RYAN KEYS — Better Late Than Lucky
The Anaheim night hums with an odd kind of electricity. Inside the Convention Center, workers are tightening ropes, testing microphones, and taping down cables, but out here? Out here it feels like another show entirely. The carnival sprawled outside is a different kind of stage. Only it’s not a stage bursting with energy anymore. This is the last call of a long day. The smell of fried dough and buttered popcorn hangs in the cool air, sticky-sweet and faintly burnt. Crumpled tickets scatter across the ground like confetti from a party nobody bothered to clean up. Lights overhead buzz, some flickering, some already dark, giving the midway that haunted glow of a dream that won’t quite end. And walking down the middle of it all, casual as anything, is Ryan Keys. Not in sequins, not in ring gear. Just a plain hoodie unzipped over a white T-shirt, jeans faded at the knees, sneakers unlaced. He strolls like this is his runway, like the empty midway was set up for him alone. His grin stretches wide, and his head swivels left and right as if every booth is still open and begging for his dollar. Ryan Keys: “Now this… this feels right. Anaheim. Climax Control. A carnival sittin’ right outside the Convention Center? Come on. You can’t write it better. Lights flashin’, rides creakin’, chaos around every corner. And tonight? Roulette decides it all. You spin the wheel, and your whole night changes. That’s my kind of party.” His sneakers crunch across the gravel as he wanders closer to a dart booth. Half the balloons sag, half are gone. The worker behind the counter is already boxing up the last of the cheap prizes. But a dart lies on the counter like an invitation. Ryan picks it up, twirls it in his fingers like he’s holding a microphone, and lets it fly. The dart misses by a mile, bounces off the plywood, and clatters to the ground. Ryan doesn’t blink. He reaches over, grabs a stuffed rabbit from a box, and holds it up like he’s just claimed gold. Ryan Keys: “See that? Didn’t hit a damn thing. Still walked away with the prize. That’s me in a nutshell. Never been perfect. My aim? Usually off. My timing? Always late. But when I connect? When I hit? It’s the shot that counts. That’s Roulette in one sentence. You don’t need every spin to land. You just need the one that matters.” He tosses the rabbit over his shoulder and keeps walking. Up ahead, a painted clown cutout leans against a booth, its paint cracked and peeling. One eye is half gone. Its mouth stretches in a grin that feels too wide, too human. Ryan slows his pace, side-eyes it, and mutters. Ryan Keys: “…Man, I don’t trust clowns. Never did. Always grinnin’, always waitin’, always lookin’ at you like they know somethin’ you don’t. Bet one’s lurkin’ out here right now, ready to pop out when I least expect it.” He glances behind him, scanning the empty midway. Only the squeak of the Ferris wheel answers. He shakes his head, laughs nervously, and keeps moving. Ryan Keys: “Look, I already beat one, right? Stared it down, walked out standin’. Doesn’t mean I’m relaxin’. That paranoia don’t go away. I’ll probably be watchin’ over my shoulder for the next decade. But if I can handle that? Brandon Hendrix? Roulette? That’s nothing.” Ryan digs a coin from his pocket as he nears the Ferris wheel. The lights blink unevenly, half gone, the other half buzzing weakly. He flips the coin, catches it, taps it against the railing. Ryan Keys: “Brandon Hendrix. Big man. Six-five. Two-sixty-five. Built like a tank. People see you comin’ and they expect wreckage. And you bring it. Respect where it’s due. But you wanna know the thing about tanks? They only go straight. They don’t spin. They don’t swerve. They don’t play games. And this? This isn’t about goin’ straight. This is about Roulette. This is about chaos. And chaos is where I live.” The midway narrows. A ring toss booth waits on the corner. The bottles are stacked, but most have been packed away. A single plastic ring lies forgotten on the counter. Ryan picks it up, flicks it sidearm, and watches it bounce off the table and fall short. He throws his head back and laughs. Ryan Keys: “See that? Missed by a mile. Still