Post by CM Poor on May 15, 2015 13:10:47 GMT -5
I've never been much of a team player.
I don't think it's for lack of a willingness to work with others, or a general distrust of others. I've just never felt comfortable in a team setting.
Early in my career with the WFWF, I was offered the opportunity to step into a position with the Saviors of Society, a band of like minded individuals who sought to rid the WFWF of the tyranny and destruction being imposed by Trace Demon and his Final Revolution. Their numbers had decreased following Nikki Dean's devastating injury, and while I found their cause noble, their ideals just, though their methods perhaps a bit off kilter with my own moral standard, I politely declined, publicly declaring my allegiance to their cause as a lone warrior standing down the prospect of war that could embroil the WFWF.
That war was short lived, and as roads diverge and change course, the SOS went their way, and I went mine. We crossed paths from time to time - Josh Dean and I each sharing a victory over one another, and a chance encounter with Dave Demento that would put me in the opposition's crosshairs in the form of Joe Bishop, and by and large, I hold those to be some of the most positive encounters in my career, as we were each, on either side of the ring, faced with the increasingly rare opportunity to put on a match for an audience that was grounded and amplified by a foundation of respect for one another.
The four of us - that is, Joe Bishop, Joshua Dean, Samael Ahriman, and myself - for better or for worse, held a very similar degree of "clout" so to speak in the WFWF. A margin of title history was largely the vast difference between myself and the others, in that they each had some and I, to date, had none. It was an interesting prospect, segregating the four of us and pairing us off into teams of two, and I suppose my luck could have been worse - there was certainly no love lost between myself and Joe Bishop, who, like Dean, also shared with me a win apiece in our two previous encounters, and while I knew precious little about the competitor turned commentator turned competitor again named Samael Ahriman, I knew enough to know that our pairing would not have likely been one that could have been rooted in much respect for one another. Religious perspective aside, I'd just put myself through the intelligent design of The New Epoch, and Ahriman's recent collaborations in the ring put him dangerously close to that bridge I'd set alight, and I was in no rush to revisit it.
In a perfect world, Dean and I would have been the ideal pairing going into this sort of thing. When push came to shove, we'd no doubt out one another through the ringer, but side by side, there was little doubt in my mind that we each shared the forethought and respect for one another enough so that we'd be able to set that aside, our focus fixated upon a common goal.
If only the world were so perfect.
If only I'd known what was to come next.
"Well, that's the worst of it. It usually best to just get these things out of the way, get on board with recovery. We, uh...we are looking at a pretty severe concussion here. You don't need me to tell you that you took some serious cranial trauma out there."
I'd made a routine out of arranging a few moments to speak with Doctor Thurgood, one of WFWF's attending event physicians, whenever I felt a pain even slightly beyond tolerable following a match. I had no misgivings about the fact that I'd selected something of a hazardous career choice, and that even the slightest maladies, gone unattended, could turn into career ending ailments down the road. It was my every intention, for better or for worse, to keep this going for as long as I was physically able, and so I saw no harm in perhaps over addressing certain conditions at times if the end result was a distinct prolonging of my career potential.
That said, as the remaining bouts of the End Game pay-per-view carried on following my encounter with Michael Kyzer, even as Doctor Thurgood delivered his diagnosis, I couldn't seem to formulate a clear memory of opting for a visit. Even more jarring, as I sat there taking in the news of my first real physical setback since arriving in the WFWF, was the fact that I couldn't really quote remember even making my way back into the recesses of the arenas staging area, or, for that matter, the ringing of the bell. Come to think of it, as Doctor Thurgood expelled news that any self conscious athlete dreads hearing, I couldn't even quite recall who came out triumphant. Had I vanquished the enigma that was Michael Kyzer, or was I now four for four in my last four showings at bat?
"As you can probably guess, there's going to need to be some downtime that accompanies this sort of diagnosis. I'm going to suggest, given the severity of your injuries and the fact that through the partial swelling we can't quite be certain if there are any further underlying issues, that you submit to some close monitoring. This would involve a few nights' stay in a medical facility. Beyond that, I'd like to insist that we treat your pending return as a contingency until further notice. There's just no real way to put a timeline on this sort of thing until we know exactly what we're dealing with here."
It's the kind of thing you get by on telling yourself could never happen to you. I mean, monitoring? More underlying issues? This was the type of thing that ended careers, lives if you weren't careful. It's a bitter pill to swallow, when the sensation dawns over you that this isn't some scene that you've seen played out a thousand times before on a screen in front of you - this is your life. Your career. Your affliction to deal with going forward. I'd never wanted to walk away from the ring for any period of time over something like this, but then, to do anything but would have been an affront to all the precarious heed that I'd taken before with much lesser afflictions. Doctor Thurgood, of course, would suggest nothing but the best course of action to ensure that my recovery was swift and complete, as he'd done for me and countless others so many times before.
"That won't be necessary, doctor."
Doctor Thurgood turned to me, the look on his face expressing one part aghast humor, one part the same bit of surprise that I harbored over the very fact that I'd uttered those words. Won't be necessary? Of course it was necessary! There I was, having only just made but a blip on the grand radar of this industry, staring down a potentially career ending injury, and I'm balking in the face of years of medicinal research and scientific fact? We've made no bones over the course of our journey that I'm a man of God, but I wasn't about to become the type that rejected honest to goodness research and development. Of course I would go along with Doctor Thurgood's regimen of treatment.
"Ah...no it's, uh...it's quite necessary Daniel. If there's something in there that we're not seeing beyond the swelling, we need to be ready to treat it at a moment's notice if we're to hang on to any hope of getting you back in that ring."
Exactly. Doctor Thurgood never expressed concern without concrete foundation, and my very behavior just then had clearly demonstrated the validity of his concerns. It would be a bitter pill to swallow, stepping away from all of this for however long the treatment would require, but perhaps it would wind up all for the best - not only a chance to recover from the blows I'd be dealt at the hands of Michael Kyzer, but I hadn't exactly been on a hot streak going in to the End Game event. Perhaps a period of reflection was long overdue - recover physically as well as emotionally and spiritually. Difficult, yes, but I was beginning to see the silver lining, and perhaps in that glimmer, a peek at what came next in God's elaborate and at times mysterious plan of action.
"I believe we're done here then, Doctor?"
"Done he...Daniel, have you heard a word I've said? You've just suffered a serious cranial injury which is already wreaking clear havoc on your state of mind. You're not going anywhere, least of all back in that ring."
"I appreciate your concern, Doctor - really, I do. There's work to be done, however, and time simply isn't something I have readily available to expend."
If I'd felt capable of speaking, I'd have been at a loss for words. I couldn't connect the dots - I knew I was here. I knew Doctor Thurgood. I knew I'd just finished a match against Michael Kyzer in which I endured some manner of head trauma. Speaking strictly recollectively, that's where it dropped off for me, but even still, in the moment, I was cognizant of my immediate surroundings - Doctor Thurgood. I could hear his voice. I could comprehend the words he was saying. In my hands dangled a plastic bottle of water. It was cold. Condensation had formed outside the bottle. These things I could recognize, could feel, could comprehend and understand, but the words coming out of my mouth, the demeanor in which I spoke - I knew they were mine, and yet they felt somehow detached from what I was feeling internally.
