Post by Tom Frost on Jan 13, 2017 16:06:15 GMT -5
“Half past nine in the green room of Arnie’s Lounge. There I stood before a stubborn old mirror reluctant to throw my reflection back at me. Whether it was because of my grizzled, hard-lined face or the fact that the mirror itself was caked with half a century’s worth of grime, I may never know.
I guided the sharp edge of a straight razor down my jawline, admiring the sound of the blade smoothing out the prickles and watching as the thick white cream built up on the downward edge. I dipped the razor in the pool of foamy, hair-filled water in the sink and splashed it clean before bringing it back up to neck.
‘Ah...that’s more like it,’ I thought to myself after a few final flicks of the blade beneath my chin. My face was clean shaven and smooth once more...as smooth as a leathery, tobacco hardened face that’s been around 41 years can get, anyway.
Squinting into the filthy mirror, I pulled the skin on my face taut with my mouth, running big, calloused hands over my chin and jawline, examining my work. I nodded in approval before splashing my face with water and dabbing it dry with a hand towel nearby. I reached for my hat, place it loosely on my head, and turned around to face the room.
It was a grungy old place, dimly lit and stinking of spilt beer and decades of accumulated cigarette smoke, but it suited me and the boys. They sat there at a table across the room, Dicky Faulkner and Charlie DeLyle with their backs turned and Panther Newcomb with his over-burdened belly resting on the table and staring right at me. They were drinking and smoking and playing cards, and their conversation was muffled by the sound of the opening act warming up the lounge for us on stage.
Panther looked up when he saw me striding their way, smiling wide and nodding for the boys to take a look.”
Panther Newcomb: Well if it ain’t old Tom Frost looking sixteen and sweet again.
Tom: Momma always said I was the pretty one.
“She never said a damn thing like it.”
Dicky Faulkner: Prettiest thing I ever saw.
“Lighting up an Old Gold and inhaling deep, I took a seat next to Panther and looked across at Charlie, who was slumped over and eyeing me with a look of suspicious reservation.”
Tom: Something on your mind, Chuck?
Charlie DeLyle: Some show you put on last Sunday, outlasting the rest of those schlubs. Cost me ten bucks.
Tom: Yeah? Well, you should’ve known not to place a bet you can’t win. Let that be a lesson to you. Something tells me that ten dollars isn’t the only thing on your mind though.
“He was hesitant to respond, and I knew what was coming before the words blew past his lips.”
Charlie DeLyle: You leaving us, Tom? What with your new career and all...
“Charlie looked across at Panther, then over to Dicky. I followed his gaze and noticed the same reserved eyes of my other bandmates. Taking another drag from the cigarette, I decided to confront the awkward tension head on.”
Tom: I’m not leaving you boys. I’m not leaving the band. Hell, when’s the last time we had a gig on Sunday anyway?
Dicky Faulkner: 1999, if I’m not mistaken.
Panther Newcomb: Please! Like you can remember anything past the last piss you took.
Tom: Point is, wrestling’s my Sunday thing. The rest of the week, I’m all yours.
Dicky Faulkner: We should be so lucky.
“But Charlie wasn’t convinced. Him being my oldest friend, I thought he would have shown a bit of support. Oh well. Choosing to see his selfishness as some kind of perverted sense of loyalty, I looked him dead in the eye and stuck out my hand.”
Tom: ‘Til the end, Charlie. ‘Til my chords tear and I choke on my own blood and I can’t sing another tune; ‘til the bones in these hands break and turn to dust and I can’t play another note. ‘Til the end.
“Charlie knew me well enough to know I wasn’t full of shit, and a light switched on in his eyes. He sat up straight and gave my hand a firm shake. I extended the same promise and handshake to both Dicky and Panther, and as the tension eased, the conversation followed suit.”
Panther Newcomb: I’d like to thank Charlie personally for allowing me the pleasure of taking his ten dollars. I knew you’d come through, Tom. Them others didn’t stand a chance. Those were kids out there in the ring. Oughta lock you up for child abuse.
Tom: Only ones that put up a fight were Rumpke and Fuego Del...whatever the hell he calls himself. The rest of them didn’t belong in a WCF ring.
Dicky Faulkner: Speaking of Rumpke, you got him again in a few weeks. You see that?
Tom: Yeah, yeah I saw it.
Charlie DeLyle: In a bar room brawl, no less. Poor son of a bitch’s fighting you on your home turf.
“But there was only one name that was front and center on my mind, and it certainly wasn’t Rumpke. Our second match at Rise Up was still weeks away, and there’d be plenty of time to contemplate how best to put the drug-addled son of a bitch down once and for all in my first pay-per-view appearance.
No, it was my next opponent whose name reigned supreme: Ryan O’Callaghan. Shame for him, the only place his name would be reigning supreme was in my thoughts.
As the opening act’s set came to a close out on the stage, Charlie poured us all a taste of kentucky bourbon.”
Charlie DeLyle: Showtime, boys.
“Shooting it back, we rose from the table and collected ourselves. Dicky grabbed his bass, Charlie took his saxophone out of its case, and Panther pulled his drumsticks from his waistline. Me...I clenched my fist, my knuckles cracking as the name ran across my mind’s eye like a scrolling marquee.
One final drag from my Old Gold and I snuffed it out in an ashtray before falling in line behind Panther as we made our way to the stage.
We passed by the opening act, a little band out of Scottsdale a few miles south of Darling. A humble group of kids probably just out of high school...kinda like O’Callaghan, I thought to myself.”
Charlie DeLyle: Good show boys.
Dicky Faulkner: How’s the crowd tonight?
Fred Thomke: Deader than shit. Good luck with ‘em.
“I looked the red-mopped axe handler in the eye as I passed him, grunting something like ‘hello’ and taking note of his shockingly pale face. He wouldn’t be back at Arnie’s any time soon. Everyone knows the crowd’s only dead if the band can’t wake them from the grave, and that’s exactly what me and the boys intended to do.
Though all the while, I couldn’t help but see that name crawling across my brain:
It wasn’t haunting me. Far from it. In fact, the only thing haunting me was the realization that I had to wait just under 72 hours to pummel that young hump’s face in and pin his ass...or his shoulders. But I’m a patient man, and as we parted the curtain to a round of applause that fell over us like a gentle rain, the music man in me was revived. I had an ass-kicking to dish out on Sunday, but tonight, I had a gig to play.
And god damn, did we ever play.
