Post by Deleted on Jun 6, 2014 7:05:40 GMT -5
After the War
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There are moments in your life when you have to ask yourself 'who am I, what am I doing all of this for?' There are times when you question your own direction, spending hours chewing over how you ended up at the spot you're in. Every person reaches a cross roads in their life where they can fight the good fight or simply walk away…………………….none of this soppy basket of arses applies to me though. Many people believed it did prior to Superbrawl. In the lead up to that moment there were comments made about me, comments that implied I was going through an awakening, a life affirming journey towards a match that would define my career, but people like to talk.
Don't get me wrong my match with one 'Pippy Schneider' got the juices flowing again, but I can assure you now there were no moments of questioning. There was no wondering how I ended up here. I know, and have always known, the path I walk. I'm sure footed and devilishly handsome. Superbrawl in my eyes was the moment when every other f*cker got THEIR answers to those questions.
"Who is he?"
I am Drakz. Known in Asian households the world over as Genghis Khan Jnr. (May your wive's knees forever tremble).
I am the Streak Destroyer Destroyer Destroyer.
The "God" Slayer
I am the Infallible B*stard
THE Delusion of Grandeur
I've never been one for nick names but from now on I think I'll be over indulging. Why should everyone else always have fun with it and not me? People say The King arrived at Superbrawl. Perhaps in the eyes of the fresh meat this is true. Others say he returned. Again to those with short attention spans this is a passable comment. In my eyes I never went away………….I just broke my back.
"What is he doing this for?"
To surpass all opposition of course. I refuse to be anything but the man who owns this part of history. Anything that has been done I'm determined to do it better………and for longer. (May your wive's knees forever tremble).
My hand shall wipe the slate clean before scrawling my name over every inch of it.
"Which direction is he heading?"
This is getting boring already.
I am here. I am the future WFWF Heavyweight Champion and I am working my way through the new blood first.
There will come a time when I no longer do this. There will come a point in history when my name is something that is remembered as oppose to spoken of. When that day comes what is left? What does this company have to offer to the world? That is a question Shawn Malakai has been asking himself while he coughs into yet another tissue. He, like myself, wants to know what follows on from this long period of stalwart superstars. A new generation must rise and fill the void as best they can. He thinks the way to kick start this process is by throwing the, once prestigious, title belt at the first man with a nice suplex. He feels that if catapulted into the limelight rookies can perform at championship level. He is wrong. Of course he's wrong.
Rookies need to get there heads cracked week after week until they realise they're playing the game all wrong. This isn't something that can be forced. This isn't something that can really even be taught, at least not the way Captain Cancer's going about it. Simply taking a kid under your wing isn't enough. That is where I come in.
Shine up that old red apple for teach because you need to keep him sweet. He's got a cane in his hand and he just loves thrashing backsides with it.
I'm taking a more hands on approach with the surge of new talent. I figure by beating them to tears they will realise there is a hierarchy at play here. A food chain if you will. I have no problem with people climbing that food chain. None at all. In fact as the alpha male I encourage strong competition to keep me sharp. What I think a lot of these kids need to understand though is that you have to do it link by link. Hand over hand son. Malakai is doing the business no favours by tossing this boy Dex into the Heavyweight Championship spot. Trace Demon will kill him and he'll be a nobody again, with nothing but a hurt sense of pride to show for it. Malakai is essentially kicking Dex square in the scrotum with this whole campaign but Dex is too blind to see it, and why? Because he's only a rookie!
I'm informed it's strictly one pupil per tutor though so while Dex is failing his class I can only turn my attention elsewhere, and who's this? The boy who showed up during the crowning of our Prom Queen at Superbrawl. A boy who's headed on the exact same path as the unmasked one. Jason Garrett. I called this chump out last week in the hope that he bullishly accepts. My plan is to take this boy and learn him something good. Oh I'm going to learn him until he can't whimpers.
Before that day comes though I'm destined to clash with another man whom I deem to be 'new blood', yet I'm told his tenure is much longer than I'm aware. This week Matthew I'll be humiliating…………..*drum roll please*……………..JOSHUA DEAN! Everybody give a big hand for Joshua!
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A Night on the Tiles
Sun Devil Stadium, Tempe, Arizona
April 24th
22:43
There is a square, and within this square are two bodies. Two broken, exhausted bodies. Encircling the four sides are thousands, upon thousands of onlookers, all gargling and screaming in unison. Both broken, exhausted bodies are painted red. Both broken, devastated bodies have given their everything throughout the last 70 counts of 60. They are the same, yet entirely different. One rises. His arm raised, a golden strap hanging from it as he mounts the corner of this square. The other's arm hangs limp by his side as he too drags himself to his feet.
A token of respect is offered from one to the other. An olive branch.
It is rejected.
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Our golden strapped champion emerges through a black curtain, this time away from all of the howling thousands, and into the machine room of the good ship Superbrawl. The hallway is lined with colleagues all applauding his efforts, all showing a respect that is more than deserved. He, whilst elated inside, doesn't crack a smile. He instead responds with a nod of his head and begins to stagger between them all in hope of finding a safe haven. A place to get those damn boots off.
As the cheers and whistles fade to the rear, he enters a quiet room, a room in which he can consider what he has just done. Near collapsing into a chair, he slumps back, staring heavenward with a glazed look that tells just how empty he is. It's a wonder a drop of fluid remains within him after expelling sweat, snot, blood and spit inside of that square, everything was left behind, everything short of his own p*ss. His chest heaves, although the rate is slowing as he begins to get a handle on himself.
His neck is ringed by a thick bruise, a souvenir left behind from his brief hanging. His forehead bears the mark of clashing with another, a gelatinous gash who's torrent seems to have subsided for the moment. This body has taken a beating like no other and it's a wonder of human resilience that his journey to this very chair was made unaided.
Our cadaver is brought back to the living with a singular noise. A knock. Two knocks. Two singular knocks in quick succession. His pupils contract and sharpen. The colour in his cheeks surges back and his entire body lurches upward, throwing his once hanging head back up onto his shoulders and directed towards the door. His Dr Frankenstein looks on from the room's entrance, a stern look on his face, an absence of hair on his head, a bottle of brown in his hand.
Brennan.
Silence.
What is to be said?
Seemingly nothing…………for the longest time.
And then…….
He speaks.
"That was quite the performance. I wasn't sure you still had it in you."
Our monster blinks as though trying to clear his head before responding, the gold lays in a heap at his feet.
"You knew. Let's not butter this up."
The skin chuckles and swigs from his bottle.
"I guess it's the obvious thing to say, what with your 18 months away and all."
"What with my broken spine and all."
The tension rises…………..and falls.
"It was satisfying to watch that dreg finally admit defeat out there. I think I actually prefer the fact you made him submit. It means he had to physically declare you the winner as oppose to just laying on his back."
