Post by CM Poor on Feb 26, 2015 13:37:09 GMT -5
"And then what happened?"
I'd found myself asking that same question over and over again. As I stormed back into the building. As the elevator climbed over the course of moments that passed like hours. As I raced down the hall, eyeballing the names emblazoned upon the doors as I came to where I'd just moments earlier spoke with such praise and such high hopes. As I defeatedly placed two VIP identification badges down upon the desk, my head hung in embarrassed shame.
"Ms. Sleater, I've made a terrible mistake. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."
Even as I retraced my steps, revisiting the path that led me to the realization that everything we'd planned, not even days but mere hoes earlier was all lost. What had been shaping up to be a turning point was all in an instant crushed, leaving behind not but a smoldering pile of rubble in what would now become a necessary starting point all over again.
Square one.
Point A.
When I'd first made my way through the twisting corridors of WFWF headquarters, VIP badges in hand, I strolled with an air of cautious optimism. Bringing David Brennan before the very people who'd once released him due to his very nature of being drawn and controlled by vices and crutches was an enormous undertaking for someone of my rank within the company, and yet I was certain that my own endorsement, coupled with a sincere face to face would alleviate any concerns that David was anything but a changed man. After all, I'd seen it myself as the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months following the WFWF's last pay-per-view stopover in New York City when David and I first crossed paths. That door would always be open if he could find it in himself to turn the handle.
I know now that one of the great mysteries of faith is the crushing blow of disappointment when you try so hard to see the good in all beings, regardless of their outward expression and you just happen to put your trust in the one in a million who just happens to be rotten, vile, and wrong to the core.
Retrospectively, it's become easier to understand the cold hard reality of what actually happened in the time framed by when I first left David to wait in our rental car to speak with Lila Sleater and when I'd reemerged from headquarters to bring him in to win his way back into the company.
It seemed so simple.
We'd managed to squeeze ourselves into an early slot on Sleater's schedule, and had arrived respectively early. As I was the one still gainfully employed by the company, we thought it best that I launch the initial offensive. David would remain with the vehicle, on standby, in the likely event that his presence would be required - we were, after all, lobbying for him to be reinstated into a company with which he'd parted on less than amicable terms. Our approach would be simple. Direct. Pointed. No nonsense, no slight of hand. Open an honest.
Looking back, I should have seen it coming a mile away. He'd wanted to remain behind the scenes, off site, away from the hustle and bustle. My professional needs dictated a more hands on approach, and so I'd convinced him, against a heavy bout of resistance, that the direct approach was the most suited to our end game. If all went according to plan, David would be reinstated as a semi-active competitor in the WFWF, at which point we'd utilize the opportunity I'd gained in victory at The Clash to make a run at the tag team championship - a victory that would see us both attain our first titles within the WFWF. So much at stake, so much good for this to go anything but perfectly, and yet he was so resistant. He stalled time and time again, even trying to stop me as we'd pulled into the lot.
Logistically, I should have listened and paid more mind to my surroundings as we made the drive down the final stretch of road toward WFWF Headquarters. If he'd seen it, so too should have I. The sign was loud. Bright. Well lit beneath a blinding winter sun. Anyone with a weakness for spirits within eyeshot would have caught it out of the corner of their gaze. Maybe I had seen it, and the dots just didn't connect. For whatever reason, it was there, as were we, and all the pieces were in play for one devastating end game.
Conjecture tells me that I couldn't have been five feet beyond the landing foyer of WFWF's vast headquarter offices when he took off. I can't begin to understand what he'd hoped to accomplish. It brings to mind the old cartoonish parody of a drunk who just wants one more, who could quit at any time. Surely he'd have known himself well enough to know that just one drink, maybe to calm his nerves or take the edge off, would be enough to steamroll him into a road from which he'd never truly escape. For weeks, I blamed myself. It was me, after all, who'd taken it upon myself to try and guide this lost soul away from the deafening blackness that had consumed his life and toward a brighter and more promising light. In that single, solitary moment of disconnected weakness, I'd failed him. Otherwise, why would he have waited for the opportune moment to steal away from our traveling funds and drive himself out to the office's neighboring liquor outlet, only to return, knowing full well that even if I hadn't arrived to find him seated upon the good of our car, casually knocking back the handle of whatever filth he'd decided on "just this once", I'd undoubtedly smell it on him the moment I fell within his vicinity.
I'd failed him.
I'd failed myself.
I'd failed my employers.
I'd failed God and all his graces.
If the burden of addiction was David's, then the burden of his regression was my own. Perhaps I'd been too hasty in assuming he was ready to return to an environment that had already once brought his years of sobriety to their collective knees. Perhaps I'd been too willing to entrust him with the logistics of taking my career to the next level when he himself had no proven track record of being able to do the same for even himself.
Most overwhelmingly, with complete disregard for any potential happenstance, I know with all certainty that I'd been too naive to assume that I could make my way in this business without allowing myself the room to change. Competition, in this business, takes on a whole new model when compared to more conventional sports. I'd allowed David to will himself into a position that almost immediately pressured him into his own undoing because in my mind, I felt that I could lay the burden of "the dirty work" upon him. He could talk the talk, leaving all the room in the world for me to walk the walk, free and clear of any guilt in the eyes of The Lord. In my hasty, willing naïveté, I'd single handedly brought myself, regardless of carded position, back to square one, and the burden of it all - the talk, the walk, every last bit of dirty work - had fallen squarely on my shoulders.
"I left him there."
"And came here?"
"After the show, yeah."
The show. Big Trouble in Little Seattle. To say my head wasn't in it would be the understatement of the century. My focus had been torn so far off track that I can hardly remember lacing up my boots, let alone what exactly went down before Josh Dean got himself a bit of payback for my victory at Grudge. All the better for him. That victory belonged to somebody who could savor it. Win, lose, or draw, I had to somehow take myself away from that arena and find a way to start looking forward in an entirely new direction. There's no shame in chalking up a loss to Josh Dean, even if my efforts were half hearted. I'd have loved to give him everything I had - quite frankly, a competitor of his calibre deserves just that - but circumstances dictated otherwise. I was beginning to figure out my place in the world in regard to what I had control over, and for all my efforts with David Brennan, I simply could not exercise control over what made him who he was. I had only the shock of coming out of that building to find him sucking down his toxins to thank for my knee jerk reaction. Had I been somehow expecting this regression in a single moment of weakness, I might have come out of that building more sound of mind. Instead, fueled by the adrenaline that Sleater had not yet simply said no, I was almost certain we'd walk back into that office, only to leave when we'd been granted what we'd come for. I'd have exercised my option for a match of my choosing then and there, and the next stop for us beyond Josh Dean would be a guaranteed shot at the first taste of gold for both of us.
