Post by CM Poor on Jan 16, 2015 21:03:00 GMT -5
Chapter 9: The Changing of the Guard
Burnout
Burnout
"I'm proud of you, Daniel."
"Yeah, I'm...I'm kind of proud of myself as well."
"Well, now, I wager you'd ought to be. You've come a long way since your last visit to the confessional booth, young man. Dare I say you've overcome all that second guessing you'd brought me?"
"Not entirely, no, but I feel like I'm getting there, at the very least."
"Getting there? What could possibly be holding you back? You've accomplished so much in such a short span of time! What could there possibly be left on your plate to second guess?"
"My...well...my parents, Father."
"We've been over this, Daniel."
"I haven't spoken to them in so long, it's...it nags at me. We ended on such a positive the last time we spoke, but what if the time and the distance has, I dunno, soured what little progress we managed to make?"
"They're proud of you, Daniel. I know it. How couldn't they be? In a business with a laundry list of men who've been changed or broken, you've held strong. You've got a tenacious spirit that would make any mother or father immeasurably proud to call you their son. You've no room for doubt in yourself, so let your spirit be healed. Call them. You might amaze even yourself."
"I should. I know I should. It's just...ah, it sounds so wrong, but it's been so hard to make the time lately."
"What's troubling you, son?"
"I...well, I took in this...I dunno, I guess he's a vagrant? I mean, not so much now - he actually seems like a pretty decent guy, but, I dunno. In the beginning there it was like a full time job keeping him in check."
"There's no shame in making room in your life for the cause of charity, Daniel. At the risk of sounding redundant, if I had to guess, I'd say your parents would beam with pride over such a selfless act."
"You know, it's funny - there's what? Billions upon billions upon billions of people walking this Earth, never mind the concentration centered entirely within the confines of New York City, and who's my charity case turn out to be, of all the odds in the world? David Brennan."
"Huh?"
"This is someone you know?"
"A former...yeah, he uh...he wrestled here, or in the WFWF anyway."
"Hey, d'you say my name guy?"
"Small world."
"Small world. Yeah, I guess so."
"What's up man, what's goin' on?"
"And you're taking care of this man now, is it?"
"Not so much now, no. He was...well, he was in pretty rough shape when I found him, but I guess the time away has done him good. He's pretty coherent these days. I think the...well, the whatever it was that was making him the way he was has kinda worked itself out of his system now. I just worry about leaving him to his own devices now, is all."
"The f*ck is going on? Hey, Dan, you good?"
"You're saving lives, Daniel. What a life you lead. You and I have discussed this at great lengths before and you'd always come forth with some trepidation that you weren't fulfilling your role as a man of God, but look at yourself - what better way to share the good news? I'll go right back to redundancy, young man. I'm so very proud of you."
"I...wow, thank you, Father. That means a lot, coming from you."
"What the...come on, who the f*ck are you talking to?!"
"You've got a big decision to make now. I have no doubt in my mind you'll choose the right path."
"I can only hope."
"You can do so much more. Never lose sight - through Him, all things are possible."
"Of course. Amen."
"Alright, Dan, snap the f*ck out of it! Dan! Dan!"
"Amen"
"DAN!!!!!"
If, in a lapsed phase of physical, mental, and spiritual exhaustion, you've never been jarred back into consciousness by the weathered, haggard face of David Brennan screaming your name, mere inches away from your own face, so close that you can whiff on his breath every hour that he may have just spent sleeping upright, head tilted to one side at an uneasy rest upon his shoulder, mouth agape to collect every last drop of hyper pressurized dryness, accompanied by not so much a slap but rather a cold, hard thump to your left temple, then friends, you've never truly woken with a start.
"The f*ck is wrong with you?!"
