PWP 14: New Year, Same Project - PWP Heavyweight Title

Sanity had been forsaken for a shot at a title he'd had no shot at actually winning— nobody had bothered to tell him that. Or maybe they had and he hadn't heard. Delusions of grandeur kinda went with the territory.

He hated everything about this house.

The view.

The tasteful decor.

The shiny championship belts proudly displayed behind glass were like splinters under his skin— fucking agonizing to even look at. He stayed away from that side of the house on purpose, knowing that Larry would lose his mind completely if anything happened to those old relics.

The door swung open with a crack— it was an accident, really; he'd just lost control of the weight behind that idle shove but it smashed against the mirrored wall. That wasn't hard to do when your hand was full of pus-filled cuts, numbed from lashing out against concrete for days on end. Punching walls was so damned cliché that it made him let out that hoarse wheeze that had become his laugh. His voice was still fucked from all the screaming he'd done inside that solitary confinement cell.

He tried not to think about it and failed. Tried to ignore the nausea twitching in his guts, and the headache waiting in the wings— nope. Letting his head hang, he just focused on clearing his mind but the task was beyond impossible. His heart rate slowed. His eyes slipped closed. Once split second of Zen before it all came apart and he was back in the water, trying not to get his head ripped off by a hungry alligator. Trauma on top of trauma even before the rats had run free.

He watched the crack crawl across the glass, ripping across his face. It was downright hilarious when he was flirting with alcohol poisoning. Maybe he'd go slit his wrists with a heart-shaped razorblade in the bathtub now instead. His attempt to self-destruct in a valuable way was a bust. It had been the best plan ever, and it had backfired like a motherfucker. How it was fucking perfect, he couldn't explain. It just was. Of course most of the shit in his life had stopped making sense about three weeks ago now. He was doing all he could to hold it together enough to keep from being committed.

He stopped laughing with a cough, the sound echoing on hardwood and glass, reverberating off into silence. He was alone. Fucking alone in a stranger's house, staring at a face in the mirror that was completely unfamiliar. Clammy skin. Sunken eyes. In dire need of a shower and a shave. The fact that Larry had actually followed through with this was relieving and sad at the same time. He hadn't wanted to come back here like this. He hadn't wanted to stay in California because the air was too warm. It reminded him of things that he didn't want to think about. It reminded him of the dark.

But he couldn't stomach the thought of Ryann and those two squalling meat sacks she claimed were his kids.

He'd been up all night, tossing and turning in a room that seemed to alternate between too hot and too cold. He was going insane, tormented by that damned voice of condemnation in his head. Finally, his control snapped. He reached for his cell phone and stabbed the button, dialing her number and then touching the screen to make sure it was on speaker. It rang once.

It rang a third time, and just as he was about to hang up, there was a rattle, and rapid breathing before a female voice said, "h-hello?"

"Hey," his voice was neutral, but a warm smile was on his lips, "it's me."

"Oh!" Her tone brightened, "your number didn't come up so I didn't know..."

"Yeah, I got a new phone." He didn't tell her that he'd lobbed the other one into Gowan's swimming pool the day before. His brain slid into neutral, the pre-programmed question slipping out along with a cloud of smoke, "how're things?"

"I was going to ask you that," she said, her voice pitched low as though she was worried someone would overhear, "are you okay, Brad? Do you want me to come there? I can get Ria to watch the kids..."

"Nah, don't worry," he said smoothly, "Larry's been checkin' in on the regular so I'm getting kinda good at this whole Skype thing. I'm keeping moving, Ry— been training really hard. You know how it is. Big show. Big deal—"

"Wait... what? I thought you..." he could hear the change in her voice from friendly to wary. "I thought that was going to be your last match. We talked about this, Brad. You need to take a step back—"

"You don't understand. There's another shot... at Iconic. I can still win that belt and—"

"Are you serious? They locked you in a box full of garbage... full of rats... for a goddamn week— that's not wrestling, Brad. That's reckless endangerment. That's insanity... I mean, they almost killed you and you're going to just bend over and let Lee Best ream you again? Are you—"

Sullen, he scowled at the bisected halves of his face, staring into those incandescent, bloodshot eyes. The sun disappeared behind cloud cover, darkening the room. "Not going there," he muttered, feeling mildly annoyed. "Don't fucking start with me, Ry. You don't understand why I need this—"

"Don't start? What the hell are you even saying right now? I've held belts before. I've... God, I would never forsake my health for one."

