[Christian Underwood]

Post your roleplays here by deadline. Good luck and have fun!

[GKD]

I rub my eyes, trying to force myself to stay awake. I slump over slightly, trying to figure out why I’m sitting in the middle of the kitchen at 4:17 in the morning, on my third cup of coffee since I woke up almost two hours ago. It’s not so much that I don’t know what’s keeping me awake… it’s that I don't know why it’s keeping him awake.

“What the fuck are you doing up?” Kyra presses me as she walks into the kitchen, grabbing the stool directly across the island from mine. “We already went through this when you got jumped. Why are we going through it now?”

“All I can see is those eyes when I close my own. Those cold, blue eyes, they run a chill through my body so harshly that I expect to wake up with frostbite. All I can feel is that… hand. The feeling of that hard, plastic hand still on my scalp. It was a weird feeling, like the caress of a lover who doesn’t actually love you. I know it sounds redundant, but I truly cannot think of any other way to explain it, to myself or any other person, for that matter. This isn’t what I should be dealing with. Shit, this isn’t something that you should be dealing with, either. Yet, here we are; living the dream.”

Kyra was still livid at the entire situation. She was telling me that it wasn’t affecting her that much, but I’ve noticed little things, like her holding my hand more, the fact she watches our daughter more closely, even going out of her way to try and get Chloe to open up more. My wife has never been the super emotional type, so I’ve picked up on all of it.

“Listen, Ken, that bitch gets within arm’s reach and I swear to holy God, I will tear her prosthetic off and shove it so far up her ass, it will take a proctologist to get it out.”

“Kinky,” I deadpan halfheartedly. Humor is my coping mechanism and Kyra knows this. She just doesn't always appreciate it. This is one of those moments.

“Listen, jackass,” she says as she pulls down a coffee cup of her own. “I already told you that if you don’t take care of Masque, I will, Amber be damned. I know about your promise to Amber. I know you told her you wouldn’t let me get involved. The second that bitch put her hands on my husband and scared the shit out of my daughter, that little agreement didn't mean nothing to me.” 

Kyra proceeds to turn around, grab a bottle of Jack Daniels, and pour it into the mug.

“I didn’t make it.”

“Damn it, woman! Amber is afraid of what this woman can do. Amber fucking Bane fucking Ryan is worried about how this woman could hurt you. I don’t care what she does to me. I can take it. But I would die if it ever happened to you.”

“And you think it doesn’t kill me to see it happen to you? Did you ever think about that? No. You only thought of yourself. Let me remind you that last time we fought, who kicked your ass?”

I can’t do this right now.I’m not stupid enough to interrupt. By now, she’s probably made at least three more valid points and at least one that’s total bullshit.

“Are you even fucking listening to me?”

Scratch that. Game on.

“What do you want me to say? What the fuck could I possibly say that I didn’t say in the hotel room the morning I got home? The only thing I wanted at that moment was my family. Yeah, you can call me an asshole/ Whatever, I don’t fucking care. But I am the man of this house and it means that I am supposed to protect your ass. It doesn’t mean you aren’t capable of doing it yourself. It means that I took a vow to give you the best life I possibly could and that means trying to stop you from going through any unnecessary bullshit. Okay? This is my fault. I poked the bear. I started this. I was the one who came out because I knew that Mac and Amber were in no condition to deal with that bitch. Maybe it wasn’t my battle to fight. I’ll give you that. Through all the years, all those years I was busy trying to make the world hurt that way I did, there was only one man who stood by my side through all of it. That was Mac. I don’t know if it was the good old boy in him or what. But he saw through my shit, he saw that I was hurting, and he never gave up on me. I owe him, Kyra. So, yeah, I put myself in the line of fire. I did that. It’s on me. But I cannot and WILL NOT allow you to put yourself in harm’s way. Be mad at me all you want. I’m not going to budge on this one.

“It's not your fucking choice!" Kyra yells, her eyes narrowing in on mine. "It's not yours. It's not hers. You wanna protect me? Fantastic. That means the world to me, it does. But Goddamnit Ken when did protecting me mean taking away my God damned choice? You're my husband but that don't give you the right to make those decisions for me!  So stand here and tell me how you're not budging and watch me do what the fuck I want anyway!”

“So, what? I’m supposed to just let you walk in there? I’m not supposed to think about how would I tell Adina that mama got hurt, again? How am I supposed to look myself in the mirror if I let you walk in there, hellbent on whatever the fuck you think you’re going to do? I can’t let you do this. I’m sorry.”

"YOU DON’T GET TO DECIDE THAT FOR ME!" Kyra screams, stepping forward - her eyes narrowing in on mine even further, which I didn’t even know was possible. Her face is so red, I can only imagine a nuclear heat that is the polar opposite of Masque’s arctic chill and her face is only growing redder by the second as her eyes well up with tears. “I spent a fucking lifetime being TOLD what I could and couldn't do! I spent fucking YEARS being beaten to a pulp for even thinking about doing something different!  But I got out of there and I damn sure ain't going to lose my freedom to choose now." 

She slams her hand down on the counter. Checkmate. She wins. There is nothing I can do but sit there like a scalded puppy. I feel my face droop as though every ounce of fight I had left me in that moment. This goes unnoticed by Kyra, who is going like a runaway train recklessly down the tracks.

“I get that you both wanna protect me. But Goddamnit, when did protecting me mean caging me up and throwing away the key? That's why I'm here! That's why I chose the life I did… not to sit here and hide when someone threatens my family! I'm sorry Ken but when it comes down to it... you'll do anything to protect me..  and I'll do just as much.. if not more to make sure you and our family are safe." Her voice is low and gravely as she wipes away an errant tear. “And if you don't like it?  That's too damn bad because this is my choice. Not yours, and damn sure not Amber's. I get that you want to help Mac... he's your brother. You owe him. But what about me? You don't want me by your side?" She pauses as that realization comes across her face. "What kind of fucked up shit is that?!  You don't want me there? Try and stop me Ken Davison."