Exhaustion is no joke, and to be snapped out of a conversation with your most trusted spiritual advisor, only to find yourself crammed back into a pressurized metal tube at thirty nine thousand feet, your humble pastor nowhere to be found, face to face with a groggy, confrontational ex-vagrant isn't exactly a nice way to ease into the harsh reality of realizing that you'd just spent several hours worth of quality time discussing the fiber points of compassion, theology, and our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ with a man who is, in actuality, hundreds of thousands of miles away, completely unaware of the deeply soul searching and reaffirming conversation that your own mind has just allowed you to partake in. It's one thing to find yourself in a deluded state to begin carrying on some babbling manner of speech, unaware of your true surroundings, but when it really sets in that you've not only formulated dialogue for yourself in a one way conversation, but for another living, breathing soul nowhere in your vicinity, well, that's humbling, to say the least.
"Huh. I dunno...must've dozed off."
"Dozed off, my ass. That was some engaging sh*t right there, or it would have been, had I not just found you talking to a tray table - resemble your dad or something?"
"What?"
"I 'unno. You kept saying father. Didn't sound like you were praying."
"No...no, I wasn't. Probably...no, it's just...I dunno."
"My expert opinion? You're bushed. Talkin' to sh*t that ain't there. Been there myself, on account of my old buds Jack, Jimmy, and James, but if I had to guess, I'd bet you didn't just climb over me in the past hour and raid this here flight's private stock."
I'd heard, of course, of the sensation of being so tired that one begins exhibiting behaviors more in tune with intoxication than the layman's perception of exhaustion. The English language is filled with a million non-sequiturs to describe the notion, and yet, for every soul who's ever uttered the phrase "burning the candle at both ends", a fraction of them have likely ever pushed themselves to even approach the brink of such exhaustion, let alone allowed themselves to go full tilt over the edge until they're jarred away from staring into space, catching up with relatives who've been dead for a decade.
The frightening reality is that, were I to remove my socks and shoes, I could probably tally on my own digits the number of hours I'd managed to sleep since departing New York City. Ever since tackling the task of bringing David Brennan back into the world, I'd unknowingly begun disregarding my own well being for the sake of another. It's a common enough condition, for sure - grown children caring for their ailing parents or a new father caring for his wife and child are commonly wont to do the same until a third party drags them to their feet and forces them to open the fridge for the sake of simply feeding themselves. It's a small wonder that I'd been able to maintain any degree of success coming off of the Battle at the Garden event, given the horrendous, albeit lightly consumed diet of rest stop snacks and a regimen of evading sleep in favor of watching over a man left for dead by the rest of the living world and tormenting the mind into overdriven thought over what's next, what's right, what's best. In so many walks of life, we're often told that acceptance is often the first step, and while I'd never begin to compare myself to the pangs of reality that David has likely felt in his near three decades on this Earth, to be brought back to reality in such a harsh and abrupt manner is certainly one way of forcing one foot up the first step in the road to conquering the maladies that afflict us all.
"Should have booked one of them luxury box flights..."
Opportunity
I hadn't put enough thought into this.
I'd won a hard fought victory over Axel Thornstowe and Jack Sabbath, before the very eyes of the latter's home turf, no less. Every strike, every hard fall to the mat, every winding exertion of physical strength to topple my opponents came with a silver lined package deal - don't miss out on this once in a lifetime opportunity.
I'd spent some time as we'd journeyed across the pond, at the suggestion of David, pondering the deeper meaning of just exactly what the outcome of such a match could mean for someone like me, though I was cautious, perhaps not altogether accidentally, to steer the conversation toward his inner thoughts rather than my own, likely due in part to the fact that, though consumed with anxiety over what the next step from London could potentially, they were largely vacant.
A side of the Christian faith that is often swept under the rug, away from the prying eyes of the common public who collectively yearn for something more meaty, more substantial to sink their perceptive teeth into is that collective of us whose convictions have bestowed upon us a passive eye for the world around us. Early on, I noted that I don't have much taste for those who would use their faith and their beliefs as armaments in some sort of holy war upon the collective morality of their respective environments. Interpretation is a key element when embarking upon such a grandiose theological undertaking as an in depth study of the Holy Testaments, and more often than not, those who choose to immerse themselves in the scripture of their chosen spiritual paths often come away with increasingly varied ways of putting those passages into practice. I'd come to find the Holy Word to be less a document on what not to do as to ensure smooth passage into the kingdom of Heaven, and more a manifesto on living life to the fullest potential of individual capability, doing so in full celebration of the gift of life and the word and the son who so selflessly died so that the sins of man, false steps upon a path rightfully paved in love and acceptance, may be forgiven.
