“A Method To My Madness”
“Because I kept getting in trouble for fighting at school.”Borgarholtsskóli - Reykjavík, Iceland
Many years agoA young and disgruntled Kristjan Baltasarsson sat in the waiting room of the headmistress’s office at the school he and his siblings had attended as a small piece of a new family tradition. One in which his parents Benedikt and Eva had high hopes of being passed down through their children and their children’s children. They would simply be lucky were one of their children be allowed to continue to his graduating year. Seated across the waiting room was another boy, and like Kristjan, he too was also wearing the school uniform. Both looked like they had been put through the proverbial wringer as far as the repercussions at what happened between the two of them, although if truth were to be told, the other boy looked a bit worse for wear. They had been left to their private thoughts, all the better to stew or to worry, when the office door opened and out stepped a well respected woman in her middle years, the Headmistress of the school, Missus Agneta Finnvarðsdóttir.
Missus Finnvarðsdóttir said in a soft voice but one that spoke of a steel-edged nature, all the better when dealing with well over a thousand students in a close-knit environment. “Kristjan? Dagur? Step inside please.”
And by ‘please,’ she clearly meant ‘right now.’ Both boys paid heed and did as instructed, yes - even the hard headed Kristjan. The two boys got up from their respective chairs and entered the office, and seated there was a real reason to worry - both of their mothers were sitting right there, front and center. And all eyes were on their sons, although Kristjan noted a look of disdain in Dagur’s mother’s own eyes and aimed in his direction, not at her own child but at him. There was random teasing at school that Dagur was ‘mommy’s little angel’ and Kristjan already suspected that she was ready to place the sole blame on this altercation on him and him alone.
Both boys took the vacant chairs beside their mothers and only then did Missus Finnvarðsdóttir begin, “Boys, I already informed your mothers what happened. But I thought it would also be best if you were to explain to them in your own words why you were fighting.”
Neither boy was anxious to speak up, and both remained silent until finally Dagur’s mother spoke up, “I think it’s perfectly obvious what happened. That boy…” She directed a point of her digit at Kristjan, “...Savaged my Dagur.”
Prompting Eva to roll her eyes and speak softly, “Kristjan did not ‘savage’ your little angel.” Note that Eva spoke with no small trace of sarcasm when she uttered the words ‘little angel,’ because indeed all throughout the mothers’ talk with Missus Finnvarðsdóttir, Dagur’s mother indeed was attempting to shelve the blame for what happened entirely on Kristjan’s shoulders. Dagur’s mother turned toward her at the waist and asked, “Oh? Were you there?”
“No.” Eva replied calmly. “I just happen to know my son did not ‘savage’ yours.”
“And how exactly do you know this?”
Eva took up the gauntlet and answered matter-of-factly, “Because if he had your son would look a lot worse than he does right now.”
Dagur’s mother looked like she wanted to say something sharp and witty to retort that particular observation/opinion on her son’s fighting prowess, but she more closely resembled a hooked fish the way her mouth opened and closed, until the words of the Headmistress interrupted any further debate between the two parental units.
Missus Finnvarðsdóttir said, “Ladies, please. We are here for the boy’s benefit, and much as you might wish to believe otherwise…” he turned toward Dagur’s mother for emphasis, “Neither boy is innocent.”
Dagur’s mom was fuming, refusing to believe otherwise but Missus Finnvarðsdóttir stated further, “I have over ten eye witnesses who stated Dagur ruined Kristjan’s engine project with the class’s detailing airbrush.”
(There’s a fun fact for you! Before he ventured into the world of MMA, and then wrestling, the teenage Kristjan possessed a love of cars and wanted to work on them for a living!)
But true to form, Dagur’s mom stated simply, “It had to have been an accident.”
“Missus Einarsdóttir,” Missus Finnvarðsdóttir sighed, feeling exasperated at this point by the mother’s particular brand of coddling. “I checked with the shop steward. The airbrush is on the other side of the class from where the engine projects were being worked on. It would have had to have been picked up, carried clear across the shop floor and then used.” She clasped her fingers together and leaned forward against her desk, her eyes burning straight into her own, “Now please explain how that could have been an accident?”
But there was no answer forthcoming from Missus Einarsdóttir as she could think of no way, be it logical or otherwise, that could explain her son’s actions, rendering him blameless. Missus Finnvarðsdóttir turned toward Dagur and simply asked, “Why?”