"You'll need a note, Daniel. To return to work. I can't simply let you walk away and in good conscience have you expect that of me."
"Of course, Doctor. I understand entirely. I'll see to it personally - your name won't be so much as whispered. All the best, and may God bless you."
Suddenly, I felt the most bizarre and unnerving sensation I'd ever felt in my life. I rose from the table, approached Doctor Thurgood for a handshake, clasping his hand in both of mine firmly and with a warmth and calm that matched the demeanor in which I'd found myself speaking all night, before finally gathering my vest and calmly striding out of the triage room and out into the cavernous halls of the arena - through no will of my own. It was as though I'd stepped into a ride, something advanced and stimulative, like you'd find in DisneyWorld or something, and I was simply along for the journey, contained to my own thoughts and reactions, unable to speak out or react to the things I'd see or hear.
As I made my way back toward my locker room, not even the roar of the crowd in the distant bowl of the arena seemed to distract me, even if my consciousness was jarred aware every time the crowd popped or roared or jeered the action in the ring. It was almost as if I was on some sort of mission to which I was none the wiser in regard to any of the details beyond the very spontaneity of the living moment, if that makes any sense.
I beelined for my phone, as I'd often times done before with some manner of intent - to call home, to dial Father Marshall, or even just to imbibe in some mindless degree of social media for a momentary distraction, but now, in this new state of mind, every move, every direction, every word was a mystery - even to me. All I could do, it seemed, was subconsciously watch and listen as my life played out before me, this new state of being perfectly obfuscated to those around me. This new walk of life was mine alone to bear.
I watched as my own thumbs brought up the browser on my phone, with all intents punching in a query for the Los Angeles Police Department. The turns kept coming - even internally, I couldn't begin to imagine what I would want with the LAPD, either sound of mind or otherwise. A shortcut later, and I found myself impatiently waking for the click of the receiver to break the dial tone on the other end, though I seemed perfectly content to wait all the same.
"Los Angeles Police Department. How may I direct your call?"
"Good evening. I'm hoping you may be able to assist me in determining whether or not your department has had any interaction with a man - a vagrant, more specifically - matching a certain description in the past month or so."
"I'll put you through to one of our field captains. One moment please."
A vagrant matching a certain description? While you'd think the dawning might have set in earlier when I found myself disconnected from my own voice and range of movement, for the first time since coming to collective awareness in Doctor Thurgood's makeshift office, I found myself growing anxious. Whatever I was doing here, devoid of any conscious input from, well, myself, I was demonstrating clear intent, forethought, and purpose, and to see this demonstrated on one's own behalf without any consciously willing directive is more than a little jarring. All the same, my demeanor remained calm. Collected. Both patiently and anxious I waited for the captain to connect. It was seemingly all I could do. Slowly, I was beginning to recognize the complete lack of control I had over my own words and actions, and yet, the implications of such a condition still hadn't quite set in, for I found myself still hinged upon the notion that perhaps there was some end to all this and that this was all just a temporary symptom of the trauma I'd just endured in the ring.
Terror, however, has a funny way of loosening the connections we have to hope, optimism, and at times, even reality. As I listened to myself converse with the gruff voiced field captain of the LAPD, I found myself becoming more and more aghast as I painted an audible picture of the man I had apparently decided to seek out. Down to the minute detail, each stroke of the verbal brush doing it's part to emphasize the context clues of the last, I could do nothing but sit and listen as the picture of the vagrant became clearer and clearer, until there was not the slightest room left for doubt about exactly who I'd soon find myself face to face with once more.
If my exterior composure was in the least bit reflective of the thoughts that were racing through my mind, there's a fair chance that I'd have not been allowed on the plane.
If I'd have looked as harried and as distraught as I felt inside, I may have had a harder time hailing a cab.
If I'd stepped into the headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department looking the way I felt, I might have wound up enduring my first ever field sobriety test on the basis of probable cause alone.
If any of these factors held true - if my exterior facade exhibited any of the sort of anxious, harried, and confused thoughts that seemed to saturate my mind while doing nothing to affect the way I walked, talked, and presented myself, then I have no problem believing that I'd have never been escorted toward the back of the station, down a lengthy corridor peppered with diminutive holding cells, a steel seat fixed to the ground before each one, to the very end of the line, where, within a darkened cells whose interior matched each before it, slumped upon the floor, the far wall doing all it could to hold him upright, sat the one friend I'd ever sought to claim since starting along this long and winding road, David Brennan.
"Thank you, officer."
He lifted his head, enough to glare daggers at me. However intoxicated he may have had to have been to have landed here, his mind clearly hadn't been fogged to the fact that in a moment of desperation, confusion, and amid a feeling absolute betrayal, I'd done what so many others had done to him before and what I'd sworn to never do, and that's turn my back on him in a time of weakness. I wanted to plead with him for forgiveness, implore him to join me back on the road, remount that path to recovery he'd come so far along on, but the words seemed to get dammed up just as they sought to escape my mind, though I spoke all the same - words that didn't seem to pass through the filter of my mind, seeming to appear out of nothingness, but which made all the sense in the world to any who'd hear them in passing.
"You're looking well, David."
"You're the 'spiritual advisor' they sent over?"
Looking well? Spiritual advisor? Our conversation may have sounded like little more than any other visitor speaking with any other prisoner to passerby who were none the wiser, but just as they had the evening before with Doctor Thurgood, the very context and sanity of the words that were coming out of my mouth made not even a shred of sense, especially when paired against the thoughts that were filling my mind. It was as if my mouth was working independently of my mind, and yet, had managed to develop a sort of cognizance of its own. The truth was, I'd never done much in the way of spiritual guidance at all, and to be blunt, save for the fact that he'd shaved the rat's nest of a beard that he'd so dutifully neglected over our time together, David looked like hell.
"We have work to do, David. I was hoping you'd join me."
"Work? Join you?! Are you serious? Did you forget the last time you were out here and you left me to cook in this god forsaken state over a bottle - ONE BOTTLE of Jimmy Beam? The f*ck kinda work you think I'm gonna be doing for you?"
"I'm in need of someone I can depend on. There's bound to be a fair bit of 'heavy lifting' involved. I could use a man with your particular skill set."
"My particular skill set. Two months out, I ain't fit to share the road with you, now you need 'my particular skill set'? F*ck's in it for me?"
"Without getting too carried away? Freedom, for starters. The LAPD will release you into my custody, today, no questions asked, as your spiritual advisor under the advisement that you join me in 'my program'. Beyond that? Redemption. All is forgiven in the eyes of The Lord, David. You told me yourself of your days as a man of God. You saw your dearly departed father off, regardless of your past transgressions against one another, with all the Christian rites of burial. The love of God still beats within your heart, and the time has come for us, as his loyal servants, to claim what is ours here on Earth as it is in Heaven."
