Interlude

Interlude

::Disclaimer:: The following has been published by an XWF Staff writer and is the sole opinion and views of the writer.

"How it All Ends"

This is a story of a man who thought he could rule the world.

We begin where all things begin -- at the beginning. Our "Hero" is a man with short, dark hair, grizzled stubble and deep, purple bags under his eyes. He sits down at his locker, dressed in his ring gear, ice pack strapped to each limb. He's trying to ice himself down and get ready for what may be the fight of his life.

Take a moment, if you will, and look at this man carefully.

Do you notice the sagging of his jawline? The purple bags under his eyes?

Do you notice how, despite everyone else in the room, that this man sits in the corner, alone, with his head lowered, and does not move?

He sits there, yes, and he is thinking. His hands are knitted close together in closed, white knuckled fists. They're folded in his lap. 

And he's looking for all the world like a broken down Timex that refuses to lie still and die.

But that's the point, he thinks. That's the point of being a man, of being a professional wrestler. This is a man that believes that the world is his for the taking. That if he could find the right niche, to find the right combination, the door that blocks his progress would open wide like his girlfriend Velvet's legs, and welcome him into sweet, supple warmth of acceptance. 

But what does he really believe?

The man leans -- lurches -- forward in his steel chair. The entire locker room buzzing by him in a state of controlled chaos. Everyone barely able to contain themselves. This is an exciting night where futures and destinies become intertwined and entangled into one massive web of uncertainty.

This is the night where one false move, where one missed opportunity, can spell the difference between success and utter failure.

This is the night where one man who has never accomplished anything, who went through his life sleep walking his way into status, can now finally arise and become the man the man he always believed he could be.

This is Saturday Night Impact.

And this man is Michael James.

But what does he believe?

Does he believe he can beat Angelus? No doubt he does. He has to, right? Why else would he be so eager to proclaim that the XWF management has made a gross error in the booking of this match?

So, what's the problem then? Why does Michael James look so sad, so unassuming, so, dare this author say, downright defeated?

The answer may be more saddening than you believe, faithful reader.

You see, for the first time since he stepped through the doors of this great company, Michael James was the pinnacle of mediocrity. He inherited the moniker of the "Personification of Perfection" simply by telling himself that he was better than the next guy. 

But if this writer is being honest, Michael James is far from perfect and since he considers himself a stats geek, a 6-1 record, albeit respectable, is hardly anything to write home about to the length of pure puffery the James camp has been running with lately.

Think about it for a moment, dear reader.

Michael James is a man who prides himself on mediocrity. He's a man who believes that just "giving it your best shot" or "eating the willpower of men" is all you'll ever need to be successful in professional wrestling. Michael James is a man who the best wrestler the world of wrestling has ever seen…

…in his own mind.

So why is it that he sits there, concentrating on keeping his aching joints in check? Concentrating on how exactly he's going to put away Angelus, a man that is younger, stronger, and faster then he'll ever be? 

What is Michael James going to do when he realizes that for all the bells and whistles that he has, he's just not good enough to stop a man like Angelus?

Dear reader, I think you see Michael James as I do. Do you see it?

In James, this writer does not see a man, nor does he see competition for any other of the XWF talent roster. Instead, this writer sees a thing that has been worn out and abused. A poor, simple creature that has had the proverbial carrot dangled in front of his hungry, dilated eyes for far too long.

This writer sees Michael james as a man that is so devastated by the truth of himself that he buries it as far deep inside as he can. That way he doesn't have to look at it when he sees himself in the mirror.

This truth you ask? The truth is quite simple.

Michael James doesn't have it.

When the history of the XWF is written, and when all the scholars gather 'round to discuss the best that the company has offered, this writer guarantees you that the name Michael James will not find itself onto that list.

This writer thinks deep down inside, Michael James himself knows this to be true. He knows it and this is why he's afraid, faithful reader. He's afraid to admit the truth. 

It's a sad truth, isn't it? To see a man like Michael james, so determined to make his mark. So determined to have his name become synonymous with legend. To want and believe that people will still be talking about him and his accomplishments for years to come.