"You're not me," he replied.

"Okay then. Fine. So you're going to stay there? For what? A stupid belt and some pipe dream because Lee Best knows if he keeps danglin' that carrot, you'll keep chasing it?"

"Where else'm I gonna go?" He rasped, shaking his head. "I'm not a hot prospect these days."

"How about home?"

Sure he could go to that big ranch house in the LA valley that his blood money had paid for, but the fear kept him here. There was no reason to go dredging up that garbage. But where else to go? Nowhere. Everything was going nowhere.

He was the sort you'd picture to always close himself off in the dark. A nocturnal sort definitely, so often slapped with the 'dark' label on first impressions. And yet he'd spent more time sitting in front of the wall of plate glass that looked out on the Olympic-sized swimming pool than anywhere else since he'd gotten back from that dark cell. He'd shoved a couch near them. They were tinted just enough to not be blinding— having mongrel European had pulled a shade or two of tan out of him again. He looked like a fucking crazy homeless person, chattering to himself on a street corner. "Nope." The word finally slipped out, flatly.

"Something wrong with wanting you to come home?"

"Fuck off." He was defiant now, daring that faceless bitch to tear into him again. At least the fight was something better than smelling garbage and hearing the rats. "Don't have time for this shit. I gotta get ready..."

He could've gone to the club, back to New York but then he would have had to walk through the crowd, feeling their eyes. The fucking eyes. He couldn't handle that. Hadn't even left the house since Larry and Chauncy had picked him up at the hospital in San Francisco— longest drive of his life, pretending to be passed out in the back seat to avoid the awkwardness and the weight of Chauncy's hatred.

You damn near killed his brother over a belt back in 2003. Remember that?

"Just business," he said aloud, not even sure if she was still on the phone, "getting hurt's what happens between the wins and losses." Sounded so cool and clever to spin it like that, like he was some grappling guru. Fucking ridiculous. He couldn't even remember why he'd dragged himself in here. Flexing his fingers reminded him. His hands. Right— it was the highlight of the day to douse his hands down with alcohol. That clean burn always reminded him of wrestling— that sharp smell. He used to carry some around in his gear bag, in a squeeze bottle. Good burning fuel.

"Brad?" Behind her voice he could hear a baby crying and it made him hate her even more.

He opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the bottle of alcohol. The cap came off, and he poured it over his left hand, feeling the fire as it bubbled up. "I gotta go, Ry—"

"Talk to me? Please?"

He swiped the phone off the sink, listening to it smash against the ceramic tile.

Bye, Felicia.

There was a bottle of Listerine on the sink. He'd need something much, much stronger to make this go away. He didn't really want it to go away. He did, but it was this temporary fucking pause button to it all. Everything would still be there when he sobered up. And he was quite ready for everything to be gone. Just gone. Everything in his head, gone. No more crawling, ugly little wants that he hated that made his stomach churn like it was full of burning clean antiseptic rubbing alcohol.

He flicked the light on over the sink, and it promptly crackled out. Burned out bulb. He was all burned out inside from the clean alcohol. He'd seen the room long enough to get his bearings at least, and in the dim lights of the city floating into the bathroom through the big glass window walls in the bedroom, he vomited up stomach acid into the toilet bowl. He wondered if he had a lighter so he could catch it on fire.

He staggered out of the room, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. Back to his blankets which were spread on the floor in front of that glass wall. The pool rippled out there, fucking mysterious and he was thinking about Jacques Cousteau and some sort of deep sea exploration. He had a hard time keeping a coherent thought. Probably needed some meds to level out, but he'd flushed the lot of them after he'd gotten home from the hospital. Didn't like feeling like a zombie. Fucking space monkey. IF he was going to survive this, it was going to happen on his own. Control without a goddamned mind full of chemicals.

"Gonna have to go out there eventually," he sighed, turning back towards the bathroom. He should go somewhere. Catch a movie, maybe. Go down to the bar. Or just wander around San Dimas for a while and see what gripped him. It was the sort of thing that made him feel alive and grounded. It was the sort of thing that made him cringe. People were out there. People who might see.

Five minutes later he'd thrown himself through a shower with all the care of someone in a car wash with an automobile they didn't particularly value. The spray of water served to cover up the quiet until he got out, and then it'd set in before he'd even left the bathroom. Silence— something he used to treasure. Now it just made the voice breathing down his neck louder. It made the crazy twitches worse.

