“I bleed, Ben. I bleed and I bleed. I fight and I fight. I look at the next thing in front of me, and charge headlong into it. That’s how I stop it. You’re a means to and end for me, Benjamin. This was never personal, no matter what you may see it as. These actions weren’t for you. They were for me. It’s hypocritical, I know. I demand thanks from you, but that exists in its own reality. I demand thanks because I’ve given you a fire that you needed. I’m using you to drown out my demons. To drown the ghosts of my past. This is a two way relationship, and I just need you to see it. Can you see it, Benjamin?”

He leans forward, reaching up and ripping the paper from his face. The staple pin pricks dribbling down blood. His mouth smeared from earlier.

“Are you listening to me now, Benjamin? Are you paying attention?”

“The Conspiracy is here.”

And then.

Nothing.

Darkness.

Silence.

November 13th, 2015

The sound of flesh against flesh. No matter how many times he had heard it, he could never get it out of his head. Parts of him had been waiting for this day from his earliest memories. Part of him had been wishing it would never come about. All those years, all those nights. Cowering in fear at every bang, every knock, every slam of the door. Crying at the sound of flesh on flesh coming from the next room over. Never knowing if he was going to be the next to feel the boxer’s fists. It was a story the whole world knew at this point. He had never been shy about outing his father.

Yet, there had been moments of reconciliation. Somehow he had found a place in his heart to understand, to forgive. To accept that his father had an illness. An illness that made him do the awful things he did. Self-doubt, hatred and alcoholism led that stout, punch drunk old man down a dark path. People always like to think that the evil get their comeuppance. That the bad guys eventually get hit with karmic retribution. Yet, Lars Rabenschwarz was never going to suffer the whims of karmic retribution. No amount of reconciliation could ever truly undo the damage he had wrought. The damage that he had done onto not just his own son and wife. But his friends, his career, and even his pseudo-adopted children.

Freedom.

Alex had always just wanted freedom. Freedom from his father. Freedom from the past. The freedom to make his own path, free of the tortures of his past. Reconciliation was meant to give him his freedom. Reconciliation was meant to be the path forward. Reconciliation did nothing. He could remember that day well. November Thirteenth, two-thousand and fifteen. Tigers never change their stripes, and cheetahs never change their spots. This man however, was not a cat. Not even the bird his namesake would have you believe. No this man, he was a snake. A snake selling his own oil.

Flesh on flesh, no matter how many times he heard it. It took Alex back to a place he had long sought to escape. So on this fateful day, Luna had done nothing but attempt to help him. When she had been nothing but a sweet angel, he decided to take things into his own hands. Lars Rabenschwarz raised his drunken fist and cracked that sweet girl across the jaw. Hit her so hard he almost dislocated her jaw. Sent her crashing, unconscious to the floor. The sound of flesh on flesh. It all came back to him at that moment.

Alex could remember seeing red. His fist striking his father, over and over. The pig headed bastard laughing through it. Laughing after every hit. Laughing after every strike. As blood leaked from his nose, from his teeth, from open wounds. He just laughed, and laughed. Mocking the man who was beating his face in. Mocking Alexander, mocking his son. James had helped Luna out. The man was surprisingly restrained. Maybe feeling there was nothing else he could do. Nothing more than what was already happening.

In the furor he hadn’t noticed the over-turned bottle. The leaking booze onto the floor. The tea towel that had been bumped a little too close to the stove top. They hadn’t noticed that the pot on the stove was boiling over. In the furor they hadn’t noticed all the little details. The flames brought him back to reality. The heat of the flames had a very sobering effect. He looked down at the bloodied man under him. Still laughing, his face a twisted mess. Yet he still was laughing, choking through the blood.

The kitchen lit up almost instantly. Flash over was quick in these almost entirely plastic houses they lived in these days. The flames lapped up, and he suddenly found himself stuck in this ring of flames. The laughter had stopped. The sudden panic, the realisation of the situation. Alex looked down into his father’s eyes. Saw the panic, saw the fear. The first time he’d ever really seen the man afraid.

Staring into his eyes, Alex felt the smile creep onto his face. There was a window, a gap, a space in the suddenly rising flames. He could carry the man out. He could save his father. Save the man who had done everything in his life to make Alex’s a living fucking hell. He looked down into his father’s eyes, as he saw the realisation kick in.

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He released his hold on his father. Released the grip, and turned. Sprinting through the flames. Never looking back. Never taking a moment to look back at the moment he had just left to die. To burn in a grave of his own making. No regret, just a sense of freedom. A rush of freedom. An escape.