I could tell from the inquisitive and yet altogether confused look on David's face that he was as taken aback by what I was saying as I was. David was a lot of things - a tough as nails brute, a hero in his days as a United States Marine and a firefighter back in Boston, criminally misunderstood, plagued with demons - but he was hardly a 'man of God', which is by no means a slight against him. I've met more than a few 'recovering Catholics' (as he once so eloquently described himself to me) who've rejected the piety of their upbringing and never looked back or beyond for some sort of alternate avenue for their faith.
What this sounded like, and in truth, what terrified me about it, was how much the words coming out of my mouth sounded like the call to arms that you'd here on the early morning televangelical programs that paint themselves as high praise, heavy worship 'power hours', and were , in turn, the very antithesis of everything I truly believed as a practicing Christian. For me to be saying these things, to be making excuses for the incorrigible past that David Brennan had painted for himself in order to 'draft' him into some regime under the pretense of serving God and opening doors to the rewards of the kingdom of Heaven on Earth. Something was wrong. Something was deathly wrong. This went beyond Sunday morning tele-worship. This went beyond governmental protests in the name of God's whim.
This was downright cult-like. Persuasive tactics to deceive peace keeping forces into releasing a criminal derelict? Claiming what is rightfully ours as servants of the almighty? This was terribly, terribly wrong.
And I was trapped inside it.
And as the grin on his face grew, a grin I'd seen so many times before as he'd sauntered down the ramp before laying waste the skulls of his opponents with an empty bottle of bourbon, I could tell with all certainty that while he didn't quite fully understand it, David Brennan liked it.
When you choose to live a Christian life, you sort of surrender a bit of yourself to the potential of surreality. Often times, you'll hear tell of the faithful who perceived themselves to be on another plane during times of deep or emotional introspection. Sometimes they'll refer to it as a living out-of-body experience. Like many facets of the Christian faith, you sort of either subscribe to it or you don't. Having never had an experience that astral for myself, I decidedly didn't, but as I went about my subconscious business upon my arrival in Atlanta, I came about as close to a surreal religious experience as I think I'll ever want to again.
We'd arrived early - dreadfully early, so much so that as David and I sauntered in through the access door to the Phillips Arena, we learned that we'd come in just ahead of the production and ring crews.
"No matter. More time to prepare, I think."
David responded only with a curt nod, and after checking in with an arena official, he began to lead the way our assigned locker room as I trailed behind, the arena stagehand who'd carted our equipment in step between us, single file, almost taking on the appearance of a prisoner walking his final mile.
"Planning on lugging all this bullsh*t from town to town?"
"As needed."
David was referring, without question, to the miniature rectory we spent the next hour or so piecing together within the confines of our locker space. It was all perfectly gaudy - the very sort of tactlessness that the internet wrestling community had predicted would come in two alongside me when word had first broken that the WFWF had signed a young independent renowned for his devotion to his faith: a marble pulpit, a flanking of clothed tables that held various books and baubles, and of course, the holy cross, prominently displayed upon a bare wall that served as the focal backdrop to the whole ordeal. It was enough to wrench my stomach, though my outward composition showed no sign of recoil as I went about my business, jovially piecing together my own little sanctuary of worship, to what end and for what reason I knew not.
"So tonight, yeah, but maybe not next week?"
"Tonight our work truly begins, David. We're embarking upon something so much more than either of us have undertaken. Surely you see cause there for a bit of formality - which reminds me. Come here."
David skeptically stepped forward as I found myself fiddling with an assortment of chalices and bottles arranged neatly upon one of the draped tables. Turning to face him, I presented a simple, golden chalice - brimming with a liquid whose color blended into the darkened tone of the cups more modest interior.
"Okay - that's f*ckin' weird.."
All vulgarity aside, I couldn't have agreed more. What exactly was I doing now, offering up holy sacraments? Somewhere between stepping out to face Michael Kyzer and returning from having done so, I'd apparently deemed myself fit to bestow upon others the blood of Christ, elevating myself from mere parishioner to a leadership role, gathering a flock in David to embark upon a mission that, worst of all, I still knew nothing about.
"I sprung you from that prison for a reason David. For too long, I've allowed myself to fall complacent to the notion that the path I've carved here, for better or for worse, has all been part of God's plan, but therein lies the mystery of faith. You know as well as I do that I've lived to serve as one of God's most loyal and devoted followers, and yet, the record stands for itself - loss upon loss upon loss upon loss. The voices here upon Earth speak notions that perhaps I've been too blind to hear - they speak of MORE. Surely God would have placed one of his most humble faithful within the trappings of the WFWF for something more than a string of losses, but it's not by his graces alone that I can come upon what he's destined for me. I've been too complacent, too kind, too willing to wallow around as second, third, even fourth best. My time has come, David - I've seen the light, seen what I must do, and I see it in you as well. How long? How long did you toil, playing third fiddle to Kyzer and Drakz while all the while the talking heads spoke of all that you were destined for? That destiny begins today, David. Anoint thyself in Christ - join me, and together we can rise and claim our Earthly rewards in his name!"
I think he understood, even then, that early on, that something was amiss, but then, we must remind ourselves that for whatever words were coming from my mouth then as I offered Brennan that symbolic gesture of Jesus' sacrifice, that David Brennan is not a good person. He's the very antithesis of everything I held dear, in spite of the words that now flowed without filter from my mouth, but I think he knew, and I think he didn't care. Where I, subconsciously and unable to act upon my fears, saw something very wrong and very reciprocal to what I believed, he saw opportunity, and he showed his bright intuition as he flashed that devious grin he'd shown just before agreeing to my terms back at the LAPD's drunk tank. Obediently, never breaking his gaze from my eyes, he took the cup, downing a healthy dose in one fell swoop, before lowering it once more, raising a suspicious eyebrow directly toward me.
"Is that f*ckin' Maker's?"
"The blood of Christ."
"Hell yeah - a-f*ckin'-men!"
To my own surprise, I responded to this blatant display of sacrilege by downing the remainder of the cup myself, crossing myself as my mind processed the smoky, bitter taste that made me recoil internally, all the while remaining unflinchingly stoic on the outside. I humored myself through the mental anguish of the whiskey's effects on my brain's processing centers with the thought that very few would ever be able to now combat me when it came to 'first drink' stories.
"I'll need the room, David. I'll be expecting guests throughout the day - I trust you'll thoroughly vet them before allowing access?"
"Yeah, no worries, guy."
As David disappeared beyond the shutting of the door, I meandered around the room, dimming lights and lighting candles before casually approaching my own self-made altar. Extending my arms outward, I fell to my knees, and before long, my eyes had shut, obfuscating my view of the room.
I knew well enough for this to be a moment of prayer, but what 'I' happened to be praying for, I'll likely never be sure. Still, I decided there that until I regained organic control of my own words and actions, is best go along for the ride and make the most of any opportunities as they presented themselves to me, and so, directly alongside the 'me' that had been parading around for all to see, I too set about into a prayer of my own.
