XII: Dark Knight Feeling

[Howard Black]

Chadron High School Football Field
Chadron, Nebraska
October 25, 2004

Howard Black: What the fuck do you mean Sarah Abelli just quit?

Howard felt his body shake with incredulity as he stood staring up at Coach Richter, the portly old walrus who coached the Chadron High Cardinals. Fists balled up and white-knuckle, rage and adrenaline rushed through Howard in a way he’d rarely known. He saw purely in tunnel vision, his lungs feeling light and powerful as his voice swelled into his mouth, ready to burst at any moment. The Coach just stared down at Howard from behind his sports shades, his dirty white baseball cap casting shade down his fat, bearded face and oddly shiny lips.

Coach Richter: She just quit! Stormed into the boys locker room, banged on my door and told me she was done! Dropped her gear in the office and took off!

Howard felt at a loss for words, yet he had so much he wanted to ask. His mind was frantic, zipping back and forth in ways that made it hard to order thoughts or break through the static to really think. He only felt rage and trepidation.

Howard Black: But why?! Did she say?! Did someone fucking do something?!

The more questions he asked, the more his voice rose and grew angrier. By now, the rest of the remaining locker room had begun to stare, looking up from whatever piece of equipment they’d been pulling off or casual clothing they’d been putting on. The coach shoved a finger in Howard’s chest at his reaction, bending down over Howie and getting his face close to his.

Coach Richter: Do NOT raise your voice at me, Black! I’ll kick you off this team so fast your goddamn head will spin! And bye-bye to your little Boise State scholarship when that happens! Now you wanna know what happened to Abelli? Go chase after her and ask your damn self!

Howard turned and ran, caring little about leaving his school bag or football equipment unattended. Wearing little more than jeans and a wifebeater, he tore through campus and out to the parking lot, spotting the familiar trucker hat and flannel shirt attire of Sarah Abelli.

Howard Black: Sarah! Sarah!

She kept walking, her head down and her arms folded across her chest with her black Jansport backpack hanging precariously from one shoulder. Howard caught up to her quick enough, ignoring the awful heat of the parking lot and sting of gravel on his bare feet. As he approached her, she spun around to face him. Tears had been streaming down her cheeks, her face a mask of anguish as she confronted him.

Sarah Abelli: WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT?!

The outburst stopped Howard in his tracks, hitting him like a battering ram to the gut. He kept his eyes on her, his anger totally disarmed by her emotions as he could only stare for a moment.

Howard Black: W-what happened?

She sniffed, reaching up to wipe the tears from her cheeks. She kept her eyes on the pavement for a moment, the two of them standing across from one another as an uncomfortable silence hung in the air. After a moment, she raised her head and gave him the fakest smile he’d ever seen. Her voice was low and raspy from crying.

Sarah Abelli: I’m done. I give up. I can’t take it anymore, Howard.

He had never felt so alone and so helpless, staring at the girl before him with the façade of a smile hiding her pain and walking away. His mind raced worse, his body loosening under the feeling of defeat. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

Howard Black: But why? Sarah, you’re an incredible strong safety. You could get a scholarship. You coul-

Sarah Abelli: Howard, no. I’ll never get a real football scholarship. Those are for men. They’re right. All of them on the field. I can’t make it. I’m wasting my time when I should be home learning to “cook or sew like a good bitch.”

The rage washed back into Howard like a returning tide. His stare intensified as his mouth and stomach tightened.

Howard Black: Who’s been saying that, Sarah?

Sarah Abelli: Murph. His little group like Landis and Meyerhoff.

Howard Black: So why don’t you stay and prove them wrong? Fight back. Take them down and make them respect you? Dammnit, you can’t just let them win!

Sarah kept her eyes down and laughed. It was uncomfortable; sarcastic and dry. She looked at Howard, shook her head sadly, and then reached over to cup his cheek.

Sarah Abelli: Howard, I love you. But you don’t get it. I got a scholarship from UNL. Academic. I’m going to take it. I don’t need to keep playing football, and I don’t want to. I’m not going to spend another day getting my vagina grabbed after a tackle. I’m not going to take another day of their slurs or hatred or all the other shit they throw at me. It’s just… not worth it.

She shrugged and gave a sad smile. Howard hung his head, his hands balled into fists. The silence between them was cut by Sarah stepping forward to hug him, placing a kiss on his cheek. He wrapped his arms back around her, and as she began to softly cry into his shoulder, he only held her tighter. It wasn’t until then when Howard began to understand the term “seeing red.” Despite being so close to her, he couldn’t smell the familiar chamomile and wildflowers of her shampoo. Even as he comfortingly stroked the back of her head, it was like his body was on complete autopilot.

Howard’s gaze stayed back towards the school and football locker room. It was the same locker room he knew housed a certain Jack Murphy. A Mr. Murphy who was about to pay for all the years of torment he’d heaped on Howard and now on Sarah. It was far too late for Howard to turn back to confront him now, and he knew that he needed to stay there with Sarah. Hold her. Be lover she needed. But Howard knew that when he arrived at football practice the next day, Murph would be there. And Howard would kick his fucking ass.

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The Black Family Household
Lincoln, Nebraska
June 23, 2015

After a long day of working out, it was nice to spend a few moment cooking dinner and not have to focus on the upcoming match or ache in his body. Howard knew that the dinner conversation was inevitable – it was his job, after all – but while Sarah hadn’t gotten home from work yet and he had just a few moments with his son, Howard felt at peace. Joey stood by his side, watching as he finished chopping the vegetables for the beef stew. After finishing a particularly pungent onion and wiping the inevitable tears from his eyes, Howard turned to look down at his son.

Howard Black: Mind peeling that potato for me, little dude?

Howard motioned over to one of the potatoes with his knife. Joey walked over to it and picked it up, looking back at his father.

Joey Black: Where’s the peeler?

Howard motioned to the drawer beside him, now pulling a carrot before him and beginning to slice it up.

Howard Black: Top drawer with the other little knick-knacky utensil things like the wine cork and stuff.

Joey pulled open the drawer, retrieving the peeler and began stripping the potato of its skin into the trash can. The two of them worked in the silence of the radio’s tunes until Joey turned to his father, placing the potato and peeler down on the counter.

Joey Black: Dad?

Howard Black: ‘Sup little dude?

Joey Black: You know my birthday’s coming up.

At this, Howard stopped cutting the carrot, placing the knife down upon the worn wooden cutting board. He turned and folded his arms, smirking at the bushy-headed boy.

Howard Black: That it is, man. This Saturday, yeah?

Joey Black: Yeah. I know you won’t be around on Saturday since you’ll be flying into New Jersey for Blast.

Howard cocked an eye brow, the smirk looking more amused at this statement. A certain excitement bubbled up in him, and it was becoming hard for him to contain his smile.

Howard Black: Yeah, that’s true, but who says I won’t be around?

The boy looked back at his father, puzzled by the retort. His eyes searched the man’s face, looking to catch a glimmer of a hint. Finally, Howard’s façade broke as he turned to shelf above the microwave, rummaging through the miscellaneous clutter. After some ferretting, he returned with a white envelope. He offered it to the boy.

Howard Black: I was planning on saving this for a few more days, but hell, good ahead: happy birthday, Joey.

The boy took the envelope, eagerly tearing it open. Inside was a generic birthday card, featuring a puppy with a party hat and thick-rim glasses. As the card opened, paper fluttered down onto the kitchen floor. Howard could only grin as his son cocked his head inquisitively, reaching down to pick them up. As he turned over the first white paper rectangle, his eyes lit up: a plane ticket to New Jersey. He snatched furiously for the second piece of paper, his mouth dropping open and gasping as he read the print: a ticket to WCF Blast.

Howard Black: And that’s a front row ticket, buddy. You’re gonna be as close to ringside as non-WCF personnel can be. You and your mom.

Joey looked at his father then back to the ticket. He gave another double take, his eyes welling with tears as he sprinted to his father and threw his arms around him. Howard returned the embrace, lifting the little boy off the ground.