James had his phone out, but hadn’t yet made the call to emergency services. He saw Alex break through the flames and smoke, and out into the field. Out into the yard. Alex locked eyes with James from afar and shook his head. “Let it fucking burn.” Alex yelled out as he stumbled towards them. Luna had come to, her left eye already rocking a nice purple hue. A shiner to remember. As he came near them, he just fell. Fell to the ground, and rolled over. Resting himself on his elbows. Staring as the flames tore the house apart. They stared at it, and James knelt down. Placing a hand on his shoulder.

“He’ll die, Rockstar. You good with that?” James said, softly. Without judgement.

Alex looked at him. It was beginning to dawn. The creeping guilt. In the moment, the release was perfect. It seemed to be the way forward. It seemed like a reasonable decision. The man had hurt everyone he had ever said he loved. Burning in his own hubris seemed the way to go. But, now that he thought about it. He didn’t know. Would he hate himself forever because of it?

“I don’t know, Jimmy.” Alex managed to eke out, slowly sitting himself up. James nodded, and turned away. Calling the fire services. The world was suddenly a bit quieter after that. His head was so loud, but at the same time. So quiet. None of his thoughts really mattered in that moment. The investigation ruled the fire as an accident. A drunken man had fallen in his state and accidentally started the inferno. The damage was mostly contained to the kitchen. The rest of the house was mostly unblemished by the sudden fire. A small miracle some might say.

“I’m sorry sir. Your father didn’t make it.” One of the Fire Fighters said, placing a hand on his shoulder. He would never forget that day. November thirteen, two-thousand and fifteen.


Present Day

Sitting on his balcony, he felt the cool breeze on his skin. He’d been thinking about the past a lot more recently. Partly due to the return hallucinations. Ghosts of his past that wouldn’t let him simply forget about them. His father, Leon, and even his late wife. The ghosts of Raven’s past, if you will. He laughed a little to himself at the thought. It was ludicrous, but it was fitting too. Luna was in the process of breaking her lease, but had decided to spend one last night at her apartment. Getting her things together. Preparing to move into his apartment. Not that he was sure where they’d fit everything. The joys of marriage.

He had a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. A pretty common occurrence at this point. Sitting bare-chested in the cold wind, he was acutely aware of how strange it was that he couldn’t really feel it. He knew he should be cold, shivering and his skin should hurt from the sharpness of the chill. But he was just numb. Numb to the world. Thinking back to that day, maybe it affected him more than he liked to think. Things had really started to change then. He’d go back to wrestling for a short time after that. Become a world champion again, get his head beaten so badly that his brain swelled. Eventually he would suffer the fate of being burnt alive.

Left in the centre of the ring, set aflame as people just watched on. A spectacle for the violent masses to scream for more. Baying for more blood, more violence. They were never satisfied with what was before them. Always needing more. Maybe all the punishment had done some long-term damage? His arm was never really the same after he sliced it open in Puerto Rico. The sensation had never fully come back. His nose had been permanently crooked after Austin James Mercer broke it. His coccyx was almost always bruised. Part of the package with hitting the Raven’s Spine over and over. His body was breaking down. The real reason he wanted to get away from it all? He was killing himself, and he didn’t know if he could stop it.

The cigarette fell from his lips and landed on his chest. Rolling down it, burning the flesh as it went. A sizzle, a sensation of life. He felt it burn its way down, but didn’t stop it. The pain was reassurance. Reassurance that he was alive. A reminder that he could still feel, if he just let himself have a moment. He let it burn, the flesh burning more and more. The sharpness of the pain was almost… releasing. Then it clicked and he batted it away. Wincing a little as the reality of the pain settled in. He looked up slowly from the wound on his stomach and almost fell out of his chair.

James was there, staring at him. A look of worry in his eyes. He could deal with the torturous ghosts. His father, Leon, Lauren. He could deal with them tormenting him. Leading his dreams into places of fear and worry. But please, not James. Anyone but James. “Come on rockstar. You’re better than this.” The ghost of James said. He wanted to reach out. To wrap his arms around him, and say he was sorry. Sorry for the agony. Sorry for the pain, to apologise for not being able to save him. For not being there in the final moments. But he knew that he couldn’t. That no matter what, it was just a figment of his imagination, sent here by his own brain to torment him.

“I’m so tired, Jimmy.” Alex said, lowering his head again. Placing his face into his hands. Breathing heavily, shakily. The sudden rush of feeling made him shiver. The cold wind felt sharp on his skin all of a sudden.