I prayed for clarity - the minutes, hours, and days since my match with Michael Kyzer had been a whirlwind of confusion and uncertainty. Whatever was causing my behavior, whatever was causing me to say the things I was saying had left collateral damage as well. My conscious memory was fogged - I still couldn't quite conclude whether I'd won or lost against Kyzer, though in the grand scheme of things, that all seemed very trivial now. More than anything else in the world - I wanted control back. This road did not present itself to me as leading anywhere but from bad to worse. I needed to reach someone - anyone - who could see past the facade of what I was saying and who I really was. For a fleeting moment, I'd hoped that perhaps David could have seen that I wasn't myself, that I was changed, but his own selfish pride and a likely dose of contempt for me leaving him behind clouded his judgement and gave way for him to indulge his own ends.
I prayed that God would hear me. I was more often than not want to pray aloud. It varies from faithful to faithful, but I took a semblance of comfort in the idea that perhaps by verbalizing my conversations with God, he'd hear me with amplified clarity and that perhaps his answers, his signs, might in turn present themselves as such. Now, trapped within the confines of my own mind, I was relegated to the hopes that his omnipresence would truly act in great stride to hear my thoughts screaming out, and that he'd be able to look past the outward shell that spoke his name and claimed his biddings but did all but act in his image.
I prayed that he'd see me through whatever was left to come next. I knew not yet what this predicament would mean for me in the ring. I'd been deliberately advised NOT to participate in any in-ring activities, but my unwilling rebuttals of Doctor Thurgood's advice, coupled with the fact that I'd found myself not just booked, but slated to main event the Ascension event, told me in so many ways that I was due to ignore to concerns. If Doctor Thurgood's concerns were valid, and I had no reason to believe that they weren't, then every move - every hit I took - from here on out could end it all for me without notice. I wasn't ready for my career to be over - not like this. There was so much left to do. So much realization left in the open, and more than ever, I just wanted to heal up and to run head first toward it with every ounce of will in my body.
I prayed to both give thanks and to beg for mercy. I had been paired up with Joshua Dean, a man who had played no uncertain role in my career up until that point. Josh and I were perfectly square against one another in terms of victory, and I liked to think that even though there was an expanse between us, we typically would err on the side of mutually respected allies than sworn enemies. While I'd never try and get to the root of any spiritual convictions he may or may not have had, I'd always viewed Dean as a man of great conviction - he had a nobility of self that drove him to fight valiantly and with a general modicum of respect for his opponents, even if it drove him to the brink from time to time. I'd made no secrets about the fact that I felt the Saviors of Salvation fought on the better side of ideals when they were headed toward their dust up with the Final Revolution. Indeed, I was fortunate to be going into this ill advised match with Joshua Dean at my side.
If I could maintain that respect.
The opposite side of the spectrum says that Joshua Dean had only ever encountered the humble, unassuming, man of respect that most knew as Daniel Kirkbride. I was out my own element, and vastly out of control of my own actions. I had no way of ensuring that I'd carry myself in a way that would maintain that sense of respect I felt we'd shared. The things I was saying those past few days were off putting to me - no doubt there'd be more than a few eyebrows raised when I'd speak to men who'd already developed on conceived notion of who I was.
In a testament to the predicament I was in, I prayed for mercy at the hands of Joe Bishop and Samael Ahriman. I had no misconceptions that there would be a great degree of ire on the opposite side of the ring, and I had a fair share of it that would be levied in my direction.
An encounter with Samael Ahriman, given the course of events over the past few weeks and my seemingly running the gauntlet of The New Epoch, seemed only natural. He was a heavy hand in what felt like a natural extension of The New Epoch in the KoKaine Konspiracy, and one of the few allies of DMK's left whose path I hadn't managed to cross yet. On the surface, there stood no reason for Ahriman and I to harbor any ill will toward one another, and yet, I knew better now than to let that cloud my judgement - a lesson learned perhaps too late, given my newfound inability to act upon my own instincts. Ahriman had taken upon a decidedly mean streak since aligning himself with the KKK, and any lack of knowledge of his personal character could be perfectly substituted by taking a single look at the company he kept. Good men who play by the rules and engage in fair competition generally do not take up arms with diminutive drug dealers who have their own personal dragon monsters to sic upon their unsuspecting foes. I'd never met Samael Ahriman, not had he and I ever crossed paths, at least directly, but for all my efforts to be a good man, I couldn't find it in me to get past any preconceived notions based upon the vulgarity of his actions. In a display of weakness, and perhaps disregard for my fellow man, I'd made up my mind early on about Samael Ahriman, and all there was left to do was to try and carry on that weariness into the ring - if such an impulse was even possible.
Finally, and least surprisingly, I prayed for the strength for round three.
Game seven.
Bishop/Kirkbride III
If we'd never met again, Joe Bishop would always have his place in the books of my career, having dealt me my first loss. He'd lashed out and stung me in a way that I hadn't been stung before until our encounter. When you're riding the sort of wave that grows exponentially with each passing victory, that first dip underwater is quite the tide to emerge from.
I don't think it'd be too brash to say that Bishop and I were each headed into this match in sort of a funny place. Joe was coming in fresh off of the dissolution of The Final Revolution. Now, I can't say for certain, but I'd imagine, given the circumstances, that going from a position in which you could not only count your allies in the back, but among them count the principle owner of the WFWF to a position in which you've been cast back out into the battlefield with not but your own armaments at your side is something of a leap that requires a fair bit more than the notion to simply keep at what you'd begun. Bishop would be looking to stake new ground, to remind the world, friend and foe alike, why they'd turned their heads to look his way to begin with. What better way to stake such a claim than to edge out the competition with perennial opponent against whom you're a even .500 against?
It appeared to me that I, too, would be headed into this match with similar intent - though not of my own volition. Were I in control of my own facilities as we bounded down toward Ascension, I'd have been looking not to make an impact upon a world that would not soon forget, as it appeared I'd been gearing up to do, but rather to simply bound back. I was humble enough to admit that my losing streak was a direct result of my own doing, and a victory over Bishop and Ahriman would have done wonders to solidify in the minds of all who'd pay attention that there was still fuel left in the tank, and yet, as the hours ticked by and I couldn't compel myself to stop what I was doing, seek out Doctor Thurgood, and submit to the treatment that he felt would get back into the ring sooner rather than later, I felt robbed of that opportunity. Here I was, down a path that defied the very fiber of my being, and for the first time ever, I was helpless to steer myself back toward the right direction.
"Amen."
Time was up. No sooner had I spoken the sign off to a prayer I had no contextual knowledge of, there came a rap upon the locker room door. David led a warm smiling, well dressed man in to the room, and I could tell instantly by the shining pin on his lapel that he was a man of faith who subscribed so whole heartedly to God's graces that he'd spent his years in ministry defying the notions of traditional medicine in favor of the notion that all ailments, both spiritual and physical, could find healing properties in the power of prayer.
I could only look on in silent horror as he present in the zero hour a sheet of personalized stationary, touting his numerous credentials that someone extended to include the letters "P", "H" and "D", alongside his signature beneath a typewritten advisement, clearing one Daniel Kirkbride for immediate in-ring participation.