"I never thought it would finish the way it did, but feeling him beat the ring mat made that victory all the more sweet. Too long has that boy been allowed to make excuses. After what I just did to him there can be none."
Brennan now crosses the threshold and makes his way toward Drakz, a little tentatively at first before accepting that there is no chance of physicality here tonight.
"Don't be so nervous. I'm f*cking spent. Even if I did want to hurt you I couldn't, and besides……..I don't."
Brennan sits on a bench and sups at his poison a couple of times, staring at the floor. Again, an awkward silence falls on the room. There is too much to be said and not enough energy to say it.
"So why are you here? I thought our stony eyed meeting in the corridor earlier was enough to carry us through the next couple of months without having to do it again."
Brennan again swigs and stares but eventually finds something to say.
"I just wanted some solid conversation I think. There's a void in that department around these parts."
"Indeed. Between Josh Dean giving your childhood the Freud treatment and Shawn Malakai farting on about his stomach ache there really is nothing to entertain the higher minds.………………..You'll have to excuse me a seco……"
Cut off mid excuse he turns to his right and begins to vomit liquid exhaustion, in all of it's pretty colours, onto some unknown's sports bag. His body convulses and his back arches with each hurl of his guts. He continues like this until nothing remains inside, his stomach contorting and visibly causing him serious discomfort. He grunts and rolls his head back, sucking in air, his eye lids heavy.
"Not feeling too great?"
His face is pale once more, the adrenalin fully dispelled, leaving him dry. He holds one shaking hand up as though to hold off any further questioning. His cheeks inflate as he breathes heavy, focusing on anything but reality to keep himself steady. Brennan quietly watches, waiting for Drakz to turn back to him and pick things back up, which after a moment he does.
"Pardon me………….Obo really has………….done a number on……..me. I'm totally f*cked."
"I couldn't tell. How's the back? Or is it not going to really kick in until morning?"
"It's on fire. Pass me that."
Our victor holds out his hand signalling for the bottle and Brennan, holding it by the neck, passes it.
"I thought you were clean as a whistle now?"
"Oh yeah strictly oily fish and sucking Trace Demon's d*ck these days. Jesus."
The brown is cast back into his mouth, a long hard draw that both burns his throat and eases his back.
"Just because I'm not freebasing Tramadols doesn't mean I don't still enjoy a drink. Although the way I feel right now if you had some Trams I'd shove them up my arse if it took the edge off things."
Again the liquid is knocked back and Brennan's eyes widen a little, worried the bottle might be finished before his very eyes, but Drakz knows better. The bottle is passed back and the air is loosening in the room.
"Most people seemed to think I was certain to lose tonight."
"Most people are blinded by Schneider's accolade as…."
"The longest reigning blah blah blah, yes I'm sure. I'm certainly sick of hearing about it and I've only been back for one match so far."
This rise in the conversation's tempo leads him into a coughing fit, wrenching his body around, putting an unnecessary strain on all of his burning muscles. He stretches for the bottle again and, begrudgingly, Brennan hands it over. In between sputters Drakz manages to lick a good mouthful of it down, breathing heavily for a while after.
"It……..doesn't matter…….any more. I've proven…….I could have ended that run…..had I been given the opportunity."
"But you didn't. Nobody did for over 12 months. Even Kyz…."
The skin stops mid word, thinking better of turning the talk down that road. Drakz chuckles, his voice raspy, and then spits onto the floor.
"This is true. His record remains intact no matter what I do to him now. He is in that regard untouchable………………..for now."
"For now? Have you spent the last 12 months on your back designing a time machine Doc?"
"Better than that. What would be more crippling to a man? Never having set a historic record in the first place, or setting one only to have it overshadowed by a greater achievement?"
Brennan smiles knowingly and nothing more is said on the matter.
"Anyway how did it feel getting back in there yourself?"
Brennan rises, allowing him the freedom to pull a second hip flask out. He's more comfortable talking when he knows there's no end in sight. Uncertainty breeds angst, breeds anger. Rinse and repeat.
He take s slug.
"I'm somewhat indifferent."
"I thought you looked okay out there. Not great….but okay."
Another slug.
"That's how it felt in all honesty. No greatness, just an acceptable performance. Whatever. I got the job done."
"You did. It also seems you have more of an affinity for respect than our good friend Phillip, what with the shaking of hands and all. What do you make of Dean anyway?"
"I was half drunk and kind of caught in the heat of the moment, so yeah I shook his hand. The guy gave me a good match. Although had I been at full tempo it would have been a white wash. I feel like he's on the cusp of something but not quite there yet, which when you're pushing 30 isn't too promising. Maybe he'll never make it over the top. Perhaps that means we have something in common."
"Perhaps it does. It strikes me that you'll always be remembered as the best guy to never hold a title around here. Are you planning on changing that anytime soon? It's about time you stopped letting the team down."
Instantly the air is thick again and perhaps there is more animosity here than it seemed for a brief moment.
"What f*cking team exactly?"
"The team that gave you a spot in the Half of Fame. The team that broke my f*cking back."
David is on his feet, making himself much bigger than his opponent. An animalistic reaction.
"There is no team. I'm not in here looking for a reconciliation. This isn't friends reunited you limey f*ck. I may not be the National 'Who Gives a Sh*t?' Champion like you, but I like to set my sights a little higher."
It's becoming clear that a second olive branch has been tossed on the fire, but Drakz is too worn down to be rising to a fight. Instead he heckles from his seat.
"Perhaps if you put that bottle of p*ss down for more than ten minutes you might be able to win convincingly enough to be given a shot? Stop 'just getting by' and start excelling at something."
Brennan laughs and glugs down almost half of the remaining juice.
"Isaac clean as cum Cray. It takes a nasty fall to clean him up, but guess what? Once he does get on the straight and narrow he turns out just like the rest who walk the line…………………You're preaching to the deaf. Don't bring your reborn bull sh*t around here. No one wants to hear you preach about your new way of life, regardless of the results you get. Isn't it about time you went and kissed some babies and sucked some d*ck?"
Brennan, in his volatile state drains the remainder of the bottle and then hurls the empty right at Drakz's face. Drakz moves to avoid it and falls from his chair, looking like a vulnerable cretin, peering up at the skin. David moves toward Drakz and lifts his boot, cocked and set to stomp him into the tiles, but he stops and begins laughing at just how exposed Drakz looks, on his back like a tortoise, limbs out stretched ready to bear the brunt of the onslaught.
"You might have beaten Schneider tonight but you're still a b*tch in comparison to the guy I used to drink with. I'll be seeing ya……………Isaac."
And with that he's gone, leaving Drakz staring at the ceiling. He relaxes and his arched back now meets the cool, hard floor in it's entirety. He shuts his eyes and finally is alone allowing him to drift into a deep and dreamless slumber.
Whilst respect is earned in increments, hatred and frustration can be catalysed in a mere moment.
Exhaustion lies somewhere in between, seemingly taking 70 counts of 60.