He was caught in a state of waiting— to see if Ryann was going to show up and try to fix him— waiting for normalcy to reinstate itself on him and his life. A pipe dream, at best.

Normal wasn't coming back. Not really. Oh, there was a chance of him bouncing back in his way. With his type of resiliency, it probably wasn't a bad chance. He wouldn't be what anyone would call well-adjusted, probably, but then he never had been. But he wouldn't be the same maladjusted person he was before this. It might go back together, but it wasn't going back together in the same shape. It'd find a shape to fit in, and the way the metaphor was running, it'd wind up ugly junk art, but one works with what one is given. The belt would be the last thing to tie it all together into a fucking masterpiece—

And then there was a knock on the door. He shook himself to realize he was covered in blood, surrounded by shards of broken mirror glass.

Fuck. Larry's gonna kill me for this.



NYC || January 5, 2012 [off camera]

He woke up in a cold sweat, sandwiched between the nightstand and the wall. He'd been sleepwalking again thanks to the Ambien. He shuddered, chilled to the bone, knowing that sleep was pretty much out of the question even though it was still pitch black beyond the windows— he kept the curtains open most of the time now because the lights of the other high rises were comforting. The sheets on the bed were twisted and his voice was hoarse from screaming in his sleep. Just another awesome night for Brad Jackson.

Groping on the table behind him, he grabbed his battered Blackberry and slid it open, squinting as the backlight came on. The first stop was Twitter and he idly scrolled past the usual late night/early morning bullshit.

Feeling irrelevant with the lack of mentions, he threw out some random bullshit, hoping to get at least one bite in the sea of mediocrity.



Leaning back against the wall, he let out a groan, realizing that he'd actually managed to pass out completely naked after last night's shower. Every inch of his body hurt now and he couldn't remember why. "Fuck," he muttered, reaching for his cigarettes and then reconsidering when his stomach slowly rolled. Better not test those waters just yet.

With the phone still gripped in his hand, he huddled into the deepest shadows in the corner, feeling the pain wrapping around his head, squeezing down like a vise. His head bent, forehead touching his knees; his breathing deep and regular as he probed his memory carefully, like a one-legged man attempting to tiptoe through a minefield. Oh. Right. That.

He reached up to scratch his shoulder, picking at the still-healing wound on his shoulder where that fucking tool in High Octane Wrestling had tried to impale him with a goddamned flagpole.

His phone buzzed, the light blinking as he glanced down to see a little red asterisk on the Twitter icon. Bait taken— maybe he'd hooked someone worth fighting with. Calling up the feed again, he bounced to the notification window and was surprised to find a reply from the girl he'd been chatting off and on with for a few days.

One single word, but it was enough to make his breath catch in his throat: hi!

He stared at the orderly little letters on the keyboard, trying to pull something marginally poetic from his oatmeal brain. After a few mis-types, he finally had something suitable and he fired it off as a public reply instead of a direct message, kicking himself for that lapse.



He hoped she didn't see it. The last thing he needed was more bullshit drama. Ryann. His eyes narrowed as he looked up. Where was she? Some sort of pressing urgency filled him, and he looked around the room, trying to figure out what it was about. His head began to ache as his vision blurred— that dull ache had come creeping back in stealth like a thief in the night. He grabbed the bottle of T3's, tossing two back and swallowing them dry.

His phone buzzed again, her reply popping up in his direct messages: "Good morning to you ;-) you're a pleasant sight as well!"

His jaw clicked shut, teeth snapping together over swallowed-back panic. Harsh dragged-in breath tore at his throat, bringing with it the smell of fear-sweat. His own stink was overwhelming. Don't fuck this up, the voice in the back of his head cautioned.

He knew she didn't work until nine. They'd gone over that earlier in the week so he opted for inane conversation with his reply of: "you're up early. What's the occasion?"

He found himself longing, at that moment, for the touch of a warm body, for the company of the woman on the other end of the phone. He'd spent the better part of the last two days trying to shock her by playing a game of truth or dare, choosing truth every single time. She knew things that few others did, and she was still replying. Something about that made her irresistible and he knew there was only a matter of time before she disappeared like all the rest of them. That's why he didn't bother to censor his words with her.