Joey Black: This is the best birthday present ever, Dad. Thank you.

Howard tussled the boy’s hair, unsure of whether or not he was happier than the boy about the prospect of Joey and Sarah being ringside. The tenderness and sincerity in the child’s voice flooded his heart with pride and love, and it was hard for him to quell his own excitement.

Howard Black: Of course, little dude. I love you, Joey.

Joey Black: I love you, too, Dad. Do you promise you’re gonna win?

Howard beamed at the kid as he lowered him to the ground.

Howard Black: You bet your butt I’m gonna win.

Joey Black: And Dune?

Howard Black: You know it. About to be a Sentinels clean sweep.

Joey Black: This is gonna be the best birthday ever!

Howard continued smiling at his son, taking in the anxious excitement in the boy. He knew it well, remembering his days as a kid when his father drove him out to Lincoln to watch Bret Hart headline matches at the Pershing Center. Blessed were the days of youthful excitement. After enjoying the moment he’d created, he turned back to the carrot, continuing to diligently slice it up for tonight’s stew.

Joey Black: Hey Dad?

Howard Black: Yeah?

Joey Black: Why do you wrestle?

Howard paused mid-slice. It was an odd question, one which seemed self-evident but rarely asked by his family. This wasn’t an interviewer asking for some sort of generic origin story or canned answer; this was his son trying to get into his father’s head. He stood in silence, turning the question and possible answers over in his head. When he finally spoke, the response was slow and measured.

Howard Black: I wrestle for a lot of reasons, dude.

Joey Black: Like what?

Howard Black: Well, I love it, first of all. I like to get in the ring and compete, you know? Test myself against the best and prove I’m as good as them.

Joey Black: Do you think you are?

Another pause. Howard tilted his head, considering the response once more.

Howard Black: Dunno. I think I’m pretty good, but we’ll have to see. Lot of guys I haven’t faced.

Joey Black: Do you think you’re better than Bates?

Howard Black: I think so. But I don’t want to be overconfident. Don’t want to walk in big headed and get flattened. Remember that Joey: never underestimate anyone. Not even little guys. Not even scrawny guys. And especially not cowards. They’re the ones who think ahead. Don’t ever let anyone outthink you.

Joey nodded, wide eyed and listening to his father’s every word as if written by God itself.

Joey Black: So what else do you fight for, Dad? Besides competing.

The little boy was pressing those points only a child could; a child who hadn’t grown old enough to worry about concepts such as deep insecurities and neurosis. Even still, it was disarming to Howard, hearing these words. As his mind raced through his own history of neurosis and complex from middle school to now, he could only internally shake his head. Still, there were more than one ways to skin a cat, and Bill Clinton had taught him how to step around the deeper, more open wounds.

Howard Black: I fight for you, Joey. I fight for your mother. Every time I step out into that ring, I want to make you guys proud. I know you’re both at home watching and cheering, and I never want to let you guys down. I mean, you don’t want a jobber for an old man, do you? I want to bring home those stories and matches that you can go to class and brag about. I want to be a hero and a champion, even if I don’t have a gold belt around my waist.

He paused, considering how far he was willing to take this explanation. Sighing, he bent down to a knee and put a hand on his son’s shoulder, looking him square in those big blue eyes he inherited from Sarah.

Howard Black: The fact is, Joey, a lot of people are going to want to bring you down your whole life. They’ll say mean things to you. They’ll want to fight you. They’ll tell you that you aren’t good enough. They’ll doubt you and laugh at you. There are a lot of jerks out there; in fact, most people are jerks. Most people get happy when they see you get sad. That’s how it was for me growing up: a lot of people wanted to see me fail. They wanted to see me unhappy and give up. But if I give up then they win. If you lose and don’t show them who’s boss, you’ve validated all the awful things they’ve said and doubt they had.

That’s why I fight, Joey: to show people not to give up. It doesn’t matter that I’m short or small: I always give my best. I square off with bullies and show them that they can’t get away with trying to bring me down. And neither should you. Even if you don’t fight them physically – which you shouldn’t – never stop fighting. Never let them win. When I go out there and wrestle, I want to be a hero to you. I want to lead by example and teach you that if you try hard enough, you can win. It doesn’t matter what other people say and how much they try to hold anything back. You can always beat them if you never give up.

Joey looked back at him, quietly processing the words of his father. After a beat, he lunged forward, hugging his father tightly around the neck.

Joey Black: You’re my hero, Dad. I’ll never give up, and I’m gonna grow up to make you and Mom proud. You’re the best, and you’re gunna kick Bates’s butt.

Howard hugged his son back, enjoying the feeling of the boy’s mop-top against his cheek. He rubbed his back slowly, before releasing the hold and leaning back on his heel.

Joey Black: Dad?

Howard Black: Yeah, little dude?

Joey Black: What Gemini Battle said about selling me or Mom to a monster for a tit-

Rage swept swift through Howard Black; a feeling like pins and poison driving through his vein like a rampant rhino charging for the kill. The mention of Gemini’s previous words brought a snarl out of him, crooked and tense like a pit bull on a week leash.

Howard Black: Fuck Gemini Battle.

He stopped himself immediately, embarrassed and ashamed of losing his cool and cursing in front of his son. His head fell and hung immediately as he struggled to slow his rapidly increasing breathing. As his composure slowly returned, Howard raised his eyes back to his son, his voice still soft and stern.

Howard Black: Joey… I would never give either you or your mother for anything in the world. With you two, there is no me. You’re my everything. You’re my lighthouse which keeps me going in the worst times; after my first loss and my stint in a Mexican hostel room. Gemini Battle knows absolutely nothing about us or me. Everything I do is for you. Every fight I have and hit I take is for you. This title is a bigger paycheck: that’s more food on the table and more presents at Christmas. And if I have anything to do with it, you and you mother will never see the consequences of my time spent in the ring.

Joey, I’m generally a character. I don’t like to go on camera and talk, but I’m contractually obligated by the WCF. I have to speak about matches and opponents, and it can be kind of fun to jabber. You know, like when you and your friends tell “your momma” jokes? It’s like that. And sometimes some people take it personally, myself included. But I do this because I have to. Hell, I have to contractually or not. You get on TV, Joey, and you have a camera on you all the time. So you can’t just talk casually about how you feel about something because people actually hate honesty. No one wants to hear they’re hated or not respected unless you’re a huge jerk like Joey Flash. And some people don’t like that I separate between work and family, like Gemini Battle, so they say things they don’t understand. But I would never do anything to betray you. No matter what happens in that ring or I say on TV, I wil always love you.

Joey nodded. In his eyes, Howard could tell that he understood; that was all he could ask for.

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Video Package #1

The camera opened to Howard’s hotel room: modest but comfortable. From the ugly fake linen drapes and exposed metal bed frame which threatened to slash open your ankle if you weren’t careful, it was probably identifiable as an Econolodge. Howard sat on the bed, the sheets still made and pressed. He wore street clothes: a white undershirt tucked into blue jeans with a pair of brown cowboy boots peeking out from underneath them. He took a long drag off the cigarette in his hand and tapped the ash into a tray on the bedside table, looking solemnly into the camera.

Howard Black: I wish I could say I still respected you, Bates. Really. I do. I wish I could say that the PSA we did together, something you came to me with, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. That we could go into this match looking each other in the eye with a smile and shake hands before and after. But last week, Gemini Battle decided to characterize me as a liar, so I’m going to be as honest as I always have: I fucking hate you, Bates.

It’s incredible how much can change in two weeks, but maybe it’s been longer than that. I don’t really know when I think you started lying to me. How long you tried to manipulate me when you act is as transparent as a sliding glass door. Now I only feel stupid for having taken you at your word for so long, but I also have this feeling that even you believe the shit you spew. I think in your own fucked way, you think you did your best to be this swell guy you act like and don’t see why I’m being this way. I could hold a mirror up, and I bet you’d insist you were clean shaven, your self-perception is so skewed. You’re going into this match thinking I’m the bad guy, no doubt. That I’ve somehow lost my nerve or cool or, as you put it, “want that belt like Gollum after the ring.” It was never about the belt, Bates. It still isn’t. It’s about beating you.

