Post by Drakz on Apr 23, 2015 7:59:27 GMT -5
The Trip
(An Experiment in Memory Cleansing)
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I am a man beaten but not broken, or is that broken but not beaten? Whichever way you look at it I have suffered at the hands of the jealous few and yet still stand over them, my d*ck slapping their faces.
My body undeniably aches. I am sore. I am bruised. I am far from 100%, but the solace I can find through all of these sneak attacks? At End Game I get to not only beat Phillip Schneider again, but I will do it running on fumes, showing the wold what kind of a man he really is. His frustrations have clearly boiled over as he has offered me the only thing he has left, his career. He has no titles. He has no recent world shaking victories to speak of. He is yet another man who was once on top but is slowly fading, slowly burning out.
No doubt he will declare that this is his swan song. This is him going out in a ball of flames, and yet I put it to you that Phillip Schneider hasn’t got the fuel left in him to create anything but smoke. The last embers of his somewhat exaggerated career are no longer capable of keeping our feet warm, and so we turn away and find another. If he were to have gone out on top, then he would have a right to this statement, but if the only feather left in his cap is his record setting World Heavyweight Championship reign then I think it’s fair to say he’s clutching at straws. How long ago did that run with the belt end? And yet he still talks about it as though any of us care? The only thing I care about Phil, is scrubbing that fact from the history books so that people are given the chance they deserve. The chance to forget your name. A name which for years has been inflated by only one mouth. Your own.
Let’s take a look back shall we?
Phillip Schneider.
This is your life.
11 years ago he entered into this bizarre world of wrestling and immediately showed he was incapable of setting out on his own. He needed a hand to hold, and he quickly found that in Percy Jackson. Star crossed lovers set to light up the world of the mediocre with their multiple tag team title wins. I’m not shunning the division in and of itself, however when compared with the trajectory of another man running in the race, namely myself, it’s a little less impressive. Phillip one of your tag matches was the first to main event a programme, is that not right? A move many would call ground breaking, but in my eyes it must simply have been a slow week.
Los Hobos were the first tag team inducted into the Hall of Fame and I suppose that’s nothing to be snorted at, but again I find it hard to care in as much as a sympathy vote is nothing to be proud of. Time and again I look back at that era and wonder why you were regaled as anything but a second rate vaudevillian comedy duo. Pies in the face and tripping over your own feet isn’t what I consider noteworthy. Your slapstick ways may have appealed to the lowest common denominator but I’m glad to say that even you eventually grew tired of being the butt of every joke in the company.
So you gave it up and pursued a career on your own two feet. An applaudable move but one so many had done before you.
Whilst you were fighting tooth and nail to climb the ladder, both metaphorically and of course physically to your first singles title, another certain someone had already reached the grand prize, but this is about you, not me. Okay it’s a little about me, but let’s not stray too far into that territory.
In fact, no let’s.
It’s of notable interest that it wasn’t until my initial hiatus that you rose to any real prominence. When the big fish are taken from the pond it suddenly becomes a lot less scary. The legend that has grown around you should be given more credit, as it’s created quite the veil.
Well Phillip, my Arab princess, you may have beautiful eyes but I’m finally going to tear that veil from your face to reveal the scared little girl that hides beneath. I may be the only one who realises what you are, and to be honest I thought your loss to me 1 year ago would have been enough to spread the word, but it seems it’s going to take more than that.
The populous still think of you as a terrifying, unpredictable quantity. The Creature from the Black Lagoon. I understand you’ve retired countless people over the years, but of those people how many of them had wrestled more than 3 matches? How many of them can people actually remember the name of?
No, not you. I’m not interested in the fact that you have each of their names tattooed on the inside of your thigh. I want to know how many of those fighters the fans or your peers can remember? I for one see just a single man.
Hutton Brown.
Even then that’s only because you never stop talking about him. Brown was a flash in the pan, and the only reason you take so much pride in adorning yourself with his attire is because he actually managed to beat you one on one if memory serves? He was the man, before me, to deny you your Grand Slam, which by the way you still can’t lay claim to. F*ck your masked shenanigans. Phillip Schneider does not appear on the list of those who have held a lower tier singles title belt. No sir.
The fact that you are giving me the chance to retire you in a position in which you will never appear on the list of Grand Slam Champions makes me very happy indeed. There are 6 men on that list and I intend on keeping it that way for as long as I’m around.
But what if you beat me I hear you cry?
Let’s look at the facts Philbo Baggins.
Your last WFWF World Heavyweight Championship reign was ended by a girl. One Scarlett Quinn. I’ve already gone into great detail regarding this and so will leave that where it is. What followed this upset though? For a man who went undefeated for 11 months the follow up to this unexpected usurping wasn’t quite what the world expected.
You lost…….again.
This time to yours truly.
Of course you then went on a vintage Phillip Schneider rampage, flexing your muscles by tearing yet another forgettable chump to pieces.
“I retired Mason Dixon!”
Who?
One thing to point out at this point is your momentum isn’t what it used to be. Your in ring appearances have become less and less of a regularity and as such, each win and loss means so much more. You beat Joshua Dean. Impressive. The first noteworthy victory of yours since Michael Kyzer over 18 months previous. That must have got your balls throbbing again as you immediately felt as though I should be granting you a rematch.
There’s no champion’s rematch clause if you walked in as much of a nobody as you walked out Phil.
So how did you react to my nonchalance?
You tried to retire Dex. Now admittedly we all remember his name, but it’s for all the wrong reasons, and so it counts for nothing that you put him in the hospital. Dex was a rising star, a man with true potential, but realistically the only notch on his bed post is beating ZMaster in a retirement match, something most of the roster has done at this point. So again mate, nobody was that impressed.
Okay what comes next?
Ahhhh the important part of the pattern. You suffered another crushing defeat, again at the hands of a woman.
Penny Shannon.
Pen Pen was able to get you pinned for a count of 3 and how do you react? Gracefully? Of course not. As we’re starting to see that’s not the Phillip Schneider way. If little baby Phillip doesn’t get his own way he throws his toys out of the pram. You took it upon yourself to carve up the face of the warrior who just beat you. Sterling effort my boy. You really sent me a message. But did you stop there? Nope. You proceeded to hospitalise Dex again, claiming it was my fault….again?
Could you convey yourself as any more of a spoiled brat?
Well now here we are. The final stop on your not so impressive career. The myth unraveling at your feet.
Let me sum it up for you mate.
You lost to a girl.
You lost to me.
You lost to a girl.
…………INSERT INEVITABILITY HERE…………
Phillip, I haven’t granted you this title shot because I think you deserve it. I haven’t granted you a rematch because I think the fans want to see it.
The only reason this is happening is because it’s about time this pathetic story of yours ended.
I will be the man to pen your obituary.
The final full stop in your book of lies will be my face, smiling up at you.
And how will you react? F*ck. Maybe you’ll go home and beat the sh*t out of your daughter. Maybe you’ll justify yourself by cutting Samantha’s face to shreds? Who knows?
Whatever you do though it will no longer be my business.
We, the people of the world, will no longer have to suffer through another episode of My Sweet 16th.
It’s time to pick your toys up and f*ck off home.
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Doctor, Doctor
“And breathe out….”
He prods and pokes with his b*stard doctor hands as I, Genghis Khan, bow to his every whim, vulnerable as Azaria Chamberlain.
“Isn’t there a part where you hold my balls and I cough?”
Dr Hershel glances up at me over his glasses.
“There’s no happy ending to an oral examination I’m afraid Isaac, despite the name.”
He’s heard it all before.
“Ever been to Bangkok?”
Hershel has been my quack since last August and has been subjected to my sense of humor long enough to grow numb to it’s shock value. He replaced my previous doctor, who wasn’t quite as entertaining.
Right before I set off for New York, and of course the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship, I was advised not to bother. A young lady told Isaac Cray not to risk the irreversible damage his spine was due. Stay in Chi town. Put your feet up. Be forgotten.
If you cast your collective minds back far enough I’m sure you can remember how her advice went down.
“Only for connecting flights, so no, I suppose not.”
Dr Hershel was the first physician in a long time who agreed that what I was doing was right for me. He was able to look past the physical trauma staying in the ring could cause, and instead focus on the mental trauma I’d suffer staying out of it. His exact words were ‘whatever makes you happy’. I’m not sure that’s the recommended diagnosis from the surgeon general’s office but I think he’s on the money. Who the f*ck cares about the state of their body if they’ve had to sacrifice their peace of mind?
“I suppose you only asked because you want to tell me about your trip?”
Typical. Always the suspect.
“No. I’ve never been. Although I did once f*ck a lady boy.”
If I maintain a straight face he’ll never know if it’s true. To be honest in my wilder days I may well have done the dirty. All I know is my card is clean. I’m still allowed to give blood.
“Besides being riddled with syphilis how are you feeling?”
This is why Hershel is my doctor. He gives as good as he gets, and why? Because he can. I can guarantee he’s the picture of professionalism with all of his other patients. With me he knows he’s in safe hands. He could tell me to f*ck off and would sleep soundly knowing his job was secure.
“If you must know doc I feel pretty beat up.”
Beat up and pretty.
“And has it changed your mind?”
“Nope. It’s just cemented my decision. The only reason I feel like this is because I’ve let my guard slip. I let one man have his wicked way with me time and time again without consequence.”
His eye brows raise and I cut him off before he comments.
“I know right? Instead of f*cking, I’ve been f*cked. I’ve gone from giver to receiver and it’s starting to chafe.”
He makes a note. I assume he didn’t just write down the line about chafing. With his eyes still on the note pad he continues his line of questioning.
“If you had to specify one particular area causing you the biggest problems where would it be?”
I gesture with one hand in a circle suggesting it’s my whole f*cking everything that aches. Glancing up at me he gets the picture.
“I see. Well you know what I’m supposed to say on the matter I assume?”
Start dodging bricks?
“Give it up? Yeah it makes sense, and I know that’s the logical thing to do but in my world there’s not much room for logic. In my world homeless Jews dress as viking thugs, swinging weighted candy bags of destruction. Dr Seuss would have a melt down.”
“Okay, well in that case share with me what you intend on doing to improve the situation? If you carry on at this rate you’ll be back in a chair before the year is out.”
“That’s easy. Remove the problem. Like I said before there’s only so long I can ignore a d*ck slapping me in the face. It’s finally time to nail it to the door frame.”
Now that boys and girls is a metaphor you can take all the way to the bank…….whatever that means.
“Have you always had such an obsession with violent, sexual imagery?”
I just nod.
“Hmmmm. And I assume it comes as no surprise that you’ve chipped part of the bone making up your shoulder socket?”
He means the scapula but I’m not going to tell him that. I like this doctor/patient relationship we’ve got where I’m supposed to be the dunce to his all knowing power. Although, didn’t he just say he assumes it comes as no surprise? Maybe he knows I know?
Again I nod.
“It’s nothing too important, as the chip is in a fairly nonfunctional area, you will however experience excruciating pain if you knock it in bed, or when getting dressed etc.”
“What if a son of HaShem double stomps it?”
“I’m sorry? Is that a euphemism?”
“No I genuinely mean there is a pretty good chance a Hebe will kick me right on that sweet spot.”
“Have you ever cried during one of your fights?”
“No. Why?”
He looks at me and chuckles.
“Oh........ F*ck.”
Dr Hershel now leans over and turns his desk lamp to almost blind me. Without a word he begins inspecting the trussed gash in my head. The surgeon did a stand up job on it. He even managed to stitch it with the words “Match of the Year”. A talented seamstress.
“This cut is healing nicely though. Are you keeping it clean?”
“It’s on my head…..”
“And is it ever sore?”
“Again, only when I knock it in my sleep. Heh.”
“Well in my honest, professional opinion I don’t see reason for me to write you a sick note.”
“You mean I have to go to work? Doc you’re killing me.”
I grin at him and he shakes his head.
“Besides all of this though Isaac. How are you? Disregard the physical.”
This is getting a bit hippie dippy isn’t it?
“Meta. Is that an answer? I don’t know doc. F*cked? A bit all over the shop."
"Well if you refuse to retire for the benefit of your health, would you at least consider taking some time off? If only for the benefit of your peace of mind."
“I’ve got a lot playing on my mind at the moment, but maybe some time away might do me some good. There's so much to take into account though. There's a lot of responsibility attached to being the best. There are many pies that need fingering, but I’m only one man, and you should know better than anyone how many digits one man has.”
I pause as though waiting for an answer to a clearly rhetorical question.
“10?”
“Exactly. Not enough. I need fingers for pies, fingers to block dams and of course fingers to tug on pelvic walls. This body isn’t enough for my essence doc. I need some Hindu enlightenment. I need 10 sets of arms and 3 heads. F*ck it I’ll have a tiger to ride around on seeing as I’m already asking. Can you do that doc? For me? Your old pal Isaac?”
He won’t rise to my rattling.
“No Isaac. Of course not.”
“You can’t stitch extra functioning arms onto my torso? What kind of a doctor are you? F*ck man. Here I am putting all of my trust in you! My health is in your care, and you’re not even a licensed limb grafter?!”
I hop down from the bed and grab my shirt, pulling it over my head as I leave his practice. I let the door close behind me but as soon as it does I head straight back into the room. Dr Hershel sits, bemused and staring at the wall, holding my opioid prescription, ready for me. I whip it from between his fingers.
“Thanks doc. Same time next week?"
"Same time next week."
I wink.
"You’re a babe.”
Good old Dr Hershel. Purveyor of the age old mantra:
“Reach for the stars you p*ssy!”
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Canine Wisdom
I leave the Doctor’s surgery with more questions than answers. My load should be lighter after visiting a specialist and yet his prodding and poking has seemingly only angered the sores. For the record, everything he said about my syphilitic state was a jibe, and the sores I just mentioned are merely metaphorical. Unlike Jayson Garrett I have the sense to wear a rubber when I’m chirpsing a broad. That’s slang for getting down to it. F*cking yanks.
As I hit the pavement my good friend, perhaps my only friend these days, comes trotting around the corner. I crouch to meet him, smearing his ears across his face as I rub his head with both hands. I am of course talking about the dog. I’m not into PDA with humans.
“Hello mate!”
He grins, black gums revealed by his sagging jowls. Maybe that’s me simply personifying the opening of his mouth, but it sure looked like a smile to me.
“You wanna stretch your legs? Come on let’s go for a walk lad.”
He’s yet to say a word to me, but people say that dogs can sense emotions. He’s clearly understood that I fancy clearing my head for a minute or two at least.
They also say dogs can smell cancer.
I bet Shawn Malakai is a “cat person”.
Where do I start? Solutions must be found to the current problems before I can relax. I swear the stress I’m under is doing more damage to my back than any of the bumps I’m taking. Knotted muscles are trying to separate my vertebrae. Tear them apart, leaving my inner workings exposed. I need to take a step back and work out why I’m so riled as of late.
It’s all well and good playing it cool on the tele, but if behind closed doors your a f*cking cabbage then what’s the point? What is the root of all of this?
I’ve been beaten down. Jumped from behind. Laid to waste by men, sorry, Dragons much bigger than me.
It’s not that though. My physical well being has never really played on my mind. I don’t think I’d still be in this business if that were the case.
I’m the World Heavyweight Champion. That’s got to be tough? Knowing that everyone wants what I have. Isn’t that something people say?
It isn’t that either though. Being champion is second nature to me. On a side note, I’d be interested to know the ratio in my career of days with title belts weighed against days without. Either way I’m not too fussed about the proverbial bulls-eye on my d*ck. I enjoy the kiss chase mentality. Everyone wants a shot. It’s nice being able to tell them my terms. You want to step into the ring with the champ? Give me your career.
Is it the fact Phillip Schneider 2 is on the horizon?
Nope. I’m not sure why, but I just don’t have that same fear in my belly as everyone else when it comes to Phillip. His name makes knees knock in most corners of the globe, however I have never seen him as anything but a walking personality disorder.
Imagine that.
