[Thatcher Rex]

 


He didn’t win any titles.

He’d fought no war.

Blood had not been spilt.

But just the same, Thatcher Rex was on top of the world. He’d entered not just a Triple Threat Match, but a Triple Threat Tables Match, and emerged the victor. He’d walked out of that arena with the knowledge that he was next in line for the Roulette Championship. It wasn’t quite in his hands, but he was close, so very close, to attaining it. All he had to do was knock the snot out of some spoiled rich child, and he could give SCW a champion that the masses could cheer for.

That day was coming.

Soon.

Thatcher passed through the halls, moments after being declared the victor. He should have been in pain, but the exhilaration flowing through him, not to mention the adrenaline, kept it at bay. He’d be feeling it tomorrow, no doubt about that… but for now, nothing could sour the mood of the Tyrant King. A slow, deliberate clapping noise captured his attention, and he turned to face Madelyne McTaggert.

“Well well, look at you. Number One Contender and everything.”

She’d watched the entire match from backstage, and she approved.

“Looks like you’re getting better at those Triple Threats.”

“I’ve never been bad at them.”

“You’ve never been great at them, either.”

It was true. Roughly half of the Triple Threats Thatcher had ever been involved in had been victories… but the defeats numbered just as many. Rex shrugged; the fact of the matter was that he had emerged from this particular one triumphant.

“So you came out of retirement and, on your third match, became a contender. You must be feeling pretty damn good about yourself.”

Rex gave a nod; in point of fact, he was.

“And I suppose the child who holds that title is next on your list?”

“Naturally.”

“Well, don’t bet on it just yet, Thatcher. There’s a tournament in the works, you know… a mixed tag tournament. You’ve been signed up.”

“…a what now?”

“Mixed tag tournament. You’ll be paired with one of the Bombshells, and you will compete. I’m not sure what the details are, as they haven’t been fully released… but you’ve been signed up by yours truly.”

Rex blinked. He was none-too-pleased about it; he wasn’t proficient in tag team matches; he knew how to work with people, sure, but to actually depend on another person, a stranger, for an entire tournament? That was something else.

“Madelyne... my goal is the title. Not some tournament. I haven’t tagged with anyone since Nightmare, Inc., and even that was a temporary thing.”

She raised her hands up, palm out.

“I know, I know. You want to focus on getting that belt, but look at the big picture, here. If you win, you’ll have much more attention; sure, you have fans from the old days, but you need new ones, too. You’ve got a small following here in SCW, and this tournament could increase it ten, maybe even hundredfold! With that kind of following, your title match could be made the pre-Main Event.”

Thatcher considered this. As much as he disliked admitting it, Madelyne did have a point. He nodded, albeit grudgingly.

“Okay, fine… I’ll do it.”

A big smile spread across the British blonde’s face.

“But if I get teamed with Misty….”

“Aww, but you two are so cute together!”

The look on Rex’s face spoke volumes of his lack of amusement.


*  *  *


Blade Alexander.

I’ve seen plenty of loudmouths in this place since I’ve joined, people who shout to the heavens about what they can do, what they deserve, and so on and so forth. But you’re the first that had a shot at the Heavyweight Title. It’s impressive, no doubt, to be able to scale the ladder of success to that point. Let’s be clear, though; I don’t like you. You don’t have the faintest concept of respect; as far as you’re concerned, people exist for you to step on. But for all your insults, for all your arrogance, for all your shots at other competitors, you just can’t get it done. You talk the talk, Blade, but when it comes down to it, you trip at the finish line. You shot off at the mouth, and lost. How did that feel, Blade? To be bested by the man you called big, stupid, and average? The man who, according to you, had no skill or qualities that set him apart from the rest?

Ah ah, don’t speak, kid. I know exactly what you’re thinking: “Shut up, whatever your name is, you don’t mean a thing to me! You’re a nobody, a stupid newcomer that thinks he’s hot shit because he won two of his three matches!” True, I’m a newcomer. Despite all I’ve done in the past, I have to prove myself all over once I sign on to a new company. That’s fine and good… but every legend has a starting point. Every time someone starts out, they have naysayers, people that want to put them down. And that’s what you’re all about, aren’t you, Blade? You like to put people down, insult them, hack away at them until they’re withered husks. But let me tell you something, boy…

You ain’t putting me down.

Go ahead and yell, scream, stamp your feet. Threaten to use my skull as a football. Rant and rave, but in the end, all you amount to is a bunch of words. Yap, yap, yap all you want. Deep down, you’re like every dimestore schoolyard punk out there; a blowhard that talks a big game, but can’t actually stand when a real player steps onto the field.

You are different, though, from my other opponents. Some, I respected. Some simply aggravated me. But you… you’re the guy that needs to be knocked on his ass. Daniel Tyler suffered arrogance through sheer stupidity, but you know exactly what you’re doing. He lacked respect out of ignorance. You, out of choice. But that won’t last long, son. Rage kicked the snot out of you, but he didn’t teach you humility… I will. I’ve come across assholes like you throughout my life, and the outcome is always the same; they may get a few steps ahead, but in the end, they’re put down like dogs. They don’t run the gauntlet; they cheat their way to the top, taking shortcuts wherever they can, taking cheap shots at every opportunity.

You’re not a fighter, Blade. You’re a coward. You babble on about how everyone is afraid of you, how every man should fear the great Blade Alexander. You want to know what the truth is? The truth is that no one out there fears you. Nobody cowers when your name is spoken. Not a soul trembles when you walk down that ramp. The truth is very simple.

Nobody cares about you.

They look at you and give a massive sigh of exasperation.

Why is that, you ask? Why does no one give you any sort of respect around here? Because you have given them no reason to. You like to cause harm and damage, but you do so in such a way that only breeds further contempt. People are beyond done with you, Blade. They are tired of your bluster, your attitude, and your bullshit. Most of all, they are tired of you. I’m tired of you. You portray yourself as some hardass bastard that nobody should mess with when. Your appearance is meant to intimidate. You know what that likens you to? A scarecrow. A simple man made of straw that is meant to frighten lesser creatures away.

You’re not facing a lesser creature, Blade. You’ve probably faced many people like me. Hell, you’ve probably gone toe-to-toe with individuals who look almost exactly like me. But you have never faced the Tyrant King. And I guarantee, it will be an experience that won’t soon be forgotten. You may be a second generation wrestler, but I’m not concerned with who your father is… I’m concerned with you.

Specifically, kicking your ass.

Because that’s exactly what you need. You look down on your fellow wrestlers, and that’s more than enough reason for me to walk into that squared circle, and teach you the lesson that you so deserve.

Prepare yourself, Blade.

On Sunday, you finally learn humility.