…News out of XWF.com today….
…Superstar Angelus taken from arena in stretcher…
…might have died if…
…key eyewitness states that he sold a bat to…
…Shane Carver not available for comment…
…rumors state critical condition…
…contusion to the back of the head…
…possible broken arm…
…is still missing...
...still at large...
…Boston fan calls 911 after attack on local hero….
…could not be reached for comment…
…"main event for Warfare has not been cancelled at this time"…
…Witasick has not returned email or phone calls…
…fans seek refund after Shove-It Saturday Night debacle…
…Sheckler rumored to have been detained by authorities…
…Do you hear that?
…Sirens?
…no...
...different…
...too many…
...sounds…
…lights?
…sounds?
…screams?
"The light is bright in here."
"Are you sleepwalking again, my dear?"
…crying?
…sounds…
...louder…
…coming from everywhere….
…at once…
...just make it…
Stop.
Anj was in and out for twenty-four hours.
He awoke once and saw Jessica, standing in the door of his private room, talking to Clifton Browne. Clifton was XWF's top lawyer and for the life of Anj he couldn't think why in the world the man would be here. In fact, it was much too heavy to think on. Anj allowed his eyelids to sink shut.
He had a dark, muffled sense of time passing. When he awoke again, the smell of a spicy aftershave filled his nostrils. The newcomer offered his hand and Anj took it.
"Hanging in there, kiddo?"
"…you bet." Anj mumbled.
"Excuse me? said the nurse, standing on the other side of the bed. Anj glanced over at her, hadn't known she was there. When he looked back for the newcomer, Anj discovered his hand hanging empty.
"Who you talkin' to?" the nurse asked.
"Old friend."
She sniffed. "We got to scale back your morphine, hon."
Later, Frank Boles came by to visit. He had snuck in and said that he couldn't stay long. He asked if Anj needed anything and Anj said that he was fine.
"You taking yourself out of the match Wednesday?"
"Hell, no."
"Don't be stupid."
"I'm fine. Doctor said there's some bruising and -- "
"A concussion," Frank finished. "You wanna risk your life for some wrasslin' match you be my guest. Or, you do the smart thing and you take a night off."
"You my doctor now?"
"No," Frank said. "But everyday I'm here in the states pussyfootin' around waiting for you to strap up so we can find Cobb is another day I have to keep looking over my shoulder."
"I didn't ask for your help."
"You sure didn't, but you needed it. Some food for thought, tough guy. Start figuring out your priorities."
When he opened his eyes again he saw that he finally had the room to himself. He was on the fourth or fifth floor of Boston Medical Center. Beyond the window was the shipyard, blue and wintry in the late afternoon light, the shoreline crowded with cranes, a rusty oil tanker struggling into the east. For the first time, he realized he could smell it, the fait briny tang of the water.
He looked down at his right hand and flexed his fist.
It was time to leave.
Episode Eleven
Subject: Angelus
Date Recorded: 2/13/13
Location: Nashville, Tennessee
"From the Ashes"
Ah, good old Nashville.
Smells like honky-tonks, sawdust, beer and, well manure.
Just stating the obvious, Nashville.
But here I am.
Down, but certainly not out.
I've come back from worse and if Carver thinks hiring some blonde, plastic faced groupie with a baseball bat to take me out is going to deter me from my mission, well, like usual, he's dead wrong.
Here's a little advice on the house, Lexi. I'll try to speak real slow since, let's be honest, you probably have a brain the size of a half dollar rattling around in that bleached blonde dome of yours.
Don't ever think about getting in my way again.
I'll put you down for good and you'll have to add "Wrester" to your resume right below street walker and "Exotic Dancer".
Moving on…
Here's something noteworthy.
I have been Xtreme champion for fourteen days.
Big deal, Anj.
Well, that's a lie. In fact it is a pretty big deal. You see that guarantees me a US title shot.
So, Flynn? If you weren't already looking over your shoulders for me, you better start right now.
Because your days as the US champion have officially become numbered.
And you can come out on Warfare and whine, and complain…
…and whine.
…and complain.
But see no one cares, Mark.
These fans don't care. Hell, even the XWF brass doesn't care.
So, go right ahead, talk about your logical conclusions and how you're gonna break someone's arm or insult Sebastian Duke's intelligence or his in ring ability.
It's just words, Mark.
We've changed the channel.
We've tuned you out.
We see you waving from your ship as it sinks into the ocean, but we couldn't be bothered.
Hope you know how to swim.
And on Warfare you can bring your short bus riding buddy Peter Gilmour.
It's not gonna matter.
If you think he's going to tip the scales in your favor you've lost touch with reality more than I already thought.
Gilmour is XWF's Corky.
He's the guy they gave the tag titles too because they felt bad for him.
"Go, Petey. You climb that ladder and get the big brass ring."
He's never won anything in his life.
He's never gonna be the guy.
He's the lovable schlub in his "wolves howling at the moon" t-shirt.
Sure, he can't tie his own shoes, but we all just want to see him succeed because he can't get out of his own way.
Good luck with that, Mark.
And for you, Duke?
We've had our differences.
We've had our battles.
And yes, you do wear guyliner.
And you do live in the house on haunted hill.
And you do sleep in a Skelator sleeping bag.
But on Warfare we put that all aside and become partners.
Regardless of what I feel about you Duke I can't take anything away from you.
You're one hell of a creepy dude, I'll give you that.
But when we step into the ring on Warfare, and we get ready to go to battle, I want you to know you're going to taste something you haven't seen a lot of --
Success.
See you at Warfare, Old Man.
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