It must be a hard, bitter pill to swallow. But in honesty, dear reader, it is a pill he must swallow.

---

Episode Four

Subject: Angelus

Date recorded: 12/21/12

Location: En route to Wilkes Barre, PA

Okay, last time, has anyone seen Christian Lost or Yan Yungsung?

I checked the obituaries this morning and didn't see their names. It saddened me that Lost's family would probably get all seven dollars in his checking account and Yan's family would just get a broken Sega Genesis and a ring worn Michael James jock strap.

I guess that just leaves you and I, Mike.

Am I sick of you yet? No, I find you amusing. I also find you delusional, but that's a story for another time. That sound you think you hear of people rushing to hear what you have to say? It's actually people turning the volume down or shutting you out like I do when I see you're talking.

No one cares, Mike.

You're boring.

A snooze fest.

And if you think anyone has to earn respect from you you're more delusional than I thought.

I can't believe anyone lets you waste so much tape as you just talk, and talk, and talk…

And talk.

Who you trying to convince, Mike?

Me or yourself?

Or maybe you're trying to convince your little harlot who just nods yes to everything you say because she can't think for herself.

Random thought, Mike. How old are you? Fifty? Fifty-five? I'm just guessing based on how haggard you look. And are you really trying to use the word "douche nozzle" in a sentence? 

Is that you being hip? I know you like to smoke cigarettes like you're the cool kid in class and you got those sweet sunglasses you like to wear at all times because your future is so bright, but seriously, Michael.

You're too old. Too tired. Too out of touch with reality.

Let it go. Lay down. Go be the old dog that has to die under the porch.

I'll send a nice gift basket to your girlfriend there, Velveeta Cheese or whatever the hell her name is.

This is my message for you, Mike. No matter how much you want to believe you live the life of a true champion, it's a fantasy. You have no storybook ending where you're holding the gold. There is no manifest destiny.

I want you to realize that, Michael, before you step into the ring with me on December 23rd.

This isn't make believe.

This is real life. There is no fantasy here. There are no vibrant color, no pixies, and no chance in hell of you walking out of Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania with another notch in the win column.

Take it for what it's worth, Mike. Because in the end, when I finally put you down, when you're left looking up at me with the crystal clear realization in your eyes, I want you to thank me.

I want you to thank me for beating some sense into you. 

I want you to thank me for bringing you back down to Earth.

You should be happy, Mike. No need for that little tough guy scowl of yours.

You have so much to look forward to.

---

End of the Line (Part Two)

End of the Line: Part Two

Act 2

"The Coyote"

~1~

Six a.m., first light of dawn, world stitching itself back together out there, reconstituting itself, as he looked on.

Blink, and the warehouse across the way reemerged.

Blink again, the city loomed in the distance, a ship coming into the port.

Birds skittered from ragged tree to ragged tree complaining. Cars idled at curbside, took on human freight, pulled away.

Anj sat in his apartment sipping scotch from the only glass he'd kept. The scotch was Buchanan's, a mid-range blend. Not bad at all. Big seller among Latinos. No phone service here anymore, nothing of value. Couch, bed and chairs came with the rent. Clothes, razor, money and other essentials waited in a duffel bag by the door.

Just as a good car waited in the parking lot.

The TV, he'd found sitting beside garbage bags at the curb when he put out his own glasses, dishes and miscellaneous goods for pickup. Why not? he thought. Ten-inch screen, and pretty much banged to hell, but it worked. So now he was watching a nature program in which four or five coyotes chased a jackrabbit. The dogs were relaying: one would chase the rabbit a while, then another would take over.

Anj stared at the body near the front door. 

It was slumped over. Not moving.

Sooner or later they'd send another one. Only a matter of time. Cobb had known that all along. They both did. The rest was no more than dancing, fancy footwork and misdirection, figure-eight of the bullfighter's cape. No way they were just going to let this lie.

Anj poured the last of the Buchanan's into his last glass.

Guests soon, no doubt about it.

---

~2~

Wednesday, December 19th

Long Island, New York

He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a black and white photo of a group of hockey players celebrating at center ice. 

