Commitments (To Pimp An Antidote)

[Howard Black]

“Daddy, why did Uncle Dune attack you?”

Joey Black’s words jumped around in Howard’s head as he stood on the edge of his hotel balcony, the cool winter breezes brushing past his face and through his hair. The cigarette smoke drifted with the wind, and it was a refreshing turn of events to be somewhere where one could stand on their balcony and smoke without the bitter cold making the task Sisyphean. Nebraska’s winter had been an odd one of schizophrenic temperatures (a product of El Nino, no doubt), but the coastal weather of North Carolina kept the middle of January temperate. Still, it was difficult, if not impossible, for Howard to full enjoy the weather with what was on his mind.

His memory of “the Incident” was vivid, and he knew that Sarah and his attempts to shield little Joey from the truth would be futile, especially with his return to the WCF. The interruption on the television of the news bulletin, displaying the burning cathedral and throwing around the names “Joseph Malignaggi” and “WCF” and “Dune” had led to a frantic fumble for the remote by Sarah to change the channel, and as details of the massacre were uncovered, the two elder Blacks had kept silence to their son. But the charade was over, and Howard knew he had to talk to his son. In the meanwhile, all there was to do was plan for the inevitable clash and his match this week.

The door opened behind him, and David Rogers stepped out onto the balcony, his boots making a distinct clacking upon the wooden balcony. He stood next to Howard, lighting the rolled cigarette of his own and taking a long drag and exhale before turning to his client.

David Rogers: That’s not the look of trouble I imagine on the face of someone trying to make a five-and-oh record against Spencer Adams.

Howard gave a humorless laugh, taking another drag off his cigarette. The silence lingered in the air, only interrupted by the sound of passing cars and typical city ambience, as he oriented his thoughts back to the present.

Howard Black: I’m not thinking about Spencer. Or Orbit.

David Rogers: No, you’re thinking about Dune.

The silence resumed as Howard smiled slightly, appreciating the prescience of his insight of his agent. Still, it was a sad smile, and when he returned a nod of affirmation, it was anything but energetic.

David Rogers: He’s in your head, Howie. That’s a bad state when you have a big match this week?

Howard Black: Is it?

David Rogers: Of course, it is. You need your eye on the ball.

Howard Black: No, I mean the match. Is it a big match?

David chuckled sardonically, patting Howard affectionately on the shoulder as he took another drag off of his cigarette.

David Rogers: Typical Howard. Of course it is. Steve Orbit will be the biggest name you’ve faced thus far besides your brushes with Johnny Fly. I wouldn’t take him lightly.

Howard Black: I mean, sure, but with this circumstance? Spencer and Orbit versus Occulo and I? There’s no team advantage?

David Rogers: Sure there is, but don’t let that get in your head. You hunker down in your thoughts and confidence, and you won’t be ready for these guys. It doesn’t matter how good your team is; Orbit’s a stud. You don’t take him seriously, and he’ll carry the match himself.

Howard considered this, nodding once more as he took another drag off of his cigarette. The specter of Dune’s attack and the questions of his son hung ominously above him, blurring the focus of the match at hand. It wasn’t that was underestimating his opponents – he’d be loathe to do such a thing. But greater concerns were at the forefront.

Howard Black: Here’s the thing: it doesn’t matter if I lose this week. I’m not back to win matches or win a title shot. I’m back to figure out what’s going on with my best friend.

David Rogers: Sure. And Occulo doesn’t have that same luxury.

Howard’s thought stopped cold. It was the sort of “wake up” line he kept David around for; he needed that outside perspective to keep his mind from going too far off. Truth be told, he always needed that person, whether it was David, Sarah, Dune or Occulo. Wasn’t it why he had joined the Sentinels? Why he’d been tempted by the Movement? That need for another voice? At the end of the day, for all of his single-minded thinking, Howard knew he was a team player. That’s why he’d flourished in the Sentinels.

Howard Black: Fair point.

David Rogers: Damn right. Now, what are your game plans for this week? Let’s stop thinking about Dune, stopping thinking about your son, and let’s think about the match. How are you coming at this?

Howard Black: The first thing I need to remember is that Occulo and I are a team while Spencer and Orbit are not.

David Rogers: Not just a team, but the team.

Howard Black: Right. We’re two thirds of the Trios Champions, and more importantly, we’re the Sentinels.