If that at all strikes you as an outlook on life that in some way clashes with the mentality that may be required of a man who yearned to step into that ring and compete at a professional level, then you'll have likely already dawned upon a thought that had taken me right up until that point in time to recognize.
For the first time in my career, I'd happened upon a situation where, without question, I'd have to, in essence, "call someone out". Looking back, I should have known that this day would come. I'd made a short career on fending for myself in an industry plagued with men and women who'd resort to the lowest common denominator of tactics to achieve the ends they sought to attain. With each passing match, with each count of three, it became more and more evident that I, too, would have to eventually succumb to the fact that there must be a certain degree of demand in one's position if he's to ever hope to climb to the next rung upon the ladder and break out in his own right.
I'd have liked to have chalked that missed notion up to simple exhaustion - a lack of sleep, and determined focus, a yearning to win, win, win, never focusing on the details, but if that were the case, then I'd have to next make an excuse for my last match, and the last, and the last. More guys than not come into this business swinging at full force, tossing all manner of whatever they can to the wall in the hopes that something - ANYTHING - might stick, and put quite simply, I hadn't. It wasn't exhaustion, or hesitation, or blinding determination that got in my way of calling out my place in the hierarchy - it was, plain and simple, naïveté.
I'd overcome two perfectly capable men to attain the position I'd found myself in, and more than a couple more in the back would, in all likelihood, fix upon me in their crosshairs as weak, incapable, and an altogether non-threat were I to squander such an opportunity on anything, rather, anyone less than a fall that would elevate me to a level well beyond the lot which I'd currently held for myself amid the lower end of the card.
All that was left was a simple matter of who.
Slingshot
"Gonna need to get you some sleep if you're gonna dodge a twofer."
"A what?"
"Second stab at Joey Bishop. You're gonna want to show him that business a few weeks back was little more than a fluke, make sure he's not gettin' too sure of himself."
"Right, I....no, I'm sorry, I still don't follow. A twofer?"
"You serious? He's already got the jump on you once - you're not going to let him get it twice. A twofer."
Chalk it up to regional differences.
In a bizarre twist of roles, David hadn't let me out of his sight following my little episode on the flight back from London, and in his efforts to ensure that I ate, drank, and slept, he'd become, in a matter of mere hours, something of a life coach or a mentor to me, at least in his own eyes. It wasn't as if we had abstained altogether from the subject of the business while out on the road - on the contrary, we'd often spoken at great lengths about it, once all the cards on the table had been laid out in regard to who exactly we were, but something about that incident on the plane had lit a spark somewhere in the recesses of David Brennan's soul, generating an interest in my career, my aspirations, and my well being that I'd never seen from him before.
Even amid his recent laid back, easy talking demeanor, I'd sensed in him some degree of unrest as we wandered away from Logan Airport's terminal gate to await the arrival of our meager baggage, before making our way toward the rental desk. With each passing turn through the airports vast corridors, David seemed to tense up even more so than he had been moments before, his eyes darting back and forth at a rapid rate. I'm fairly certain that as we cleared the terminal gates, I caught him looking over his shoulders, almost as if he felt some sinking feeling of his own, as if he were being watched.
Nonetheless, he was altogether insistent as we checked in to retrieve our prebooked rental vehicle that I was in no shape to operate a motor vehicle, given my recent propensity for speaking to people who happened to be nowhere in the vicinity of our present being, and so it was with great hesitation that I signed the necessary forms and, once he managed to (surprisingly) procure a (surprisingly) valid operator's license issued in at least one of the fifty United States, relinquished the keys over to him as we made our way out the doors into the blustery January snap of Boston, Massachusetts.