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And so I try to build an image in my mind's eye of Joshua. For continuity's sake let's ask those same questions that have been asked of me.
Who is he?
Joshua Dean seems to be a man who has had a storied career everywhere but where it matters………….here. To his credit he's held one belt which is more than can be said of some people. However those very people have also had his shoulders down and their hand raised. David Brennan is a man who, on occasion, can get the job done. With Josh Dean he did just that. Now this makes me question Dean's integrity as a fighter. If he can't get one over on a drunkard nearly 18 months out of the game how will he fair against a man like myself? A man who right now is at the peak of physical fitness and has his eyes locked on the top of the mountain.
What is Joshua doing all of this for? What does he hope to achieve?
I hate to answer on his behalf but it seems he's back now to prove something to his family. This isn't the right reason to come to the ring. His family will do nothing but distract him, and bore all of us to tears.
They are baggage.
They are possible targets and therefore definite weaknesses.
Why else is he here? Perhaps looking to reinstate himself as a true champion? UWF? BQWA? I've never even f*cking heard of either of them. All small time achievements. All mean nothing to me, and I can tell they mean nothing to Dean either as he's back in the big leagues now, sniffing around the mid card in the hope of another chance at that International prestige. In summary I can only assume he's looking to rekindle his career, a career he let die when he walked away the first time, but perhaps there are still a couple of embers remaining, or at least there will be up until I test his perseverance. There are two outcomes here for Joshua Dean, one is he somehow scores a W and that fire begins to roar in an instant. The other? I kick the warmth out of those dreams and send him back to his real job, a stay at home Dad.
Why do I have to ask these questions? People keep telling me I should remember this man. What they seem to forget is when I'm not here I certainly don't follow the goings on that occur in my wake. Dean is a product of an age I never stop talking about. The age of mediocrity. The void of talent that began right after I left my more corporate position in the company, and continued right up until the dawning of The New Epoch. I'm forever told I'm at fault for this claim but let's look at the facts. Schneider rose to the top of the company. Trace Demon rose to the top of the company. Joshua Dean rose to………..somewhere around the middle of the company. The mediocre mediocrity. Quite the claim to fame.
F*ck.
Why am I even talking about this bum………………………
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I'll Take the Stares
Wicker Park, Chicago
May 1st
14:04
"Suicide diving uppercut over the top and to the floor wipes out Schneider."
"Drakz going high risk and it pays off here."
I can practically recount the commentary on this match word for word by this point. I've watched our section of Superbrawl a good 20 or 30 times in the last 24 hours alone, although to be fair I'm yet to make it through the finish more than 2 or 3 times. It's not the end result, it's how you got there. I'm past caring about actually beating Phillip. As far as I'm concerned it was the starting gun for me. Most people have been congratulating me on beating him as though my winning was the unthinkable outcome. I can only laugh. People have such short attention spans.
I'm laid on the bed in my flat, the same flat where many horrible things have happened in the past. I mean horrible in both a positive and negative way when I say it. P*ssy has been eaten and cold turkey shake downs have been had right in this very bed, but right now I'm not thinking about the shadows I've left behind. I still remember getting back here the night after I discharged myself from the clinic. Sleeping in my own bed for the first time in over 8 months was a comfort I had forgotten. Mind you I had to buy a new mattress the following day as the old one was playing f*ckries with my still healing back.
I'd tell you what I was wearing, give you a real breakdown of all of the shades of every garment, but who really gives a sh*t? I could go on and let you know what beer I'm drinking, what I've just eaten, or even what's on the stereo……………but again who gives a sh*t? I'll leave that up to every other moron in the business.
At this moment the only detail that matters is that I'm building up a list of necessary improvements. Ones I must make before my next show down of this magnitude. Priority numero uno: I need to work on protecting my spine so that I don't have to lie, as I am now, on ice packs for days afterward. I don't want to be involved in gruelling back and forth battles of attrition. I want to simply eat those in front of me and look good doing it.
Eurgh. Again. My piece of sh*t phone is at it again, vibrating away like a girl friend's love egg. Smith has been trying to get in touch with me for days now and I simply can not be bothered. I need time to myself. I just exposed my innards in front of a crowd of tens of thousands, and a global viewing audience of millions. It's understandable that I might want a few hundred hours with as little human contact as possible isn't it?
I suddenly realise I'm subconsciously touching the bruising on my neck as I watch Schneider hanging me with his belt. I should have known that p*ssy couldn't keep things on the up and up. He always has to get his own way and use his toys. I wonder what state his arm is in?
You know one thing I found out last night? If Trace Demon had won, like he should have done, at Superbrawl the winner of Schneider and myself would be getting the next title shot. Instead I'm told the title picture is 'otherwise engaged'. I guess The Trizzler has to have his rematch. Can you imagine being beaten by a man who should be getting chemotherapy? F*cking embarrassing.
And what was that nonsense afterward with Ace Bennett? Coming back and phoning in his title shot there and then? The last time I checked he was talking to his own reflection and not turning up for Tag Team Title defences. How does he get a look in before me? Is it because he had the stones to just get up and do it? Maybe I should organise some kind of "sit in", where I refuse to leave the ring unless I get my shot? After all who can honestly claim to be more deserving than me right now? I dare anyone to claim they sold more tickets than I did for Superbrawl. I beg some second rate worker to tell the world on some unknown blog that their match got more panties wet than mine did.
"NEEDLE DAMAGE! He just hit Schneider with Needle Damage out of no where!"
I am one entertaining son of a b*tch, and I mean that in the most literal sense. It's no secret that my Mother was indeed a dog of a c*nt.
There it is again! That bloody phone! I snatch it up and, with a quick flick of the wrist, send it spiralling out of the window, dropping the however many floors it is to the pavement below.
T*ts. My flight details for the next show were saved in the drafts folder. I suppose I could just call Trace or Sleater and have them send it over again…….oh no wait……..of course………that was my phone. Time to saddle up and brave the outside world then I guess. Luckily my phone is a piece of sh*t old nokia and those things are indestructible. I refuse to go in for all of this smartphone rubbish. Why would I want to carry a tracker with me everywhere I go? Smartphones are for idiots with nothing to hide. Perhaps they called them Smartphones as an inside joke?
I rummage in my bedside cabinet and within minutes have dropped a couple of pain killers, found some shoes and got my key in the door. As I leave my arse hole clenches at the prospect of human contact. Someone is going to talk to me, I can just feel it.
I notice someone waiting for the lift and so I make a sharp left and head down the stairs instead. My mind is telling me to slide down the hand rail but my back is screaming at me to be just a little more sensible, at least for now. I hit the lobby and manage to slip past the elevator doors just as they begin to open. Ninja.
And now, out in the chaos. The sun lit chaos of the city streets. I feel as if everyone is having a good old stare at me as they walk past, which honestly is understandable. I'd probably stare too if I spotted a man in a kimono pounding the pavement. I keep my eyes down and head around the corner to the face of the building that my window is a part of. Where is it? I scan the ground around me, and then, there it is! It's in bits, but the kind of bits that fit back together.