Howard took another drag off the cigarette as the camera slowly moved closer to him. After taking a long exhale, he picked an open can of Budweiser off the table next to the ashtray and took a long sip. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if savoring the intermingling of the smoke and beer. Opening his eyes, he began to speak again.

Howard Black: At first it was friendly. I meant it when I said I wanted it friendly. Shit, all this talk that I’m a liar, and I’ve never said a single untruth about any of you. I meant it when I said I respect Murdock at first. I mean it every time I tell Spencer I’m proud of him coming up in this federation. I meant it every time I rooted on Gemini Battle. I was even straight up when I was pissed about getting passed over on the title shot I earned; I didn’t glower in the back, I manned up and confronted you in the ring. Now I am the liar? Who fired the first shots, Bates?

Howard’s look shifted from the wistful solemnness to a cold stare, his lip curling down into a snarl. His voice became more stern, direct and accusing as he jammed a finger at the camera.

Howard Black: Oh, that’s right: you did. Whether it was you chortling with your little crew about me having “anger issues” or comparing me to Golum. Gemini calling me a sexist. Deuce telling me to “shut my fucking mouth” when I hadn’t said anything about him. You want to be “friendly” with me, Bates? You got a pretty shitty way of showing it. So why not fess up? YOU, Thomas Uriel Bates, are the liar. You are the one who only wanted to be friendly when it was most convenient to you. You were the one with no problem endorsing your buddies insulting me or distorting my character to others. And what the fuck do you expect me to do, Bates? Roll over? Take it? Not be hurt or insulted when suddenly a bunch of guys want to run riot on me? Where the fuck were you trying to preserve any sense of friendliness? Shit, the Sentinels came out to celebrate you. No motivation. No agenda. To pay our respects. To honor the DRG’s accomplishment in the Trios Tournament. We extended the olive branch. And the DRG? You just feel entitled to turn around and take a fucking shit on us. We offer you a hand of friendship, and you put your dick in it, then telling everyone “they shouldn’t be trusted anyway.”

Fuck you, Thomas Bates. Fuck your little Mean Girls clique with your shitty double standards. Gemini wants to start spouting off about my history and my past like it’s some big kept secret. Where do I bet Gemini got this all whispered to him? Oh, probably the guy I discussed it with: Thomas Uriel Bates. So how about we start from the beginning and cut all the speculation.

Howard took a last drag off the cigarette before jamming it down into the ash tray, crushing the ember and extinguishing the smoke. He picked the pack of cigarettes which laid beside him on the bed, flipping open the top to fish out one of the Camel Turkish Royals. After placing it in his mouth and lighting it with his lighter, he continued to talk.

Howard Black: On week two, I was approached by Grime. Even approached is sort of a bad word for it; just kind of a bump in. But it was flattering, ya know? Grime was this mid-card guy; I was this hated nobody. I had my back to the wall, Bates. I saw eyes and sneers and malice everywhere I turned. I had to do something, didn’t I? Isn’t this why you formed your little club? Safety in numbers? Brotherhood or whatever? So yeah, I almost got roped into the Movement. Holy shit, alert the media. They tried to pick up every new buck worth scratch. Sound like another group? Grime was making overtures towards Florian Stark and me, but on his way down to that ring, we declined to join him. Grime gets fired and now I’m at square one. But see, that night is when I won this shot.

So the Sentinels picked me up for the Trios. Around the same time, you called me to do that PSA. And now that Gemini Battle has decided to start running his mouth like he’s some sort of investigative journalist, let’s address the even bigger elephant in the room: the DRG tried to recruit me.

Yeah, that’s right. The egomaniac. The liar. The psycho. The sexist. You wanted me in your corner. Let me be clear, Bates: I would never have bothered mentioning this if it were not for Gemini Battle. Stuff like that? Personal communique? I don’t think it’s anyone’s business. It’s never as actually revelatory as these wannabe geniuses think it is. So there’s another shot fired on your little DRG side. A side which, considering this communication was between you and me, you have to have fed. You supplied that info, Bates. You’re the one spreading all the gossip like some sort of high school girl. And you wonder why people want to tear the DRG down?

Let me set the record straight: you came to me about joining the DRG, and I was hesitant. You asked me around the time of Round One of the Trios, after the Sentinels had already scooped me up as their third member. It didn’t really fit, the DRG and me; I don’t ride bikes or any of that shit. I told you I supported the DRG and would be in your corner, but you were the one who seemed really keen on me. So yeah, I caved and gave you a pledge saying to hit me up after Trios. Then the Sentinels asked me to join. In retrospect, should I have contacted you? Let you know the game changed? Probably, and that’s on me.

But let’s quickly talk about this word “pretentious”. It’s being tossed around at me a lot by the DRG: Gemini, Gonzo, et cetera. You know the real definition of “pretentious”, Bates? It’s a false sense of importance and entitlement. The Sentinels had me recruited before you. Fuck yeah, they took precedent over a DRG invite. Why the fuck wouldn’t they? These were the first guys to really throw their chips in my corner. You haven’t gotten over it, and that’s apparent as this whole non-issue gets dragged out of the closet where it never needed to leave. So why, Bates? Your pride wounded? You can’t believe the audacity of Howard Black turning down the DRG? Sounds like a false sense of importance to me. That, my friend, is real pretension.

And you know what? I’m fucking glad I didn’t shack up with the DRG. I want to throw a big parade down Broadway in New York, double-fisting sparklers and shaking my butt to “Walking on Sunshine” with fireworks and back-up dancers, I’m so thrilled I didn’t join the DRG. You bury your own members, Bates. You put a now clear star like Mikey eXtreme through this idiot shit trial Prospect period, but Gemini and Gonzo, Bates’s brand new bodyguards, jump right up the line. You totally bucked working with your own group members in the Trios Tournament to grab guys you thought were better. Bates wasn’t out to grab the belts for the DRG: Bates was out for Bates. That Gemini and Gonzo have assimilated since is fucking irrelevant, and I don’t blame Danny Anderson for being livid with you. You screwed Danny. You slapped him in the face. You told him he wasn’t good enough and that you didn’t believe in him through your actions.

Only downside to not joining the DRG has been that sweet double-standard I’ve missed out on. As Gemini Battle talks about raping people and throws fits, I’m somehow the psychopath and egomaniac. As Gonzo flies off the handle over little things and picks fights, I’m the one with an anger issue. Despite you asking me to do a PSA about domestic violence because you supported and endorsed my beliefs in a controversial time, I’m the sexist and misogynist. Despite the Dark Riders Gang having almost a fourth of the entire locker room in its roster and holding three of the belts, challenging for two more this week, we’re supposed to believe Imperium or Pantheon are the tyranny.

He paused to take another drag and have another sip. The second cigarette of the shoot had already begun to grow low again from the perpetual puffing and his habitual ashing.

Howard Black: That’s what you don’t get, Bates: you’re sleepwalking into fascism. This locker room is being buried for the sake of the DRG. Two Slams ago, the number one contender match for the People’s Title only featured DRG members. If Kaz hadn’t forced his rematch contract down Seth’s throat, it would have been only DRG members fighting for the United States title at Blast. The Dark Riders Gang has strength in numbers which have allowed it to dominate broadcasts, strut like they own the place, and never face any consequences. You’re a gang leader, Bates: moral compromise in the name of profit is in your fucking DNA. In Mexico, the DRG’s run-ins with the Cartel and Mexican Police could have screwed everyone backstage. You brought crime and drug smuggling to the WCF’s doorstep. Someone is dead because of you, and that blood will be on your hands.