Panther took a seat behind his drum kit and looked my way as I nestled in on the rickety old bench in front of the piano. I set my hands on the keys, felt the smooth ivory beneath my fingertips, glanced at the crowd...and rose to my feet.”
Tom Frost: Thank you, you’ve been wonderful. We’ll see you next time.
“Me and the boys turned and made for the curtain as the crowd got an innocent chuckle, and before it died we turned back and took our places once more. This time, when I placed my fingers on the keys, I pressed down and filled the hazy lounge with sound.”
Tom Frost: Warm beer...and cold women! No, I just don’t fit in…
“And as the music rolled, wouldn’t you know it, we rose the dead.
It was one of the best crowds we’d had in years. Waits’ ‘Warm Beer and Cold Women’ segued into Young’s ‘Out on the Weekend.’ We lit a fire; we cooled it off; we got all sentimental with it. Two hours later, and Arnie’s was roaring. We shut the place down with a lively version of Withers’ ‘Use Me’ and took a bow to a thunderous ovation before stepping back through the curtain, where Arnie himself was there to greet us.”
Arnie: Hot damn, gentlemen! Never let ‘em question my booking you every week for the past ten years. That’s why, right there! Now open up your wallets boys, you earned it. Let’s fatten ‘em up.
“He handed out two crisp, green Franklins to each of us and slapped me on the shoulder as we headed for the back exit.”
Arnie: See ya again next week, Tom. Oh, and best of luck in Philly this week.
Tom Frost: Thanks, Arnie. See ya in a week.
“We made our way out of Arnie’s into the back parking lot just after midnight, greeted by the darkness and the frigid mid-winter air. The boys hopped in Panther’s run down Chevy pickup and beckoned my way.”
Charlie: Heading to Lou’s for a taste. You coming?
Panther: Hop in the bed old timer, we got room for ya.
Tom Frost: Think I’ll mosey on over to the Bean and get a bite to eat.
Panther: Right on, I’ll give you a lift.
Tom Frost: Nah...I’m gonna stretch my legs.
Panther: Suit yourself.
Tom Frost: Hell of a show tonight boys. Let’s do it again sometime.
“The door slammed shut and the engine roared into existence. I took out an Old Gold and fired it up as they drove out of sight. Turning the other way, I started off for the Bean Counter, where a steaming cup of joe, some blueberry pancakes, and my sweet, sweet Anna Marie lie in wait.
The sound of frozen gravel crunching beneath my boots was all there was as I smoked my cigarette in what would have been something resembling peace, were it not for the fact that my mind was fixated on the fight that coming Sunday. All night - even during the gig - I kept going back to it...back to the name I’d only first heard of a few days prior.
And without even meaning to, I summoned my low, raspy voice from the depths.”
Tom Frost: Ryan O’Callaghan.
I don’t know you, and you sure as hell don’t know me. Few do...at least when it comes to being a professional wrestler. You may have a couple matches under your belt in the WCF, and I’ve had the one, but I’m not stretching the truth when I say there’s only a tiny fraction of the WCF faithful who’d recognize our names if they heard them on the street, let alone our faces. We’ve got a lot to prove in this business, you and I.
This Sunday’s our chance to do just that.
This Sunday, we can start to etch out a name for ourselves by beating the ever-loving shit out of each other under those lights. This Sunday, we can show the boys backstage that they’ve got trouble on their hands when they see our names next to theirs on the card. This Sunday, we can show the bloodthirsty horde packed like sardines into the Wells Fargo Arena that when one of us steps into the ring, their hard earned money’s gonna come back to them tenfold. This Sunday, we can show the millions sitting on their asses watching the tube that we’re here - that we’re in this shit for the long-haul - and we’re not leaving until we take what’s ours.
And what’s ours, you ask?
The day.
Or rather, the night.
Sunday night.
It’s ours, Ryan. So by god, let’s take it.
We may be coming out early as the second match, and sure, that crowd might be biding their time for the matches later on in the night. They may well be dead and buried in a shallow mass grave, but who’s stopping us from digging them up and bring them back to life? Who’s stopping us from walking out of there battered and bruised to the biggest ovation of the night? Who’s stopping us from throwing down with all we’ve got, putting it all on the line, and having a barnburner of match in front of the WCF faithful?
Is it you, Ryan? Because it’s certainly not me. I’m coming with everything I got this Sunday. I’d suggest you do the same, or only one of us is going to remain alive in the minds of everyone who saw us battle it out.
So let’s make them remember us. Let’s walk out of there knowing we marked our territory and won’t be forgotten anytime soon. Let’s show the world we’re not the common rabble that comes in for a few matches only to realize they don’t have what it takes. I’m made of something stronger than that, and I like to think you are to.
But like I said...I don’t know you.
After Sunday though, you’re damn sure gonna know me.
“I crossed 9th street and came to a vacant lot that backed up to a patch of woods. I considered my options, those being to take a shortcut through the lot and the trees or to take the long way to the diner by way of the streets. After a deep drag from my Old Gold, I flicked it away and decided on the scenic route.
I was halfway to the diner, but I wasn’t through with O’Callaghan yet.”
Tom Frost: No, we don’t know each other, but that’s not to say I haven’t done my homework. If there’s one thing I am - apart from being a man who delights in drinking, smoking, and singing a tune - it’s diligent. And I’ve been just that in my attempts to get to know you without having met you. I’ve seen the tapes, studied them over and over again. You move well; you’re a hell of a fighter.
All the more reason for me to look forward to our match.
If you ask me, this is my first true challenge in the WCF. Sure, my debut saw me pitted against six others in an over the top battle royal, but after studying each of my opponents, I wasn’t overly concerned with either of them. You, though, you’re not one to dismiss. You’ve got a fighting chance this week. Trouble for you is...so do I.
After your win over Axel Blackwood in your debut, you were granted a TV Title shot last week. What an honor. I may have been a music man all my life, but I’ve been a fan of wrestling since I was a boy, watching the matches on Saturday mornings two feet away from the Zenith. I know those belts mean something - they mean everything - and to have a shot to be a champion after only one bout...well, that’s saying something.
But I won’t lie, Ryan. I won’t fluff your pillows and whisper sweet nothings in your ear like Mommy and Daddy did when they tucked you in at night. Last week, when you had the chance to cement yourself as a legitimate threat to every man on the roster and inscribe your name into the annals of the WCF, you failed. You ate the pin, and from the looks of it you were out cold when the ref counted three.
You failed, Ryan, because you got complacent. Two matches in, and already you had started to slip. You fought with fervor in your debut, and while you put up a fight last week, your performance was well below the standard you’d set the previous week.