"I don't know. Round two with Bishop kind of seems like child play next to Tugarin Zmey."
"Right...right...the midget's "dragon". F*ckin' cock."
"You ever meet the guy?"
"What, the short one or the big one?"
"Big one."
"Afraid not. Donnie wasn't much of a power player back then - not that I think he is now, mind you. Kinda like Kyzer's little lapdog or something like that. Errand boy. He'd talk a big game - especially to Drakz, something fierce - but Kyzer was always the boss hog in that little domestic partnership."
It was jarring, to say the least, to hear how easily David could brush off the threat of the KoKaine Konspiracy's biggest arsenal piece. It was if he saw the hurdle that would come to stand across the ring from me as not so much the Dragon, but rather his tamer, Donnie Monty Kent, and in his eyes, that greatly diminished the living, breathing threat that would stand, hard eyed and rigid, across the ring from myself and the lone soul to trip me up in just a matter of days at the Homecoming event.
"All the same, I f*ckin' envy you, kid."
"Yeah? Thinking you want to trade places?"
It made sense, to put focus on it. Even as we sojourned across the pond for my match at The Clash, David had verbally fantasized about the manner in which he'd exercise his options, were he in the position of having free reign to book himself a match against any opponent of his choosing. His ideal target? Isaac "Drakz" Cray, reigning WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, but all the more likely important in David's eyes, an integral pillar to the structure of The New Epoch - an organization from David's past, the remains of which are a smoldering, burnt out husk of the comraderie once shared between three men on the fringe of the WFWF. In the view of active competition and participation, Drakz stood tall as the one, shining, irreverent reminder to the world of the trio that once sought to shake the WFWF to its very core, rebuilding it only after the smoke had settled and they were free to enact their own twisted vision for the future, and as World Champion, he not only stood tall, but he stood in open and plain view. The architect of The New Epoch, the very cult of personality that was Michael Kyzer, hadn't been seen nor heard from since trio crumbled, and I would think that, as such, much of the ire that David held equally toward both his former partners in crime for reasons I could never fully understand was likely redirected in Drakz' direction, if only for the sake of accessibility.
And yet, there was another still.
"Even just to get my hands on that four foot stack of sh*t walking his overgrown mutt to the ring? Yeah, I'd slay the dragon for you."
Tugarin Zmey, in many ways, was the crown jewel flagship of Donnie Monty Kent's KoKaine Konspiracy's royal fleet. Over time, his story would come unfold and reveal itself, layer after devastatingly complex layer, but in that moment, as I stood poised to take on the monster who'd yet to feel the sting of another man pinning his shoulders to the mat, all I knew of the man called the Thrall or the Dragon was that which could be perceived by merely scraping the surface. For a man who said so very little, he had risen to become, in such a short period of time, so many different things. Immovable. Indomitable. Fear incarnate. An avatar of pure, motorized destruction. The very muscle behind the tag team championship. DMK's unyielding soldier. One of these things was so very much not like the others. I told myself, in spite of the obvious tells - the mask, the scars, the foreboding silence, the penchant for destruction, that the man called Tugarin Zmey was unquestionably not well. Territorially, that almost goes without question - one need only spend but a moment's time in the company of a firecracker like DMK to know that to maintain his accompaniment is to undertake a willing degree of guilt by association - look no further than the Dragon's sidearm, the mystifying Samael Ahriman, DMK's former colleague, the elusive Michael Kyzer, or even in spite of the scorching malice that both men seem to hold for the physically and temperamentally short spitfire, Kyzer's former allies in The New Epoch, Drakz and David Brennan.