David Rogers: And don’t forget it. You and Occulo had been tearing it up before Mullins tore him down. Had things kept up? It may’ve been you going into Ultimate Showdown with two belts rather than Kaz.

Howard Black: Fair.

David Rogers: So what do either of your opponents have on that? You stepped back into the ring, into the main event, and you walked out with a title over some of the top names in the company. The fuck did Steve Orbit do for his debut?

Howard Black: BioWalker.

David Rogers: Exactly. That’s not shit. Orbit’s not ready for this match any more than Price is going to be ready for Wade Moor at Fifteen.

Howard stopped and considered; his reluctance for the match had been predicated on a sense of fatalism and inability to figure out how to attack Orbit. Yet, as David talked, it was though the picture he’d looked directly past had come into focus. Of course he had the upper hand, if not by much. He smiled for the first time that morning.

Howard Black: Grab the camera, David. Let’s go shoot that promo.

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Promo #1

The video opened to Howard Black inside the North Carolina Sports Hall of Fame, a feather duster in hand, brushing residual dust from a bare pedestal with a single spotlight showing down on it. Dressed in a plain white v-neck shirt, his crucifix necklace dangling before it, he stood out against the drab gray walls so common for such complexes. The shirt complimented the faux-marble pedestal, and Howard smiled at the camera, his face confident and calm as if posing for a bust of his own to top that pedestal.

Howard Black: There’s a space like this already reserved for you in the WCF Hall of Fame, isn’t there, Steve? For you and Fly? Or maybe it’ll be you and the Thickness? Or maybe it’ll be you and ICE Beckman as the Vapor Kingz? But let’s not overlook your major solo accomplishments: multiple belts, including two World Champion reigns. A lot of people would say that on these accomplishments alone, your team is a damn-near shoo in. Hell, Spencer Adams could go play Solitaire in the corner while you win the match on your own, right? Isn’t that why you’re probably also odds-on favorite to win this Final Destination Match? Because you’ve done so much with your time in the company and beaten so many major guys? We’re supposed to get wide-eyed, gulp heavily, and beg you to not go for the nose?

Except, no, I’m not, because what the fuck have you actually done since I joined the WCF? You were in the Trios Tournament and lost to a disbanded team of guys so beaten about they’re almost entirely discredited. From there, you made an appearance eating hot wings at WAR, you showed up in some bioWalker match at ONE, and you finally ended “the blood feud of the Century” with them on Slam. So what’s the Steve Orbit record outside of the Trios Tournament?

One and Oh.

This is what people are talking about so highly? The guy fighting bioWalker is the guy who’s supposed to be running away with this match and taking down a well-oiled team who was able to walk in and just take a belt in its first shot? This is who’s supposed to be walking into Final Destination as the odds-on favorite and beating some of the rising stars in this company? No, I’m sorry, that doesn’t sound like a dedicated star who is coming in to give his all or prove anything; that sounds like a spoiled rock star who the bosses have a hard on for because “Once Upon a Time”.

Howard tossed the feather duster aside, his brow furrowing as his intensity rose like a boulder tumbling faster and faster down a hill.

Howard Black: Lemme name a few companies who made the same mistake as WCF in putting their trust in talents of yesteryear: WCW. TNA. WWE circa the 2010’s. That’s what WCF is doing right now: bringing in the nWo and hoping to boost ratings because Seth is too drunk and nostalgia crazy to put the trust in a more talented section of rookies and give them a shot. You’re not Hulk Hogan, Steve; that’s Johnny Fly. You’re not Kevin Nash, that’s Torture. You’re not even X-Pac, the guy we wish would just fuck off and go away; that belongs to Jayson Price. You’re the Scott Hall, a guy who can say “Yeah, I was in Pantheon, too, once. By the way, do you remember that time I tagged with a bunch of guys who ended up outshining me because I’m friends with them?” It’s a fucking miracle you haven’t washed up at the Gathering of the Juggalos, making a few token appearances to a crowd of losers, fighting against Professor Coach, FIST, and all the other guys who couldn’t cut it or didn’t want to put in effort.

But I’ll be fair, Steve, it’s not just you; this is a widely recurring problem. Whether it’s Johnny Fly getting straight into Ultimate Showdown, a clone of Johnny Reb getting a billion title shots she can’t win, or Stuart Slane facing Dustin Beaver for the Television Title while Andre Holmes is still clinging to his “Number One Contender” moniker. And I’ll even be more fair, Steve, and give you a better example.

