Gravity swallowed you whole when you were stuck in a state of limbo called the concussion protocol. Alien lights, probing doctors, eyes peeled back, follow the light. Both body and mind were rattled. The disorentiation, the nausea merry-go-round, and the relentless migraine taking a hammer to the skull. Memories lost. Memories hatched up and pieced back together. Nothing made sense. God let me curl up in a ball and just die. What was his room number again? Why was he at the airport? In this city? Was he deperating to go somewhere or had he just arrived? Layover maybe? Not sure. Show me the way handlers work. Herd me like the dumb lamb I am. Bright lights might hypnotize, but every light left sparkles burned into Xander’s retinas. Then the burden of overwhelming depression, a wet blanket held over his mouth. His mood had been kept right under the surface of the water without a breath of oxygen. Suffocating. Sinking. Murkiness. Uneasiness.
Why?
And where was Hunter?
Why wasn’t she here?
Hunter had been the one constant in Xander’s life. His companion had been the main stabilizing force that kept Xander upright for these past few years. Now gone, Xander capsized. Vanished from his life without a trace of understanding. One moment she was there, screaming his name and the next silence. God help me. Xander knew they had explained the circumstances to him, over and over. Dillusion volunteered to look after Xander, an odd gesture for someone Xander had wronged in recent memory. Xander swore he had ask Dillusion the same question a hundred times. Dillusion held the patience of a saint, enduring Xander’s futility and momentary insanity. He knew he could trust Dillusion. Dillusion wanted to protect him. Keep him afloat.
“She went with James. He took her away. And that’s all we know right now,” Dillusion answered briefly. “And don’t think about chasing after her. You’re in no condition.”
“But why?” Xander questioned aloud. A million jumbled thoughts bombarded his mind. He tried making connections, grasping at straws even though the ties had been obvious.
“She offered herself up to stop James from continuing his assault. She did so to protect. I told you, we don’t have all the details and people are equally confused as you at this turn of events. She does seem connected to the Evans family, someway, somehow,” Dillusion explained. That made sense to Xander. Chad knew Hunter. His cousin, James, could have too. But what power did she hold over him? Why would her abandonment sate James’ appetite for destruction.
Restless nights. A whole lot of them. Toss and turn. No right spot. Too hot with a blanket. Too unprotected without. Any light haunted him. Duct tape slapped on the glaring alarm clock. Curtains blocked out the unforgiving sun, or the pesky city lights. Empty bedroom, where she once stayed. Her absence forbade solace. No peace of mind. Without her there, the house didn’t feel like his home. Simply four walls and roof, all of which were devoid of life. Simply a storage unit for his physical being until he convinced them all to let him free. Xander fingers grasped a bundle of bedsheet, nails dragged on the fabric. Up above, the ceiling fan hummed, churning his odor in every which direction, a lasting must that he only smelt for a brief moment when returning to the room. Curled up in a ball, Xander fought back tears. Why was he crying? He wasn’t a boy anymore. Was he ever a boy? He hadn’t been afforded the luxury his entire life, so why cry now?
Strange dreams dogged him when he did manage to sleep. Obscure dreams. Vivid dreams. One stuck out. A soft tight. A hand patted on a patch of denim. Xander placed his head. The hand petted him. He rolled over, stared up at the bright sun where the woman’s face belonged. All physical features of this cosmic visitor bled out by the blinding light. Was it Hunter? No, it was someone else. Felt like family. Felt like a fleeting memory. Think too hard and Xander would lose his grip on the image. Lose his seat. Curiosity swirled around in his dull thoughts, but spiced by the peppering sensation of longing. Of loss. He grieved, despite having this bittersweet memory conjured up by his subconscious.