He admired the detail of the photo for a moment, the sticks and gloves strewn about the ice, the crowd caught in a deafening cheer, then he slid himself off the trainer's table.

He paced the room and took to staring at more black and white photos chronicling important moments in the franchise of the New York Islanders. 

The door opened behind him and Liam, one of the head XWF trainers stepped into the room. Anj turned to face him.

"What's the verdict?"

"As much as I'd like to tell you and I should tell you to take it easy, you've passed all your tests. I can clear you for action on Saturday."

"Thanks, doc," Anj said and gave him a pat on his shoulder. "I appreciate it."

"Just try to avoid any head shots."

"That's usually my top priority in the ring."

The two shook hands and Anj stepped out into the corridor. Across the way, Jessica was sitting against the wall, typing aimlessly away at her phone. When she heard the door to the trainer's room close she looked up.

"So?" she asked getting to her feet.

"I'm cleared to play, coach."

A look of relief, then concern crossed her face.

"I still don't like it and I don't like being here."

"Don't worry --"

"Don't tell me not to worry. You're the only talent on my client list right now and you're recovering from a concussion and have a match in three days where if your opponents want to hit you with a forklift they can."

Anj laughed.

"You need to calm down. Besides, I doubt  Yan or James have the capabilities to operate heavy machinery given that they're both nine sheets to the wind every time I see them."

"Regardless, I'll be happy when it's over."

The sound of clicking heels approaching broke the conversation.

"Oh, look who it is." 

The voice came from down the corridor and belonged to the one and only Liz Weinberg. 

"Christ…" Anj muttered.

"What are you doing here?" she asked as she drew closer. "Isn't this hostile territory, Mr. Take on the World?"

"Good to see you again, Liz"

"I'd say, I thought we had an agreement that if you were cutting any more promos it was me behind the mic."

"Things change."

Liz paused, and glanced over at Jessica.

"Is that… Jessica Mendez? God, I thought you had been shit-canned ages ago! Real nice company you're running with there, Angelus. This chick used to pick up my dry cleaning and bring me my sushi."

"Look, I don't care if you paid her to tell you that you don't have crows feet under your eyes, it doesn't matter. I'm not here to talk to you. So kindly, get out of our way. C'mon, Jess."

Jessica timidly stepped around Liz who was touching the side of her face in horror.

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to find Unknown Soldier. I think he has something I can use."

---

~3~

In his dream the jackrabbit stopped dead still and turned on the coyote, curling its lips back to reveal huge razor-sharp teeth just before it sprang.

That's when Anj woke and knew someone was in the room. A change in the quality of darkness at the window told him where the intruder was. Anj turned heavily in bed, as though restless, bed frame banging against the wall.

The man stopped moving.

Anj turned again and kept going, springing to his feet. The radio antenna in his hand slashed at the man's neck. There was much blood, and for a moment, two beats, three, the man stood frozen. By then Anj was behind him. He kicked the man's legs out from under and, as he went down, slashed again with the antenna, at the other side this time, then at the hand that was reaching for, presumably, a gun.

Bending down, foot planted on the man's arm, Anj pulled it out. A short-barrelled .38. As though the poor little thing had a nose job to help it fin in.

"Okay. On your feet."

"Whatever you say." His visitor held up both hands, palm out. "I'm cool."

Hardly more than a kid, really. Bulked up from workouts and steroids in equal measure. Dark hair cut almost to the scalp on both sides, left long on top. Sport coat over black T-shirt, a couple of gold chains. Small, square teeth. Not like the jackrabbit's at all.

Anj urged him through the front door and out onto the balcony that circled the building. All the apartments opened onto it.

"Jump," Anj said.

"You're crazy, man. We're on the second floor."

"Your call. I don't care much either way. Either you jump or I shoot you where you stand. Think about it. It's only, what, thirty feet or so? You'll live through it. Any luck at all, you get off with only a couple broken legs, maybe a shattered ankle."

Anj marked the moment it changed, saw the moment when the tension went away and his body accepted what was about to happen. The man put one hand on the railing.

