Post by Howard Black on Jan 3, 2016 13:41:48 GMT -5
December 25th
Valentine, Nebraska
It had snowed Christmas Eve. It was a pleasant surprise after an oddly warm winter thusfar – the product of El Nino’s roll along the western coast of the United States and the resulting implications for the climate of the country. Still, a white Christmas was never a negative for the Black Family, and deep in the heart of the Heartland, Howard smiled out the window at the powdered plains. The mug of coffee piped hot in his hand, the deep and earthy aroma gently rising upward to his nostrils and adding an olfactory pleasure to the view before him, perhaps momentarily distracting him from the occasional twitches of pain in his right elbow. Behind him, the sounds of little Joey Black – deep in new toys and other assorted knick-knacks – filled the room; it was the sort of mid-morning joy which had entertained and contented Howard through the hard days of recovery and scenes of horror which had seemed so common-place in the WCF he watched from afar.
Of course, it was hard for him to focus on the sublime wonders of the idyllic presentation of his Lord’s birthday – not as his mind turned over the upcoming Sunday. The tableaus which had crossed his television set and the bits and pieces of information he’d received from friends still employed by WCF had cast a shadow of dread over the household, one strong enough to prompt the move from the happy little white house and home in Lincoln to the rural ranch in Valentine. With each twinge of pain in his elbow, what lay before him and what was at stake came back; with each delighted squeal from his son as another gift was unwrapped, those stakes became all too real. He’d told Sarah about the flight she booked – with much argument on her behalf – but even with the preparations for David to pick him up after Joey went to bed that evening, the familiar strings of doubt pulled on him. It was the sort of tug-of-war classic to him; the tug of yearning to return, the tug of obligation to his family, the tug of loyalty to his friend, and the tug of hatred towards his enemy. As those feelings ricochet with in him, his mood progressively souring, the familiar touch of his wife’s hand on his shoulder tore him back to Earth.
He turned, and his eyes locked with those sparkling Honolulu Blue eyes that made his chest pound. The handsome lips of Sarah Black had fallen into a frown of concern, mirroring those of her husband, albeit for glaringly different reasons. Still, in those brilliant blue eyes the faintest glimpse of pity shown, and the move of her hand to caress the side of his face said the same.
Sarah Black: You’re not going to see the answers out there, you know.
Howard Black: I know.
Sarah Black: It’s Christmas, Howie. Spend some time with us before you leave.
Sarah had never been a poet, but it was that exact quality to the way she spoke which had been so devastating to Howard – he never questioned her motivations or emotions. He brought her in for an embrace, his lips pressing to the top of her head before she tilted her chin up to press hers against his. As they broke the kiss, she tried her best to smile. Her voice was quiet.
Sarah Black: Merry Christmas, Howard.
Howard Black: Merry Christmas, Sarah.
The two turned to their son, oblivious to the actions of his parents as he lay on the floor and threw his new WCF action figures across the toy ring he’d received. The money earned from his time in the WCF – specifically as Television and Tag Champion, even if short lived – had been good to the Black Family, providing and furnishing the new house as well as a decadent Christmas for Joey Black. A year ago, the boy had been playing with a single Corey Black and second-hand Torture; now he owned the entire WCF roster and Hall of Fame. This didn’t change the toys Joey most commonly had duke it out in the ring – a roughed up Dune and a worse-for-wear Joey Flash. As the little boy dropped Dune from the turnbuckle onto Joey Flash, a wave of sickness hit the stomachs of both Howard and Sarah, though neither dared take the toys and clue little Joey into the truth of what had happened before WAR. Instead, Howard walked over to his son and crouched down, picking up the new figure of Teo del Sol.
Howard Black: You mind if I join you, bud?
The boy looked up at his father, beaming and nodding enthusiastically.
Joey Black: Yeah! Dune just retained the title! You can play as Teo in his match against…
The little boy fumbled for another battered figure on the ground, raising it triumphantly for his father.
Joey Black: …you! Just like you’re gonna do when you get back!
Howard smiled, replacing the Teo figure on the ground and picking up another one – a new Wade Moor that Joey had received for Christmas.
Howard Black: Well, we can’t have me facing Teo: he’s a good guy. How about I beat up Wade Moor?
Joey Black: Oh! Better! You should play as Shark Boy instead so I can beat him up!
Howard laughed and replaced the Wade Moor figure on the floor, picking up the Los Tiburones figure and standing him in the ring. The Howard Black figure flew at Los Tiburones with a cross body before lifting up and slamming into him again and again in the middle of the mat.
Joey Black: BOOM! BOOM! Shark Boy is down! OH MY GOSH!
The Howard Black figure moved to the top rope and jumped, knee falling across the face of Los Tiburones.
Joey Black: SEVENTH SEAL FROM THE TOP ROPE! THE CROWD GOES AHHHHHHH!
Howard’s feeling of dread washed away as his arm roped around the neck of the boy, pulling him in for an embrace and the tussling of his hair. The little arms wrapped around his chest and pulled him in for a squeeze.
Joey Black: This was the best Christmas ever, Dad. Can we go sledding later?
Howard Black: Whatever you want, champ. We can do it now, if you’d like.
Joey Black: Not yet. I still have to have you and Occulo beat #BeachKrew for the tag titles. After?
Howard Black: Absolutely.
He let go of his son and rose to approach Sarah, who’d sat on the couch to watch them and the crackling fire behind them. He sat next to her, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of new slippers he’d received – 100% real sheep wool. As she snuggled under his arm, he took note of everything he’d be leaving: the taste of home-cooked meals, the sound of a child’s happiness, the feel of his wife against him, the sight of the sweet Nebraskan plains, and the smell of a roaring fire. It were the comforts he’d gone into wrestling to provide for his family – comforts he now had easily. He didn’t need to go back; they’d found their perfect life. Of course, it was the maintenance of that life and the respect for the past which defined it that told him he had no choice but to return.
If he was honest with himself, it was that past which had lead him to be Billy’s personal trainer; he just couldn’t stay away after he’d seen what happened at WAR. The event had disturbed him enough to pour over a solution – there was little he could do with his arm steal healing at the time. Training Billy, someone he could tell was a good guy in danger of falling in with a bad crowd, had given him that excuse to poke around the WCF and keep tabs on what had been going on, especially any news on the condition of Joseph Malignaggi and Dune. But when the influence on Rabid had proven too much and Billy had resigned, Howard had known he had few options left. The return of Malignaggi only hastened the decision he would’ve inevitably made – still the thought of having to step in the ring between his brother-in-arms and the man who ended his ambitions for the WCF Championship brought him no absolution.
Sarah’s hand touched his arm once more; she’d always had that way of understanding what was on her husband’s mind. Her lips came to his ear, her voice low so their son could not overhear her.
Sarah Black: You don’t have to go.
He turned to her. Her eyes were pleading and full of dread. The news had shaken her worse than him – it had been her request that they move from the house Dune had once lumbered through as a welcome guest and dear friend, and in his heart, Howard knew it was possible that regardless of the outcome, his dearest friend would never be welcomed in the Black household again. Still, he shook his head and did his best to smile.
Howard Black: You know that isn’t possible for me.
Sarah looked down sadly, her eyes drawing to the child as if terrible ideas had drifted into her head, and her eyes making their way to the discarded Dune figure on the floor served to confirm Howard’s suspicion.
Sarah Black: Then at least give us this Christmas. Try to enjoy it. For me and him.
Howard Black: I will. I promise.
Joey’s head snapped around as he stood up, the Howard Black figure laying over the Kyle Kemp figure.
Joey Flash: Sledding?!
Howard smiled as he stood.
Howard Black: Sledding, indeed. Go put your snow gear on, and I’ll get the sled.
Joey Black: Okay!
Joey bounded out of the living room, and Howard made his way to the garage. As he opened the garage door to the cold and the snow, pulling the sled off of the wall, his mind went once more back to the car ride he’d take to the airport that night for a red eye flight to Los Angeles. He thought of the weather and wondered if even the Mojave Desert was seeing snow. He wondered how cold it could be in the Malignaggi house – the silence which must fill its halls and suffocate its occupants in the night. His thoughts were interrupted by the door to the house opening and closing behind him. For now, there was no absence of silence in the Black home.
----------------------------------------------------------------
WCF Headquarters
Pennsylvania
December 29, 2015
The cigarette burned between Howard’s fingers as he leaned back in the itchy wool upholstered chair of the interview room. A camera leered forward at him, a sight he’d forgotten and never quite grown accustomed to during his short tenure with the WCF; now it made him downright uncomfortable. The door to the room opened, and Hank Brown stepped inside, smiling affably at Howard before sitting in a chair across from him. As he approached, Howard rose and extended a hand, which Hank accepted with a firm handshake.
Hank Brown: Mister Black. It’s good to see you again.
Howard Black: Thanks, Hank.
Hank Brown: Anything we can get you before we start?
Howard Black: I think I’m alright. Thanks.