But none of this matters because the DRG is in cozy with the boss. That’s right: the rebel, the outlaw, the mountain, the big man Thomas Uriel Bates. And Seth Lerch. Best friends forever. Bet you think everyone forgot that little segment, huh, Bates? I didn’t forget. I had to pick my jaw off the floor because I couldn’t believe you could be that stupid or conniving. For as much shit as your people want to throw at me for being tapped by Grime, Seth Lerch isn’t any fucking better. Christ, this is Seth Lerch we’re talking about. And it was a badge of honor to you, securing his blessings. Do you wonder why people are suspicious of the DRG? Why I think you’re a liar, a coward, and skirted facing me, Bates? When you’re seen rubbing elbows with Seth Lerch, you can’t be a good guy. Can’t. And for some reason, that doesn’t cross your mind. Look, this isn’t some “anti-WCF” shit because anyone can tell you I love our fans and the opportunities given to me. But for goddsake, Bates, Seth Lerch.

The beginning of that buddying with Seth was the start of the DRG’s ascension. It began the spike in DRG airtime, DRG title matches, favorable DRG booking, and DRG pushes. You’re the company favorite, Bates. See, a couple months ago this made sense when you squared off against Grime who pushed this whole anti-WCF demagoguery. Maybe it even made sense when Imperium formed and threatened to run the place. But Grime is gone, Imperium is ravaged, and Bates still prides himself as being the corporate champion. Know what I call that, Bates? A fucking sell-out.

Now I look at Spencer Adams, and that shit makes my blood boil. Another young buck you snatched fresh out the door, maybe hoping there wouldn’t be another Howard Black situation where someone else could get to him first. Let me say something about Spencer’s People’s Title win: that has nothing to do with the DRG. You haven’t given Spencer an inch, Bates, other than pairing him with fucking Pagliaccio. How long until you drown him in the TUB (you can keep that, by the way)? Let him sit around the lower card getting his ass kicked week in and week out because Big Poppa Bates can’t be bothered? Fuck you for treating him like some little kid you don’t have time for, Bates. Fuck you for putting him under the wing of some psychopath like Gemini Battle and whispering in his ear about me.

He stubbed the remains of the smoke out and fished out a third from the pack. After lighting it as well, he continued.

Howard Black: My only solace in this whole saga of the DRG is that it didn’t pan out the way you planned it. That’s fucking beautiful, isn’t it? How about you be honest for a moment, Bates, and admit that you wanted that World Title shot like it was the last one on Earth. You craved it; bet you bought brass polish for it already and everything. You’d close your eyes at night, imagining nailing Corey Black with that Bates Boot to send him flying through the roof and to the fucking moon. Get a death by count-out/fatality. Then stomp down to the ring and kick Dune’s ass: Big Mountain at the Top of the Mountain Thomas Bates. You didn’t give a shit about the Television Title: fuck it. You wanted the big money, you needed it, and you couldn’t even fathom that anyone else could get that shot or ever deserve it over you.

So how badly did it sting when Gonzo got that pin? What happens if he comes up short and I take you down? For what is a king without his crown, Bates? I think you need that belt, Bates. You’ll never admit it, but I can see through this charade. The real egomaniac in this match is you. It’s the Dark Knight Feeling: you die a hero or live long enough to become a villain. Who are you, Bates? You’re Caesar. You’re Claudius. You’re MacBeth. I’ll be your Brutus, your Hamlet, and your MacDuff. Perhaps a quote you know well may be best: Sic semper tyrannis.

The Sentinels stand for the fallen. The Sentinels stand against the rising. You, Bates, are the rising. The DRG is the rising. And that’s why we must oppose you. Why I’ve been licking my lips over this match. It’s not about the belt, Bates; it’s about taking your head. It’s because you are unable to see the tyranny your group has wrought. Because you and your friends feel free to attack my character, my relationship to my family, everything I stand for. I won’t roll over for this insult, Bates. I won’t let you grind my name into the mud for daring to challenge you. For not being your bitch.

I won’t let you keep this charade going. It ends at Blast. For too long has Thomas Bates lived by only half the banner he bears: “All for One”. All for Thomas Bates. And when I take this belt from you, you’ll have no one but yourself to blame. You played the game but didn’t think you’d get one-upped, Bates. Bring it on. You and the whole DRG. I’m ready for you.

The camera cut immediately.

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Chadron High School Locker Room
Chadron, Nebraska
October 26, 2004

The adrenaline was so high that Howard barely felt any pain as his knuckles connected with Murph’s teeth. Despite the bones tearing into his skin and causing his hand to bleed, Howard rushed forward on the collapsing figure of the crumpling lineman and grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him back into a second hard right to the mouth. Shouts and yells rang out through the concrete locker room as the blonde boy’s head fall back against the metal lockers, ringing out with a metal ping, and despite his enemy being beaten, Howard did not relent. He mounted the other boy, swinging both fists like a pendulum against his jaw, cheeks, and eye. Yet despite the sting of impact and the sound of screaming young men, it didn’t feel real to him: a slow-motion, virtual reality dream of the beat-down he’d always wanted to deliver.

The attack had been planned ten minutes before practice started, a time Howard knew the coach was always absent for. More importantly, it was the time the overachievers and big dogs of the team showed up: the starting quarterback Henry Lavell, running back Justin Meyerhoff, right guard Toby Andrews, and (most importantly) linebacker Jack Murphy. Even if Murph had known a confrontation was coming, he probably didn’t expect this. Hell, even Howard didn’t expect to lose his cool in such a way: sucker-punching a teammate and beating him while he was down. He heard himself yell, but it still felt surreal and disconnected even if he could feel his own voice go raw.

Howard Black: YOU PIECE OF SHIT SON OF A BITCH REDNECK PUNK ASS MOTHERFUCKER! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU COME AT HER LIKE THAT! SHE’S GONE CAUSE OF YOU!

Each word was punctuated with a strike, making his hands hurt more and more as his enemy’s face grew more bruised and bloodied. In an instant, he felt hands under his armpits flinging him back, but even as Meyerhoff and Andrews closed in, Howard’s fighting instincts didn’t end. He slammed his shoulder into Meyerhoff’s chest, ramming him back-first against a locker before turning to throw a punch at the chubby face of offensive guard Andrews. This time the punch missed, and Howard soon had his arms pinned behind his back as Jack Murphy pushed himself off the ground to face his assailant. A fist tore into Howard’s cheek and mouth, backed by all the strength of a lineman, sending his head snapping to the side. Before he could think, a second fist tore him across the eye, sending a searing pain through his face. Even through the pain and with his arms pinned, Howard kicked his legs up to shove them into Murph’s chest, kicking him back against the opposite locker. A shot to the stomach by quarterback Henry Lavell knocked the wind out of him, and he was soon at the mercy of fists thrown by both him and Murphy, a vicious two-on-one beat down enabled by the strong grip of two others.

An uppercut knocked Howard’s head back, causing his teeth to snap together in a white hot pain. As another shot landed across his left eye, he could see his vision blur and begin to dim involuntarily. A stomach shot made him cough and nearly puke as another shot tore one more across his mouth, the faint sound of a clink and rush of coppery taste betraying the back molar the strike had taken. He felt his knees go weak, and soon it was only the two men restraining him that kept him on his feet as he continue to endure the pummeling. A palm caught him in the forehead, sending his head back into the locker, and with the blow, his vision grew even fuzzier. When the beating suddenly ceased, a hand caught him under the jaw and pulled his eyes to the bruised and swollen face of Jack Murph. The blonde lineman sneered at him, his voice low and cold like a beast ready to go in for the kill over a wounded opponent.

Jack Murphy: Boo-hoo, Black. Your little bitch runs back to the fucking kitchen, and you want to strap on your armor to defend her honor. You little fucking pussy. Poor little honey badger, Howard Black, thinking he can come in here and fight a lion. Well I’ve been waiting for this day, too, you fucking faggot.