A common thread exists among all who've chosen to keep the company of the man who would command a monster, and yet, the Dragon would seem to stand out as something...more. Something extenuate. Something superior. Early in my career, as I traipsed the throngs of the undercard in pursuit of the next rung on the ladder, it took a great deal of soul searching to impart within myself the ability to see opponents who might not have continued on with their careers enjoying the same degree of success I had as a viable threat who must be taken with the most humbling grain of salt, lest I lose my footing and fall as I'd done once before to Joe Bishop. In the case of Tugarin the Dragon, it would take every last ounce of insight, every inch of my introspective being to look at the Thrall and remind myself that beyond his massive stature, beyond the scars, behind the mask, shrouded in mystery, beneath names that would fear or dread like the Thrall or the Dragon, was a man - flesh and blood, little more, little less, named Tugarin Zmey.
Dragons are great mythological creatures that strike fear into the hearts of those that would find themselves cast into the path of such a ferocious and unyielding beast. Though the net of tales has been cast far and wide on regard to the nature and the behavior of dragons, often time there is a constant or a pattern that says dragons cannot be beaten or slain by mere mortals - men of flesh and blood. What better pall to hide behind than that of a mask and a tale of mystery that tells of a man who has elevated himself beyond the restraints of flesh and blood to something entirely more demonic and threatening than that of a man of above average size and strength?
It was that sifting of the fog that would be my lone lifeline as I contemplated my own meeting with a beast that all who'd come before me have failed to slay. Tugarin Zmey was no ordinary opponent. He was everything fear, all things dread, the very embodiment of that which cannot fall and would not cease until those in his path no longer stood in defiance, but rather recoiled in pain and winced as they fell before his feet, another notch in the bedpost of his swath of victories.
But he was also a man.
Men can be defeated, and for whatever front those who will come and go in the WFWF elect to put up in their quest to intimidate their opponents, to get under their skin and to trip them up as they falter under the illusion that the opponent who stands across from them in that ring is something more than flesh and blood, they still exist in God's kingdom of men. Tugarin Zmey was no dragon. Tugarin Zmey was no beast. Tugarin Zmey was a man who'd been branded with a face and a series of descriptors designed to fill his opponents hearts with fear and agony before they even so much as cue their own music, and in all likelihood, that is why so many before had come to fall at his feet. It would take the clarity of mind to enter and accept into the understanding that though the rash of opponents Tugarin Zmey would come to face may collectively serve as the proverbial David, this man alone was not a living, breathing Goliath, and like all men, designed in the Holy Creator's most perfect image, he was not without flaws, he was not without fault, and like all men who walk this Earth, he could be beaten.
All that remained to find was the right slingshot.
The Changing of the Guard
I'd become so absorbed in the mentally taxing process of trying to break down all the elements that made Tugarin Zmey the being that he was that I hadn't even noticed the car coming to a stop until a blast of arctic air came rushing in as the driver's side door was clicked ajar. Fumbling to pull my coat shut, I stumbled awkwardly out my own door without so much as the necessary force behind me to shut it completely. Trailing behind David as he strode across the cracked pavement, I slowed to a walk as I approached the sidewalk, gazing upward as we passed beneath an aged archway, the faded gold emblazements upon which read Mount Cavalry Cemetery.
"This is what you insisted on taking an eight hour layover for?"
"You wanna show a little respect? This is a god damn cemetery!"
Deciding better against pointing out the fallacy of demanding respect in the same breath in which one cursed the Lord's name in vain, I instead hunched my shoulders against the wind, following David as he ascended a steep hill, flanked by row upon row of granite and marble, each stone standing in stark, aging contrast to its neighbor. It was clear that generations of Bostonians had come to Mount Cavalry to lay their heads down for their final rest.
David was clearly on the hunt for a particular stone, perhaps one which he knew not the exact location of. He bobbed and weaved between rows and trees and narrow roads that told a tale of our better judgement in abandoning the car at the gate until finally his urgent pace slowed to a crawl, and he came to rest before a relatively non-descript, gleamingly new headstone, delicately engraved with a heading banner that read BRENNAN. The lone name beneath the proud family name was that of a Jack Brennan, born nineteen thirty six, died two thousand and fourteen.