The camera crew hustled into the room, taking positions behind their equipment, lights flashing and boom mics dangling. Silently, the cameraman raised his hand in the air to count down.
3.
2.
1.
Thumbs up!
Hank smiled at the camera, his mouth pulling full and wide as he raised his prop microphone to his lips.
Hank Brown: Good evening, WCF Galaxy! I’m Hank Brown, and tonight we’re welcoming the return of one of the most popular – if short lived – wrestlers of the last year. He is former Television and Tag Team Champion: Howard Black! Mr. Black, thank you for joining us here today!
Howard Black: Thank you for having me, Hank.
Hank Brown: We should probably start right away with what’s on everyone’s mind: is Howard Black back for good?
Howard smiled sadly and shook his head.
Howard Black: Nah. This is a one-time thing.
Hank Brown: So you’re coming out of retirement to stop Dune? Is that it?
Howard frowned. The interview was two questions in and already reminded him exactly why he’d felt no nostalgia for them – it was the sort of saccharine reality show bullshit focusing on overt drama with no sense of the reality of the situation. Internally, he could only sigh as he kept smiling and braced for the inevitable question.
Howard Black: I guess it’s something like that, yeah.
Hank Brown: Now you have a son as well – has part of your motivation to return and face Dune stemmed from the tragic fate of Joseph Malignaggi’s son?
The rage boiled up in him, running along his spine and down his shoulders as the question floated into his head. His lip curled down into a grimace before he pulled it back into his mouth and gently bit down on it, being careful to control his emotions in front of the camera. To an outside eye, Howard was merely considering. Still, his voice was stern.
Howard Black: I don’t think that’s an appropriate question. This isn’t some wrestling storyline where one guy beat up another guy – this is someone’s child. The WCF’s penchant for exploiting family tragedies has been fuckin’ disgusting between the death of Grayson Pierce and Joey Flash’s kids. Please don’t bring my family into this, Hank. Please.
The outburst startled Hank, who threw his hands up defensively as if trying to physically ward off the vitriol.
Hank Brown: I’m sorry, Mr. Black! It’s just… the subject is a popular one amongst our viewers.
Howard Black: Sure. Fine. But… no, I’m not talking about it. What happened to Christian Malignaggi was, still is, and always will be an absolute tragedy. That Joseph Malignaggi being his father is used to demerit the magnitude of this tragic is fuckin’ abhorrent. Shit, if there’s one thing these #BeachKrew psychos hit on the head, it’s the definition of “good guy” a lot of folks seem to be missing the mark on. Now, some of them are gone, sure, but when you got a gravy train this full of scumbags runnin’ riot, there ain’t time to blur the lines further. So no, I don’t think it’s okay that this shit’s still being brought up. A man is tryin’ to grieve. What happened between Joey and Dune is none of my business.
Hank Brown: I’m… sorry?
Howard Black: S’fine. Please ask me about my match.
Hank Brown: Right! So you’re facing off against #BeachKrew and the People’s Choice for the Trios Titles; the Sentinels fell out in the second round of the Trios Cup Tournament in May after being defeated by the Vapor Kings, which included Joey Flash. Now Malignaggi has replaced Dune as your third member to face off for the belts again; think you stand a better shot?
Howard Black: Both Dune and Joseph are some of the best wrestlers to ever step foot in a WCF ring. That doesn’t mean I’m not worried about team dynamic. Joe isn’t Dune, and while we’ve stepped in the ring as tag partners, there’s naturally an odd dynamic, just as it was the first time.
Hank Brown: Speaking of that first time, it was against former number one contender Gemini Battle and your opponent this week, Spencer Adams! You and Spencer have faced off many times in the past and are now set to face off once more. Do you have anything to say to him and the other Trios Champions, the People’s Choice?
Howard Black: Let’s get the contractually obligated shit talking out of the way, first. I got two numbers for you, Spencer: three and zero. That’s my record over you. I faced you in a tag match and beat you, then I faced you in singles and beat you, then I faced you in a tag match again. At this point, I’d only wonder if it’d be the next Gemini Battle versus Joey Flash had I not stepped out; probably have a similar record, too – what, like, a billion to one?
You’ve been fighting hard lately, and no one is taking that from you. But we’re better, and you know this. You’ve been so busy being the backbone of the resistance against #BeachKrew, you’ve forgotten that you need to do more than trade words and barbs – you’ve gotta step up. You’ve gotten lazy beating Kemp’s ass to kingdom come; you’ve forgotten how to beat the guys above Kemp. And make no mistake, not only are both the Sentinels and Joe Malignaggi above Kyle Kemp, we’re so far above him, he can’t even see us. You had that chance to really deal #BeachKrew a vicious wound; hell, a lot of you did, including my partner Occulo. The fuck happened? You went from perennial favorites to Johnny Rabid fodder. You went from standing tall over Kemp to getting sent Back to the Minors.
And the answer to that failure? Adam-fucking-Young. He got in your head, Spencer, whether you want to admit it or not. You went from looking at that Tee-El-See match as an opportunity to win a belt to an opportunity to squash a grudge. You got so focused on one yappy little dachshund that you forgot about the big dogs in the yard. And frankly Spencer? Fucking shame on you for that. You should know that Adam Young is a small fry. A has-been. This was a guy so irrelevant and hated that he had to get in a serious car crash before anyone gave a fuck about him. Hell, he needed FIST to get himself over, only to almost immediately shit it away with trademark incompetence by picking some nothing fight with Joey Flash and raping his ex-wife. He’s a knob Spencer. An absolute tool.
And you let him fuck with you. Not “fuck with you” as in jump you – that can’t be helped. Instead, you let him shift your focus. You got too caught up with the nails on the chalkboard to focus on the test. Now you’ve blown it, and #BeachKrew’s circling for your Trio Titles. But are you even in the zone to defend that? Shit, this whole Adam Young bullcrap is still on-going; are you even thinking about this match? Or are you going to be too bent on bringing it back to #BeachKrew that you forget about us?
Because let the record show that while I’m back for a limited time, I’m damn sure winning this match. So what about the rest of your group? Vic Venable – tough as an ox and top ten finalist in WAR. But let’s address the elephant in the room, Vic: you don’t take this shit seriously anymore. It shows every week, from dropping the tag belts to the #BeachKrew B-Team to failing to get the job done at ONE. Hell, your singles career is in the toilet, and Spencer probably would’ve been better off with Teo in his corner than you last week. Yeah, that’s right: if Kemp could work double duty, I bet Teo could. And Teo’s also a proven winner. So what the hell, Vic? You beat Tiburones and Moor only to shit the bed a few times in a row to Kyle Kemp and Johnny Rabid? You’ve got a partner proven better than at least one of them; how the fuck are you not rising to the occasion?
You’re deadweight. A drag on the team. The weak link in an already shaky chain. Are you even ready for this match, or are you sitting hands folded with your ear to the ground, thumbing through your copy of “The Tom Bates Guide to Response Shooting”, and waiting for us to pipe up first? Well here’s your fodder, Vic: you’re not winning this match. You’ve proven incapable of winning. Allergic to it. Johnny Rabid and Kyle Kemp are the kryptonite to your super friends. Instead, how about you move over and let the team who can actually win this do their job.
Hank Brown: And on Teo del Sol?
Howard Black: He’s the closest thing to a winner on the team, but he’s not on that level yet. You can’t be on that level when your title reign lasts one feud, which includes you dropping the belt and having to get it back. You’re not on that level when you’re losing to Joe Malignaggi after he’s spent a week ridiculing you. Teo, your biggest feuds so far: Sanchez, Holmes, Kemp. Sanchez? Decisive loss. Jared? You won the figurative and literal WAR but lost possibly the most memorable battle – that’s a tainted victory. Here’s what victory looks like, from former TV Champ to former TV Champ: I beat Bates for the belt to start towards Ultimate Showdown. Two weeks before, I faced Bates and Corey Black for the belt again, and I still walked out the champion. That’s a trial by fire, Teo, and you damn near failed yours. You can’t slip up in this shit; imagine if we switched roles and Holmes cost you that spot in Ultimate Showdown, forcing you to win some stupid battle royale to get the spot you earned back?
Then again, you weren’t even in that battle royale; you were too busy being yanked around by David Sanchez to stroke his ego. And when you had an actual kid at home cheering you on – hoping you’d take his piece of shit father down a peg – you blew it. For god’s sake, is anyone in the People’s Choice capable of winning on a consistent basis?
Howard paused, his mouth slowly twisting up onto a smile as he began to chuckle, a hand coming to his face.
Howard Black: Okay, okay, I’m done. I can’t do that seriously any more.
Hank smiled at him.
Hank Brown: I suppose I should ask your real thoughts on the People’s Choice?
Howard Black: They’re a swell group of guys – all stand-up fellows who are doing the WCF proud. I’ve expressed by admiration for Spencer Adams many times, and I’d like to reiterate that. Spencer, you’ve come a long way since the time you said you were going to “unleash the assassin” on me, only to get your arm tied in a knot. You’ve come a long way since being a DRG meat shield. You were always too good for the shit thrown your way; a young buck tossed repeatedly to the Wolves…
Howard paused on the word for a moment.