Chalk it up to nerves. Chalk it up to standing across from an opponent whose skill outshone that of your previous ones. And make no mistake, FPV and the TV Champ Sebastian Knight are of a different breed than the fodder we chewed up and spit out in our respective debuts. In the end, though, there’s no excuse for getting pinned, only a reason...that being you weren’t the better man.
Get used to that feeling, Ryan - at least for another week. Because while we can go out there and tear each other limb from limb and set the crowd on fire with the best fight they’ve seen in years, I’m telling you right now that I’m gonna be the one with his hand raised after the final bell. It’s like the song, you know the one: “can’t find a better maaan!” What is that, Creed or something? Anyway, point is, you can search the world over, and you won’t find a better one than me.
“The neon light emanating from the sign atop the Bean Counter shone through the wall of douglas firs that marked the boundary of the small patch of forest. I parted the prickly, evergreen curtain and stepped out onto the street.
Looking through the glass of the diner, I could see there were only a couple patrons within. It was my sweet Anna Marie I was scanning for though, and when I didn’t see her behind the counter, my face crumpled into a slight frown. It was quick to fade as I strode toward the establishment, and lighting up another Old Gold, I continued.”
Tom Frost: Sunday’s a holy day, Ryan...or so they’d have us believe. And if what they say is true, the Wells Fargo Arena is our temple. But we’re not there to bend the knee and give thanks to almighty god. This Sunday, we’re the gods, and it’s us the masses are there to worship. Those are some big shoes to fill, and my old feet are bigger than shit. I’m gonna have no problem slipping into those puppies. Frankly, it’ll be a tight squeeze. I only hope the same can be said of you.
We may not be in the main event, but I’ll be damned if we’re not going to be the main attraction. When it’s all said and done, people are going to look back on our match and wonder why we didn’t go on last to assure the WCF faithful went home satisfied. My spot this low on the card’s not likely to last long, so I guess I’d better enjoy it while it does. You though...who knows how you’ll fare in this business? Who knows where you’ll be in a month; in a year?
Only you, Ryan.
The duty of your placement in this world lies solely with you. It’s your burden to bear, despite those who stand in your way and knock you on your ass, as I fully intend to do. But taking a beating isn’t the measure of a man. No...it’s whether or not you decide to get back up; whether or not you decide to keep on going after your dreams are shattered and you’re sure all hope is lost. And after I’m through knocking you on your ass - after I’ve turned your dreams of glory by way of success into the harsh reality of damnation by way of defeat - will you rise again?
After all, a couple losses in a row never killed a man’s wrestling career. Some of the most noteworthy legends this business has ever seen have lost plenty of matches. What separates their names from those forgotten by time, though, is that they got back up; they never quit - never surrendered; they lived to fight another day.
Question is, Ryan...will you?
“Flicking my cigarette, I exhaled a cloud of smoke and entered the Bean Counter.
A pair of bells clanged against the glass door as I swung it open, and all the heads in the place turned my way. They got one look at me and turned back...all except Rosie, the owner of the joint. Her plump cheeks lifted as she smiled wide, showing off a gap in her front teeth you could steer a semi through.”
Rosie: Tom Frost. Come on in, have a seat. What’ll it be?
Tom: Evening, Rosie.
“I took my place on a barstool in front of the counter and nodded toward the coffee pot.”
Tom: Cup of coffee and some blueberry pancakes...if you got ‘em.
Rosie: Oh, we got ‘em.
“She poured me a cup of steaming black and set it in front of me. I topped it off with a bit of whiskey from a flask in my coat pocket as she hollered toward the kitchen.”
Rosie: Full stack, blueberry! Coming right up, Tom.
Tom: Anna Marie working tonight?
Rosie: ‘Fraid not. Said she was heading down to Seattle for the weekend.
“Despite my trying to hide it, she noticed my disappointment.”
Rosie: Always the hopeless romantic, ain’t ya, Tom? She’ll be back. You can ask for her hand then. Don’t suppose her answer’s gonna change much from the one she gave you last week though.
Tom: Yeah…
“I mumbled something to myself, but before Rosie could respond, one of the patrons - Bill Garvey, who was sitting a few stools down from me - beat her to it.”
Bill: Enjoyed the show tonight, Tom...as always.
Tom: Thanks, Bill.
Bill: Enjoyed your match last Sunday, too. Funny seeing you out there in the ring on national television.
Tom: What’s funny about it?
“My tone was menacing without meaning to be, and Bill’s eyes widened and his brows rose up in an apologetic manner.”
Bill: Oh, I didn’t mean nothing by it. I just meant, you know, seeing someone from Darling on the TV’s something that doesn’t happen too often. Sure gave ‘em a licking though. You gonna be out there this week?
Tom: Yeah, one-on-one this time. Guy’s name is Ryan O’Callaghan.
Bill: Hmm...can’t say I recognize it. What’s he look like?
Tom: Young kid, about my height. Not sure how better to describe him, really. Nothing stands out about the look of him. He’s uh...he’s the guy who got pinned and lost FPV the TV Title.
Bill: Ah, right, right. Decent match. Kid’s got some growing up to do, it’d seem. How you think you’ll fare against him?
Tom: How do you think I’ll fare?
Bill: If you come with the kinda business I’ve seen over at Lou’s, I don’t think he stands a chance.
Tom: It’ll be a different kind of fight. I don’t think he’s gonna be an obnoxious drunk in the ring, but yeah...I imagine it’s gonna end the same way.
“Rosie walked back over and set a plate of hot pancakes in front of me. A square of butter had already begun melting atop them, and I grabbed a knife and spread it around nice and even.”
Tom: Thank you, Rosie.
Rosie: You’re welcome, sugar. You boys and your fightin’. Ever stop to think that’s why Anna Marie’s only got one answer for you every time you drop down to a knee?
Tom: I imagine it’s more complicated than that.
Rosie: You might be surprised.
“Bill stood up and put on his coat, wishing me luck and thanking Rosie before saying goodnight. I nodded his way and gave him a little wave goodbye before digging into the soft, syrup-covered pancakes I’d been craving all day. Of course, the craving I’d had most of all was to see my sweet Anna Marie - the pancakes and coffee were secondary - but tonight, they’d have to do.
Rosie talked at me the entire meal, telling me four or five stories that she miraculously managed to seam into one long one. What was even more miraculous was that she wasn’t blue in the face when I stood up and slapped a twenty down on the table; she had hardly taken a breath in between sentences.