feels like a win. That’s the secret. I don’t need every throw to land. I don’t need to look perfect. I just need the one that changes everything. And that’s how Roulette works. Chaos don’t ask you to be perfect. It just asks if you’re ready to spin.” Ryan walks toward the carousel. Its horses are frozen mid-gallop, chipped paint smiles pointed into the dark. He swings a leg over one, straddling it like he owns the ride, arms folded across the pole. Ryan Keys: “People look at me and see the party guy. The Life of the Party. They think I’m just out here jokin’, smilin’, dancin’. But you don’t last ten years in this business if that’s all you are. You gotta have more. And me? I got more. Chaos don’t scare me. It never did. I don’t run from it. I live in it.” He leans forward on the carousel horse, rocking back and forth, eyes fixed down the midway where the clown cutout still sits. Ryan Keys: “Still don’t trust ‘em.”Ryan Keys: “Brandon, you’re serious. You’re the kinda guy who locks in, who doesn’t blink, who doesn’t joke. And that’s respectable. But me? I’m built for the spin. People look at Roulette like it’s unfair, like it’s a disadvantage. Me? I see it as the great equalizer. Doesn’t matter how big you are, how tough you are, how scary you look. The wheel don’t care. It just spins. And when it lands, it favors the one who’s ready for anything. That’s me.” He wanders past a popcorn cart. The butter smell clings to the air. A few kernels are left on the counter. Ryan plucks one, pops it in his mouth, chews. Ryan Keys: “Let’s play it out. The wheel lands on a Ladder Match. That’s perfect. I’ll climb, I’ll dive, I’ll swing like a kid on the monkey bars. You can throw me down, sure, but I’ll get up, climb again, and if I fall? I’ll probably laugh on the way down. Because it ain’t about how many times you get knocked off. It’s about who’s smilin’ when they’re still standin’ at the top.” He slaps a ladder propped against a nearby ride, nodding like it’s a sign from above. Ryan Keys: “Street Fight? Even better. No boundaries, no limits. That’s just a party moved to the floor. I’ll throw knees, elbows, spin kicks, whatever gets the crowd off their feet. You might think the size advantage saves you, but chaos don’t care about size. It cares about surprise. And surprise? That’s my specialty.” Ryan swings by a shooting gallery booth, grips one of the chained plastic rifles, and fires at nothing. The hollow click echoes in the silence. Ryan Keys: “No DQ? Please. I’m from Vegas. You ever seen a Vegas party at three in the morning? Bottles flyin’, chairs breakin’, people laughin’ about it after. You think a chair shot’s gonna throw me off? Nah. It just feels like home.” He sets the rifle back down gently, smirking. His sneakers scuff across the gravel. Ryan Keys: “Submission Match? Fine. Not my favorite, but I’ll find a way. I’ve been locked up before, twisted in knots, and I’ve always found a way out. You think you’re lockin’ me down? I’ll slip right out. And if I gotta choke somebody out? Well, guess the Life of the Party just found a new closing act.” The midway is darker now. One row of lights fizzles out. The clown cutout is closer again, its shadow long under the last bulb. Ryan stares for a long beat, mutters under his breath. Ryan Keys: “Still don’t trust ‘em.” His tone softens as he reaches the Ferris wheel again. Half the lights are gone. Workers are finishing up. Ryan pulls his phone from his pocket, glances at it, and his eyebrows jump. Ryan Keys: “…Wait. Call time already passed? Man, I thought I had another hour.” He pockets the phone, still laughing as he strolls toward the Convention Center doors, shoulders bouncing with each step like a man who’s never once panicked about being late in his life. Ryan Keys: “Guess I’m late again. Story of my life. But hey — better late than lucky, right?” Behind him, the carnival goes dark one booth at a time, each bulb flickering out until only the Ferris wheel remains. It spins slow, groaning in the night, casting shadows across the lot. Ryan doesn’t look back. He keeps walking, hoodie bouncing against his shoulders, grin still on his face. Ryan Keys — Back in SCW. Better Late Than Lucky.