Murphy cocked his fist back and swung a haymaker to the side of Howard’s head, the force strong enough to rock the offensive lineman supporting him on one side. The adrenaline and the pain, coupled with the ringing in his ears from a stray hook, kept Howard alert enough to keep his eyes lethargically on the man before him. By now, the sensation of a fist against him was beginning to barely register, even as it took all of his willpower to keep from vomiting or shitting his pants. Murphy’s voice raised like a crazed hyena in a rabid bark as he punctuated ever sentence with a strike.

Jack Murphy: You think you’re hot shit?! You play fucking safety on a football team and you think we don’t still see you as that scrawny, faggy piece of shit?! You’re fucking stupid, Black! You fucked with the wrong guy! I’ll send you back to that fucking slut Abelli in a goddamn burlap sack, you fuck boy!

A final shot brought Howard completely off his feet as he landed hard on the concrete, his body aching and broken. His teeth clenched, searing with the burning phantom pains of the lost tooth as he choked back the natural instinct to cry. His hands came down to his aching stomach and throbbing face, covering the sensitive areas and leaving himself vulnerable to a hard kick to the back and stomp to the arm. His vision had completely shut as he lay in the sticky puddle of what he assumed was his own blood. The hot, rotten stench of saliva and chewing tobacco roused him enough to flutter his eyes open and see Murph leering in his face, surrounded by the other players.  

Jack Murphy: Get the fuck out of here, Black, and don’t come back. You come back again and I’ll fucking kill you and that little bitch. You hear me? I’ll. Fucking. Kill you.

With the last bit of strength he had, tears now flowing freely down his face, Howard spit blood onto Murphy’s face. The lineman’s eyes widened as it hit, standing back up to raise a hand to his face and wipe the liquid from it. A kick to the head sent Howard falling under the waves, trashing for the surface. As he broke through, he found himself on the locker room floor, alone. He pushed himself up, raw nerves helping him stand, gathered his bag, and left to never return.

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”Poor little honey badger.” That’s what they called me that day I really got my ass kicked for the first time. You step into Hell, expecting to square off fair against the Devil, but you never realized how tough he’d be on his own turf. I never had a chance. I quit that football team with my tail between my legs, losing my scholarship to Boise State, and went the rest of my Senior year getting called “lazy” and “Coward Black” for leaving after an incident I couldn’t talk about. That’s one thing people don’t get about growing up rural: everyone knows everyone. If I said a word about what happened, Murph and his buddies would’ve sworn the opposite and had my name and family’s name smeared. It didn’t matter what Sarah said: in rural conservative America, no one gives a shit what the dyke-ish tom girl says. She’s probably a sinner.

So I kept my head down, wallowing in the rumors and taunts. My folks knew something happened, but how do you tell them you started it? That you bit off more than you can chew and got a face full of boot? You can’t. So you shake your head quietly, ask to be taken to the dentist, and silently endure the lecture which comes with money being spent on an incident like this. And you endure the lecture from the dentist telling you not to smoke with an open wound in your mouth. And you endure the sympathetic hugs from your girlfriend telling you “it’s all right” when it isn’t. Because at the end of the day, the hardest thing to always endure will be that sense of failure and helplessness you experienced for the first time. When you challenged Evil to a staring contest and blinked first. That’s the bitterest pill you’ll ever have to swallow.

With my scholarship to Boise gone, I followed Sarah to UNL. Coach took a gamble on me: they wouldn’t sink scholarship money into me with the stain of an abandoned season, but they let me walk on. They gave me a chance. But even with a chance, life doesn’t always play out how you planned it, does it? Football just wasn’t clicking, and you weren’t getting your time, even if you knew that you could work harder and show more heart than anyone else. Soon circumstances changed, and I was in the ring learning how to fight. And boy did I love to fight.

The honor. The discipline. Two gladiators squaring off with nothing but their bodies and wits. It didn’t matter how much you missed the rush after the hike was called or that thrill of the ball curling down from your fingertips into your palm after making the clutch interception. Even if the roar of the ring-side fans could never match the roar in the stands or the march from the curtain couldn’t match the parade of the team from the tunnel. Something about fighting felt like you were born to do it your whole life.

Now here I am, thinking I’m doing alright, all things considered. I got a family: a beautiful wife and loving son. I make rent and own some property. I’m a much different person than that farm boy in rural Whitney.

But some things never change. I never stopped running forward. I never stopped fighting.

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Video Package #2

The camera opened to the inside of the Sentinels’ locker room where Howard Black sat alone. Behind him, their names adorned three adjacent lockers: Dune, Occulo, and Howard Black. Howard sat on a bench, facing the camera. His hood hung low over his face, but the hooded sweatshirt remained unzipped to show his chest and the crucifix necklace dangling down. He wrapped athletic tape around his knuckles, as though preparing for his match, as he spoke to the camera.

Howard Black: If I find Abaddon, I’m going to kick his fucking ass. This jobber gets beat after coming in during week two, has a one-one record, and thinks he can just run riot as he pleases. More than that, I’m gonna kick his ass because he’s given you a convenient excuse for why you’ll lose at Blast, Bates. “Oh, Abaddon beat me up. I wasn’t in top form. I was recovering from a concussion and couldn’t think straight. Howard Black can’t actually take me one-on-one.” I can already hear this shit being tossed around by your little band of merry idiots, still eager to pat Bates’s back and shine his boots as he walks from the ring without the Television Title.

Not that you being at one hundred percent would help you. I’m a giant slayer, Bates; this is what I came to the WCF to do. I find the biggest guys, the ones who think they can toss me around like a rag doll, and I chop them off at the knees. I trained and honed my craft specifically to handle a guy like you: big, strong, durable, and fast. You’ve got a whole foot and double my weight on me, Bates, and you’re going to need every inch and pound to deal with this. A big man’s only big when he’s got his feet under him. A strong man is only strong when he has the leverage. I’ve gotten past guys like you on the gridiron to sack quarterbacks on the blitz, and I’ll get by you just fine.

He clenched the roll of tape in his teeth, severing the strip and plastering it around his forearm to finish the wrap. Reaching down to his gym bag, he pulled out his pack of smokes and flipped it open, pulling one out.

Howard Black: And when I’ve done that, maybe the world will see Thomas Bates and the DRG who for they are: pretenders. Hypocrites. Opportunists who talk big and capitalize. You think you run the table, but now the Wolves are out. Two DRG belts on the line, and how many will they walk home with? You think all of them. I think none. I think Dune is going to take all of Gonzo’s big talk about being a placeholder and show that he’s no regent for this belt. The Godson of Professional Wrestling is going to wake up and take Mikey down, even if he has to pin Danny for it. And Thomas Bates? Felled by “the Golum of the WCF” Howard Black.

You really like that comparison, don’t you? You seem to chortle about it every other week; think you’re pretty clever. That’s what good guys do, right? Dehumanize their adversaries? Compare them to something subhuman? This is the “Southern gentleman” Thomas Bates; let’s make mockery of others and compare them to beasts. Sounds like your Southern heritage is getting the better of you, Bates, considering you proudly identify with a region who dehumanized and murdered other people. But you’re just like the South: you put on this mask of chivalry and religious faith as a strawman for values and decency as you commit the sins of pride and wrath. You claim morals, but they’re founded on values over virtue. Courtesy and tact over intention. It’s what you need to be seen doing or saying rather than actually feel. Do you pray often, Bates? When was the last time you went to Church and asked forgiveness for your sins? Do you sleep well?

He placed the cigarette in his mouth, snapping his thumb down on the wheel of the BIC lighter to ignite the fuse. With the cigarette lit, he let the first puff of smoke roll out of his mouth before he began speaking again.

Howard Black: Let’s talk some more about “pretentious”. Last week you tossed around a bunch of names: ICE Beckman, Bobby Cairo, Dune. Pop quiz: what do they have in common? All being way above your scratch. Cairo laid you out. Beckman and Dune? Guys you can’t hold a candle to. Yet you want to go on this talk about “taking the gold and laying it at the feet”. You haven’t done that. You have no right to mention yourself in the same sentence as either of those three. You’ve never faced Beckman, and you certainly won’t be facing Dune any time soon. So who do you think you are to talk about “laying gold” at the feet of these men?