Sometimes a song crackled. Vinyl. Record player. Familiar lyrics taunted him, but in his dream, he couldn’t place a name to the band or song, despite knowing he knew it. He spoke the lyrics in an distant, effeminate voice instead:
“Carry on, my wayward son
There’ll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don’t you cry no more”
The crescendo awoke Xander. He lost everything. Was it day? Was it night? Was Dillusion still here or had he left too. Xander sat up. Head throbbing. Heart racing. His existence fragmented, making him fragile to the touch. Cracked smile. Crack lips. Another straight, another blow to his head, flashes of light. Where was he again? Alone. Hello darkness, my old friend. He sucked in the air, tossing his legs around, kicking them off the edge of the mattress, off the plank and into the shark-filled ocean. Things rolled slowly into focus. Thoughts started to thicken, coalescence, seizing rationality and reason. Slowly, but surely, Xander’s being thawed, returning to former. The Executioner returned, with his carnivore’s sharp vision and grit. From lying on his back at the bottom, he could stand up now, on his two feet, with some hope he could climb out of this fucking hole
“Hey buddddy… how are you feeling this morning? Any better?” Dillusion leaned over Xander’s oversized recliner, tipping it onto its rear legs only to plop it back down. Dillusion had remained by his side during this entire fever dream. Buy why? Xander couldn’t shake paranoia. This couldn’t be usual for road agents to be paired off. As much as Xander knew he was one of the top stars, ownership didn’t seem to share the same assessment. They saw him as an aged relic, a machine with a broken cog, a liability that was barely worth the maintenance cost. They paraded him around, tap into the current generation’s lust for nostalgia. Did Dillusion act according to a sense of loyalty? For old time’s sake? Xander never understood Dillusion. He didn’t now. All Xander know, he didn’t deserve loyalty from anybody.
“I’m alive. Alert. Have you stayed with me this whole time?” Xander scratched the back of his head. Awkward. “It feels like it’s been weeks.”
“It has been.”
“It’s been a complete blur.”
“I bet. I was scared. I have never seen a man so rattled for so long.”
“I was that bad?” Xander questioned, not wanting to believe that but knew that was putting it nicely. He had been a complete wreck. Not that he felt guilty or remorseful, as it was all James’s fault. James tried to take him out, retire him. Exterminate him. And Xander felt confident that if he replayed the last fight with James, if you could even call it a fight, he would be embarrassed. But he wasn’t. He was angry. A man tried to rid Xander of his livelihood. A man tried to extinguish him. There was only one answer for that: payback, revenge, whatever label you want to slap on it. You don’t mess with a man’s money. Yet Xander reminded himself that he lived in a dog eat dog world. Xander swore he had the nastiest bite. James walked into his world and made a fool out of Xander. But this was his world, not James’. While James enjoyed a nice vacation, soon he’d understand he’s just a lucky fucking tourist. By the time Xander’s finished, he’d understand this was his domain.
“I guess I’m going to need to get cleared.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“What do you mean by that?” Xander tilted his head. He bit back on his anger. Don’t shoot the messenger. Especially not someone who had been with you through this latest rough patch. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“The big boss is concerned about your ability to continue to compete. This is by far a very serious concussion and given your history, there’s some legwork that needs to be done. Now, don’t get angry, they’re not doing this to punish you, they’re legitimately concerned about your wellbeing. Honest, cross my heart, hope to die,” Dillusion bargained. He toed the company line on this, but in the end, Xander knew this was Drachewych trying to protect his ass and cover his company’s. They didn’t care about his welfare. They cared about costly lawsuits and bad publicity.
“I love how woke this company has become. If they really care, they’d let us unionize.”
“CTE is serious. We only know just starting to understand the science behind it. Too many boxers and wrestlers of yesterday have fallen victim to it. They don’t even remember their children, yet alone what they had for breakfast. Do you want to be that vegetable?” Dillusion fought back. That was his friend’s concern, not Drachewych’s. If ignorance was bliss, was early onset dementia a curse or a blessing? Xander guessed it was an issue of control. Xander Valentine with dementia was a hazard to the public. They probably figured he’d shoot up the locker room or go on a murder spree, forever staining the company’s image.