I don't think it's for lack of a willingness to work with others, or a general distrust of others. I've just never felt comfortable in a team setting.
Early in my career with the WFWF, I was offered the opportunity to step into a position with the Saviors of Society, a band of like minded individuals who sought to rid the WFWF of the tyranny and destruction being imposed by Trace Demon and his Final Revolution. Their numbers had decreased following Nikki Dean's devastating injury, and while I found their cause noble, their ideals just, though their methods perhaps a bit off kilter with my own moral standard, I politely declined, publicly declaring my allegiance to their cause as a lone warrior standing down the prospect of war that could embroil the WFWF.
That war was short lived, and as roads diverge and change course, the SOS went their way, and I went mine. We crossed paths from time to time - Josh Dean and I each sharing a victory over one another, and a chance encounter with Dave Demento that would put me in the opposition's crosshairs in the form of Joe Bishop, and by and large, I hold those to be some of the most positive encounters in my career, as we were each, on either side of the ring, faced with the increasingly rare opportunity to put on a match for an audience that was grounded and amplified by a foundation of respect for one another.
The four of us - that is, Joe Bishop, Joshua Dean, Samael Ahriman, and myself - for better or for worse, held a very similar degree of "clout" so to speak in the WFWF. A margin of title history was largely the vast difference between myself and the others, in that they each had some and I, to date, had none. It was an interesting prospect, segregating the four of us and pairing us off into teams of two, and I suppose my luck could have been worse - there was certainly no love lost between myself and Joe Bishop, who, like Dean, also shared with me a win apiece in our two previous encounters, and while I knew precious little about the competitor turned commentator turned competitor again named Samael Ahriman, I knew enough to know that our pairing would not have likely been one that could have been rooted in much respect for one another. Religious perspective aside, I'd just put myself through the intelligent design of The New Epoch, and Ahriman's recent collaborations in the ring put him dangerously close to that bridge I'd set alight, and I was in no rush to revisit it.
In a perfect world, Dean and I would have been the ideal pairing going into this sort of thing. When push came to shove, we'd no doubt out one another through the ringer, but side by side, there was little doubt in my mind that we each shared the forethought and respect for one another enough so that we'd be able to set that aside, our focus fixated upon a common goal.
If only the world were so perfect.
If only I'd known what was to come next.
Chapter 14:
Cut Down & Thrown On the Fire
Cut Down & Thrown On the Fire
"Well, that's the worst of it. It usually best to just get these things out of the way, get on board with recovery. We, uh...we are looking at a pretty severe concussion here. You don't need me to tell you that you took some serious cranial trauma out there."
I'd made a routine out of arranging a few moments to speak with Doctor Thurgood, one of WFWF's attending event physicians, whenever I felt a pain even slightly beyond tolerable following a match. I had no misgivings about the fact that I'd selected something of a hazardous career choice, and that even the slightest maladies, gone unattended, could turn into career ending ailments down the road. It was my every intention, for better or for worse, to keep this going for as long as I was physically able, and so I saw no harm in perhaps over addressing certain conditions at times if the end result was a distinct prolonging of my career potential.
That said, as the remaining bouts of the End Game pay-per-view carried on following my encounter with Michael Kyzer, even as Doctor Thurgood delivered his diagnosis, I couldn't seem to formulate a clear memory of opting for a visit. Even more jarring, as I sat there taking in the news of my first real physical setback since arriving in the WFWF, was the fact that I couldn't really quote remember even making my way back into the recesses of the arenas staging area, or, for that matter, the ringing of the bell. Come to think of it, as Doctor Thurgood expelled news that any self conscious athlete dreads hearing, I couldn't even quite recall who came out triumphant. Had I vanquished the enigma that was Michael Kyzer, or was I now four for four in my last four showings at bat?
"As you can probably guess, there's going to need to be some downtime that accompanies this sort of diagnosis. I'm going to suggest, given the severity of your injuries and the fact that through the partial swelling we can't quite be certain if there are any further underlying issues, that you submit to some close monitoring. This would involve a few nights' stay in a medical facility. Beyond that, I'd like to insist that we treat your pending return as a contingency until further notice. There's just no real way to put a timeline on this sort of thing until we know exactly what we're dealing with here."
It's the kind of thing you get by on telling yourself could never happen to you. I mean, monitoring? More underlying issues? This was the type of thing that ended careers, lives if you weren't careful. It's a bitter pill to swallow, when the sensation dawns over you that this isn't some scene that you've seen played out a thousand times before on a screen in front of you - this is your life. Your career. Your affliction to deal with going forward. I'd never wanted to walk away from the ring for any period of time over something like this, but then, to do anything but would have been an affront to all the precarious heed that I'd taken before with much lesser afflictions. Doctor Thurgood, of course, would suggest nothing but the best course of action to ensure that my recovery was swift and complete, as he'd done for me and countless others so many times before.
"That won't be necessary, doctor."
Doctor Thurgood turned to me, the look on his face expressing one part aghast humor, one part the same bit of surprise that I harbored over the very fact that I'd uttered those words. Won't be necessary? Of course it was necessary! There I was, having only just made but a blip on the grand radar of this industry, staring down a potentially career ending injury, and I'm balking in the face of years of medicinal research and scientific fact? We've made no bones over the course of our journey that I'm a man of God, but I wasn't about to become the type that rejected honest to goodness research and development. Of course I would go along with Doctor Thurgood's regimen of treatment.
"Ah...no it's, uh...it's quite necessary Daniel. If there's something in there that we're not seeing beyond the swelling, we need to be ready to treat it at a moment's notice if we're to hang on to any hope of getting you back in that ring."
Exactly. Doctor Thurgood never expressed concern without concrete foundation, and my very behavior just then had clearly demonstrated the validity of his concerns. It would be a bitter pill to swallow, stepping away from all of this for however long the treatment would require, but perhaps it would wind up all for the best - not only a chance to recover from the blows I'd be dealt at the hands of Michael Kyzer, but I hadn't exactly been on a hot streak going in to the End Game event. Perhaps a period of reflection was long overdue - recover physically as well as emotionally and spiritually. Difficult, yes, but I was beginning to see the silver lining, and perhaps in that glimmer, a peek at what came next in God's elaborate and at times mysterious plan of action.
"I believe we're done here then, Doctor?"
"Done he...Daniel, have you heard a word I've said? You've just suffered a serious cranial injury which is already wreaking clear havoc on your state of mind. You're not going anywhere, least of all back in that ring."
"I appreciate your concern, Doctor - really, I do. There's work to be done, however, and time simply isn't something I have readily available to expend."
If I'd felt capable of speaking, I'd have been at a loss for words. I couldn't connect the dots - I knew I was here. I knew Doctor Thurgood. I knew I'd just finished a match against Michael Kyzer in which I endured some manner of head trauma. Speaking strictly recollectively, that's where it dropped off for me, but even still, in the moment, I was cognizant of my immediate surroundings - Doctor Thurgood. I could hear his voice. I could comprehend the words he was saying. In my hands dangled a plastic bottle of water. It was cold. Condensation had formed outside the bottle. These things I could recognize, could feel, could comprehend and understand, but the words coming out of my mouth, the demeanor in which I spoke - I knew they were mine, and yet they felt somehow detached from what I was feeling internally.