I thanked her and made my way toward the door.”
Rosie: I’ll tell Anna you stopped by.
Tom: Alright then. Goodnight, Rosie.
“She wished me the same before I walked back out into the frigid, early morning air.
Sunday’s match made it’s way to the forefront of my mind once more as I strolled on home to the only girl in this world who still loved me - my old basset hound, Miss Daisy Mae.
Friday came and went, and so did most of Saturday. Around 5:00 pm, as the last light of the sun was fading behind the mountains, I drove my ‘Olds 88 down to the Queen’s Cross train station and showed my ticket to the lady at the booth. She looked baffled when I handed her my ticket.”
Lady: Darling to Philly, huh? You’re in for one long train ride.
Tom: M-hmm.
Lady: Why don’t you just fly?
Tom: Don’t like flying. I prefer to remain grounded. I’m sure your boss would love you trying to turn my business away though.
“She started to stutter and go back on her words, but my smile eased the tension.”
Tom: Only kidding, sweetie.
Lady: Ah, ok...well your train’s boarding. Have a nice trip! And thanks for using Zora Rail Lines!
“I nodded and made my way to platform nine. With no luggage to speak of aside from my flask and a couple packs of Old Golds, I boarded the train and made my way to a seat in the back of the car. The train was nearly empty, and the only other passengers were seated about a dozen rows up. The train shuddered to a start, slowly picking up speed as I settled in for the long journey east.
Once I was comfortable, I lit up a cigarette and gazed out the window at the passing countryside, thinking of the match that was now just over 24 hours away. Knowing no one would hear - and without so much as a care in the world if they did - I began talking to my opponent, wherever he was.”
Tom: Here I come, Ryan. Listen to that old whistle blow. Listen to the distant roar of the train as I draw near. Soon I’ll be at your door, banging on it with all my might ‘til it splinters and cracks. And when I break it down, there’s gonna be nothing standing in my way from doing the same to you.
Now, only time separates us from the fight of our lives thus far. I can’t say with any amount of certainty that this is gonna be the roughest of my life, but I’m absolutely certain it’s gonna be the roughest of yours. You’ve never had the displeasure of squaring off against someone like me - not even last week, when you got your shit kicked in by both of the men you shared the ring with. Something inside you better have changed since last Sunday, because if it hasn’t, you’re in for another grim defeat.
But while this may not be the most challenging fight of my life, it’s by far the most important. For that reason alone my blood is boiling. You’ve never wronged me. You’ve never even so much as spoken an ill-word against me, though that should change by the time tomorrow night rolls around. Hell, it’s like I said before: we don’t even know each other. All the same, my desire for victory - to see you beaten down by these hands of mine and pinned for three in the center of the ring - far outweighs the idea that you don’t necessarily deserve it. That’s the name of the game here in the WCF though, especially newcomers like us whose first introductions occur when the bell rings and the match gets underway.
And mine is going to be an introduction you’ll never forget.
You’re a dreamer, Ryan. I’ve heard you say as much. ‘Dreams do come true…’ you said when you finally hit the big time and were booked against a group of wrestlers who may never show their face in a WCF ring again. But while you dream of simply being a part of all this, I dream of something else...something more. I don’t want to be just another guy on the roster. I want to be a man others fear above all else. I want to scale WCF Mountain and stake my flag atop its highest peak. I want to look down from the summit and take in the trail of broken, mangled bodies strewn this way and that, marking my ascent. I want to be the best, and with a victory of you to go up 2-0, I’ll be well on my way.
You may be younger than me, Ryan, but your youth is a hindrance when you’re up against a man like me. My age only serves to provide me with an extra advantage. With age comes wisdom - experience - and god knows I’ve got an overflowing store of both. I’m not one to make mistakes when pitted against another man in a fight. I know exactly what I’m doing. But you...you’re still new at this. And what with your frat-boy lifestyle - your bong-ripping, video game playing, living-off-mommy-and-daddy’s money day to day life - there’s no way you can match wits with me in the ring. I”m a grown ass man; you’re a boy whose as far from adulthood as I am from adolescence. Yours is a childish existence, filled with false hope and dreams of glory without realizing the time and effort necessary to achieve it.
“A rage come over me as I spoke to O’Callaghan through time and space. It consumed me, filled me to the brim. I wanted to tear apart the train car - needed to - but I managed to suppress my violent desire, knowing I’d have my chance to unleash on the man called ‘Rocco’ soon.”
Tom: Don’t be afraid, Ryan. It’s true that you’re going to suffer the worst beating of your life in a matter of hours, but there’s no use in fearing the inevitable. And if for whatever reason you can’t shake it, let it wash over you and be your guide. Let it provide you with what’s needed to leave me reeling from the match for days on end. Let your fear of old Tom Frost take you to new heights, because if you want to hang with me - and I know deep down you do - you’re going to have to up your game and get on my level.
Heed my words, Ryan. Heed my wisdom. It’s something I’m in no shortage of.
I want to know your wrath; I want the whole god damn world to know it. I don’t want to walk up that ramp unscathed in victory. I want to wince when the ref raises my arm after I pin you for three.
So let’s give ‘em a show. Let’s give ‘em a fight they won’t soon forget. Let’s give ‘em a glimpse of what it’s like to burn in the fires of hell...because when you’re in the ring with Tom Frost, that’s exactly where you’ll be.
“With that, I removed the flask from my coat pocket and took a swig. That old familiar burn coated my throat as it slid down to warm my belly, and I leaned my seat back and placed my hat over my face. In a matter of seconds, I was fast asleep, dreaming of the man I’d soon stand across from in the ring.
I slept…
And slept…
When I finally awoke, the late afternoon sun was beaming through windows. The train had slowed and lurched to a stop next to the platform of the station. I sat up with a groan, stretching before I rose to my feet and made my way toward the exit.
Hailing the first cab I saw, I plopped down in the back seat as the driver turned around.”
Cabbie: Where to, mister?
Tom: 3601 S Broad St.
Cabbie: The Wells Fargo Arena?
Tom: That’s the one. Alright if I smoke in here?
Cabbie: Sure. You one of them wrestlers?
“I scraped my thumb on my zippo in response, sparking the flame and lighting up my cigarette as he turned with a shrug and headed toward the arena. Silence ensued; I had nothing left to say, and I finished my cigarette as the cab slowed to a stop near an alley that ran behind the giant arena. Paying my fare plus tip, I exited the cab and strolled down the alley.
Reaching a stairway that led to a back door, a chill traversed my spine.