Howard Black: Now look at you; third in WAR. That’s balls, my man. It’s going to be an honor to step in the ring with you again. But on the other hand, I was serious in what I was saying about Adam Young. Just… keep your eye on the ball, man.
Vic and Teo? I don’t know you guys, but I respect the work you’ve been doing for the company. When you’ve got a loon like Seth Lerch behind the wheel, followed by those #BeachKrew douchebags, this company needs all the good will it can get. It’s going to be a true pleasure stepping in the ring with such talented competitors.
Hank Brown: Now as for your other opponents in this match - #BeachKrew. This team will be consisting of the tag team champions, Kyle Kemp and Johnny Rabid, as well as Oblivion. Should we get the, as you say, “contractually obligated shit talking” out of the way first?
Howard Black: In this case, there’s no “obligated” or not. I’ve got nothing nice to say about these guys. See, I’ve been waiting to get in the ring with Johnny Rabid for some time, ever since I first encountered him while training Billy. Rabid’s a snake in the grass, Hank. Don’t let his #BeachKrew association fool you, he’s an animal and absolute psychopath. Isn’t that right, Rabid? Perhaps you think that your little #BeachKrew charade is clever or even competent because some people are stupid enough not to see straight through it, but trust me, it’s as though you’ve masked yourself in cling-wrap.
You don’t belong in #BeachKrew, Rabid, and I think you know that. You’re an outside hire – a mercenary – a new CEO taken from a venture capitalist firm to gut the company and make the investors a lot of money before sinking the ship. You can get success, but you can’t maintain stability. Isn’t that why Beaver and Wade are getting into it? Why your own tag partner pulled a gun on you? Why you’re tugging around baggage like Oblivion who was the only #BeachKrew member to not win a match at ONE? Why you’re stepping down with the lurking presence of Jared Holmes in the background? You’ve got bigger ambitions. That doesn’t take a mind reader or a detective to figure out; this is a stepping stone for you.
But for all the winning and title belts that you’ve accomplished, you’ve missed something important: no one takes #BeachKrew seriously. Isn’t that why you were brought in? Success was too slow, #BeachKrew couldn’t assert itself as necessary, so let’s head the ship with a wrestling prodigy who has an uncanny knack for giving backstage staff PTSD? It’s the big miscalculation on Thuggin’s part and yours. You thought titles meant respect, and Thuggin thought you’d give a shit about someone other than yourself. A perfect storm of nothing, less than half a year after #BeachKrew hit the scene.
And the reason why no one takes #BeachKrew seriously? You cultivate failure as much as success. Exhibit A: “OblivSEAon, Monster Guardian of the Brocean”. Hey, “God of Insanity”, remember me? I kicked your ass two weeks straight a while ago, and I’m about to make the record three and oh. Speaking of which, when was the last time you won a match, all-powerful guardian? It’s like Bonnie Blue decided to tussle with you to get her record back up to even. And when you lost at ONE? No one batted an eye. Fuck it, more bets were on Andre Jenson winning the match than you. How does that feel, big mean evil monster? To be the least likely to win in a match where you were supposed to be a more important player than the third guy? If you’re the “guardian” of the “Brocean”, I can only imagine how much shit has gotten into it under your watch: plastic rings, cans, microbeads. You’re so shit at this job, I imagine the “Brocean” would be cleaner not having a guardian at all.
You know you’re being used, right? That you’re a piece of a faction cultivated for a power play within your own group? Are you even actually in #BeachKrew, or do they just smile and nod whenever you’re around? And hell, how long is this even going to last? You can’t beat Marc Mayhem, so you join him. Then you run off and form the worst. faction. in the WCF. Then you job to #BeachKrew enough, so you decide to join them? How has that worked for you? Helped you out? Fuck no. A turd is a turd, no matter how much polish is applied to it. You’re still the weakest member of this team, Oblivion, and you’ll always be the blemish on #BeachKrew. One of these days, probably when their little Aryan boy comes back, they’ll kick the shit out of you to send some message, but hey, what do I know?
I guess I know that Kyle Kemp isn’t even hashtag-better-than his own tag partner, considering he’s failed to beat Teo twice now. But that’s been your life for a while now, hasn’t it Kyle? When was the last time Kyle Kemp was better than anyone on his own? Yeah, you beat Spencer Adams for the People’s Title. I’ll give credit where credit is due. But Hellimination? Nice job being the first one eliminated on your team. WAR? Did more than Rico Rojas, little else. Who’s the Tag Champ, Kemp? Are you telling me that Rabid doesn’t pull your team? Are you going to tell me that during Hellimination, all eyes weren’t on Kyle Kemp to see if he’d drag Moor and Holmes down? That everyone doesn’t suspect you may just shit the bed here and drag Rabid down for the first time?
Answer: Yes. This isn’t some tag match against Raymond Hatcher – this is a three-way threesome dance, and you’ve got the weakest team of us. It makes me wonder – does #BeachKrew even give a shit about this belt? Because how is this the team you send to the main event? The two members of #BeachKrew who lost at ONE and the guy everyone thinks may be a huge pussy waiting to get his first loss? Keep playing your cards right, and maybe – just maybe – Occulo and I will take those tag belts off your hands on our way out the door.
Hank Brown: So you have tag title ambitions, Mr. Black?
Howard Black: I don’t have any title ambitions. We’re going into this because we’ve been booked for it. If #BeachKrew want to get teeth knocked out on my way in and out the door, I’ll obliged, but that’s not why I’m here.
Howard crushed out the cigarette and reached for his pack, picking out another Marlboro Red, placing it in his mouth, and igniting it.
Hank Brown: Well we know you’re back because of Dune, but if you don’t mind me asking, how does Joseph Malignaggi factor into this? The man breaks your arm on live television, and now you stand between him and a man you called “brother”. What are your thoughts?
Howard Black: Nothing in my mind has changed about Joe Malignaggi. He’s a vicious, solipsistic, arrogant little creep who needs a good acid bath, and I’ll never forgive him for what he did to me. That being said, there’s been enough tragedy in the WCF – I was going to allow more. When I ran to the ring in ONE, it had nothing to do with Joe Malignaggi; it was me and Dune, period. In the same way, if Dune tries anything after his match with Bonnie Blue this week, I’ll be waiting.
Hank Brown: Is this sort of animosity conducive to a championship-winning team? How do you expect to operate on the same frequency as Malignaggi when the two of you clearly harbor dislike for one another?
Howard Black: I’m a professional, Hank. I’ve worked with Joe in the past, at a time when we were probably knee-deep in our dislike of one another. Result of that? We beat Gemini Battle and Spencer Adams, two guys on the same team. Or dysfunctional teams are still better than the cohesive teams of most people, make no mistake of it.
Hank Brown: Well that’s about all that I have for you. Any last words for the WCF Galaxy before we finish this interview?
Howard Black: Ummm…
He paused for a moment, smiling sheepishly as he turned over his words in his head.
Howard Black: Happy 2016. It’s going to be a helluva year.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Dunkin Donuts Center
Providence, Rhode Island
January 1st
The cigarette burned hot between Howard’s fingers as he made his way from the car to the arena. The duffle bag hung from his shoulder, bumping lightly against his leg with every step, and the nostalgia at the moment hung over Howard like an uncanny veil. With each stride toward the arena, his stomach rose higher in his chest, butterflies swarming it and ready to burst. He kept his sunglasses on, even though it wasn’t terribly bright, and behind the lenses, his nervous eyes darted back and forth for any familiar faces. After assuring himself he was largely alone, he felt the gentlest pangs of relief.
At the front of his thoughts was Dune, the man he’d called brother and once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with in the ring. There was a certain dry humor in Howard Black – the great refuser of beating women – to be running off to possibly play White Knight if things got out of hand. On the other hand, the thought of staring down Dune never settled well in his chest, even if accompanies by Occulo. It wasn’t just difficult – it was wrong. It felt like fratricide every time he had struck out at ONE, and every stupid fucking Tweet Dune had sent him had hit like a sledgehammer to the ribs. Facing Dune at the Ultimate Showdown, two brothers engaged in a friendly bout, had been easy enough because it had no emotional attachments. But when blood was involved? When a possible life-or-death situation was in the air? It shook Howard to the core.
But the WCF was more than just Dune, and he knew that he’d be fighting his way through much of the company during his brief return. Naturally, behind Dune stood the megalith of #BeachKrew, a swollen phallic towering rising out of the sea to spray spunk upon everything in its shade. It was a group Howard knew very little about but cared even less – a faction he’d inevitably be forced to cross, starting tonight, and would probably be plagued by for the remainder of the month. Wade Moor, the dancing bear at the front of their circus, had proven to be a formidable challenger and champion, but then again, Howard has always had a good record for beating fat bearded men with superiority complexes. Dustin Beaver had been an interesting prospect to practice on – a man who beat his friend and held the belt he’d fought so hard to achieve. Rabid and Kemp would be tested tonight, and Howard felt a small pain of remorse that Jared Holmes was hospitalized and couldn’t get his face broken in. But c’est la vie.