“You might care about that. I doubt the boss has any sympathy for me. After all… our personal history, you know?” Xander sighed. He realized the hypocrisy behind his seething hatred towards James Evans. The list of people he had scarred for life, threatened or outright destroyed their livelihood, enacted trauma on their beings were long and he couldn’t remember the name of every single one of his victims. There were too many. But whenever the tables were turned, Xander found himself consumed by the loathing he felt towards Selena Frost and now James Evans. Being on the other end of the barrel was a lot different than being the trigger man.
“You might be right. But he might be a bigger person than you. He might have already forgiven you.”
“He shouldn’t. I never repented. I never atoned.”
“I don’t know what goes on in that evil genius’s mind. I have enough problems with my own sanity. Anyhow, he instructed me to contact corporate when we can get you to fly to Atlanta. Meet with THE expert in this shit,” Dillusion revealed. He already had his cellphone in his hand, drafting up an email to alert the powers that be that Xander was in some condition for travel. Tickets would be issued. A high priority visit with this so-called specialist would be booked. Xander would not have a choice in the matter, that irked him.
To Xander, Atlanta seemed a very odd and pointless trip. He needed to get back. He needed to get to James… and take back Hunter.
“I have my own brain doctor here. He knows my case. He checked me out before.”
The brief pause allowed for Dillusion to finish the email. He looked up from his phone, frowning. “No, that won’t do. We want an independent consultant on this. And there literally is no one more qualified than this doctor. You don’t have a say. You won’t be cleared until you meet with him and he gives us his blessing to let you compete—”
“Fuck that! I can fight. I can compete. Screw the consequences. Forget doctors. I will fight until the day I die, if not in SCW, I’d do it elsewhere. We’ve been through this a hundred times.”
“Do you even remember James punking you out? Twice in fact.”
“Exactly why I need to get back to work. I can’t sit around, waiting anymore. I got to respond. I will respond. I am going to make sure that I’m never going to leave James’ head. I’ll be with him forever, a dark passenger. Every dark alleyway, every bump in the night, the fucker’s going to think that’s me finishing the job,” Xander foamed at the mouth. The distance between former allies had been closed, Xander now leaning over him, unconsciously trying to intimidate Dillusion. He backed down upon realization. This wasn’t Dillusion’s problem. This was his. This was James’. Dillusion’s here out of some feeling of obligation, whether as a road agent or a former NBR member. “Sorry, this isn’t your call.”
“If I was, I think I’d make the same decision. You need to get thoroughly checked out.”
“There isn’t any choice?”
“You’re barred from future venues until this gets addressed.”
“So no. I don’t have a choice. Fucking hell,” Xander spat. Fear radiated. Dread. He already knew the answer. They were going to clip his wings and keep him grounded for the rest of his life. No legitimate promoter would book him. If he continued to wrestle, he would be fighting for peanuts in some high school gym. He can’t live like that. He had to be here, in SCW. He had to compete against the best. Because if he really believed that he was the greatest wrestler, he had to back it up? For a moment, he debated calling in a favor from Chad, but had enjoyed the past year of not hearing from the idiot. He wasn’t going to ruin that development. No, he was going to pray to the powers above to grant him some more time.
There will be a day that he will have to hang up his boots. But that wasn’t today, he’d die with too many regrets. He refused to go out with a whimper. No, he was going to go out with a bang. In addition to James, the entire wrestling world will never forget his name.