"Give my regards to Cobb," Anj said.

Afterwards he collected the duffel bag from inside the door and went down the back stairs to his car.

---

Episode Three

Subject: Angelus

Date recorded: 12/19/12

Location: Undisclosed

"A Fist Full of Steel"

Okay, first order of business. Has anyone seen Christian Lost?

I think he's living up to his namesake and has disappeared. 

Though, if the rumors are correct, I heard that he landed a job where he could put his degree in the custodial arts to use. So I'm happy for him.

As I said before. Don't need his help. Don't want his help. Bottom line. 

I don't care if I have to take on Yan and Mike, don't call me Rick, James by myself.

Speaking of disappearing acts. 

Hey Mike, if you and Yan are so tight, where's he been?

I haven't heard a peep out of him. Have you? 

I hope he's not passed out in an alley somewhere. I looked forward to whipping his ass one more time with feeling.

But seriously, Mike. This is what I'm offered? I'm almost laughing. 

I'm laughing because to be honest, I expected something a little more out of you. 

I expected a challenge. Somebody to fight. Someone to show me what it means to be a professional wrestler. So far, all I've gotten is some nobody that beats on people weaker than him and doesn't have two dimes to rub together.

You want to talk about the real world, Mike? Let's talk about the real world.

See, in Mike James fantasy land you are a legend in your own mind. Master of your domain. Tough guy. The ultimate badass. 

But here in reality, you're none of those things. 

You should be thanking the powers that be that booked this match.

You're cannon fodder for the people who are more talented than you.

You had nothing before I was added to this match and I'm sad to say you'll have nothing after, but hey, enjoy your time in the sun while it lasts.

You see, Mike I don't have to run on and on about how much better I am than you or tell you that I'm going to beat you into next week or use lame cliches like "cake walk" or "send you back to the McDonald's drive-thru"

I don't need to do that. 

You've already planted the seed of doubt in your own head, Mike. 

That path of glory you talk about walking so much. It doesn't exist for you.

I know that and deep down, you know it too.

It's obvious to everyone involved. I bet if you caught Yan at the right moment he'd tell you that too.

So go ahead and cut your little promos. 

Talk about how you're doing us all a favor by gracing us with your presence.

Smoke. Drink. Have a party.

Mention that thing about the persecution, no, the masturbation? 

No wait, the personification of perfection thing. I think the people like that.

Throw a couple lines in about what a waste of time everyone you fight is.

Oh, make sure to list all your accomplishments again. Just in case anyone forgets.

Do me a favor though? Try to keep it under three hours. Honestly, Mike. I checked out when you were talking. So if you could hit a few bullet points, maybe have a slide of some kind or an action scene it'd be easier for me to give a damn.

Anyway, Mike. I look forward to hearing from you. 

I'm sure you'll have us all on the edges of our seats.

---

---

End of the Line

End of the Line

Act 1

"Battle-Axe"

~1~

The air is thick and humid, leaving a bitter, metallic taste on the tip of his tongue. He sits on a  wooden chair, splintered and creaky. In front of him is a small, wooden table. Age has stolen its varnish. The only light in the room stems from the sunlight trying to filter in through the closed blinds hung across the window next to the door. 

Anj's eyes are transfixed there. 

There is a shining, metal object on the table. His hands are firmly planted, palms down, to either side of it. He licks his lips and can hear the hum of the refrigerator in his ears.

There's something not right about all this, but this is what it's come to.

This is the game he has decided to play.

They are going to come for him, he knows this, and he'll be ready.

Somewhere far away, barely audible, is the annoying, high-pitched wail of a phone ringing. Anj's concentration is broken. He blinks rapidly for a moment, and then wipes sweat from his brow. He notices that the gun is in his hand now, how it got there he can't remember, and he stares at it with a puzzled expression.

The phone stops ringing.

The high pitched noise is replaced by a vibrating murmur coming from his shirt pocket. He places the gun down and pulls his cell phone free. He flips it open not bothering to say hello.

"You listening?"