Imagine being told by a trained professional that you don’t suffer from any kind of mental illness. You aren’t victim to any kind of disease. You’re just a d*ck.
Plain and simple.
You were born that way.
Schneider can’t be the source of my woes, because it was only last week that I gave him the time of day. He’s a shell of his former self. He’s not won a match of any importance in years. I’ll stick my neck out and suggest that the last time Phillip Schneider won a match anyone cared about was against Michael Kyzer.
And there we have it. Surely that’s got to be the answer? The return of The God of F*ck. The resurfacing of the usurper, the villain, the hand that wields the knife with my name on it, Judas, Macbeth, whatever name he has stamped on his forehead. This man must be the issue. Surely?
It’s odd though. I should have a light bulb exploding out of my ass right now, and yet I’m still not really sure if Kyzer is the answer. I should be able to pin point it. Michael Kyzer should be the answer. By all accounts he is my mortal enemy. After all his is the hand that crippled me. If there were any man that should have me incensed right now it is him. I can’t put my finger on it though. My mind seems to be leaving something out of sight. There’s clearly something too dark for even me to handle. F*ck. That’s a scary thought.
“Do you think I need to take some time off?”
Out of nowhere I speak and yet the dog seems as though he was expecting it.
“A sabbatical? No. A short holiday? Perhaps.”
Well that was concise. There’s no bullsh*tting with this guy. I think that’s why I let him stick around even though he f*cks my sofa cushions.
“Hershel suggested taking some time to realign my chi or some sh*t. What do you suggest? An island getaway in the Bahamas?”
“You could do that. I don’t know if it would help in the long term though. You need to change your way of thinking if you want to really clear your head.”
Deep.
“So what then?”
“You could always do what I did.”
What he did? What does he mean by that? I appreciate that his mind is somewhat different to other dog’s, but I have to remain aware of the fact that he is still only that. A dog.
“Which is?”
“Open the gate.”
What is with him today?
“The mind’s eye.”
Tentatively I try to pry more information out of him. I don’t want to seem too keen just in case this is all a joke.
“Go on then. Enlighten me. How did you open your brown eye?”
He turns his head to the side as we walk, shooting me a knowing look that lets me know he’s being serious.
“You could dedicate your life to it, but that takes years. Time is something not all of us have, yourself included. How did I do it? How did I end up the way I am? Drug induced awakening.”
“Sorry kiddo, I’ve beaten you to the punch on that one. Each of the hairs on my head tells a tale of pharmaceutical dependency.”
“I’m not talking about recreational abuse. Sniffing China White off of your best friend’s d*ck does not constitute walking the path. Neither does being dosed up on pain relief. You need to control the variables and the environment.”
This has gone from strange to…………..I don’t know. Strangererer?
“Ayahuasca.”
“Wait. Isn’t that the hippie sh*t they drink in communes? I don’t subscribe to that sir.”
“Suit yourself. It’s how I got here though.”
Wait a minute……what?
“What do you mean? How you got here?”
“My words won’t do the story justice. Trust me, if you follow my instruction you’ll see it all for yourself. You said it. Dr Hershel said it. You need a break. Why not try a break from the norm? A break from your usual misconceptions Isaac.”
He turns to look up at me, and there’s that smile again. For a second he’s just like any other dog. That second is dissipated though as the fur on his forehead parts and a third eye winks at me.
F*ck.
I need this time away more than I thought.
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Fungus Among Us
Maybe it was the way he worded it, maybe it was the backing of a medical professional, or maybe, just maybe, it was the hallucination that acted as a fanfare to the onset of sheer exhaustion? I have to sway toward the latter. However my mind was made up, it’s brought me here. The middle of the Amazonian rain forest.
Ludicrous.
The heat here is formidable, but in all honesty it’s the humidity that’s ruining me. I spend every waking minute coated in a film of sweat. I’m sure it’s the same when I’m asleep but I’m just about able to ignore it at that stage.
Of course the dog has stayed in the states for his own safety. All it would take is him sniffing around the wrong backside, or eating the wrong fungus and before you know it he’s been poisoned. Really though I left him behind because he told me to. He said I needed to step out on my own, and I have to agree with him.
I sure could use some decent conversation right now though.
I’m 3 days into this cuckoo retreat and there’s not a single human being here. They’re all aliens wearing synthetic people skin. It’s the only explanation for their poptastic demeanours. Chirpy is underselling everything about them, and if I hear another request for a late night drum circle I swear to Allah I’m going to go postal.
I’ve never been one for “love thy neighbour” or “staying in bed for peace”. Great music. Pipe dream mentality. Some people are just wired to be c*nts. Sorry, did I say that? What I meant was MOST people are wired to be c*nts. If there’s one thing me and Phillip Schneider agree on it’s that the world was not created to house harmony. All around us, all around me right here in this jungle, nature is showing it’s true colours. The wilderness of this planet is a f*cking horrible place. It’s a place fueled by death and everyone getting an unfair ride. Who are we as mere animals ourselves to defy the very soup we crawled from?
I slap a mosquito as it tries to draw life from my calf.
“Hey brother.”
F*ck. Where did he come from?
“We’re about ready for the ceremony.”
I wish these hairy hippies would put some damn clothes on. I’m tired of my life being counted down by the pendulum like swing of another man’s penis.
“See you in The Pit!”
I realise at this point I’ve just been kind of staring at him rather wide eyed, not saying a word. He doesn’t seem to have noticed, but then again the number of space cadets that must pass through this camp must have numbed him to it.
He puts his palms together and bows his head. Eurgh. I like doing that as a f*cing joke. This guy is a hair away from a ‘namaste’.
“Namaste.”
Aaaaand there it is. This ayahuasca stuff better be worth it, because right now I feel about as well rested as a paedo at a Pokemon party. Paedo at a Pokemon party. That rolls off the tongue quite nicely.
“Paedo at a Pokemon party.”
“What’s that?”
That wasn’t supposed to come out of my mouth, but I think it was just about inaudible enough for him not to catch more than one of the words. Who cares anyway?
“I said paedo at a Pokemon party.”
And with that I think I may have gotten through his force field. Your extra terrestrial technology is no match for the inner workings of my mind you f*cking hippy.
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At this point I’m sat as far back from the group as possible without becoming the centre of attention. If I sit too far away one of them will purposely call me out on it and all eyes will be on me. We’re in the area at the centre of the camp. A place they call The Pit, I assume because of the fire in the middle?
I won’t bore you with the nonsensical sh*te pouring from the moon child’s mouth as he leads proceedings. If I’m allowed to tune it out I think you should be too.
At least he’s had the decency to cover his shame with some kind of animal skin. Doesn’t that go against the whole mentality he’s promoting though? Killing an animal and demoting it to an eternity of cupping his testes.
Nature is cruel.
He begins to add the final touches to the mind altering concoction and I savour my final moments of clear, unadulterated thought.
One last look into the abyss of my mind before taking a swan dive into it.
As I sit in silence it suddenly dawns on me who this ring leader reminds me of.
Trace.
The Final Revolutionary.
He’s been spouting line after line of hysteria, whipping these morons into a frenzy of joy and titillation before pouring his love juice into their mouths. Christ, this is all quite sexual really isn’t it?
I digress.
The comparisons I draw between these two men though somewhat exceeds the limitations of simply talking sh*te. Metaphorically the entire ceremony that I’m baring witness to is a replicant of Trace Demon’s indoctrination of an ignorant people. The gusto of his words are merely a precursor to the darker truth. Drink from the cup and follow me in the dance.
Am I in a cult?
Is this a suicide pact?
My thought cycle, which admittedly was quickly getting out of hand, is broken as I’m handed a cup of mucky looking water seasoned with plant stems. I try not to look beyond the hands that feed in fear of backing out of this. I stare into the cloudy liquid and then knock it back like cheap scotch. My throat tries to close on it’s contact with my tongue, but years of experience in forcing my body to accept things it wants to reject allows me to overcome this. My tongue then dries out and seems to have grown hairs. The feeling isn’t great and the taste itself isn’t much better.
How to describe it?
Like someone took a p*ss on a pile of dirt. That’s fairly accurate actually.
“Dude! The ritual!”
F*ck your ritual.
“F*ck your ritual.”
A feeling of nausea swells in my stomach as I rise from where I’m sat to return to my room. When this stuff sets in I don’t want to have inhibitions based on my surroundings, or the people within it.
If the dog says this is a personal journey, I want to make sure it remains that way.
Trust in dog.
Now there’s a new t shirt for the masses.
As I approach my hut I can feel my bowels start to groan so I quicken the pace. Moments later I’m bursting through the bathroom door and my sphincter is all but ripped in two by an explosion of epic proportions. I sit on what is essentially a wooden box with a long drop into a cess pit and as my vision starts to darken I lean forward and clutch my knees. It feels as if my backside has finished firing at will and so, before things escalate, I clean myself up and head back to the only other room that grants me complete privacy. Laying on a rug, I feel the wooden boards hard underneath my back, but it’s this foundation that lets me know I’m in safe hands. My hands.
I close my eyes, and my life changes……….
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C - Y - C - L - E /// O - N - E
T
H
E
M - O - V - I - E
M
A
N
Pulsing corridor of purple and moss. My feet stumbling the whole way through it, with hands outstretched and nails curling. I hold the walls in fear of losing them.
Is this home?
Is this here?
Am I here?
Onward soldier, as my back burns and my clothes are torn from it. I feel a snake around my waist and I look to see it’s golden face, round and written across with 4 letters.
W
F
W
F
It’s leather body contorts and constricts, letting me know I’m forever bound to it. The trunks I stand in are emblazoned with a name. A name I should remember. A name that should mean something.
D
R
A
K
Z
My boots are loosened and the laces writhe away, up the hall ahead of me. All is worms. All is snakes. The sound of a hiss. A roaring hiss, hangs mid air, all around me, filling my ears. Filling me up. It’s a collective of voices. Not a singular, but a group on mass. Hooraying and the like of something I have done. But what?
A door reveals at the horizon of my sight, and on approach yawns open like much labia has before it. I enter, and exit, enter, and exit. All is snakes. F*cking, and entering. The new room is a rebirth and the amniotic fluid drips from my pores. My breathing heavy and the fluid keeps dripping. This room is cold to the hissing. It silences the thousands of voices and a door closes behind me. The corridor is the past. The room is the present.
Within it, a man. A man with hair, hanging loose, dripping fluid like mine. He has no golden snake on his waist, or his shoulder, or his hand. Only a shadow of one. A memory of one, still just barely visible. The loss must have been recent.
His fluid dripping hair hangs over his face, but a tilt of his head is the remedy. His eyes are sad. His face is sad. He is broken. The loss of his golden snake?
He grieves.
He mourns.
He speaks.
“Are you happy now?”
Am I?
“Is it over?”
Is it?
“Won’t you speak? Or has all of that electricity fried your tongue? For the sake of my sanity I hope so.”
His trunks tell a story as mine do. A moniker. A name to be known by.
J
O
H
N
N
Y
Can I speak? Perhaps.
“Happier than you could ever know Jon Jon.”
It seems I can. These words are not mine though. These sounds are an automation. Air blowing across my vocal sinew. Vibrations through happenstance, not lucid thought.
“And has beating me been everything you had hoped?”
His mouth buckles and swallows his chin, then reverts and the gnashing of his teeth shows his colours. Red. Rouge. Anger.
“Beating you was always a means to an end. You just happened to be the man with the title at the wrong moment in time.”
The colours change to blue. To bleu. To sadness, again.
“This only became personal because you insisted it became personal Johnny. I would have been happy maintaining a professional relationship.”
A lie. A lie that bends the walls around us.
“For all the theatrics and games we’ve played I want you to know that I did it for the gold, not for you.”
His grief pours from his face. Face contorts. Face moves closer.
He stands, his legs trembling with lactic acid, and confronts me. Comforts me? Confronts me!
“You listen to me Drakz. This, you, tonight, is all a mistake waiting to be rectified. I am the best in this business. I am the man that title truly belongs to, and you? You’re just a cretin who picked his shots and got lucky.”
The skin on his body bubbles and twists until his feet face the way his back is heading. I see only a blank flesh. A featureless blank. A no face. Swarming under the skin, more worms. More snakes. A hole bursts from inside and a new man looks out.
“Stop dwelling on this Isaac. This is old f*cking news.”
The hole swallows his blonde Jew face and ‘Johnny’ is back.
“You know this is it for me though, don’t you? I know you’ve seen it.”
I have?
“You’re not from this time. You’re not the Drakz I just faced only moments ago. I know, don’t worry.”
“You’re right. I’m the Drakz that went on to outshine you and everyone that came before. I’m the Drakz that will give up this very championship for 6 years only to win it back and keep it. I’m the Drakz that no one ever saw coming.”
He turns and a heat rises. The reverse of those same trunks looking back.
M
I
C
H
A
E
L
S
“Movie Man!”
His silent head does not waver. He is back faced to my front facing body, and within that moment I break him. His head splits like so much watermelon, the pips inside, flies to the sh*t of the career I have ended. They buzz around my head and my eyes bulge. My d*ck is hard and my fist is harder. I paint with his colours. All red now. No blue. He is smashed and I know, this memory has shown me all it can.
I have outgrown my peers.
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C - Y - C - L - E /// T - W - O
F - A - M - I - L - Y
D - E - V
A
L
U
E
D
A billowing flag of red, white and blue. No Uncle Sam. No pilgrims here. This flag is older than that.
The good ship Mayflower left from these shores.
Shores of my childhood.
The kitchen. Where you’ll always find him?
I am in the kitchen.
My body bends and sits atop a work surface, watching from above. Climbing the vines to watch from the canopy. A canopy of smoke and yellowed wallpaper. Smoke damage.
Lung cancer.
Seated at a table. A woman. A wh*re. The Un-Virgin Mary………Margaret Cray.
Her hair is a mass of worms, her fingers groaning around a cigarette that sludges into her mouth. Arthritic knuckles creak each time she taps ash into an already overflowing tray atop an already overflowing table. Trash magazines. Photos of fat people she’s never known. Sexual tragedies. Stories sold for a pittance. Food rots around her as any moral sense of hygiene rots with it.
She is dying. She is dead.
She turns her eyes. She turns her head.
“Isaac. What are you doing up there?”
She sees me.
“Shouldn’t you be at school?”
My mouth stays as it is. Closed. But she seems to hear something that pleases her.
“You’re a good boy. You know how to treat your Mother.”
This vision of Mutter is a skewed one. Her age defies her surroundings. Her health defies this period of life. Her’s and mine. The hospital tag hangs loose around her thinning wrist, her skin yellowed from the jaundice and fever. This side of the Atlantic was much kinder to her, if only by happenstance.
Death assumedly took her from her bed in Denver. A bedside I left, never learning the ending to her story. Our being in this room is more a homage to the past than a snap shot of any kind of reality.
A knock on the door.
Three raps that nearly turn bones to dust. Her joints grind as she moves out of the chair to answer the call. The speed she sets is far from a personal best. Lung butter is hawked into a handkerchief as she shuffles and my smile is hard to hide. Suffering is a dish best served Luke warm.
From my perch a voice reaches me. A voice that soothes my soul. The worms simmer down. In she walks, the embodiment of a time best forgotten.
Karla.
“It’s so good to see you darling.”
The insanity of this moment is amplified in a sentence. Mother. Margaret. She would never have said that to Karla. She hated her. Another woman’s daughter. Ovaries scorned. The daughter she always wanted.
“How are you Marge? You’re looking better.”
Mother’s hair distorts into a tangle of snakes. Standing on end. Hissing in my direction.
“Still on my medication but my skin colour is coming back, look.”
Her cardigan sleeve rolls back and she shows the flesh to my beloved. The skin drips off, into a pile on the table top. Smears down a magazine centrefold.
“That’s good to hear. Has Isaac been round to see you? He’s such a cute little boy.”
Time frame is clearly an uncertainty in this dimension. Karla is the beauty I left in England less than 2 months ago and yet I am assumed a child?
“He’s just up stairs actually. Would you like to see him?”