“It’s not that I don’t want you there. I don’t want you to get hurt.” I let out a sigh of defeat. “But you’re right. I didn’t look at it like I was taking your choice away. Knowing full well that this all started between us because I pointed out how you weren’t given those choices, I’d be a bigger asshole than Jack, I mean, I did manage to convincingly take down Armageddon. But, Masque… Masque is a different kind of monster, a scarier kind of monster. She’s the kind of monster that I used to see in the mirror. Perhaps that’s what scares me so much.”

I’m stuck. I don’t know what else to say. In trying to protect my wife, I ended up hurting her. Right now, I feel like the biggest piece of shit on the planet. I mean, I know I’m not, but I feel like it. Right?

Right?

“Now would be a great time to say something.”

“What would you like me to say Ken?  That I’m so sorry and I’ll just stay here like a good little wife and let someone fucking–”

“You know what? NO! Fuck you! Fuck you and fuck me for trying to stop you. If you want to be so headstrong, that’s on you. I know who you are. You are quick to anger. You are reckless.And you’ll charge without looking and end up running straight off the edge of a cliff like Wile. E. fuckin’ Coyote. What happened with Masque and I, I didn’t sign up for that. When you come home to Adina crying because YOU decided to do something stupid, don’t blame me.”

Time stands still. Kyra’s eyes have gone from narrow slits to the widest I have ever seen them. I don’t like this. I truly don’t. In my eyes, this might be worth it if I can keep her away from Masque.

“Go to hell.  Do whatever you want.  I don’t fucking  care anymore.”

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

The answer is the sound of the bedroom door slamming. Oh well, we’ll have to hash it out in the morning. At least I was smart enough to buy a comfortable couch…

“At the end of the day, it’s obvious that what Sin City Wrestling has needed was a new breed of wrestler to come in and shake up the scene. And while I’m not new…I certainly am something that the fucking doctor ordered when they realized that my medical advice was sound and reasonable.” -- Finn Whelan

Sitting in my vestments, I sit at a table with your standard laminate on top, poorly designed to pass itself off as wood. I’ve just placed my order, three eggs over easy with several servings of bacon and sausage. I’m sure my heart doctor will LOVE that. Anyway, I’ve set up my phone on the table so I can get what I have to say out of my system.

“I was walking the streets of New York City in an effort to find the Wolfslair. Thus far, the search has been a fruitless one. For a school of such supposed acclaim, it has been quite difficult to find. First, I ended up at “The Pit.” When I first arrived there, I quickly came to the realization that it was not the acclaimed Wolfslair, but rather, The Pit had hosted a ’Shark Tank’ rip off called ’The Wolf’s Lair/ that hadn’t been a production since June. Ain’t that fucking great? After consulting Google, I discovered a Wolfslair Crossfit Gym over in the UK and that The Wolf's Lair served as Adolf Hitler's first Eastern Front military headquarters in World War II. Note to self: remind Alex Jones to reconsider rebranding.”

“That’s why I am sitting here inside the world famous Tom’s Restaurant. Most people know the outside of the building because they used it on Seinfeld. Others may recognize it from the song ’Tom’s Diner’ by a one hit wonder known as DNA. So, I’ve been sitting here, enjoying my coffee before I head back on the train home to Baltimore. That’s part of why I came here looking for the Wolfslair. I wanted to see what kind of champion you are. How you act, how you behave when the cameras aren’t on is just as, if not more important than how you conduct yourself when the lights are on you.”

I remove my red-tinted sunglasses, folding them up and placing them in a pocket sewn on the inside of my robes.

“Finn Whelan, I very easily could come in here like so many others have and try to tear you down. I'm not going to do that because, in case you haven’t noticed, I am not like other people.  I'm not going to sit here and tell you the reasons that you're inferior to me. I saw the caliber of opponent, of all four of your opponents, that you defeated to get this opportunity. I look at them. I look at their resumes. All I can do is nod my head in respect. You held your own in a match where you were perhaps the biggest underdog. While I respect that, I do not want to dwell on that. In fact, if you had listened to what I told Armageddon about being an underdog, you would know where I stand.”

“What makes me a champion it's not this title around my waist. That might be why people recognize that I am a champion, but that is nothing more than  a symbol. I am a champion because I have the courage to go after my goals, to seize my opportunities. What separates you and I, is that well you did take advantage of the opportunity you were given, I took my opportunity. I stuck my neck out, I advocated for myself.I made it known what my intentions were and didn't look back. Inside of the Ring, my work ethic is legendary. Outside of the Ring, behind the scenes, I do the exact same things. I hustle just as hard. You don't get to be the best by being complacent. You get to be a legend in this Ken damned business by busting your ass.”

“Kobe Bryant was notorious for being an asshole to his teammates. It was a statement of fact,  documented almost as much as Michael Jordan's competitive streak. Now, if you want to talk about assholes, there's another one. Be that as it may, I firmly believe to become a champion in this business you have to have at least a good amount of asshole in you. In normal society, having patience it's a very good thing. Even in our line of work, under the right circumstances, patience is truly a virtue. I know that challenging Mack Bane the way I did made me a little bit more of an asshole than I already am. I know the optics of the situation and I'm okay with them. Let me ask you this. Do you know why Kobe Bryant was an asshole to his teammates?”

I wait for the silent response that I will never hear from those playing the home version of our little game.

“It's because they didn't share his work ethic and he couldn’t respect that. The reason I associate with the Saviors is because each and every one of us is a grinder. Each and every one of us will take an opportunity to challenge for a championship whenever we can. I personally don't care if I'm facing off against Goth. I don't care if I'm challenging Mac Bane once again. I wouldn't even care if Kat Jones came back to us and challenged me herself. We are all the best at what we do because of who we are. The old cliche about iron sharpens iron is one of the most truthful statements I've ever heard. I am the best because I surround myself with the best.”

