Gravel crunched under heavy boots. The hot air was still, almost stifling. And after all, why not? This was the desert. Heat kind of came as a packaged deal. He approached the hole-in-the-wall he was renting; the red paint on the door was faded and chipping off, several dents decorating the front of it. The concrete around it was just as pockmarked; it was almost a slum. Thatcher Rex had lived in such a place before, but not since his debut in PCW had he done such a thing. He opened the door, entering the premises. The shag carpet was ugly as sin, as was the wallpaper. What, was this place built in the ‘70s? Looking around, it very likely was. He set his suitcase down, locking the door behind him. It was strange, moving to a new town. He knew nobody, knew nothing about Vegas. Truth be told, it was his first time in this particular city. Oh, he’d driven through it a few times in his life, but he’d never stopped, let alone lived, in it.
Television and movies always portrayed Las Vegas in a grandiose fashion, a place of riches and fun. They never showed the residential areas, of course. Thatcher was by no means poor, given the successes in his career. But he always found that one fought harder in the ring when surrounded by desperation at home. If you lived in a penthouse or condo with an indoor pool, 70-inch television screen, plush furniture, and so on, your fighting spirit dulled. You had to know desperate, to taste it, feel in rattle around in your bones before you could fight like your life depended on it.
His eyes scanned the tiny room; calling it a studio apartment would be generous. The ring of his phone diverted his attention, and he smiled as he realized the identity of the caller.“Hello, Shannon.”
For some time, she had been his protégé, but she was now running solo. The Indy circuits were very impressed with her in-ring ability, and Thatcher had been proud to hear it. But despite him being the mentor, Shannon had that ‘mommy’ mentality; she tried to look after Rex whenever she could.“No, I didn’t forget my belts. They stay in Colorado; I don’t need them with me.”
Rex had won numerous titles in his time, but none mattered as far as SCW was concerned. Few would respect his past achievements, many more would mock them.“The only way to earn respect with this locker room is not to talk about what I’ve done, but show them what I can do. I can’t do that if I have past accolades staring me in the face every morning. I have to stay hungry.”
And hungry, he planned to stay.
For a time, anyway.* * *
A lot of people retire from this business, their bodies broken and unable to withstand the rigors of one more match. A lot of tough nuts and hardcases step into the squared circle and give it their all. After years of backbreaking work, they are left physically unable to compete, just one injury away from permanent paralysis or even death. They are forced to walk away, to never look back. The desire for the war still burns within their veins, but they literally can’t step into the ring. Their heyday is over, gone. It’s finished, and there is absolutely nothing they can do about it. Others retire for personal reasons; family, medical, even financial. All are factors when considering a departure from your company, but the desire is still there. These are the guys that not only want one more match, but are actually able to go and have one. Some try to take it further and re-ignite their career. They want to capture their old glory and live in the golden age once more, and who can blame them? The glory days are, well, glorious. They represent a time when you were on top of the world. No force on Earth could halt your momentum.
For a time, I was done with those days. The company I was a part of had closed down and I simply could not find a company that captured my interest. As such, I decided that I was done. It wasn’t about a broken body, or being burnt out, or other obligations. But here I am, two years later, a fresh contract signed with Sin City Wrestling. I’m in the best shape of my life, and I’m hungry for competition. I’ve been hungry. I’ve wanted to set foot in the ring and go toe to toe with the best that this business has to offer ever since I walked away from the closed doors of X3W. Those two years spent without a company consisted of scouting; I looked at various companies all the while trying to determine which had the best athletes. Simcoe, TFWF, the other Sin City Wrestling… all had very strong rosters, some of whom I was familiar with. But this SCW, this caught my eye. There was something special about it, something… unique. A type of flavor, if you will, one reminiscent of one of my favorite companies, Evolution Wrestling. The people were diverse, with different styles and outlooks on life. It was quite refreshing, and I see the same within the halls of SCW.
Now, I’m used to being the big boy on the block, the mass of muscle that many are wary of. Very few in X3W or EPW before that could look me eye to eye. But I’m seeing some people that dwarf the Tyrant King in stature. One of these people is involved in the up-and-coming Triple Threat Match; Derek Thorne. While not a behemoth like Casey Williams, this guy is still big. Derek… you talk a big game, son. You’re stomping around like Godzilla, flexing your muscles and blubbering about strength and winning. It’s all very dramatic, and could be considered intimidating… that is, if you were talking to a fresh-faced rookie clamoring for his first match. But you’re not. I’ve gone up against some of the best this business has to offer, even achieving champion-status at a multi-company conglomeration. Strength and power are nothing new to me. I’ve taken on behemoths that could hurl my two-hundred forty-five pound frame across the ring, seemingly without effort. You look strong, and you may be strong. But it ain’t about how hard you can hit. It’s not about how much you can benchpress. It’s about how much you can take, how hard you can take the hit. It’s about how many times you can climb to your feet from the floor, and tell the other guy to bring on the pain. All fights depend on one thing, Thorne: attitude. Ninety percent attitude, all fights, and I can see that you have that in spades. But the rest, you don’t seem to have. You do have power in those arms, but you seem to be lacking a few essentials; namely, cunning and technique.
Technique always beats strength. You could have the power to benchpress a Volkswagen, but it doesn’t mean squat if someone kicks your kneecap out. Brute force can’t be matched savagery for savagery; you can’t overcome it, but you can redirect it. You’re not impressing me, son, and I guarantee that you’re doing nothing to intimidate the Winter Soldier. John Void, unlike either of us, has experience in the ring of SCW. He has homefield advantage for the moment, and we’re invading his territory. Naturally, he’s going to want to slap down these two upstarts, to show the world that he will not allow new blood to infringe upon his home.
John, I don’t know much about you. You’ve been here a month, and are likely wanting to show the world that you’re no rookie. What better way to solidify your position than by dropping the two newest signees to Sin City? Being the smallest man in the Triple Threat, the underdog as it were, you stand to gain most from beating the bigger men. How wonderful it would be for you to brag about how your skill could overcome the likes of two monster-sized individuals. But I’ll tell you right now, John, that dropping me will take a lot more than what you’ve got. I’m not looking to humiliate you, or take anything away from you. You’re not some enemy that I have a vendetta against; you’re just another guy that I’m competing with. Going head to head with you is not personal; I need to make my mark in SCW the same as you did when you signed on. As it turns out, you’re one of the guys that stands in the way of that. So let’s treat this as professionals, shall we? We’ll fight, the winner will shake hands with the loser, and maybe we’ll go grab a few beers afterwards.
I’m not looking to make enemies just yet. I’m new to SCW, and I’m sure I’ll find me plenty of enemies. Like the majority of the roster, I want a shot at the title. That particular road doesn’t make many friends. There are those that will resent your success, and those that will see you as the target to bring down to prove that they deserve the shot. But for now, I’d prefer to get to know the rest of you.
But I warn you now, don’t push me. If you cheap shot me, if you pull some shady BS, you’ll have a war on your hands.
And I’ll give you a war you wouldn’t believe.