"Daniel, I'd like you to meet Jack Brennan. Jack - Daniel."
David hadn't spoken of his parentage - hardly ever, really, short of a brief mention that his father was, in fact, deceased. Even amid a gray sky and a sprinkling of light, inconsequential snow that fell around us, David never removed his Lennon-esque glasses that sat forever precariously perched atop the bridge of his nose, but to stand at his side now, I got my first real glimpse of the expression that consumed his face - not forlorn, or mournful, or even sorrowful, but rather stoic. Stern. Expressionless would have even filled the appropriate descriptor here. Whatever thoughts were racing through his mind as he took in the final memoriam to his departed father made no discernible impact upon the expression he wore. Even as he exasperated, sighed, or smacked his lips, his face remained as if frozen in stone, cast in the same eternal phrasing as the token of memory perched before us.
"I'm taking the lead from here on out."
"Come again?"
"You're beat. Bushed. Guys running on all cylinders don't spent a transcontinental flight chatting it up with holy men that aren't there."
"David, I can catch up on some sleep, man. It's nothing."
"It's gonna be nothing, 'cause I'm taking the wheel. You've done a real good thing by me, letting a rat fink like me into your world, and you haven't exactly put yourself ahead of the pack here to boot."
"It's nothing - just my way. Do unto others, all that."
"As you would have them do unto you. I owe you a debt of life which I can't exactly pay back in a monetary fashion, Dan, but you've seen, even just now. I can drive - even in one of the most god forsaken roadway systems in the great Northeast. I know how to book a flight. I know how to get around the world, and you need to start worrying less about the details and start putting your energy into the big picture."
This was unexpected, to say the least. When chance brought me to stumble upon David Brennan, he could barely hold himself upright, let alone operate a motor vehicle or string together a coherent sentence, and now here he was, not offering, but rather directing me to hand over the reigns of the logistical matters in my pursuit of all the WFWF had to offer.
"When I started in the WFWF, way back whenever, Jack here dropped in on me during my first train ride out. I hadn't seen him for, I dunno, forever up until then. He was a sort of an enigma, Jack, but those first few weeks, he did right by me. Put me on planes I'd never afford right on my own. Fixed my piece of sh*t truck. I dunno - dad stuff. Not his style, but for whatever reason, he saw me through those rough and tumble early days."
"You were close, then? You and your father?"
"Close?! I drowned my first loss in a bottle of Jim Beam, beat the ever loving sh*t out of him, and left the old bastard for dead."
"I'm sorry, David."
"Don't be. He let me take payment for that one in a big, big way. Point is, I slipped. Guys like Mike Kyzer and Drakz just paved the way for me to dig myself deeper and deeper, but ol' Jack? I dunno if it was age catchin' up with him or just seeing his baby boy again that went and made him softer than a newborn's head, but ol' Jack kept tryin'."
"You never got to say goodbye then."
"Ha! Goodbye?! That son of a bitch is buried six feet below us and soaked to the gills in a bottle of JD's I went and emptied on his head before slamming the casket shut, Dan. See, it ain't about Jacky - s'about me. Jacky found himself at the end of his life in the mood for givin' second, third, fourth chances all up the wazoo, and stubborn ass old me was too hardened up to look 'em in the eye and do anything with 'em but piss 'em away."
I don't know if I recognized it in the moment, my cogniscance perhaps impeded by the lethal combination of the shrill New England air and the complete lack of sleep permeating into the very recesses of my thought receptors, but for maybe the first time since he decided to finally own up to his birth name to me, I felt like David Brennan was speaking the honest to goodness truth to me, here in the presence of his father and all the dearly departed that generations of Boston families had laid to rest over the course of its gritty history.
"Look, David...I mean, you don't have to do this..."