"Daniel, I think you know that David made his own choices. You can't be held responsible for those decisions any more than you could possibly be held responsible if he'd walked away from you in a stupor on the very first day you met."
"Father, you've worked with people like David before - your meetings, prison outreach, things like that. How do you escape the guilt when someone slips through the cracks?"
"It's not an escape, Daniel. We like to hope that no one person is beyond hope for rehabilitation, but yes, there are those we simply can't help. All The Lord wants of us is to try."
"I just feel like maybe there was something more I could have done."
"Something more? Daniel - you fed this man. Sheltered him. Offered him companionship. Endured his outbursts. Allowed him closure. Presented him immeasurable opportunity. What more could you have possibly done amid showing him the inordinate amount of compassion that you did?"
If the bible was at a loss for summation of what Father Marshall was trying to convey, the mind could easily slip to the age old adages of humanity's non-sequiturs: you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Realistically, it made sense, but it didn't take the sting away. I came into this world a loner, a one man army and I stayed that way for a good long stretch on account of my own personal way of life, and even though David had contradicted that approach in every way imaginable, I'd still come to regard him as my only real friend in this demented and sort of twisted web that is the world of professional wrestling. Before David's sudden regression, my emotions always seemed so compartmentalized compared with what I was feeling. I thought back to the earliest days of my career - signing my WFWF contract and worrying that I'd somehow betrayed my parents. One emotion, one factor. Still not the best feeling in the world, but altogether more understandable, relatable. Simple.
This was something else entirely. I was disappointed in myself for having failed David. I was angry at David for regressing as easily as he did. I feared for David, left once more to his own defenses. I was angry with God - for the first time in as long as I could remember - for leading me down this seemingly broken path only to come upon a ruin at the end of the line.
"Do you think he's testing me?"
"David?"
"God."
"God, right. What makes you say that, Daniel?"
"I'm not sure. Ever since I first hit the road with him in tow, I'd always just assumed that God had placed him in my path for a reason - maybe to test the strength of charity or compassion - I dunno. It's just...y'know, we harp on and on about God's plan and everything happening for a reason, it just seems too counterproductive for this just to have been a bunch of stuff that happened."
"Perhaps he's curious."
"Does God often make a habit of entertaining his own curiosity?"
"Disregarding Job? No, I wouldn't imagine so, but you are a self professed servant of God, Daniel. The walks of life put us through such strains at times. I like to think this is God not so much testing the limits of our faith, but rather putting us through the wringer so to speak in order to strengthen our resolve. Tell me, you spend a fair amount of time on your physical conditioning, yes?"
"Yeah, of course. Otherwise, you...I think I understand, Father."
"Exactly, Daniel. You've molded yourself into peak physical condition, but if left stagnant, you'd deteriorate. Grow weak. Surely, the same could be said for our faith, or convictions, even our charitable nature. Not every endeavor is going to end in success, and so we have to ask - what's next? How will you take what has happened these past few months and keep your light shining so that all can see that your time was not wasted, your efforts were not in vain, and your conviction will not waver in the face of defeat?"
That was the real question. I'd toiled over and over, internally, to others, out loud to no one but The Lord, over "what happened?" til I was blue in the face and the question, bearing the very detail of how something that seemed so right could so quickly go so wrong, was dead in its tracks. Father Marshall, as he usually had proven himself to be year in and year out, was right. The time had come to move beyond "what happened?" and move forward, to begin considering tomorrow, to move on to "what's next?".
"Honestly? I'm spent. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually. I got real burned the last time I opened up this door, considering it was what? A week ago? All the same, if you're feeling inspirational, Father, I'm open to suggestions."
I'd found myself backed into something of a corner. The show in Seattle had loomed overhead for so long as the point at which I'd been expected to announce my intent to cash in on my "Golden Opportunity". All the sudden, it felt wasted. A wash. I'd devised such big things to come of such an opportunity that in the fallout of seeing it all cast away, I'd issued a knee jerk challenge to the what seemed the next logical choice in opponent, the one I imagine everyone had expected me to go after - the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, Drakz.
The name, of course, had come up before. David had shared in no uncertain terms that if he'd found himself in my shoes, he'd make a complete bee-line for Drakz. His history against his former ally in The New Epoch was less than stellar - two meetings. Two losses. A perfect 0 for 2 record. For him, a match against Drakz would have spelled more than an affront to the top man in the industry. His would be a story of revenge. A story of scores settled. Ironically, a story of redemption, a path to which I was suddenly all but certain David Brennan was entirely incapable of pursuing. All the same, even for the complete improbability of David ever finding something even remotely resembling redemption, that was all good for him. What was a match against Drakz to a guy like me?
"How long has it been, son?"
"Bit of a loaded question, don't you think, Father?"
"I'm afraid sweeping generalizations appeal to broader audience. Ha ha. To put a finer point on it, let's just say your absence has not gone unnoticed among the congregation."
"Long haul in between shows to be coming back to Texas every Sunday, Father."
"That it is, my friend. That it is. Come on - call it a special occasion."
As Father Marshall led the way out of his office and into the halls of his hallowed ground of worship , I'd fully expected him to take us into the chapel, a smaller, more private place of congregation usually reserved for low key memorial services and choir practices. Much to my surprise, however, he fished in his pocket for a key and swing open the wide double doors that led to the sanctuary. On any given Sunday, the rows of pews would be filled with devoted parishioners who came week in and week out to hang on the cusp of every word that Father Marshall had to share. I'd always been taken with the sort of modern, peaceful decor of the sanctuary - it was shaped almost similarly to a single level theater, the seating arranged in a sort of crescent semi-circle facing up toward the pulpit which was cornered within the one adjoining point within the room. The walls the splayed out from the sort of focal point from where Father Marshall held court each week were adorned with the most extravagant stained glass windows I'd seen in my short life. During the daytime hours, the lighting was very warm, welcoming - a stark contrast to what one might expect if they'd only ever set foot in a Catholic Church, with its long, foreboding aisle of tradition. When Father Marshall broke off from Saint Catherine's to lead his own flock, he'd set out to create a more welcoming, informal, and altogether non-denominational place of worship for anyone who had broadened their system of beliefs to identify solely as Christians. The fact that he'd managed, in such a short amount of time, to unify a flock of parishioners from all walks of Christianity had implanted an almost permanent, warm smile upon Father Marshall's face that he'd wear for all his days to come.
The room, now, however was bathed in an almost holy aura. Lights that illuminated the outside of the building in the waning hours of the night shone through the stained glass, carrying each individual color and bathing the sterile, white walls of the sanctuary in a peaceful glow, an effect only compounded by the fact that Father Marshall neglected to flip the switch that would bring up the house lights.