Waiting. Xander expected a wait, but minutes became hours. He moved restlessly within the room. He hopped up onto the examination table but bounced back down. Perhaps most people in his position would have surfed the web on their cellphones to pass the time, but that wasn’t Xander. He supposed his phone did have those capabilities, but that never was an idea that appeared in his head. So instead, he had only his own thoughts to contend with. And fear. Fear of what the doctor was going to say. The surefire belief that he wasn’t going to be cleared. That this was the end of the road. That morning, they ran tests, all sorts of them. Scans of his brain. Prior to even coming to the clinic, he had filed out forms after forms. Xander even surrendered his previous doctor’s contact despite knowing that he didn’t have a good diagnosis from the last quack. A part of him tried to convince him to stay calm, stay positive, but that was never him. He didn’t know how people do it? He has always been the glass half-empty type.
The doctor came in. Indian, or Pakistani, descent. Short. Thick mustache that swirled at the end. Doctor Abdul Lone still carried himself with confidence and energy that was mostly fostered by a much younger man. Despite age having turned his hair bright white, a sharp contrast from his darkened skin, he seemed fit, healthy. Energetic.
“Mr. Valentine, it’s nice to finally meet you,” the doctor held out his hand. Xander stared at the outstretched hand.
After a moment’s pause, Xander reluctantly shook the doctor’s hands.
“Relax, Mr. Valentine. Relax. I know your type. Know it very well,” he spoke without an accent. Second generation, then? He continued, “You see me as an enemy! You believe I’m out to end your careers! I get a lot of resistance from you athletes, despite us playing for the same team.”
“You’re very perceptive, doctor,” Xander forfeited.
“I’m here to make sure that no one abandons their commitment to their physical and mental wellbeing. You might think that’s lip service, but that is why I have dedicated myself to medicine. I’m a firm believer that science is the universal truth, but it’s more important how we use information and knowledge to make the correct choices to lead a long, and fruitful life,” Lone continued. He kept his hands behind his back, pacing up and down before Xander. Xander had taken a perch on the examination table again.
Xander looked up at the ceiling, pleading for the doctor to get this point. Finally, he couldn’t hold back. He had to know. “What’s the verdict?”
“There you go again, resentful of knowing the truth. Mr. Valentine, I implore you to rethink your stance. What I have learned and hopefully you will accept my opinion, will equip you for the future. We can only sweep the dirt underneath the rug so long before it becomes a problem. And when it comes to CTE, that is the absolute truth of things,” Doctor Lone came to a stop. He slipped a few medical diagrams from his casefile and pinned them up. He turned on the bright backlight to highlight. “This is your brain today, Mr. Valentine.”
“Great, I am feeling like I’m in an anti-drug PSA.”
“This is what a normal brain looks like. And this is what a brain that we have identified to suffer from CTE,” Doctor Lone compared the images. Xander couldn’t really understand what was going on with the images. His brain didn’t appear to be more like one than the other. Detecting Xander’s confusion, Lone spelt it out, “You’re neither here nor there. But I’m of the belief that your brain is starting to go in the wrong direction but I do not have hard cold evidence yet that is indeed the case.”
“So this is it?”
“Not exactly, Mr. Valentine. It’s more complicated than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do I think there is reason to be concerned with concussion history? Yes. Yes. Yes. But right now, I am not seeing enough physical evidence to enforce that concern. In fact, if I simply read your casefile, I’d be confident that I’d be looking at the right picture, a battered husk of brain matter. But in all honesty, that’s not the case, not at all!” Dr. Lone squealed, almost in delight. He slipped out more notes. “Now, that doesn’t mean it isn’t going to get there. Given the severity of your previous few bouts with concussion, I suspect that my prognosis will change if you suffer much more abuse.”
“You’re telling me that I’m fine?”
“Not perfect, but not bad yet. I see also that there is a reported decrease in your moods variation. Tell me, Mr. Valentine, do you suffer from erratic behavior? Aggression, depression, suicidal thoughts? Sudden mood changes?” The doctor probed. He watched Xander closely with his head, another examination, this time in the honesty of his patient.
Xander knew the right answer, but attempted to dissect recent memory. “I wouldn’t say sudden mood changes. I do suffer from depression. I have always been known to be aggressive. But if anything, I feel a lot more calm and collected than any other point of my life. I do believe that’s because of the medication I’m on now. Plus I have had some moral support.”