“Of course.”
Mother’s shrill, smoke house voice beckons for Isaac.
“Isaaac. Come and say hello to your sister.”
Half sister.
“Here he is.”
Both sets of eyes, one beautifully made up, the other crusted with sediment, turn to me. The previously invisible I, am now the very much visible me.
“Isaac. How are you my dear little man?”
What the f*ck is this?
“Just dandy.”
“And how’s school? I hear you’re top of the class.”
A twisted chemical reaction takes place as her mollycoddling surges blood to my c*ck.
Another knock at the door.
“Oh that’ll be Phil. Have you met him yet Marge?”
Her verbal response is waylaid by a suck on her Richmond Superking. A shake of the head and then words expelling putrid smoke.
“Go let him in.”
Karla heads for the door and my Mother’s attention falls on me. Her mouth soured by the words that follow.
“You miserable little c*nt. I can see your trousers bulge from here. That’s your f*cking sister.”
She rises and, with a swing of her claw like crippled hand, brays me on the face. I feel nothing. Her mouth contorts and teeth fall out like Murray mints, her tongue flicking the rotting pegs into my lap.
“You’re a disgusting little child. Keep your maggot prick to yourself.”
Another strike with a hand that can’t make a fist, before she turns on her best behaviour for the return of Karla with her friend.
Oh Jesus!
“Marge, Isaac, this is my fiancé Phil.”
Phillip. F*cking. Schneider.
His hand waves and his eyes fix on me. He’s all smiles, and now the room is full of wolves. I am outnumbered by those that would see me dead. Karla is a non-entity.
Why am I seeing this? What could possibly be learned from this?
I want to sober up before this escalates.
He speaks.
“Why don’t you show them your ring Karla?”
His smile grows and p*ss leaks from his ears, cascading down his shoulders to form a pool on the floor. Karla is beaming like a bride to be should, holding up the back of her hand to show off the rock mounted on it.
“Not that one you f*cking idiot. AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGHHHHH”
The high, screaming vocal tears deep into my ears, killing synapses and near severing my spirit. His grin squeezes his head, wrinkles cutting his face into a million islands. The p*ss now flowing with vigour from his head so that they stand ankle deep.
Karla rolls her eyes at her apparent foolishness before dropping her trousers, knickers as well, bending over and spreading her backside.
I am rooted to the spot, only able to watch the chaos unfolding before my eyes. The mechanical scream continues! I beg for deaf. Death? Either will do.
Schneider’s head has almost collapsed in on itself, the teeth of his grin now forming the majority of his face. He takes the cigarette from Mother’s hand and forces it, ember deep, into the arse hole that winks at me.
As this becomes too much to bare I feel my feet tremble, aching to run from this. One more rung down the ladder to Hell allows me that very mobility as the wh*re that bore me kneels into the inches of stinking head juice and chases the smoke’s filter with her own tongue.
I am done.
At last reaction returns to my limbs. They hurl me at the exit. Any exit. Wading, chest deep in this brown yellow fluid I barge open the door and race into the street. Before a decision is even made I am in a car, fumbling the keys in the ignition. A spark. An explosion in the engine. It roars to life and as I throw it into reverse I see Michael Kyzer walking the street ahead of me. Why has everyone who wants to f*ck me arrived here? On the street I grew up on. I’m panicking as I press my foot down against the pedal, careering the vehicle backwards, and then…….THUD!
Something is under the wheel.
I can’t see what. I check my mirrors. Nothing.
I shift gears into first and try to move off in the other direction but whatever it is, it’s stuck fast. The car refuses to pull away.
I have to step out of the vehicle as Kyzer continues up the road toward me. I try to move quickly but get tangled in the seat belt as I step out of the door. I manage to free myself but before I make it around the car I feel an ice in my brain. Collapsing to the pavement I catch a brief glance upward at the King of Gore, his right hand pulling the scissors from the back of my skull, his left holding the severed heads of my Mother and lover by their hair.
I begin to fade to the void, vomit flowing freely and I know. I know that my history is his for the taking. Nothing is safe from a man this desperate.
How much does he know?
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C - Y - C - L - E /// T - H - R - E - E
R - E - R - E
H
A
B
My eyes open and I’m out. I’m free from the psychosis of my trip. Sanity has been restored, but where to exactly? Where in the blue f*ck am I?
I was laid on the floor of a hut in the Amazon and now I’m tucked under a starched white sheet in a room to match. So clinical. So familiar.
Oh sh*t.
The wall calendar says all I need to know. I’m not free at all.
‘East Phoenix Physical Therapy and Rehab Clinic, Phoenix, AZ’
I’m back. I’m back to the only place that was able to keep me. The only place in the long and storied history of Isaac Cray to even come close to breaking my spirit. I look around and see everything exactly as it was. The bed side cabinet with nothing but a lamp and a plastic jug of water adorning it, the chest of drawers that I know holds the very limited wardrobe of mine and of course my mortal enemy. The one inanimate object I have ever held a grudge against. The smoke alarm.
The red light blinks down at me like a child of Hal 9000.
‘Let me smoke in my room.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that Dave……Drakz.’
F*cking c*nt.
But why am I here? I’ve done this. There’s no unfinished business here. There’s nothing to be learned from my returning to this place. If my previous visions were the ghosts of Christmas past, then what point does this memory serve besides torment?
I sit up in the bed and try to stand but not a great deal happens.
As I continue to take in my surroundings I see that I have lied to you all. There is one more inanimate object I hate even more than the smoke alarm. A mechanical beast so bound to my feelings of irreverence and disgust that it may well have been cast from the very emotions themselves.
The wheel chair.
It sits in the opposite corner of the room, folded in on itself but I can already hear it’s laugh. Goading me. Telling me I need him more than he needs me.
F*ck him.
I am homo-erectus.
I am more than capable of walking.
I’m the f*cking WFWF Heavyweight Champion of the World!
My upper body lifts and I swing my legs to the ground.
1…
2…
3
And up!
I crash to the tiles, bouncing my face in a moment that reminds me of how vulnerable I really was. Iron in my mouth, and I know my lip is busted. My shaky hand reaches to my brow and it seems I’ve ruptured in more than one spot. My eyes close as breath escapes in a sigh of apathy. A sudden surge of anger propels my voice into the air around me.
“C*CKS! WHY?!”
I continue the adrenaline fueled instance and lift my head from the ground, my arms crawling across the floor, dragging a limp weight behind them. This was, and now is, me at my lowest. My weakest. My least Genghis like moment. I spit blood in a spray in front of me just to cause a mess. Needless to say I am furious that my mind has brought me back here. What is strange is my awareness of the situation though.
I am here.
The pain in my head lets me know that much. However I have the knowledge in my mind that this is nothing but an ayahuasca induced journey. I’m fairly confident of that.
The door to my room opens and a nurse looks down at me, wide eyed, as she hurries to my aid.
“Mr Cray! Are you alright?”
She sits me up and my head lulls back against the mattress I fell from.
“You shouldn’t be trying to get up without our assistance. Not yet.”
I’m kind of confident this isn’t real.
“Just wait here. Let me get some help.”
The nurse moves to the doorway and shouts up the corridor. She is quickly met by a second nurse and the two of them hoist me up and into the God forsaken chair, it’s canvas sling seat hugging my arse like a sex offender.
“Oh goodness you’re bleeding! Nurse, can you go and fetch me a first aid kit so I can clean Mr Cray up before breakfast.”
The second hand maiden leaves the room and I bury the balls of my palms into my eyes in the hope that everything around me will simply f*ck off.
“Come now Mr Cray. Don’t let this get you down. You’ve only been here a couple of days. You need to wait for some time before you can try anything as testing as getting out of your bed.”
Anything as testing as getting out of bed?! I double stomped Cameron Stone into retirement! I dropped Joshua Dean on his head in front of his own wife. Getting out of bed should not be given a second thought!
I lift my head up and turn to look at the nurse. The light contracts my pupils, dazzling my view for a moment, but as they adjust I am greeted by the face that shows such concern for me. A face I was not expecting.
Ashley.
Serenity’s Mother.
Donnie’s Sister.
Kyzer’s (ex)lover.
A woman I haven’t seen for years, and yet here she is, in the rehab clinic. In my rehab clinic.
“Once we’ve cleaned up that cut we’ll get you out of here and into the Rec. Room from some food. I know how claustrophobic these rooms can get.”
I’m still startled by her presence. Stunned into a silence solemnly heard. Here is a woman so entrenched and tangled in the history of the man who put me here that it’s excusable for me to question whether he’s waiting around the corner as well. For a woman who has held such disdain for me over the course of our vague excuse of a relationship, she doesn’t seem to recognise me as anything but another patient in the clinic. Every time she dropped by Mike’s house I would answer the door, a note still up my blow hole, or a hooker wrapped around my waist. She saw me as the enabler to her already very much enabled baby daddy. To call me a bad influence is laughable. There was no influence at play between myself and Michael, only encouragement for encouragement’s sake.
Regardless of the actual part I played, the way Ashley saw it I was not a man she wanted her daughter around, and rightly so. But in this moment I am simply Mr Cray.
Footsteps back up the hall bring another surprise. The nurse returns with cotton wool and iodine for my wound and again my hair is blown back.
“Here you are nurse.”
Kylie Olsen.
Phillip Schneider’s f*ck toy.
Michael Kyzer’s f*ck toy.
Percy Jackson’s forbidden fruit.
But most importantly, a dead girl.
So this is the hand I have been dealt by my own subconscious. A return to the darkest days of my life, hosted by two women who have never cared for my take on a sense of humor. I’m not sure what it means as of yet, but I’m certain this is only going to get worse.
A sudden sting. A pain that again deflates my confidence in this situation. I can’t be sure of the authenticity of my surroundings because of this sense of pain. The burn of anger and helplessness in my stomach. The hum in my head from the fall. The searing wake up call of the iodine killing any chance of infection. It’s all too real.
“There we go. That should close up fine. You may suffer some swelling around the eye, but I’m sure that’s nothing you can’t handle. How about some food?”
I doubt my protesting the idea will change the outcome.
“On Dasher, on Dancer….”
Ashley smiles sympathetically and before I know it I’m moving on out of the prison cell they always called a bedroom.
Down the corridor. Past the showers. Around the corner. Over the draw bridge. Through the gas chambers. Around another corner. Past my bedroom again. Into the Rec. Room.
That journey was a little different from how I remember it but the end wound up just the same.
All of the tables have been pushed together, as though breakfast is now a cause for celebration, with a single large white table cloth draped from end to end. I’m free wheeled toward it and, although I’ve slowed some as I approach, my sternum still catches the table’s edge, knocking some of the wind out of my sails. Or do I mean lungs?
I turn to make a sarcastic comment of thanks but Ashley’s long gone, and when I turn back everything’s changed. The table is full. I’m surrounded by people.
People I know all too well.
Across from me sits a man who shames me with guilt. A man who reminds me how self involved I have become since returning to the ring I once left behind indefinitely.
Derek. My old friend.
When I say old I don’t mean it as though I’ve known him ‘forever’. I use the term in it’s truest sense. This *****h is seriously f*cking old. Don’t let that fool you though. His wit is sharp as a razor with a tongue to match.
My shaming is not an act of malice on his part, in fact I doubt in this very moment he even knows he’s done it, but his presence here reminds me I have forgotten all about him. The week I won the World Heavyweight Championship at Madison Square Garden, the week I spent in New York City, was the same week I received a letter telling of this man’s death. I was urged to investigate it. I was asked if I would use my free time to discover if Derek truly had jumped or if his son had pushed. Have I done that? Have I honoured the life of a man I came to know so well in such a short time?
Would I feel this crushing guilt if I had?
I’ve been so engrossed in my work and my conquest for dominance that I’ve let a promise to a friend fall by the way side.
That is not what good guys do.
I will rectify this, but now is not the time. That is not the moral of this story. There’s a deeper meaning to all of this, but what?
“Ladies and gentlemen. A toast!”
My attention turns to the head of the table and a new piece of the puzzle bringing me closer to the answer. A two headed man beast speaks with both voices at once, swaying his filled cup and sloshing it’s contents around him. The neck splits at the base and neither head looks particularly comfortable in the position it hangs in. Both heads are instantly recognisable, but their pairing together seems so strange given the history. One belongs to Phillip Schneider, and the other, Michael Kyzer.
“Please raise your glasses for our guest of honour. The beast with two backs, both of them broken, Mr Isaac Cray, or as you know him………Drakz!”
Everyone up and down the length of the table lets out a cheer or applauds and I soon realise I am surrounded by the entire roster of the WFWF, past and present.
ZMaster
Raider
Scratch Cat
Joe Bishop
Chris Avalon
Trent Draven
Saku
Dave Demento
Ante Whitner
Kronic
Immune
Percy Jackson
Mak Cross
Penny Shannon
Jack Sabbath
The list goes on and the table seems to extend for miles, and yet my vision is clear as day. I can make out even the furthest of faces with perfect clarity. Every man, woman and Yukio is sat in a wheel chair, just like me, and I wonder, is this the lesson? That we’re all doomed to wind up as cripples unless we quit the game? No, that can’t be it. What did they mean by the two broken backs comment?
I look back toward the Phillip Kyzer (or is it Michael Schneider?) f*ck mess as they continue their speech.
“Please let us be the first to say it. Welcome back to Phoenix!”
An explosion of neon light halos their heads as a Vegas like sign erupts out of the atmosphere, carving out the exact 4 words that just left their collective mouths.
’Welcome Back to Phoenix!’
The second two letters to the word ‘Back’ burn out before falling from the sign, and then it dawns on me. They’ve had to spell it out, but it’s there, black and white. My next fight is taking me right back to where this whole thing began! Right back to the scene of the crime!
End Game is so much more than a place to settle a score. My match with Phillip Schneider will take place in the very arena in which my spine was laid to waste. The very arena inside which I was betrayed by my closest, and perhaps only friend.
The beast with two backs!
This is a warning.
This is a red light.
Phillip Schneider means to relive history by stepping into Mike’s boots and snapping my spine. This fight has more than one career riding on it, that is for certain.
The amalgam of emotions this building has brought on; frustration, anger, guilt, shame, sadness, are all coming to a head. My guts burn and feel fit to explode. I bang my fist on the table and every head, from left to right, end to end, turns to me. I push the wheel chair back from the table and in one motion stand up and out of it.
A collective gasp almost sucks the oxygen from the room.
There is no rebirth for you!
No re-enactment of fate dealt so carelessly!
I shall strangle the Arizonan Phoenix as it tries to rise from the ashes.
My spine is a column of fire. Unbreakable. That fire burns up into my head and I feel a heat wanting to rip through my eyes. This is my second coming! This is what I’ve been waiting for!
Sol Inviticus!
I turn and grip the arm rests of the damned chair and in one frenetic motion hurl it across the room, splitting the Kyzer/Schneider f*ck mess clean in two.
F*ck what you have heard!
Phillip Schneider’s career, and the legend that is woven around it, dies in Arizona!
Sol Inviticus shall emerge from the dust before it even has chance to settle.
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Dan, Son of Man
A park bench might seem like a bizarre place to meet, but given the man I’m meeting and his relationship with a mutual friend of ours, it didn’t seem appropriate to suggest a bar. Anyone who knows me, who knows my story, is aware that almost every sit down ends up sidelined by an excuse to have a few drinks, so perhaps meeting in this neutral, open space means we might be able to focus on what I want to discuss.
April in Arizona is none too shabby. The sun’s out, but retrospectively no heat will ever touch me again after my stint in the jungle. The park is empty, which given the weather is bizarre. It’s unnerving in that I’m still not certain whether this is real or not. I could very well still be up to my neck in ayahuasca nightmares. I feel as though my journey back to the states was a legitimate experience though. Everything’s changed now. I’m not sure what to believe. My own senses are heightened and are still adjusting to that change.
My skin tingles as the breeze passes over it and my eyes can make out the smallest movement in my arm hair. I open my mouth to breathe in the air around me and it seems as though I can taste it. I’m not sure what to think.