He gestured for me to take a seat in the very front of the room, as I'd done so many times before in my high school days, as he continued up toward the head of the room, spreading his arms out as if to embrace the very spirit of the room as he took the small step up from where he'd led the masses each and every Sunday for the last several years. Opting out of using the actual podium in place as a crutch, he instead strode the entire walk of the stage, using every inch of movable space as he took in his surroundings. As I shut my eyes, I thought to myself, as I often had, that perhaps more people would be willing to hear the word, maybe even people like David Brennan, if they could just have the opportunity to hear it channeled through someone like Father Marshall.
"Heavenly Father, you created us in your image so that the great mystery of your wisdom, of your love, and of your compassion could live forever on Earth as it does in the Kingdom of Heaven. For us in your image you gave your only son so that the sins of man might be forgiven. In your name, we pray.
We pray tonight, O Heavenly Father, for the wayward soul of David Brennan. David neither hears nor seeks your name Father but we ask that he path be illuminated, his road paved smooth, and the answers and comfort that he seeks come both swiftly and without hesitation. You placed David in the path of one of your most stalwart creations, our own Daniel Kirkbride. We ask that you guide Daniel through these trying times as he struggles to come to terms with the mysteries and the imperfections of creation. Where there is darkness, Daniel strives time and time again to bring light and we ask only that you continue to light his way so that his mission to you falls not into darkness.
Through the death of your only son Jesus Christ, you decreed that the sins of man might be met with compassionate forgiveness and that those who seek to do right might still one day join you in the kingdom of Heaven in spite of our trespasses. Heavenly Father, we ask that you watch over Daniel Kirkbride, David Brennan, and all of their colleagues, past, present, and future in the WFWF as they exercise to the fullest of their potential the wonderful abilities and acumen you so lovingly bestowed upon them. Just as you might the miner who impedes upon the creation of Earth in the earthly pursuit of his trade, we ask that you exercise forgiveness upon Daniel and his peers who act as they do at times not to deter the greater good but to solider through the fog that at times clouds all our minds in their own pursuit of their personal best.
Finally, O Heavenly Father, we ask of you the wisdom and courage for your most noble servant Daniel Kirkbride as he faces a great crossroads as he has many times before and will do so once and again before finally joining you in the kingdom of Heaven. Guide Daniel toward the very best in his decisions, help him to recognize fault should he falter, while always maintaining and open door through which to find the most diligent and righteous path, for through you we maintain that all things are possible. In your name, we pray. Amen."
"Amen."
Setting himself down beside me very casually and relaxed, Father Marshall to a stranger's glance might have not fit the commoner's perception of a church leader in that moment. Truthfully, rare were the times that he would - perhaps weddings, funerals, occasions of that nature. Here was a man who truly loved the work he'd taken it upon himself to devote his life to, and the glow of his face that could have illuminated the darkened sanctuary that night could have told anyone everything they could have possibly wanted to know about Henry Marshall.
"Do you remember what I said to you when I decided to leave Saint Catherine's?"
"Afraid I'm drawing a blank there, Father."
"Hmm. Well, you, as I recall, were upset something fierce, as you're want to get. You came to me looking - demanding, really - answers, both spiritually and humanly. If you'll recall, I offered you an answer to fit both that made you recoil somewhat."
"Refresh my memory."
"There's more than one way to skin a cat, Daniel."
"Right...right. There it is. The cat thing."
"Daniel, people come to me almost daily, looking for the answers to so many of life's mysteries. They come to me in times of weakness, the times where they're most vulnerable, and if they haven't really spent any time with me discussing, as you and I have, the mysteries of life and faith and God's works, they almost seem to expect a line off the menu. Have you ever had the misfortune of having to call a customer service line?"
"Who hasn't?"
"Exactly. Wouldn't you feel more confident in having done so if you happened to luck across the one service representative out of a thousand who had something to dispel outside of what was printed in the user's manual? We created this church because life isn't so black and white, Daniel. Not everyone's challenges fit into the exact same box. There's flexibility and unpredictability to life and our recognition of that is what sets us apart from the traditional approach, Daniel. This intersection you're at, this problem you face, there's no typical response to it. There's no step by step instruction for getting past it and moving on. Be different. Take the risk. You've come so far to let something like insurmountable doubt hold you back. So come on - what's next?"
The inarguable wisdom of Henry Marshall.
The short answer, of course, was Drakz, but then that wasn't the challenge was it? The challenge, herein, was the long answer.
Long answers usually come packaged with an "if" or a "but". That, however, wasn't what Father Marshall was challenging me to come up with. If I'd come out swinging with those all too common caveats, he'd turn the tide and simply reissue the challenge, expanding upon the obstacle to include an exception for excuses. Sometimes it takes a while for people to "get" Father Marshall. He can be altogether as cryptic as he is clear, and he was seemingly born with a penchant for forgetting whether or not his audience will be comprised of those who'll be able to see through the static to the point he's trying to make. For me, it was all too clear.
I'd gone out before thousands of fans at Big Trouble in Little Seattle, and I'd laid out a challenge. A match, one on one, myself versus the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion Drakz. Those were the facts - what we had to work off of. Father Marshall's thinly veiled challenge was to then, of course, find purpose in what was laid out before us. Before his regression, the purpose of the challenge that would have been thrown out would be to secure the pursuit of championship gold for myself and for David. Those were seemingly easier times. Finding purpose in the match against Drakz would be the real challenge - the real test of will.
No gold would be up for grabs at Paradigm. In truth, the pursuit of a championship belt to wear around my waist meant less to me in the days following all that had gone down with David than it ever had before. In those waking hours following the show in Seattle, the prospect of a title just seemed trivial when stacked against all that had come to pass. In declining to challenge Drakz to put his title on the line, I'd unknowingly scrapped that prospective purpose from our match. On the surface, maybe to an outside or to a casual observer, a serialized match against Drakz for the sake of a match might seem like sort of a throwaway - certainly not deserving of the capped spot on the card.
Sometimes, in life, it's easy to get distracted by surface details. Consider a national tragedy. A school shooting, perhaps. All too often, the story quickly shifts from the insurmountable damage that has been done - lives cut short, families shattered, a way of life forever altered - to more surface, coping details. Who's responsible? Who's to blame? Who will pay? Certainly, a time and place arises for all these questions to be answered, but more often than not, they take center stage, obscuring the altogether more pressing tragedy of what was at stake and what has been lost. As days turn to weeks, weeks to months, and so on and so forth, society becomes bludgeoned with the details of criminal investigations and forensic examinations and laws and rights and prevention, so much so that the six o'clock news has no room in its block to memorialize those that were lost, and their stories sort of take a backseat to what makes for better television, better water cooler discussion, and better political discourse.
