[Kristopher Ryans]

 18 April 2017
6:14 AM PDT
The Cold Light Of Morning -- Seattle, WA

♬ ”In cold light of morning while everyone is yawning, you're high…..”♬

Something was wrong. Kris’ eyes snap open at the sound of a male voice singing. There was something familiar about it. The few musical notes that accompanied the words are what actually draw him out of his sleep, but, strangely, Heather is not at his side. Even worse, as he stands up, the room is organized differently, and Lindsay’s crib is gone. Kris sits up in bed, looking to the window to see the beach he grew up near in San Diego, but this was Seattle, was it not?

♬ “In the cold light of morning the party gets boring, you're high…..”♬

Again, the same eerily familiar voice sings out softly from another room, drawing Kris’ mind away from the thoughts of how something is amiss with his surroundings. He pushes himself up from the bed, throwing the blanket to his side and walking across the hardwood floors of the loft towards the cracked bedroom door. It is not until he pulls on the handle of the door that he realizes that he does not live in the loft anymore. He goes to turn to the window again, but a noise from just outside the door startles him and draws him that direction.

Looking into the hallway, he sees himself, but not in a reflection. Crouching against the wall of the hallway is a much younger version of himself, a bag clutched in his hand, looking around wildly like he is being chased by someone or something, and just trying to find a place to hide. Kris did not need to investigate the bag further to remember. In fact, not only did he know what was in it, he remembered being crouched against the wall. He knew what he was running from. It also meant that he knew that no matter how hard he ran he would never get away from that particular memory. He takes a step forward towards himself, but before he can close the distance, he watches himself fade away as if he were never there.

♬ “Forget past indiscretions, and stolen possessions, you're high….”♬

That voice again. It was so much like his own, but it was not a perfect match. He takes a few more steps down the hallway, passing the open door to the bathroom. Steam clouds the room at first, but starts to subside when he steps into the doorway in search of the singing voice. It is not there, but another painful memory is. This version of himself is in worse shape than the first. Reese Spencer sits at the side of the bathtub, screaming words that Kris cannot hear at his unresponsive doppelganger, fully clothed having water blasted down on him.

It is hard to breathe. He takes another step into the room, having to put a hand on the wall to balance himself. He reaches out, putting a hand on Reese’s shoulder to try and reassure her that things are going to be okay. This moment was already gone, and he was still standing right here. She needed to know that it was not the end. Just before he can make contact with her, the steam clears, and he is standing alone in the bathroom. Kris blinks a few times, the weight on his chest not lifting even after the images from his past are gone.

♬ ”In the cold light of morning you're drunk sick from whoring, and high....”♬

There it was again. He turns from the bathtub, but is stopped in his tracks. Clarissa Ashford leans against the inside of the doorway. Overcome with emotion he steps forward, needing some kind of proof that she is really standing in front of him. This time there is no sudden disappearance. His hand brushes her cheek, and she smiles at him. The relief that fills him brings a smile to his face when he feels the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. He opens his mouth, trying to form a greeting of any kind that would explain why he felt the need to make sure she is real, but before he can, she shakes her head and places her index finger over her mouth before glancing over her shoulder back towards the hallway.

He should know better than to track her eyes at this point, but finds himself compelled to do so anyways. Just behind Clarissa, hidden because of how short she is, but holding an engagement ring in her hand is Ava. Streaks of eyeliner run down her face, and the weight on his chest intensifies. He steps forward, trying to go around Clarissa and explain, but they both dissipate just like all of the others before them. He does not get the chance to make his case. They are gone.

♬ “Staring back from the mirror’s a face that you don't recognize....”♬

Turning towards the singing voice again, now starting to feel real panic, he realizes he is not in a hallway at all. Instead, it is the living room of the apartment in New York. Again unconscious, Kris is laying on top of the remains of a glass coffee table, a rubber tie still on his arm. It was not something that he had used often, so this memory is easily identifiable. He takes a single step towards himself and the front door busts open. His brother hops the couch that is between the overdosed version of himself and yells back towards the door. Jason starts to pull Kris upright in his lap, snapping his fingers in front of his open eyes.

However, those eyes were focused on one thing and one thing alone, the real Kris. The one that Jason could not see. The one that was fine, and very much alive standing just behind him. The former version of himself shakes his head, and Kris starts to defend himself, but as he he works to form the first syllable they are gone. He is back in the hallway, and that doped up, hollow version of himself stares back at him from a reflection in the glass of a picture frame.

♬ “A loser, a sinner, a cock and a dildos disguise....”♬

It takes every bit of willpower he has to pull himself away from the reflection and down the hallway towards the voice. His steps are small, and labored because no matter how hard he tries he cannot seem to catch his breath. As he inches closer to the end of the hallway, it gets harder and harder to think, let alone function.