Dagur fidgeted, looking everywhere but at the eyes of his own mother until she barked, “Answer her!”
Dagur jumped at the barking command and said, “Because he ruined my mathematics score.”
Missus Einarsdóttir looked at Eva and then at the Headmistress with a smug expression, as if her son had just been vindicated and said, “There, you see? My son was acting…” But Missus Finnvarðsdóttir held up her hand to silence the woman, earning a smirk from Kristjan. Missus Finnvarðsdóttir looked at Dagur and asked simply, “How exactly did he do that?”
But again. No answer came from the teenager, so she instead turned toward Kristjan and didn’t even have to ask verbally. She raised her eyebrows inquisitively and Kristjan simply stated, “I wouldn’t let him copy my answers on the test.”
“Is that true?” Missus Finnvarðsdóttir asked Dagur, but the boy did not answer.
“Is it??” His own mother prodded, but all he did was shrug his shoulders and attempt to hide into himself.
“So…” Missus Finnvarðsdóttir paraphrased. “Dagur attempted to cheat off Kristjan's test but was not allowed. So he decided to pay him back by ruining his own class project in our automotive program. And that is how the fight started.”
She then opened a drawer in her desk and removed two forms that she began to fill out, speaking while doing so, “Fighting on school grounds is strictly prohibited. Neither boy is innocent in this so I am afraid both boys will face a three day in-school suspension…”
As she went on to further explain what that would entail, Kristan felt his mother’s eyes fall onto him but he would not face that gaze. He knew what he would see if he did; disappointment.
“And that was the first time I ever got into a fight at school, and as you probably know by now, it wasn’t my last.”
“You know, I have to admit that is one thing that I always found peculiar about fighting professionally. Whether it's in professional wrestling or Mixed Martial Arts, why is it acceptable as an adult to fight for the entertainment of others but as a child, you get shamed by parental authorities - or any adult, really? Those same men and women who tell their children that fighting is wrong - that fighting never solves anything - are the very same ones you find in the audiences at any competitive combat sport, whether it be inside of the Octagon cage or the professional wrestling ring.”
“The similarities are obvious between the two circumstances. As a child, you see a fight on the school grounds, what did you do? You stand with friends and peers, forming a circle around the two throwing down and watch for your own amusement and chant the schoolyard chant of ‘Fight! Fight!’ But as an adult? You pay for the same form of entertainment - as if that somehow makes it better. You sit in the stands or watch online or on the TV and you do the same as you did when a child; you cheer for your favorites and call out for more. The only difference is, you are a couple of decades older in doing so. And somehow that makes it alright. You are punished for fighting as a child, but you all but reward an adult for fighting with high winning purses and gold championship belts.”
“Fucking hypocrites.”
“No! Absolutely not!”
Eva cried as Kristjan sat at the family dining table, along with his father and his mother. After yet another fight and suspension, the headmistress of his school had sent their family home with a selection of after-school athletics that might benefit the teenager and his perpetual issues with anger of which it seemed to be without limit. Only one Eva had to herself strictly forbidden … and that just so happened to be the one that Kristjan had selected; boxing. Or in this [articular case - kickboxing. Not out of malice or to rebel against her authority, but because it was a sport that he was genuinely interested in. In fact, he was interested in many forms of self defense and it was why he had been enrolled in more than one martial arts class.
“I thought we agreed about this!” Eva turned to Benedikt, who was looking over the form that Kristjan had come downstairs with as per his choice. Benedikt glanced up at his wife and pointed out, “No, you agreed on this. I think that this should be Kristjan’s decision, and his alone.”
“But - boxing…?” She protested and Kristjan pointed out, “It is kickboxing, mom…”
Eva huffed and looked heavenward, as if seeking divine guidance or intervention, “I don’t care if you’re hitting someone with your fists or your feet! It’s still boxing and I don’t like it…”
“But I DO!” Kristjan stressed, then added, “And Missus Finnvarðsdóttir said it herself; this is about me. She gave me all those choices so… shouldn’t I be allowed to choose?”
Eva looked completely torn but Benedikt touched her shoulder with his fingertips, then clicked his fingers and pointed toward their oldest son. As if to silently tell her that the lad was right. Eva just cast a glance down and shook her head.