“And how about your memory? Are you easily confused?
“Except for the past few weeks, I like to think I have a good memory and I’m not easily confused.”
“That confirms some things. Mr. Valentine, I’m not someone who is easily intimidated like my colleague. Yes, oh yes, I was warned you might attempt to bully me into changing my opinion. But from where I stand today, you seem to be a very calm and collected individual,” Doctor Lone said. Confusion rushed into Xander’s thoughts; no one ever described him as a calm OR a collected individual, always describing him as someone with a screw loose. “While I do believe there is merit behind concern, I believe that you are not quite at the point where I would label a high risk for CTE. Now, I reserve the right to change my opinion down the road and I will. I will let your company know that I request to monitor you for the rest of your days as a professional athlete. Any and all future concussions must be documented and reported to me.”
“Wait, you’re clearing me?” Xander found himself dumbfounded. A bright hot flash of relief washed over his body.
“I am. But I am warning you, Mr. Valentine. If you don’t protect yourself, things can easily turn around and I promise you… you do not want to suffer from dementia when you’re yet out of your forties. I expect you to be honest with medical professionals so we can address any future issues that might come. I also am going to ask you to visit me on occasion so I can follow up,” the doctor stuffed all papers back into the casefile before tucking it under his shoulder. Once again he offered his hand, “Promise me, Mr. Valentine. And if you do that, we can have a very fruitful relationship moving forward.”
“Promise,” Xander shook the man’s hand, this time eagerily. “I promise.”
“I can tell that you are surprised by this turn of events. But I encourage you that you need to start thinking about your life and your career choice. Oftimes, I’ve had to tell people in the very same spot as you are right now, very bad news. Don’t take this good fortune for granted,” Lone advised. Xander nodded. He understood. Lone considered Xander to be lucky, maybe even an outlier. But if Xander under the warning underneath the positive prognosis, the doctor feared that he would have to change the verdict sooner than later, if things continued the way they are now. Xander understood completely: he was on borrowed time. Any more hits to the head could change everything.
“Thank you, doctor….”
“Thank you very much.”
Hunter crossed her arms. Backstage. Balmy. The crowd noise, reacting to the final moments of the night’s main attraction. Xander came out of the bathroom with a towel wiping away the sweat. He lost. The loss especially stung when the Taking Hold of the Flame lingered as one of the few accomplishments that eluded Xander. Some, lesser men, would take solace in the fact that it had taken a number of individuals to eliminate him. But that was the casual fare for a giant like Xander. His ambition refused to be sated by such soft consolation. But none of that mattered at that moment, when his eyes fell upon Hunter, that yanked from the throngs of defeat into the present.
Xander had missed her.
Too much.
“Are you happy now?” Hunter greeted him with certain skepticism. Her crossed arms hugged her chest while she leaned back against the cement wall.
Under her glare, Xander sweated. “I’m glad you came. It’s a relief… to see that you’re okay.”
“And that’s how you’re going to greet me?”
“If you expect an apology, you’re not going to get one.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Hunter pushed off the wall with the palms of her hands. She launched herself towards Xander. Her shoulder crashed into his shoulder but he caught her. Xander knew she must have been disappointed in him. Xander hurt her brother. But zero remorse for his actions could be found within Xander’s soul, except a little bit of himself wished he could have gotten a few more shots. He wanted more bloodletting, but he had skinned James. Seeing him, crumpled in a heap on the floor, defenseless, wasn’t enough. Felt too anticlimactic. But regardless of her feelings, he couldn’t apologize. James deserved his punishment. He deserved more persecution. Xander won’t stop until he can bury this hatred in the past.
“If you want to check on him, I’d understand.”
“I don’t care.”