"Hey you're Drakz aren't you?"
Oh God.
"Yeah it's you isn't it? Wow man, your match at Superbrawl was just….."
How can I stop this? Open the kimono? No that could land me in a cell for the night. I've got nothing to give him, no f*cking pockets. I remove the only other item on my person, my trainers, although for some reason only the left, and hand it to this kid.
"From the foot that kicked a God square in the balls. Enjoy it."
I must look like a maniac. I definitely have the air of a heroin addict about me. I'm not though………………..anymore. This is hardly fair. I just don't want to be bothered. No doubt I'll end up in some grotty tabloid, trashy magazine alongside claims of having gone off the rails again. "Isaac Cray spotted harassing young boy with only one shoe and a robe on."
I give a really awkward smile to this fan and quickly get back to my quest. I need that phone.
I jog across the road causing a car to swerve and sound a sharp horn blast. Get it together. I don't want to die with my balls hanging out in the street. Or do I? Maybe that would be the perfect way to go? Focus.
I crouch down to gather the pieces of nokia and can feel my genitals come close to hanging below the hem of the kimono. Close is ok. I scrabble around, scooping up each individual segment of my talk piece puzzle.
Buttons.
Case.
Battery.
Phone?
Where's the actual phone bit? I lean my head down and spot it under a dustbin, or dumpster, or whatever you lot call it. Got it. The screen isn't even cracked! Phone team 100……… Assemble! I pop it all back as it should be and huzzah! It turns on as though nothing ever happened. In-des-tructible.
Now to get back to the safety zone. Wait. Who's this staring me out?
Less than 5 paces away a scruffy as arses dog is sat staring at me, head cocked to one side as though he's questioning my situation. I stare right back at him in the hope he'll get uncomfortable and wander off. He doesn't.
"Hey!"
That was a bit loud. A couple of people turned around.
"Don't f*cking judge me. I'm straight. I know that might seem like a lie given the current circumstances."
The dog doesn't budge.
"You're not exactly thoroughbred yourself kiddo."
F*ck me I'm talking to a dog. A dog I don't even know. Can you know a dog?
"What is it?"
I should break this animal's legs.
Okay I can see people getting their phones out now to start filming this madness. I'm out of here. I'm back up and crossing the road towards my building and I notice that kid from before is still hanging around, just eye balling me, his mouth open, my single f*cking shoe in his hands. How am I the deemed as the crazy one here when I'm surrounded by people filming a complete stranger. Isn't that a f*cked up culture to live in? One where it's the normal thing to do to just start recording someone you don't know and then put it on the internet without their permission. F*ck.
The dog is following me. I know it is. I can hear those padded feet scraping against the tarmac just steps behind me. It's really not helping my look right now. Who cares though? Why should I be bothered about what any of these peasants think?
Instead of shooing the dog away I stand, holding my front door open for it. It sits back down and stares at me again. I simply flick my head towards the open door and click my tongue. There seems to be an understanding as the dog wanders in. I address my ever curious public.
"Who are you to say our love is wrong?! If I want to have sex with this beast, who of you will stop me?"
With that I enter the building slamming the door behind me. That should give them something to talk about over dinner. That reminds me, I should probably eat. My painkillers tend to keep hunger at bay to the point that I forget all about it.
I reach my flat and the dog is already waiting outside having run up the stairs ahead of me. Why on earth have I befriended this scabby thing? I unlock and open the door and it pushes past me into the room. No manners.
The door shuts and I feel like I can breathe again. I must be at least marginally agoraphobic.
Oh for f*ck sake. Yet another thing stares at me. I've had shoe holding children, tramp dogs, idiot-phone users and now this. A piece of paper on the desk, just below the TV screen I've been staring at for hours and hours……………….and on it…………..my flight details are written.
I can only break into a fit of laughter that lasts right up until the point I put my bare left foot into a hot pile of dog sh*t.
The "God" Slayer.
The Streak Destroyer Destroyer Destroyer.
The Giver of Shoes.
The crap Footed Maniac.
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So here we are, two shows down the line since the big one. I've been denied everything I deserve yet I'm still making the most of the opportunity by helping others. I keep telling everyone I'm the good guy now. This is charity.
This week Mr Joshua Dean is getting my first one on one tutorial session and it seems to me he really needs it. Last show he had the audacity to call out Phillip Schneider on the farcical beating he gave to a nobody. Dean hit every point he had to. Schneider was out there trying to scrape back some of the fear he thought he commanded pre-Superbrawl. The great enigma. Why can't anyone beat him fair and square? Is he really cursed? I pulled that curtain down and wiped my arse on it, revealing the fat old man that stood behind it and so Phillip decided to take it out on………..his name escapes me…………that's how impressive this beating was. He brought everything he had to war with me and he lost. He brought it all with him again to face this anonymous and won in fine style. It's the return to glory he wanted………………
Josh saw this act for what it was, as did I. Obo was trying his best not to cry.
Josh came out from the back and told Phillip this. He told him he was a p*ssy, and that what he had just done meant nothing, and he was right. However, who the f*ck does Joshua Dean think he is? Does he really think he can match the hand I brought to Superbrawl? Does he believe he is up to the same gold standard that I am? Now I've never been one to talk up Phillip Schneider but he is the best of a bad lot and Dean simply isn't.
In purposely disrespecting Pippy Schneider he has inadvertently spat in my face. One week after losing to a man I've beaten twice he walks out and tries to take the momentum I generated at Superbrawl and catapult himself into the forefront of the business. But let's be honest now, even if he does get a shot at Phil it's not going to be before this show is it? Joshua Dean has squared up to the big kid in the playground without realising there's an even bigger one right behind him.
I'm going to show him how much more work he needs to put in before he takes on a man like Phillip Schneider. Our match will be a reality check for Dean, one which I hope propels him to greatness. If he wants to beat Schneider down the line he's going to have to listen to me, and listen hard.
Am I simply here to teach this boy a lesson? Or is there more to it?
As I see it this match booking couldn't make more sense. Just take a look at how we've gotten here:
Joshua Dean lost to an old friend of mind, David Brennan, at Superbrawl. He then went on to lose to the three men who I wish to humble the most right now. Jason Garrett, Chase Landon and Dex. The most underserving trio of champions in WFWF history. In the same night he challenges the man I just beat in what many are calling the greatest match of all time (it just keeps gaining more prestige every time I talk about it), and now he finds himself in front of me. Perfect isn't it?
I'm all healed up and I'm chomping at the bit. This will be the first in a string of matches that will demonstrate my dominance over the new school. As I said before I'm not here for a war of attrition. My gnashing teeth just want to feed and move onto the next meal.
Joshua.
I'm going to eat you.
I'm going to eat your wife.
And I'm going to eat your son.