♬ “In the cold….”♬  

Just another few steps. It was coming from the living room. Not the fake one from New York. The one right here in Seattle. This was his house. These memories were not real. None of it was real, and he knew that all he needed to do was figure out who was singing and it would all be over. He reaches out for the corner of the wall where the hallway ends and breaks into the living room and peers around the corner as he struggles to raise his foot of the ground to take another step.

♬ “Light…”♬  

There he was. A red hoodie was up over his head and he was facing away from where Kris stood. He recognizes the attire immediately. Anyone would have. It was the hoodie from his time with the Nobodies. The problem was, the person sitting there could not be him. The hair peeking out of the top of the hood was blonde. Kris was many things, but blonde was not one of them. Kris falls forward, abandoning trying to force his legs to work with them. As soon as his hands hit the floor he starts scrambling forwards. At this point he may run out of air before he gets any kind of answer as to what is happening to him.

♬ “Of…”♬  

He crawls across the floor, reaching out with one hand and touching the hip of whoever is sitting in the chair. In response, the man turns, pushing the hood off of his head and looking Kris in the eye. The look that they share lasts decades in Kris’ mind, and there is no doubt in his mind who sits in front of him even though he has never met him. The man smiles, and places a hand on Kris’ shoulder. He leans forward, and whispers a single word into Kris’ ear.

♬ “Day…”

Covered in sweat and breathing more heavily than he can ever recall doing in his life, Kris sits up in bed, and looks around the room. He can see Jason’s house across the street through the window next to the bed. Lindsay is safely in her crib on Heather’s side of the bed and Kris’ wife is sound asleep despite the fact that he had to have been struggling in his sleep. At first he fights the urge to get out of the bed following his experience, but he needed to make sure of something.

Kris walks across the carpeted floors of his bedroom, and directly across the hall from his room to where his son is asleep. The crib bed had been dropped down to be a toddler bed, that KJ was still incapable of climbing over the rail of. The night light in the room bathed the bed in enough light that Kris could see that KJ was fast asleep, lying mostly on his stomach with his face to the side. However, even in the low light there was no mistaking his blonde hair… the exact same color from whatever nightmare Kris had clawed his way out of. As he stands there, just watching his first child sleep, the crack in the curtains starts to show signs of light. The sun was coming up.



============================================================================
============================================================================



21 April 2017
9:10 PM PDT
The Jet City Sports Lab -- Seattle, WA

”Thirteen.”

The video starts on Kris he is hanging off the side of the rock wall at the Jet City Sports Lab, nearly to the top of the wall, but not wearing one of the protective harnesses that ensure that whoever attempts to scale the wall does not break their legs when they make a miscalculation. The camera is being operated by someone at the top of the obstacle, looking down on Kris, who seems to have run out of hand holds for his ascent. The nearest one is just out of his reach, no matter how hard he stretches for it, which could be the reason that he cuts himself off after only one word, a number that means nothing by itself. Kris looks down for a second, and then moves his foot a little closer to his next hand grip, but even trying to push himself that way with his legs does not seem like it is going to be enough. Again he has to reconsider, and this time he brings his legs up higher on the wall to a foothold that was previously at knee height. He leans into the wall, only having one hand with anything the hold onto and takes a deep breath before jumping to his left, and latching his hand onto the grip that he could not have reached otherwise. It is a struggle to get his feet planted, and he swings by a single hand for a few seconds before finding footing. As soon as he does, he looks up at the camera with a smile.

”Seventeen.”

At this point the ascent becomes a little bit easier. Kris finds the grip that he needs to in order to advance up the wall. He slaps his hand on the top edge, and pulls himself up to sit on top of it.

”And two.”

He rubs his hands together, brushing the chalk off of them before shaking his arms out. His breathing is heavy, but not labored like he had nothing left in the tank. He turns to the camera with a less than convincing smile.

”I’ve been thinking a lot about things that I have been running from, and those numbers are definitely a part of it. Since I have been back in SCW I have talked vaguely about past accomplishments. I speak generally when I talk about how long I have been around. I leave out a lot of details that are less than flattering about me in the hopes that they don’t get brought up by my opponents. So why would I bring up the fact that in my near three years in Sin City I have compiled the lackluster record of 13-17-2? Especially if, in doing so, it seems that I lose a lot more often than I win. Sure, we could talk about how wins in other companies are more than enough to ‘right the ship’, but other companies don’t matter. What does matter is Sin City Wrestling, a place where I have beaten Kain, and Goth in main events for the Internet Championship. I have main evented on Climax Control against people like Seven Deadly Sins and Sean Jackson multiple times. At the same time, I have lost matches to historically irrelevant people like Gavin Stephens, and Gabriel Asar.”