‘Showtime,’ I thought to myself, and ascended the stairway. To my surprise, the door was unlocked, and I stepped into the hallway within, slamming the door shut and leaving the world behind.”
I guided the sharp edge of a straight razor down my jawline, admiring the sound of the blade smoothing out the prickles and watching as the thick white cream built up on the downward edge. I dipped the razor in the pool of foamy, hair-filled water in the sink and splashed it clean before bringing it back up to neck.
‘Ah...that’s more like it,’ I thought to myself after a few final flicks of the blade beneath my chin. My face was clean shaven and smooth once more...as smooth as a leathery, tobacco hardened face that’s been around 41 years can get, anyway.
Squinting into the filthy mirror, I pulled the skin on my face taut with my mouth, running big, calloused hands over my chin and jawline, examining my work. I nodded in approval before splashing my face with water and dabbing it dry with a hand towel nearby. I reached for my hat, place it loosely on my head, and turned around to face the room.
It was a grungy old place, dimly lit and stinking of spilt beer and decades of accumulated cigarette smoke, but it suited me and the boys. They sat there at a table across the room, Dicky Faulkner and Charlie DeLyle with their backs turned and Panther Newcomb with his over-burdened belly resting on the table and staring right at me. They were drinking and smoking and playing cards, and their conversation was muffled by the sound of the opening act warming up the lounge for us on stage.
Panther looked up when he saw me striding their way, smiling wide and nodding for the boys to take a look.”
Panther Newcomb: Well if it ain’t old Tom Frost looking sixteen and sweet again.
Tom: Momma always said I was the pretty one.
“She never said a damn thing like it.”
Dicky Faulkner: Prettiest thing I ever saw.
“Lighting up an Old Gold and inhaling deep, I took a seat next to Panther and looked across at Charlie, who was slumped over and eyeing me with a look of suspicious reservation.”
Tom: Something on your mind, Chuck?
Charlie DeLyle: Some show you put on last Sunday, outlasting the rest of those schlubs. Cost me ten bucks.
Tom: Yeah? Well, you should’ve known not to place a bet you can’t win. Let that be a lesson to you. Something tells me that ten dollars isn’t the only thing on your mind though.
“He was hesitant to respond, and I knew what was coming before the words blew past his lips.”
Charlie DeLyle: You leaving us, Tom? What with your new career and all...
“Charlie looked across at Panther, then over to Dicky. I followed his gaze and noticed the same reserved eyes of my other bandmates. Taking another drag from the cigarette, I decided to confront the awkward tension head on.”
Tom: I’m not leaving you boys. I’m not leaving the band. Hell, when’s the last time we had a gig on Sunday anyway?
Dicky Faulkner: 1999, if I’m not mistaken.
Panther Newcomb: Please! Like you can remember anything past the last piss you took.
Tom: Point is, wrestling’s my Sunday thing. The rest of the week, I’m all yours.
Dicky Faulkner: We should be so lucky.
“But Charlie wasn’t convinced. Him being my oldest friend, I thought he would have shown a bit of support. Oh well. Choosing to see his selfishness as some kind of perverted sense of loyalty, I looked him dead in the eye and stuck out my hand.”
Tom: ‘Til the end, Charlie. ‘Til my chords tear and I choke on my own blood and I can’t sing another tune; ‘til the bones in these hands break and turn to dust and I can’t play another note. ‘Til the end.
“Charlie knew me well enough to know I wasn’t full of shit, and a light switched on in his eyes. He sat up straight and gave my hand a firm shake. I extended the same promise and handshake to both Dicky and Panther, and as the tension eased, the conversation followed suit.”
Panther Newcomb: I’d like to thank Charlie personally for allowing me the pleasure of taking his ten dollars. I knew you’d come through, Tom. Them others didn’t stand a chance. Those were kids out there in the ring. Oughta lock you up for child abuse.
Tom: Only ones that put up a fight were Rumpke and Fuego Del...whatever the hell he calls himself. The rest of them didn’t belong in a WCF ring.
Dicky Faulkner: Speaking of Rumpke, you got him again in a few weeks. You see that?
Tom: Yeah, yeah I saw it.
Charlie DeLyle: In a bar room brawl, no less. Poor son of a bitch’s fighting you on your home turf.
“But there was only one name that was front and center on my mind, and it certainly wasn’t Rumpke. Our second match at Rise Up was still weeks away, and there’d be plenty of time to contemplate how best to put the drug-addled son of a bitch down once and for all in my first pay-per-view appearance.
No, it was my next opponent whose name reigned supreme: Ryan O’Callaghan. Shame for him, the only place his name would be reigning supreme was in my thoughts.
As the opening act’s set came to a close out on the stage, Charlie poured us all a taste of kentucky bourbon.”
Charlie DeLyle: Showtime, boys.
“Shooting it back, we rose from the table and collected ourselves. Dicky grabbed his bass, Charlie took his saxophone out of its case, and Panther pulled his drumsticks from his waistline. Me...I clenched my fist, my knuckles cracking as the name ran across my mind’s eye like a scrolling marquee.
One final drag from my Old Gold and I snuffed it out in an ashtray before falling in line behind Panther as we made our way to the stage.
We passed by the opening act, a little band out of Scottsdale a few miles south of Darling. A humble group of kids probably just out of high school...kinda like O’Callaghan, I thought to myself.”
Charlie DeLyle: Good show boys.
Dicky Faulkner: How’s the crowd tonight?
Fred Thomke: Deader than shit. Good luck with ‘em.
“I looked the red-mopped axe handler in the eye as I passed him, grunting something like ‘hello’ and taking note of his shockingly pale face. He wouldn’t be back at Arnie’s any time soon. Everyone knows the crowd’s only dead if the band can’t wake them from the grave, and that’s exactly what me and the boys intended to do.
Though all the while, I couldn’t help but see that name crawling across my brain:
It wasn’t haunting me. Far from it. In fact, the only thing haunting me was the realization that I had to wait just under 72 hours to pummel that young hump’s face in and pin his ass...or his shoulders. But I’m a patient man, and as we parted the curtain to a round of applause that fell over us like a gentle rain, the music man in me was revived. I had an ass-kicking to dish out on Sunday, but tonight, I had a gig to play.
And god damn, did we ever play.
Panther took a seat behind his drum kit and looked my way as I nestled in on the rickety old bench in front of the piano. I set my hands on the keys, felt the smooth ivory beneath my fingertips, glanced at the crowd...and rose to my feet.”