“I said I was proud of you, rockstar. Don’t you ever forget that.” James said softly. A quick updraft of wind, made Alex raise his head. He was alone again. A moment of reprieve. Maybe not all the ghosts were bad. He hissed as he looked down at the burn that now sat on his stomach. The pain drowned out all other thoughts. Maybe he deserved this. Maybe this was his karmic retribution?


“Last year was one of the best and worst years of my life. I cemented myself as not just another face in a murky puddle. No, I went in and proved that I am more than anything anyone has ever said. I became the most successful Internet Champion in recent memory. I became the workhorse of Sin City Wrestling. I fought every person thrown my way, win or lose; it didn’t matter. I stood at the peak of the mountain, and I fell all the fucking way down. Loss after loss. Failure after failure. I wanted to leave six months ago; my confidence was shot. I wanted out, I still want out.”
 
“No matter what I fucking do, I just can’t get out. So I made it a resolution to punish everyone else for it. I was put into that six-pack challenge, and I was second best. No matter what anyone else wants to say, wants to do, wants to argue. I was the man to be seen. I was the man who took James to his limit, and almost had him. So when everyone was screaming for attention. When everyone was screaming to be the man who would get him one on one, you know who got the attention? I did. I was the golden boy in that hour, because I am the only one that deserved to climb back up that fucking mountain. No journey is free of stumbling, and I am not an idiot. I’m not an idiot who thinks that I am infallible.”
 
“I wanted out. I wanted to be fucking free, and you know what I got offered instead? Threats. I’ve done everything fucking right by this company. I’ve done everything fucking right by Christian and Mark, and you know what that got me? Threats. I’m not being allowed out of my contract early. Apparently, J2H can pick his opponents. My choice in the match was only as good as picking the stipulation that benefitted them. I said if I lost, I’d walk. I got my match, I lost, I went to walk. And I got threatened about the consequences if I did. So now, I’m stuck here and I’m fucking angry about it. I wanted to go home, I wanted to bury my friend, take my new wife on our honeymoon. I wanted to get as far away from this place that takes and takes and gives nothing but heartache back. That tears and rips us apart.”
 
“And I get threats.”
 
Alexander Raven is sitting on a small hill. On the hill, a single patch of recently disturbed earth. A small gravestone. In his hands he is holding a lighter. Clicking it on and off, over, and over. His eyes fixated on the small grave. He was wearing a heavy coat, pulled tightly around himself. Braced against the cold world around him. The sun had long since gone away, but there was a nice glow from the moonlight.
 
“My year ended with Luna and I getting married. Within a day, my best friend. My blood brother, the man who got me into this business. Within a day of seeing his sister get married and having the peace. He was fucking dead. And nobody but us will care. This business doesn’t care for us. It just bleeds us dry until we have nothing else to give. I don’t even get the chance to fucking mourn him. So I’ve got some ideas on what I’m going to do. If I’m not allowed to leave, if I’m going to be dragged for every part of my worth. Then I’m going to make life a fucking hell for everyone else. You want to keep me here? I’m going to make both of you, Christian and Mark, fucking regret it. This little championship tournament? I’m going to have to win the whole damn thing. And what better way to start it, then with the man I just can't seem to get a win over.”
 
“Goth.”
 
“It’s interesting how the world brings us together again, don’t you think Goth? Maybe this is their cheeky little way of getting around the demands of J2H. Throw me to a person they don’t think I’ll beat. Historically, you’ve got the best odds. Actually, I think Vaughn is probably the scarier one, but between the two of you, I digress. You, Goth. You have two wins over me. In fact, at every point in which I start a turn in my progress. There you are, to stand as the first roadblock. It’s funny to me Goth. It’s funny that you are that person. You see, last time. I buried my past, my present and threatened to bury you. Maybe the metaphor was overlooked a little, the obvious nature of it. The new keeps some of the old still.”
 
“I want to be a new man, but sometimes. Sometimes the past has a way of creeping in. I always liked to make a stage show of it. To make a performance piece when I was tearing someone apart. For you, I linked our past. Linked the irony of the situation. That Mark Cross pitted us against each other in a casket match. The irony of the situation is that, despite my attempts at burying my past. My attempts at burying you. I was just the same person as I was before, without any real change.”
 
He stops clicking on the lighter and reaches into a pocket. Reaching deep into his coat. He pulls a cigar out of his pocket, a matchbook, and a cutter. He runs the cigar under his nose, inhaling deeply. Cutting the tip off, he holds it in the palm of one hand, the matchbook in the other. He stares at the gravestone, flicking the matchbook open and closed.
 