“Furthermore, one of the reasons I am a champion is because I am able to persevere. I am able to overcome any obstacle put in my way. The reason Armageddon didn't worry me is because when I started in this business, almost every athlete I faced was Armageddon. Promoters in the mid-90s had a hard-on for guys that were almost seven feet tall, 300 some-odd pounds, and had the body of an Adonis.I took my lumps on a nightly basis. I got my ass beat. I sat there happy with a hot dog and a handshake and a thanks for the opportunity. The reason why I am still here and each and every one of those son-of-a-botches has been left behind, lost somewhere in the pages of history, is because I had a force of will that they did not. I had a hunger that they did not have. This is a hunger that still consumes me to this day. I am not content to be another transitional Champion. I'm not here so I can win the belt, defend it once or twice, and hand it off to someone else on the roster like they're the new Messiah.I refuse to take a backseat to anybody in this company.”

I take a sip of my coffee. My tone is level, perhaps even a little cold as I make the conscious effort not to create a disturbance.

“When I started in this industry, my goals were simple. I just wanted a job. Then, my goals got progressively larger. Once I signed my first contract, my goal was to become a champion and I was able to do that. After a while, my goal changed. I was not content to simply be a champion, I wanted to be the man. I wanted to become a world champion. That was a goal that took me three years to achieve..In 1999, in the Killer Wrestling Federation, real creative, I know. Anyway, it was there that I was able to fulfill a childhood dream when I was a mere 21 years old. It wasn't simply because I was good. It wasn't because I was lucky. It was because I spent each day of my life working towards that goal. From that day forth, my goal has been to climb the ladder in each and every company I have signed a contract for. I have never just walked in and got gifted opportunities. Just like I did one year ago at High-Stakes XI, I started at the bottom of the ladder and climbed up rung by damned rung by damned rung until I reached the top of the ladder. I did that here, by myself. I did that in UGWC with my wife and we became the longest reigning Cooperative Champions that company has seen in the last decade.That is the type of person I am and that is the type of champion I will be here.”

Calm. Cool. Confident. I realize getting emotional is going to cost me in the long run. Perhaps not with Finn, but definitely with Masque.

“Another reason why I am in the position that I am in is because I believe in myself. Time and time again I have had my doubters.  When I challenged Amber Ryan for her world championship two and a half years ago, almost every person in the locker room came out to  let the world know on Twitter that they knew Amber Ryan was going to kick my ass. When I faced her adoptive father two  month later, I had the woman who is now my wife by my side. She believed in me. She was the only other person who believed in me. Following that, I faced a man who claims to be the Boogey Man. Because of his resume and his reputation, two things that I may overly fixate on when I'm talking about opponents, once again I had to watch as all the marks on the internet told the world that I would fail. Each and every one of them, regardless of my personal opinions, are talented enough to headline any pay-per-view in the world. They are each strong enough competitors that they can and have carried entire companies on their shoulders. They are three of the best wrestlers that I have ever faced in the ring and all of them are worthy to be first ballot Hall of Famers in any company they've ever been in. However, a funny thing happened. Not only did I succeed in defeating Amber Ryan, I succeeded in defeating Jack Michaels. I then defeated JC. I looked into the eyes of the demon, not once, not twice, but thrice, and came out a champion on the other side.”

“When I walked through the doors of this company, I wasn't given the hero's welcome that Chris Page was given. I wasn't given an instant opportunity at the number one contendership for the world championship. What I was given was a match against Levi Russow, a match that opened the show last year at High Stakes and a match that, to my memory, was the last time that Levi Russow was seen in this company. Admittedly, I could be wrong about that last part, but let’s all agree that he wouldn’t do anything else of note in this company before leaving. My first match here, opening the show, and I was okay with that because I believed that I could start at the bottom and climb to the top. Here I am at the top of the ladder. Here I am setting the standard. Here I am looking down at you, because I knew that I could reach these heights.Even after my set back with the internet championship, even after I am lost to golf in the number one contenders match to get a shot at the internet Championship once again see, even after those setbacks see, I knew what I was capable of. My failures are not setbacks. My failures are catalysts. My failures create the shift in the paradigm. That is because I believe that it doesn't matter who is standing across the ring from me, whether it is Finn Whelan, Mac Bane, Matt Knox, the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. I believe that on my best day, can defeat anyone. I also believe that even on my worst day, I'm still better and most of the men and women I faced in my career.”

Maybe that was a little too arrogant. Oh well, I didn’t build my name by being humble.

"The final quality that makes me a champion is that I carry myself with integrity and with respect. I will be the first to admit that I like to say things to get under the skin of my opponents. It's not because I don't respect them. Quite the contrary, actually. Perhaps I'm pulling the curtain back too far, so to speak. But I understand who my opponents are..As varied as they are, they are curiously all the same. The men and women who earn these opportunities have all gotten here through hard work. They have all gotten in here because they wanted this more than their opponents. In retrospect, that may be the exact reason that Golh defeated me. I did not want to face my friend. I did not want to carry the internet Championship thanks again. I had a grander plan.”

I take the final sip of my coffee, placing it at the end of the table hoping that the waitress will notice and fill it back up.

“I'm not going to pretend that I've shown respect to all of my opponents. Some of them are creatures so vile that I wouldn't piss on them if they were on fire. I will give credit where it is due. The men I have faced from Wolfslair have all been opponents who have challenged me in the ring. What I'm trying to figure out about you, and you may view this as a form of disrespect oh, but the reality is I want you to look in the mirror and answer this honestly. Who is Finn Whelan? The man I see isn't even the first man to call himself “The White Wolf” that I have faced in this company. You don't mean to be another white wolf. You most certainly aren't a virulence. Between us oh, there is no hostility, no rancor. You are not a poison. You have no toxicity. You do not intimidate me, for I have kissed the serpent with the venom taste. What you are, to me, is a man just like any other. I respect that. I really do.”