“My mother never did approve of what was quickly becoming the starting point of my future careers. She never even liked the fact that I was taking Judo classes. She would always tell me that I was going to hurt my ‘handsome appearance,’ but deep down I don’t even think that was the real cause for her concern. Boxing. Kickboxing. Any form of martial arts or full contact sport - she knew, and she was right - that I could have been seriously hurt. And all in the name of a competitive sport.”
“I can’t fault her for being my mom and being concerned. It’s what mothers do. I probably would have been hurt or disappointed had she not put up a struggle against my involvement. Hah… if you could have only seen her reaction after my first amateur kickboxing match…”
“Oh my god…” Eva bemoaned her oldest son as she all but forced Kristjan to take a seat at the head of the dining room table, normally Benedikt’s spot but this case took priority. It was just as Eva feared, and as she had warned her husband - Kristjan had been hurt and his ‘handsome appearance’ had been somewhat marred. He sat there, front and center with his right eye almost swollen and completely shut. He was sporting a beauty of a shiner beneath that very same eye. But perhaps what frightened Eva the most were his blood stained teeth which were either the result of his split upper lip, or the fact one particular blow from his opponent had caused him to inadvertently bite the inside of his cheek. His condition was bad enough that his two elder sisters said nothing, volatile though they were. They would never admit it outright but they were too surprised that any boy was capable of doing this to their brother. Freyja, the youngest, openly cried and was immediately sent to her room. Aron, caring as always, did what little he was able to do in order to help care for the older brother he so looked up to; running for a cool, wet cloth and some ice. Even Kristjan's beloved Jokull had attended his fight and wanted to help Kristjan afterwards, but Benedikt knew it would be for the best to take the young man home so he wouldn't witness the storm the father knew would erupt the moment they got home. But Eva? The moment Benedikt escorted Kristjan inside of their home, and she set eyes on her boy's condition (because she refused to go and see him take part in something so barbaric), one could be forgiven for the mistaken assumption that a mother bear had just been turned loose!
“Oh my poor handsome boy…!” Eva cupped her boy's face in her hands, displaying the concern only a mother was capable of.
She stood upright and turned at the waist her eyes bearing down on that of her husband's and what would soon become a battle of wills between a mother and a father over what direction their eldest son would be raised.
"That is it!" She declared hotly with a sense of finality. "No more! He is done and finished with this nonsense!"
"Eva…" Benedikt started to argue but his wife had built a full head of steam and she was not about to be deterred just yet.
"Absolutely not!" She took a stance beside Kristjan and held a hand toward him as it presenting him for the first time. "Do you even see the condition of our boy!? How can you even consider allowing him to continue with this barbarism!?"
Before Benedikt could even form a response in his mind, he was interrupted by his wife's continued tirade over her child's well-being. "Did you even get the boy's name who did this!? Did you have a word with his father!?"
"Do not be ridiculous!" Benedikt was forced to raise his voice, so that his wife would give him the chance to speak. "It was an athletic competition! Not some schoolyard fight! They do not go around tattling on one another just because one got a bit banged up!"
"A bit…" Eva started to say, but they had forgotten about the third person in the room. The one they were arguing over and the one who spoke up in his own defense by saying simply, "I am not quitting!"
The eyes of both parents turned towards their eldest son as he looked absolutely defiant toward his mother. A shocking turn of events considering Kristjan was known to be an absolute mama's boy, practically worshiping the ground that his mother walked on.
"Kristjan… honey…" She had started to say but he practically jetted his chin out, his good eye staring straight at her. He gave a slight shake of the head, stating "I am not quitting. I like this. I have to keep going if I want to get better. Aren’t you and Dad always the ones telling us not to quit just because things don’t always go our way?"
"You heard him dear." Benedikt said in as calm and soothing of a voice as he could muster given the circumstance. "He's not hurt that badly. Nothing that he won't heal from. This is his choice, so let him make it."
Eva stared hard first toward Benedikt, and then at Kristjan before she resigned herself to head toward the bathroom and get the first aid kit so she could at least help clean her boy up and treat his wounds.
“Don't be upset with your mother.” Benedikt gripped his son’s shoulder proudly. “She could not stop you from fighting so she has to do something that she can control. And that's to take care of her children.”
Kristjan turned his head to look up at his father with his one good eye, and he saw the wisp of a smile, but the strong sense of pride that emanated from his father. Benedikt tightened the grip on Kristjan’s shoulder and whispered, “You fought well, son.”