Easy answer: you think you’re Thomas Uriel Bates, the biggest guy in this company who has the approving back-pat of the owner. Your self-image is distorted. Your self-worth is inflated. But I’m the pretentious one? Why? Start giving me some evidence for this shit before you and your little fun bunch start tossing around words and titles you don’t understand. Before you go off chortling in the corner amongst yourselves to a peanut gallery who will always bet on you. You’re in an echo chamber. A cult-of-personality surrounding Thomas Uriel Bates which can’t be penetrated by truth until fact comes crashing down. You’ve built a regime, and a house of cards. Yet to you, it looks like a republic forged of iron.

Last week, you talked of domination. You smiled when you said it, and it was a telling moment from you. Much like the South was a rebellion to establish dictatorial control over an oppressed people, the domination of the Dark Riders Gang is tyranny disguised as democracy. There is no such thing as good tyranny. There is no such thing as good domination. Domination will always best serve those in power, and that doesn’t matter if it’s Imperium, Pantheon, or the Dark Riders Gang. Hegemonies must be challenged. Rome must burn. The Sun has to set on the British Empire. But only those atop the throne cannot understand this. They believe this is the divine right of monarchs as ordained by God, twisting holy will to justify their rule. I’m not a ruler, Bates; I’m the revolutionary. I’m the Robespierre looking to put Louis XVI under the guillotine.

You love this rebel image you’ve cultivated, even if inaccurate. From your Southern pride to your gang motif. But you’re appropriating images you don’t understand. “Support your local 4-18-7”? Stolen from the Hell’s Angels “Support your local 8-1”. And that’s the funny part of this whole thing: while you shamelessly steal the whole look and iconography from the Hell’s Angels, you haven’t a clue about Outlaw Biker culture. Case-in-point: the Hell’s Angels have a whole marketing campaign that “Motorcycle Clubs are Not Street Gangs” while you proudly fly “gang” in your name. You’re some guys who sat up late watching Sons of Anarchy reruns and thought the whole look was kinda cool. Leather, bikes, and whatnot? Sort of Easy Rider. Like the new American Cowboy on a steel horse. But you have it all wrong. It’s an imperfect reproduction like a Xerox picture of the Hell’s Angels fed back through the copy machine until it’s so distorted it’s unrecognizable. Smoke and mirrors. Pomp and no circumstance. That’s the DRG.

And what of you, Bates? You gained that belt by taking out a man who also planned on ruling over the WCF. A man who snatched up prospects when they seemed hot and planned to steamroll through to the top. The Movement is dead, but in their place stood the DRG, content to fill the power vacuum and take over. In with the new boss, same as the old boss. Perhaps that’s the most disturbing part of the whole drama, Bates. What is Thomas Uriel Bates? He’s the last slight that Grime got on the WCF before being thrown out the door: the perfect ending to his piece of shit fairytale. You, Bates, are Grime’s legacy.

He accentuated the point with two fingers clutching his cigarette jabbed at the camera. He slowly rose from the bench, the camera tilting to look up at him. He took a step forward, his torso and head framing themselves in the middle of the image.

Howard Black: Are you listening to the streets, Bates? How are people calling this one? Can you hear above the rattled cry – perhaps a death cry – of the DRG to hear the rest of the world? We’ll find out at Blast. Don’t you fucking underestimate me for a second, and don’t even think about bringing some excuses. I’m going to break you down, and when the mountain has crumbled to the sea, I’m going to grab you around that tree trunk of a wrist, slap on the Kimura, and make you tap. I’m going to put you in a hold you could snap at full strength, but by the end you’ll have to give up. That will be my parting gift: subduing the world’s strongest man.

Rest easy, Bates. You’ll be resting more soon when the bell rings.

He strode past the camera. It stayed steady on the empty locker room for a moment before clicking off.

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Blarney Station Pub
East Rutherford, New Jersey
June 26, 2015

Howard had flown in long before his wife and son. East Rutherford, a borough in New Jersey, wasn’t exactly the coolest place to bum around and sight-see for a small boy; it wasn’t New York City or even the Jersey Shore. Perhaps he and Sarah could’ve taken the boy on a road-trip before this Sunday, but the last thing Howard wanted was to be distracted before the biggest match of his career. It had been a middling flight from Omaha to Newark, and sitting in the dingy Irish pub David had requested to meet him at, the idea of more dollars down the drain and distractions had already begun to bother him. He lifted the pint of Guinness before him and took a long sip, gazing idly at his agent who sat on the stool next to him. David nursed his own pint of Guinness, the foamy head sticking to his mustache in a way which made Howard want to chuckle. Still, little could penetrate the anxiety, worry, and general sense of paradoxical glumness which seemed to hang around him.

David Rogers: You should be way more excited than you are.

Howard turned his head to stare inquisitively at his manager. David merely smiled from behind his thin-rimmed square glasses before taking another sip off the Guinness and adding more foam to his mustache.

David Roger: Come on. Look at you: you’re a little rain cloud. Your big day is coming up! Aren’t you excited?

Howard sighed and shook his head, looking back down at the beer. He picked the glass up again and sloshed the contents back and forth, staring into the dissipating foam. David was right, and he acknowledged this. Still, there was a certain uneasiness that hung around him. It was something he couldn’t quite get over: a heavy and hard feeling sitting deep within the pit of his stomach.

Howard Black: I feel like I’m coming at this too confidently. Sure, maybe I’ve been training for a long fuckin’ time for this match, but you don’t think Bates has? You don’t think he’s in a film room studying me to go in ready?

David chuckled and shook his head, his pink tongue darting out of his mouth to lick the foam from his whiskers.

David Rogers: Sure he is; don’t be silly. And I’m sure he knows exactly the kind of fight you’re gonna give him.

Howard Black: I’m gonna give him everything I’ve got.

David Rogers: Of course you are; and he’s gonna give you everything he’s got. What’s the problem?

Howard was quiet a moment. That maelstrom of doubt whirled within him, and as the days ticked closer to Blast, it only got more powerful. Something lingered in his mind; an odd sense of doubt and suspicion.

Howard Black: What if he’s gunna give more than he’s usually got? What if he pulls a fast one, drops the poker face, and really unloads? How do I know what lengths I gotta go to? What if my best effort wasn’t enough? What if – even worse – I lose because I didn’t give the sort of effort I knew I could give? Like I could’ve kept plugging away and training hard but got a little too lazy and too confidant? I’ve been going into this match the whole time thinking I got it in the bag, but it’s like I keep forgetting this is Thomas Bates. This is the guy who won the Trios Tournament and killed Grime’s undefeated streak. Fucking worse, Dave: what if I give my all and it’s not good enough? What if I’m not cut out to climb the mountain and topple the giant? Then where the fuck am I; back at square one with a guy who’s now got my number.

David looked forward over, his smile easing down into a frown. He took a long sip of his beer, but the frown did not fade.

David Rogers: I wish I could say he’s getting into your head, Howie, but you’ve already done that yourself. You need to really calm down.

Howard sighed deep and heavy. Even with the words of encouragement and incredibly fair point David was making, it wasn’t enough. It just didn’t sit right. He knew Bates would come full force. He’d seen Bates at the apparent apex and what he was capable of. Still, what if that was smoke and mirrors? He didn’t kid himself: Bates hated him as much as he hated Bates. This would be a bloodbath, no matter which way it were to be slice. He gazed back to David after taking a long slug of Guinness, finishing the beer and leaving only a froth on the bottom of the pint glass.

Howard Black: What do you think, David? Do you think I’m overthinking?

David Rogers: Fuck yeah, you’re overthinking. Way overthinking.

David slugged the rest of his Guinness back and wiped the foam from his beard with the back of his hand. He looked over at Howard, stern and serious.