Across the way from me a figure enters the park. A young man with dark hair, of that I can be sure. One can only assume it is my 11 o clock appointment, right on time. Perhaps even slightly early. As he approaches I run over the bullet points of my speech in my head. I can’t allow him to leave until I’ve made it through them all. I can’t imagine he’ll try to, but you never know how people will react to the ramblings of a man awakened, or at least part awakened. There’s still something blocking the way. A memory in the shape of a door stop that even the DMT derivative of shamanic ritual couldn’t show me. Whatever it is, I need to find it myself. No shortcuts.
“Drakz.”
He’s here.
“Daniel. Please, call me Isaac, at least for the duration of this conversation.”
“Isaac it is sir.”
“Also, never refer to me as sir again.”
He nods and his level of respect and decorum almost anger me. Something’s got to give in this boy if he wants to elevate.
“Take a seat lad.”
He sits next to me and for a time we simply stare across the grass. Unexpectedly it’s Mr Kirkbride who speaks first.
“You wanted to speak to me about something?”
“I want to speak to you about someONE. I’m sure you know who I’m referring to?”
Again he nods in agreement.
“Good. At least you’re susceptive to reason. Before we get onto that matter though I’d at least like to break the ice.”
Another nod, and the static of awkwardness is near suffocating.
“Our match, the other week. That was serious. I hope you understand that. I don’t waste my time on people who aren’t worth it. If I could have gotten you out of there any quicker I would have.
As I’m sure the whole locker room loves to mention, of all of the guys active in this sport I’m near the top of the list of those on borrowed time. Me, Trace, Schneider, Kyzer, we’re all relics by the standards of this game. I’m only 33 years old but I’ve got the body of a man twice my age, and yet I still appear to be the best there is? Why? Because I am. There’s no illusion there Daniel. At this very moment in time I am the best performer on the face of the earth. In the ring I’m able to hang with guys 10 years younger than me with ease. On the microphone I’m unmatched. My 11 years of doing this have made me who I am today, however as I already mentioned, it won’t last forever.”
I turn to look at him and see he is tentatively soaking up everything I say.
“I’ve still got fight in me, and I hope I showed you that the other week, however this sport deserves people like you as it’s future. This is why I wanted you to meet me here.”
“Thank you, it means a lot to hear that from a man in your position, but is that the real reason you invited me here?”
“That’s the reason yes, however the reason is merely the instigator for what I have to say. If you’re going to fill the spot at the top of the card one day then you need to survive until that time comes. You have picked a fight with a man who has no qualms about ruining all of this for you. You are about to lock horns with the very man who left me for dead. Michael Kyzer is not to be seen as just an evil to be vanquished Daniel.
If you make that mistake he WILL destroy you.”
This is some medieval sh*t.
“I would never underestimate the challenge synonymous with that man. David has told me all about him, and what he’s capable of.”
David? David’s worst enemy is himself. He hasn’t got the first idea of what Kyzer is capable of.
“Hmmmm, David I’m afraid can’t be trusted in these matters. Brennan, whilst an ally, was never a confidant. Not to Michael anyway. He hasn’t heard the things I’ve heard. He doesn’t know what I know. I could send Michael Kyzer down for 5 straight life sentences with what I know.”
“So why don’t you? Wouldn’t that be the ultimate revenge after what he did to you? The King of Excess, incarcerated for the rest of his days.”
“I couldn’t do that. Our issues need to be settled the hard way.”
Kirkbride smiles and I sense an ounce of fear behind it. He, like the rest of the WFWF should be scared. Scared of what may happen to them during the war to come. You can talk about warring factions all day. You can tell tales of The Final Revolution, or The New Epoch, but the real war is yet to come.
The war between two Kings.
The war between two Gods.
The world will burn and all of those caught in the blast will simply be casualties to the cause.
“You need to keep Michael Kyzer at arm’s length Daniel. Do not let him get into your head. There’s no room for manipulation here, and that is coming from perhaps the only man capable of matching him at his own game.”
“So what’s your advice? If everything Brennan has told me is for naught, what should I believe. I guess what I’m trying to say is, how do I proceed?”
“The only advice I can give you is this: Michael Kyzer through all his smoke and mirrors, through all of the dragons he holds the reigns to, and through all of the myth that surrounds him, like all of us he is indeed but a man.”
Brennan again nods and I can see the enormity of his situation starting to sink in. I could tell that when he entered the ring in L.A. and picked up the gauntlet laid before him that he was fired up, maybe not thinking about consequences, but now, now he’s rooted in the reality of what lies ahead.
“And don’t for one second think that if this all goes to pot that I’ll be running in to make the save. I have my own fight to focus on, one which threatens the legitimacy of my legacy.”
“Schneider?”
“Schneider.”
“Is he really going to retire do you think?”
“I know. He had to drag my attention from Kyzer some how, and his foolish pride lead him to throw all of his chips in. He knows this is make or break for him. He needed this rematch. He thinks my victory over him was mere fluke, that I’m an undeserving champion. He wants to show the world one more time why he is a force to be feared. Those days are long gone though.”
“Do you really believe that? It’s hard in this business to separate the myth from the reality, but I’ve always seen Phillip Schneider as a monster. I don’t mean that in the sense that he’s reprehensible, although that is undoubtedly true, what I mean is he strikes me as unstoppable. He’s willing to do things others wouldn’t dream of to get what he wants.”
“Do you know who I am Daniel?”
“Drakz? The World Heavyweight Champion?”
“Both true, but not what I’m looking for. I am the only truly unstoppable force left in the WFWF. I am Genghis Khan Jnr. Do you remember the last time I was beaten?”
I can feel the fire rising. Keep it under control. Now isn’t the time for the preacher routine.
“People for a time were referring to you by your accolade were they not? Everyone seemed incapable of mentioning your name without also talking about your clean record. Your undefeated streak. Admittedly those days are gone now, but one streak still continues today. I haven’t suffered a loss since 2012. Do you see Daniel? The only unstoppable force in the WORLD is sat before you right now!”
Oh lordy, here we go. Kirkbride, still incapable of showing even an iota of disrespect straps himself in, and if he hasn’t? Can frantic conversation kill a man?
I feel myself rise from the bench.
“Even my last defeat, at the hands of Trace Demon, has been rectified 2-1 in my favour. That one slip up, that one mistake on my part is now but a forgotten relic, drowning in a sea of victory. Do we journey further? I couldn’t even tell you how far back you would have to look in the history books to find another instance of my failure! You can keep turning those pages until your thumbs are raw and still it seems Drakz, nay The Streak Destroyer, Destroyer, Destroyer remains as the only reality that not only matches the legend but outdoes it. The bards have written music in my name;”
Is this much passion healthy? I’m not really sure.
“There was a man, some say borne of a Khan,
His torso’s width only matched by his arms,
And Dragon and God all fell to his hand,
Those who doubt his d*ck length shall fall where they stand.”
And now I’m singing. I’m not so sure this ayahuasca retreat has done me much good.
“Do you hear me Danny Boy?!
Oh Danny Boy,
The bells, the bells are ringing!”
Kirkbride is looking at me in disbelief, and who can blame him. The WFWF Heavyweight Champion of the World is belting out freestyle folk songs. I am a joke. A dangerous one, but still a joke.
“Are you quite finished?”
“HAHA! I knew it. I knew there was only so much of this chest puffing idiocy you could stand before you spoke up. It seems to me Dan that perhaps you do have within you the capacity for insubordination, and that my friend is very good indeed.”
His eyebrows rise, clearly dumbfounded.
“You need to hold onto that. This respectful schtick will only get you so far. Eventually you are going to have to show that you not only want to be the ‘King of the Hill’ but that you deserve it. Perhaps the time hasn’t arrived quite yet, but it will come and you will demand what is rightfully yours. I know it. Being a gentlemen might be enough to make it in the mid card, but if you want to reach the dizzying heights only a few of us have seen, if you want to be the name at the top of a Superbrawl card, then you need to swallow a fire and let it’s heat scorch those around you. You’re not the only man fighting to be noticed and it’s much easier to win the race if your competition’s pants are round their ankles. Do you see what I mean? I’m not as insane as you might think. There is a lesson in every fable, no matter the lunacy surrounding it.”
“So what you’re saying is; good guys finish last, right?”
“In not so few a words, yes, I suppose I am. I want you to succeed me. I want you to be the guy who takes this strap from around my waist.”
“You want to lose it? Why?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m a realist Daniel. I know I have to lose this belt one day. I’m not the kind of man who retires and vacates. I want to groom a challenger capable of knocking me over and taking the torch, not leaving it to the best of a bad lot. I think you have that within you. I think you have what it takes.
More importantly though, back to the pressing issue at hand, I think you can beat Michael Kyzer.”
“I couldn’t beat you…..”
“Nor can he.”
And perhaps at last, with this final show of ego, I have sent a message to the next generation. A smile creeps up one side of Kirkbride’s mouth and he rises from the bench, holding out his hand toward me.
“Isaac. This has been enlightening in more ways than one. Thank you.”
Being the goodest good guy I am I of course shake it.
“Good luck.”
“And to you.”
“Me? I thought I’d covered that?
’There was a man, some say borne of a Khan,’”
The son of God shakes his head and walks the way he came, leaving me to me own devices, my song tailing off into a laugh at my own expense.
A man needs more than luck to carve out the guts of a Jew.
He needs self belief.
He needs experience in the field.
He needs to already have the upper hand.
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So have I taken anything from my experience, or was I just tripping loops in the jungle? A bit of both if I’m honest.
What did I learn?
I learned I’ve already got everything I need to destroy anyone, let alone a man on his last chance.
I learned I’ve no reason to be conflicted regarding my moral fibre as compared to Phillip I’m a saint.
But most of all I’ve learned what I’m capable of.
I talked of evolving just before I fought and bested Daniel Kirkbride, but it is only now I can say that my self is complete. I have realised that there is no more growing left to do, only refining. I am already the complete machine, there are simply a few nuts and bolts that need tightening, a couple of gears that need greasing.
I have realised my true self.
I am Sol Inviticus, The Undefeated Sun.
How long has it been? Jesus. Let me do the maths………………
978 days since I was last defeated. Even if we subtract the time I was laid up with a broken back that’s still 448 spins of the earth.
All that time and no one has been able to best me.
No one has come close to stealing the fire from my f*cking belly, and what is my next challenge? To simply burn to ash a prophet already crippled from our last dance? I need something new. I need the chance to really be pushed to my limit. Instead I’m reliving a bad dream I had just over 1 year ago.
We may have won match of the year on the show of the year, but Phillip seems to forget how it all ended. He thinks the accolades attributed to our last encounter are enough for him to get by on. If I remember correctly though I didn’t just beat him. I made him submit.
I did what Joshua Dean couldn’t do, even with all of the blood and guts. I used my bare hands to force Phillip Schneider to say;
“Please! No more! I yield!”
The mere suggestion that this time will be any different is ridiculous. Who has been chasing who for the last few months? Who has relied on sneak attacks, foreign objects and f*cking firearms to coax me into this situation? And did any of it work? We’re only at this juncture because I’ve been given the chance to add yet another title to my ever expanding list, perhaps the longest in the history of this company? There may be no ‘golden faced snake’ to commemorate the fact, but I will hence forth be known as the man who liquidated all assets and closed down Phillip Schneider Enterprises.
The champion of the whole f*cking universe.
The man who rid them of “The Jew That Couldn’t”.
Like all of the others though that title will lose it’s shine. It will fade and become something I forget about. Right up until I break his record as the longest reigning WFWF World Heavyweight Champion of all time, erasing his name and only then truly feeling justified in my name as The Streak Destroyer Destroyer Destroyer. I need to destroy everything that fool has ever fought to create. For the good of the colony.
I refuse to underestimate the man though as he has made it clear that this is his everything. I know full well that he will try to kill me in that ring. I have to be ready to outsmart him every step of the way. How does one do that? How does one gain a leg up on a dog so unpredictable? For one you have to understand that he’s far more predictable than people know. I need to look at how HE will be preparing to fight ME.
I am the champion.
I am undefeated.
I am 1 - 0.
So what could possibly be going on behind closed doors in the Schneider house hold, besides sexual abuse?
He will probably rattle on about his relationship problems and his Daughter/Daddy issues.
He will probably fight a random jock in the car park of a McDonalds.
I have no doubt that he will do the rounds of his old gang. I expect him to speak to all of his former confidants. His merry gang of c*nts. They may well be estranged on paper but I doubt he can resist rallying the troops if only for advice. This is of somewhat questionable reason though as I fail to see who he could possibly speak to that could offer even an whisper of help?
No one he knows has ever f*cking beaten me.
His only option is Trizzler Dizzler, or The King of Demons, or whatever the f*ck he wants to call himself. Trace Demon is what his merch says at least. Those two don’t get on so well though, which kind of rules out that coming to fruition. What’s more, Trace has his tail lodged firmly between his legs after what I did to him in England. I think I stapled it to his thigh actually?
Speaking of my good friend Trace Demon it’s important to note that he is indeed the only mar on my otherwise gleaming record. I can’t remember in any great detail what happened prior to my 2011 recompense with the company, but since then I am billed as 23-1-0, which I suppose isn’t bad.
1270 days.
Nigh on 3 and a half years with only 1 loss.
After all that time though that single figure in the middle of that record does jar me somewhat. Never the matter. I suppose it’s a constant reminder that none of us are perfect. If you become comfortable in your perfection you get lazy. That’s what I tell myself at least, and so far it’s kept me from jumping through my 9th floor apartment window.
I’m sure Schneider will bring up the fact that while my undefeated streak is longer than his own old and almost forgotten one, the frequency with which my bounties are claimed is somewhat diminishing. It’s true that since we traveled to the UK I have only a single skirmish under my belt, but what do you expect when I’ve spent every other show in the Doctor’s office having my stitches redressed? I’m not one for competing when my condition allows for an upset, but then again that is the lead story as we head into Phoenix isn’t it?
Phillip Schneider has time and again tried to waylay me with batterings, I suppose in the hope that if I did snatch up his gauntlet that he would have the edge? His onslaught has been constant and yet self deprecating in the long run, as his career now risks being snuffed by a man operating at about 60% of his usual capacity. He has offered me ever grander bragging rights and that is something that I can’t let slip. Surely this victory will be enough to cement me as the greatest of all time? This will be my ‘Flu Game’. Chi Town represent.
So where do I really stand on this match? On this challenge? I seem to flip and flop between calling it a case of going through the motions, and saying it will be a great achievement to sit on my mantle. A bronze cast of Phil’s head.
As I see it, whilst beating Schneider will be great and all, this is really only a piece of a much bigger picture for me. As angry as this will make him, Phillip Schneider is nothing but leverage. What do I want most in the world right now? The opportunity to break Michael Kyzer’s back of course. Right now I’m playing to his rules though. I legally can’t touch the man, and so I need him to change the way the game works. I need him to revoke this bureaucratic nonsense that is keeping my hands from his throat.
How can I influence his actions? By playing to his weaknesses. His ego being the biggest of them all.
I can’t say for certain as my memory is rife with dark spots, but I believe the only person to ever beat Michael Kyzer is the very man I’m looking to retire. If I can go 2 - 0 over Phillip Schneider and send him into the void of never never then that may be enough to scorn Kyzer into dropping his guard.
’Anything you can do I can do better.’
Or in this case;
’Everything you couldn’t do I can do with my eyes closed.’
This singular act of defiance in the face of the God of F*ck may rile him beyond sense and bring him to me.
Whilst it may be apt for Phillip Schneider’s situation, End Game is far removed from it’s namesake for me. This is not about endings. This is about beginnings. This is about opening the door.
This is about taking the next step toward rewriting history. Purging Obo’s name from the records.
This is about initiating the war between The God of F*ck and The F*cker of Gods.
This is about Drakz.
This is about Isaac Cray.
This is about the “God” Slayer
This is about Genghis Khan Jnr.