Howard jabbed his thumb into his chest.

Howard Black: Me. Why the fuck was I given a shot at a belt when I’ve openly stated that I’m here for one month? What did I do to deserve being in the main event on the Slam after ONE when I’ve been out of action and don’t care to stay? I’ll tell you why, it’s because this is what the owner thinks gets ratings. He falls back on the cheap pop and the easy nostalgia dollar. Hell, I’m sure he was careful to cup the balls, just as you like, when he decided to put you into the Final Destination match rather than a workhorse like Teo del Sol. Or when he put Benjamin Atreyu in that match rather than a stud like Vengeance or an up-and-comer like Andre Jenson. This is what makes me mad, Steve. It’s as suffocating as Thomas Bates was to his lesser members of the DRG, and it’s funny how much they’ve flourished since he decided to hang up his boots.

I’m mad because this company is full of dedicated and passionate talent, but it seems like the only guys who get opportunities are those who are allergic to doing anything constructive with them. I’m mad because Raymond Hatcher got absolutely nothing until he had enough and peace’d out. I’m mad because Legion should’ve been an absolute force in the ring. I’m pissed off because the People’s Title was the only singles shake Spencer Adams ever received, and I’m pissed off because Vic Venable never got one.

So what happens when you guys dust yourselves off from retirement and decide to shove yourself belligerently back into the spot light? You choke. You always do. Because you were products of an old guard of less talent in a company with a high turnover rate. And it’s bullshit that Zombie McMorris spent an entire few months jobbing only to get two titles, and Bobby Cairo comes right back to a shot of his own. It’s bullshit because we know that when one of the real big dogs in the park decides to give them a snap, they’ll go down like a bitch, just like you’re going to on Sunday.

Let me make something clear, Steve: you haven’t earned a goddamn thing. When people talk about this match, it should be “Spencer Adams” that they’re talking about if they want to talk about who performs in the clutch. It should be the guy who eliminated Gemini Battle and Jared Holmes from WAR before exiting third, not the guy who sat on his ass eating a plate of hot wings. And when I walk from the ring, having made you tap like a bitch, maybe that’ll change some minds.

I’m all killer, no filler. I don’t need to be from the former Murder Capital of America or have some stupid gimmick to win a match. I’m the best in this ring not named Joey Flash. I’m the best on this microphone not named Johnny Fly, and I’m the most intense guy not named Dune. I’m the best that never was, and when we step into the ring on Sunday, you’ll see that first hand. I don’t need whacky shenanigans or Hot Fry schemes or any of that shit. I come in, twist arms, and pick up wins. That’s all I’ve ever done. You’re going into Fifteen against Johnny Rabid, Spencer Adams, and Benjamin Atreyu; if I have my say, I’m going against Dune. You’ll never hold a candle to my struggles or the lengths I’ll go. You can’t touch the momentum I’m gathering. I can’t lose this match. I won’t. Sentinels victory. Easy peasy.

You’re fucked, Steve. After Seth decided to take the training wheels and safety foam off you, I’m going to beat your ass until he books you in tag matches with Cairo against Adam Young for the next half year.

See you in the ring, Orbit.

The camera cut immediately.

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Wednesday

The cellphone ringed in his ear as Howard’s heart beat in his head. It was a phone call he’d been dreading, but it was one he knew he had to make. The words from his son had finally reached a fever pitch in his brain, and Howard knew that the charade was up. It was one thing for Sarah to tune in only for his matches, saving any run-ins he and Occulo would do for a time she’d be watching her Soap Operas, away from Joey’s questioning eyes. But with Dune ambushing him during his own match? With the brutality that had been unleashed on him? There was no skirting around it; the boy deserved the truth.

After three long rings, the receiver clicked and the musical voice of Sarah Black flowed from the receiver.

Sarah Black: Hey, babe.

Howard Black: Hey Sarah. I was hoping to talk to Joey.

The line was silent for a moment; Howard could envision her sucking her lower lip beneath her teeth as her own heart quickened with what was to come. She was no fool – she knew he had to have this conversation with their son as much as he did.

Sarah Black: Are you sure about this Howard?