“I lost…” Kristan pointed out, as the judges had awarded his opponent the victory by a mere point, devastating Kristjan who had expected the victory in hand.
“So you lost, big deal.” Benedikt smiled, offering the words of comfort that could only come from being a dad. “It was just your first fight. It won’t be your last fight, or your last loss. You will get experience, and you will do better next time. And the time after that. The most important thing is that you keep trying so long as you want to, and you do not give up just because of a loss.”
Words to live by, and live by Kristjan did from that point on. From his amateur competitive fights, clear toward the future when he first set foot into the world of Mixed Martial Arts; first as an amateur and then as a professional.
Kristjan turned to look down and softly exhaled, the effort causing a stinging jab in his bruised ribs. He spoke casually, “Could be worse I guess.”
“How so?” His father asked.
“Mom could find out my tooth got knocked loose.” Kristjan quipped.
Benedikt turned to look in the direction Eva had left, then turned back to his son and said, “Yes, well… let’s just hold off on telling her that for now…”
“Maaan! I thought I was the SHIT when I got my license to fight as a professional! I came in with a damn near spotless record in the amateur circuit. I had the best trainer in Maksym Petrov! There was nothing that these bitches could throw my way that I obviously wouldn’t have an answer for! I mean, when I was touring the amateur circuit, I was THE big fish in a small pond. Trouble is, I never figured once this big fish hit an even bigger ocean, that there would be some sharks circling.”
“I thought I knew everything. I thought I was the biggest bad ass the world had to offer. I was wrong. I hadn't earned that distinction. Not yet. It got beat into me in more ways than one that I still had a lot to learn. And where Maksym felt he could not aid me or teach me further, he knew just who - and what - I needed if I wanted to forge ahead. That was when he introduced me to Kalei Hale, and for that I will forever be grateful. That woman taught me humility in a way no man ever had before or since!”
Prague, Czech Republic - O2 Arena
EliteXL - 2015I know! Not bad, eh? When young Kristjan Baltasarsson had, after several years working his ass off, earned the right to move up from the amateur ranks in the world of Mixed Martial Arts and sign his professional license, who knew his management team would score such a lofty debut such as this? Not only was his debut signed to take place internationally, but in the city of Prague! A wondrous city that Kristjan never dared dream of being able to visit, yet here he was! And more so, the opportunity to fight against Akihiko Aoki, a young rookie from Sapporo, Japan.
It was not the opening moments of the third round, and both young men were sore from the shots thrown by the other, and such a short yet frantic pace had both feeling worn. One never truly understands unless you are inside of that Octagon, just how grueling a few short minutes might be when throwing down your best blows, and more daunting - receiving them as well.
The moment that bell went off, Akihiko performed a takedown on Kristjan, sweeping his legs out from under him and landing right on top! The fall caused the back of Kristjan’s head to strike the mat and winded him, but he had enough sense to instinctively wrap his legs around the head and upper body of Aoki, while grabbing at his arm in a hanging arm trap; Akihiko’s own weight being used against him in the hangman’s position! Akihiko uses his free arm to throw stinging shots at Kristjan’s exposed face, then attempts to bring his elbow down into him as the two men wrestle from their mat-based position.
After a roll through, both men grapple their way to their feet and Akihiko has Kristjan in a front facelock. Kristjan tries to pull his leg out from under him but as both men go down, Akihiko uses his lithe and flexible body to counter, ending up atop of Baltasarsson, locking him into a reverse armbar! The pain was instantaneous, and Kristjan wasted little time in slapping his free hand against Akihiko’s thigh, signaling the referee that he was tapping out!
The crowd cheered as a jubilant Akihiko Aoki jumped to his feet with both gloved fists raised high in the air, celebrating, while a thoroughly dejected Kristjan sat on the mat, feeling waves of disappointment wash over him for having lost his big debut. Akihiko, however, came over to him and offered his hand, to which Kristjan accepted and he was helped to his feet and met his opponent in a fierce embrace of good sportsmanship!