The Blackberry's screen lit up again, another message from her popping up: "I'm embarrassed to say, but I was kinda thinking about you."

He grinned as he typed his reply. "No need for embarrassment, babe. First thing I did when I woke up was check my phone for a message from you."

Before he could even blink, there was another: ":-D so.... what are your plans for today?"

He dragged himself back to the bed, crawling up on it before fumbling for a reply. "Probably gonna go back to bed. Feel like shit on toast."

"Someone should send you soup."

"Goddamn," he muttered, keying out his reply. "Honestly? not sure I can keep it down... stomach's been funky for a couple days."

"You need someone they're to take care of you, if nothing else than to tuck you in and rub your back."
"*there"

He laughed at the correction. "You volunteering?"

"Everyone needs somebody around when they feel lousy. So if no one else is there, yeah I am."

He looked down at the mattress, seeing his splayed fingers. They were grimy, smeared with dried blood, the fingernails ragged and broken. His eyes fixed on the plain gold band on his left ring finger. A gold circle of ownership that was completely meaningless.

Even if he was destined to end up alone at least he could say he knew how it was to be accepted for one brief moment. He could think back to that day once upon a time when someone wanted him regardless of who and what he was.

A voice whispered in the back of his mind: You're worthless. Nobody actually wants you... can't you see that?

"You're wrong..."

"I could call in sick to work. Come by and bring you stuff."

"Nobody here but me and the city lights. Hell of a view but I'm a solitary creature by choice."

The last thing she needed was to see him falling apart like this— she'd run screaming in the other direction. No, he needed to get back on track before anything happened outside the brightly lit little windows with the flashing cursors. Maybe another week or two, at least. Maybe he could get a line on a title shot in SVW now that he'd made a controversial impact. That's what the kids were doing these days— bold statements. Nobody waited for things to come in their own time.

Carpe diem wasn't just a catchphrase. It was reality...



Reno || February 23, 2013 [off camera]

Lyv Jackson had hoped things would finally be improving for husband but they seemed to be rapidly going from bad to worse. She knew he had Revelations coming up in just a couple weeks' time— his second defense of the MWA World title. Just last night he'd fought a bloody and hellacious battle against Matt Ford in Full Throttle that had ended rather abruptly after a stiff lariat. It had taken quite the palm greasing, but he'd managed to cover up the fact that he now had a fractured collarbone thanks to that jacked up asshole. After being released from the hospital, he'd insisted on a red eye flight home, leaving them both exhausted.

Sighing, she unzipped his gear bag and wrinkled her nose at the smell of the damp, sweaty clothes. Pulling them out, she dropped them into the laundry basket that rested on the bed— cleaning was a great distraction to her endless worrying about Jackson's state of mind. Her fingers touched something cold and solid at the bottom of the bag. "What the..." lifting it out, she realized she was holding the MWA World Title belt in her hands. She hadn't even realized he was carting it around with him to all of his bookings. Holding it almost reverently, she looked it over and slowly ran her fingers over the raised letters that spelled out his name.

"You are so good at this," she whispered the words to herself, tracing over the bevelled gold. Despite what he believed about himself, she knew that this was a representation of just how skilled he was inside that ring. As she stared at herself in the reflection, her heart broke for him just knowing that he was in such a dark place. He'd expected to lose the belt to Glory Braddock. She hadn't really understood the lapse in his confidence— watching the match he'd seemed so focused and dominant it was easy to forget the fear and the anger. It was easy to pretend that she'd imagined him pacing the floors and all the sleepless nights he'd had recently. Her eyes stayed on the title as she kept it in her hands and just stared at it, wondering what it felt like to have that top honor. Unfortunately, that was something she would never know—

"What the fuck are you doing?" Jackson's voice came from the doorway, so sharp and angry that she almost dropped the belt on the floor.

"You scared me," her hand came up and rested on her chest. Turning her head, she saw her husband standing and looking at her. Glancing down at the belt, she kept it in her one hand, and then looked back up at him. "I was just unpacking your gear; thought I might throw some stuff into the wash." She offered him a tight smile. "Do you want me to get you anything?" She was choosing to ignore the anger that was clearly in his voice.

His eyes were locked on the belt in her hands, intense anger centered on the gold. "Why are you touching it?"

Her smile faltered as she gently set the belt down on the bed. "I was just unpacking your gear and it was in the bag. I didn't..." pausing, she shrugged her shoulders, "I wasn't hurting anything."