Her voice was full of hesitation. It was a difficult place to be in, not knowing what the right answer was. Do you shield the boy from the truth, let him find out on his own, and accept his resentment of the lie? Or do you explain to the kid that the world is a fucked up place at age nine and risk traumatizing him for life? It was these sort of problems which made and broke people as parents. Howard hated the idea of having to talk to Joey, especially over the phone – it was his big failure not talking to the boy before he left. Still, if he didn’t have the strength to talk to his son, how did he expect to have the strength to beat Spencer Adams and Steve Orbit?

Howard Black: Yeah, I’m sure. Put him on.

The line went silent for a moment save the sound of shuffling feet. In the distance, Howard could hear Sarah call for their son. The silence was soon broken by the fumbling of the phone and the voice of a young boy.

Joey Black: Hi, Dad.

It wasn’t as joyous as Howard had become accustomed to hearing. Not that he could blame the child; the awkward, uncomfortable moment from the phone call earlier that week must’ve been a bombshell dropped on the boy.

Howard Black: Little man. How’re you doing?

Joey Black: I’m good.

Howard Black: Good being back in school?

Joey Black: Yeah, I guess.

Howard Black: Good, good. Glad to hear it.

The line went uncomfortably silent. He couldn’t hold back any longer.

Howard Black: Look, dude, I need to talk to you about Uncle Dune.

Joey Black: Okay. Why did he attack you and Occulo?

Howard sucked on his own lip, the nervous habit he’d picked up from Sarah. His words came out slow and measured.

Howard Black: Something… bad happened to your Uncle Dune. And it involves Joey Flash.

Joey Black: Did Joey Flash turn him against you?!

Howard Black: No. No. Joey, something really, really bad happened. And Uncle Dune is being accused of it.

Joey Black: What did he do?

Howard Black: He… he hurt someone.

Joey Black: Who did he hurt?

It was the question he’d been most afraid to answer. The words balled up in his throat, choking him. When he spoke, it was as if he was coughing up poison.

Howard Black: Joey’s son Christian.

The line was quiet. Joey’s voice was soft.

Joey Black: Is he okay?

The silence resumed. Something like sickness and sorrow welled up in Howard’s stomach.

Howard Black: He’s not. He’s…

He thought for long and hard for them both – then he answered.

Howard Black: He’s dead.

The line went quiet. When he spoke, Joey’s voice was raised and hysterical.

Joey Black: Dune wouldn’t do that! He wouldn’t do that! Dune would never kill anyone! Not even Joey Flash! He wouldn’t do that.

Howard Black: I know, Joey, I know! That’s why I’m here! That’s why I’m back in WCF!

Joey Black: But why did he hurt you? What’s going on?! Why is he doing this?

The little boy’s sobs were audible. Howard raised a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes intensely as he grit his teeth.

Howard Black: I don’t know, Joey. That’s what I need to figure out. And I don’t think Dune wants us to figure out; that’s why he’s attacking us. He’s not the same. It’s not him.

Joey Black: It’s not him! It can’t be him!

Howard Black: I know, Joey! That’s why I’m here. You remember what we used to say? Don’t you remember the Sentinels’ motto?

The little boy stifled a sob, grasping to keep his own terror and sadness in check. His voice was shakey.

Joey Black: The Sentinels stand for the fallen. The Sentinels stand against the rising.

Howard Black: And that’s what I’m doing, Joey. I’m standing for Uncle Dune. Even if I have to stand against him to do so.

The line was quiet save the occasion choked sob or tiny sigh of the boy. Howard’s head hurt. He felt tired. It was the hardest thing in the world doing this; harder than any match he’d faced or anyone he could be stepping into the ring with on Sunday.

Joey Black: Can you beat him, Dad?

Howard Black: I don’t know. I won’t be alone.

Joey Black: Occulo?

Howard Black: Yeah, Occulo. We’re gotta make sure the odds are on our side. Can’t afford to lose.

Joey Black: What if Dune shows up this week to hurt you?

Howard Black: Then I’ll fight him on Sunday.

Joey Black: You’re gonna win this week, right?

Howard Black: Of course. If I can’t beat these guys this week, there’s no way I can beat Dune.

The line was quiet for a moment. Howard shook his head.

Howard Black: You okay, little dude?

Joey Black: Yeah. I think I need to go.

Howard sighed.

Howard Black: I understand. I love you, Joey. I’m doing this for you.

Joey Black: I love you too, Dad.

The call ended with a click, leaving Howard in silence, wondering if he’d made the right choice.