“I really have two options here, when I think about it. Option one, I bite the bullet, take another loss, get embarrassed and walk out with my tail between my legs. The other is I take this anger. This frustration, this irritation. I take it and put it on all of you. I punish Mark and Christian for their threats. I punish Sin fucking City Wrestling for keeping me in a place that I don’t want to be. At the whim of a champion that I don’t get to fight again. I take this frustration of the loss of my friend, of losing out on my honeymoon, of being forced to stay in a place I have come to hate. And I ruin the elite members that have been picked out. Take them down one by fucking one. So at the end, I stand as the World Champion, take that belt, and hold it all to ransom. Make my demands, make my claims. Those are my options, Goth. Those are my options.”
 
“I’m a bitter, angry, and stubborn bastard. But I’m not a coward. So despite the options, there is no choice here. The only outcome that works for me is this. I walk into Climax Control, I stare you down one more time, and I prove how much of a mistake it is. How much of a mistake that I am being kept here. That I am being kept against my will. I owe you twice over, Goth. I owe it to everyone to prove that I was the only viable choice walking into the match with J2H at the end of last year. To prove for all your bluster, I was the one who deserved it. So there is no choice, Goth. There is no choice because I am left with no choice. I’ve got to make an example of what happens when I’m pushed.”
 
A match out, striking it one handed against the strike strip. It ignites, his eyes fixated on the flames now as he raises the cigar to his mouth. He putts a few times, letting the tobacco warm up. Smoke filling his mouth. Shaking out the flame, he places the matchbook on the grave. Another few putts, and then he holds it out in front of him again. Offering it to the grave in front of him.
 
“This is a matter of freedom for me, Goth. Freedom to make my own choices. Freedom to hunt is what I once said to a mutual colleague of ours. That was the day things changed in my mind. That was the day I started to see things differently. That was the day I decided to take on the fucking world. Ken Davison told me that I had the freedom to hunt, and so I did. I hunted every single person that had wronged me in some way. I took lashes for my hubris, but I continued to run with it. My choices led me to being seen as the second best guy in all of Sin City. My hubris led me to being the second best. The problem for you? For Vaughn, for Austin, and every other person that was hand-selected. You were all hand-selected to be put down by the Napalm Kingslayer. If I’m second best, then all of you are third rate, you in particular.”

“So let us put aside the past. Let us put aside everything that makes this a journey of discovery. Let us decide whether or not this is worth the effort. You wanted to punish me last time. You thought it a method of vindication, of flagellation. Of excusing the sins of the flesh, and you wanted thanks? I’ll give you thanks, Goth. I’ll give you all the thanks you want. I’m putting every fucking person on notice. That until I am free of this place, no one gets away with anything. No one gets free without a bit of blood. No one gets to escape the violence of Alexander Raven. The best part? Every single person who turns up each and every week are going to be baying for your fucking blood. They will want to see the poster boys of Sin City torn down by the man who was just shy of greatness.”

“They’ll turn up, and they’ll scream for me to pop your fucking head off your shoulders. And then, you’ll thank me for it. Thank me for showing you the stupidity of your actions. Thank me for showing you the stupidity of it all. I’m a stubborn bastard who cannot change. So I’m not going to pretend anymore. You’ll get the real Alexander Raven. And if you beat me? Maybe, just maybe. I’ll finally be fucking free.”

He takes one long last putt on the cigar, and slowly lets the smoke billow from his nose. He extends it out and then lays it gingerly upon the grave in front of him. His eyes suddenly darker, his head dropping a little. All the anger flowing out of him with this one small gesture. A deep, heavy and shaky breath. Slowly getting to his feet. Dusting his legs off a little. His eyes fixed on the slowly embering cigar.

“Can you help me be free, Goth? Free of the pain? Free of the agony? Can you help me be free of the actions that I must take? I’m not going to wax poetic, or pretend to be anything grander than what I am. Simply a slug crawling on the surface of this earth like all of us. Another body for the fire, to stoke the flames of the greater authorities' blood lust. Can you help me be free of them? I don’t think you can. I don’t think anyone can. There is no freedom here, no matter how hard I try. I used to talk about rattling the foundations of this city of sin and filth. I used to talk about throwing stones at the stained glass lies that hung in the sky above us. I’ve learnt, the sky isn’t made of glass. The sky is solid fucking steel, and I’m just breaking my bones trying to break it. But maybe, your body will have a bit better of a chance. Are you ready Goth?”


And with that, he walks away. Leaving the world as it once was.

A hill with a grave, and the start of the flames of retribution.

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