So sure, perhaps Howard did want a piece of #BeachKrew, even if he didn’t care about them. Maybe it was even arrogant of him to assume he could get the job done – but who, then, was supposed to? Grayson Pierce? Doug Murdock? For all the smoke the DRG had blown, it hadn’t affected #BeachKrew’s iron fist in the slightest. So, just like old times, here were the Sentinels to step up in the wake of DRG failure.
Howard took a long drag off of his cigarette, blowing smoke lazily into the air as he arrived at the arena backstage doors. As he’d done so many times before, he turned and leaned back on the wall, sliding down to a seated position, and come to rest on the ground. His arms perched atop his knees, hands hanging as the cigarette dangled precariously. A wave of emotions ran over Howard (OOC: I just can’t get away from beach words, can I?), the sense of déjà vu almost unbearable. A strange sickness sloshed around in him as he stared at the wisps of smoke, a drag of the cigarette doing little to calm him down. His role in the WCF had been an odd one – somewhere between the favorite and the most hated wrestler on the roster, depending on who you asked. Now, five months later, Howard had been met with a standing ovation and chants of his name. What would it be by the time he left for retirement again?
He considered this for a moment before dismissing it from his mind – he had greater concerns than the crowd and a few stray matches, as callous or self-centered as that may seem. While he could spend all night considering what it would be like to finally square off with K.L. Henson or ZMAC, what mattered was the match tonight and what he’d be doing going forward. The partnering with Joe didn’t bother him – it was strictly business. He was confident that Joe would play ball, do business, and not fuck the whole thing up for them. That, of course, did not mean Howard trusted him – how could he?
Even with the tragedy of Christian Malignaggi, it was impossible for Howard to separate the sins of Joseph from the tragedy that had befallen him. Howard sympathized deeply for him; thinking over the bloody history of Flash and Dune, especially its aftermath, Howard could only shudder at the feelings of horror and despair Joseph could be feeling. He considered the prayers he’d sent God for their family and the donations he’d made to Bereaved Parents of the USA. No matter how much he hated Joseph Malignaggi… it was impossible for Howard to not cry for his loss. No one deserved that. And in perhaps, a way, it made Howard realize something uncomfortably true – he and Joe were not too different at the heart of it.
But it was also this realization which made Howard certain that Joseph would be the biggest obstacle of them all when it came to facing Dune. He knew Joseph would place himself between them, too concerned with his personal vendetta to see a bigger picture or even see the humanity in the monster across from him. Flash had gotten lucky on a big stage against Dune, and he needed that validation he could do it again. For Flash, it wouldn’t be over until one of them was dead. That was simply unacceptable to Howard.
His thoughts ricocheted around like a rubber ball in a small room. The amount of planning and thinking he hadn’t done for this return had become all too apparent to Howard in these short minutes, and he fumbled for another cigarette, desperate to take the edge off. The match? The match wasn’t a problem. Oblivion? Well, he’s Oblivion – the worst former champion of all time. Oblivion was an absolute shipwreck of a wrestler, begging to be dredged off the ocean floor and put in some museum next to the bell from the Lusitania and rubber soles from the Titanic. Somehow, Howard suspected there must be some sort of decency in Wade Moor, enough to pity the oaf and give him a token membership, otherwise his involvement made zero sense. Or maybe that was just it – maybe Oblivion was a convenient distraction from the other failures of #BeachKrew. Or maybe a relic of “PANIC MODE” days when Rabid had been brought in.
Kyle Kemp was similarly not a terrible concern to Howard – it’d be one former athlete facing another former athlete in the ring. The difference? Howard played football, and Kemp played baseball. To quote his partner – body bags. In a way, Howard pitied Kemp, as one who has been in a similar place at one time is oft to do. Not succeeding in football had killed Howard initially; wrestling had hardly been a consolation prize. Yet, he got over it. He moved on. He accepted failure because it was the key to growing as a person and a competitor – in the end, Howard couldn’t have been happier that football didn’t work out. But he also remembered being full of anger and insecurity like Kyle Kemp; in fact, he even still had those lingering threads of resentment clinging to him when he’d first stepped into a WCF ring. Kemp, on the other hand, made it his M.O. It was the driving force behind his persona – the entire point of his existence. This, of course, was why Kemp could never climb to his real potential. But he was not a guy to despise, in Howard’s eyes, he was someone to pity. Undoubtedly, such an idea would send Kemp into a mouth-frothing rage. But that was okay because it was time someone humbled him in the ring. Howard thought tonight would be a good start; a little late Christmas gift from one failed athlete to another.
The only one who worried him was Johnny Rabid. He’d seen the tape of Rabid matching Dune blow-for-blow, and Howard had a sneaking feeling that there was far more to Rabid than most were comfortable to admit. Was Rabid something… else? A demon? An extraterrestrial? Did it matter? Rabid could be beaten. Rabid had been beaten. He wasn’t a trump card to his team, and he’d selected some of the worst #BeachKrew members to follow him into battle. Even after announcing his resignation from leader of #BeachKrew, it was tempting for Howard to wonder if he could finish what Dune had started and cut the head off the snake here. Rabid down, Wade to go – would they survive? But to focus on #BeachKrew and forget to focus on Rabid would be a folly; Rabid was the danger. Rabid was arrogant. Rabid was not nearly as cunning or subtle as he thought he was or anyone lead him to believe. But he was still dangerous. What they had to do was use that arrogance and false sense of superior intellect against him.
And when it came to the People’s Choice? Well, Howard struggled to find anything to say poorly about them… but also struggled to find anything that worried him. They were all potential top contenders; the next breed of decent guys to stand up to punks like #BeachKrew. Spencer had grown in ways he could never have imagined – the scrappy little black sheep of the DRG was gone, replaced with a focused, driven man. Teo del Sol was a hero to children and a model employee, one of the best hopes for the WCF going forward. Vic Venable? A man reformed, who had done his time and was now doing real good. But as a group? It was hard not to feel deflated by the half-effort they’d been putting forward. Suddenly, they didn’t feel like a team, they felt like a collection of guys. Suddenly, it seemed like they’d gotten too wrapped up in being friends that they’d forgotten to be a team.
It was the crowning memory he had from being a Sentinel: team first, friendship second. It’s one thing to call each other “brother” and invite one another over for dinner – these were gestures and symbols. What mattered was fighting like brothers, being on the same page as the men in your corner and knowing what’s next. It was about flow and cohesion, something him and Occulo had in spades. Even with Flash seeming like a wild card, Howard knew their styles meshed well. Not as well as with Dune – but things happen.
Stubbing the cigarette out, Howard rose and turned to face the door. Every vein in his body trembled as he failed to calm his nerves and enter the building. His hand reached out, the fingers tremoring as he went for the handle… then a vibration rose from his pocket. Howard’s eyes went down, the hand snapping for the old Nokia flip phone he still toted around. A message from Sarah:
Good luck tonight, babe. We love you very much. We’ll be watching : )
The nerves vanished, and his hand reached confidently for the door. It would be the second episode of WCF that Joey had watched since “the Incident”, and it would be the first time he’d seen his father in the ring since the destruction at Flash’s hands. With Sarah and Joey watching, he had to be more than the worried man outside. He had to be Howard Black – husband, father, and superhero. How convenient he faced the demons and supervillains of the WCF. Yet, as his confidence swelled, a second vibration caught his attention. A text from a familiar name, Billy:
Good luck Howard!! Thank you so much for everything you did for me! Go kick Rabid’s ass!!!
It was enough for him; the push wish brought his hand firmly to the handled and pulled open the backstage door. The hallways were familiar, the same sort of halls every arena had. As he weaved through the shuffle of equipment and last minute preparations, a smile slowly came to his lips. He was back. It was where he belonged all along. As he pushed into his locker room, he could’ve been in complete ecstasy… were it not for the familiar canine visage leering out of the darkness. The Fox grinned at him.
The Fox-Headed Man: Good luck, Howard Black.
Howard stared at the entity for a moment. The joy faded. – he remembered why he left and stayed gone in the first place. He remembered why he chose a life after wrestling and questioned why he was here, after after wrestling? He closed his eyes and forced a smile, a “fuck you” to that monster within him.
Howard Black: Thanks. I’ll need it.
He shook off any rumination on this encounter - this spectral menace. He simply didn't have any time for it. After preparing himself, Howard walked to the gorilla position. He closed his eyes, the roar of the crowd like a beautiful song he'd heard long ago and almost forgot the words to. That music of adoration was replaced by the trembling bass drop which marked the beginning of "Lost Boys" by Death Grips. From his place behind the curtain, he could see the lights strobe and hear the cheering intensify. It was time to do his job.