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Promo #2

The camera opened to the interior of Howard Black’s hotel room; nothing unremarkable for the sort of cheap hotels he’d checked into during his past tenure with WCF. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking forward at the camera with the faux-mahogany backboard and kitsch landscape painting compulsory to such rooms framing him, and he wore decided average clothes: a black t-shirt and blue jeans.

Howard Black: I hope you’ll forgive me for not choosing some fun or relevant location for this video, Spencer. Maybe I could’ve gone to a hospital, since you’re the Antidote. Or maybe I could’ve gone to a costume store and talked about your body paint. The truth be told, I’ve chosen to shoot this in my hotel room as a wink and nudge to you about how I’m sure we both feel about this match: boring. Absolutely boring.

I’m starting to understand how Joey Flash and Grayson Pierce must feel about having to face one another for the billionth time at Fifteen. That’s sort of how we’re becoming, isn’t it? First in that clusterfuck tag match before Asesinato de Mayo, then the singles match at Asesinato de Mayo, then the tag match before Revenge, then the Trios Title match after ONE, and now another worthless tag match before Fifteen. We just can’t catch a break, can we? Let’s throw all the cards on the table: we have zero bad blood. We don’t even have a rivalry; we’ve had a few matches we’ve been thrown into because Seth wants people to think there’s some competition that we both know doesn’t exist. So now, while Benjamin Atreyu gets a singles match (even if in the lower card) and Johnny Rabid gets the main event, you’re stuck in another worthless tag match with a partner that you have nothing in common with to face off against me. Ain’t that a bitch?

Truth be told, I really don’t have anything bad to say about you. You’re an underappreciated wrestler and a talented guy; I’m really pulling for you to win this Final Destination match at Fifteen and tear Wade down a peg. If any guy in this match has earned this shot? It’s you. You’ve gotten shit thrown on your plate from day one, starting with the DRG making you their bottom boy to their harassment of you when you decided to leave. No surprise you did better without them; I always knew you had it in you. Hell, I loved your work with the People’s Choice, and I thought it was great you smashed #BeachKrew one early on. Take some pride in that, Spencer: you were part of a team that actively denied #BeachKrew a belt when they wanted it. Now at Fifteen, you’ve got a shot to do that again; I firmly believe you’ll knock Rabid off that ladder and take what you deserve. Go enjoy those #BeachKrew tears.

But I also feel bad for you because it seems like Seth is actively determined to undermine your momentum going into this match. Case in point: the booking this week. Let me make something clear to you, Spencer: you’re not winning this match. Sorry, that’s just not going to happen. So I guess you should probably start preparing yourself to see “Zero-five” under your win-loss column against me. But what the fuck am I supposed to do? I think you of all people know exactly what’s at stake for me in these next few weeks. You know the odds I’m facing; the sort of demons I’ll be fighting. You’ve got a helluva match on your hands, but you’re nowhere near what I’m going to be up against. That’s why this match is already going down in the books as a “win” for the Sentinels.

If I were you, Spencer? I’d be fucking pissed. Because even if you manage to win this match and pin one of us, everyone is going to be raising Orbit on their shoulders. Doesn’t that bother you? That you can last longer than Gemini Battle in WAR but he’s the one who gets the shot at Wade Moor? How about that you’ve cut your teeth against some of the best of the WCF and haven’t gotten a legitimate shot at the United States Title or the Television Title? Whether it’s David Sanchez pinning Adam Young or you just getting straight hosed, you should be raising Hell at the front office. Like, Goddamnit, Spencer, you deserve better than this. You deserve better than a tag match with Steve Orbit against the Sentinels.

And I hate to say that when the bell rings and you walk away with another loss, the blame is going to fall on you: not because you lost the match, not because you didn’t try hard enough, but because you’re not Steve Orbit. And when it comes to this preferential treatment, I’m just as much of a benefactor as him. So what I’m saying is that I’m sorry you’re being thrown in my path twice within a month. I’m sorry that I’m going to kill your momentum when I could be taking Orbit one-on-one. Hell, I’m sorry that you don’t have a shot against Orbit yourself. But I’m not sorry enough to give you this match. I’ve got a lot of work to do in a very short amount of time, and you simply don’t fit in that picture.

No hard feelings, Antidote. Better luck next time.

The camera cut after a beat.