“I get you’re angry. But god damn, what else do you expect? He asked for that and more. I’m not finished with him yet,” Xander attempted to dispel the annoyance his demeanor had infected Hutner with. She needed to accept that this is how things always were going to be. Xander doesn’t break bread with the enemy. He gives no quarter. He’d stop short of maiming, but consider that progress for the Executioner.
“You’re really nothing but a big dope. You really don’t understand, do you?”
“People aren’t wrong when they call me a sociopath. I lack empathy.”
“See. You’re clueless! You’re no sociopath. You might be an asshole, but you do care. Even if you don’t realize, you care about others… maybe in a broken way, but that makes two of us,” Hunter corrected him. She slid her hands around his sides, tightening her arms around his waist. She pressed her head into his torso, forcing him into a deep embrace. Xander squeezed her slightly, appreciating her warmth, the same warmth that melted the tension that pulled him thin. “Xander, you’re my family. Not him. You’re a brother to me.”
“Wasn’t all this came down to him trying to protect his baby sister? That’s the only thing that makes sense to me, explain his sudden aggression. I can’t see any other possible motive.”
“That was his excuse. But I think he simply wanted to find justification to hurt you. He’s callus. He’s sick. He’s a sociopath, not you.”
“But if you ever found out what I did to you. He’d have reason to kill me.”
“He knows nothing. Nothing! I would never tell anyone what happened. I only told him that Chad introduced us. I tried to convince him that we’re friends, roommates. He didn’t exactly accept that,” Hunter said. He didn’t understand. In his head, he thought he had everything figured out, but then to hear Hunter’s account, everything he thought he understood had been thrown out the window. He should have known, nothing can get wrapped up with a nice bow. Now he had to contend with James’s real motive, whatever that might be. But that didn’t change Xander’s plans. In fact, he now knew he probably did have to ensure James would never cross him again. Feeling more conviction, this conversation appeared to be a huge victory.
“I hate him.”
“My brother?”
“Yes.”
“I know you do. But why exactly?”
“That’s hard to explain. I guess—,” a loud commotion erupted within the arena, deafening the rest of Xander’s words. Xander spoke up, repeating himself: “I guess it’s because he showed me the end! Hunter, I’m on borrowed time! This… All of this is going to be over soon for me. My entire life has been about fighting, and they’re telling me that’s going to have to change.”
The crowd noise dissipated, leaving Xander uneasy. Hunter commented softly, “Maybe. Just maybe, that’s a blessing.”
“The fuck it is.”
“But it’s not now. They let you out there.”
“So?”
“You have the benefit of having the opportunity to finish your career your way. Then think about the next chapter. Right? You need to think positively. Not everyone’s given the same chance you have been handed,” Hunter explained. Regan might have been one of the unlucky ones, someone who had not been given the same luxury. Still, he had lived this way his entire life. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks. Once his career was finished, he had nothing. There was nothing else for him.
“Fuck, I can’t wrap my head around this. But… you’re probably right.”
“Sometimes you can’t see the forest for the trees.”
“I blame it on my lack of imagination. I can’t picture a life without this.”
“You need to stop reflecting heavily on what the future might hold for you, Xander. Change isn’t bad. Sometimes, it’s necessary,” Hunter offered. She took his arm, pulling him away from the nearby commotion. The lone survivor must have come back through the curtains. Congratulations were in order, but that was a distraction for them. As she led him to a dark, vacant room in some far corner of the Enterprise Center. The whole trek, deep bothersome thoughts clung to him. Change? That scared him. There wasn’t anyone in the entire world that would incite such terror into Xander. No man or woman scared him. Change did. “I’ll be here for you. You’re family. We’ll figure out what’s next.”
“Family, huh?”