Tom Frost: Thank you, you’ve been wonderful. We’ll see you next time.
“Me and the boys turned and made for the curtain as the crowd got an innocent chuckle, and before it died we turned back and took our places once more. This time, when I placed my fingers on the keys, I pressed down and filled the hazy lounge with sound.”
Tom Frost: Warm beer...and cold women! No, I just don’t fit in…
“And as the music rolled, wouldn’t you know it, we rose the dead.
It was one of the best crowds we’d had in years. Waits’ ‘Warm Beer and Cold Women’ segued into Young’s ‘Out on the Weekend.’ We lit a fire; we cooled it off; we got all sentimental with it. Two hours later, and Arnie’s was roaring. We shut the place down with a lively version of Withers’ ‘Use Me’ and took a bow to a thunderous ovation before stepping back through the curtain, where Arnie himself was there to greet us.”
Arnie: Hot damn, gentlemen! Never let ‘em question my booking you every week for the past ten years. That’s why, right there! Now open up your wallets boys, you earned it. Let’s fatten ‘em up.
“He handed out two crisp, green Franklins to each of us and slapped me on the shoulder as we headed for the back exit.”
Arnie: See ya again next week, Tom. Oh, and best of luck in Philly this week.
Tom Frost: Thanks, Arnie. See ya in a week.
“We made our way out of Arnie’s into the back parking lot just after midnight, greeted by the darkness and the frigid mid-winter air. The boys hopped in Panther’s run down Chevy pickup and beckoned my way.”
Charlie: Heading to Lou’s for a taste. You coming?
Panther: Hop in the bed old timer, we got room for ya.
Tom Frost: Think I’ll mosey on over to the Bean and get a bite to eat.
Panther: Right on, I’ll give you a lift.
Tom Frost: Nah...I’m gonna stretch my legs.
Panther: Suit yourself.
Tom Frost: Hell of a show tonight boys. Let’s do it again sometime.
“The door slammed shut and the engine roared into existence. I took out an Old Gold and fired it up as they drove out of sight. Turning the other way, I started off for the Bean Counter, where a steaming cup of joe, some blueberry pancakes, and my sweet, sweet Anna Marie lie in wait.
The sound of frozen gravel crunching beneath my boots was all there was as I smoked my cigarette in what would have been something resembling peace, were it not for the fact that my mind was fixated on the fight that coming Sunday. All night - even during the gig - I kept going back to it...back to the name I’d only first heard of a few days prior.
And without even meaning to, I summoned my low, raspy voice from the depths.”
Tom Frost: Ryan O’Callaghan.
I don’t know you, and you sure as hell don’t know me. Few do...at least when it comes to being a professional wrestler. You may have a couple matches under your belt in the WCF, and I’ve had the one, but I’m not stretching the truth when I say there’s only a tiny fraction of the WCF faithful who’d recognize our names if they heard them on the street, let alone our faces. We’ve got a lot to prove in this business, you and I.
This Sunday’s our chance to do just that.
This Sunday, we can start to etch out a name for ourselves by beating the ever-loving shit out of each other under those lights. This Sunday, we can show the boys backstage that they’ve got trouble on their hands when they see our names next to theirs on the card. This Sunday, we can show the bloodthirsty horde packed like sardines into the Wells Fargo Arena that when one of us steps into the ring, their hard earned money’s gonna come back to them tenfold. This Sunday, we can show the millions sitting on their asses watching the tube that we’re here - that we’re in this shit for the long-haul - and we’re not leaving until we take what’s ours.
And what’s ours, you ask?
The day.
Or rather, the night.
Sunday night.
It’s ours, Ryan. So by god, let’s take it.
We may be coming out early as the second match, and sure, that crowd might be biding their time for the matches later on in the night. They may well be dead and buried in a shallow mass grave, but who’s stopping us from digging them up and bring them back to life? Who’s stopping us from walking out of there battered and bruised to the biggest ovation of the night? Who’s stopping us from throwing down with all we’ve got, putting it all on the line, and having a barnburner of match in front of the WCF faithful?
Is it you, Ryan? Because it’s certainly not me. I’m coming with everything I got this Sunday. I’d suggest you do the same, or only one of us is going to remain alive in the minds of everyone who saw us battle it out.
So let’s make them remember us. Let’s walk out of there knowing we marked our territory and won’t be forgotten anytime soon. Let’s show the world we’re not the common rabble that comes in for a few matches only to realize they don’t have what it takes. I’m made of something stronger than that, and I like to think you are to.
But like I said...I don’t know you.
After Sunday though, you’re damn sure gonna know me.
“I crossed 9th street and came to a vacant lot that backed up to a patch of woods. I considered my options, those being to take a shortcut through the lot and the trees or to take the long way to the diner by way of the streets. After a deep drag from my Old Gold, I flicked it away and decided on the scenic route.
I was halfway to the diner, but I wasn’t through with O’Callaghan yet.”
Tom Frost: No, we don’t know each other, but that’s not to say I haven’t done my homework. If there’s one thing I am - apart from being a man who delights in drinking, smoking, and singing a tune - it’s diligent. And I’ve been just that in my attempts to get to know you without having met you. I’ve seen the tapes, studied them over and over again. You move well; you’re a hell of a fighter.
All the more reason for me to look forward to our match.
If you ask me, this is my first true challenge in the WCF. Sure, my debut saw me pitted against six others in an over the top battle royal, but after studying each of my opponents, I wasn’t overly concerned with either of them. You, though, you’re not one to dismiss. You’ve got a fighting chance this week. Trouble for you is...so do I.
After your win over Axel Blackwood in your debut, you were granted a TV Title shot last week. What an honor. I may have been a music man all my life, but I’ve been a fan of wrestling since I was a boy, watching the matches on Saturday mornings two feet away from the Zenith. I know those belts mean something - they mean everything - and to have a shot to be a champion after only one bout...well, that’s saying something.
But I won’t lie, Ryan. I won’t fluff your pillows and whisper sweet nothings in your ear like Mommy and Daddy did when they tucked you in at night. Last week, when you had the chance to cement yourself as a legitimate threat to every man on the roster and inscribe your name into the annals of the WCF, you failed. You ate the pin, and from the looks of it you were out cold when the ref counted three.
You failed, Ryan, because you got complacent. Two matches in, and already you had started to slip. You fought with fervor in your debut, and while you put up a fight last week, your performance was well below the standard you’d set the previous week.