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Sunday, 3:00 AM

Even though he knew he had to get to sleep – save he be out of his head for the show – it was difficult for Howard to find any peace. He’d gotten home from the gym late, and his whole body ached, the familiar sign of a hard night’s work. Months earlier, this sensation would not have bothered him much, but since returning to the WCF, he had found it difficult to readjust to his old routines. In some ways, he wondered if he should’ve come back at all.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position, temporarily dismissing the futile effort. Standing upright and fumbling in the dark for his cigarettes on the night table, Howard’s mind turned with the implications of the next day and proceeding weeks. He thought of Steve Orbit and Spencer Adams; he thought of Occulo and Joey Flash; he thought of Dune and Wolf-Headed Men grinning at him from the shadows; he thought of Sarah and little Joey. He lumbered across the room, grogginess wrapped around his head like a shawl as he opened the hotel room door to the balcony and stepped out. With a flick of his thumb, he sparked his lighter and lit the cigarette. A long drag of nicotine took the edge off for a moment.

Placing his hands on the railing before him and leaning forward, Howard closed his eyes and took in the frigid air of the lonesome Raleigh night. His hands hurt from the punches he’d thrown, and his skin felt sticky from the sweat he’d given earlier. It was a stimulation he alone knew and could describe, the night dead and David long since sleeping. The dull throbbing made him think of the attack last week and the blows he’d receive the next night. It helped him put into perspective what was before him. The pain – he knew – told him he was almost ready.

The Sentinels had hardly ever worked out; their sense of teamwork had always been oddly intuitive. Continuing that tradition, Howard had not joined Occulo in the gym, choosing to work solo. Then again, the Sentinels never needed any cheap tricks or pandering displays of teamwork; that’s why Howard fit the group. Instead, they came out, kicked ass, and walked away. Rinse, lather, repeat. Some lesser tag teams or groups of guys tossed together in a match may need to meet one another and work on some dynamics; that dynamic was self-evident for them. The reputation of the Sentinels preceded them; end of story. When it came to the match later that day, Howard was confident he and Occulo would walk out with another win.

It was what came after which worried Howard most: that lingering confrontation with Dune. It was the thought of having to raise his fists in defense and aggression against his best friend – a man who was, is, and always would be his closest friend. The thought of squaring off with Dune in the ring, having to physically take him down and end the senseless violence which had come since his return, made Howard dizzy with anxiety. A few drags of his cigarette later, and nothing had changed: there would be no way Howard could feel at peace know what came next.

But in these trying times, Howard thought back to his father’s favorite word: commitment. “You made a commitment, Howie. You need to stick it through.” As a younger man, Howard had always scoffed at his father’s catch phrase and seeming inability to grasp details or context. Now it all made sense to Howard – there was no details or circumstances, just excuses. When you made a commitment, you followed through with it. No ifs, ands, or buts. When Howard had joined the Sentinels, he made a commitment to be there for Dune and Occulo if needed; though he was late, he was there.

In the same way, Howard had a commitment to Occulo to help him win this match against Spencer Adams and Steve Orbit. He knew Occulo would be entering the ring with drive and purpose, hoping to notch a major win in his column following the loss to Beaver at ONE. Should he be teaming with another man in the WCF, many people would’ve given the edge to Adams and Orbit; Howard was not one of those other men. When he and Occulo entered a ring, the odds were always in their favor. For Occulo, he would give his sweat and his blood in the match.

And finally, Howard had a commitment to his son and his family. The phone call still snaked through his head, the choked anguished sobs of his son haunting him like a gruesome accident. It was the most horrible sound in the world, the sound of a child learning that his heroes could fail him. If Dune could not be that hero Joey needed, then it would be Howard to be that hero for his son. Right now, more than anyone, Joey needed his dad to prove that there was hope. He needed a happy ending. And Howard was not going to let anything get in the way of that.

As he stubbed out his cigarette, his mind wandered back to Steve Orbit for a final time. He remembered the first time he’d been booked to step into the ring with a former World Champion and the sense of dread and doubt which had nearly ensnared him before the match. Yet, in spite of this worry, Howard had allowed himself to be undaunted. Instead, he had stepped into the ring with former World Champion Oblivion and picked up the win for his team, pinning the former Champion himself. In the same way, he knew he would end this match as well.

Howard closed the hotel door behind him as he entered his room. Nothing would surprise him. No one was ever what they had been cracked up to be. For all of Orbit’s prestige and accolades, Howard knew he was another obstacle to obliterate on his path towards climbing the largest mountain of them all. The match was as good as won. Howard fell asleep.