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There are moments in your life when you have to ask yourself 'who am I, what am I doing all of this for?' There are times when you question your own direction, spending hours chewing over how you ended up at the spot you're in. Every person reaches a cross roads in their life where they can fight the good fight or simply walk away…………………….none of this soppy basket of arses applies to me though. Many people believed it did prior to Superbrawl. In the lead up to that moment there were comments made about me, comments that implied I was going through an awakening, a life affirming journey towards a match that would define my career, but people like to talk.
Don't get me wrong my match with one 'Pippy Schneider' got the juices flowing again, but I can assure you now there were no moments of questioning. There was no wondering how I ended up here. I know, and have always known, the path I walk. I'm sure footed and devilishly handsome. Superbrawl in my eyes was the moment when every other f*cker got THEIR answers to those questions.
"Who is he?"
I am Drakz. Known in Asian households the world over as Genghis Khan Jnr. (May your wive's knees forever tremble).
I am the Streak Destroyer Destroyer Destroyer.
The "God" Slayer
I am the Infallible B*stard
THE Delusion of Grandeur
I've never been one for nick names but from now on I think I'll be over indulging. Why should everyone else always have fun with it and not me? People say The King arrived at Superbrawl. Perhaps in the eyes of the fresh meat this is true. Others say he returned. Again to those with short attention spans this is a passable comment. In my eyes I never went away………….I just broke my back.
"What is he doing this for?"
To surpass all opposition of course. I refuse to be anything but the man who owns this part of history. Anything that has been done I'm determined to do it better………and for longer. (May your wive's knees forever tremble).
My hand shall wipe the slate clean before scrawling my name over every inch of it.
"Which direction is he heading?"
This is getting boring already.
I am here. I am the future WFWF Heavyweight Champion and I am working my way through the new blood first.
There will come a time when I no longer do this. There will come a point in history when my name is something that is remembered as oppose to spoken of. When that day comes what is left? What does this company have to offer to the world? That is a question Shawn Malakai has been asking himself while he coughs into yet another tissue. He, like myself, wants to know what follows on from this long period of stalwart superstars. A new generation must rise and fill the void as best they can. He thinks the way to kick start this process is by throwing the, once prestigious, title belt at the first man with a nice suplex. He feels that if catapulted into the limelight rookies can perform at championship level. He is wrong. Of course he's wrong.
Rookies need to get there heads cracked week after week until they realise they're playing the game all wrong. This isn't something that can be forced. This isn't something that can really even be taught, at least not the way Captain Cancer's going about it. Simply taking a kid under your wing isn't enough. That is where I come in.
Shine up that old red apple for teach because you need to keep him sweet. He's got a cane in his hand and he just loves thrashing backsides with it.
I'm taking a more hands on approach with the surge of new talent. I figure by beating them to tears they will realise there is a hierarchy at play here. A food chain if you will. I have no problem with people climbing that food chain. None at all. In fact as the alpha male I encourage strong competition to keep me sharp. What I think a lot of these kids need to understand though is that you have to do it link by link. Hand over hand son. Malakai is doing the business no favours by tossing this boy Dex into the Heavyweight Championship spot. Trace Demon will kill him and he'll be a nobody again, with nothing but a hurt sense of pride to show for it. Malakai is essentially kicking Dex square in the scrotum with this whole campaign but Dex is too blind to see it, and why? Because he's only a rookie!
I'm informed it's strictly one pupil per tutor though so while Dex is failing his class I can only turn my attention elsewhere, and who's this? The boy who showed up during the crowning of our Prom Queen at Superbrawl. A boy who's headed on the exact same path as the unmasked one. Jason Garrett. I called this chump out last week in the hope that he bullishly accepts. My plan is to take this boy and learn him something good. Oh I'm going to learn him until he can't whimpers.
Before that day comes though I'm destined to clash with another man whom I deem to be 'new blood', yet I'm told his tenure is much longer than I'm aware. This week Matthew I'll be humiliating…………..*drum roll please*……………..JOSHUA DEAN! Everybody give a big hand for Joshua!
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A Night on the Tiles
Sun Devil Stadium, Tempe, Arizona
April 24th
22:43
There is a square, and within this square are two bodies. Two broken, exhausted bodies. Encircling the four sides are thousands, upon thousands of onlookers, all gargling and screaming in unison. Both broken, exhausted bodies are painted red. Both broken, devastated bodies have given their everything throughout the last 70 counts of 60. They are the same, yet entirely different. One rises. His arm raised, a golden strap hanging from it as he mounts the corner of this square. The other's arm hangs limp by his side as he too drags himself to his feet.
A token of respect is offered from one to the other. An olive branch.
It is rejected.
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Our golden strapped champion emerges through a black curtain, this time away from all of the howling thousands, and into the machine room of the good ship Superbrawl. The hallway is lined with colleagues all applauding his efforts, all showing a respect that is more than deserved. He, whilst elated inside, doesn't crack a smile. He instead responds with a nod of his head and begins to stagger between them all in hope of finding a safe haven. A place to get those damn boots off.
As the cheers and whistles fade to the rear, he enters a quiet room, a room in which he can consider what he has just done. Near collapsing into a chair, he slumps back, staring heavenward with a glazed look that tells just how empty he is. It's a wonder a drop of fluid remains within him after expelling sweat, snot, blood and spit inside of that square, everything was left behind, everything short of his own p*ss. His chest heaves, although the rate is slowing as he begins to get a handle on himself.
His neck is ringed by a thick bruise, a souvenir left behind from his brief hanging. His forehead bears the mark of clashing with another, a gelatinous gash who's torrent seems to have subsided for the moment. This body has taken a beating like no other and it's a wonder of human resilience that his journey to this very chair was made unaided.
Our cadaver is brought back to the living with a singular noise. A knock. Two knocks. Two singular knocks in quick succession. His pupils contract and sharpen. The colour in his cheeks surges back and his entire body lurches upward, throwing his once hanging head back up onto his shoulders and directed towards the door. His Dr Frankenstein looks on from the room's entrance, a stern look on his face, an absence of hair on his head, a bottle of brown in his hand.
Brennan.
Silence.
What is to be said?
Seemingly nothing…………for the longest time.
And then…….
He speaks.
"That was quite the performance. I wasn't sure you still had it in you."
Our monster blinks as though trying to clear his head before responding, the gold lays in a heap at his feet.
"You knew. Let's not butter this up."
The skin chuckles and swigs from his bottle.
"I guess it's the obvious thing to say, what with your 18 months away and all."
"What with my broken spine and all."
The tension rises…………..and falls.
"It was satisfying to watch that dreg finally admit defeat out there. I think I actually prefer the fact you made him submit. It means he had to physically declare you the winner as oppose to just laying on his back."
"I never thought it would finish the way it did, but feeling him beat the ring mat made that victory all the more sweet. Too long has that boy been allowed to make excuses. After what I just did to him there can be none."