“What I may not respect is the kind of man I find you to be when we meet at High Stakes. I will find out, firsthand, if you're just another wolf or if you really are primed to be the alpha. If you want to be the alpha, if you truly want to be the world champion, you need to understand that it is a choice. There is a choice we have to make as people, as individuals. We can all be masters of our craft, but you have to make a choice. What I mean by that is that there are inherent sacrifices that we have to make. Depending on your situation that could be family time, hanging out with your friends, being a great son. In my younger days I fell short in all of those areas. I had to fall short in doing those things. I new on my 19th birthday, when my world was ripped away from me, that this was going to be my wife. Professional wrestling was all that I had left. So I made that choice. I withdrew from every other aspect of my life except 2 training to be one of the greats. So, you cannot possibly become better than I am. You have not spent the time in this ring that I have. I have spent more time in this ring then Chloe Benton has spent on this Earth. Even if you wanted to spend the time on this, you can't. You've not built up the experience I have. You can't be in this ring worrying about me while you're off teaching some kind of a promo class at the Wolfslair. That is taking you away from this. That means I've already won. The difference between the GKD, “Godly” Ken Davison and, say, Agostino Romano is that this truly is my life. When I was doing my research, I went to your website and I read your bio and I know you put the standard I live and breathe wrestling bulshit in there. But you have not sacrificed what I have to be here. You have not overcome the injuries that I have. You have not faced death and come back in less than half a year because you love this sport so much that even though the doctors have told you it could kill you, you still do it.”

Thankfully, there aren’t many people in the restaurant at this hour. The intensity is definitely there. I can feel that one vein throbbing in my forehead. Still, I keep my tone low so as not to disturb the other patrons.

“You think that we need a new breed of wrestler when you aren’t even a new breed of wolf? You’ve got it all twisted, my boy. For a quarter of a century I sacrificed my family so I could be one of the greats. I have been inducted into four different Halls of Fame. Even after I met my wife, I didn't make that my main priority until I lost my father. Just because I do this to provide, that doesn't mean my passion for this sport, for this company, for this championship is any less than it would have been before. I have given everything, everything I have in order to get where I am today. You want to be happy? Then you don't make the same mistake that I made. You want to be recognized as one of the greatest of all time? Then be the asshole that puts himself and his career above everyone else. That is old school mentality is what it will take for you to defeat me.”

I reach over to grab my coffee and remember I had just finished it. I let out a deep sigh before I grab my phone and turn off the recording.

[finnwhelan]

PARADIGM SHIFT II | THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND
WHEN THE CURTAINS CALL THE TIME / WILL WE BOTH GO HOME ALIVE / IT WASN’T HARD TO REALIZE / LOVE’S THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND
- BAD OMENS




••••••

[/size]

It was settled.

With the final count of the referee, the Seattle Saint had paid for and signed himself away as the contender for the Sin City Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship. In a very little amount of time, he would end up standing toe-to-toe with the man who held the championship for a little over a month, Ken Davison. A man who had defeated a former three-time holder of that championship, a man who held the Internet Championship, a man who had been a part of Sin City Wrestling for a little more than a year since Carnage Wrestling closed down. A man who…by all means, had done the unthinkable.

He’d seen Alexander Raven sneaking off to the side after the crowd erupted, but it wouldn’t be until he saw the tape later that he’d be irate. He rolled over to his side, clutching his rib cage as he exhaled. He could see the disappointment on Goth’s face, the muted irritation on Chris Page’s. Both men had fought hard and fast, but opportunity was a bitch, and this wasn’t their time. “Black Lungs” rang over the speakers of the Dollar Loan Center. But it was all a blur, a feeling in which the air around him became stagnant and the world around him became but a tunnel in which everything processed slowly and as if he were submerged beneath water.

Emerald eyes.

She wore a hoodie – one of his, he was certain – and her long, raven hair hung out of one of the sides. She was kneeled down in the front aisle, security standing near her, but not too near as to not give away her position to the fans. A little smile, maybe more aptly described as a vindicated smirk, turned up the corner of her mouth as he looked at her. He’d watched her match from the back, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing he’d done so, not wanting her to know he even remotely gave a damn. But she was ballsier than him, and she knew it. He hadn’t seen her the whole night, but somehow, he knew she’d been standing there the entirety of the match. Maybe a little further back. Maybe not right up front, but there.

For a second, her face morphed into a memory. A memory of a previous life, a previous woman, a previous experience that he’d destroyed for his own sanity. Hazel eyes, blonde hair, the same little smirk when he excelled higher than he’d ever gone before. Oh, how the memory loved to take his accomplishments and lord them over everyone else as if she’d been the one to do them. How she loved to stand next to him, celebrating his success as if it was her own. Married life, perhaps, dictated that successes were shared…but she cut across him, she never let him gloat for one second, never let him sit and relish in the fact that he’d done well.

She kept pushing him. And when he refused, when he stopped being the shining star that she’d created from nothing, she tossed him aside like dogshit for a new and shinier little version.

It was a split second, but an infuriating one. He shook his head hard and got to his feet, letting his arm be raised by the referee. He could hear the announcers talking, barely, about how he was going to face Davison, how he would be the one on the opposite end and challenging for the World Heavyweight Championship. That he was the one that they didn’t expect, even though he’d been fiery with his speech and his judgment of everyone in the match.

Chris Page had been a valorous competitor, but he’d underestimated Finn as the sibling who hadn’t had any success, that he could compare the two of them – the one he knew, and the one he didn’t. He’d underestimated that it was the man who held all the other promotions he’d been a part of under an iron fist that was better, but the truth of the matter? Dickie Watson would always be in Finn’s footsteps.  Goth was just the same, if not even worse than the usual insufferable shit. The same tried statements over and over again – that he was going to defeat him because it was the same shit over and over, but a different day. Honestly, what had that earned either of them?

Embarrassment.

He would laugh later when they tried to make a huge sale of their new rivalry to a niche part of the crowd. He would laugh when they tried to make it a big damn deal, tried to make it bigger than the championship itself.