David Rogers: I want you to listen to me: this is your time. This is your moment. You’re one of the toughest sumbitches I’ve ever met. Now I’m not gonna sugarcoat it: Bates is an animal. He’s a fucking grizzly bear of a man, and he has the power game on your full-stop. He’s got a truckload of boys cheering him in the back, and this bizarre amalgamation alliance of Pantheon, the Sentinels, and Imperium does no one any favors. But you’ve got this. You’ve wanted nothing more than this match since the moment you got that shot at Bates. Now Bates may giggle with his friends about you being after this like Gollum, but we know the truth: this is David and Goliath in your mind.

Do you have a right to be worried? Fuck yeah, you do. Bates is a real prime time player. If you beat him, this guy is gonna be the next in line for the World Title, even if Deuce topples Dune. In some ways, you can be doing him a huge favor by taking this belt off of him. But in spite of all that, the odds, the statistics, the games? You should have this in the bag. You’re gonna be the first person to make Thomas Uriel Bates, the mountain, tap out. And you’re gonna do it with your son watching at ringside, cheering his old man on the whole time.

The thought of Joey at ringside was possibly what scared Howard the most. He’d felt so confident when he bought the tickets for Joey’s birthday. He felt like he already had the title draped over his shoulder and Bates on the mat when he purchased the plane tickets. But now? Sitting alone in a dreary Irish Pub having a beer a little after noon? He felt like a scared boy, tonguing the spot of a missing tooth, trying to quell the fear with anger. As he thought, his tongue rolled back to the familiar form of the fake molar he’d received from the dentists a week earlier.

Howard Black: You are… right, David. It’s just… just hard. I’m worried I’ll end up a fucking choke artist like Beckman or someone. And I’ve got so much fucking riding on this: Joey, Sarah… what about Occulo? He’s gonna be guest reffing a match at Blast, but fuck he got beat up a couple of weeks ago. And the worst part was I could do nothing to help. I got a two-by-four to the dome and got back up to see Deuce Murdock make the save we should’ve made. And suddenly, ya know, I’m wondering… what if that’s the tagline of Howard Black’s career? “A Day Late, A Buck Short”.

David Rogers: Don’t even think that way, Howie. You got this real problem getting all worked up and making yourself small.

Howard Black: I am small, Dave.

David Rogers: My fucking ass! You’re built like a goddamn running back! Still! You still have all those college football muscles but you think you’re some scrappy pup! C’mon man!

Howard tilted his head, considering this. It was an odd feeling for him: he knew David was telling the truth. He had a body carved out of granite and could knock a guy twice his size off their ass with a well-placed block. Still, it was never an image he saw in the mirror. He didn’t know what he saw. Looking from David then down to his empty beer, he turned to the bartender: a young woman probably in her early twenties with flaming curly red hair and a smattering of freckles across a button nose.

Howard Black: S’cuse me, ma’am? Could we get another round?

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Rodeway Inn
East Rutherford, New Jersey
Later that Night

As he pushed open the door, returning from the hospital where he’d been visiting Occulo with Dune, the peculiar silence of the room immediately alerted Howard to the presence of the Wolf-Headed Man, sitting in the chair by the table. It was a certain, odd silence, almost indescribable. It hung in the air, thick and oppressive like a blanket, and as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, it was noticeable how loud the click of the lock or the sound of his breathing was in the void of noise. The Wolf-Headed Man looked as shabby as ever, still wearing the long ratty coat with a plain black shirt. The fingers of his gloved hand drummed idly on the table, and with each stroke there reverberated a click like nails or talons. Howard stared at the character for a moment, finally walking over to his bed and sitting down to face the being. Despite the obvious state of decay its great visage was in, Howard could smell no rot. Instead, a mixture of what seemed like turpentine and sulfur wafted through the room, grotesque and foreign. The creature’s voice echoed throughout the room, coming from nowhere yet everywhere, still split between a shrill high and rumbling low.

Wolf-Headed Man: Big match in two nights, Howard.

Howard regarded the intruder coolly, giving only a curt nod in response. Despite the monstrousness of the figure, it was hard to tear his eyes from it. His vision seemed stuck like a fly in a glue trap, squirming helplessly and only weakening itself greater. Unable to respond, the creature continued to speak in Howard’s pause.

Wolf-Headed Man: Big match, Howard. The first taste of forbidden fruit. Thomas Uriel Bates and the Television Championship. You’ve been thinking about it, Howard, haven’t you?

Howard was still unable to respond. His lip trembled slightly as hot and cold flashes danced up and down his spine and skin prickled as if being brushed with electric currents. In fact, the feel was almost one like electrocution: tense and paralyzed at the mercy of the energy.

Wolf-Headed Man: Last we spoke, Howard, I told you of Destiny. I told you that Destiny was in your hands, even if the words transcribed were not to your favor. In this test, Howard, you failed. It matters little if Beckman had rendered the referee unconscious or Dune swung the chair; what matters is that Destiny proceeded as ordained. Yet, unbeknownst to you, another would take Destiny in his hands. That man, of course, is your opponent, Howard: Thomas Uriel Bates.

The tone was monotonous yet mocking. If the grim façade could smile, Howard imagined a wide grin spreading across its pustule lips. Anger was the emotion to flow for in him now, hot and violent. His hands tightened into fists even though he was unable to fling himself towards the creature: the memory of pain in his shoulder from the Kimura Lock the being had applied on him during their prior encounter assured that. Howard spoke through clenched teeth.

Howard Black: What the fuck do you want?

The entity chuckled, leaning back in its chair and folding its hands in its lap. It sat unusually still, as if one could mistake it for a doll on a casual glance.

Wolf-Headed Man: I only come to pick up where we last left off, Howard. Destiny. Destiny is a thing perpetually in flux; as the words previously transcribed are rendered obsolete, new ones must replace the proceeding words. Destiny placed Thomas Uriel Bates on the top of the mountain, much as it placed you at the base, clawing for the summit. Yet we are quick to forget that a place at the base of a mountain is still a place on the mountain, aren’t we Howard?

For, you see, Destiny has given you the greatest of positions: a path to the summit unmolested. A chance at ascendance, Howard. Just as before, you have the ability to manipulate the very wording of Destiny to underscore your name in its pages. The question, Howard, is whether or not you will once more fail to take hold of the rungs and haul yourself up the ladder. Will you swim to the surface, your son by your side and title held high… or will you sink to the bottom, drowned in a flood of mediocrity?

It was becoming more than Howard could handle. Forcing himself to his feet, he glared down at the creature, snarling as if more beast than man.

Howard Black: Speak your piece, demon, then be gone.

Another ugly blasphemous chuckle rose from the creature and surrounding room. It was then that Howard got a sense of eyes: millions upon millions of eyes watching from very possible nook in the room. His stomach tightened and balled as his courage gave way; he sat back down on the bed.

Wolf-Headed Man: You have no strength in my presence, Howard. No power over me. I am no one, and I am everyone. But I appreciate you sitting in audience. There is much to discuss.

As it stands, Destiny has foretold that you shall vanquish Thomas Uriel Bates. That is all I may reveal. I cannot tell you of Dune or Occulo or Kaz, but I may reveal what has been written in your name. The tables have been turned this time, Howard. Now you do not stand beneath pages upon pages of decree and prophecy; instead you stand above it. But the question remains as to whether or not you shall fulfill this prophecy.

Prophecy, Howard, is an odd thing. It tends to be correct, but it finds odd ways to do so. It was decreed that the Stable Wars would sweep the Wrestling Championship Federation with the tide. Yet prophecy was incorrect in its assessment of the battlefield: it was not Pantheon nor Imperium who stood above the pyre but the Dark Riders Gang. Now the power is centralized. Imperium stands in near ashes with the blood of Bobby Cairo and Natural ICE Beckman watering the flowers of its grave. Pantheon’s legion has been reduced to a handful of able-bodied soldiers no better off than when they began. And the Sentinels? One has fallen, one has risen, and perhaps one is rising. Perhaps one is falling. Complete flux. Complete instability, Howard. But instability is what the Sentinels strove for, is it not? Anarchy within the sphere of influence? Chaos within the system? An equalizer to power and prestige? What will happen, Howard, if the Sentinels find themselves at the top of the mountain? The monsters they sought to fight and eliminate? Will you fight to your dying breath or fall upon your sword?