Brennan now crosses the threshold and makes his way toward Drakz, a little tentatively at first before accepting that there is no chance of physicality here tonight.
"Don't be so nervous. I'm f*cking spent. Even if I did want to hurt you I couldn't, and besides……..I don't."
Brennan sits on a bench and sups at his poison a couple of times, staring at the floor. Again, an awkward silence falls on the room. There is too much to be said and not enough energy to say it.
"So why are you here? I thought our stony eyed meeting in the corridor earlier was enough to carry us through the next couple of months without having to do it again."
Brennan again swigs and stares but eventually finds something to say.
"I just wanted some solid conversation I think. There's a void in that department around these parts."
"Indeed. Between Josh Dean giving your childhood the Freud treatment and Shawn Malakai farting on about his stomach ache there really is nothing to entertain the higher minds.………………..You'll have to excuse me a seco……"
Cut off mid excuse he turns to his right and begins to vomit liquid exhaustion, in all of it's pretty colours, onto some unknown's sports bag. His body convulses and his back arches with each hurl of his guts. He continues like this until nothing remains inside, his stomach contorting and visibly causing him serious discomfort. He grunts and rolls his head back, sucking in air, his eye lids heavy.
"Not feeling too great?"
His face is pale once more, the adrenalin fully dispelled, leaving him dry. He holds one shaking hand up as though to hold off any further questioning. His cheeks inflate as he breathes heavy, focusing on anything but reality to keep himself steady. Brennan quietly watches, waiting for Drakz to turn back to him and pick things back up, which after a moment he does.
"Pardon me………….Obo really has………….done a number on……..me. I'm totally f*cked."
"I couldn't tell. How's the back? Or is it not going to really kick in until morning?"
"It's on fire. Pass me that."
Our victor holds out his hand signalling for the bottle and Brennan, holding it by the neck, passes it.
"I thought you were clean as a whistle now?"
"Oh yeah strictly oily fish and sucking Trace Demon's d*ck these days. Jesus."
The brown is cast back into his mouth, a long hard draw that both burns his throat and eases his back.
"Just because I'm not freebasing Tramadols doesn't mean I don't still enjoy a drink. Although the way I feel right now if you had some Trams I'd shove them up my arse if it took the edge off things."
Again the liquid is knocked back and Brennan's eyes widen a little, worried the bottle might be finished before his very eyes, but Drakz knows better. The bottle is passed back and the air is loosening in the room.
"Most people seemed to think I was certain to lose tonight."
"Most people are blinded by Schneider's accolade as…."
"The longest reigning blah blah blah, yes I'm sure. I'm certainly sick of hearing about it and I've only been back for one match so far."
This rise in the conversation's tempo leads him into a coughing fit, wrenching his body around, putting an unnecessary strain on all of his burning muscles. He stretches for the bottle again and, begrudgingly, Brennan hands it over. In between sputters Drakz manages to lick a good mouthful of it down, breathing heavily for a while after.
"It……..doesn't matter…….any more. I've proven…….I could have ended that run…..had I been given the opportunity."
"But you didn't. Nobody did for over 12 months. Even Kyz…."
The skin stops mid word, thinking better of turning the talk down that road. Drakz chuckles, his voice raspy, and then spits onto the floor.
"This is true. His record remains intact no matter what I do to him now. He is in that regard untouchable………………..for now."
"For now? Have you spent the last 12 months on your back designing a time machine Doc?"
"Better than that. What would be more crippling to a man? Never having set a historic record in the first place, or setting one only to have it overshadowed by a greater achievement?"
Brennan smiles knowingly and nothing more is said on the matter.
"Anyway how did it feel getting back in there yourself?"
Brennan rises, allowing him the freedom to pull a second hip flask out. He's more comfortable talking when he knows there's no end in sight. Uncertainty breeds angst, breeds anger. Rinse and repeat.
He take s slug.
"I'm somewhat indifferent."
"I thought you looked okay out there. Not great….but okay."
Another slug.
"That's how it felt in all honesty. No greatness, just an acceptable performance. Whatever. I got the job done."
"You did. It also seems you have more of an affinity for respect than our good friend Phillip, what with the shaking of hands and all. What do you make of Dean anyway?"
"I was half drunk and kind of caught in the heat of the moment, so yeah I shook his hand. The guy gave me a good match. Although had I been at full tempo it would have been a white wash. I feel like he's on the cusp of something but not quite there yet, which when you're pushing 30 isn't too promising. Maybe he'll never make it over the top. Perhaps that means we have something in common."
"Perhaps it does. It strikes me that you'll always be remembered as the best guy to never hold a title around here. Are you planning on changing that anytime soon? It's about time you stopped letting the team down."
Instantly the air is thick again and perhaps there is more animosity here than it seemed for a brief moment.
"What f*cking team exactly?"
"The team that gave you a spot in the Half of Fame. The team that broke my f*cking back."
David is on his feet, making himself much bigger than his opponent. An animalistic reaction.
"There is no team. I'm not in here looking for a reconciliation. This isn't friends reunited you limey f*ck. I may not be the National 'Who Gives a Sh*t?' Champion like you, but I like to set my sights a little higher."
It's becoming clear that a second olive branch has been tossed on the fire, but Drakz is too worn down to be rising to a fight. Instead he heckles from his seat.
"Perhaps if you put that bottle of p*ss down for more than ten minutes you might be able to win convincingly enough to be given a shot? Stop 'just getting by' and start excelling at something."
Brennan laughs and glugs down almost half of the remaining juice.
"Isaac clean as cum Cray. It takes a nasty fall to clean him up, but guess what? Once he does get on the straight and narrow he turns out just like the rest who walk the line…………………You're preaching to the deaf. Don't bring your reborn bull sh*t around here. No one wants to hear you preach about your new way of life, regardless of the results you get. Isn't it about time you went and kissed some babies and sucked some d*ck?"
Brennan, in his volatile state drains the remainder of the bottle and then hurls the empty right at Drakz's face. Drakz moves to avoid it and falls from his chair, looking like a vulnerable cretin, peering up at the skin. David moves toward Drakz and lifts his boot, cocked and set to stomp him into the tiles, but he stops and begins laughing at just how exposed Drakz looks, on his back like a tortoise, limbs out stretched ready to bear the brunt of the onslaught.
"You might have beaten Schneider tonight but you're still a b*tch in comparison to the guy I used to drink with. I'll be seeing ya……………Isaac."
And with that he's gone, leaving Drakz staring at the ceiling. He relaxes and his arched back now meets the cool, hard floor in it's entirety. He shuts his eyes and finally is alone allowing him to drift into a deep and dreamless slumber.
Whilst respect is earned in increments, hatred and frustration can be catalysed in a mere moment.
Exhaustion lies somewhere in between, seemingly taking 70 counts of 60.
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And so I try to build an image in my mind's eye of Joshua. For continuity's sake let's ask those same questions that have been asked of me.
