[Max Burke]

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We step inside the doors of the infamous South Boston gym, opened by the legendary Peter Welch. If you could smell what you are seeing, a smile would be on your face. Leather... blood... sweat... tears. You can smell the aroma of South Boston fighting lore inside this facility. This is a REAL gym. Nothing fancy. Politically correct? Not so much. PG13? Nope. You leave your ego at the door, or you will regret it as soon as you step on the mat. In the distance we see Max Burke. He is standing on the ring apron of one of the boxing rings in the center of the facility. He is focused on the action inside, as the camera comes in close. Max turns ever so slightly, and points inside to the young prospect inside the ropes.

BURKE: My journey is intriguing. My journey is fate. The deeper Mercedes and I advance in the Blast, the clearer the picture becomes. The “random” drawing was not random at all. This journey that we have embarked on is meant to be. My return is meant to be. The 2017 Blast has brought me to my homes away from home. Philly... now South Boston. The 2017 Blast is grooming our greatness even greater than it has ever been. It’s funny how this is playing out honestly. Nobody expected this to happen.

Max leans against the ropes of the boxing ring at Peter Welch’s South Boston institution. He watches on as a young prospect works mits with one of the grizzled veterans of the gym.

BURKE: You see that logo in the center of that ring. That is the crest of craftsmanship. That is the crest of champions. Peter Welch is a builder of champions. He is not just a teacher. No, this man is the architect behind legendary Boston careers. He is one of my most trusted mentors these days. He is a key advisor on this journey.

The young man snaps off a combo that stings the hands of the veteran, and he gives the kid a nod of respect before signaling him to continue. The kid fires off another right, and then a left cross. He finishes with a stiff right uppercut. Sweat flies off his brow. He swipes it away with the cuff of his boxing glove.

BURKE: He has guided so many careers across multiple arts. Peter’s vision is extraordinary. He takes you from that shit piece of coal, and moulds you into a diamond. He studies you. He watches your tapes. He breaks them down. He breaks you down. He breaks you down to your core, and then it is time. Time to rebuild.

The buzzer goes off, and the young man comes back to the ropes where Max is. Max squirts a bit of water in the open mouth of the youngster. The kid gives it a few swirls and spits it into the bucket at ringside. He is exhausted, but you can see the determination in his eyes. He won’t show weakness. He won’t quit on the old man in the center of the ring sharing his knowledge. He knows the gravity of the lessons being passed down to him. Max, uncharacteristically gives the kid a pat on the cheek, and a nod in approval. The kid is summoned back to the center of the ring, this time for a sparring session with another prospect.

BURKE: I have taken every aspect of my game, and stripped it back to its roots. I knew deep down, it is what was needed. I went to Philly. I rounded out my mixed martial arts there. I came here. Peter, and his staff had a lot to fine tune, but a lot to work with of course. He has taken my hands, and made them weapons. If you look back on my Sin City Wrestling career, look closely. There is no comparison... zero. Hand speed. Punching power. Footwork. Angles. Everything. Night and day compared to where I was three years ago. The biggest thing that I have improved is my ability to see.

The camera zooms in tight to the cold blue eyes of Max Burke. The glisten of approval of the young prospect is gone. It is replaced by extreme focus. The shot pulls out slowly as he continues.

BURKE: Yes, I said see. I see what I am now going to do three... four steps ahead before I do them. It’s not preplanning. It’s vision. I see also see what you are going to do before you do it. You need to have that ability to see where the fight is going to go. It doesn’t matter if it’s within these ropes, inside of a cage, or on the street. Your ability to do this means... you win. Ben, we’ve known each other a long time. I’ve watched countless matches of yours. You might not think it, but you are predictable. You play that good guy, fan favorite card way too often son. I will exploit you come Sunday night. Wait and see friend.

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BURKE: Music. It soothes my soul. It takes me to places that only the legends of yesteryear can. Waters, Redding, Charles, Wonder, Bowie, Mercury, Nicks, Fogerty, Cash, Jennings, Haggard... the list goes on. You cannot compare old school rock, country, blues, and soul to the garbage that pollutes this generation. The messages are timeless. The musicianship is remarkable.