"Don't touch it, Lyv." He pushed off from the doorway, moving slowly towards her. "Never, ever put your hands on that fucking thing."

Her eyes widened, "I'm sorry, Jax, I was just cleaning out your bag." Biting down on her lower lip, she exhaled through her nose before speaking again, "but fine, I won't ever touch it again." This conversation was bringing back memories for her of their last fight and how it had been about her failed and short-lived wrestling career.

He frowned, staring at her for a second as though he was trying to see what was going on inside her head. No answers came into his head, thanks to the fact that he still felt like he was mentally wading through molasses— the pills they'd given him at the damned hospital in DC did nothing to dull the pain. They just dulled him. "What?" He finally snapped the word, reaching out with his good hand to grab the belt off the bed.

"Nothing," her eyes settled on the belt. If he had been feeling better, she might have brought up about what she was thinking— with that look on his face she knew that it wouldn't be a smart idea to broach that subject now. "I'm gonna go start some laundry." She picked up the basket and rested it against her hip, pressing her other hand against her pregnant stomach.

"Lyv..." he trailed off, catching sight of his distorted features in the belt.

She turned around in the doorway, feeling as though a storm was brewing. If she didn't get out right now, she might start screaming. "Honey," she made the effort to sound cheerful, "why don't you lay down for a while and rest? You must be exhausted."

"Yeah, fine." He turned his back on her, still clutching the belt to his chest. "Go do whatever you wanna do and I'll just stay right here, feeling like the broken piece of shit that's gonna be forgotten in a few weeks."

She set down the basket, feeling herself pulled back into the conversation, "is that what you think? You're a broken piece of shit?" Looking up at the ceiling, she shook her head. "You are so off-base right now."

"Am I?" He snorted in derision, looking down at the title and then flinging it on the bed as though it burned him. "How'm I off base, babe? Look at me. Look at how many matches I've blown since the year started? The only thing I seem to be able to do is hold that goddamn thing right there—"

"You beat Glory—"

"Yeah? Big fuckin' deal. The stupid bitch wrestles for GDW— she wrestles more than I do. Was probably tired an' jetlagged—"

"How does that matter, Jackson?" She shook her head, "you pinned her—"

"WRONG!" He shouted, "she fucked herself with a messy small package. I capitalized— that wasn't skill. It wasn't talent, babe. It was dumb luck that I'm still champion and now I'm completely fucked. You think I've got a snowball's chance in hell at taking out Baker like this? I'm fucked, Lyv— the truth about how shitty I really am is gonna come out..."



Reno || October 17, 2013 [off camera]

More words were spoken between strangers on a crowded bus than between Jackson and his wife over the last twenty-four hours. Lyv had expected him to be angry, yes— he'd been livid and combative when they'd lost in FTW to Eden Black and Miss Mina. He'd been vindictive when they'd suffered their first team loss way back last year in SVW. What she'd hadn't expected, or prepared herself for, was the silent treatment.

Christian had already been put down for the night, leaving her with no further distractions in the silent house. She knew where he was, even as she made her way down the stairs with the baby monitor in her hand— he'd been out there since they'd arrived home in the early morning. Shaking her head, she pulled in a deep breath to steel herself and then opened the double French doors that led out to their patio. She stopped a few feet away, unsure if she should get any closer before she broke the silence with a soft question, always the perfect housewife. "Want me to make you a drink?" She asked, hoping she didn't startle him.

Without saying a word, he lifted his hand from his lap, showing her the half-full bottle of whiskey that was clutched in it. The other plucked the cigarette from between his lips, flicking ashes from the end before he turned his head to look at her for a brief second. "Already had that thought... figured I could eschew the glass and the ice and just," he paused for a second, shrugging, "whatever. Bottoms up."

Sighing, she closed the rest of the distance and took a seat on the chair that was facing his. "Okay then. How about some company?"

"Y'sure you wanna hang out with me?" His words were slurred, his perfect elocution slipping just a little into a hint of the accent he'd spent years distancing himself from. "Might just fuck up... let y'down all over again—"

"What?"

Lifting the bottle to his lips, he polished off more of the booze without making eye contact. Instead he stared out across the swimming pool, "pretty goddamned useless... don't think I can carry a conversation tonight."

"We don't have to talk," pushing up from the chair, she walked over to him and grabbed the bottle out of his hand. "We can just sit here, finish the bottle and then head on up to bed."