This is about The Streak Destroyer Destroyer Destroyer.
This is about THE GOOD GUY.
This is about Sol Inviticus.
This is about the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion.
This is about………….me.
(An Experiment in Memory Cleansing)
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I am a man beaten but not broken, or is that broken but not beaten? Whichever way you look at it I have suffered at the hands of the jealous few and yet still stand over them, my d*ck slapping their faces.
My body undeniably aches. I am sore. I am bruised. I am far from 100%, but the solace I can find through all of these sneak attacks? At End Game I get to not only beat Phillip Schneider again, but I will do it running on fumes, showing the wold what kind of a man he really is. His frustrations have clearly boiled over as he has offered me the only thing he has left, his career. He has no titles. He has no recent world shaking victories to speak of. He is yet another man who was once on top but is slowly fading, slowly burning out.
No doubt he will declare that this is his swan song. This is him going out in a ball of flames, and yet I put it to you that Phillip Schneider hasn’t got the fuel left in him to create anything but smoke. The last embers of his somewhat exaggerated career are no longer capable of keeping our feet warm, and so we turn away and find another. If he were to have gone out on top, then he would have a right to this statement, but if the only feather left in his cap is his record setting World Heavyweight Championship reign then I think it’s fair to say he’s clutching at straws. How long ago did that run with the belt end? And yet he still talks about it as though any of us care? The only thing I care about Phil, is scrubbing that fact from the history books so that people are given the chance they deserve. The chance to forget your name. A name which for years has been inflated by only one mouth. Your own.
Let’s take a look back shall we?
Phillip Schneider.
This is your life.
11 years ago he entered into this bizarre world of wrestling and immediately showed he was incapable of setting out on his own. He needed a hand to hold, and he quickly found that in Percy Jackson. Star crossed lovers set to light up the world of the mediocre with their multiple tag team title wins. I’m not shunning the division in and of itself, however when compared with the trajectory of another man running in the race, namely myself, it’s a little less impressive. Phillip one of your tag matches was the first to main event a programme, is that not right? A move many would call ground breaking, but in my eyes it must simply have been a slow week.
Los Hobos were the first tag team inducted into the Hall of Fame and I suppose that’s nothing to be snorted at, but again I find it hard to care in as much as a sympathy vote is nothing to be proud of. Time and again I look back at that era and wonder why you were regaled as anything but a second rate vaudevillian comedy duo. Pies in the face and tripping over your own feet isn’t what I consider noteworthy. Your slapstick ways may have appealed to the lowest common denominator but I’m glad to say that even you eventually grew tired of being the butt of every joke in the company.
So you gave it up and pursued a career on your own two feet. An applaudable move but one so many had done before you.
Whilst you were fighting tooth and nail to climb the ladder, both metaphorically and of course physically to your first singles title, another certain someone had already reached the grand prize, but this is about you, not me. Okay it’s a little about me, but let’s not stray too far into that territory.
In fact, no let’s.
It’s of notable interest that it wasn’t until my initial hiatus that you rose to any real prominence. When the big fish are taken from the pond it suddenly becomes a lot less scary. The legend that has grown around you should be given more credit, as it’s created quite the veil.
Well Phillip, my Arab princess, you may have beautiful eyes but I’m finally going to tear that veil from your face to reveal the scared little girl that hides beneath. I may be the only one who realises what you are, and to be honest I thought your loss to me 1 year ago would have been enough to spread the word, but it seems it’s going to take more than that.
The populous still think of you as a terrifying, unpredictable quantity. The Creature from the Black Lagoon. I understand you’ve retired countless people over the years, but of those people how many of them had wrestled more than 3 matches? How many of them can people actually remember the name of?
No, not you. I’m not interested in the fact that you have each of their names tattooed on the inside of your thigh. I want to know how many of those fighters the fans or your peers can remember? I for one see just a single man.
Hutton Brown.
Even then that’s only because you never stop talking about him. Brown was a flash in the pan, and the only reason you take so much pride in adorning yourself with his attire is because he actually managed to beat you one on one if memory serves? He was the man, before me, to deny you your Grand Slam, which by the way you still can’t lay claim to. F*ck your masked shenanigans. Phillip Schneider does not appear on the list of those who have held a lower tier singles title belt. No sir.
The fact that you are giving me the chance to retire you in a position in which you will never appear on the list of Grand Slam Champions makes me very happy indeed. There are 6 men on that list and I intend on keeping it that way for as long as I’m around.
But what if you beat me I hear you cry?
Let’s look at the facts Philbo Baggins.
Your last WFWF World Heavyweight Championship reign was ended by a girl. One Scarlett Quinn. I’ve already gone into great detail regarding this and so will leave that where it is. What followed this upset though? For a man who went undefeated for 11 months the follow up to this unexpected usurping wasn’t quite what the world expected.
You lost…….again.
This time to yours truly.
Of course you then went on a vintage Phillip Schneider rampage, flexing your muscles by tearing yet another forgettable chump to pieces.
“I retired Mason Dixon!”
Who?
One thing to point out at this point is your momentum isn’t what it used to be. Your in ring appearances have become less and less of a regularity and as such, each win and loss means so much more. You beat Joshua Dean. Impressive. The first noteworthy victory of yours since Michael Kyzer over 18 months previous. That must have got your balls throbbing again as you immediately felt as though I should be granting you a rematch.
There’s no champion’s rematch clause if you walked in as much of a nobody as you walked out Phil.
So how did you react to my nonchalance?
You tried to retire Dex. Now admittedly we all remember his name, but it’s for all the wrong reasons, and so it counts for nothing that you put him in the hospital. Dex was a rising star, a man with true potential, but realistically the only notch on his bed post is beating ZMaster in a retirement match, something most of the roster has done at this point. So again mate, nobody was that impressed.
Okay what comes next?
Ahhhh the important part of the pattern. You suffered another crushing defeat, again at the hands of a woman.
Penny Shannon.
Pen Pen was able to get you pinned for a count of 3 and how do you react? Gracefully? Of course not. As we’re starting to see that’s not the Phillip Schneider way. If little baby Phillip doesn’t get his own way he throws his toys out of the pram. You took it upon yourself to carve up the face of the warrior who just beat you. Sterling effort my boy. You really sent me a message. But did you stop there? Nope. You proceeded to hospitalise Dex again, claiming it was my fault….again?
Could you convey yourself as any more of a spoiled brat?
Well now here we are. The final stop on your not so impressive career. The myth unraveling at your feet.
Let me sum it up for you mate.
You lost to a girl.
You lost to me.
You lost to a girl.
…………INSERT INEVITABILITY HERE…………
Phillip, I haven’t granted you this title shot because I think you deserve it. I haven’t granted you a rematch because I think the fans want to see it.
The only reason this is happening is because it’s about time this pathetic story of yours ended.
I will be the man to pen your obituary.
The final full stop in your book of lies will be my face, smiling up at you.
And how will you react? F*ck. Maybe you’ll go home and beat the sh*t out of your daughter. Maybe you’ll justify yourself by cutting Samantha’s face to shreds? Who knows?
Whatever you do though it will no longer be my business.
We, the people of the world, will no longer have to suffer through another episode of My Sweet 16th.
It’s time to pick your toys up and f*ck off home.
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Doctor, Doctor
“And breathe out….”
He prods and pokes with his b*stard doctor hands as I, Genghis Khan, bow to his every whim, vulnerable as Azaria Chamberlain.
“Isn’t there a part where you hold my balls and I cough?”
Dr Hershel glances up at me over his glasses.
“There’s no happy ending to an oral examination I’m afraid Isaac, despite the name.”
He’s heard it all before.
“Ever been to Bangkok?”
Hershel has been my quack since last August and has been subjected to my sense of humor long enough to grow numb to it’s shock value. He replaced my previous doctor, who wasn’t quite as entertaining.
Right before I set off for New York, and of course the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship, I was advised not to bother. A young lady told Isaac Cray not to risk the irreversible damage his spine was due. Stay in Chi town. Put your feet up. Be forgotten.
If you cast your collective minds back far enough I’m sure you can remember how her advice went down.
“Only for connecting flights, so no, I suppose not.”
Dr Hershel was the first physician in a long time who agreed that what I was doing was right for me. He was able to look past the physical trauma staying in the ring could cause, and instead focus on the mental trauma I’d suffer staying out of it. His exact words were ‘whatever makes you happy’. I’m not sure that’s the recommended diagnosis from the surgeon general’s office but I think he’s on the money. Who the f*ck cares about the state of their body if they’ve had to sacrifice their peace of mind?
“I suppose you only asked because you want to tell me about your trip?”
Typical. Always the suspect.
“No. I’ve never been. Although I did once f*ck a lady boy.”
If I maintain a straight face he’ll never know if it’s true. To be honest in my wilder days I may well have done the dirty. All I know is my card is clean. I’m still allowed to give blood.
“Besides being riddled with syphilis how are you feeling?”
This is why Hershel is my doctor. He gives as good as he gets, and why? Because he can. I can guarantee he’s the picture of professionalism with all of his other patients. With me he knows he’s in safe hands. He could tell me to f*ck off and would sleep soundly knowing his job was secure.
“If you must know doc I feel pretty beat up.”
Beat up and pretty.
“And has it changed your mind?”
“Nope. It’s just cemented my decision. The only reason I feel like this is because I’ve let my guard slip. I let one man have his wicked way with me time and time again without consequence.”
His eye brows raise and I cut him off before he comments.
“I know right? Instead of f*cking, I’ve been f*cked. I’ve gone from giver to receiver and it’s starting to chafe.”
He makes a note. I assume he didn’t just write down the line about chafing. With his eyes still on the note pad he continues his line of questioning.
“If you had to specify one particular area causing you the biggest problems where would it be?”
I gesture with one hand in a circle suggesting it’s my whole f*cking everything that aches. Glancing up at me he gets the picture.
“I see. Well you know what I’m supposed to say on the matter I assume?”
Start dodging bricks?
“Give it up? Yeah it makes sense, and I know that’s the logical thing to do but in my world there’s not much room for logic. In my world homeless Jews dress as viking thugs, swinging weighted candy bags of destruction. Dr Seuss would have a melt down.”
“Okay, well in that case share with me what you intend on doing to improve the situation? If you carry on at this rate you’ll be back in a chair before the year is out.”
“That’s easy. Remove the problem. Like I said before there’s only so long I can ignore a d*ck slapping me in the face. It’s finally time to nail it to the door frame.”
Now that boys and girls is a metaphor you can take all the way to the bank…….whatever that means.
“Have you always had such an obsession with violent, sexual imagery?”
I just nod.
“Hmmmm. And I assume it comes as no surprise that you’ve chipped part of the bone making up your shoulder socket?”
He means the scapula but I’m not going to tell him that. I like this doctor/patient relationship we’ve got where I’m supposed to be the dunce to his all knowing power. Although, didn’t he just say he assumes it comes as no surprise? Maybe he knows I know?
Again I nod.
“It’s nothing too important, as the chip is in a fairly nonfunctional area, you will however experience excruciating pain if you knock it in bed, or when getting dressed etc.”
“What if a son of HaShem double stomps it?”
“I’m sorry? Is that a euphemism?”
“No I genuinely mean there is a pretty good chance a Hebe will kick me right on that sweet spot.”
“Have you ever cried during one of your fights?”
“No. Why?”
He looks at me and chuckles.
“Oh........ F*ck.”
Dr Hershel now leans over and turns his desk lamp to almost blind me. Without a word he begins inspecting the trussed gash in my head. The surgeon did a stand up job on it. He even managed to stitch it with the words “Match of the Year”. A talented seamstress.
“This cut is healing nicely though. Are you keeping it clean?”
“It’s on my head…..”
“And is it ever sore?”
“Again, only when I knock it in my sleep. Heh.”
“Well in my honest, professional opinion I don’t see reason for me to write you a sick note.”
“You mean I have to go to work? Doc you’re killing me.”
I grin at him and he shakes his head.
“Besides all of this though Isaac. How are you? Disregard the physical.”
This is getting a bit hippie dippy isn’t it?
“Meta. Is that an answer? I don’t know doc. F*cked? A bit all over the shop."
"Well if you refuse to retire for the benefit of your health, would you at least consider taking some time off? If only for the benefit of your peace of mind."
“I’ve got a lot playing on my mind at the moment, but maybe some time away might do me some good. There's so much to take into account though. There's a lot of responsibility attached to being the best. There are many pies that need fingering, but I’m only one man, and you should know better than anyone how many digits one man has.”
I pause as though waiting for an answer to a clearly rhetorical question.
“10?”
“Exactly. Not enough. I need fingers for pies, fingers to block dams and of course fingers to tug on pelvic walls. This body isn’t enough for my essence doc. I need some Hindu enlightenment. I need 10 sets of arms and 3 heads. F*ck it I’ll have a tiger to ride around on seeing as I’m already asking. Can you do that doc? For me? Your old pal Isaac?”
He won’t rise to my rattling.
“No Isaac. Of course not.”
“You can’t stitch extra functioning arms onto my torso? What kind of a doctor are you? F*ck man. Here I am putting all of my trust in you! My health is in your care, and you’re not even a licensed limb grafter?!”
I hop down from the bed and grab my shirt, pulling it over my head as I leave his practice. I let the door close behind me but as soon as it does I head straight back into the room. Dr Hershel sits, bemused and staring at the wall, holding my opioid prescription, ready for me. I whip it from between his fingers.
“Thanks doc. Same time next week?"
"Same time next week."
I wink.
"You’re a babe.”
Good old Dr Hershel. Purveyor of the age old mantra:
“Reach for the stars you p*ssy!”
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Canine Wisdom
I leave the Doctor’s surgery with more questions than answers. My load should be lighter after visiting a specialist and yet his prodding and poking has seemingly only angered the sores. For the record, everything he said about my syphilitic state was a jibe, and the sores I just mentioned are merely metaphorical. Unlike Jayson Garrett I have the sense to wear a rubber when I’m chirpsing a broad. That’s slang for getting down to it. F*cking yanks.
As I hit the pavement my good friend, perhaps my only friend these days, comes trotting around the corner. I crouch to meet him, smearing his ears across his face as I rub his head with both hands. I am of course talking about the dog. I’m not into PDA with humans.
“Hello mate!”
He grins, black gums revealed by his sagging jowls. Maybe that’s me simply personifying the opening of his mouth, but it sure looked like a smile to me.
“You wanna stretch your legs? Come on let’s go for a walk lad.”
He’s yet to say a word to me, but people say that dogs can sense emotions. He’s clearly understood that I fancy clearing my head for a minute or two at least.
They also say dogs can smell cancer.
I bet Shawn Malakai is a “cat person”.
Where do I start? Solutions must be found to the current problems before I can relax. I swear the stress I’m under is doing more damage to my back than any of the bumps I’m taking. Knotted muscles are trying to separate my vertebrae. Tear them apart, leaving my inner workings exposed. I need to take a step back and work out why I’m so riled as of late.
It’s all well and good playing it cool on the tele, but if behind closed doors your a f*cking cabbage then what’s the point? What is the root of all of this?
I’ve been beaten down. Jumped from behind. Laid to waste by men, sorry, Dragons much bigger than me.
It’s not that though. My physical well being has never really played on my mind. I don’t think I’d still be in this business if that were the case.
I’m the World Heavyweight Champion. That’s got to be tough? Knowing that everyone wants what I have. Isn’t that something people say?
It isn’t that either though. Being champion is second nature to me. On a side note, I’d be interested to know the ratio in my career of days with title belts weighed against days without. Either way I’m not too fussed about the proverbial bulls-eye on my d*ck. I enjoy the kiss chase mentality. Everyone wants a shot. It’s nice being able to tell them my terms. You want to step into the ring with the champ? Give me your career.
Is it the fact Phillip Schneider 2 is on the horizon?
Nope. I’m not sure why, but I just don’t have that same fear in my belly as everyone else when it comes to Phillip. His name makes knees knock in most corners of the globe, however I have never seen him as anything but a walking personality disorder.