We find Max at another legendary Boston institution, “In Your Ear!” record shop. Hidden below the streets of Boston are decades of experience the retail music industry. The folks that are behind the counter are fountains of knowledge of genres past and present. In the shop, it’s the farthest thing from a current retail music store. Dusty, scuffed up milk crates from decades of use line the floors. There are rows, upon rows of LPs spanning the generations.

BURKE: This is where I love to come when I am not in between those ropes, or at the gym perfecting my craft. I love the hunt. I love the dust. I love the cover art. I love the smell. I love crate digging for vinyl.

Max, sitting cross legged on the floor is flipping through crate after crate when a grin graces his face. He pulls out a very colorful cover. He runs his fingers over the front, tracing out the faces of one of, if not his favorite band. He flips the record over, and reads the tracklist. The smile grows even bigger. He turns the cover to the camera so that he can get a good shot.

BURKE: Sweet. I’m a Queen collector. I don’t have this one yet. “Hot Space” is an interesting one. They’re pretty synth heavy on it. This is when they were at each other’s throats thanks to Freddie’s manager, and the new sound that he wanted for the band. “Under Pressure” is one of my favorite Queen tunes ever. This is cool. I’m definitely taking this one.

Max sets the LP aside, and keeps flipping through the crates. Max slides one crate back into its home, and pulls out another. This one is simply labeled as rock. His fingers fly through the crate with grace that comes with years of crate digging experience.

BURKE: Vinyl definitely tames the beast that is deep within my soul. It is a way for me to come down after my matches. I’ve got a Crosley suitcase player that I take on the road with me. I’ve got a stack of 20 or so LPs that I bring with me, but I definitely like to visit the locals shops in the area that we are in. It’s fun to dig, and find those hidden gems.

Max pulls out The Byrds debut album “Mr. Tambourine Man”. He slips the wax out of its cover, and inspects it quickly with a keen eye. The jacket has seen better days, but the vinyl itself looks barely played. He adds it to his stack on the floor next to him. He continues flipping through LP after LP.

BURKE: Vinyl isn’t just a way for me to unwind after the matches. No, not at all. It’s my way to get in the proper headspace. There are certain artists, groups, and songs that take me where I need to be before a match. During the day leading up to a match I listen to more alternative and heavy metal. Alice Cooper, Ozzy, Nirvana, STP, Metallica are a few of my favorites to get me amped, and focused before a match throughout the day. When we get to an hour before the match, that’s when my ritual begins. Cash... and only Cash. The Man In Black is always what I listen to just before I head out. He has always been head and shoulders above the rest for me since I was a youngster. I have over 20 of his LPs and 45s. There will never be another John R. Cash. The man fires me up every damn time, and gets me where I need to be. Cash was such a badass. Hell, he was even a badass in his gospel days. The man was the definition of a messenger. Nobody, and I mean nobody tells a story like Johnny Cash. The man’s passion was thrown at each and every audience he was ever in front of. Didn’t matter if it was in church, or a maximum security prison. He captivated every single person in the audience. Look at his longevity in the music industry. That didn’t happen by accident. J.R. Cash was unwavering in his way. He didn’t conform for nobody. He is definitely someone that I look up to for that reason. I take a lot of my mannerisms from that man. I take a lot of my style from that man. I definitely have his attitude that is for damned sure. You don’t like me, or the way I do things... good on you. I don’t need your approval, and I don’t want it. I do things my way in, and out of that ring every single day. That will never change. Not ever.

Max grabs his stack of LPs, and heads over to the counter across the room. He hands the vinyl to the clerk. The clerk expertly inspects each record before ringing up the total owed. Max peels off a few bills, and hands them to the old man with a smile. They shake hands, and part ways.

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Gate of Heaven Catholic Church

BURKE: I confess to Almighty God and to you, Father, that I have sinned. My last confession was two months ago. I have come to the Gate of Heaven to seek forgiveness.