“I already told you. You’re my brother. Blood or no blood. You and I, we’re connected. I don’t believe in destiny, but I think our future, if you don’t have any qualms, will be shared. And it can be a beautiful thing, if we allow us that happy everafter,” Hunter’s words sang to him. What would the promised neverland be like? Could he forge such a happy ending? That thought seemed alien. He didn’t deserve such a fate. But why? For his entire career, he had been surrounded by people, living their dreams, fighting for their own happy ending? But Xander never saw it that way. He fought because that was all he knew. He fought because he had nothing else. He fought because he was good at it! But what were his dreams? What did he want from life? He never posed that question before. And that made him wonder. And knowing that Hunter wanted to be along for the ride, that comforted him.
Xander nodded. “We’ll make our own neverland.”
He earned her smile. And that was contagious, he couldn’t not beam. The two look at each other for a moment, hardly suppressing their snickering, being thick as thieves, coming up with a secret plan. A whole new world opened up before Xander, a life after wrestling. And then that woman’s voice sang:
“Carry on, my wayward son
There’ll be peace when you are done…”
But first, he had to end things the right way. He refused to leave professional wrestling with any regret. He collected far too many as it was. He couldn’t accumulate anymore. Shawn Winters showed Xander the path years prior, and now that lesson started to reap dividends. It wasn’t a fantasy, it was within his grasp. Too long he held a shit attitude and buried himself under it.
He deserved that ending.
He could make it happen.
For six months, I hoisted that United States Championship, with its alluring sparkling gold reflections and pigonant stench of real leather, swatting down challenger and challenger who attempted to reach up and try to take the belt away. You watched it all, watch ‘em all fall, one by one, dominos neatly set up in a line just to faceplant against the canvas, failing to hold a candle to my supremacy. My, what a picturesque, glorious, all-star sight that might have been to behold. That same image, that same prospect of such a tyrannical reign, waltzes into their heads. Such dominance is enviable. Such power is tempting. And that’s why my enemies seek this Sunday night. Such a reality, they desire, is their El Dorado.
Christy Matthews.
Gavin Taylor.
Glory Braddock.
Ever so lustful, conquistadors who chased after such fabled treasures. Manifest destiny sparkles brightly, brilliantly in their eyes. Peer into their soul, storied dreams dance before their eyes, clouding their heads with grandeur and the lullabies of a richer existence. Imagine them? United States Champion. One of the top names in SCW and they have the crown to prove it.
They’re all distracted by what COULD be, but not what WILL be. That is their folly.
They ignore that there is another story unfolding, a greater story than their own. They can’t imagine, can’t realize, such fragile egos, that they’re simply a subplot to a much bigger narrative. But how can they accept that truth? Competitors are allergic to such notions. So they have to pretend that Xander Valentine doesn’t exist, that his name doesn’t appear across from theirs on the card. They have to pretend James Evans doesn’t exist. That his face isn’t going to be awaiting them at the end of the road, with a sword primed to stab in their hearts. But what overpowers, is greater than either myself or James, is that all-compasing hatred we feel towards one another. That is the string that tries their fates together, a crew on a cursed ship, slowly sinking into the sea. While each and everyone one of my foes seek out their coronation, it’s not going to come. Not on Sunday. Not until I write this final, bloody chapter with James Evans.
So, they’re going to have to wait that turn! But, are any capable of such patience?
They can’t wait. Christy Matthews seeks to steer her career back on track, after falling back down into the middle of the pack. Gavin Taylor has been searching to quench his thirst, seeking out that oasis in the desert that is his career, having gone so far yet to find that break he desperately needs to reach the next level. And Glory? Ever on repeat, this endless loop of ‘one forward, two steps back’ in her quest to validate her claims that she is indeed the best in the world. All are on borrowed lines, facing down the expiration date on their career. The clock’s ticking. You all need to elevate or risk drowning in the flood. You look upon the United States Championship as your arc, to keep your head above the flood water, but maybe, maybe you can do something special, perform a miracle.