“I can just imagine some of my supporters, or more so my detractors, reacting to the fact that I tapped out in my first fight. I’m not ashamed to admit to the fact. Maybe back then I was more so embarrassed than anything else, but I was taught long ago by Maksym and others that only a fool would risk a serious injury in a submission hold out of nothing more than pride. I was escorted backstage by my manager, my coach and yes - Aron. I was in a low place after that loss, and despite I had a brother there who was telling me all of the usual things - ‘Oh you’ll do better next time!’ and ‘He just got lucky!’ - Maksym was not one to coddle a student of his and he simply had me back in the gym at his earliest convenience and had me working all the harder to develop a thick skin and earn the tenacious reputation that I’ve slowly earned over the years.”
“The same reputation that turned me from Kristjan Baltasarsson and made me Fenris.”
A darkened and empty gym. A door is heard shutting from somewhere within, followed up by the sound of light footsteps echoing off of the floor, the acoustics reflecting off of the surrounding walls was highly impressive. Then - nothing. Nothing until a single light from above was switched on, basking the encaged Octagon fighting ring beneath its soft illumination. And standing dead center of that cage, reminiscing, was “the White Wolf” Fenris. He was seemingly prepared for a fight, wearing his treasured white leather jacket and matching latex shorts, his bare feet wearing nothing but a simple but comfortable pair of flip flops. Hands on his hips, he slowly turns around in a semi-circle, his eyes taking in the mesh cage that surrounded him on all eight sides.
“I know my upcoming match against you JC isn’t in the heart of the octagon or even in a Lion’s den, but all things considered between us, this somehow seems more than appropriate. So I hope you won’t mind indulging me while I reminisce. And even if you do mind…”
He shrugged his broad shoulders with indifference.
“Maybe one day.”
“What came before as opposed to what lies ahead. I could go on and on, wasting everyone’s time and list the name of every single man I’ve stepped inside of the ring with since I first signed with SCW, but I’ll spare you from having to hear it and Mercedes Vargas was I to go to her for the details. Let’s just say that I’ve been blessed with a variety of opposition, everyone from rookies to veterans, from high-flyers to technical masters. From seven foot GIANTS to a fucking ‘little person’! (Yes, I’m serious! Rookie year, Blast From the Past 2018! You’re the shit, Shorty!) My point is that I have had little to complain about. I’ve been treated very well by SCW staff for giving me (most) of what I ask for and my brother for arranging everything in my career, from contracts to travel accommodations. I’ve walked into plenty of matches, I don’t mind telling you, thinking I was going to run right over these poor sons a bitches, only to walk away afterwards with a whole new respect for the man I was just in there against. (Caleb Storm, talking about you! Get well soon brother!) As one man once said about me when I first showed up, all I want is competition. I am not one of these assholes (I am an asshole by my own admission) who wants everything handed to him on a silver platter. I don’t want the easiest of matches against the lowest of opponents, thinking in some misguided way that the more wins I get means the faster track straight to the top!”
He sneered and shook his head.
“I was told, and I still believe to this day, that it is the quality of the competition that makes the man, that makes the champion! You can’t beat some shit show like the Troll a dozen times over and think you’re going to be handed a title shot over someone who faces and beats someone like say – Alex Jones or Mac Bane. When I was the World Champion, I was willing to fight anybody - ANYBODY! But – I wanted the best. Because how can anyone take you seriously as the best, if you don’t face and defeat the best? And after that title was long gone from around my waist? I never lost track of that train of thought. I’m no fucking good if I don’t face and beat the best. You make a career out of wrestling the bottom of the barrel, your skills in the ring and in here…”
He tapped a forefinger to his temple.
“Might as well atrophy from lack of use. I will not allow that to happen. I refuse! The harder of a fight a man gives me inside of not just the ring but the cage, the harder I have to push myself not to just survive, but to overcome. There were one or two men I left the ring, wondering why the fuck I even bothered wasting my time. There were men who not only earned my respect because of their perseverance and tenacity, but I am proud to say I actually became friends with them outside of the ring. (Talking to you, Ben Jordan!)
“But in the last four years, there have been three men who I was legit excited to step inside of the ring with.”
He counts off of his fingers, staring directly into the camera, as he recites each name.
“Ben Jordan, for all the obvious reasons. There has never been a more well-rounded athlete inside of the ring than ‘the Cockney King.’ Ben Jordan gave me the toughest match of my career! The best match of my career! Jake Raab, because he was the first ever legit mixed martial artist but I got the chance to step into the ring with. He wasn't some sad little bitch like Quinton Cross who saw the attention I was getting as an MMA fighter and immediately had to get a piece of the action. ‘I'm an MMA fighter too’ He all but cried, trying to steal some of the spotlight Mark Ward was giving me to hopefully get a little extra attention for himself. Where is he now?”