"You'll need a note, Daniel. To return to work. I can't simply let you walk away and in good conscience have you expect that of me."
"Of course, Doctor. I understand entirely. I'll see to it personally - your name won't be so much as whispered. All the best, and may God bless you."
Suddenly, I felt the most bizarre and unnerving sensation I'd ever felt in my life. I rose from the table, approached Doctor Thurgood for a handshake, clasping his hand in both of mine firmly and with a warmth and calm that matched the demeanor in which I'd found myself speaking all night, before finally gathering my vest and calmly striding out of the triage room and out into the cavernous halls of the arena - through no will of my own. It was as though I'd stepped into a ride, something advanced and stimulative, like you'd find in DisneyWorld or something, and I was simply along for the journey, contained to my own thoughts and reactions, unable to speak out or react to the things I'd see or hear.
As I made my way back toward my locker room, not even the roar of the crowd in the distant bowl of the arena seemed to distract me, even if my consciousness was jarred aware every time the crowd popped or roared or jeered the action in the ring. It was almost as if I was on some sort of mission to which I was none the wiser in regard to any of the details beyond the very spontaneity of the living moment, if that makes any sense.
I beelined for my phone, as I'd often times done before with some manner of intent - to call home, to dial Father Marshall, or even just to imbibe in some mindless degree of social media for a momentary distraction, but now, in this new state of mind, every move, every direction, every word was a mystery - even to me. All I could do, it seemed, was subconsciously watch and listen as my life played out before me, this new state of being perfectly obfuscated to those around me. This new walk of life was mine alone to bear.
I watched as my own thumbs brought up the browser on my phone, with all intents punching in a query for the Los Angeles Police Department. The turns kept coming - even internally, I couldn't begin to imagine what I would want with the LAPD, either sound of mind or otherwise. A shortcut later, and I found myself impatiently waking for the click of the receiver to break the dial tone on the other end, though I seemed perfectly content to wait all the same.
"Los Angeles Police Department. How may I direct your call?"
"Good evening. I'm hoping you may be able to assist me in determining whether or not your department has had any interaction with a man - a vagrant, more specifically - matching a certain description in the past month or so."
"I'll put you through to one of our field captains. One moment please."
A vagrant matching a certain description? While you'd think the dawning might have set in earlier when I found myself disconnected from my own voice and range of movement, for the first time since coming to collective awareness in Doctor Thurgood's makeshift office, I found myself growing anxious. Whatever I was doing here, devoid of any conscious input from, well, myself, I was demonstrating clear intent, forethought, and purpose, and to see this demonstrated on one's own behalf without any consciously willing directive is more than a little jarring. All the same, my demeanor remained calm. Collected. Both patiently and anxious I waited for the captain to connect. It was seemingly all I could do. Slowly, I was beginning to recognize the complete lack of control I had over my own words and actions, and yet, the implications of such a condition still hadn't quite set in, for I found myself still hinged upon the notion that perhaps there was some end to all this and that this was all just a temporary symptom of the trauma I'd just endured in the ring.
Terror, however, has a funny way of loosening the connections we have to hope, optimism, and at times, even reality. As I listened to myself converse with the gruff voiced field captain of the LAPD, I found myself becoming more and more aghast as I painted an audible picture of the man I had apparently decided to seek out. Down to the minute detail, each stroke of the verbal brush doing it's part to emphasize the context clues of the last, I could do nothing but sit and listen as the picture of the vagrant became clearer and clearer, until there was not the slightest room left for doubt about exactly who I'd soon find myself face to face with once more.
The Gospel According to David
If my exterior composure was in the least bit reflective of the thoughts that were racing through my mind, there's a fair chance that I'd have not been allowed on the plane.
If I'd have looked as harried and as distraught as I felt inside, I may have had a harder time hailing a cab.
If I'd stepped into the headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department looking the way I felt, I might have wound up enduring my first ever field sobriety test on the basis of probable cause alone.
If any of these factors held true - if my exterior facade exhibited any of the sort of anxious, harried, and confused thoughts that seemed to saturate my mind while doing nothing to affect the way I walked, talked, and presented myself, then I have no problem believing that I'd have never been escorted toward the back of the station, down a lengthy corridor peppered with diminutive holding cells, a steel seat fixed to the ground before each one, to the very end of the line, where, within a darkened cells whose interior matched each before it, slumped upon the floor, the far wall doing all it could to hold him upright, sat the one friend I'd ever sought to claim since starting along this long and winding road, David Brennan.
"Thank you, officer."
He lifted his head, enough to glare daggers at me. However intoxicated he may have had to have been to have landed here, his mind clearly hadn't been fogged to the fact that in a moment of desperation, confusion, and amid a feeling absolute betrayal, I'd done what so many others had done to him before and what I'd sworn to never do, and that's turn my back on him in a time of weakness. I wanted to plead with him for forgiveness, implore him to join me back on the road, remount that path to recovery he'd come so far along on, but the words seemed to get dammed up just as they sought to escape my mind, though I spoke all the same - words that didn't seem to pass through the filter of my mind, seeming to appear out of nothingness, but which made all the sense in the world to any who'd hear them in passing.
"You're looking well, David."
"You're the 'spiritual advisor' they sent over?"
Looking well? Spiritual advisor? Our conversation may have sounded like little more than any other visitor speaking with any other prisoner to passerby who were none the wiser, but just as they had the evening before with Doctor Thurgood, the very context and sanity of the words that were coming out of my mouth made not even a shred of sense, especially when paired against the thoughts that were filling my mind. It was as if my mouth was working independently of my mind, and yet, had managed to develop a sort of cognizance of its own. The truth was, I'd never done much in the way of spiritual guidance at all, and to be blunt, save for the fact that he'd shaved the rat's nest of a beard that he'd so dutifully neglected over our time together, David looked like hell.
"We have work to do, David. I was hoping you'd join me."
"Work? Join you?! Are you serious? Did you forget the last time you were out here and you left me to cook in this god forsaken state over a bottle - ONE BOTTLE of Jimmy Beam? The f*ck kinda work you think I'm gonna be doing for you?"
"I'm in need of someone I can depend on. There's bound to be a fair bit of 'heavy lifting' involved. I could use a man with your particular skill set."
"My particular skill set. Two months out, I ain't fit to share the road with you, now you need 'my particular skill set'? F*ck's in it for me?"
"Without getting too carried away? Freedom, for starters. The LAPD will release you into my custody, today, no questions asked, as your spiritual advisor under the advisement that you join me in 'my program'. Beyond that? Redemption. All is forgiven in the eyes of The Lord, David. You told me yourself of your days as a man of God. You saw your dearly departed father off, regardless of your past transgressions against one another, with all the Christian rites of burial. The love of God still beats within your heart, and the time has come for us, as his loyal servants, to claim what is ours here on Earth as it is in Heaven."