Silence gripped the room again, now only tempered by a low alien hum which droned through the air. Howard’s head hurt to listen to it, and his face grimaced in pain as it refused to cease.

Wolf-Headed Man: I’ve been following your Destiny carefully, Howard. Since long before, perhaps, you realized. As the Summer dies and the Autumn begins its ebb and flow, the question will remain where you stand. Shall you be atop a mountain you’ve carved in your image or beneath a garbage heap of failures you can only ascribe to yourself? On this Sunday, the Lord’s Day, you will have the opportunity to take complete control of your Destiny. And if you do, you shall not hear from me again until Destiny once more demands its voice to be heard. Yet if you fail, I shall continue to watch you. And when you believe you are alone, I will be there. I will follow you again and watch your every twitch until we see exactly when you will once more have the opportunity to shape the words of Destiny once more. But do not fail, Howard. For when Destiny makes its words heard, it is very upset upon their incompletion. Ask ICE Beckman.

The creature rose, sliding the chair back under the table. As it moved, the humming increased in volume and frequency, screeching and piercing so as to cause Howard’s hands to shoot to his ears, attempting to muffle the din in vain. The being walked towards the door, wrapping a loathsome hand around the knob and opening the portal to the hall.

Wolf-Headed Man: Good luck, Howard Black.

As he closed the door behind him, the humming ceased. Howard hardly slept that night.

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Sitting in the Sentinels locker room, preparing for his match, a sort of odd calm had set over Howard. His wife and son had come back stage to wish him good luck, Joey excited as ever to see Dune and Occulo once more. Now, alone with his brothers-in-arms, he suddenly felt more comfortable than he had all week leading up to the match. Perhaps it was the strength Occulo put forth as he donned his WCF referee uniform, despite the injuries which should have left him still hospitalized. Perhaps it was the quiet confidence of Dune and the look in his eyes when they discussed their matches. All that Howard knew was he finally had his chance to truly solidify his position within this locker room on this night. Finally bucking the label of “coat tail rider” or “tag-along” or “little brother” by winning this match and claiming this title.

When he finished preparing, he rose from the bench, looking down at Dune and Occulo. He smiled at them, a nervous and half-hearted smile like a man on his way to the gallows praying for the blade to malfunction. Nevertheless, Occulo returned the smile, and the light in Dune’s eyes showed Howard he was smiling as well. Without saying a word, they rose and clasped Howard each in an individual embrace.

Occulo: Good luck, Howard.

Dune: We know you’ll do right. Go get yourself a title. Tonight, we celebrate as champions.

Howard turned from the locker room, pushing his way out the door and walking down the hall towards the entrance ramp. His heart beat in his ears, quick and deafening. With each step, his heart thumped twice, and despite his carefully maintained exercises, he could not slow its rate. After a while, he simply got used to the jitters and adrenaline which accompanied him. He felt like he was gliding as he walked, his vision tunneling forward and skin prickling. As he approached the curtain, he closed his eyes and could only think of the face of his son and wife down by ring side. Sarah and Joey, matching Sentinels t-shirts and holding a sign in support: “SENTINELS RISING! GO DAD!”

He kept his eyes closed, turning over the match one last time in his mind. It was a carefully constructed plan, one which he’d been working on since before AdM: wear him down, stay quick, drag it out. You have better conditioning then him and better athleticism; the cards are in your favor.

This is it, isn’t it Bates? You and me, after two long months of waiting. And you know what? I’m sure to some people, this is the main event. It doesn’t matter if we’ve barely confronted one another in person. It doesn’t matter if we’ve never interfered with one another’s matches. People know that there’s bad blood. In fact, this is the ugliest blood in the WCF right now. And it hurts me, Bates. It hurts because I really thought we could’ve been friends. I thought you meant all those overtures and talks of respect you sent my way. The hope we could be friendly even as Dune and Gonzo were to square off. Now? I see that was never in the cards for you. You played me for the fool, Bates, and I don’t take kindly to that.

I’m sure in some weird way, you’ve decided this is personal for you, too. Perhaps I’m the prodigal son whom you’ve still bitter about choosing not to sign with the DRG. Maybe it’s due to my outburst when I stormed the end of the match at Slam after I’d been skipped over on my title shot in favor of Snapz. Maybe it’s the heads I’ve butted with the members of your group; the lock I put Spencer in rather than pinning him. But you seem to forget that this is competition at its base.

I didn’t injure Spencer. I didn’t take any personal pot shots at Gonzo or Gemini. I didn’t attack you physically, and I didn’t rain on your parade. I tried to be a fan of Bates. Really. Can you honestly look back and say that isn’t so? But it was you who started all the comments. From saying I had an “anger problem” while calling me “our friend Howard Black” in the most condescending and insincere way possible. To comparing me to Gollum for not wanting you to weasel your way out of a challenge. But I see the truth now, Bates. I’m not Gollum; you are.

Perhaps you’re blind to the structural stability of the house of cards you built. Perhaps you’ve truly developed a God complex or believe that Divine Right has ordained the DRG in its success. Perhaps it’s none of those: perhaps you’re terrified that I’m actually going to beat you. But since the moment I stepped into the picture, you’ve been obsessed with tugging me around. With trying to distract me. Trying to disarm me with false offers of friendship. You’re not a fighting champion, Bates: you’re Gollum who can’t handle the ring being tossed into Mount Doom. So you’re going to do whatever it takes to make someone else back down and let you hold that belt. It validates you. It proves you deserve to lead your group when members like Danny Anderson have begun to question it. Without that belt, you are nothing. And that’s why you can’t let it go. That’s why this match and my drive to have it must be about the belt, to you, because you’re unable to see it any other way.

It’s the Dark Knight feeling, Tom: you’ve lived long enough to see yourself become the villain. But you can’t see that yourself. You stare in the mirror and see the mountain, the warrior, the rebel. You don’t see the manipulator, the snake oil salesman, the cult leader, or the bully. You will always have a justification for yourself and your behaviors because it’s what helps you sleep at night. Your justification and your title.

We’re both men of the Bible, but we clearly have different interpretations. My God lead the Jews out of Egypt. He guided David’s pebble to Goliath’s temple. He helped Samson bring down the temple of the Philistines without his hair. He became flesh and died upon the cross so that our sins may be redeemed. My God once said “He who is without sin may cast the first stone.” You were the first to cast that stone, Bates, but you forgot an important message in the Bible: none of us are without sin. Your sin, Bates, is pride; a pride which tells you that you cannot possibly live in sin. That you need no repentance. That you may cast the first stone.

I took the mantle of the “False Prophet” as a stand against those in this federation who wanted to play God. I stood against the proud and the mighty to usher on their fall so that we could all exist unmolested. Now, Tom, you are that person. You stand atop the mountain, a false idol, basking in his dominance just as Babylon the Great, but you cannot comprehend this position. Tonight, you will not be facing the “False Prophet”. Nor “the Lost Boy”. Nor “Hollywood Homicide Howard Black”. If I cannot defeat you, perhaps no one can.

I am the final resistance.

I am your counterweight.

I am “the Honey Badger” Howard Black.

And when I beat you, I’m going to give my son the greatest birthday present he could ever imagine: the gift of hope.

”Lost Boys” by Death Grips hit the P.A. As the audience swelled, Howard thought he could perhaps hear the raucous cheer of a little boy and beautiful woman, both with big blue eyes and smiles that made him feel like he was somewhere just south of Heaven. He stepped through the curtain.

He was going to make them proud.