Imagine that.
Imagine being told by a trained professional that you don’t suffer from any kind of mental illness. You aren’t victim to any kind of disease. You’re just a d*ck.
Plain and simple.
You were born that way.
Schneider can’t be the source of my woes, because it was only last week that I gave him the time of day. He’s a shell of his former self. He’s not won a match of any importance in years. I’ll stick my neck out and suggest that the last time Phillip Schneider won a match anyone cared about was against Michael Kyzer.
And there we have it. Surely that’s got to be the answer? The return of The God of F*ck. The resurfacing of the usurper, the villain, the hand that wields the knife with my name on it, Judas, Macbeth, whatever name he has stamped on his forehead. This man must be the issue. Surely?
It’s odd though. I should have a light bulb exploding out of my ass right now, and yet I’m still not really sure if Kyzer is the answer. I should be able to pin point it. Michael Kyzer should be the answer. By all accounts he is my mortal enemy. After all his is the hand that crippled me. If there were any man that should have me incensed right now it is him. I can’t put my finger on it though. My mind seems to be leaving something out of sight. There’s clearly something too dark for even me to handle. F*ck. That’s a scary thought.
“Do you think I need to take some time off?”
Out of nowhere I speak and yet the dog seems as though he was expecting it.
“A sabbatical? No. A short holiday? Perhaps.”
Well that was concise. There’s no bullsh*tting with this guy. I think that’s why I let him stick around even though he f*cks my sofa cushions.
“Hershel suggested taking some time to realign my chi or some sh*t. What do you suggest? An island getaway in the Bahamas?”
“You could do that. I don’t know if it would help in the long term though. You need to change your way of thinking if you want to really clear your head.”
Deep.
“So what then?”
“You could always do what I did.”
What he did? What does he mean by that? I appreciate that his mind is somewhat different to other dog’s, but I have to remain aware of the fact that he is still only that. A dog.
“Which is?”
“Open the gate.”
What is with him today?
“The mind’s eye.”
Tentatively I try to pry more information out of him. I don’t want to seem too keen just in case this is all a joke.
“Go on then. Enlighten me. How did you open your brown eye?”
He turns his head to the side as we walk, shooting me a knowing look that lets me know he’s being serious.
“You could dedicate your life to it, but that takes years. Time is something not all of us have, yourself included. How did I do it? How did I end up the way I am? Drug induced awakening.”
“Sorry kiddo, I’ve beaten you to the punch on that one. Each of the hairs on my head tells a tale of pharmaceutical dependency.”
“I’m not talking about recreational abuse. Sniffing China White off of your best friend’s d*ck does not constitute walking the path. Neither does being dosed up on pain relief. You need to control the variables and the environment.”
This has gone from strange to…………..I don’t know. Strangererer?
“Ayahuasca.”
“Wait. Isn’t that the hippie sh*t they drink in communes? I don’t subscribe to that sir.”
“Suit yourself. It’s how I got here though.”
Wait a minute……what?
“What do you mean? How you got here?”
“My words won’t do the story justice. Trust me, if you follow my instruction you’ll see it all for yourself. You said it. Dr Hershel said it. You need a break. Why not try a break from the norm? A break from your usual misconceptions Isaac.”
He turns to look up at me, and there’s that smile again. For a second he’s just like any other dog. That second is dissipated though as the fur on his forehead parts and a third eye winks at me.
F*ck.
I need this time away more than I thought.
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Fungus Among Us
Maybe it was the way he worded it, maybe it was the backing of a medical professional, or maybe, just maybe, it was the hallucination that acted as a fanfare to the onset of sheer exhaustion? I have to sway toward the latter. However my mind was made up, it’s brought me here. The middle of the Amazonian rain forest.
Ludicrous.
The heat here is formidable, but in all honesty it’s the humidity that’s ruining me. I spend every waking minute coated in a film of sweat. I’m sure it’s the same when I’m asleep but I’m just about able to ignore it at that stage.
Of course the dog has stayed in the states for his own safety. All it would take is him sniffing around the wrong backside, or eating the wrong fungus and before you know it he’s been poisoned. Really though I left him behind because he told me to. He said I needed to step out on my own, and I have to agree with him.
I sure could use some decent conversation right now though.
I’m 3 days into this cuckoo retreat and there’s not a single human being here. They’re all aliens wearing synthetic people skin. It’s the only explanation for their poptastic demeanours. Chirpy is underselling everything about them, and if I hear another request for a late night drum circle I swear to Allah I’m going to go postal.
I’ve never been one for “love thy neighbour” or “staying in bed for peace”. Great music. Pipe dream mentality. Some people are just wired to be c*nts. Sorry, did I say that? What I meant was MOST people are wired to be c*nts. If there’s one thing me and Phillip Schneider agree on it’s that the world was not created to house harmony. All around us, all around me right here in this jungle, nature is showing it’s true colours. The wilderness of this planet is a f*cking horrible place. It’s a place fueled by death and everyone getting an unfair ride. Who are we as mere animals ourselves to defy the very soup we crawled from?
I slap a mosquito as it tries to draw life from my calf.
“Hey brother.”
F*ck. Where did he come from?
“We’re about ready for the ceremony.”
I wish these hairy hippies would put some damn clothes on. I’m tired of my life being counted down by the pendulum like swing of another man’s penis.
“See you in The Pit!”
I realise at this point I’ve just been kind of staring at him rather wide eyed, not saying a word. He doesn’t seem to have noticed, but then again the number of space cadets that must pass through this camp must have numbed him to it.
He puts his palms together and bows his head. Eurgh. I like doing that as a f*cing joke. This guy is a hair away from a ‘namaste’.
“Namaste.”
Aaaaand there it is. This ayahuasca stuff better be worth it, because right now I feel about as well rested as a paedo at a Pokemon party. Paedo at a Pokemon party. That rolls off the tongue quite nicely.
“Paedo at a Pokemon party.”
“What’s that?”
That wasn’t supposed to come out of my mouth, but I think it was just about inaudible enough for him not to catch more than one of the words. Who cares anyway?
“I said paedo at a Pokemon party.”
And with that I think I may have gotten through his force field. Your extra terrestrial technology is no match for the inner workings of my mind you f*cking hippy.
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At this point I’m sat as far back from the group as possible without becoming the centre of attention. If I sit too far away one of them will purposely call me out on it and all eyes will be on me. We’re in the area at the centre of the camp. A place they call The Pit, I assume because of the fire in the middle?
I won’t bore you with the nonsensical sh*te pouring from the moon child’s mouth as he leads proceedings. If I’m allowed to tune it out I think you should be too.
At least he’s had the decency to cover his shame with some kind of animal skin. Doesn’t that go against the whole mentality he’s promoting though? Killing an animal and demoting it to an eternity of cupping his testes.
Nature is cruel.
He begins to add the final touches to the mind altering concoction and I savour my final moments of clear, unadulterated thought.
One last look into the abyss of my mind before taking a swan dive into it.
As I sit in silence it suddenly dawns on me who this ring leader reminds me of.
Trace.
The Final Revolutionary.
He’s been spouting line after line of hysteria, whipping these morons into a frenzy of joy and titillation before pouring his love juice into their mouths. Christ, this is all quite sexual really isn’t it?
I digress.
The comparisons I draw between these two men though somewhat exceeds the limitations of simply talking sh*te. Metaphorically the entire ceremony that I’m baring witness to is a replicant of Trace Demon’s indoctrination of an ignorant people. The gusto of his words are merely a precursor to the darker truth. Drink from the cup and follow me in the dance.
Am I in a cult?
Is this a suicide pact?
My thought cycle, which admittedly was quickly getting out of hand, is broken as I’m handed a cup of mucky looking water seasoned with plant stems. I try not to look beyond the hands that feed in fear of backing out of this. I stare into the cloudy liquid and then knock it back like cheap scotch. My throat tries to close on it’s contact with my tongue, but years of experience in forcing my body to accept things it wants to reject allows me to overcome this. My tongue then dries out and seems to have grown hairs. The feeling isn’t great and the taste itself isn’t much better.
How to describe it?
Like someone took a p*ss on a pile of dirt. That’s fairly accurate actually.
“Dude! The ritual!”
F*ck your ritual.
“F*ck your ritual.”
A feeling of nausea swells in my stomach as I rise from where I’m sat to return to my room. When this stuff sets in I don’t want to have inhibitions based on my surroundings, or the people within it.
If the dog says this is a personal journey, I want to make sure it remains that way.
Trust in dog.
Now there’s a new t shirt for the masses.
As I approach my hut I can feel my bowels start to groan so I quicken the pace. Moments later I’m bursting through the bathroom door and my sphincter is all but ripped in two by an explosion of epic proportions. I sit on what is essentially a wooden box with a long drop into a cess pit and as my vision starts to darken I lean forward and clutch my knees. It feels as if my backside has finished firing at will and so, before things escalate, I clean myself up and head back to the only other room that grants me complete privacy. Laying on a rug, I feel the wooden boards hard underneath my back, but it’s this foundation that lets me know I’m in safe hands. My hands.
I close my eyes, and my life changes……….
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C - Y - C - L - E /// O - N - E
T
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M - O - V - I - E
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Pulsing corridor of purple and moss. My feet stumbling the whole way through it, with hands outstretched and nails curling. I hold the walls in fear of losing them.
Is this home?
Is this here?
Am I here?
Onward soldier, as my back burns and my clothes are torn from it. I feel a snake around my waist and I look to see it’s golden face, round and written across with 4 letters.
W
F
W
F
It’s leather body contorts and constricts, letting me know I’m forever bound to it. The trunks I stand in are emblazoned with a name. A name I should remember. A name that should mean something.
D
R
A
K
Z
My boots are loosened and the laces writhe away, up the hall ahead of me. All is worms. All is snakes. The sound of a hiss. A roaring hiss, hangs mid air, all around me, filling my ears. Filling me up. It’s a collective of voices. Not a singular, but a group on mass. Hooraying and the like of something I have done. But what?
A door reveals at the horizon of my sight, and on approach yawns open like much labia has before it. I enter, and exit, enter, and exit. All is snakes. F*cking, and entering. The new room is a rebirth and the amniotic fluid drips from my pores. My breathing heavy and the fluid keeps dripping. This room is cold to the hissing. It silences the thousands of voices and a door closes behind me. The corridor is the past. The room is the present.
Within it, a man. A man with hair, hanging loose, dripping fluid like mine. He has no golden snake on his waist, or his shoulder, or his hand. Only a shadow of one. A memory of one, still just barely visible. The loss must have been recent.
His fluid dripping hair hangs over his face, but a tilt of his head is the remedy. His eyes are sad. His face is sad. He is broken. The loss of his golden snake?
He grieves.
He mourns.
He speaks.
“Are you happy now?”
Am I?
“Is it over?”
Is it?
“Won’t you speak? Or has all of that electricity fried your tongue? For the sake of my sanity I hope so.”
His trunks tell a story as mine do. A moniker. A name to be known by.
J
O
H
N
N
Y
Can I speak? Perhaps.
“Happier than you could ever know Jon Jon.”
It seems I can. These words are not mine though. These sounds are an automation. Air blowing across my vocal sinew. Vibrations through happenstance, not lucid thought.
“And has beating me been everything you had hoped?”
His mouth buckles and swallows his chin, then reverts and the gnashing of his teeth shows his colours. Red. Rouge. Anger.
“Beating you was always a means to an end. You just happened to be the man with the title at the wrong moment in time.”
The colours change to blue. To bleu. To sadness, again.
“This only became personal because you insisted it became personal Johnny. I would have been happy maintaining a professional relationship.”
A lie. A lie that bends the walls around us.
“For all the theatrics and games we’ve played I want you to know that I did it for the gold, not for you.”
His grief pours from his face. Face contorts. Face moves closer.
He stands, his legs trembling with lactic acid, and confronts me. Comforts me? Confronts me!
“You listen to me Drakz. This, you, tonight, is all a mistake waiting to be rectified. I am the best in this business. I am the man that title truly belongs to, and you? You’re just a cretin who picked his shots and got lucky.”
The skin on his body bubbles and twists until his feet face the way his back is heading. I see only a blank flesh. A featureless blank. A no face. Swarming under the skin, more worms. More snakes. A hole bursts from inside and a new man looks out.
“Stop dwelling on this Isaac. This is old f*cking news.”
The hole swallows his blonde Jew face and ‘Johnny’ is back.
“You know this is it for me though, don’t you? I know you’ve seen it.”
I have?
“You’re not from this time. You’re not the Drakz I just faced only moments ago. I know, don’t worry.”
“You’re right. I’m the Drakz that went on to outshine you and everyone that came before. I’m the Drakz that will give up this very championship for 6 years only to win it back and keep it. I’m the Drakz that no one ever saw coming.”
He turns and a heat rises. The reverse of those same trunks looking back.
M
I
C
H
A
E
L
S
“Movie Man!”
His silent head does not waver. He is back faced to my front facing body, and within that moment I break him. His head splits like so much watermelon, the pips inside, flies to the sh*t of the career I have ended. They buzz around my head and my eyes bulge. My d*ck is hard and my fist is harder. I paint with his colours. All red now. No blue. He is smashed and I know, this memory has shown me all it can.
I have outgrown my peers.
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D
A billowing flag of red, white and blue. No Uncle Sam. No pilgrims here. This flag is older than that.
The good ship Mayflower left from these shores.
Shores of my childhood.
The kitchen. Where you’ll always find him?
I am in the kitchen.
My body bends and sits atop a work surface, watching from above. Climbing the vines to watch from the canopy. A canopy of smoke and yellowed wallpaper. Smoke damage.
Lung cancer.
Seated at a table. A woman. A wh*re. The Un-Virgin Mary………Margaret Cray.
Her hair is a mass of worms, her fingers groaning around a cigarette that sludges into her mouth. Arthritic knuckles creak each time she taps ash into an already overflowing tray atop an already overflowing table. Trash magazines. Photos of fat people she’s never known. Sexual tragedies. Stories sold for a pittance. Food rots around her as any moral sense of hygiene rots with it.
She is dying. She is dead.
She turns her eyes. She turns her head.
“Isaac. What are you doing up there?”
She sees me.
“Shouldn’t you be at school?”
My mouth stays as it is. Closed. But she seems to hear something that pleases her.
“You’re a good boy. You know how to treat your Mother.”
This vision of Mutter is a skewed one. Her age defies her surroundings. Her health defies this period of life. Her’s and mine. The hospital tag hangs loose around her thinning wrist, her skin yellowed from the jaundice and fever. This side of the Atlantic was much kinder to her, if only by happenstance.
Death assumedly took her from her bed in Denver. A bedside I left, never learning the ending to her story. Our being in this room is more a homage to the past than a snap shot of any kind of reality.
A knock on the door.
Three raps that nearly turn bones to dust. Her joints grind as she moves out of the chair to answer the call. The speed she sets is far from a personal best. Lung butter is hawked into a handkerchief as she shuffles and my smile is hard to hide. Suffering is a dish best served Luke warm.
From my perch a voice reaches me. A voice that soothes my soul. The worms simmer down. In she walks, the embodiment of a time best forgotten.
Karla.
“It’s so good to see you darling.”
The insanity of this moment is amplified in a sentence. Mother. Margaret. She would never have said that to Karla. She hated her. Another woman’s daughter. Ovaries scorned. The daughter she always wanted.
“How are you Marge? You’re looking better.”
Mother’s hair distorts into a tangle of snakes. Standing on end. Hissing in my direction.
“Still on my medication but my skin colour is coming back, look.”
Her cardigan sleeve rolls back and she shows the flesh to my beloved. The skin drips off, into a pile on the table top. Smears down a magazine centrefold.
“That’s good to hear. Has Isaac been round to see you? He’s such a cute little boy.”
Time frame is clearly an uncertainty in this dimension. Karla is the beauty I left in England less than 2 months ago and yet I am assumed a child?
“He’s just up stairs actually. Would you like to see him?”
“Of course.”