Chalk it up to nerves. Chalk it up to standing across from an opponent whose skill outshone that of your previous ones. And make no mistake, FPV and the TV Champ Sebastian Knight are of a different breed than the fodder we chewed up and spit out in our respective debuts. In the end, though, there’s no excuse for getting pinned, only a reason...that being you weren’t the better man.
Get used to that feeling, Ryan - at least for another week. Because while we can go out there and tear each other limb from limb and set the crowd on fire with the best fight they’ve seen in years, I’m telling you right now that I’m gonna be the one with his hand raised after the final bell. It’s like the song, you know the one: “can’t find a better maaan!” What is that, Creed or something? Anyway, point is, you can search the world over, and you won’t find a better one than me.
“The neon light emanating from the sign atop the Bean Counter shone through the wall of douglas firs that marked the boundary of the small patch of forest. I parted the prickly, evergreen curtain and stepped out onto the street.
Looking through the glass of the diner, I could see there were only a couple patrons within. It was my sweet Anna Marie I was scanning for though, and when I didn’t see her behind the counter, my face crumpled into a slight frown. It was quick to fade as I strode toward the establishment, and lighting up another Old Gold, I continued.”
Tom Frost: Sunday’s a holy day, Ryan...or so they’d have us believe. And if what they say is true, the Wells Fargo Arena is our temple. But we’re not there to bend the knee and give thanks to almighty god. This Sunday, we’re the gods, and it’s us the masses are there to worship. Those are some big shoes to fill, and my old feet are bigger than shit. I’m gonna have no problem slipping into those puppies. Frankly, it’ll be a tight squeeze. I only hope the same can be said of you.
We may not be in the main event, but I’ll be damned if we’re not going to be the main attraction. When it’s all said and done, people are going to look back on our match and wonder why we didn’t go on last to assure the WCF faithful went home satisfied. My spot this low on the card’s not likely to last long, so I guess I’d better enjoy it while it does. You though...who knows how you’ll fare in this business? Who knows where you’ll be in a month; in a year?
Only you, Ryan.
The duty of your placement in this world lies solely with you. It’s your burden to bear, despite those who stand in your way and knock you on your ass, as I fully intend to do. But taking a beating isn’t the measure of a man. No...it’s whether or not you decide to get back up; whether or not you decide to keep on going after your dreams are shattered and you’re sure all hope is lost. And after I’m through knocking you on your ass - after I’ve turned your dreams of glory by way of success into the harsh reality of damnation by way of defeat - will you rise again?
After all, a couple losses in a row never killed a man’s wrestling career. Some of the most noteworthy legends this business has ever seen have lost plenty of matches. What separates their names from those forgotten by time, though, is that they got back up; they never quit - never surrendered; they lived to fight another day.
Question is, Ryan...will you?
“Flicking my cigarette, I exhaled a cloud of smoke and entered the Bean Counter.
A pair of bells clanged against the glass door as I swung it open, and all the heads in the place turned my way. They got one look at me and turned back...all except Rosie, the owner of the joint. Her plump cheeks lifted as she smiled wide, showing off a gap in her front teeth you could steer a semi through.”
Rosie: Tom Frost. Come on in, have a seat. What’ll it be?
Tom: Evening, Rosie.
“I took my place on a barstool in front of the counter and nodded toward the coffee pot.”
Tom: Cup of coffee and some blueberry pancakes...if you got ‘em.
Rosie: Oh, we got ‘em.
“She poured me a cup of steaming black and set it in front of me. I topped it off with a bit of whiskey from a flask in my coat pocket as she hollered toward the kitchen.”
Rosie: Full stack, blueberry! Coming right up, Tom.
Tom: Anna Marie working tonight?
Rosie: ‘Fraid not. Said she was heading down to Seattle for the weekend.
“Despite my trying to hide it, she noticed my disappointment.”
Rosie: Always the hopeless romantic, ain’t ya, Tom? She’ll be back. You can ask for her hand then. Don’t suppose her answer’s gonna change much from the one she gave you last week though.
Tom: Yeah…
“I mumbled something to myself, but before Rosie could respond, one of the patrons - Bill Garvey, who was sitting a few stools down from me - beat her to it.”
Bill: Enjoyed the show tonight, Tom...as always.
Tom: Thanks, Bill.
Bill: Enjoyed your match last Sunday, too. Funny seeing you out there in the ring on national television.
Tom: What’s funny about it?
“My tone was menacing without meaning to be, and Bill’s eyes widened and his brows rose up in an apologetic manner.”
Bill: Oh, I didn’t mean nothing by it. I just meant, you know, seeing someone from Darling on the TV’s something that doesn’t happen too often. Sure gave ‘em a licking though. You gonna be out there this week?
Tom: Yeah, one-on-one this time. Guy’s name is Ryan O’Callaghan.
Bill: Hmm...can’t say I recognize it. What’s he look like?
Tom: Young kid, about my height. Not sure how better to describe him, really. Nothing stands out about the look of him. He’s uh...he’s the guy who got pinned and lost FPV the TV Title.
Bill: Ah, right, right. Decent match. Kid’s got some growing up to do, it’d seem. How you think you’ll fare against him?
Tom: How do you think I’ll fare?
Bill: If you come with the kinda business I’ve seen over at Lou’s, I don’t think he stands a chance.
Tom: It’ll be a different kind of fight. I don’t think he’s gonna be an obnoxious drunk in the ring, but yeah...I imagine it’s gonna end the same way.
“Rosie walked back over and set a plate of hot pancakes in front of me. A square of butter had already begun melting atop them, and I grabbed a knife and spread it around nice and even.”
Tom: Thank you, Rosie.
Rosie: You’re welcome, sugar. You boys and your fightin’. Ever stop to think that’s why Anna Marie’s only got one answer for you every time you drop down to a knee?
Tom: I imagine it’s more complicated than that.
Rosie: You might be surprised.
“Bill stood up and put on his coat, wishing me luck and thanking Rosie before saying goodnight. I nodded his way and gave him a little wave goodbye before digging into the soft, syrup-covered pancakes I’d been craving all day. Of course, the craving I’d had most of all was to see my sweet Anna Marie - the pancakes and coffee were secondary - but tonight, they’d have to do.
Rosie talked at me the entire meal, telling me four or five stories that she miraculously managed to seam into one long one. What was even more miraculous was that she wasn’t blue in the face when I stood up and slapped a twenty down on the table; she had hardly taken a breath in between sentences.
I thanked her and made my way toward the door.”
Rosie: I’ll tell Anna you stopped by.
Tom: Alright then. Goodnight, Rosie.