On a lesser conscience, it would be so easy to go out there and announce to the world that I'd discarded the dead weight of David Brennan to make lighter my own rise to the top. It'd certainly make for gripping television - a man will only help another so far along until his acts of charity interfere with his own pursuit of greatness. Cast aside that which makes you slow to better stay the course. Already, you can hear the fans chomping at the bits, but that wasn't a story I wanted to tell. That wasn't anything I'd even want to be a part of.
David's regression was a living tragedy. In never coming to pass, the world will never know just how truly close he may have been to a more lucrative run than he'd ever taken on before. Instead, for the choices David made, in the days, weeks, and months to pass since I uttered his name on television, his memory would slowly digress til it was little more than it had been before - that of a man with a fighting spirit and a penchant for vices that ultimately left him shattered. A man who rode the coattails of monsters that exploited him for his weaknesses and left him out to dry, capitalizing on their own opportunities without once leaving room for a man they once called a friend. A man who'd never tasted championship gold. A man who'd never headlined a major event. A man whose lone claim to fame was a thrice shared consolation spot in an arguably overcrowded hall of reverence.
David's story would forever be one of could haves and should haves.
He should have been a star.
He could have been champion.
He should have had a long and storied career.
He could have beaten Drakz.
David Brennan would never be a star. He'd never taste championship gold. His career, while not without impact, was short and unremarkable. His rematch with Drakz would never come. His record against his former ally would forever remain cemented at 0 and 2.
At the time, I still was uncertain as to exactly what the future held for me. There was no telling for certain whether I would rise to become one of the most well recognized stars in the industry, or if I'd ever capture a title of my own. My career was still in the very early stages of being written, with pages left to be filled with naught but potential, and one day, I told myself, if those great milestones ever came to fruition, I'd hold them for my own, confident in the realization that it was the combined effort of my own determination and willpower, shared in the graces of God that would bring me stardom, championship gold, and a career peppered with milestone after milestone. Those would be my personal accomplishments that I sought to achieve on my own.
There was still room, however, to defeat the man called Drakz.
Drakz would not be my victory alone. My match against Drakz would not be my statement to the world that I had come to dominate the WFWF and take each step upon the ladder by storm. My match against Drakz would not serve as my proving ground upon which I displayed my readiness and confidence to all who would take notice. A victory against Drakz would not become a bargaining chip with which I'd ascend the ladder of the WFWF until all my achievements were met on the back of deserved demands.
My match against Drakz, and, God willing, a victory against Drakz, would serve as a memoriam to what had truly been taken from the WFWF.
"Drakz, I guess."
"Easy win?"
"Not in the least."
"Nothing worth conquering ever is."
Tell that to David Brennan. Somewhere, wherever he was, I half expected he'd tune in to see me take on his old comrade, probably steaming something fierce. I can't say for certain I'd feel much different, were it me in his shoes.
The man they called Drakz, Isaac Cray, was no laughing matter. Setting aside his status as the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, here was a man who had become synonymous with the WFWF. After a thousand competitors had come and gone through the revolving door that is the WFWF locker room, there will always be those tried and tested stalwarts who immediately come to mind when considering the history of this place.
Phillip Schneider.
Michael Kyzer.
Drakz.
Each of them more dangerous than the last, in a thousand ways more than one might consider. You look at an opponent - you see his acumen for in-ring competition. You see his will to fight. His willingness to succeed at any given cost.
What you can't see is his ability to wage psychological warfare - a tactic Drakz possessed in countless ways. Michael Kyzer's resiliency is unmatched. Phillip Schneider would just as soon lob your head off, but Drakz - if you let him, he'll get under your skin in ways you couldn't possibly imagine until he's already there.
If I hadn't spent the time with David Brennan, I might never have known the unseen threat that his old friend and rival posed. Consider the raw material - David Brennan. Former marine, former firefighter, son of a mob boss who made his own way in the world to shed the shadow of the family business, only to fall victim to the lure of his own weakness for spirits before conquering it for eight years. Eight years is a good long time to enjoy the clarity of sobriety - what could possibly drive a man who'd done so much good, not only for others but for himself, to stumble back down the hill which he'd so ferociously fought to ascend?
If Michael Kyzer had scouted David for attrition into The New Epoch, then Drakz had undoubtedly been the force that eased him into the fold until it felt like a second home, chock full of all the world's needs for an alcoholic reduced to a shell of his bettered self. There was a charismatic charm about Drakz, and if he could find a susceptible weakness to exploit, you could bet the farm on the fact that he would if it would serve his ends. Week after week, the crowd lavished praise upon him, seemingly enamored by his smile, his charm, his narcissistic upbeat demeanor. It was the type of cult of personality that would be so easy to get swept away in, if one were none the wiser.
I didn't fear Drakz any more than I feared the notion of The New Epoch as a whole. Their overcompensation for instilling fear and the notion of an insurmountable challenge in their opponents, whether joined at the seams in their glory days or scattered across the wastes as they'd come to find themselves, struck me as little more than textbook glossing of the soft spots in their armor. Dependence. Abuse. Mental instability. Outlandish impulsiveness. These, to me, were the hallmarks of the men who once formed one of the most feared and revered stables in WFWF history, hallmarks that had already dispensed one of their members back into the shadows. For Drakz and his sunny exterior, all I saw was a charismatically exploitive shell of man who'd step on anyone and dismiss any common norm to get what he wants.
Twice he'd trumped David Brennan in battle, as Brennan had so staunchly warned me about in my dealings with Joe Bishop. In the face of his seeming invincibility, I stood staunch, firm, and proud in one solitary notion that would carry me through my meeting with Drakz to whatever the outcome may be.
I was not David Brennan.
I was Daniel Kirkbride.
Drakz had no edge over Daniel Kirkbride. He had no prior victories to boast, no triumph to parade. He'd only what he could gather at arms length in an observatory capacity with which to formulate a plan of attack, and I had conviction on my side. I had nobility. A sense of right from wrong. I had reason to fight. Reason to win. Not for arbitrary belts or for grandeur or for an elevated spot upon the competitive ladder.
For David Brennan.
For me.
Daniel Kirkbride.
David might find himself relegated to an off the beaten path corner of Drakz mind, where the throngs of years of abusive substance use can't even begin to be obscured my a short spat with sobriety - a footnote. Another 'W' in the record books twice entered. Not a man, not a face, not a friend, not a name.
That would be my intent.
My purpose.
For each time that David Brennan fell to a man who'd reduced him to a shell of his full potential.