Who is he?
Joshua Dean seems to be a man who has had a storied career everywhere but where it matters………….here. To his credit he's held one belt which is more than can be said of some people. However those very people have also had his shoulders down and their hand raised. David Brennan is a man who, on occasion, can get the job done. With Josh Dean he did just that. Now this makes me question Dean's integrity as a fighter. If he can't get one over on a drunkard nearly 18 months out of the game how will he fair against a man like myself? A man who right now is at the peak of physical fitness and has his eyes locked on the top of the mountain.
What is Joshua doing all of this for? What does he hope to achieve?
I hate to answer on his behalf but it seems he's back now to prove something to his family. This isn't the right reason to come to the ring. His family will do nothing but distract him, and bore all of us to tears.
They are baggage.
They are possible targets and therefore definite weaknesses.
Why else is he here? Perhaps looking to reinstate himself as a true champion? UWF? BQWA? I've never even f*cking heard of either of them. All small time achievements. All mean nothing to me, and I can tell they mean nothing to Dean either as he's back in the big leagues now, sniffing around the mid card in the hope of another chance at that International prestige. In summary I can only assume he's looking to rekindle his career, a career he let die when he walked away the first time, but perhaps there are still a couple of embers remaining, or at least there will be up until I test his perseverance. There are two outcomes here for Joshua Dean, one is he somehow scores a W and that fire begins to roar in an instant. The other? I kick the warmth out of those dreams and send him back to his real job, a stay at home Dad.
Why do I have to ask these questions? People keep telling me I should remember this man. What they seem to forget is when I'm not here I certainly don't follow the goings on that occur in my wake. Dean is a product of an age I never stop talking about. The age of mediocrity. The void of talent that began right after I left my more corporate position in the company, and continued right up until the dawning of The New Epoch. I'm forever told I'm at fault for this claim but let's look at the facts. Schneider rose to the top of the company. Trace Demon rose to the top of the company. Joshua Dean rose to………..somewhere around the middle of the company. The mediocre mediocrity. Quite the claim to fame.
F*ck.
Why am I even talking about this bum………………………
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I'll Take the Stares
Wicker Park, Chicago
May 1st
14:04
"Suicide diving uppercut over the top and to the floor wipes out Schneider."
"Drakz going high risk and it pays off here."
I can practically recount the commentary on this match word for word by this point. I've watched our section of Superbrawl a good 20 or 30 times in the last 24 hours alone, although to be fair I'm yet to make it through the finish more than 2 or 3 times. It's not the end result, it's how you got there. I'm past caring about actually beating Phillip. As far as I'm concerned it was the starting gun for me. Most people have been congratulating me on beating him as though my winning was the unthinkable outcome. I can only laugh. People have such short attention spans.
I'm laid on the bed in my flat, the same flat where many horrible things have happened in the past. I mean horrible in both a positive and negative way when I say it. P*ssy has been eaten and cold turkey shake downs have been had right in this very bed, but right now I'm not thinking about the shadows I've left behind. I still remember getting back here the night after I discharged myself from the clinic. Sleeping in my own bed for the first time in over 8 months was a comfort I had forgotten. Mind you I had to buy a new mattress the following day as the old one was playing f*ckries with my still healing back.
I'd tell you what I was wearing, give you a real breakdown of all of the shades of every garment, but who really gives a sh*t? I could go on and let you know what beer I'm drinking, what I've just eaten, or even what's on the stereo……………but again who gives a sh*t? I'll leave that up to every other moron in the business.
At this moment the only detail that matters is that I'm building up a list of necessary improvements. Ones I must make before my next show down of this magnitude. Priority numero uno: I need to work on protecting my spine so that I don't have to lie, as I am now, on ice packs for days afterward. I don't want to be involved in gruelling back and forth battles of attrition. I want to simply eat those in front of me and look good doing it.
Eurgh. Again. My piece of sh*t phone is at it again, vibrating away like a girl friend's love egg. Smith has been trying to get in touch with me for days now and I simply can not be bothered. I need time to myself. I just exposed my innards in front of a crowd of tens of thousands, and a global viewing audience of millions. It's understandable that I might want a few hundred hours with as little human contact as possible isn't it?
I suddenly realise I'm subconsciously touching the bruising on my neck as I watch Schneider hanging me with his belt. I should have known that p*ssy couldn't keep things on the up and up. He always has to get his own way and use his toys. I wonder what state his arm is in?
You know one thing I found out last night? If Trace Demon had won, like he should have done, at Superbrawl the winner of Schneider and myself would be getting the next title shot. Instead I'm told the title picture is 'otherwise engaged'. I guess The Trizzler has to have his rematch. Can you imagine being beaten by a man who should be getting chemotherapy? F*cking embarrassing.
And what was that nonsense afterward with Ace Bennett? Coming back and phoning in his title shot there and then? The last time I checked he was talking to his own reflection and not turning up for Tag Team Title defences. How does he get a look in before me? Is it because he had the stones to just get up and do it? Maybe I should organise some kind of "sit in", where I refuse to leave the ring unless I get my shot? After all who can honestly claim to be more deserving than me right now? I dare anyone to claim they sold more tickets than I did for Superbrawl. I beg some second rate worker to tell the world on some unknown blog that their match got more panties wet than mine did.
"NEEDLE DAMAGE! He just hit Schneider with Needle Damage out of no where!"
I am one entertaining son of a b*tch, and I mean that in the most literal sense. It's no secret that my Mother was indeed a dog of a c*nt.
There it is again! That bloody phone! I snatch it up and, with a quick flick of the wrist, send it spiralling out of the window, dropping the however many floors it is to the pavement below.
T*ts. My flight details for the next show were saved in the drafts folder. I suppose I could just call Trace or Sleater and have them send it over again…….oh no wait……..of course………that was my phone. Time to saddle up and brave the outside world then I guess. Luckily my phone is a piece of sh*t old nokia and those things are indestructible. I refuse to go in for all of this smartphone rubbish. Why would I want to carry a tracker with me everywhere I go? Smartphones are for idiots with nothing to hide. Perhaps they called them Smartphones as an inside joke?
I rummage in my bedside cabinet and within minutes have dropped a couple of pain killers, found some shoes and got my key in the door. As I leave my arse hole clenches at the prospect of human contact. Someone is going to talk to me, I can just feel it.
I notice someone waiting for the lift and so I make a sharp left and head down the stairs instead. My mind is telling me to slide down the hand rail but my back is screaming at me to be just a little more sensible, at least for now. I hit the lobby and manage to slip past the elevator doors just as they begin to open. Ninja.
And now, out in the chaos. The sun lit chaos of the city streets. I feel as if everyone is having a good old stare at me as they walk past, which honestly is understandable. I'd probably stare too if I spotted a man in a kimono pounding the pavement. I keep my eyes down and head around the corner to the face of the building that my window is a part of. Where is it? I scan the ground around me, and then, there it is! It's in bits, but the kind of bits that fit back together.