"I don't have to do anything, Dan, but I was kinda hoping you'd let me anyway. You're burning the candle at both ends here, and conviction or not, that can lead to some pretty brutal sh*t if it's left unchecked, y'know? And the truth is, you're good. Real good. Better' I was at this sh*t - you do it 'cause you love it, not out of necessity or desperation or just the unmitigated desire to hit things. Guy like that? Should be rewarded! But you show up to that arena running on fumes, and guys like Joe Bishop? Nobodies that manage to force themselves into the driver's seat? They'll steamroll you."
"Again with the Joe Bishop, David. Don't you think the real threat here is the Dragon?"
"Man, f*ck the Dragon! DMK's oversized strap on?! Everyone loses to the Dragon! It doesn't even mean anything, but Joe Bishop? You keep letting that English never was get the jump on you, it'll eat you alive. That'll be the tarnish, the stain on your legacy. For everything you might accomplish, for every feud you come out on top of, there'll always be that asterisk there that says you could never beat Joe f*ckin' Bishop!"
Suddenly, the pieces all started to fall into place.
"You don't want Joe Bishop to become my Drakz..."
"Hold it over your head 'til you're lying in a gutter soaked in whiskey and rat piss, man. That sh*t'll eat you alive."
"And you think you can help me avoid that?"
"I think if you get a solid night's sleep you'll stand a snowball's chance in hell more than you would if we walked in there tonight."
All vulgarity aside, the more he was allowed to talk, the more what he said seemed to make sense. Joe Bishop knocking me off my pedestal so quickly after I'd managed to trump Dave Demento had done a serious number on my outlook going forward, and I never really had given myself the chance to let that go. If self improvement was a pedestal upon which I'd set out to build my WFWF career, than what good was the integrity of my foundation if I were to step back into the ring with Joe Bishop, only to let history repeat itself?
The International Title was no longer in the hands of Dave Demento - it had unsurprisingly been passed back into the possession of Joe Bishop, thereby sweetening the prospect of landing the count where I'd fallen short before. The title would not be in play at Homecoming - that day would have to wait for another, more opportune time - but the implications of what could be at stake were elevated that much more, simply based upon the fact that Bishop would saunter down to the ring, that belt clasped firmly around his waist.
Joe Bishop had managed to get the best of me when, like so many other times throughout my career, I'd been at a crossroads - this one in particular laying out the option of continuing upon the road I'd begun to pave for myself or taking up arms with the Saviors of Salvation. I'd chosen to stride on solo, announcing my intentions publicly for the first time since arriving in the WFWF in what I'd thought would have been a rallying cry to the rest of the lone wolfs in the locker to rise up and defy the expectations that were being cast upon the rest of us by The Final Revolution. Instead, Bishop rose to the occasion, dealing me my one and only loss to that point. Now, he'd been granted the opportunity to do it once again - a second chance - a rare crown jewel that, reciprocally, I found myself within arms reach of myself.
To stop Joe Bishop in his tracks at Homecoming would bear more weight than a victory the first time around. It would mean more than the opportunity to rip the International Belt away from his clutches. It would mean that Joe Bishop, in dealing me a hand that no one had dealt me before in a clean sweep victory, was a fluke. An off chance. A couple rungs lower than he'd pedestaled himself to be in that momentary lapse in my own determined focus. It would signal a shift in the sliders, gliding our respective notches just that much closer into alignment, and more over, it would mean that Joe Bishop would have to depart that arena that night, the one man who'd dealt Daniel Kirkbride a raw deal, with an asterisk of his own - an asterisk that would tell the tale for years to come that for every title he'd hold, for every ruthless attack The Final Revolution would commit with Bishop amongst their ranks, and for every time Bishop would seek to harken back to the time he'd broken an undefeated streak, he'd never been my superior, not my inferior - we'd have simply been equals all along.
"Alright, David. You've got yourself a deal."
I rifled through my pockets, searching frantically as the realization set in that I very well may have misplaced the keys to our rental.
"Looking for these?"
I looked up to see David grinning a dastardly grin that had become something of a token of his during his initial run, the keys dangling from his fingers.
"Jesus H., you're more tired than I though, looking for the damn keys. Come on, let's get a move on."
I dont know good luck 