He would laugh when he sat there, his hands just days away from grasping the belt that he should have been seeking since the first day he’d stepped foot in Sin City, since the day he’d signed his name on a contract. But the puzzle pieces hadn’t fallen. He wasn’t prepared. His head wasn’t in it, and now?  Now, all he wanted to do was annihilate everyone that was placed in front of him.

He slid out of the ring, realizing that the production of the night was over. Tonight’s war was done. He passed fans who clapped him on his back as he walked into the back, taking the road less traveled so that he could disappear into the shadows as often as he liked. He didn’t want the adulation, he didn’t want the clapping of the crew. He just wanted to remind himself he did a fucking good job for himself, head to the hotel, and take a hot shower to soothe his aching muscles. Every match was getting harder on him, but every part of him loved the thrill of the chase. The desire, however, to kick everyone in the teeth and insure they swallowed their own vitriolic words.

Show them that there was no way to put a wolf down, no matter how many times they thought their clever insults about putting a wolf out of their misery were. It was old. It was tried. It was over and done with, and finally, he stood above all of them. No longer was he the joke of the company, no longer was he perceiving himself to be anything less than the man that everyone wanted to hate because he’d turned around and done the unthinkable. Veterans of the sport. Veterans of the federation. Veterans across the world of wrestling, losing the very shot they coveted. He had it. He had it all at the very tips of his fingers.

This was what he wanted. This was what he lived for, what he desired, what he fucking wanted. Nothing more. Nothing less than this. He fought for it. He earned this. Was there fuckery involved? Absolutely. But he was beyond seeing that right now. For a moment, just for a moment, everything was clearer than the oceans of Weddell Sea.

So why in the fuck was his hands shaking so badly, and his skin literally crawling with anger as it seeped out of every pore?

The rest was a thick, frustrating blur as Finn made his way to his cubby hole, shoved his belongings in his work luggage, and quickly exited the arena, jumping into his rental and driving the few rage-filled minutes back to his hotel. He said nothing, gritting his teeth together, not bothering to even remotely speak to Miles as he passed him in the hallway. Anything he’d say would come out as an insult, and the man didn’t deserve any part of the Irish-American’s misplaced anger. He rammed his keycard into the hotel door and slammed it shut behind him with a muted fury that was barely contained. And the moment he was behind his own door, the moment he was able to breathe, he reached out and swiped the decorative display of hotel-provided concessions off the top of the refrigerator, flinging expensive samples of alcohols and sodas against the wall and shattering them entirely.

Snarling, he let out a venomous shout, his brow furrowed, his teeth bared. He shoved a hand through his short, spiky black hair and exhaled. Inhale. Exhale. Think of something, anything, that could temper his anger, his fury, his complete and utter rage. It was in his grasp. Everything was his. His foot connected with his luggage as he punted it, sending it into the wall and damaging it with a few gouges. Fucking fine, he’d pay for it later. He turned, taking a few more steps into the room and reaching for the light switch.

Except he stopped.

He stopped because there was someone there in the room.

Perched at the end of the king sized bed was her. Somewhere inside of himself, he found himself wishing that it was the darkened strands of hair he’d gotten so used to seeing in his home, tied up into a messy bun as she stomped about the house, yelling at whoever was a guest and grumbling to him that her home was being invaded by imbeciles.  He would never admit it. Never believe in it. Not now. Yet, it wasn’t her. It was the other one. The one that had left him. The one that saved him, and at the same time, destroyed him in one fell swoop. Her blue and pink hair fell in curls about her shoulders and she was leaning back on her hands, her eyebrow raised.

“Bad night?” Her voice was grating on his nerves. Once upon a time, he’d loved her sarcasm and her wit, the elfin-like timbre that carried him for so many years. But now? Now, he’d like to slice her tongue out from her mouth so she could never use it again.

He balled his hands up into fists, pressing his short fingernails into his skin and gritting his teeth harder. If he ground down, would he break them? Would the enamel shatter and the calcium crumble into dust? Would he be left needing fucking dentures? His heart beat beneath his ribcage a frantic pound, and could do no more than inhale and exhale. He knew if he spoke, she would hear the frustration in his tone. Frustration in her, frustration in himself, frustration from fucking Kayla.

“The Brit with a cute butt let me in. Apparently, your rooms are connected.” She sat forward, leaning an elbow on her propped knee and pressing the side of her chin downwards into it as if she were bored entirely. “I watched from the hotel bar – god, you couldn’t get me to go into one of the damn arenas and actually be a part of the crowd now. Too much sweat, too many goddamned marks smelling like shit.” With a sigh, she shook her head and chuckled lightly, a shrug of her shoulders accompanying it without question. “Seems like you figured out how to wrestle again, isn’t that a shock? Although, I’m sure Austin isn’t particularly pleased about the loss. I suppose you’ll speak to him at Wolfslair within the week or so.”

Her eyes shone with a little bit of a sparkle as she raised an eyebrow.

Finn only dug his fingernails deeper into his skin. A moment later, he was certain he’d feel blood running down from his palm and stain the disgusting carpet.

He was looking past her. Looking at the moment he’d walked not into a hotel room, but his home. His home in Garrison. His home with her. He’d given up fighting. Given up being a wrestler, given up trying to be a household name. He just wanted a home, a family, a life that didn’t need anything but the love of his life and his family. He could cheer on, support his little brother and watch him grow into a powerful competitor. His sister? He could see her live a life of happiness with his niece.

But it always nagged him, the urge to wrestle. Even if he wanted all of it, he still wanted to have the fight, to push for the highest caliber of battle, push for what he wanted with everything in him. It clicked within him, the fire that he’d lost for so long. As much as he wanted a home and a family, he also wanted his moments in the limelight, raising that championship upwards one more time. He finally decided on it. And he wanted it.

Until he walked into his own bedroom and saw her engaged in possibly the most traitorous act that betrayed every part of them. He didn’t know how long it’d been going on, but it was one of the little shits she trained at Combat Syndicate. He didn’t really give a shit either. He stood there for a moment, stuck in a breath of air that didn’t seem to want to exit his body, but also that he didn’t want to let go of.