He was back.
Valentine, Nebraska
It had snowed Christmas Eve. It was a pleasant surprise after an oddly warm winter thusfar – the product of El Nino’s roll along the western coast of the United States and the resulting implications for the climate of the country. Still, a white Christmas was never a negative for the Black Family, and deep in the heart of the Heartland, Howard smiled out the window at the powdered plains. The mug of coffee piped hot in his hand, the deep and earthy aroma gently rising upward to his nostrils and adding an olfactory pleasure to the view before him, perhaps momentarily distracting him from the occasional twitches of pain in his right elbow. Behind him, the sounds of little Joey Black – deep in new toys and other assorted knick-knacks – filled the room; it was the sort of mid-morning joy which had entertained and contented Howard through the hard days of recovery and scenes of horror which had seemed so common-place in the WCF he watched from afar.
Of course, it was hard for him to focus on the sublime wonders of the idyllic presentation of his Lord’s birthday – not as his mind turned over the upcoming Sunday. The tableaus which had crossed his television set and the bits and pieces of information he’d received from friends still employed by WCF had cast a shadow of dread over the household, one strong enough to prompt the move from the happy little white house and home in Lincoln to the rural ranch in Valentine. With each twinge of pain in his elbow, what lay before him and what was at stake came back; with each delighted squeal from his son as another gift was unwrapped, those stakes became all too real. He’d told Sarah about the flight she booked – with much argument on her behalf – but even with the preparations for David to pick him up after Joey went to bed that evening, the familiar strings of doubt pulled on him. It was the sort of tug-of-war classic to him; the tug of yearning to return, the tug of obligation to his family, the tug of loyalty to his friend, and the tug of hatred towards his enemy. As those feelings ricochet with in him, his mood progressively souring, the familiar touch of his wife’s hand on his shoulder tore him back to Earth.
He turned, and his eyes locked with those sparkling Honolulu Blue eyes that made his chest pound. The handsome lips of Sarah Black had fallen into a frown of concern, mirroring those of her husband, albeit for glaringly different reasons. Still, in those brilliant blue eyes the faintest glimpse of pity shown, and the move of her hand to caress the side of his face said the same.
Sarah Black: You’re not going to see the answers out there, you know.
Howard Black: I know.
Sarah Black: It’s Christmas, Howie. Spend some time with us before you leave.
Sarah had never been a poet, but it was that exact quality to the way she spoke which had been so devastating to Howard – he never questioned her motivations or emotions. He brought her in for an embrace, his lips pressing to the top of her head before she tilted her chin up to press hers against his. As they broke the kiss, she tried her best to smile. Her voice was quiet.
Sarah Black: Merry Christmas, Howard.
Howard Black: Merry Christmas, Sarah.
The two turned to their son, oblivious to the actions of his parents as he lay on the floor and threw his new WCF action figures across the toy ring he’d received. The money earned from his time in the WCF – specifically as Television and Tag Champion, even if short lived – had been good to the Black Family, providing and furnishing the new house as well as a decadent Christmas for Joey Black. A year ago, the boy had been playing with a single Corey Black and second-hand Torture; now he owned the entire WCF roster and Hall of Fame. This didn’t change the toys Joey most commonly had duke it out in the ring – a roughed up Dune and a worse-for-wear Joey Flash. As the little boy dropped Dune from the turnbuckle onto Joey Flash, a wave of sickness hit the stomachs of both Howard and Sarah, though neither dared take the toys and clue little Joey into the truth of what had happened before WAR. Instead, Howard walked over to his son and crouched down, picking up the new figure of Teo del Sol.
Howard Black: You mind if I join you, bud?
The boy looked up at his father, beaming and nodding enthusiastically.
Joey Black: Yeah! Dune just retained the title! You can play as Teo in his match against…
The little boy fumbled for another battered figure on the ground, raising it triumphantly for his father.
Joey Black: …you! Just like you’re gonna do when you get back!
Howard smiled, replacing the Teo figure on the ground and picking up another one – a new Wade Moor that Joey had received for Christmas.
Howard Black: Well, we can’t have me facing Teo: he’s a good guy. How about I beat up Wade Moor?
Joey Black: Oh! Better! You should play as Shark Boy instead so I can beat him up!
Howard laughed and replaced the Wade Moor figure on the floor, picking up the Los Tiburones figure and standing him in the ring. The Howard Black figure flew at Los Tiburones with a cross body before lifting up and slamming into him again and again in the middle of the mat.
Joey Black: BOOM! BOOM! Shark Boy is down! OH MY GOSH!
The Howard Black figure moved to the top rope and jumped, knee falling across the face of Los Tiburones.
Joey Black: SEVENTH SEAL FROM THE TOP ROPE! THE CROWD GOES AHHHHHHH!
Howard’s feeling of dread washed away as his arm roped around the neck of the boy, pulling him in for an embrace and the tussling of his hair. The little arms wrapped around his chest and pulled him in for a squeeze.
Joey Black: This was the best Christmas ever, Dad. Can we go sledding later?
Howard Black: Whatever you want, champ. We can do it now, if you’d like.
Joey Black: Not yet. I still have to have you and Occulo beat #BeachKrew for the tag titles. After?
Howard Black: Absolutely.
He let go of his son and rose to approach Sarah, who’d sat on the couch to watch them and the crackling fire behind them. He sat next to her, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of new slippers he’d received – 100% real sheep wool. As she snuggled under his arm, he took note of everything he’d be leaving: the taste of home-cooked meals, the sound of a child’s happiness, the feel of his wife against him, the sight of the sweet Nebraskan plains, and the smell of a roaring fire. It were the comforts he’d gone into wrestling to provide for his family – comforts he now had easily. He didn’t need to go back; they’d found their perfect life. Of course, it was the maintenance of that life and the respect for the past which defined it that told him he had no choice but to return.
If he was honest with himself, it was that past which had lead him to be Billy’s personal trainer; he just couldn’t stay away after he’d seen what happened at WAR. The event had disturbed him enough to pour over a solution – there was little he could do with his arm steal healing at the time. Training Billy, someone he could tell was a good guy in danger of falling in with a bad crowd, had given him that excuse to poke around the WCF and keep tabs on what had been going on, especially any news on the condition of Joseph Malignaggi and Dune. But when the influence on Rabid had proven too much and Billy had resigned, Howard had known he had few options left. The return of Malignaggi only hastened the decision he would’ve inevitably made – still the thought of having to step in the ring between his brother-in-arms and the man who ended his ambitions for the WCF Championship brought him no absolution.
Sarah’s hand touched his arm once more; she’d always had that way of understanding what was on her husband’s mind. Her lips came to his ear, her voice low so their son could not overhear her.
Sarah Black: You don’t have to go.
He turned to her. Her eyes were pleading and full of dread. The news had shaken her worse than him – it had been her request that they move from the house Dune had once lumbered through as a welcome guest and dear friend, and in his heart, Howard knew it was possible that regardless of the outcome, his dearest friend would never be welcomed in the Black household again. Still, he shook his head and did his best to smile.
Howard Black: You know that isn’t possible for me.
Sarah looked down sadly, her eyes drawing to the child as if terrible ideas had drifted into her head, and her eyes making their way to the discarded Dune figure on the floor served to confirm Howard’s suspicion.
Sarah Black: Then at least give us this Christmas. Try to enjoy it. For me and him.
Howard Black: I will. I promise.
Joey’s head snapped around as he stood up, the Howard Black figure laying over the Kyle Kemp figure.
Joey Flash: Sledding?!
Howard smiled as he stood.
Howard Black: Sledding, indeed. Go put your snow gear on, and I’ll get the sled.
Joey Black: Okay!
Joey bounded out of the living room, and Howard made his way to the garage. As he opened the garage door to the cold and the snow, pulling the sled off of the wall, his mind went once more back to the car ride he’d take to the airport that night for a red eye flight to Los Angeles. He thought of the weather and wondered if even the Mojave Desert was seeing snow. He wondered how cold it could be in the Malignaggi house – the silence which must fill its halls and suffocate its occupants in the night. His thoughts were interrupted by the door to the house opening and closing behind him. For now, there was no absence of silence in the Black home.
----------------------------------------------------------------
WCF Headquarters
Pennsylvania
December 29, 2015
The cigarette burned between Howard’s fingers as he leaned back in the itchy wool upholstered chair of the interview room. A camera leered forward at him, a sight he’d forgotten and never quite grown accustomed to during his short tenure with the WCF; now it made him downright uncomfortable. The door to the room opened, and Hank Brown stepped inside, smiling affably at Howard before sitting in a chair across from him. As he approached, Howard rose and extended a hand, which Hank accepted with a firm handshake.
Hank Brown: Mister Black. It’s good to see you again.
Howard Black: Thanks, Hank.
Hank Brown: Anything we can get you before we start?
Howard Black: I think I’m alright. Thanks.