Drakz would remember my name.
I'd found myself asking that same question over and over again. As I stormed back into the building. As the elevator climbed over the course of moments that passed like hours. As I raced down the hall, eyeballing the names emblazoned upon the doors as I came to where I'd just moments earlier spoke with such praise and such high hopes. As I defeatedly placed two VIP identification badges down upon the desk, my head hung in embarrassed shame.
"Ms. Sleater, I've made a terrible mistake. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."
Even as I retraced my steps, revisiting the path that led me to the realization that everything we'd planned, not even days but mere hoes earlier was all lost. What had been shaping up to be a turning point was all in an instant crushed, leaving behind not but a smoldering pile of rubble in what would now become a necessary starting point all over again.
Square one.
Point A.
When I'd first made my way through the twisting corridors of WFWF headquarters, VIP badges in hand, I strolled with an air of cautious optimism. Bringing David Brennan before the very people who'd once released him due to his very nature of being drawn and controlled by vices and crutches was an enormous undertaking for someone of my rank within the company, and yet I was certain that my own endorsement, coupled with a sincere face to face would alleviate any concerns that David was anything but a changed man. After all, I'd seen it myself as the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months following the WFWF's last pay-per-view stopover in New York City when David and I first crossed paths. That door would always be open if he could find it in himself to turn the handle.
I know now that one of the great mysteries of faith is the crushing blow of disappointment when you try so hard to see the good in all beings, regardless of their outward expression and you just happen to put your trust in the one in a million who just happens to be rotten, vile, and wrong to the core.
Retrospectively, it's become easier to understand the cold hard reality of what actually happened in the time framed by when I first left David to wait in our rental car to speak with Lila Sleater and when I'd reemerged from headquarters to bring him in to win his way back into the company.
It seemed so simple.
We'd managed to squeeze ourselves into an early slot on Sleater's schedule, and had arrived respectively early. As I was the one still gainfully employed by the company, we thought it best that I launch the initial offensive. David would remain with the vehicle, on standby, in the likely event that his presence would be required - we were, after all, lobbying for him to be reinstated into a company with which he'd parted on less than amicable terms. Our approach would be simple. Direct. Pointed. No nonsense, no slight of hand. Open an honest.
Looking back, I should have seen it coming a mile away. He'd wanted to remain behind the scenes, off site, away from the hustle and bustle. My professional needs dictated a more hands on approach, and so I'd convinced him, against a heavy bout of resistance, that the direct approach was the most suited to our end game. If all went according to plan, David would be reinstated as a semi-active competitor in the WFWF, at which point we'd utilize the opportunity I'd gained in victory at The Clash to make a run at the tag team championship - a victory that would see us both attain our first titles within the WFWF. So much at stake, so much good for this to go anything but perfectly, and yet he was so resistant. He stalled time and time again, even trying to stop me as we'd pulled into the lot.
Logistically, I should have listened and paid more mind to my surroundings as we made the drive down the final stretch of road toward WFWF Headquarters. If he'd seen it, so too should have I. The sign was loud. Bright. Well lit beneath a blinding winter sun. Anyone with a weakness for spirits within eyeshot would have caught it out of the corner of their gaze. Maybe I had seen it, and the dots just didn't connect. For whatever reason, it was there, as were we, and all the pieces were in play for one devastating end game.
Conjecture tells me that I couldn't have been five feet beyond the landing foyer of WFWF's vast headquarter offices when he took off. I can't begin to understand what he'd hoped to accomplish. It brings to mind the old cartoonish parody of a drunk who just wants one more, who could quit at any time. Surely he'd have known himself well enough to know that just one drink, maybe to calm his nerves or take the edge off, would be enough to steamroll him into a road from which he'd never truly escape. For weeks, I blamed myself. It was me, after all, who'd taken it upon myself to try and guide this lost soul away from the deafening blackness that had consumed his life and toward a brighter and more promising light. In that single, solitary moment of disconnected weakness, I'd failed him. Otherwise, why would he have waited for the opportune moment to steal away from our traveling funds and drive himself out to the office's neighboring liquor outlet, only to return, knowing full well that even if I hadn't arrived to find him seated upon the good of our car, casually knocking back the handle of whatever filth he'd decided on "just this once", I'd undoubtedly smell it on him the moment I fell within his vicinity.
I'd failed him.
I'd failed myself.
I'd failed my employers.
I'd failed God and all his graces.
If the burden of addiction was David's, then the burden of his regression was my own. Perhaps I'd been too hasty in assuming he was ready to return to an environment that had already once brought his years of sobriety to their collective knees. Perhaps I'd been too willing to entrust him with the logistics of taking my career to the next level when he himself had no proven track record of being able to do the same for even himself.
Most overwhelmingly, with complete disregard for any potential happenstance, I know with all certainty that I'd been too naive to assume that I could make my way in this business without allowing myself the room to change. Competition, in this business, takes on a whole new model when compared to more conventional sports. I'd allowed David to will himself into a position that almost immediately pressured him into his own undoing because in my mind, I felt that I could lay the burden of "the dirty work" upon him. He could talk the talk, leaving all the room in the world for me to walk the walk, free and clear of any guilt in the eyes of The Lord. In my hasty, willing naïveté, I'd single handedly brought myself, regardless of carded position, back to square one, and the burden of it all - the talk, the walk, every last bit of dirty work - had fallen squarely on my shoulders.
"I left him there."
"And came here?"
"After the show, yeah."
The show. Big Trouble in Little Seattle. To say my head wasn't in it would be the understatement of the century. My focus had been torn so far off track that I can hardly remember lacing up my boots, let alone what exactly went down before Josh Dean got himself a bit of payback for my victory at Grudge. All the better for him. That victory belonged to somebody who could savor it. Win, lose, or draw, I had to somehow take myself away from that arena and find a way to start looking forward in an entirely new direction. There's no shame in chalking up a loss to Josh Dean, even if my efforts were half hearted. I'd have loved to give him everything I had - quite frankly, a competitor of his calibre deserves just that - but circumstances dictated otherwise. I was beginning to figure out my place in the world in regard to what I had control over, and for all my efforts with David Brennan, I simply could not exercise control over what made him who he was. I had only the shock of coming out of that building to find him sucking down his toxins to thank for my knee jerk reaction. Had I been somehow expecting this regression in a single moment of weakness, I might have come out of that building more sound of mind. Instead, fueled by the adrenaline that Sleater had not yet simply said no, I was almost certain we'd walk back into that office, only to leave when we'd been granted what we'd come for. I'd have exercised my option for a match of my choosing then and there, and the next stop for us beyond Josh Dean would be a guaranteed shot at the first taste of gold for both of us.