“Finn.” She’d said. She got up, holding the errant blanket to her chest and raising a hand. “Callien, please, it’s not–.”

He’d known then what it was. She was bored of him. Bored of their marriage, bored of his lack of ambition, bored of everything they’d accomplished together. Everything they’d been through together. The loss of their children, the subsequent shattering of their life, the reaffirmation of their marriage. Everything.

Love’s the death of peace of mind.

Everything after that was a blur just as much as the drive back to this hotel room from the arena. He’d turned on his heel and left, her scrambling after him, his footsteps heavy from his Doc Martens, hers pattering in bare foot smaller, more rapid steps to keep up with him. He’d leaped down the final four steps with a thunderous crash and she screamed after him. They could fix this, they could try, they could–

But they couldn’t.

They wouldn’t. Not again.

He took her for everything she was worth like she’d taken any semblance of a heart he had left.

In their many meetings with divorce lawyers, he’d been silent, watching as she cried, as she screamed at him for ruining her. It would take a year before he was finally able to say anything of decency to her. It would take a year for him to not feel like he was fucking worthless because of her perception all over again. A year to feel comfortable in the light. A long, strenuous year that hardened him to everyone.

Aaron rose to her feet. As much as she’d provided support, she’d provided the same amount of distress. She approached him, her Louboutins’ clicking against the carpeted floor regardless of the plushness of it. She leaned against the wall in front of him.

“How things change and yet they still stay the same. You win a match, and it’s not good enough for you.” Aaron’s voice was biting. “And here I was to congratulate you on a job well done.” Her eyes followed the now sodden trail of alcohol as it seeped into the floor. “Temper tantrums never did you well.”

He ground his teeth tighter.

Her hand touched his chest.

He could smell the vodka on her breath from this close and his stomach turned. His hand swiped at hers and threw it away from him. She snarled slightly.

“Oh come on, Finn. Remember what it was like to–”

“Get out.”

She snorted and shook her head. “What, don’t tell me you’re waiting around for someone like Kayla to stop being a bitch or something.” When he said nothing, she peered at him and then laughed aloud. “Are you fucking kidding me? Kayla?!” Aaron took a step back and covered her mouth, a giggle of mirth erupting from her as she pressed the other to her chest. “No way. Oh my god, that’s so perfect.”

Finn’s eyes narrowed slowly, but he said nothing. With every bit of frustration and anger ebbing inside of him, it would be easy to just slap the shit out of her to get her to leave, but he’d never been that person. Never would be that person. So he stood there. And he took it. When she got over her laughter, she would get bored like she’d done before and leave. It was only a matter of time.

“You guys are both fucking toxic, so it makes absolute sense. You have a stick wedged so far up your ass and she probably keeps ramming it higher. It’s perfect. She gets a championship, and now you just want to outdo her like a little bitch. Power couple this shit up. Woooow.” She shook her head and then crossed her arms. “And when she gets bored of you, you going to quit like you did last time? Couldn’t even keep the Roulette.  Fuck, Finn…don’t tell me you fought for this because of her. You don’t do that. You never have.”

Silence greeted her words, but Aaron didn’t care. So inebriated by her intake of alcohol that night, she probably wouldn’t remember anything she said. But he would. And it would bury itself within his brain so readily that it would make him rethink his steps. At least, at first.

“Hell, you probably don’t even deserve this, but here you are. Contender to the World Heavyweight Championship…” she giggled again, sticking her tongue between her teeth. “Oh my god, what happens when you fail. She’s not going to be interested, you know. Honestly, I wouldn’t be right now. You didn’t do shit, and you probably won’t anyway. Just another chance you’re going to squander…”

She walked out, giggling as she did so, and she left the door open in her wake. Aaron always seemed to pull her bullshit at the worst time, and this was it. Always. Finn felt like a statue, felt like he needed to turn around and destroy everything around him. Fuck the bill, fuck everything. She needled her way under his skin and reminded him of all the past fuck ups he’d done, reminded him of his failures, reminded him that he wasn’t worth it then, why in the fuck was he worth any of this now?

He should abdicate his spot. Page. Goth. Mercer. Any fucking one of them deserved this more than he did. What was it, luck? It wasn’t power, it wasn’t skill, it wasn’t anything but a fucking win that he hadn’t earned. What if he just didn’t show up to High Stakes? What if he just didn’t fucking show up at all? Maybe he should do that. Maybe he should have fucking given up like he’d given up in everything else in his life.

His hands bled.

He could feel it dripping off of his hand and into the carpet.

“She always smells like a whore house, fuuuuuuck.” Kayla groaned, pushing open the ajar door a little more and letting herself inside the room. She snorted, her British accent harsh against the stagnant silence left in Aaron’s wake.  “I’d say I wouldn’t understand why she does, but then I’d be lying. Fuckin’ bitch probably would smell like cat piss if she didn’t.” She shut the door nonchalantly, but only stopping as she saw the disaster of his askew luggage and the shattered bottles on the floor.

The little droplets of blood coming down from his clenched fists.

She walked to him, and he grit his teeth. Her hand touched his shoulder and she looked up at him despite her statuesque height. She cocked her head to the side and concern etched itself across her normally disdainful and spite-filled expression. “Finn.”

He swallowed, but he strained tightly against his own skin to do so.

“Hey.” She reached upwards, her sarcasm gone, her bullshit erred out of caution. “Do you need me to go cuntpunch her or something? Because I will. I know you’re definitely not going to do it, but I don’t–wha–”

She paused. She stopped talking. All because Finn took a step forward, leaned down and pressed the flat of his forehead against her shoulder, slumping against her. She turned her head, confused, but nevertheless pressed a hand to his shoulder in order to both support him and keep him upright. He closed his eyes.

Everything left him.

The rage. The anger. The frustration.

It was gone.

As much as she normally infuriated him, he was calmed by her presence. Calmed by the fact that she didn’t back down, that she’d been there, that she would do what he would never do. He hated it. He hated that she was constantly in his thoughts, constantly there, constantly embedding herself into everything he did. But now? Now, what could he do?