The camera crew hustled into the room, taking positions behind their equipment, lights flashing and boom mics dangling. Silently, the cameraman raised his hand in the air to count down.
3.
2.
1.
Thumbs up!
Hank smiled at the camera, his mouth pulling full and wide as he raised his prop microphone to his lips.
Hank Brown: Good evening, WCF Galaxy! I’m Hank Brown, and tonight we’re welcoming the return of one of the most popular – if short lived – wrestlers of the last year. He is former Television and Tag Team Champion: Howard Black! Mr. Black, thank you for joining us here today!
Howard Black: Thank you for having me, Hank.
Hank Brown: We should probably start right away with what’s on everyone’s mind: is Howard Black back for good?
Howard smiled sadly and shook his head.
Howard Black: Nah. This is a one-time thing.
Hank Brown: So you’re coming out of retirement to stop Dune? Is that it?
Howard frowned. The interview was two questions in and already reminded him exactly why he’d felt no nostalgia for them – it was the sort of saccharine reality show bullshit focusing on overt drama with no sense of the reality of the situation. Internally, he could only sigh as he kept smiling and braced for the inevitable question.
Howard Black: I guess it’s something like that, yeah.
Hank Brown: Now you have a son as well – has part of your motivation to return and face Dune stemmed from the tragic fate of Joseph Malignaggi’s son?
The rage boiled up in him, running along his spine and down his shoulders as the question floated into his head. His lip curled down into a grimace before he pulled it back into his mouth and gently bit down on it, being careful to control his emotions in front of the camera. To an outside eye, Howard was merely considering. Still, his voice was stern.
Howard Black: I don’t think that’s an appropriate question. This isn’t some wrestling storyline where one guy beat up another guy – this is someone’s child. The WCF’s penchant for exploiting family tragedies has been fuckin’ disgusting between the death of Grayson Pierce and Joey Flash’s kids. Please don’t bring my family into this, Hank. Please.
The outburst startled Hank, who threw his hands up defensively as if trying to physically ward off the vitriol.
Hank Brown: I’m sorry, Mr. Black! It’s just… the subject is a popular one amongst our viewers.
Howard Black: Sure. Fine. But… no, I’m not talking about it. What happened to Christian Malignaggi was, still is, and always will be an absolute tragedy. That Joseph Malignaggi being his father is used to demerit the magnitude of this tragic is fuckin’ abhorrent. Shit, if there’s one thing these #BeachKrew psychos hit on the head, it’s the definition of “good guy” a lot of folks seem to be missing the mark on. Now, some of them are gone, sure, but when you got a gravy train this full of scumbags runnin’ riot, there ain’t time to blur the lines further. So no, I don’t think it’s okay that this shit’s still being brought up. A man is tryin’ to grieve. What happened between Joey and Dune is none of my business.
Hank Brown: I’m… sorry?
Howard Black: S’fine. Please ask me about my match.
Hank Brown: Right! So you’re facing off against #BeachKrew and the People’s Choice for the Trios Titles; the Sentinels fell out in the second round of the Trios Cup Tournament in May after being defeated by the Vapor Kings, which included Joey Flash. Now Malignaggi has replaced Dune as your third member to face off for the belts again; think you stand a better shot?
Howard Black: Both Dune and Joseph are some of the best wrestlers to ever step foot in a WCF ring. That doesn’t mean I’m not worried about team dynamic. Joe isn’t Dune, and while we’ve stepped in the ring as tag partners, there’s naturally an odd dynamic, just as it was the first time.
Hank Brown: Speaking of that first time, it was against former number one contender Gemini Battle and your opponent this week, Spencer Adams! You and Spencer have faced off many times in the past and are now set to face off once more. Do you have anything to say to him and the other Trios Champions, the People’s Choice?
Howard Black: Let’s get the contractually obligated shit talking out of the way, first. I got two numbers for you, Spencer: three and zero. That’s my record over you. I faced you in a tag match and beat you, then I faced you in singles and beat you, then I faced you in a tag match again. At this point, I’d only wonder if it’d be the next Gemini Battle versus Joey Flash had I not stepped out; probably have a similar record, too – what, like, a billion to one?
You’ve been fighting hard lately, and no one is taking that from you. But we’re better, and you know this. You’ve been so busy being the backbone of the resistance against #BeachKrew, you’ve forgotten that you need to do more than trade words and barbs – you’ve gotta step up. You’ve gotten lazy beating Kemp’s ass to kingdom come; you’ve forgotten how to beat the guys above Kemp. And make no mistake, not only are both the Sentinels and Joe Malignaggi above Kyle Kemp, we’re so far above him, he can’t even see us. You had that chance to really deal #BeachKrew a vicious wound; hell, a lot of you did, including my partner Occulo. The fuck happened? You went from perennial favorites to Johnny Rabid fodder. You went from standing tall over Kemp to getting sent Back to the Minors.
And the answer to that failure? Adam-fucking-Young. He got in your head, Spencer, whether you want to admit it or not. You went from looking at that Tee-El-See match as an opportunity to win a belt to an opportunity to squash a grudge. You got so focused on one yappy little dachshund that you forgot about the big dogs in the yard. And frankly Spencer? Fucking shame on you for that. You should know that Adam Young is a small fry. A has-been. This was a guy so irrelevant and hated that he had to get in a serious car crash before anyone gave a fuck about him. Hell, he needed FIST to get himself over, only to almost immediately shit it away with trademark incompetence by picking some nothing fight with Joey Flash and raping his ex-wife. He’s a knob Spencer. An absolute tool.
And you let him fuck with you. Not “fuck with you” as in jump you – that can’t be helped. Instead, you let him shift your focus. You got too caught up with the nails on the chalkboard to focus on the test. Now you’ve blown it, and #BeachKrew’s circling for your Trio Titles. But are you even in the zone to defend that? Shit, this whole Adam Young bullcrap is still on-going; are you even thinking about this match? Or are you going to be too bent on bringing it back to #BeachKrew that you forget about us?
Because let the record show that while I’m back for a limited time, I’m damn sure winning this match. So what about the rest of your group? Vic Venable – tough as an ox and top ten finalist in WAR. But let’s address the elephant in the room, Vic: you don’t take this shit seriously anymore. It shows every week, from dropping the tag belts to the #BeachKrew B-Team to failing to get the job done at ONE. Hell, your singles career is in the toilet, and Spencer probably would’ve been better off with Teo in his corner than you last week. Yeah, that’s right: if Kemp could work double duty, I bet Teo could. And Teo’s also a proven winner. So what the hell, Vic? You beat Tiburones and Moor only to shit the bed a few times in a row to Kyle Kemp and Johnny Rabid? You’ve got a partner proven better than at least one of them; how the fuck are you not rising to the occasion?
You’re deadweight. A drag on the team. The weak link in an already shaky chain. Are you even ready for this match, or are you sitting hands folded with your ear to the ground, thumbing through your copy of “The Tom Bates Guide to Response Shooting”, and waiting for us to pipe up first? Well here’s your fodder, Vic: you’re not winning this match. You’ve proven incapable of winning. Allergic to it. Johnny Rabid and Kyle Kemp are the kryptonite to your super friends. Instead, how about you move over and let the team who can actually win this do their job.
Hank Brown: And on Teo del Sol?
Howard Black: He’s the closest thing to a winner on the team, but he’s not on that level yet. You can’t be on that level when your title reign lasts one feud, which includes you dropping the belt and having to get it back. You’re not on that level when you’re losing to Joe Malignaggi after he’s spent a week ridiculing you. Teo, your biggest feuds so far: Sanchez, Holmes, Kemp. Sanchez? Decisive loss. Jared? You won the figurative and literal WAR but lost possibly the most memorable battle – that’s a tainted victory. Here’s what victory looks like, from former TV Champ to former TV Champ: I beat Bates for the belt to start towards Ultimate Showdown. Two weeks before, I faced Bates and Corey Black for the belt again, and I still walked out the champion. That’s a trial by fire, Teo, and you damn near failed yours. You can’t slip up in this shit; imagine if we switched roles and Holmes cost you that spot in Ultimate Showdown, forcing you to win some stupid battle royale to get the spot you earned back?
Then again, you weren’t even in that battle royale; you were too busy being yanked around by David Sanchez to stroke his ego. And when you had an actual kid at home cheering you on – hoping you’d take his piece of shit father down a peg – you blew it. For god’s sake, is anyone in the People’s Choice capable of winning on a consistent basis?
Howard paused, his mouth slowly twisting up onto a smile as he began to chuckle, a hand coming to his face.
Howard Black: Okay, okay, I’m done. I can’t do that seriously any more.
Hank smiled at him.
Hank Brown: I suppose I should ask your real thoughts on the People’s Choice?
Howard Black: They’re a swell group of guys – all stand-up fellows who are doing the WCF proud. I’ve expressed by admiration for Spencer Adams many times, and I’d like to reiterate that. Spencer, you’ve come a long way since the time you said you were going to “unleash the assassin” on me, only to get your arm tied in a knot. You’ve come a long way since being a DRG meat shield. You were always too good for the shit thrown your way; a young buck tossed repeatedly to the Wolves…
Howard paused on the word for a moment.