Anj cleared his throat, but his voice still seemed hoarse when he replied.

"Yes."

"It doesn't have to be like this, you know that right?"

"I do."

"All you had to do was walk away."

"It's never that simple."

"It could've been."

Anj's eyes flicker for a moment, a slight glance toward the .38 on the table.

"Still there, cowboy?"

"Still here."

"I just want to ask you one question. Would that be alright?"

"Suppose."

"Who was she?"

Anj's eyes wander to the blinds. The light there has changed as something is blocking it. He hears shuffling, and ever so slightly the knob on the door starts to turn. He swallows hard and quietly closes the phone.

---

~2~

Thursday, December 13th

Houston, Texas

The falling rain, albeit a drizzle, felt good on his skin. He had stepped out from under the breezeway and closed his eyes as the rain hit his face. He let his hand move to his forehead where the bandage was and he winched in reflex at the sharp sting of pain there.

He turned, looked up at the tall building that was the Houston Northwest Medical Center and pulled his hood up around his head. He gave a small salute to the complex and started to walk back in the direction of his hotel.

He figured he'd gotten about half a mile before he heard a car honking in the breakdown lane behind him. The car was a light gray Toyota and he stood and watched for a moment as the vehicle switched on its hazard lights.

The driver's side door opened, and Jessica Mendez stuck her head out into what was now pouring rain.

"Are you out of your mind?!" she yelled over the nearby traffic whizzing past. "Get in the car!"

He hesitated for a moment, then started for the Toyota.

When he slid into the passenger seat the warm air from the vents felt good on his skin and he used his sleeve to dry his wet face. 

Jessica leaned forward and pulled the hood back away from his head.

"Jesus," she said when she saw the size of the bandage upon his forehead.

"Handsome as ever, right?" he replied with a small smirk.

"Why the hell are you walking? Someone would have picked you up."

"I needed to clear my head."

"By walking down the interstate? How's that working out?"

"Head's clear."

She sat back in her seat and propped her elbow up on the side of the window.

"Last week was a really bad time to quit smoking."

"How'd you find me?"

"I didn't have to find you," she said. "I was in the waiting room all night while they were looking at you. I stepped away to get a coffee and make a few phone calls. Believe it or not I'm not the only one concerned about your well being."

"Why?"

"Why are people concerned about you?"

"No, why were you in the waiting room all night?"

"I'm starting to ask myself the same question," she replied. "Look, we're partners now and what you do affects me as well. When you go checking yourself out of the hospital it reflects poorly on me when I can't tell anyone where you are."

"I didn't ask you to sign up for this."

"I know that, but you agreed to let me help you and unless you want to null and void our agreement I suggest you start letting me in a little bit. This lone wolf thing you got going on isn't helping anyone."

Silence filled the car for a moment.

The windshield wipers squeaked as they moved back and forth.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. 

"Let's just get back to the hotel."

So they drove, onward through the rain washed streets. 

When the hotel was coming up on the right, he could see a throng of people huddling around in ponchos and slickers outside the vestibule for the hotel lobby.

"Admiring fans?" Jessica asked. "I figured everyone would be outta the city by now."

Anj almost had to laugh.

"No," he said. "It's the Asian paparazzi. They're here for Yan. They follow him around whatever city he goes to and document him making a drunken ass of himself."

"There's like thirty people there."

"Must be catching on."

Jessica wheeled the Toyota into the underground parking garage.

Anj threw his hood back on as they headed for the elevator. 

Neither spoke on the ride up to his room. 

As soon as he was through the door he collapsed down onto his bed, stretched his sore legs, and let out a groan.

"What did your doctor tell you by the way?" Jessica asked as she took a seat in the chair next to a small hotel table. "Before you wisely checked yourself out."

"Mild concussion. Nothing major.  I just have to get cleared by the XWF medical staff."

"I think they already deemed you fit to compete."

"Why do you say that?"

Jessica reached into her purse and took out her phone, tapped away on it for a second, then tossed it to him on the bed.

"They already got you booked for a match a week from Saturday."