"Hey you're Drakz aren't you?"
Oh God.
"Yeah it's you isn't it? Wow man, your match at Superbrawl was just….."
How can I stop this? Open the kimono? No that could land me in a cell for the night. I've got nothing to give him, no f*cking pockets. I remove the only other item on my person, my trainers, although for some reason only the left, and hand it to this kid.
"From the foot that kicked a God square in the balls. Enjoy it."
I must look like a maniac. I definitely have the air of a heroin addict about me. I'm not though………………..anymore. This is hardly fair. I just don't want to be bothered. No doubt I'll end up in some grotty tabloid, trashy magazine alongside claims of having gone off the rails again. "Isaac Cray spotted harassing young boy with only one shoe and a robe on."
I give a really awkward smile to this fan and quickly get back to my quest. I need that phone.
I jog across the road causing a car to swerve and sound a sharp horn blast. Get it together. I don't want to die with my balls hanging out in the street. Or do I? Maybe that would be the perfect way to go? Focus.
I crouch down to gather the pieces of nokia and can feel my genitals come close to hanging below the hem of the kimono. Close is ok. I scrabble around, scooping up each individual segment of my talk piece puzzle.
Buttons.
Case.
Battery.
Phone?
Where's the actual phone bit? I lean my head down and spot it under a dustbin, or dumpster, or whatever you lot call it. Got it. The screen isn't even cracked! Phone team 100……… Assemble! I pop it all back as it should be and huzzah! It turns on as though nothing ever happened. In-des-tructible.
Now to get back to the safety zone. Wait. Who's this staring me out?
Less than 5 paces away a scruffy as arses dog is sat staring at me, head cocked to one side as though he's questioning my situation. I stare right back at him in the hope he'll get uncomfortable and wander off. He doesn't.
"Hey!"
That was a bit loud. A couple of people turned around.
"Don't f*cking judge me. I'm straight. I know that might seem like a lie given the current circumstances."
The dog doesn't budge.
"You're not exactly thoroughbred yourself kiddo."
F*ck me I'm talking to a dog. A dog I don't even know. Can you know a dog?
"What is it?"
I should break this animal's legs.
Okay I can see people getting their phones out now to start filming this madness. I'm out of here. I'm back up and crossing the road towards my building and I notice that kid from before is still hanging around, just eye balling me, his mouth open, my single f*cking shoe in his hands. How am I the deemed as the crazy one here when I'm surrounded by people filming a complete stranger. Isn't that a f*cked up culture to live in? One where it's the normal thing to do to just start recording someone you don't know and then put it on the internet without their permission. F*ck.
The dog is following me. I know it is. I can hear those padded feet scraping against the tarmac just steps behind me. It's really not helping my look right now. Who cares though? Why should I be bothered about what any of these peasants think?
Instead of shooing the dog away I stand, holding my front door open for it. It sits back down and stares at me again. I simply flick my head towards the open door and click my tongue. There seems to be an understanding as the dog wanders in. I address my ever curious public.
"Who are you to say our love is wrong?! If I want to have sex with this beast, who of you will stop me?"
With that I enter the building slamming the door behind me. That should give them something to talk about over dinner. That reminds me, I should probably eat. My painkillers tend to keep hunger at bay to the point that I forget all about it.
I reach my flat and the dog is already waiting outside having run up the stairs ahead of me. Why on earth have I befriended this scabby thing? I unlock and open the door and it pushes past me into the room. No manners.
The door shuts and I feel like I can breathe again. I must be at least marginally agoraphobic.
Oh for f*ck sake. Yet another thing stares at me. I've had shoe holding children, tramp dogs, idiot-phone users and now this. A piece of paper on the desk, just below the TV screen I've been staring at for hours and hours……………….and on it…………..my flight details are written.
I can only break into a fit of laughter that lasts right up until the point I put my bare left foot into a hot pile of dog sh*t.
The "God" Slayer.
The Streak Destroyer Destroyer Destroyer.
The Giver of Shoes.
The crap Footed Maniac.
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So here we are, two shows down the line since the big one. I've been denied everything I deserve yet I'm still making the most of the opportunity by helping others. I keep telling everyone I'm the good guy now. This is charity.
This week Mr Joshua Dean is getting my first one on one tutorial session and it seems to me he really needs it. Last show he had the audacity to call out Phillip Schneider on the farcical beating he gave to a nobody. Dean hit every point he had to. Schneider was out there trying to scrape back some of the fear he thought he commanded pre-Superbrawl. The great enigma. Why can't anyone beat him fair and square? Is he really cursed? I pulled that curtain down and wiped my arse on it, revealing the fat old man that stood behind it and so Phillip decided to take it out on………..his name escapes me…………that's how impressive this beating was. He brought everything he had to war with me and he lost. He brought it all with him again to face this anonymous and won in fine style. It's the return to glory he wanted………………
Josh saw this act for what it was, as did I. Obo was trying his best not to cry.
Josh came out from the back and told Phillip this. He told him he was a p*ssy, and that what he had just done meant nothing, and he was right. However, who the f*ck does Joshua Dean think he is? Does he really think he can match the hand I brought to Superbrawl? Does he believe he is up to the same gold standard that I am? Now I've never been one to talk up Phillip Schneider but he is the best of a bad lot and Dean simply isn't.
In purposely disrespecting Pippy Schneider he has inadvertently spat in my face. One week after losing to a man I've beaten twice he walks out and tries to take the momentum I generated at Superbrawl and catapult himself into the forefront of the business. But let's be honest now, even if he does get a shot at Phil it's not going to be before this show is it? Joshua Dean has squared up to the big kid in the playground without realising there's an even bigger one right behind him.
I'm going to show him how much more work he needs to put in before he takes on a man like Phillip Schneider. Our match will be a reality check for Dean, one which I hope propels him to greatness. If he wants to beat Schneider down the line he's going to have to listen to me, and listen hard.
Am I simply here to teach this boy a lesson? Or is there more to it?
As I see it this match booking couldn't make more sense. Just take a look at how we've gotten here:
Joshua Dean lost to an old friend of mind, David Brennan, at Superbrawl. He then went on to lose to the three men who I wish to humble the most right now. Jason Garrett, Chase Landon and Dex. The most underserving trio of champions in WFWF history. In the same night he challenges the man I just beat in what many are calling the greatest match of all time (it just keeps gaining more prestige every time I talk about it), and now he finds himself in front of me. Perfect isn't it?
I'm all healed up and I'm chomping at the bit. This will be the first in a string of matches that will demonstrate my dominance over the new school. As I said before I'm not here for a war of attrition. My gnashing teeth just want to feed and move onto the next meal.
Joshua.
I'm going to eat you.
I'm going to eat your wife.
And I'm going to eat your son.
I dont know good luck 
. This is exactly how you follow that up. Bravo.