Mother’s shrill, smoke house voice beckons for Isaac.
“Isaaac. Come and say hello to your sister.”
Half sister.
“Here he is.”
Both sets of eyes, one beautifully made up, the other crusted with sediment, turn to me. The previously invisible I, am now the very much visible me.
“Isaac. How are you my dear little man?”
What the f*ck is this?
“Just dandy.”
“And how’s school? I hear you’re top of the class.”
A twisted chemical reaction takes place as her mollycoddling surges blood to my c*ck.
Another knock at the door.
“Oh that’ll be Phil. Have you met him yet Marge?”
Her verbal response is waylaid by a suck on her Richmond Superking. A shake of the head and then words expelling putrid smoke.
“Go let him in.”
Karla heads for the door and my Mother’s attention falls on me. Her mouth soured by the words that follow.
“You miserable little c*nt. I can see your trousers bulge from here. That’s your f*cking sister.”
She rises and, with a swing of her claw like crippled hand, brays me on the face. I feel nothing. Her mouth contorts and teeth fall out like Murray mints, her tongue flicking the rotting pegs into my lap.
“You’re a disgusting little child. Keep your maggot prick to yourself.”
Another strike with a hand that can’t make a fist, before she turns on her best behaviour for the return of Karla with her friend.
Oh Jesus!
“Marge, Isaac, this is my fiancé Phil.”
Phillip. F*cking. Schneider.
His hand waves and his eyes fix on me. He’s all smiles, and now the room is full of wolves. I am outnumbered by those that would see me dead. Karla is a non-entity.
Why am I seeing this? What could possibly be learned from this?
I want to sober up before this escalates.
He speaks.
“Why don’t you show them your ring Karla?”
His smile grows and p*ss leaks from his ears, cascading down his shoulders to form a pool on the floor. Karla is beaming like a bride to be should, holding up the back of her hand to show off the rock mounted on it.
“Not that one you f*cking idiot. AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGHHHHH”
The high, screaming vocal tears deep into my ears, killing synapses and near severing my spirit. His grin squeezes his head, wrinkles cutting his face into a million islands. The p*ss now flowing with vigour from his head so that they stand ankle deep.
Karla rolls her eyes at her apparent foolishness before dropping her trousers, knickers as well, bending over and spreading her backside.
I am rooted to the spot, only able to watch the chaos unfolding before my eyes. The mechanical scream continues! I beg for deaf. Death? Either will do.
Schneider’s head has almost collapsed in on itself, the teeth of his grin now forming the majority of his face. He takes the cigarette from Mother’s hand and forces it, ember deep, into the arse hole that winks at me.
As this becomes too much to bare I feel my feet tremble, aching to run from this. One more rung down the ladder to Hell allows me that very mobility as the wh*re that bore me kneels into the inches of stinking head juice and chases the smoke’s filter with her own tongue.
I am done.
At last reaction returns to my limbs. They hurl me at the exit. Any exit. Wading, chest deep in this brown yellow fluid I barge open the door and race into the street. Before a decision is even made I am in a car, fumbling the keys in the ignition. A spark. An explosion in the engine. It roars to life and as I throw it into reverse I see Michael Kyzer walking the street ahead of me. Why has everyone who wants to f*ck me arrived here? On the street I grew up on. I’m panicking as I press my foot down against the pedal, careering the vehicle backwards, and then…….THUD!
Something is under the wheel.
I can’t see what. I check my mirrors. Nothing.
I shift gears into first and try to move off in the other direction but whatever it is, it’s stuck fast. The car refuses to pull away.
I have to step out of the vehicle as Kyzer continues up the road toward me. I try to move quickly but get tangled in the seat belt as I step out of the door. I manage to free myself but before I make it around the car I feel an ice in my brain. Collapsing to the pavement I catch a brief glance upward at the King of Gore, his right hand pulling the scissors from the back of my skull, his left holding the severed heads of my Mother and lover by their hair.
I begin to fade to the void, vomit flowing freely and I know. I know that my history is his for the taking. Nothing is safe from a man this desperate.
How much does he know?
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My eyes open and I’m out. I’m free from the psychosis of my trip. Sanity has been restored, but where to exactly? Where in the blue f*ck am I?
I was laid on the floor of a hut in the Amazon and now I’m tucked under a starched white sheet in a room to match. So clinical. So familiar.
Oh sh*t.
The wall calendar says all I need to know. I’m not free at all.
‘East Phoenix Physical Therapy and Rehab Clinic, Phoenix, AZ’
I’m back. I’m back to the only place that was able to keep me. The only place in the long and storied history of Isaac Cray to even come close to breaking my spirit. I look around and see everything exactly as it was. The bed side cabinet with nothing but a lamp and a plastic jug of water adorning it, the chest of drawers that I know holds the very limited wardrobe of mine and of course my mortal enemy. The one inanimate object I have ever held a grudge against. The smoke alarm.
The red light blinks down at me like a child of Hal 9000.
‘Let me smoke in my room.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that Dave……Drakz.’
F*cking c*nt.
But why am I here? I’ve done this. There’s no unfinished business here. There’s nothing to be learned from my returning to this place. If my previous visions were the ghosts of Christmas past, then what point does this memory serve besides torment?
I sit up in the bed and try to stand but not a great deal happens.
As I continue to take in my surroundings I see that I have lied to you all. There is one more inanimate object I hate even more than the smoke alarm. A mechanical beast so bound to my feelings of irreverence and disgust that it may well have been cast from the very emotions themselves.
The wheel chair.
It sits in the opposite corner of the room, folded in on itself but I can already hear it’s laugh. Goading me. Telling me I need him more than he needs me.
F*ck him.
I am homo-erectus.
I am more than capable of walking.
I’m the f*cking WFWF Heavyweight Champion of the World!
My upper body lifts and I swing my legs to the ground.
1…
2…
3
And up!
I crash to the tiles, bouncing my face in a moment that reminds me of how vulnerable I really was. Iron in my mouth, and I know my lip is busted. My shaky hand reaches to my brow and it seems I’ve ruptured in more than one spot. My eyes close as breath escapes in a sigh of apathy. A sudden surge of anger propels my voice into the air around me.
“C*CKS! WHY?!”
I continue the adrenaline fueled instance and lift my head from the ground, my arms crawling across the floor, dragging a limp weight behind them. This was, and now is, me at my lowest. My weakest. My least Genghis like moment. I spit blood in a spray in front of me just to cause a mess. Needless to say I am furious that my mind has brought me back here. What is strange is my awareness of the situation though.
I am here.
The pain in my head lets me know that much. However I have the knowledge in my mind that this is nothing but an ayahuasca induced journey. I’m fairly confident of that.
The door to my room opens and a nurse looks down at me, wide eyed, as she hurries to my aid.
“Mr Cray! Are you alright?”
She sits me up and my head lulls back against the mattress I fell from.
“You shouldn’t be trying to get up without our assistance. Not yet.”
I’m kind of confident this isn’t real.
“Just wait here. Let me get some help.”
The nurse moves to the doorway and shouts up the corridor. She is quickly met by a second nurse and the two of them hoist me up and into the God forsaken chair, it’s canvas sling seat hugging my arse like a sex offender.
“Oh goodness you’re bleeding! Nurse, can you go and fetch me a first aid kit so I can clean Mr Cray up before breakfast.”
The second hand maiden leaves the room and I bury the balls of my palms into my eyes in the hope that everything around me will simply f*ck off.
“Come now Mr Cray. Don’t let this get you down. You’ve only been here a couple of days. You need to wait for some time before you can try anything as testing as getting out of your bed.”
Anything as testing as getting out of bed?! I double stomped Cameron Stone into retirement! I dropped Joshua Dean on his head in front of his own wife. Getting out of bed should not be given a second thought!
I lift my head up and turn to look at the nurse. The light contracts my pupils, dazzling my view for a moment, but as they adjust I am greeted by the face that shows such concern for me. A face I was not expecting.
Ashley.
Serenity’s Mother.
Donnie’s Sister.
Kyzer’s (ex)lover.
A woman I haven’t seen for years, and yet here she is, in the rehab clinic. In my rehab clinic.
“Once we’ve cleaned up that cut we’ll get you out of here and into the Rec. Room from some food. I know how claustrophobic these rooms can get.”
I’m still startled by her presence. Stunned into a silence solemnly heard. Here is a woman so entrenched and tangled in the history of the man who put me here that it’s excusable for me to question whether he’s waiting around the corner as well. For a woman who has held such disdain for me over the course of our vague excuse of a relationship, she doesn’t seem to recognise me as anything but another patient in the clinic. Every time she dropped by Mike’s house I would answer the door, a note still up my blow hole, or a hooker wrapped around my waist. She saw me as the enabler to her already very much enabled baby daddy. To call me a bad influence is laughable. There was no influence at play between myself and Michael, only encouragement for encouragement’s sake.
Regardless of the actual part I played, the way Ashley saw it I was not a man she wanted her daughter around, and rightly so. But in this moment I am simply Mr Cray.
Footsteps back up the hall bring another surprise. The nurse returns with cotton wool and iodine for my wound and again my hair is blown back.
“Here you are nurse.”
Kylie Olsen.
Phillip Schneider’s f*ck toy.
Michael Kyzer’s f*ck toy.
Percy Jackson’s forbidden fruit.
But most importantly, a dead girl.
So this is the hand I have been dealt by my own subconscious. A return to the darkest days of my life, hosted by two women who have never cared for my take on a sense of humor. I’m not sure what it means as of yet, but I’m certain this is only going to get worse.
A sudden sting. A pain that again deflates my confidence in this situation. I can’t be sure of the authenticity of my surroundings because of this sense of pain. The burn of anger and helplessness in my stomach. The hum in my head from the fall. The searing wake up call of the iodine killing any chance of infection. It’s all too real.
“There we go. That should close up fine. You may suffer some swelling around the eye, but I’m sure that’s nothing you can’t handle. How about some food?”
I doubt my protesting the idea will change the outcome.
“On Dasher, on Dancer….”
Ashley smiles sympathetically and before I know it I’m moving on out of the prison cell they always called a bedroom.
Down the corridor. Past the showers. Around the corner. Over the draw bridge. Through the gas chambers. Around another corner. Past my bedroom again. Into the Rec. Room.
That journey was a little different from how I remember it but the end wound up just the same.
All of the tables have been pushed together, as though breakfast is now a cause for celebration, with a single large white table cloth draped from end to end. I’m free wheeled toward it and, although I’ve slowed some as I approach, my sternum still catches the table’s edge, knocking some of the wind out of my sails. Or do I mean lungs?
I turn to make a sarcastic comment of thanks but Ashley’s long gone, and when I turn back everything’s changed. The table is full. I’m surrounded by people.
People I know all too well.
Across from me sits a man who shames me with guilt. A man who reminds me how self involved I have become since returning to the ring I once left behind indefinitely.
Derek. My old friend.
When I say old I don’t mean it as though I’ve known him ‘forever’. I use the term in it’s truest sense. This *****h is seriously f*cking old. Don’t let that fool you though. His wit is sharp as a razor with a tongue to match.
My shaming is not an act of malice on his part, in fact I doubt in this very moment he even knows he’s done it, but his presence here reminds me I have forgotten all about him. The week I won the World Heavyweight Championship at Madison Square Garden, the week I spent in New York City, was the same week I received a letter telling of this man’s death. I was urged to investigate it. I was asked if I would use my free time to discover if Derek truly had jumped or if his son had pushed. Have I done that? Have I honoured the life of a man I came to know so well in such a short time?
Would I feel this crushing guilt if I had?
I’ve been so engrossed in my work and my conquest for dominance that I’ve let a promise to a friend fall by the way side.
That is not what good guys do.
I will rectify this, but now is not the time. That is not the moral of this story. There’s a deeper meaning to all of this, but what?
“Ladies and gentlemen. A toast!”
My attention turns to the head of the table and a new piece of the puzzle bringing me closer to the answer. A two headed man beast speaks with both voices at once, swaying his filled cup and sloshing it’s contents around him. The neck splits at the base and neither head looks particularly comfortable in the position it hangs in. Both heads are instantly recognisable, but their pairing together seems so strange given the history. One belongs to Phillip Schneider, and the other, Michael Kyzer.
“Please raise your glasses for our guest of honour. The beast with two backs, both of them broken, Mr Isaac Cray, or as you know him………Drakz!”
Everyone up and down the length of the table lets out a cheer or applauds and I soon realise I am surrounded by the entire roster of the WFWF, past and present.
ZMaster
Raider
Scratch Cat
Joe Bishop
Chris Avalon
Trent Draven
Saku
Dave Demento
Ante Whitner
Kronic
Immune
Percy Jackson
Mak Cross
Penny Shannon
Jack Sabbath
The list goes on and the table seems to extend for miles, and yet my vision is clear as day. I can make out even the furthest of faces with perfect clarity. Every man, woman and Yukio is sat in a wheel chair, just like me, and I wonder, is this the lesson? That we’re all doomed to wind up as cripples unless we quit the game? No, that can’t be it. What did they mean by the two broken backs comment?
I look back toward the Phillip Kyzer (or is it Michael Schneider?) f*ck mess as they continue their speech.
“Please let us be the first to say it. Welcome back to Phoenix!”
An explosion of neon light halos their heads as a Vegas like sign erupts out of the atmosphere, carving out the exact 4 words that just left their collective mouths.
’Welcome Back to Phoenix!’
The second two letters to the word ‘Back’ burn out before falling from the sign, and then it dawns on me. They’ve had to spell it out, but it’s there, black and white. My next fight is taking me right back to where this whole thing began! Right back to the scene of the crime!
End Game is so much more than a place to settle a score. My match with Phillip Schneider will take place in the very arena in which my spine was laid to waste. The very arena inside which I was betrayed by my closest, and perhaps only friend.
The beast with two backs!
This is a warning.
This is a red light.
Phillip Schneider means to relive history by stepping into Mike’s boots and snapping my spine. This fight has more than one career riding on it, that is for certain.
The amalgam of emotions this building has brought on; frustration, anger, guilt, shame, sadness, are all coming to a head. My guts burn and feel fit to explode. I bang my fist on the table and every head, from left to right, end to end, turns to me. I push the wheel chair back from the table and in one motion stand up and out of it.
A collective gasp almost sucks the oxygen from the room.
There is no rebirth for you!
No re-enactment of fate dealt so carelessly!
I shall strangle the Arizonan Phoenix as it tries to rise from the ashes.
My spine is a column of fire. Unbreakable. That fire burns up into my head and I feel a heat wanting to rip through my eyes. This is my second coming! This is what I’ve been waiting for!
Sol Inviticus!
I turn and grip the arm rests of the damned chair and in one frenetic motion hurl it across the room, splitting the Kyzer/Schneider f*ck mess clean in two.
F*ck what you have heard!
Phillip Schneider’s career, and the legend that is woven around it, dies in Arizona!
Sol Inviticus shall emerge from the dust before it even has chance to settle.
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Dan, Son of Man
A park bench might seem like a bizarre place to meet, but given the man I’m meeting and his relationship with a mutual friend of ours, it didn’t seem appropriate to suggest a bar. Anyone who knows me, who knows my story, is aware that almost every sit down ends up sidelined by an excuse to have a few drinks, so perhaps meeting in this neutral, open space means we might be able to focus on what I want to discuss.
April in Arizona is none too shabby. The sun’s out, but retrospectively no heat will ever touch me again after my stint in the jungle. The park is empty, which given the weather is bizarre. It’s unnerving in that I’m still not certain whether this is real or not. I could very well still be up to my neck in ayahuasca nightmares. I feel as though my journey back to the states was a legitimate experience though. Everything’s changed now. I’m not sure what to believe. My own senses are heightened and are still adjusting to that change.
My skin tingles as the breeze passes over it and my eyes can make out the smallest movement in my arm hair. I open my mouth to breathe in the air around me and it seems as though I can taste it. I’m not sure what to think.