Howard Black: Now look at you; third in WAR. That’s balls, my man. It’s going to be an honor to step in the ring with you again. But on the other hand, I was serious in what I was saying about Adam Young. Just… keep your eye on the ball, man.
Vic and Teo? I don’t know you guys, but I respect the work you’ve been doing for the company. When you’ve got a loon like Seth Lerch behind the wheel, followed by those #BeachKrew douchebags, this company needs all the good will it can get. It’s going to be a true pleasure stepping in the ring with such talented competitors.
Hank Brown: Now as for your other opponents in this match - #BeachKrew. This team will be consisting of the tag team champions, Kyle Kemp and Johnny Rabid, as well as Oblivion. Should we get the, as you say, “contractually obligated shit talking” out of the way first?
Howard Black: In this case, there’s no “obligated” or not. I’ve got nothing nice to say about these guys. See, I’ve been waiting to get in the ring with Johnny Rabid for some time, ever since I first encountered him while training Billy. Rabid’s a snake in the grass, Hank. Don’t let his #BeachKrew association fool you, he’s an animal and absolute psychopath. Isn’t that right, Rabid? Perhaps you think that your little #BeachKrew charade is clever or even competent because some people are stupid enough not to see straight through it, but trust me, it’s as though you’ve masked yourself in cling-wrap.
You don’t belong in #BeachKrew, Rabid, and I think you know that. You’re an outside hire – a mercenary – a new CEO taken from a venture capitalist firm to gut the company and make the investors a lot of money before sinking the ship. You can get success, but you can’t maintain stability. Isn’t that why Beaver and Wade are getting into it? Why your own tag partner pulled a gun on you? Why you’re tugging around baggage like Oblivion who was the only #BeachKrew member to not win a match at ONE? Why you’re stepping down with the lurking presence of Jared Holmes in the background? You’ve got bigger ambitions. That doesn’t take a mind reader or a detective to figure out; this is a stepping stone for you.
But for all the winning and title belts that you’ve accomplished, you’ve missed something important: no one takes #BeachKrew seriously. Isn’t that why you were brought in? Success was too slow, #BeachKrew couldn’t assert itself as necessary, so let’s head the ship with a wrestling prodigy who has an uncanny knack for giving backstage staff PTSD? It’s the big miscalculation on Thuggin’s part and yours. You thought titles meant respect, and Thuggin thought you’d give a shit about someone other than yourself. A perfect storm of nothing, less than half a year after #BeachKrew hit the scene.
And the reason why no one takes #BeachKrew seriously? You cultivate failure as much as success. Exhibit A: “OblivSEAon, Monster Guardian of the Brocean”. Hey, “God of Insanity”, remember me? I kicked your ass two weeks straight a while ago, and I’m about to make the record three and oh. Speaking of which, when was the last time you won a match, all-powerful guardian? It’s like Bonnie Blue decided to tussle with you to get her record back up to even. And when you lost at ONE? No one batted an eye. Fuck it, more bets were on Andre Jenson winning the match than you. How does that feel, big mean evil monster? To be the least likely to win in a match where you were supposed to be a more important player than the third guy? If you’re the “guardian” of the “Brocean”, I can only imagine how much shit has gotten into it under your watch: plastic rings, cans, microbeads. You’re so shit at this job, I imagine the “Brocean” would be cleaner not having a guardian at all.
You know you’re being used, right? That you’re a piece of a faction cultivated for a power play within your own group? Are you even actually in #BeachKrew, or do they just smile and nod whenever you’re around? And hell, how long is this even going to last? You can’t beat Marc Mayhem, so you join him. Then you run off and form the worst. faction. in the WCF. Then you job to #BeachKrew enough, so you decide to join them? How has that worked for you? Helped you out? Fuck no. A turd is a turd, no matter how much polish is applied to it. You’re still the weakest member of this team, Oblivion, and you’ll always be the blemish on #BeachKrew. One of these days, probably when their little Aryan boy comes back, they’ll kick the shit out of you to send some message, but hey, what do I know?
I guess I know that Kyle Kemp isn’t even hashtag-better-than his own tag partner, considering he’s failed to beat Teo twice now. But that’s been your life for a while now, hasn’t it Kyle? When was the last time Kyle Kemp was better than anyone on his own? Yeah, you beat Spencer Adams for the People’s Title. I’ll give credit where credit is due. But Hellimination? Nice job being the first one eliminated on your team. WAR? Did more than Rico Rojas, little else. Who’s the Tag Champ, Kemp? Are you telling me that Rabid doesn’t pull your team? Are you going to tell me that during Hellimination, all eyes weren’t on Kyle Kemp to see if he’d drag Moor and Holmes down? That everyone doesn’t suspect you may just shit the bed here and drag Rabid down for the first time?
Answer: Yes. This isn’t some tag match against Raymond Hatcher – this is a three-way threesome dance, and you’ve got the weakest team of us. It makes me wonder – does #BeachKrew even give a shit about this belt? Because how is this the team you send to the main event? The two members of #BeachKrew who lost at ONE and the guy everyone thinks may be a huge pussy waiting to get his first loss? Keep playing your cards right, and maybe – just maybe – Occulo and I will take those tag belts off your hands on our way out the door.
Hank Brown: So you have tag title ambitions, Mr. Black?
Howard Black: I don’t have any title ambitions. We’re going into this because we’ve been booked for it. If #BeachKrew want to get teeth knocked out on my way in and out the door, I’ll obliged, but that’s not why I’m here.
Howard crushed out the cigarette and reached for his pack, picking out another Marlboro Red, placing it in his mouth, and igniting it.
Hank Brown: Well we know you’re back because of Dune, but if you don’t mind me asking, how does Joseph Malignaggi factor into this? The man breaks your arm on live television, and now you stand between him and a man you called “brother”. What are your thoughts?
Howard Black: Nothing in my mind has changed about Joe Malignaggi. He’s a vicious, solipsistic, arrogant little creep who needs a good acid bath, and I’ll never forgive him for what he did to me. That being said, there’s been enough tragedy in the WCF – I was going to allow more. When I ran to the ring in ONE, it had nothing to do with Joe Malignaggi; it was me and Dune, period. In the same way, if Dune tries anything after his match with Bonnie Blue this week, I’ll be waiting.
Hank Brown: Is this sort of animosity conducive to a championship-winning team? How do you expect to operate on the same frequency as Malignaggi when the two of you clearly harbor dislike for one another?
Howard Black: I’m a professional, Hank. I’ve worked with Joe in the past, at a time when we were probably knee-deep in our dislike of one another. Result of that? We beat Gemini Battle and Spencer Adams, two guys on the same team. Or dysfunctional teams are still better than the cohesive teams of most people, make no mistake of it.
Hank Brown: Well that’s about all that I have for you. Any last words for the WCF Galaxy before we finish this interview?
Howard Black: Ummm…
He paused for a moment, smiling sheepishly as he turned over his words in his head.
Howard Black: Happy 2016. It’s going to be a helluva year.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Dunkin Donuts Center
Providence, Rhode Island
January 1st
The cigarette burned hot between Howard’s fingers as he made his way from the car to the arena. The duffle bag hung from his shoulder, bumping lightly against his leg with every step, and the nostalgia at the moment hung over Howard like an uncanny veil. With each stride toward the arena, his stomach rose higher in his chest, butterflies swarming it and ready to burst. He kept his sunglasses on, even though it wasn’t terribly bright, and behind the lenses, his nervous eyes darted back and forth for any familiar faces. After assuring himself he was largely alone, he felt the gentlest pangs of relief.
At the front of his thoughts was Dune, the man he’d called brother and once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with in the ring. There was a certain dry humor in Howard Black – the great refuser of beating women – to be running off to possibly play White Knight if things got out of hand. On the other hand, the thought of staring down Dune never settled well in his chest, even if accompanies by Occulo. It wasn’t just difficult – it was wrong. It felt like fratricide every time he had struck out at ONE, and every stupid fucking Tweet Dune had sent him had hit like a sledgehammer to the ribs. Facing Dune at the Ultimate Showdown, two brothers engaged in a friendly bout, had been easy enough because it had no emotional attachments. But when blood was involved? When a possible life-or-death situation was in the air? It shook Howard to the core.
But the WCF was more than just Dune, and he knew that he’d be fighting his way through much of the company during his brief return. Naturally, behind Dune stood the megalith of #BeachKrew, a swollen phallic towering rising out of the sea to spray spunk upon everything in its shade. It was a group Howard knew very little about but cared even less – a faction he’d inevitably be forced to cross, starting tonight, and would probably be plagued by for the remainder of the month. Wade Moor, the dancing bear at the front of their circus, had proven to be a formidable challenger and champion, but then again, Howard has always had a good record for beating fat bearded men with superiority complexes. Dustin Beaver had been an interesting prospect to practice on – a man who beat his friend and held the belt he’d fought so hard to achieve. Rabid and Kemp would be tested tonight, and Howard felt a small pain of remorse that Jared Holmes was hospitalized and couldn’t get his face broken in. But c’est la vie.