Max has indeed come to the Gate of Heaven. He is at the historic Gate of Heaven Catholic Church in South Boston. Max is well dressed this evening for his visit to this South Boston institution. He has a slim fitting black suit with matching tie, and white shirt. He has his hair down, but his sunglasses keep it out of his face. He sits facing the screen, as the silhouette of the elderly priest listens intently.

PRIEST: Go on.

BURKE: Since then, I have committed mortal sins. They are outbursts of rage, selfish rivalries, and jealousy. You see father, I am a professional wrestler. It is a figurative cutthroat business that I am employed. There are often times that I lose control, and take things too far. There are times when I without remorse make my opponent on that day suffer for various reasons... or no reason at all. I came here today, as I believe that this will occur coming up this Sunday evening.

The priest shifts in his chair slightly. Max clutches the seat of the chair, and slides in closer to the screen.

PRIEST: How so? It’s okay. Go on son. Explain yourself. Why do you think this will happen?

Max runs his fingers through his hair. He wipes a small drop of sweat away. He rubs the back of his neck before continuing on with his confession.

BURKE: Well, I left the business three years ago to find myself. I was no longer satisfied with my life, and my goals. I recently came back to participate in a tournament to see if I still had the inspiration... the itch to compete. I have competed twice now, and I have been successful on this most recent journey. My partner, and I have dominated thus far to the surprise of many given my lengthy absence. They all thought I would drag her down, and that has stirred up emotions that I did not even realise were there. Deep down, a burning desire to prove everyone wrong has caused fits of jealousy to surface. You see, I left feeling unfinished. I left before because I fell short in my quest to become the champion of the company. I was angered at the fact that the loss was none of my doing, and now that individual IS the champion of the company. He took a shortcut that even I, as dastardly as I have been in my professional wrestling career... I’d never take. The burning fire of hate for this individual, and his coconspirator is making it clear that I need to make a statement this Sunday.

The silhouette nods as he gathers his words for a moment. Max takes off his sunglasses, and tucks them in his suit jacket pocket. He rolls his hair elastic off his wrist. He pulls his hair back, and quickly ties it up. He adjusts his tie, and unfastens the top button of his dress shirt.

PRIEST: Are these the individuals you are facing on Sunday evening? Why do you believe you need to make a statement?

Max ponders his words that he is about to speak for a moment. Even in the safety of a  confessional he is still very calculating... exact.

BURKE: Unfortunately, no. They will have to wait until a future time. I believe he will pay for his sins this week, as the former champion is outraged at what happened. A miniscule part of my being fears for the paper champion’s safety, but then I remember what he did. The reason I need to make a statement this Sunday is simple. There are still doubters. People have taken me lightly. Some, my first round opponent in particular, did not do his research. He was foolish in not taking me seriously. People warned him, but he did not heed the warning. He paid for this dearly, and is watching from the sidelines as myself and Ms. Vargas advance week after week. This week however is the perfect opportunity to finally silence the doubters once, and for all. This week, I stand across the ring from one of the only true faces of this company. Ben, and I go back years. We are basically the definition of good versus evil in this wrestling industry. He has fans, young and old, around the globe. I on the other hand, I have legions of detractors... doubters. Oh, sure there are some that love to cheer on the bad guy. That’s all well, and good. I don’t want their cheers. I don’t need their cheers. I don’t need their acceptance. Ben, he fits that role. He shakes the hands. He kisses the babies. He poses for the pictures with his fans. I respect his marketability. I respect what he does for the company, but it’s not his time. It’s mine. He’s complacent. He has shown a lack of desire to go after that proverbial brass ring. He’s settled into his role as the fan favorite. He’s the company man.

PRIEST: So, why Ben? Why make the statement against this man? It sounds like you have a mutual respect for each other.

BURKE: We do. That does not change the fact of the matter is this. Ben Jordan needs to step aside. While he has become complacent in being the face of the company, I have been torturing myself for three excruciating years. Three years I have been going back and forth on a daily basis trying to decide if my time in this crazy game that we call professional wrestling was truly over. Torturing myself constantly without a doubt played tricks with my mind... and my passion for wrestling. I knew I had more in me. I knew I had more in me, but I needed this time away to focus on myself. Distancing myself from professional wrestling was difficult. I was born into this industry, and for me to walk away from it completely was heart wrenching. It was a necessary evil. It needed to be done to refocus, and dedicate myself. When the call for Blast From The Past 2017 came, I weighed the pros and cons with a heavy conscious. Could I? Would I? Should I? The questions bounced around like a pinball inside of my mind.