Butg I hear your protests. You’re screaming at me! You’re all over the place, listing your accolades, your history, and the untapped potential you all still convinced that you possessed. None of us want to admit that we have peaked. I hear your cries. Don’t bury us, Xander! Don’t ignore our talent! Don’t forget our feats! We’re threats to your path forward. You might be a river, but we can be the dam to divert you.
I hear Christy shout: “Once upon a time, I was the last woman standing. What about that?”
I hear Gavin shout: “Not too long ago, I survived your reckoning and lived to fight another day. What about that?”
I heard Glory shout: “You’ve never pinned me. My claim to the throne is as valid as yours. What about that?”
And exactly, what about that? You cling on such consolatory truths. You’re in the comfort business, I’m in the hurt business. Stop pampering yourselves with conocted narratives, choking down spoonfuls of your own praise, sugary sweet breakfast cereal. Over and over again? The more times you say it, the closer it becomes the truth? That’s not how any of this works. You have to stay hungry. You can’t afford to hold back. You can’t rest. You can’t pause. You have to push yourself until it hurts, then some more. Not until your propellant burns you up and you can soar any higher, burned up. Fuck comfort. You can’t afford to slow down on this highway. We all have to come and face the fact that we haven’t done enough. Deep down, that ugly truth exists, and we need to accept that there is still so much for us to prove. That whatever we have done up to this point, it hasn’t been enough and it warrants you nothing. So reach down, face that chorus that sings that ugly truth and embrace it.
It’s not good enough.
But we can be. We do better. We will do better.
Perhaps James ushered that humility into my mindset when he knocked me stupid. Perhaps Selena planted the seeds when she left me lifeless two years ago at this very event. Or perhaps I have already carried that sense of insecurity in my mind, knowing that I haven’t done enough. Only now, I have embraced it. Because if I truly wanted to go down in the history books as that figure. It’s never enough, you have to keep fighting, keep shoving, keep suffocating until you can’t anymore.
And you have to leave behind a legacy that holds zero doubts. And to do that, my path to that promised neverland, that is through domination. And while you’re always toying with the concept, smiling to know that such a prize is within your grasp, I already know that I dominate the ring, that is my kingdom, my domain. And that is why I am going to have to crush each and everyone’s hopes and dreams at Rise to Greatness. It’s not that you’re wrong to have such bold aspirations. It’s your right to have dreams and to fight for them. It’s just that your goals are any short-sighted, self-serving, scratch-off tickets.
To wind is your temporary end. You’ll hit pause on your adventure, enjoy the luxuries of your haul. Pat yourselves on the back while you’re at it. Job well done on the biggest stage of them all.
Forget that.
Winning is just the first step, it gets me to the starting line of my next race. Winning alone isn’t the end goal here. It’s the means to the ways. The explosive propulsion that launches me to the next stage. I need to win in order to be there when James Evans comes back. To stay there, so whenever James Evans decides to rear his ulgy head again, I’ll be there to meet him. When he attempts to cross the threshold, enters my home, I’ll have a wooden stake ready to stab him right through his heart.
And he has to know that I am there, always waiting for him to come back. I have to stand there, in plain sight, and show him that I’m the gatekeeper that he’s going to have to answer to. The Charon he will have to pay if he wishes to be ferried back into this company. He needs to know that I’ll be ready, I’ll be vigilant, and I’ll destroy him if he ever enters my realm again. And it’s his choice how to act next: to meet the reaper or to cower instead. Either way, he needs to understand that there’s a punishment awaiting him here. That I’m waiting for him here.
If he decides to tempt his fate, to challenge his reckoning, I’ll be there.
I’ll be there to knock him down. I’ll be the gravedigger, shoveling dirt over shoulder over his shallow grave. For what he did to me, for the depths he reached and the mess he made of my insides, I’ll be there.
I’ll get my revenge.
The United States title is the key to the cell door.
With it, I can twist and turn, cornering James Evans in his cage.
Right where I want him to be.
Executioner's Plight 