The mention of the first of the men is enough to get a laugh at of almost everyone watching other than Kris’ sometimes-friend Mikah, while the second is more of a head scratcher.

”Over the last couple weeks I have been staring at my record and trying to find the silver lining. I obviously cannot stand up here and brag about being the person who beat Mikey Impact, Vincent Peterson or Ninja because nobody remembers who the fuck those people are. They were footnotes. Throwaways. All of the people that actually matter like Equinox, Despayre, and most recently Team BJ got in the ring with me and beat my ass, sometimes more than once. The people you remember, have historically beaten me. That is, unless you want to talk about Joshua Acquin, or for that matter all three of the asshats that Christian and Mark have set up for the Roulette Championship.”

He pauses, letting his hostile glare into the camera sit for a few seconds. The promotional people had correctly labeled him has “impatiently” waiting to be heard.

”Let’s square away all this Roulette bullshit before I get into talking about Acquin. I know he’s supposed to have my focus this week, but I cannot get this frustration out of my system unless I just throw it out there. Why do I need to carry it around? It is only going to distract me. The fact is, there is only one person that is talking about the Roulette Championship that has any reason to be. As far as I can tell, the only person sitting on an undefeated record against Steve Ramone, James Tuscini, and Ryan Keys is me. I have been in the ring with all of them, starting with Steve way back at Climax Control 119. All of these three idiots have held the Roulette Championship and proven exactly one thing: they can’t hang onto the motherfucker no matter how hard they try. But, I guess that doesn’t matter to Christian and Mark. I guess the fact that one of their championships looks like a really bad hot-potato joke more than it does anything prestigious doesn’t bother them. Then again, I am practically opening the show against someone who has always been a scrub in this company, so maybe they aren’t bright enough to realize how bad they are fucking up the Roulette Championship.”

He shrugs, trying his best to brush the thoughts away and focus on his task for this week.

”Joshua Acquin is not totally unrelated to all of that. As I already mentioned, I have already had the opportunity to face him in the ring. It was the same night that I beat Steve Ramone. These two were tag team champions at one point, and faced off against me and Tim after The Nobodies were already a sinking ship. What happened when Tim and I, who couldn’t stand each other at that point, got into the ring with these former tag team champions? The match was one-sided and I can still hear the echoes of Joshua Acquin tapping frantically and begging for the pain to end. ”

The remembers back on that night fondly, and the smile on his face widens.

”The important thing that we have to ask ourselves, is how is this time going to be different? Obviously way back when we had that match, we had tag partners. Josh, you were coming off of losing the tag team championships. I was coming off of losing my Internet Championship after getting jumped in LA a couple nights before the event. In fact, if you take this match out of my record, I was smack in the middle of an eight match losing streak when that match happened. Even worse, I didn’t win another match after that one until I beat Ryan Keys last year. I didn’t care about this company. I was hooked on a few different substances. If you go back and watch some of the matches that I participated in, you can hear the announce team bitch and complain about how I didn’t even look like I wanted to be here. Yet, as low as I was, and as hot as you were at the time, you and Steve walked away with a loss while Tim and I got our hands raised.”

He shakes his head, making a clicking sound with his cheek to signify his disappointment.

”All that being said, this match just doesn’t look very good for you, does it? You aren’t facing some drug addled skeleton that’s not sure where he is or what his name is like you were last time you were in the ring with me. You don’t have a tag partner around to try, but fail, to pick up the slack for you. Instead, you are flying solo against me and my perfectly PURE state of mind. The differences between then and now are numerous. I want to be here now. I want to be someone worth remembering. I’m not just collecting a paycheck to get wasted at night, and I am damn sure a lot more polished inside the ring than I was back then. I have been back here since October and have not been pinned, and have not submitted in all of that time. I got knocked out of Blast From The Past because of a lackluster partner that apparently deserves a top title shot this week while I get left at the bottom of the card struggling to get noticed in the Roulette division. Jet City lost their tag titles by going over a top rope. As far as someone beating me in the middle of that ring, it has not happened since CJ Sharpe cheated to pin me in January of last year. How many times have you been pinned or submitted in the last 473 days, Josh? What about just this year? Those numbers are laughably higher than the zero times it has happened to me.”

Carefully, he turns to his side and stands up on top of the rock wall, brushing off the chalk from his shirt and shorts. Once he gets settled, he takes a single step towards the camera, offering one last thought.

”I have already proven that at my worst, I can be victorious over your best. Unfortunately for you, I am PURE and at my best, and you’re about as intimidating as a sneeze. I look forward to beating you. Even if it is only so that I can rub it in Christian’s face that his ‘punishment’ was about as difficult as trying to find something to hate about Xander Bishop.”