He jets a thumb behind him.
“Gone. After just one match as I recall. And then, the third. And who else could it be but Austin James Mercer? What started out as professional respect devolved to the point he and I were ready to kill each other. How can I but help respect the first man who ever managed to put my shoulders down to the mat, ending not only a 343 day undefeated streak, but my 245 day World Heavyweight title run as well? A man who at one point, put my brother in the hospital. But on the other side of the coin, kept Supreme Machine from doing the very same thing. Going on record right now and calling Mercer the best big man in the business. Which brings me to a new name. The fourth man I've ever looked forward to facing this much…”
“JC.”
“Man, from the very moment that you stepped through the door, I knew this was a match that I had to have! Not since Jake Raab … not since myself! .. Have I see such a tough, hard hitting mother fucker such as you! Which just goes to show not to judge before you see a man first hand because when Aron told me that SCW had signed a guy named JC, I thought it must be some K-Pop boy band bullshit! I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
“This whole business of yours, going around and telling the world that ‘JC Kills’... What is that, exactly? Tag line? Some attempt to get under the skin of the man you’re about to face or give them a hint of just how bad of a beating you’re about to lay into them with? Ah, that must be it!”
He held up a hand and nodded with a solemn expression.
“I get it. I get you, now. Intimidation. That’s why you say it - every chance that you get. Which when you get right down to it, seems … well, sad. If I’m going to be honest. I’ve watched everything that you’ve done since you arrived in Sin City Wrestling and fucking A, JC! Normally I’d say trying to intentionally intimidate someone with such cheap ass theatrics is unworthy of someone like you. You’re a big guy. You can obviously fight and kick ass. Good look to go with that bad ass rep. Isn’t that enough!? I mean, what the fuck else do you need? You can’t actually be saying that you absolutely need to get some psychological edge over your opponent if you hope to beat them!”
He paused and shrugged.
“Okay, point taken. Any edge is a positive in a fight, but the fact you work overtime day in and day out, trying to psyche out men half your size isn’t smart. It isn’t even
“Take me for a prime example. Looking at me, you wouldn’t think I’d accomplished half the shit I’ve accomplished in MMA or professional wrestling. I’m just six feet tall, and I’m not even considered a Junior Heavyweight in this sport. Gabriel Stevens referred to me as a cruiserweight. When I first came into this business, I was asked if my ‘gimmick’ was some surfer dude bullshit! Ben Jordan calls me ‘fish lips.’ (Fuck you for that BTW, Ben! Stop sending me chap stick!) My oldest sister said I look like a Ken doll. My point… sexy a fucker as I am, this…”
He waved a hand up and over his face and body in a gesture of self presentation.
“... Doesn’t exactly inspire intimidation on looks alone, and you know something? I am perfectly fine with that! Who the fuck cares!? I know what I look like, and yes I am proud of my appearance! But in the ring that shit doesn’t matter! Now, my reputation that I’ve earned since I first came to SCW? That is where my intimidation comes into play. I’ve never been much with words, so I don’t need to go around telling the world how big of a bad ass I am. They know that just by watching me! They watch me go up against men twice my size and I still beat them down into the ground! They see me go up against some of wrestling’s best technical masters and I can still wrestle them down and make them tap! I’ve had men shit themselves with the thought of stepping inside of the ring against me and I didn’t have to even speak a single word! Take that as a free piece of advice JC; the best intimidation? Is the one where you don’t have to say a goddamn thing! People just KNOW!”
“Why the hell do you think you even need to try and directly intimidate someone!? Why do you feel the need to tell the world how it’s been over a year since you’ve been pinned and longer than even that since you’ve been forced to tap out to someone, anyone! Whether in your promos or on social media, it's become a wash, rinse and repeat routine for you. Yes, we know how long it’s been since you’ve been beaten. And we know how long it’ll be until you’ve been taken down and beaten for the first time in over a year…”
He cast a look to the far right wall of the gym where hung a calendar. He pointed toward it, then gave the camera a smarmy grin.