So sure, perhaps Howard did want a piece of #BeachKrew, even if he didn’t care about them. Maybe it was even arrogant of him to assume he could get the job done – but who, then, was supposed to? Grayson Pierce? Doug Murdock? For all the smoke the DRG had blown, it hadn’t affected #BeachKrew’s iron fist in the slightest. So, just like old times, here were the Sentinels to step up in the wake of DRG failure.
Howard took a long drag off of his cigarette, blowing smoke lazily into the air as he arrived at the arena backstage doors. As he’d done so many times before, he turned and leaned back on the wall, sliding down to a seated position, and come to rest on the ground. His arms perched atop his knees, hands hanging as the cigarette dangled precariously. A wave of emotions ran over Howard (OOC: I just can’t get away from beach words, can I?), the sense of déjà vu almost unbearable. A strange sickness sloshed around in him as he stared at the wisps of smoke, a drag of the cigarette doing little to calm him down. His role in the WCF had been an odd one – somewhere between the favorite and the most hated wrestler on the roster, depending on who you asked. Now, five months later, Howard had been met with a standing ovation and chants of his name. What would it be by the time he left for retirement again?
He considered this for a moment before dismissing it from his mind – he had greater concerns than the crowd and a few stray matches, as callous or self-centered as that may seem. While he could spend all night considering what it would be like to finally square off with K.L. Henson or ZMAC, what mattered was the match tonight and what he’d be doing going forward. The partnering with Joe didn’t bother him – it was strictly business. He was confident that Joe would play ball, do business, and not fuck the whole thing up for them. That, of course, did not mean Howard trusted him – how could he?
Even with the tragedy of Christian Malignaggi, it was impossible for Howard to separate the sins of Joseph from the tragedy that had befallen him. Howard sympathized deeply for him; thinking over the bloody history of Flash and Dune, especially its aftermath, Howard could only shudder at the feelings of horror and despair Joseph could be feeling. He considered the prayers he’d sent God for their family and the donations he’d made to Bereaved Parents of the USA. No matter how much he hated Joseph Malignaggi… it was impossible for Howard to not cry for his loss. No one deserved that. And in perhaps, a way, it made Howard realize something uncomfortably true – he and Joe were not too different at the heart of it.
But it was also this realization which made Howard certain that Joseph would be the biggest obstacle of them all when it came to facing Dune. He knew Joseph would place himself between them, too concerned with his personal vendetta to see a bigger picture or even see the humanity in the monster across from him. Flash had gotten lucky on a big stage against Dune, and he needed that validation he could do it again. For Flash, it wouldn’t be over until one of them was dead. That was simply unacceptable to Howard.
His thoughts ricocheted around like a rubber ball in a small room. The amount of planning and thinking he hadn’t done for this return had become all too apparent to Howard in these short minutes, and he fumbled for another cigarette, desperate to take the edge off. The match? The match wasn’t a problem. Oblivion? Well, he’s Oblivion – the worst former champion of all time. Oblivion was an absolute shipwreck of a wrestler, begging to be dredged off the ocean floor and put in some museum next to the bell from the Lusitania and rubber soles from the Titanic. Somehow, Howard suspected there must be some sort of decency in Wade Moor, enough to pity the oaf and give him a token membership, otherwise his involvement made zero sense. Or maybe that was just it – maybe Oblivion was a convenient distraction from the other failures of #BeachKrew. Or maybe a relic of “PANIC MODE” days when Rabid had been brought in.
Kyle Kemp was similarly not a terrible concern to Howard – it’d be one former athlete facing another former athlete in the ring. The difference? Howard played football, and Kemp played baseball. To quote his partner – body bags. In a way, Howard pitied Kemp, as one who has been in a similar place at one time is oft to do. Not succeeding in football had killed Howard initially; wrestling had hardly been a consolation prize. Yet, he got over it. He moved on. He accepted failure because it was the key to growing as a person and a competitor – in the end, Howard couldn’t have been happier that football didn’t work out. But he also remembered being full of anger and insecurity like Kyle Kemp; in fact, he even still had those lingering threads of resentment clinging to him when he’d first stepped into a WCF ring. Kemp, on the other hand, made it his M.O. It was the driving force behind his persona – the entire point of his existence. This, of course, was why Kemp could never climb to his real potential. But he was not a guy to despise, in Howard’s eyes, he was someone to pity. Undoubtedly, such an idea would send Kemp into a mouth-frothing rage. But that was okay because it was time someone humbled him in the ring. Howard thought tonight would be a good start; a little late Christmas gift from one failed athlete to another.
The only one who worried him was Johnny Rabid. He’d seen the tape of Rabid matching Dune blow-for-blow, and Howard had a sneaking feeling that there was far more to Rabid than most were comfortable to admit. Was Rabid something… else? A demon? An extraterrestrial? Did it matter? Rabid could be beaten. Rabid had been beaten. He wasn’t a trump card to his team, and he’d selected some of the worst #BeachKrew members to follow him into battle. Even after announcing his resignation from leader of #BeachKrew, it was tempting for Howard to wonder if he could finish what Dune had started and cut the head off the snake here. Rabid down, Wade to go – would they survive? But to focus on #BeachKrew and forget to focus on Rabid would be a folly; Rabid was the danger. Rabid was arrogant. Rabid was not nearly as cunning or subtle as he thought he was or anyone lead him to believe. But he was still dangerous. What they had to do was use that arrogance and false sense of superior intellect against him.
And when it came to the People’s Choice? Well, Howard struggled to find anything to say poorly about them… but also struggled to find anything that worried him. They were all potential top contenders; the next breed of decent guys to stand up to punks like #BeachKrew. Spencer had grown in ways he could never have imagined – the scrappy little black sheep of the DRG was gone, replaced with a focused, driven man. Teo del Sol was a hero to children and a model employee, one of the best hopes for the WCF going forward. Vic Venable? A man reformed, who had done his time and was now doing real good. But as a group? It was hard not to feel deflated by the half-effort they’d been putting forward. Suddenly, they didn’t feel like a team, they felt like a collection of guys. Suddenly, it seemed like they’d gotten too wrapped up in being friends that they’d forgotten to be a team.
It was the crowning memory he had from being a Sentinel: team first, friendship second. It’s one thing to call each other “brother” and invite one another over for dinner – these were gestures and symbols. What mattered was fighting like brothers, being on the same page as the men in your corner and knowing what’s next. It was about flow and cohesion, something him and Occulo had in spades. Even with Flash seeming like a wild card, Howard knew their styles meshed well. Not as well as with Dune – but things happen.
Stubbing the cigarette out, Howard rose and turned to face the door. Every vein in his body trembled as he failed to calm his nerves and enter the building. His hand reached out, the fingers tremoring as he went for the handle… then a vibration rose from his pocket. Howard’s eyes went down, the hand snapping for the old Nokia flip phone he still toted around. A message from Sarah:
Good luck tonight, babe. We love you very much. We’ll be watching : )
The nerves vanished, and his hand reached confidently for the door. It would be the second episode of WCF that Joey had watched since “the Incident”, and it would be the first time he’d seen his father in the ring since the destruction at Flash’s hands. With Sarah and Joey watching, he had to be more than the worried man outside. He had to be Howard Black – husband, father, and superhero. How convenient he faced the demons and supervillains of the WCF. Yet, as his confidence swelled, a second vibration caught his attention. A text from a familiar name, Billy:
Good luck Howard!! Thank you so much for everything you did for me! Go kick Rabid’s ass!!!
It was enough for him; the push wish brought his hand firmly to the handled and pulled open the backstage door. The hallways were familiar, the same sort of halls every arena had. As he weaved through the shuffle of equipment and last minute preparations, a smile slowly came to his lips. He was back. It was where he belonged all along. As he pushed into his locker room, he could’ve been in complete ecstasy… were it not for the familiar canine visage leering out of the darkness. The Fox grinned at him.
The Fox-Headed Man: Good luck, Howard Black.
Howard stared at the entity for a moment. The joy faded. – he remembered why he left and stayed gone in the first place. He remembered why he chose a life after wrestling and questioned why he was here, after after wrestling? He closed his eyes and forced a smile, a “fuck you” to that monster within him.
Howard Black: Thanks. I’ll need it.
He shook off any rumination on this encounter - this spectral menace. He simply didn't have any time for it. After preparing himself, Howard walked to the gorilla position. He closed his eyes, the roar of the crowd like a beautiful song he'd heard long ago and almost forgot the words to. That music of adoration was replaced by the trembling bass drop which marked the beginning of "Lost Boys" by Death Grips. From his place behind the curtain, he could see the lights strobe and hear the cheering intensify. It was time to do his job.
He was back.