“She wished me the same before I walked back out into the frigid, early morning air.
Sunday’s match made it’s way to the forefront of my mind once more as I strolled on home to the only girl in this world who still loved me - my old basset hound, Miss Daisy Mae.
Friday came and went, and so did most of Saturday. Around 5:00 pm, as the last light of the sun was fading behind the mountains, I drove my ‘Olds 88 down to the Queen’s Cross train station and showed my ticket to the lady at the booth. She looked baffled when I handed her my ticket.”
Lady: Darling to Philly, huh? You’re in for one long train ride.
Tom: M-hmm.
Lady: Why don’t you just fly?
Tom: Don’t like flying. I prefer to remain grounded. I’m sure your boss would love you trying to turn my business away though.
“She started to stutter and go back on her words, but my smile eased the tension.”
Tom: Only kidding, sweetie.
Lady: Ah, ok...well your train’s boarding. Have a nice trip! And thanks for using Zora Rail Lines!
“I nodded and made my way to platform nine. With no luggage to speak of aside from my flask and a couple packs of Old Golds, I boarded the train and made my way to a seat in the back of the car. The train was nearly empty, and the only other passengers were seated about a dozen rows up. The train shuddered to a start, slowly picking up speed as I settled in for the long journey east.
Once I was comfortable, I lit up a cigarette and gazed out the window at the passing countryside, thinking of the match that was now just over 24 hours away. Knowing no one would hear - and without so much as a care in the world if they did - I began talking to my opponent, wherever he was.”
Tom: Here I come, Ryan. Listen to that old whistle blow. Listen to the distant roar of the train as I draw near. Soon I’ll be at your door, banging on it with all my might ‘til it splinters and cracks. And when I break it down, there’s gonna be nothing standing in my way from doing the same to you.
Now, only time separates us from the fight of our lives thus far. I can’t say with any amount of certainty that this is gonna be the roughest of my life, but I’m absolutely certain it’s gonna be the roughest of yours. You’ve never had the displeasure of squaring off against someone like me - not even last week, when you got your shit kicked in by both of the men you shared the ring with. Something inside you better have changed since last Sunday, because if it hasn’t, you’re in for another grim defeat.
But while this may not be the most challenging fight of my life, it’s by far the most important. For that reason alone my blood is boiling. You’ve never wronged me. You’ve never even so much as spoken an ill-word against me, though that should change by the time tomorrow night rolls around. Hell, it’s like I said before: we don’t even know each other. All the same, my desire for victory - to see you beaten down by these hands of mine and pinned for three in the center of the ring - far outweighs the idea that you don’t necessarily deserve it. That’s the name of the game here in the WCF though, especially newcomers like us whose first introductions occur when the bell rings and the match gets underway.
And mine is going to be an introduction you’ll never forget.
You’re a dreamer, Ryan. I’ve heard you say as much. ‘Dreams do come true…’ you said when you finally hit the big time and were booked against a group of wrestlers who may never show their face in a WCF ring again. But while you dream of simply being a part of all this, I dream of something else...something more. I don’t want to be just another guy on the roster. I want to be a man others fear above all else. I want to scale WCF Mountain and stake my flag atop its highest peak. I want to look down from the summit and take in the trail of broken, mangled bodies strewn this way and that, marking my ascent. I want to be the best, and with a victory of you to go up 2-0, I’ll be well on my way.
You may be younger than me, Ryan, but your youth is a hindrance when you’re up against a man like me. My age only serves to provide me with an extra advantage. With age comes wisdom - experience - and god knows I’ve got an overflowing store of both. I’m not one to make mistakes when pitted against another man in a fight. I know exactly what I’m doing. But you...you’re still new at this. And what with your frat-boy lifestyle - your bong-ripping, video game playing, living-off-mommy-and-daddy’s money day to day life - there’s no way you can match wits with me in the ring. I”m a grown ass man; you’re a boy whose as far from adulthood as I am from adolescence. Yours is a childish existence, filled with false hope and dreams of glory without realizing the time and effort necessary to achieve it.
“A rage come over me as I spoke to O’Callaghan through time and space. It consumed me, filled me to the brim. I wanted to tear apart the train car - needed to - but I managed to suppress my violent desire, knowing I’d have my chance to unleash on the man called ‘Rocco’ soon.”
Tom: Don’t be afraid, Ryan. It’s true that you’re going to suffer the worst beating of your life in a matter of hours, but there’s no use in fearing the inevitable. And if for whatever reason you can’t shake it, let it wash over you and be your guide. Let it provide you with what’s needed to leave me reeling from the match for days on end. Let your fear of old Tom Frost take you to new heights, because if you want to hang with me - and I know deep down you do - you’re going to have to up your game and get on my level.
Heed my words, Ryan. Heed my wisdom. It’s something I’m in no shortage of.
I want to know your wrath; I want the whole god damn world to know it. I don’t want to walk up that ramp unscathed in victory. I want to wince when the ref raises my arm after I pin you for three.
So let’s give ‘em a show. Let’s give ‘em a fight they won’t soon forget. Let’s give ‘em a glimpse of what it’s like to burn in the fires of hell...because when you’re in the ring with Tom Frost, that’s exactly where you’ll be.
“With that, I removed the flask from my coat pocket and took a swig. That old familiar burn coated my throat as it slid down to warm my belly, and I leaned my seat back and placed my hat over my face. In a matter of seconds, I was fast asleep, dreaming of the man I’d soon stand across from in the ring.
I slept…
And slept…
When I finally awoke, the late afternoon sun was beaming through windows. The train had slowed and lurched to a stop next to the platform of the station. I sat up with a groan, stretching before I rose to my feet and made my way toward the exit.
Hailing the first cab I saw, I plopped down in the back seat as the driver turned around.”
Cabbie: Where to, mister?
Tom: 3601 S Broad St.
Cabbie: The Wells Fargo Arena?
Tom: That’s the one. Alright if I smoke in here?
Cabbie: Sure. You one of them wrestlers?
“I scraped my thumb on my zippo in response, sparking the flame and lighting up my cigarette as he turned with a shrug and headed toward the arena. Silence ensued; I had nothing left to say, and I finished my cigarette as the cab slowed to a stop near an alley that ran behind the giant arena. Paying my fare plus tip, I exited the cab and strolled down the alley.
Reaching a stairway that led to a back door, a chill traversed my spine.
‘Showtime,’ I thought to myself, and ascended the stairway. To my surprise, the door was unlocked, and I stepped into the hallway within, slamming the door shut and leaving the world behind.”