I could tell from the inquisitive and yet altogether confused look on David's face that he was as taken aback by what I was saying as I was. David was a lot of things - a tough as nails brute, a hero in his days as a United States Marine and a firefighter back in Boston, criminally misunderstood, plagued with demons - but he was hardly a 'man of God', which is by no means a slight against him. I've met more than a few 'recovering Catholics' (as he once so eloquently described himself to me) who've rejected the piety of their upbringing and never looked back or beyond for some sort of alternate avenue for their faith.
What this sounded like, and in truth, what terrified me about it, was how much the words coming out of my mouth sounded like the call to arms that you'd here on the early morning televangelical programs that paint themselves as high praise, heavy worship 'power hours', and were , in turn, the very antithesis of everything I truly believed as a practicing Christian. For me to be saying these things, to be making excuses for the incorrigible past that David Brennan had painted for himself in order to 'draft' him into some regime under the pretense of serving God and opening doors to the rewards of the kingdom of Heaven on Earth. Something was wrong. Something was deathly wrong. This went beyond Sunday morning tele-worship. This went beyond governmental protests in the name of God's whim.
This was downright cult-like. Persuasive tactics to deceive peace keeping forces into releasing a criminal derelict? Claiming what is rightfully ours as servants of the almighty? This was terribly, terribly wrong.
And I was trapped inside it.
And as the grin on his face grew, a grin I'd seen so many times before as he'd sauntered down the ramp before laying waste the skulls of his opponents with an empty bottle of bourbon, I could tell with all certainty that while he didn't quite fully understand it, David Brennan liked it.
Together in Prayer
When you choose to live a Christian life, you sort of surrender a bit of yourself to the potential of surreality. Often times, you'll hear tell of the faithful who perceived themselves to be on another plane during times of deep or emotional introspection. Sometimes they'll refer to it as a living out-of-body experience. Like many facets of the Christian faith, you sort of either subscribe to it or you don't. Having never had an experience that astral for myself, I decidedly didn't, but as I went about my subconscious business upon my arrival in Atlanta, I came about as close to a surreal religious experience as I think I'll ever want to again.
We'd arrived early - dreadfully early, so much so that as David and I sauntered in through the access door to the Phillips Arena, we learned that we'd come in just ahead of the production and ring crews.
"No matter. More time to prepare, I think."
David responded only with a curt nod, and after checking in with an arena official, he began to lead the way our assigned locker room as I trailed behind, the arena stagehand who'd carted our equipment in step between us, single file, almost taking on the appearance of a prisoner walking his final mile.
"Planning on lugging all this bullsh*t from town to town?"
"As needed."
David was referring, without question, to the miniature rectory we spent the next hour or so piecing together within the confines of our locker space. It was all perfectly gaudy - the very sort of tactlessness that the internet wrestling community had predicted would come in two alongside me when word had first broken that the WFWF had signed a young independent renowned for his devotion to his faith: a marble pulpit, a flanking of clothed tables that held various books and baubles, and of course, the holy cross, prominently displayed upon a bare wall that served as the focal backdrop to the whole ordeal. It was enough to wrench my stomach, though my outward composition showed no sign of recoil as I went about my business, jovially piecing together my own little sanctuary of worship, to what end and for what reason I knew not.
"So tonight, yeah, but maybe not next week?"
"Tonight our work truly begins, David. We're embarking upon something so much more than either of us have undertaken. Surely you see cause there for a bit of formality - which reminds me. Come here."
David skeptically stepped forward as I found myself fiddling with an assortment of chalices and bottles arranged neatly upon one of the draped tables. Turning to face him, I presented a simple, golden chalice - brimming with a liquid whose color blended into the darkened tone of the cups more modest interior.
"Okay - that's f*ckin' weird.."
All vulgarity aside, I couldn't have agreed more. What exactly was I doing now, offering up holy sacraments? Somewhere between stepping out to face Michael Kyzer and returning from having done so, I'd apparently deemed myself fit to bestow upon others the blood of Christ, elevating myself from mere parishioner to a leadership role, gathering a flock in David to embark upon a mission that, worst of all, I still knew nothing about.
"I sprung you from that prison for a reason David. For too long, I've allowed myself to fall complacent to the notion that the path I've carved here, for better or for worse, has all been part of God's plan, but therein lies the mystery of faith. You know as well as I do that I've lived to serve as one of God's most loyal and devoted followers, and yet, the record stands for itself - loss upon loss upon loss upon loss. The voices here upon Earth speak notions that perhaps I've been too blind to hear - they speak of MORE. Surely God would have placed one of his most humble faithful within the trappings of the WFWF for something more than a string of losses, but it's not by his graces alone that I can come upon what he's destined for me. I've been too complacent, too kind, too willing to wallow around as second, third, even fourth best. My time has come, David - I've seen the light, seen what I must do, and I see it in you as well. How long? How long did you toil, playing third fiddle to Kyzer and Drakz while all the while the talking heads spoke of all that you were destined for? That destiny begins today, David. Anoint thyself in Christ - join me, and together we can rise and claim our Earthly rewards in his name!"
I think he understood, even then, that early on, that something was amiss, but then, we must remind ourselves that for whatever words were coming from my mouth then as I offered Brennan that symbolic gesture of Jesus' sacrifice, that David Brennan is not a good person. He's the very antithesis of everything I held dear, in spite of the words that now flowed without filter from my mouth, but I think he knew, and I think he didn't care. Where I, subconsciously and unable to act upon my fears, saw something very wrong and very reciprocal to what I believed, he saw opportunity, and he showed his bright intuition as he flashed that devious grin he'd shown just before agreeing to my terms back at the LAPD's drunk tank. Obediently, never breaking his gaze from my eyes, he took the cup, downing a healthy dose in one fell swoop, before lowering it once more, raising a suspicious eyebrow directly toward me.
"Is that f*ckin' Maker's?"
"The blood of Christ."
"Hell yeah - a-f*ckin'-men!"
To my own surprise, I responded to this blatant display of sacrilege by downing the remainder of the cup myself, crossing myself as my mind processed the smoky, bitter taste that made me recoil internally, all the while remaining unflinchingly stoic on the outside. I humored myself through the mental anguish of the whiskey's effects on my brain's processing centers with the thought that very few would ever be able to now combat me when it came to 'first drink' stories.
"I'll need the room, David. I'll be expecting guests throughout the day - I trust you'll thoroughly vet them before allowing access?"
"Yeah, no worries, guy."
As David disappeared beyond the shutting of the door, I meandered around the room, dimming lights and lighting candles before casually approaching my own self-made altar. Extending my arms outward, I fell to my knees, and before long, my eyes had shut, obfuscating my view of the room.
I knew well enough for this to be a moment of prayer, but what 'I' happened to be praying for, I'll likely never be sure. Still, I decided there that until I regained organic control of my own words and actions, is best go along for the ride and make the most of any opportunities as they presented themselves to me, and so, directly alongside the 'me' that had been parading around for all to see, I too set about into a prayer of my own.