"Daniel, I think you know that David made his own choices. You can't be held responsible for those decisions any more than you could possibly be held responsible if he'd walked away from you in a stupor on the very first day you met."
"Father, you've worked with people like David before - your meetings, prison outreach, things like that. How do you escape the guilt when someone slips through the cracks?"
"It's not an escape, Daniel. We like to hope that no one person is beyond hope for rehabilitation, but yes, there are those we simply can't help. All The Lord wants of us is to try."
"I just feel like maybe there was something more I could have done."
"Something more? Daniel - you fed this man. Sheltered him. Offered him companionship. Endured his outbursts. Allowed him closure. Presented him immeasurable opportunity. What more could you have possibly done amid showing him the inordinate amount of compassion that you did?"
If the bible was at a loss for summation of what Father Marshall was trying to convey, the mind could easily slip to the age old adages of humanity's non-sequiturs: you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Realistically, it made sense, but it didn't take the sting away. I came into this world a loner, a one man army and I stayed that way for a good long stretch on account of my own personal way of life, and even though David had contradicted that approach in every way imaginable, I'd still come to regard him as my only real friend in this demented and sort of twisted web that is the world of professional wrestling. Before David's sudden regression, my emotions always seemed so compartmentalized compared with what I was feeling. I thought back to the earliest days of my career - signing my WFWF contract and worrying that I'd somehow betrayed my parents. One emotion, one factor. Still not the best feeling in the world, but altogether more understandable, relatable. Simple.
This was something else entirely. I was disappointed in myself for having failed David. I was angry at David for regressing as easily as he did. I feared for David, left once more to his own defenses. I was angry with God - for the first time in as long as I could remember - for leading me down this seemingly broken path only to come upon a ruin at the end of the line.
"Do you think he's testing me?"
"David?"
"God."
"God, right. What makes you say that, Daniel?"
"I'm not sure. Ever since I first hit the road with him in tow, I'd always just assumed that God had placed him in my path for a reason - maybe to test the strength of charity or compassion - I dunno. It's just...y'know, we harp on and on about God's plan and everything happening for a reason, it just seems too counterproductive for this just to have been a bunch of stuff that happened."
"Perhaps he's curious."
"Does God often make a habit of entertaining his own curiosity?"
"Disregarding Job? No, I wouldn't imagine so, but you are a self professed servant of God, Daniel. The walks of life put us through such strains at times. I like to think this is God not so much testing the limits of our faith, but rather putting us through the wringer so to speak in order to strengthen our resolve. Tell me, you spend a fair amount of time on your physical conditioning, yes?"
"Yeah, of course. Otherwise, you...I think I understand, Father."
"Exactly, Daniel. You've molded yourself into peak physical condition, but if left stagnant, you'd deteriorate. Grow weak. Surely, the same could be said for our faith, or convictions, even our charitable nature. Not every endeavor is going to end in success, and so we have to ask - what's next? How will you take what has happened these past few months and keep your light shining so that all can see that your time was not wasted, your efforts were not in vain, and your conviction will not waver in the face of defeat?"
That was the real question. I'd toiled over and over, internally, to others, out loud to no one but The Lord, over "what happened?" til I was blue in the face and the question, bearing the very detail of how something that seemed so right could so quickly go so wrong, was dead in its tracks. Father Marshall, as he usually had proven himself to be year in and year out, was right. The time had come to move beyond "what happened?" and move forward, to begin considering tomorrow, to move on to "what's next?".
"Honestly? I'm spent. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually. I got real burned the last time I opened up this door, considering it was what? A week ago? All the same, if you're feeling inspirational, Father, I'm open to suggestions."
I'd found myself backed into something of a corner. The show in Seattle had loomed overhead for so long as the point at which I'd been expected to announce my intent to cash in on my "Golden Opportunity". All the sudden, it felt wasted. A wash. I'd devised such big things to come of such an opportunity that in the fallout of seeing it all cast away, I'd issued a knee jerk challenge to the what seemed the next logical choice in opponent, the one I imagine everyone had expected me to go after - the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, Drakz.
The name, of course, had come up before. David had shared in no uncertain terms that if he'd found himself in my shoes, he'd make a complete bee-line for Drakz. His history against his former ally in The New Epoch was less than stellar - two meetings. Two losses. A perfect 0 for 2 record. For him, a match against Drakz would have spelled more than an affront to the top man in the industry. His would be a story of revenge. A story of scores settled. Ironically, a story of redemption, a path to which I was suddenly all but certain David Brennan was entirely incapable of pursuing. All the same, even for the complete improbability of David ever finding something even remotely resembling redemption, that was all good for him. What was a match against Drakz to a guy like me?
"How long has it been, son?"
"Bit of a loaded question, don't you think, Father?"
"I'm afraid sweeping generalizations appeal to broader audience. Ha ha. To put a finer point on it, let's just say your absence has not gone unnoticed among the congregation."
"Long haul in between shows to be coming back to Texas every Sunday, Father."
"That it is, my friend. That it is. Come on - call it a special occasion."
As Father Marshall led the way out of his office and into the halls of his hallowed ground of worship , I'd fully expected him to take us into the chapel, a smaller, more private place of congregation usually reserved for low key memorial services and choir practices. Much to my surprise, however, he fished in his pocket for a key and swing open the wide double doors that led to the sanctuary. On any given Sunday, the rows of pews would be filled with devoted parishioners who came week in and week out to hang on the cusp of every word that Father Marshall had to share. I'd always been taken with the sort of modern, peaceful decor of the sanctuary - it was shaped almost similarly to a single level theater, the seating arranged in a sort of crescent semi-circle facing up toward the pulpit which was cornered within the one adjoining point within the room. The walls the splayed out from the sort of focal point from where Father Marshall held court each week were adorned with the most extravagant stained glass windows I'd seen in my short life. During the daytime hours, the lighting was very warm, welcoming - a stark contrast to what one might expect if they'd only ever set foot in a Catholic Church, with its long, foreboding aisle of tradition. When Father Marshall broke off from Saint Catherine's to lead his own flock, he'd set out to create a more welcoming, informal, and altogether non-denominational place of worship for anyone who had broadened their system of beliefs to identify solely as Christians. The fact that he'd managed, in such a short amount of time, to unify a flock of parishioners from all walks of Christianity had implanted an almost permanent, warm smile upon Father Marshall's face that he'd wear for all his days to come.
The room, now, however was bathed in an almost holy aura. Lights that illuminated the outside of the building in the waning hours of the night shone through the stained glass, carrying each individual color and bathing the sterile, white walls of the sanctuary in a peaceful glow, an effect only compounded by the fact that Father Marshall neglected to flip the switch that would bring up the house lights.