Everything.

…

Fuck.

••••••

I’m going to take a coin out of someone else’s little tag lines…are you listening now?

It’s a little like Lord of the Rings, you know. One ring to rule them all, or some shit. Just substitute in the coveted item and you have the famed story turned into wrestling goodness. Once upon a time, there were four men who all wanted a chance at the one ring. The one that mattered, the one that held power within it’s golden band. But some couldn’t handle the pressure of the ring. Some succumbed to it, falling apart at the seams and failing to reach with everything in themselves to the highest echelon. But others…others pushed. Others became stronger than they ever realized they could have been before.

They rose above whomever stood in front of them, and thus, they were gifted the prize that they so coveted.

Did you expect after all this time that it would be me?

Climax Control 343 skyrocketed me to the moment in which I coveted. A spot across from the highest echelon, am mment in which I could finally sit there and savor the fact that I had been noticed for the work and the effort that I’d finally begun to put in. Austin James Mercer, pinned. I don’t even give a flying fuck that Alexander Raven showed his ginger pubed face, because at the end of the day, that’s the story that they wanted to tell. But I kept it from Goth for the upteenth time and I kept it from Chris Page who, like I said, started to dwindle when he couldn’t have his pussy powdered. I respect the dude for being a manager, for knowing the business, but there’s a moment and a time in which you have to realize that you need to step up, or step out. Ship up, ship out. Et cetera and whatever the fuck other phrasing you want to fit in there that essentially means the same thing.

You didn’t expect it to be me, did you Ken? You expected known threats, but instead, you got the unknown. Oh, I’m sure you’ll prattle about and tell everyone who will listen that Finn Whelan doesn’t deserve this spot. That Finn has his hands in too many buckets and not enough spunk and ability to go around. Or maybe you’ll fuck up my last name like everyone does and say that Whalen has too many commitments to put himself in the right shoes, the right moment, the right time.

You’ll act like you know fucking everything about me, and that you’ve been so observant over the last four to five months. You can read everything I do. You’re omnipotent, of course, that you did your bits of research and discovered every single one of my weaknesses.

Oh, I can tell you about them, if you like. I suffered an ankle injury at Phoenix Wrestling six years ago. I had my ego bruised at So-Cal Ultraviolent. I should have beaten Alex Jones in twenty-sixteen, but for some reason, the fuckin’ slippery snake eluded me and he got the shot I should have been absolutely offered. My siblings hate me for the most part. I live with the world’s biggest, most raging bitch. I aligned myself with Wolfslair, so clearly, I feel like I need to have a pack behind me. Maybe I came back too soon and I should literally have just walked myself into the back room and allowed myself to continue to face Bill Barnhart and Miles Kasey over and over and over and…

…are you getting it?

Let me spell it out for you.

A long time ago, I learned that if I didn’t accept my faults, then I would never grow as a human being. Now, I’m far from perfect, but that means very little in the grand scheme of things. The problem with wrestlers is that none of us are willing to dig deep enough into our own ID, our own personal psyche, to figure out what in the flying fuck drives us enough to both see ourselves as phenomenal, but also failures. I have each of my failures to guide me and lead me upon the path that I need to take. I think about it so often that I can literally see the fork in the road, and I can surmise the result of my actions. I don’t just automatically stop at point A or B, and never see it through to Y and Z. Every action has a consequence. Every failure has a success. Every moment of every day guides us to a better oblivion than the previous.

The difference is that I just don’t give a fuck about that consequence.

When the road in front of me gives me a negative result that I see, it’s one of those things where I realize that I’m going to throw everything, all of myself at the fight at hand, and I literally do not give a flying fuck about what happens on the other end, to the other person, to anyone within this goddamned company. I used to. I used to care about the perception that I was leaving across the masses to those who didn’t know who I was, but what the fuck did that serve me? Trials. Tribulations. Bullshit that I hadn’t even fucking deserve from people who said they loved me. Now? Now, I have nothing more than my own agenda, my own desires, and I do not stop until I get what I fucking want.

You mentioned a bloodbath on twitter.

You just earned yourself one at my hands.

When I walked into Sin City Wrestling, I realized that it’s been on life support for some time. And I mean this as disrespectfully as possible: that’s what happens when every person contesting for the championship is older than dirt and thinks they’re the greatest gift to wrestling that could ever step foot in a wrestling company. Maybe not so much as the humble Mac Bane…as much, maybe. But you tell me in the year twenty-twenty-two, how many of our champion’s weren’t appearing like they were at fuckin’ death’s door?

Knox is dead. Bane is approaching grey hairs like it’s fuckin’ twilight eve. And Davison? Do you know how many times I hear you talking about your time in Carnage, UGWC, whatever the fuck other company that graced the face of professional wrestling? Over the years, you’ve been in a million and one fucking places where everyone either respects you or hey, they hate ya. You’ve been in this business for a long time, and I get it…one more time…one more time…hoorah…

But hold on, let’s look at this too. The previous champions of Sin City Wrestling…none of you have really done the unthinkable in the last couple of years. It’s been literally match after match after match, and you can see where wrestlers become complacent. The only person to hold the championship nearly a year was J2H…and everyone else? Fenris and Ben Jordan were in the 25 range, fuckin’ Mercer was at 154. And come to think of it…I beat Mercer. Wow! Who would have thought that in all that time, a healthy range of ownership could possibly be in the limelight…

But hey, you remember that time when you and Kyra decided to come to 4 Corners and do Bad Company? Alessandro Quagliaterre and I faced you and her…and he respected you. Fuck, you were mentors to him. He looked up to you both, told me how much of a difficult time we were going to have at Bad Company with you guys in the first round.  But he knew me. He knew what I could do, he knew that we would push full throttle ahead. And what do ya know…we eliminated you? Remember? Remember that, old fuckin’ man? I do. It came to me at the last fucking second, but I remembered it.