Across the way from me a figure enters the park. A young man with dark hair, of that I can be sure. One can only assume it is my 11 o clock appointment, right on time. Perhaps even slightly early. As he approaches I run over the bullet points of my speech in my head. I can’t allow him to leave until I’ve made it through them all. I can’t imagine he’ll try to, but you never know how people will react to the ramblings of a man awakened, or at least part awakened. There’s still something blocking the way. A memory in the shape of a door stop that even the DMT derivative of shamanic ritual couldn’t show me. Whatever it is, I need to find it myself. No shortcuts.
“Drakz.”
He’s here.
“Daniel. Please, call me Isaac, at least for the duration of this conversation.”
“Isaac it is sir.”
“Also, never refer to me as sir again.”
He nods and his level of respect and decorum almost anger me. Something’s got to give in this boy if he wants to elevate.
“Take a seat lad.”
He sits next to me and for a time we simply stare across the grass. Unexpectedly it’s Mr Kirkbride who speaks first.
“You wanted to speak to me about something?”
“I want to speak to you about someONE. I’m sure you know who I’m referring to?”
Again he nods in agreement.
“Good. At least you’re susceptive to reason. Before we get onto that matter though I’d at least like to break the ice.”
Another nod, and the static of awkwardness is near suffocating.
“Our match, the other week. That was serious. I hope you understand that. I don’t waste my time on people who aren’t worth it. If I could have gotten you out of there any quicker I would have.
As I’m sure the whole locker room loves to mention, of all of the guys active in this sport I’m near the top of the list of those on borrowed time. Me, Trace, Schneider, Kyzer, we’re all relics by the standards of this game. I’m only 33 years old but I’ve got the body of a man twice my age, and yet I still appear to be the best there is? Why? Because I am. There’s no illusion there Daniel. At this very moment in time I am the best performer on the face of the earth. In the ring I’m able to hang with guys 10 years younger than me with ease. On the microphone I’m unmatched. My 11 years of doing this have made me who I am today, however as I already mentioned, it won’t last forever.”
I turn to look at him and see he is tentatively soaking up everything I say.
“I’ve still got fight in me, and I hope I showed you that the other week, however this sport deserves people like you as it’s future. This is why I wanted you to meet me here.”
“Thank you, it means a lot to hear that from a man in your position, but is that the real reason you invited me here?”
“That’s the reason yes, however the reason is merely the instigator for what I have to say. If you’re going to fill the spot at the top of the card one day then you need to survive until that time comes. You have picked a fight with a man who has no qualms about ruining all of this for you. You are about to lock horns with the very man who left me for dead. Michael Kyzer is not to be seen as just an evil to be vanquished Daniel.
If you make that mistake he WILL destroy you.”
This is some medieval sh*t.
“I would never underestimate the challenge synonymous with that man. David has told me all about him, and what he’s capable of.”
David? David’s worst enemy is himself. He hasn’t got the first idea of what Kyzer is capable of.
“Hmmmm, David I’m afraid can’t be trusted in these matters. Brennan, whilst an ally, was never a confidant. Not to Michael anyway. He hasn’t heard the things I’ve heard. He doesn’t know what I know. I could send Michael Kyzer down for 5 straight life sentences with what I know.”
“So why don’t you? Wouldn’t that be the ultimate revenge after what he did to you? The King of Excess, incarcerated for the rest of his days.”
“I couldn’t do that. Our issues need to be settled the hard way.”
Kirkbride smiles and I sense an ounce of fear behind it. He, like the rest of the WFWF should be scared. Scared of what may happen to them during the war to come. You can talk about warring factions all day. You can tell tales of The Final Revolution, or The New Epoch, but the real war is yet to come.
The war between two Kings.
The war between two Gods.
The world will burn and all of those caught in the blast will simply be casualties to the cause.
“You need to keep Michael Kyzer at arm’s length Daniel. Do not let him get into your head. There’s no room for manipulation here, and that is coming from perhaps the only man capable of matching him at his own game.”
“So what’s your advice? If everything Brennan has told me is for naught, what should I believe. I guess what I’m trying to say is, how do I proceed?”
“The only advice I can give you is this: Michael Kyzer through all his smoke and mirrors, through all of the dragons he holds the reigns to, and through all of the myth that surrounds him, like all of us he is indeed but a man.”
Brennan again nods and I can see the enormity of his situation starting to sink in. I could tell that when he entered the ring in L.A. and picked up the gauntlet laid before him that he was fired up, maybe not thinking about consequences, but now, now he’s rooted in the reality of what lies ahead.
“And don’t for one second think that if this all goes to pot that I’ll be running in to make the save. I have my own fight to focus on, one which threatens the legitimacy of my legacy.”
“Schneider?”
“Schneider.”
“Is he really going to retire do you think?”
“I know. He had to drag my attention from Kyzer some how, and his foolish pride lead him to throw all of his chips in. He knows this is make or break for him. He needed this rematch. He thinks my victory over him was mere fluke, that I’m an undeserving champion. He wants to show the world one more time why he is a force to be feared. Those days are long gone though.”
“Do you really believe that? It’s hard in this business to separate the myth from the reality, but I’ve always seen Phillip Schneider as a monster. I don’t mean that in the sense that he’s reprehensible, although that is undoubtedly true, what I mean is he strikes me as unstoppable. He’s willing to do things others wouldn’t dream of to get what he wants.”
“Do you know who I am Daniel?”
“Drakz? The World Heavyweight Champion?”
“Both true, but not what I’m looking for. I am the only truly unstoppable force left in the WFWF. I am Genghis Khan Jnr. Do you remember the last time I was beaten?”
I can feel the fire rising. Keep it under control. Now isn’t the time for the preacher routine.
“People for a time were referring to you by your accolade were they not? Everyone seemed incapable of mentioning your name without also talking about your clean record. Your undefeated streak. Admittedly those days are gone now, but one streak still continues today. I haven’t suffered a loss since 2012. Do you see Daniel? The only unstoppable force in the WORLD is sat before you right now!”
Oh lordy, here we go. Kirkbride, still incapable of showing even an iota of disrespect straps himself in, and if he hasn’t? Can frantic conversation kill a man?
I feel myself rise from the bench.
“Even my last defeat, at the hands of Trace Demon, has been rectified 2-1 in my favour. That one slip up, that one mistake on my part is now but a forgotten relic, drowning in a sea of victory. Do we journey further? I couldn’t even tell you how far back you would have to look in the history books to find another instance of my failure! You can keep turning those pages until your thumbs are raw and still it seems Drakz, nay The Streak Destroyer, Destroyer, Destroyer remains as the only reality that not only matches the legend but outdoes it. The bards have written music in my name;”
Is this much passion healthy? I’m not really sure.
“There was a man, some say borne of a Khan,
His torso’s width only matched by his arms,
And Dragon and God all fell to his hand,
Those who doubt his d*ck length shall fall where they stand.”
And now I’m singing. I’m not so sure this ayahuasca retreat has done me much good.
“Do you hear me Danny Boy?!
Oh Danny Boy,
The bells, the bells are ringing!”
Kirkbride is looking at me in disbelief, and who can blame him. The WFWF Heavyweight Champion of the World is belting out freestyle folk songs. I am a joke. A dangerous one, but still a joke.
“Are you quite finished?”
“HAHA! I knew it. I knew there was only so much of this chest puffing idiocy you could stand before you spoke up. It seems to me Dan that perhaps you do have within you the capacity for insubordination, and that my friend is very good indeed.”
His eyebrows rise, clearly dumbfounded.
“You need to hold onto that. This respectful schtick will only get you so far. Eventually you are going to have to show that you not only want to be the ‘King of the Hill’ but that you deserve it. Perhaps the time hasn’t arrived quite yet, but it will come and you will demand what is rightfully yours. I know it. Being a gentlemen might be enough to make it in the mid card, but if you want to reach the dizzying heights only a few of us have seen, if you want to be the name at the top of a Superbrawl card, then you need to swallow a fire and let it’s heat scorch those around you. You’re not the only man fighting to be noticed and it’s much easier to win the race if your competition’s pants are round their ankles. Do you see what I mean? I’m not as insane as you might think. There is a lesson in every fable, no matter the lunacy surrounding it.”
“So what you’re saying is; good guys finish last, right?”
“In not so few a words, yes, I suppose I am. I want you to succeed me. I want you to be the guy who takes this strap from around my waist.”
“You want to lose it? Why?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m a realist Daniel. I know I have to lose this belt one day. I’m not the kind of man who retires and vacates. I want to groom a challenger capable of knocking me over and taking the torch, not leaving it to the best of a bad lot. I think you have that within you. I think you have what it takes.
More importantly though, back to the pressing issue at hand, I think you can beat Michael Kyzer.”
“I couldn’t beat you…..”
“Nor can he.”
And perhaps at last, with this final show of ego, I have sent a message to the next generation. A smile creeps up one side of Kirkbride’s mouth and he rises from the bench, holding out his hand toward me.
“Isaac. This has been enlightening in more ways than one. Thank you.”
Being the goodest good guy I am I of course shake it.
“Good luck.”
“And to you.”
“Me? I thought I’d covered that?
’There was a man, some say borne of a Khan,’”
The son of God shakes his head and walks the way he came, leaving me to me own devices, my song tailing off into a laugh at my own expense.
A man needs more than luck to carve out the guts of a Jew.
He needs self belief.
He needs experience in the field.
He needs to already have the upper hand.
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So have I taken anything from my experience, or was I just tripping loops in the jungle? A bit of both if I’m honest.
What did I learn?
I learned I’ve already got everything I need to destroy anyone, let alone a man on his last chance.
I learned I’ve no reason to be conflicted regarding my moral fibre as compared to Phillip I’m a saint.
But most of all I’ve learned what I’m capable of.
I talked of evolving just before I fought and bested Daniel Kirkbride, but it is only now I can say that my self is complete. I have realised that there is no more growing left to do, only refining. I am already the complete machine, there are simply a few nuts and bolts that need tightening, a couple of gears that need greasing.
I have realised my true self.
I am Sol Inviticus, The Undefeated Sun.
How long has it been? Jesus. Let me do the maths………………
978 days since I was last defeated. Even if we subtract the time I was laid up with a broken back that’s still 448 spins of the earth.
All that time and no one has been able to best me.
No one has come close to stealing the fire from my f*cking belly, and what is my next challenge? To simply burn to ash a prophet already crippled from our last dance? I need something new. I need the chance to really be pushed to my limit. Instead I’m reliving a bad dream I had just over 1 year ago.
We may have won match of the year on the show of the year, but Phillip seems to forget how it all ended. He thinks the accolades attributed to our last encounter are enough for him to get by on. If I remember correctly though I didn’t just beat him. I made him submit.
I did what Joshua Dean couldn’t do, even with all of the blood and guts. I used my bare hands to force Phillip Schneider to say;
“Please! No more! I yield!”
The mere suggestion that this time will be any different is ridiculous. Who has been chasing who for the last few months? Who has relied on sneak attacks, foreign objects and f*cking firearms to coax me into this situation? And did any of it work? We’re only at this juncture because I’ve been given the chance to add yet another title to my ever expanding list, perhaps the longest in the history of this company? There may be no ‘golden faced snake’ to commemorate the fact, but I will hence forth be known as the man who liquidated all assets and closed down Phillip Schneider Enterprises.
The champion of the whole f*cking universe.
The man who rid them of “The Jew That Couldn’t”.
Like all of the others though that title will lose it’s shine. It will fade and become something I forget about. Right up until I break his record as the longest reigning WFWF World Heavyweight Champion of all time, erasing his name and only then truly feeling justified in my name as The Streak Destroyer Destroyer Destroyer. I need to destroy everything that fool has ever fought to create. For the good of the colony.
I refuse to underestimate the man though as he has made it clear that this is his everything. I know full well that he will try to kill me in that ring. I have to be ready to outsmart him every step of the way. How does one do that? How does one gain a leg up on a dog so unpredictable? For one you have to understand that he’s far more predictable than people know. I need to look at how HE will be preparing to fight ME.
I am the champion.
I am undefeated.
I am 1 - 0.
So what could possibly be going on behind closed doors in the Schneider house hold, besides sexual abuse?
He will probably rattle on about his relationship problems and his Daughter/Daddy issues.
He will probably fight a random jock in the car park of a McDonalds.
I have no doubt that he will do the rounds of his old gang. I expect him to speak to all of his former confidants. His merry gang of c*nts. They may well be estranged on paper but I doubt he can resist rallying the troops if only for advice. This is of somewhat questionable reason though as I fail to see who he could possibly speak to that could offer even an whisper of help?
No one he knows has ever f*cking beaten me.
His only option is Trizzler Dizzler, or The King of Demons, or whatever the f*ck he wants to call himself. Trace Demon is what his merch says at least. Those two don’t get on so well though, which kind of rules out that coming to fruition. What’s more, Trace has his tail lodged firmly between his legs after what I did to him in England. I think I stapled it to his thigh actually?
Speaking of my good friend Trace Demon it’s important to note that he is indeed the only mar on my otherwise gleaming record. I can’t remember in any great detail what happened prior to my 2011 recompense with the company, but since then I am billed as 23-1-0, which I suppose isn’t bad.
1270 days.
Nigh on 3 and a half years with only 1 loss.
After all that time though that single figure in the middle of that record does jar me somewhat. Never the matter. I suppose it’s a constant reminder that none of us are perfect. If you become comfortable in your perfection you get lazy. That’s what I tell myself at least, and so far it’s kept me from jumping through my 9th floor apartment window.
I’m sure Schneider will bring up the fact that while my undefeated streak is longer than his own old and almost forgotten one, the frequency with which my bounties are claimed is somewhat diminishing. It’s true that since we traveled to the UK I have only a single skirmish under my belt, but what do you expect when I’ve spent every other show in the Doctor’s office having my stitches redressed? I’m not one for competing when my condition allows for an upset, but then again that is the lead story as we head into Phoenix isn’t it?
Phillip Schneider has time and again tried to waylay me with batterings, I suppose in the hope that if I did snatch up his gauntlet that he would have the edge? His onslaught has been constant and yet self deprecating in the long run, as his career now risks being snuffed by a man operating at about 60% of his usual capacity. He has offered me ever grander bragging rights and that is something that I can’t let slip. Surely this victory will be enough to cement me as the greatest of all time? This will be my ‘Flu Game’. Chi Town represent.
So where do I really stand on this match? On this challenge? I seem to flip and flop between calling it a case of going through the motions, and saying it will be a great achievement to sit on my mantle. A bronze cast of Phil’s head.
As I see it, whilst beating Schneider will be great and all, this is really only a piece of a much bigger picture for me. As angry as this will make him, Phillip Schneider is nothing but leverage. What do I want most in the world right now? The opportunity to break Michael Kyzer’s back of course. Right now I’m playing to his rules though. I legally can’t touch the man, and so I need him to change the way the game works. I need him to revoke this bureaucratic nonsense that is keeping my hands from his throat.
How can I influence his actions? By playing to his weaknesses. His ego being the biggest of them all.
I can’t say for certain as my memory is rife with dark spots, but I believe the only person to ever beat Michael Kyzer is the very man I’m looking to retire. If I can go 2 - 0 over Phillip Schneider and send him into the void of never never then that may be enough to scorn Kyzer into dropping his guard.
’Anything you can do I can do better.’
Or in this case;
’Everything you couldn’t do I can do with my eyes closed.’
This singular act of defiance in the face of the God of F*ck may rile him beyond sense and bring him to me.
Whilst it may be apt for Phillip Schneider’s situation, End Game is far removed from it’s namesake for me. This is not about endings. This is about beginnings. This is about opening the door.
This is about taking the next step toward rewriting history. Purging Obo’s name from the records.
This is about initiating the war between The God of F*ck and The F*cker of Gods.
This is about Drakz.
This is about Isaac Cray.
This is about the “God” Slayer
This is about Genghis Khan Jnr.
This is about The Streak Destroyer Destroyer Destroyer.
This is about THE GOOD GUY.
This is about Sol Inviticus.
This is about the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion.
This is about………….me.