“Eight days. That’s how long it’ll be before you suffer your first loss in SCW. And not to rub salt in the soon-to-be wounds, but really, JC. You’ve got only yourself to blame. You do understand the more you brag about having not been pinned or submitted in over a year, it only paints an even bigger and more glaringly obvious target on your back? You might as well have a flashing neon sign hanging above your head that says off and on, ‘Beat me! Beat me!’ And I can, and I will. You see, you recently won a World Championship for yourself elsewhere, am I right? Well, that’s not going to happen here. At least, not just yet. You see, there’s a pecking order around here, and I am right toward the top of that list. And you wondered who would be the one to cut you off at the pass as you made your way to the top of the mountain? Was the Troll able?”
He scoffed openly.
“How about Lincoln Daniels, or even one of my toughest opponents, Austin James Mercer?”
This time, he shook his head and tapped a forefinger to his own chest.
“No. It’s me, JC. I’m the man. I’m the one. Because I am sick and tired of running in circles and not getting anywhere! I am sick of simply being overlooked despite everything that I’ve done and everything that I’ve gone through! I am going to keep going and beat every single man standing in front of me until they have no other choice but to put me in line for a World title run! And respect aside? I will go through you like the wind - you won’t see me coming and you won’t be able to do anything to stop me! Many have said it, but I own it; the White Wolf is a force of nature! Three men, JC. Just three…”
He held up three fingers.
“...Have been able to beat me in the past four years! Ben Jordan. Austin James Mercer. Jack Washington… well…”
He paused, giving the last name some contemplation.
“Considering Candy’s bitch ass husband interfered in that last one, does he even really count?”
He shrugged.
“Fuck it. I made my point. Three men. You are not going to be the fourth. And I am not bullshitting you because it can be so. I’m telling you this because it IS so! JC, big man? Little tip; When a wolf has the scent of prey, it doesn’t ease up until it has hunted that animal down and ran its ass over! Ripping into it and tearing it apart, limb from limb until there is literally nothing left of the original animal - or in this particular case - man. All it is going to boil down to is which of us is the more motivated, which of us is the more inspired of the two? And everything - literally everything about you, has inspired me to go above and beyond what I am normally capable of. And here's a little something for you to consider…”
Fenris beckons the cameraman to come closer with a wag of the forefinger, and indeed the camera does draw nearer. The light smirk that portrays Fenris’s usual amount of self assured confidence slips into nothingness as his ice blue eyes focus solely into the heart of the viewer.
“I am capable of a lot. No brag, just fact. Now you come into this match with a lot of momentum on your side. Defeating Austin James Mercer, the first man to ever beat me?”
A shake of the head…
“Not an easy thing to accomplish by any means, although to hear you tell the story, it was all but preordained. You would think the victory was yours from the very moment that the match contract was signed. Well then…! More power to you! I can respect a man with confidence. But here's the thing… I am not Austin James Mercer. I am unlike any man that you have faced before! Think you have any edge against me because of that win? You think I’ll be the next to feel your dominance?"
He shook his head.
"Look at who I was up against last time around at Inception V. Supreme Machine. One colossal monster of a man, and I put him down for the count! It took me more than I want to admit, but he was the one left laying on the mat, not me! So credit where it’s due, I’m going into our match with a fair amount of motivation to call my own. You said it was on me. And you are right, but you’ve motivated me more than you ever intended. All that boasting about not being pinned in a year?”
He shrugged.
“Big deal. I’ve knocked men out long enough to score the three count and send them to the ICU to be checked for a concussion. I could do it to you too, but here’s the thing; I don’t really want to. It was what you’ve been saying after that has my attention. You don’t even know how long it’s been since you’ve tapped out? Since another man forced you to yield and submit?”
A smile slowly spread across Fenris’s lips and he started to nod.
“There we go. That’s it! That’s what I want to do. That is how I want this match to end. I’ll pin you if I have to, but making you tap out? Now that is the ultimate sweet, sweet goal!”
He then turned around and walked toward the open door of the gym’s cage-enclosed Octagon, but paused at the door, his fingers entwined with the mesh steel. He looked at nothing in particular as he mused.
“Do you ever know the origin of my name? The meaning? Fenris. The Great Wolf of the Norse. The beginning of the end. Ragnarok. The wolf that shatters his chains of binding and not only ends the All-Father Odin himself, but is the very catalyst of the Twilight of the Gods. And while I look to the Norse gods for guidance, I took the name of the Great Wolf because - unlike you, I am not a means to an end.”
“I am THE End.”