"Not tired."

"Aren't you? Hmmm..." she looked at him, one eyebrow lifting as she studied him. She knew he hadn't slept at all the night before— she could see the evidence written all over his haggard features— there was no point in beating the dead horse. He'd just deny it to pick a fight. Taking a small swig from the bottle, she winced as the liquor went down before handing it back to him. "Or we can stay out here for awhile. Whatever you wanna do."

"Why aren't you angry?" The question slipped out on the heels of a sharp exhale, following another mouthful of Glenlivet.

She knew he was referring to the loss and she shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know." She stared at him for a few seconds, "I know we tried. I put everything I had into that... so did you. So we came up short against Brian Sasso and Persephone Waters. You said yourself that they were going to be a hard team to beat so I'm not gonna lose sleep over it when we have other fish—"

"We tried?!" He sounded incredulous, "is that what you're going with? You're gonna let me off the hook that easily when I made a fuckin' asshole out of myself? Bragged about how I won all these tag titles with Georgie and Ryann and..." he shook his head, "I fucked up, babe. I broke another promise to you."

Her eyes almost went wide in amazement at what he'd just said to her. "Jax, you didn't break anything to me. What happened out there, it happens. You can't always win. Pretty sure you told me that back in SVW." Her shoulders shrugged again as she took a seat on his lap, gently sliding her arm around his neck. "I don't blame you for anything. So far, I think we've been doing great. Okay, we lost— that just gives more reason to go out there and maim the next people we face."

He stared at her for a few seconds, his eyes flicking back and forth slightly as he tried to get a deeper read on her. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"As a heart attack. Why? Did you think I was going to hold this against you?" She was shaking her head, "Jax, we're a team and shit happens." Leaning in, she kissed his lips softly and pulled back. "I don't want this to eat at you. Maybe you didn't stop me from being pinned, but the truth is that I should have broken it myself. I didn't because I was beat—"

"I wanted it so bad," he sighed, "for you."

She was silent for a few moments, "are you sure you didn't want it for yourself?" The question came out before she could think about how he'd react to that.

He frowned, "what... it's a huge stretch for me to be thinking of someone other than myself or my massive fucking ego?"

"Jax," she said softly, "come on, we both know you love winning. Even moreso when there's gold on the line." She gave him a squeeze with her arm and rested her forehead against his cheek.

"I do, sure." He nodded, one shoulder twitching in a shrug, "and this was supposed to be the moment where YOU got to have a taste of that— I wanted you to know why I'm addicted to that rush, babe."

"If the situation was reversed and it had been me who didn't break up the pin, would you be making me feel like shit?" A kiss was placed on his cheek, "or would you be supportive, knowing I tried out there?"

"I'd never make you feel like shit on purpose... you do that enough all on your own, for fuck's sake." He set the bottle down beside the chair and then wrapped his arms around her. "Guess it's just a little mind-blowing to not have to deal with—" he broke off, not wanting to draw another mental parallel to Ryann, even though these situations were polar opposites.

Lyv had an idea what or who he was referring to and she put her other arm around him, desperate to put his mind at ease. "I swear I don't hold anything against you."

"Right." He closed his eyes, sick of looking at the love and adoration in her gaze. He felt unworthy of that level of devotion.

"I'm nothing like her. Baby, we went out there and tried, but it wasn't our night. Even the great ones are off sometimes... we'll get our chance again."

"And if we don't? What if that's it? What if something happens and I have to retire sooner than I'd planned? Can you honestly say you're happy with what we've accomplished so far as a team?" He couldn't stop pushing, trying to get her to blame him for what happened because he couldn't stop blaming himself.

She didn't hesitate in her answer, because it was an easy one. "All I ever really wanted was to just be your partner— your equal out there. I got to do that," she was smiling and it was a proud one on her face. "What more could I want? The chips are gonna fall where they may and at the end of the day, I'm still gonna be standing next to you. Proud to be your wife, the mother of your son, and the other half of Deus Ex—"

"I love you," those three words were all he could muster in the face of what she'd said, but he meant them.

"I love you too." She kissed his cheek, whispering in his ear, "and we'll win the next one. I promise."