He gestured for me to take a seat in the very front of the room, as I'd done so many times before in my high school days, as he continued up toward the head of the room, spreading his arms out as if to embrace the very spirit of the room as he took the small step up from where he'd led the masses each and every Sunday for the last several years. Opting out of using the actual podium in place as a crutch, he instead strode the entire walk of the stage, using every inch of movable space as he took in his surroundings. As I shut my eyes, I thought to myself, as I often had, that perhaps more people would be willing to hear the word, maybe even people like David Brennan, if they could just have the opportunity to hear it channeled through someone like Father Marshall.
"Heavenly Father, you created us in your image so that the great mystery of your wisdom, of your love, and of your compassion could live forever on Earth as it does in the Kingdom of Heaven. For us in your image you gave your only son so that the sins of man might be forgiven. In your name, we pray.
We pray tonight, O Heavenly Father, for the wayward soul of David Brennan. David neither hears nor seeks your name Father but we ask that he path be illuminated, his road paved smooth, and the answers and comfort that he seeks come both swiftly and without hesitation. You placed David in the path of one of your most stalwart creations, our own Daniel Kirkbride. We ask that you guide Daniel through these trying times as he struggles to come to terms with the mysteries and the imperfections of creation. Where there is darkness, Daniel strives time and time again to bring light and we ask only that you continue to light his way so that his mission to you falls not into darkness.
Through the death of your only son Jesus Christ, you decreed that the sins of man might be met with compassionate forgiveness and that those who seek to do right might still one day join you in the kingdom of Heaven in spite of our trespasses. Heavenly Father, we ask that you watch over Daniel Kirkbride, David Brennan, and all of their colleagues, past, present, and future in the WFWF as they exercise to the fullest of their potential the wonderful abilities and acumen you so lovingly bestowed upon them. Just as you might the miner who impedes upon the creation of Earth in the earthly pursuit of his trade, we ask that you exercise forgiveness upon Daniel and his peers who act as they do at times not to deter the greater good but to solider through the fog that at times clouds all our minds in their own pursuit of their personal best.
Finally, O Heavenly Father, we ask of you the wisdom and courage for your most noble servant Daniel Kirkbride as he faces a great crossroads as he has many times before and will do so once and again before finally joining you in the kingdom of Heaven. Guide Daniel toward the very best in his decisions, help him to recognize fault should he falter, while always maintaining and open door through which to find the most diligent and righteous path, for through you we maintain that all things are possible. In your name, we pray. Amen."
"Amen."
Setting himself down beside me very casually and relaxed, Father Marshall to a stranger's glance might have not fit the commoner's perception of a church leader in that moment. Truthfully, rare were the times that he would - perhaps weddings, funerals, occasions of that nature. Here was a man who truly loved the work he'd taken it upon himself to devote his life to, and the glow of his face that could have illuminated the darkened sanctuary that night could have told anyone everything they could have possibly wanted to know about Henry Marshall.
"Do you remember what I said to you when I decided to leave Saint Catherine's?"
"Afraid I'm drawing a blank there, Father."
"Hmm. Well, you, as I recall, were upset something fierce, as you're want to get. You came to me looking - demanding, really - answers, both spiritually and humanly. If you'll recall, I offered you an answer to fit both that made you recoil somewhat."
"Refresh my memory."
"There's more than one way to skin a cat, Daniel."
"Right...right. There it is. The cat thing."
"Daniel, people come to me almost daily, looking for the answers to so many of life's mysteries. They come to me in times of weakness, the times where they're most vulnerable, and if they haven't really spent any time with me discussing, as you and I have, the mysteries of life and faith and God's works, they almost seem to expect a line off the menu. Have you ever had the misfortune of having to call a customer service line?"
"Who hasn't?"
"Exactly. Wouldn't you feel more confident in having done so if you happened to luck across the one service representative out of a thousand who had something to dispel outside of what was printed in the user's manual? We created this church because life isn't so black and white, Daniel. Not everyone's challenges fit into the exact same box. There's flexibility and unpredictability to life and our recognition of that is what sets us apart from the traditional approach, Daniel. This intersection you're at, this problem you face, there's no typical response to it. There's no step by step instruction for getting past it and moving on. Be different. Take the risk. You've come so far to let something like insurmountable doubt hold you back. So come on - what's next?"
The inarguable wisdom of Henry Marshall.
The short answer, of course, was Drakz, but then that wasn't the challenge was it? The challenge, herein, was the long answer.
Long answers usually come packaged with an "if" or a "but". That, however, wasn't what Father Marshall was challenging me to come up with. If I'd come out swinging with those all too common caveats, he'd turn the tide and simply reissue the challenge, expanding upon the obstacle to include an exception for excuses. Sometimes it takes a while for people to "get" Father Marshall. He can be altogether as cryptic as he is clear, and he was seemingly born with a penchant for forgetting whether or not his audience will be comprised of those who'll be able to see through the static to the point he's trying to make. For me, it was all too clear.
I'd gone out before thousands of fans at Big Trouble in Little Seattle, and I'd laid out a challenge. A match, one on one, myself versus the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion Drakz. Those were the facts - what we had to work off of. Father Marshall's thinly veiled challenge was to then, of course, find purpose in what was laid out before us. Before his regression, the purpose of the challenge that would have been thrown out would be to secure the pursuit of championship gold for myself and for David. Those were seemingly easier times. Finding purpose in the match against Drakz would be the real challenge - the real test of will.
No gold would be up for grabs at Paradigm. In truth, the pursuit of a championship belt to wear around my waist meant less to me in the days following all that had gone down with David than it ever had before. In those waking hours following the show in Seattle, the prospect of a title just seemed trivial when stacked against all that had come to pass. In declining to challenge Drakz to put his title on the line, I'd unknowingly scrapped that prospective purpose from our match. On the surface, maybe to an outside or to a casual observer, a serialized match against Drakz for the sake of a match might seem like sort of a throwaway - certainly not deserving of the capped spot on the card.
Sometimes, in life, it's easy to get distracted by surface details. Consider a national tragedy. A school shooting, perhaps. All too often, the story quickly shifts from the insurmountable damage that has been done - lives cut short, families shattered, a way of life forever altered - to more surface, coping details. Who's responsible? Who's to blame? Who will pay? Certainly, a time and place arises for all these questions to be answered, but more often than not, they take center stage, obscuring the altogether more pressing tragedy of what was at stake and what has been lost. As days turn to weeks, weeks to months, and so on and so forth, society becomes bludgeoned with the details of criminal investigations and forensic examinations and laws and rights and prevention, so much so that the six o'clock news has no room in its block to memorialize those that were lost, and their stories sort of take a backseat to what makes for better television, better water cooler discussion, and better political discourse.