Max becomes uneasy in his chair as the memory floods back, and smacks him in the face. He strokes his beard, as beads of sweat form on his brow. He slips off his suit jacket, and hangs it over the back of the chair. He unfastens the button on each of his shirt sleeves. He slowly rolls the sleeves up to his elbow.

PRIEST: And how did you come to your answer my son?

BURKE: My uncle was my answer.

PRIEST: You spoke with him?

BURKE: No. Actually, he passed away several years ago. He never got to see me make it to this level in professional wrestling. That fact still eats away at me every damn day. He was one of my main mentors, and trainers. He was more than that though. He was the driving force behind my ability to succeed throughout my career. His unwavering belief in me, and his stern hand was what pushed me on. There were many times throughout the years that I thought about giving up on this journey, but his voice in my head always smacked me with reality. He just simply wouldn’t let me give up. That was a cop out, and he knew I was destined for great things in my life. He knew that I was meant to restore the wrestling in this foolish sports entertainment business that it has evolved into. This current crop of men, and women in our business are, for the most part... “sports entertainers”. They are so disrespectful to the lineage and history of professional wrestling. I am not a “sports entertainer”. I am a professional wrestler. These “sports entertainers” have become lost on the path of entertaining the fans, and their branding. I am of the old school. I am of the art of professional wrestling. I need to restore the faith of the ones that have come before me, and bring our industry back to what it was about.

Max has become agitated as he speaks. He cracks his knuckles... one by one. He tilts his head side to side cracking it also. The priest recognizes this, and speaks to Max in a calming tone that only a man of the faith can.

PRIEST: What is that?

BURKE: Respect. Tradition. WRESTLING. These “sports entertainers” have lost their way father. My return... no... my crusade is to show the masses what true professional wrestling is all about. Week after week, I am making a difference. Slowly, but surely I see more and more people sitting a little closer on the edge of their seats. I see their focus shifting. I see the appreciation for the intricacies of the moves that I paint on their visual canvas grow as each week passes. Sometimes those strokes need to be painful. Sometimes those strokes need to have cruel intentions behind them. Each week, my methodical breakdown of my subject has become intensified. I am striving for perfection. I am growing ever closer to that perfection. This week, Ben is the subject of my painting. This week, the strokes of my brush are ten times more intentional. I am crafting my masterpiece, and he is another key aspect of the finished piece. This is why I am here. Father, I am about to sin on Sunday, and I ask for your forgiveness for what I desire to accomplish on my way to the championship. For these and all the sins that I have committed during my life, I am deeply sorry.

Max sits back in his chair, but there is a change. Max’s infamous devilish grin has appeared on his face. He fastens the top button of his shirt, and adjusts his tie. He slips his jacket back on. Max reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out a flask of whiskey. He unscrews the top, and takes a long drink. He screws the top back on, and tucks it back into his jacket pocket. The priest, unknowing of the change on the other side of the screen pauses for a moment before speaking.

PRIEST: Son, your craving for the outcome you desire may be in your heart wholesome, but be cautious on the path that you take. Trust in the Lord, and he will guide you.

BURKE: Forgive me father. I need to cut you off right there. First, I’m not Catholic.  Second... I don’t appreciate that holier than thou tone you just took with me. G’night.

Max chuckles, and abruptly swings open the door of the confessional. The priest opens his door, but he is too late as Max Burke is already storming out of the church. Max busts through the doors of the church onto the front steps, and takes in a deep breath of cruel satisfaction leading the priest on.

BURKE: Ben Jordan. Sam Marlowe. Your team, like ours were considered the underdogs of this tournament. We all want this for one reason or another. I’ve said it since my first day back with this company. This is my redemption. The past is simply that. This week, more than any other is the time that I take this company by its balls, and flip it upside down. This Sunday, I retire Ben Jordan.

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