I defeated you once, and like one of those fucking villagers from Resident Evil 4 that carried a chainsaw and no matter how many bullets you put into them, the second they get closer, you keep living.

The life support is fairly obvious at this point, to be honest. And why shouldn’t it be? There’s not been new blood, nothing to push for, nothing to defeat in Sin City Wrestling that has any fucking value. It’s the same over and over again, and what fucking eyes are on the product? The World Heavyweight Championship should be the most prestigious championship in all of the company, and you know who people are taking more bets on than anything else? The Bombshells Championship. Masque has done more in her destruction of this company and everything it once held dear than any of you have in the last year.

But what should we expect from men that gravitate to one another like magnets? Buddies. Friends. Pals. Oh man, I wanna have this match because it’s fuckin’ respectful. We can put on a great show because we respect each other so fucking much. If I beat you, it will be an honor and much respect to be given.

Please suck my fucking dick.

You fucking assimilated. You’ve never stood alone in this company, looking upon the precipice and knowing that you hold everything in your hands. You think that you have done everything, everything, you can possibly do and have people adulate your success. But you’ve done this with people surrounding you. The Saviors, no matter how quickly it obviously imploded. You integrated with the Barnharts. You were the Internet Champion, but lost that with an unspectacular lack of importance. The only creatures of note that gave a flying fuck about the change of the championship were people who gave a rat’s ass about you in general. Eyes aren’t on Sin City because you’ve blessed them with your divine presence.

They’re on it to see if I take you apart, bit by small, little bit.

They were on it with Mac Bane because Chris Page made sure to sell the man’s soul to the public. They were on it when Masque absolutely annihilated the Hurricane. They were on it far before I was ever present.

But I have the opportunity to sell the company to the eyes of the young. Miles Kasey. Lachlan Kane – remember the one you were a fucking twat to on Twitter? Both young, both can push and become higher than their farthest dreams could even dream of taking them. The eyes of the newest acquisitions to the sport look to my brother, and look further onto me when he reminds himself that he’s not a little bitch and stops fuckin’ pouting. I cross companies. I work. I place every step forward towards a goal, and that goal is fucking annhilating my competition and proving that I not only talk the talk, but I fucking walk the walk.

It took me a while. I won’t deny that. But that time is over. Finn Whelan holds the NLW Heavyweight Championship in his hands. He fights at Pro Wrestling EXCELLENCE. He puts his career before all else, and he means business at the end of the day. The underestimation that every single one of you have done and continue to do is your own fucking downfall at the end of the day. Your little tweet about a massacre?

Motherfucker, I was a deathmatch wrestler, and I’m not afraid to pull that out of my ass if I have to. You want to bleed? Let’s bleed. Let the ring run red and your little promotional photo that accompanied that tweet can be a precursor to the liters that spill. I’m not beyond that. I’m not beyond breaking you in half. I’m not beyond tearing you apart. In fact, you should absolutely assume that I’m coming for your throat.

I’m relentless, Ken. And I bow to no deities.

God doesn’t exist. Just like your moniker doesn’t give you an automatic miracle. Just like you can sit there and make statements, but in the end, you control nothing. You literally control absolutely fucking nothing at the end of the day. Nothing but your own actions, and the consequences that follow what you choose to do.

So come High Stakes XI, please take into account that the Finn Whelan you’re facing is not the Finn Whelan that got fucked in the Blast from the Past tournament. He’s not the Finn Whelan that lost to Goth in his first opportunity for this championship. He’s not even the fucking Finn Whelan who failed miserably against Alexander Raven because he just didn’t give a rat’s ass about a championship that is treated with less respect and dignity as the new King of England.

This Finn Whelan wants everything because he knows he can have it.

This Finn Whelan will stop at nothing until the championship is his.

I will not bow.

I will not break.

And I refuse to allow you to cow me because I refuse to be like the rest of you.

Under me, in the new year? Sin City will see a new light. A new moment. A new time. You all can walk around with your dicks out, flopping ‘em on the table and saying that’s a respectable as fuck length when it’s less than five inches, but me? No. I’m going to take that championship, and I am going to represent it wherever I’m at. Next Level, Infinite Pro if I choose to walk there. PWE. Level Up. Wherever I can make waves, I’m going to ensure that Sin City has the opportunity to grow and continue with the strongest of competitors that it can muster for this division.

And if I have to do that dragging you through a match you thought was going to be easier than Riley Reid in a gangbang, then I’m going to fuckin’ do it.

I’m not underestimating you, Ken. I know you have all the power in the world to manifest yourself into something respectable. Someone that the kids want to look up to even though all you do is post memes and not even sell shit on Twitter, but you know what? That’s you. That’s all you, man. In September, you won that tournament. And beyond talking about your 13-4-1 or whatever the fuck…you haven’t said shit to promote the company.

That ends with me.

I’m not Alexander Raven.

I’m not Alex Jones.

I’m not Mac Bane.

And I am most certainly not Matthew Knox.

I’m not the kid that makes waves and falls apart. I don’t chase shit like a dog running after a car. You ran as fast as you could after this opportunity, but now, sitting at the top? Lackluster. Inconvenient. Irrelevant. Note that I’m not the man who’s been riding on other people’s coattails, mentioning companies that are damn near ancient and taking over the main event scene because someone else dragged you along. In reality, I don’t even think that all those years you’ve been a wrestler have led you to even knowing what being a champion means. You have a target on your back at all times, and you can posture and provoke, but eventually, you’re going to provoke the wrong person and they’re going to tear out your throat.

Imagine that. Wisdom doesn’t come with age.

The World Heavyweight Championship is mine, Ken. This Sunday. Next year. Gone will be the days of hot potato. Gone will be the days where you all think you’re untouchable. This match ahead of you should signal a death of peace of mind. And if I don’t win? I’ll keep coming back over and over again until your bones falter and you shatter into a million pieces in front of me.

Everything ends.

I would say good luck.

But I don’t wish you any.

See you soon, champ.