On a lesser conscience, it would be so easy to go out there and announce to the world that I'd discarded the dead weight of David Brennan to make lighter my own rise to the top. It'd certainly make for gripping television - a man will only help another so far along until his acts of charity interfere with his own pursuit of greatness. Cast aside that which makes you slow to better stay the course. Already, you can hear the fans chomping at the bits, but that wasn't a story I wanted to tell. That wasn't anything I'd even want to be a part of.
David's regression was a living tragedy. In never coming to pass, the world will never know just how truly close he may have been to a more lucrative run than he'd ever taken on before. Instead, for the choices David made, in the days, weeks, and months to pass since I uttered his name on television, his memory would slowly digress til it was little more than it had been before - that of a man with a fighting spirit and a penchant for vices that ultimately left him shattered. A man who rode the coattails of monsters that exploited him for his weaknesses and left him out to dry, capitalizing on their own opportunities without once leaving room for a man they once called a friend. A man who'd never tasted championship gold. A man who'd never headlined a major event. A man whose lone claim to fame was a thrice shared consolation spot in an arguably overcrowded hall of reverence.
David's story would forever be one of could haves and should haves.
He should have been a star.
He could have been champion.
He should have had a long and storied career.
He could have beaten Drakz.
David Brennan would never be a star. He'd never taste championship gold. His career, while not without impact, was short and unremarkable. His rematch with Drakz would never come. His record against his former ally would forever remain cemented at 0 and 2.
At the time, I still was uncertain as to exactly what the future held for me. There was no telling for certain whether I would rise to become one of the most well recognized stars in the industry, or if I'd ever capture a title of my own. My career was still in the very early stages of being written, with pages left to be filled with naught but potential, and one day, I told myself, if those great milestones ever came to fruition, I'd hold them for my own, confident in the realization that it was the combined effort of my own determination and willpower, shared in the graces of God that would bring me stardom, championship gold, and a career peppered with milestone after milestone. Those would be my personal accomplishments that I sought to achieve on my own.
There was still room, however, to defeat the man called Drakz.
Drakz would not be my victory alone. My match against Drakz would not be my statement to the world that I had come to dominate the WFWF and take each step upon the ladder by storm. My match against Drakz would not serve as my proving ground upon which I displayed my readiness and confidence to all who would take notice. A victory against Drakz would not become a bargaining chip with which I'd ascend the ladder of the WFWF until all my achievements were met on the back of deserved demands.
My match against Drakz, and, God willing, a victory against Drakz, would serve as a memoriam to what had truly been taken from the WFWF.
"Drakz, I guess."
"Easy win?"
"Not in the least."
"Nothing worth conquering ever is."
Tell that to David Brennan. Somewhere, wherever he was, I half expected he'd tune in to see me take on his old comrade, probably steaming something fierce. I can't say for certain I'd feel much different, were it me in his shoes.
The man they called Drakz, Isaac Cray, was no laughing matter. Setting aside his status as the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, here was a man who had become synonymous with the WFWF. After a thousand competitors had come and gone through the revolving door that is the WFWF locker room, there will always be those tried and tested stalwarts who immediately come to mind when considering the history of this place.
Phillip Schneider.
Michael Kyzer.
Drakz.
Each of them more dangerous than the last, in a thousand ways more than one might consider. You look at an opponent - you see his acumen for in-ring competition. You see his will to fight. His willingness to succeed at any given cost.
What you can't see is his ability to wage psychological warfare - a tactic Drakz possessed in countless ways. Michael Kyzer's resiliency is unmatched. Phillip Schneider would just as soon lob your head off, but Drakz - if you let him, he'll get under your skin in ways you couldn't possibly imagine until he's already there.
If I hadn't spent the time with David Brennan, I might never have known the unseen threat that his old friend and rival posed. Consider the raw material - David Brennan. Former marine, former firefighter, son of a mob boss who made his own way in the world to shed the shadow of the family business, only to fall victim to the lure of his own weakness for spirits before conquering it for eight years. Eight years is a good long time to enjoy the clarity of sobriety - what could possibly drive a man who'd done so much good, not only for others but for himself, to stumble back down the hill which he'd so ferociously fought to ascend?
If Michael Kyzer had scouted David for attrition into The New Epoch, then Drakz had undoubtedly been the force that eased him into the fold until it felt like a second home, chock full of all the world's needs for an alcoholic reduced to a shell of his bettered self. There was a charismatic charm about Drakz, and if he could find a susceptible weakness to exploit, you could bet the farm on the fact that he would if it would serve his ends. Week after week, the crowd lavished praise upon him, seemingly enamored by his smile, his charm, his narcissistic upbeat demeanor. It was the type of cult of personality that would be so easy to get swept away in, if one were none the wiser.
I didn't fear Drakz any more than I feared the notion of The New Epoch as a whole. Their overcompensation for instilling fear and the notion of an insurmountable challenge in their opponents, whether joined at the seams in their glory days or scattered across the wastes as they'd come to find themselves, struck me as little more than textbook glossing of the soft spots in their armor. Dependence. Abuse. Mental instability. Outlandish impulsiveness. These, to me, were the hallmarks of the men who once formed one of the most feared and revered stables in WFWF history, hallmarks that had already dispensed one of their members back into the shadows. For Drakz and his sunny exterior, all I saw was a charismatically exploitive shell of man who'd step on anyone and dismiss any common norm to get what he wants.
Twice he'd trumped David Brennan in battle, as Brennan had so staunchly warned me about in my dealings with Joe Bishop. In the face of his seeming invincibility, I stood staunch, firm, and proud in one solitary notion that would carry me through my meeting with Drakz to whatever the outcome may be.
I was not David Brennan.
I was Daniel Kirkbride.
Drakz had no edge over Daniel Kirkbride. He had no prior victories to boast, no triumph to parade. He'd only what he could gather at arms length in an observatory capacity with which to formulate a plan of attack, and I had conviction on my side. I had nobility. A sense of right from wrong. I had reason to fight. Reason to win. Not for arbitrary belts or for grandeur or for an elevated spot upon the competitive ladder.
For David Brennan.
For me.
Daniel Kirkbride.
David might find himself relegated to an off the beaten path corner of Drakz mind, where the throngs of years of abusive substance use can't even begin to be obscured my a short spat with sobriety - a footnote. Another 'W' in the record books twice entered. Not a man, not a face, not a friend, not a name.
That would be my intent.
My purpose.
For each time that David Brennan fell to a man who'd reduced him to a shell of his full potential.
Drakz would remember my name.
I dont know good luck 