I prayed for clarity - the minutes, hours, and days since my match with Michael Kyzer had been a whirlwind of confusion and uncertainty. Whatever was causing my behavior, whatever was causing me to say the things I was saying had left collateral damage as well. My conscious memory was fogged - I still couldn't quite conclude whether I'd won or lost against Kyzer, though in the grand scheme of things, that all seemed very trivial now. More than anything else in the world - I wanted control back. This road did not present itself to me as leading anywhere but from bad to worse. I needed to reach someone - anyone - who could see past the facade of what I was saying and who I really was. For a fleeting moment, I'd hoped that perhaps David could have seen that I wasn't myself, that I was changed, but his own selfish pride and a likely dose of contempt for me leaving him behind clouded his judgement and gave way for him to indulge his own ends.
I prayed that God would hear me. I was more often than not want to pray aloud. It varies from faithful to faithful, but I took a semblance of comfort in the idea that perhaps by verbalizing my conversations with God, he'd hear me with amplified clarity and that perhaps his answers, his signs, might in turn present themselves as such. Now, trapped within the confines of my own mind, I was relegated to the hopes that his omnipresence would truly act in great stride to hear my thoughts screaming out, and that he'd be able to look past the outward shell that spoke his name and claimed his biddings but did all but act in his image.
I prayed that he'd see me through whatever was left to come next. I knew not yet what this predicament would mean for me in the ring. I'd been deliberately advised NOT to participate in any in-ring activities, but my unwilling rebuttals of Doctor Thurgood's advice, coupled with the fact that I'd found myself not just booked, but slated to main event the Ascension event, told me in so many ways that I was due to ignore to concerns. If Doctor Thurgood's concerns were valid, and I had no reason to believe that they weren't, then every move - every hit I took - from here on out could end it all for me without notice. I wasn't ready for my career to be over - not like this. There was so much left to do. So much realization left in the open, and more than ever, I just wanted to heal up and to run head first toward it with every ounce of will in my body.
I prayed to both give thanks and to beg for mercy. I had been paired up with Joshua Dean, a man who had played no uncertain role in my career up until that point. Josh and I were perfectly square against one another in terms of victory, and I liked to think that even though there was an expanse between us, we typically would err on the side of mutually respected allies than sworn enemies. While I'd never try and get to the root of any spiritual convictions he may or may not have had, I'd always viewed Dean as a man of great conviction - he had a nobility of self that drove him to fight valiantly and with a general modicum of respect for his opponents, even if it drove him to the brink from time to time. I'd made no secrets about the fact that I felt the Saviors of Salvation fought on the better side of ideals when they were headed toward their dust up with the Final Revolution. Indeed, I was fortunate to be going into this ill advised match with Joshua Dean at my side.
If I could maintain that respect.
The opposite side of the spectrum says that Joshua Dean had only ever encountered the humble, unassuming, man of respect that most knew as Daniel Kirkbride. I was out my own element, and vastly out of control of my own actions. I had no way of ensuring that I'd carry myself in a way that would maintain that sense of respect I felt we'd shared. The things I was saying those past few days were off putting to me - no doubt there'd be more than a few eyebrows raised when I'd speak to men who'd already developed on conceived notion of who I was.
In a testament to the predicament I was in, I prayed for mercy at the hands of Joe Bishop and Samael Ahriman. I had no misconceptions that there would be a great degree of ire on the opposite side of the ring, and I had a fair share of it that would be levied in my direction.
An encounter with Samael Ahriman, given the course of events over the past few weeks and my seemingly running the gauntlet of The New Epoch, seemed only natural. He was a heavy hand in what felt like a natural extension of The New Epoch in the KoKaine Konspiracy, and one of the few allies of DMK's left whose path I hadn't managed to cross yet. On the surface, there stood no reason for Ahriman and I to harbor any ill will toward one another, and yet, I knew better now than to let that cloud my judgement - a lesson learned perhaps too late, given my newfound inability to act upon my own instincts. Ahriman had taken upon a decidedly mean streak since aligning himself with the KKK, and any lack of knowledge of his personal character could be perfectly substituted by taking a single look at the company he kept. Good men who play by the rules and engage in fair competition generally do not take up arms with diminutive drug dealers who have their own personal dragon monsters to sic upon their unsuspecting foes. I'd never met Samael Ahriman, not had he and I ever crossed paths, at least directly, but for all my efforts to be a good man, I couldn't find it in me to get past any preconceived notions based upon the vulgarity of his actions. In a display of weakness, and perhaps disregard for my fellow man, I'd made up my mind early on about Samael Ahriman, and all there was left to do was to try and carry on that weariness into the ring - if such an impulse was even possible.
Finally, and least surprisingly, I prayed for the strength for round three.
Game seven.
Bishop/Kirkbride III
If we'd never met again, Joe Bishop would always have his place in the books of my career, having dealt me my first loss. He'd lashed out and stung me in a way that I hadn't been stung before until our encounter. When you're riding the sort of wave that grows exponentially with each passing victory, that first dip underwater is quite the tide to emerge from.
I don't think it'd be too brash to say that Bishop and I were each headed into this match in sort of a funny place. Joe was coming in fresh off of the dissolution of The Final Revolution. Now, I can't say for certain, but I'd imagine, given the circumstances, that going from a position in which you could not only count your allies in the back, but among them count the principle owner of the WFWF to a position in which you've been cast back out into the battlefield with not but your own armaments at your side is something of a leap that requires a fair bit more than the notion to simply keep at what you'd begun. Bishop would be looking to stake new ground, to remind the world, friend and foe alike, why they'd turned their heads to look his way to begin with. What better way to stake such a claim than to edge out the competition with perennial opponent against whom you're a even .500 against?
It appeared to me that I, too, would be headed into this match with similar intent - though not of my own volition. Were I in control of my own facilities as we bounded down toward Ascension, I'd have been looking not to make an impact upon a world that would not soon forget, as it appeared I'd been gearing up to do, but rather to simply bound back. I was humble enough to admit that my losing streak was a direct result of my own doing, and a victory over Bishop and Ahriman would have done wonders to solidify in the minds of all who'd pay attention that there was still fuel left in the tank, and yet, as the hours ticked by and I couldn't compel myself to stop what I was doing, seek out Doctor Thurgood, and submit to the treatment that he felt would get back into the ring sooner rather than later, I felt robbed of that opportunity. Here I was, down a path that defied the very fiber of my being, and for the first time ever, I was helpless to steer myself back toward the right direction.
"Amen."
Time was up. No sooner had I spoken the sign off to a prayer I had no contextual knowledge of, there came a rap upon the locker room door. David led a warm smiling, well dressed man in to the room, and I could tell instantly by the shining pin on his lapel that he was a man of faith who subscribed so whole heartedly to God's graces that he'd spent his years in ministry defying the notions of traditional medicine in favor of the notion that all ailments, both spiritual and physical, could find healing properties in the power of prayer.
I could only look on in silent horror as he present in the zero hour a sheet of personalized stationary, touting his numerous credentials that someone extended to include the letters "P", "H" and "D", alongside his signature beneath a typewritten advisement, clearing one Daniel Kirkbride for immediate in-ring participation.
I dont know good luck 