He picked up the phone and looked at the Impact card posted on XWF.com

"Son of a bitch…" he muttered. 

"I'd say," Jessica replied. "And I know how much you love me telling you what to do, but I'd seriously consider taking your name off the card."

"What?"

"Mild concussion or not, you were attacked by three guys last night, and oh yeah, in case you forgot, you kicked the owner of the company in the face. I'd say you have a pretty big target on your back."

He sat up on the bed.

"I have to fight and I have to be there."

"Why?"

"Because no one else is standing up to these guys. People are afraid. Yeah, they jumped me and kicked my ass, but that doesn't mean they're keeping me down. If there's one thing I've learned it's that you don't jump a guy unless you're afraid. This is just the beginning."

"How'd I know you were going to say something like that?"

"Look, you wanted to help me because you saw something in me, am I right?"

She stared across at him.

"Yes," she said finally.

"I don't back down. We're taking the fight back to them."

"What do you have in mind?"

"I'll tell you on the way to New York."

"New York?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Impact is in PA."

"I know, but Warfare is In New York." 

---

~3~

"What's her name?"

"Who?"

"The only girl in here right now -- the brunette working the bar."

"That's Roxie."

"Roxie? Is that some type of stage name?"

"No, it's short for Roxanne, but you're welcome to see what happens when you call her that, Mr. Lightening Feet."

Anj leaned away from the bar, and took a sip of his cranberry juice. 

The Shamrock was hopping for a Thursday night, and so far, no one had gotten too rowdy. 

He turned to his friend Buxton and motioned back toward Roxie.

"What happened to that other girl who was here? Y'know, the one with the short black hair."

"Leann? Boss shit-canned her. Doing bumps in the bathroom."

Anj nodded as if it all made sense. 

"She doesn't look a day outta high school," Anj said.

"Yeah? You into that or something?"

"Go fuck yourself for a second, would ya? What I mean is what's a girl that young doing here working a bar for a place like this?"

"You make it sound like we're scraping the bottom of the barrel."

Anj cocked an eyebrow and Buxton shut himself for a second.

"I'm just saying I don't want a situation on our hands like the one we had with Marie."

"Shit," Buxton said. "No one does. But you gotta face facts on that. Marie was no golden saint."

Anj nodded again and took another pull off his drink.

"I got the weekend off. So do me a favor and just watch the girl. There will be a rowdier crowd in here Saturday night. I don't want any accidents."

"You got it, boss man."

"Don't patronize me."

"Anj," Buxton said. "You can trust me."

---

Episode Two

Subject: Angelus

Date recorded: 12/13/12

Location: Undisclosed

"A Quick One While He's Away"

I have a lot of things to get off my chest, but some of that will have to wait for now. There are more pressing matters that require my attention and that's this tag match a week from Saturday.

Did I ever see myself tagging with a hack like Christian Lost? 

Especially considering the streak that I'm on?

Hell, no. 

Christian, I'll be upfront with you. You do one or two impressive things in the ring, but other than that you're a first rate, grade A, jackass. I do not like you and I certainly don't respect you.

Stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours.

Yan, buddy, pal, the drunken master himself. It looks like we find ourselves in a match again. Like I said before, it's nothing personal. I do respect you, but just like on 12/12/12, I think you're going to see that the results are going to be the same.

Better luck tomorrow.

Now onto you, Michael James

We seem to have found ourselves in a match and I imagine very shortly we will find ourselves in another match to see who is the true number one contender for the European Championship.

I won't take anything away from you. You have all the tools. All the anger. All the talent at your disposal. In short, you are one bad ass motherfucker.

But there's something that you don't have.

Heart.

And that means that on Impact and when we meet later on down the line with all the cards on the table. You can bring everything that you got, but, it won't be good enough.

You see for all the skills that you have, what you lack is focus and desire to be the best. You've been coasting, Mike. And I hate to inform you that the little wave you've been on will be coming into the shore.

It's the end of the line and when you get there you'll have a decision to make.

So ask yourself, do you have what it takes?

I don't think so and I think when you look in the mirror, Mike, I think you'll agree.

---