DarkHorseOnline.Net blog: January 17, 2015

Radiohead said it best out of all the lyrics I could paste in here (and I know you love your lyrics from a little scroll through your braindroppings on Twitter). Thom Yorke is a genius, but it's probably the drugs talking. I mean, Urbandictionary claims that "Radiohead" is a term for shooting heroin in your face. So, there's that. And the guy looks more strung out than you do 90% of the time. All tangents aside, the words are appropriate for this little dance. You do it to yourself; that's what really hurts. You know that, don't you, Banks— see the onus to succeed here is greatest for you rather than the two of us and all we really need to do is sit back and watch you cave under the pressure. The bulls-eye, as it were, was tacked on your back with all the juvenile finesse of a 'kick me' sign.

Let's look at facts.

1.) I already beat Chris Night and it was a hell of a fight. Not that you probably give two shits. You were busy with the mutual masturbation society meeting with Dex Jacobs, after all. At least that's who I think you were facing that night. You'll have to forgive me for finding time a bit slippery these days. Too many years in this business has left me with a little bit of damage upstairs. I could blame the wear and tear, the chairshots and the like, but really… it was the drugs. I'm sure you can relate, what with all the 'reefer madness' I've caught scrolling through your timeline over the years.

Yeah.

Years.

Funny how time flies, isn't it?

You were on my radar when you pulled out of FTW in specatular fashion and it wasn't just because you fell into a company that housed Fujiko Mine, Arkia Fisk and Tj Jones. Nah. It was because Lex Collins hated you with a passion. That's how I knew you were something special.

That's how I knew that destiny of yours was going to carry you to a fluke greatness here in PWP. The once-proud bad-boy of PDW, the owner of HardKnox holding down gold— why it's just unheard of. That's unpossible!

2.) This defense is a big deal for you: time to shine and prove to everyone that beating Sister Christian (or whatever in the hell her name is) wasn't a fluke— if you pull it off, you can stick a feather in your cap and call it macaroni— the whole deal. Brando Banks, after years of scrabbling for scraps in these lesser dives, has finally made the big time. That's a big deal. Losing to either one of us just proves my point… well, the one I haven't made yet. *cracks knuckles*. Okay. Ready for this, Brando?

I don't like you. Honestly. Why? You're a chump. You've always been a chump and you honestly annoy the shit out of me. You're the Kanye West of this business, taking yourself far too seriously, and acting like you're Jesus. 90% of your Twitter feed consists of terrible song lyrics, photos of piles of weed, and antagonistic and borderline racist remarks. But, hey. Give the guy his role-model cred because he stopped using the 'n' word in public!

Sad part of this story is that I'm coming in on the back foot— sure I've been on a win streak here, but I haven't held gold in almost a year.

So I'm hungry. I want this, Brando. And the fact that I didn't politick or clamor for it like you did... well... see that means I'm due.

None of that matters to you because you've got moxie. You've been on a roll since you came here, even though you've basically been handed gift-wrapped wins. Me, on the other hand… well I had to work for it. Night was no slouch out there and I know he's going to come at me harder this time around.

First defenses are tricky. You retain, you can rest on your laurels. You can say you're the best around. Do I need to remind you that pride ALWAYS comes before a fall? It does. That's a fact, and something I've experienced firsthand more than I care to admit.

I'm standing outside on my patio tonight, smoking a cigarette down to the filter and thinking how much my world has tilted on its axis since I laid hands on my last top belt. The stars are shining overhead in a clear sky. The moon's got a glow around it and I feel like I'm higher than a kite from these stale Camels. Haven't smoked in months but I needed one tonight. Needed to get into your head— was the best way. It's just a great cinematic moment and I feel like I'm in some graphic novel as I type these words. I'm Rorschach on a rooftop, wondering why someone would kill Edward Blake. I'm Spiderman, wishing to go back to being plain old Peter Parker. We don't live in a fictional reality where everything is drenched in pathos and noir. We live here in the real world, where apathy is the best shading— few people give a shit about things outside their own circle of existence. I'm guilty of that.

The truth splits my skull in two like a ripe melon, migraine-intensity red light washing the lies away, leaving behind crimson reality. I'm sitting here in the dark, along with my contempt and this new sensation that's filling me. I'm not alone anymore and that fucks me up. Tastes like ashes. Makes me want to puke and I know you don't understand this. You want me to talk about breaking you because that's who I used to be. Haven't been that ridiculous since I showed up in FTW and crashed a Matt Ford monologue— that guy was something special, truly. I stabbed him with a screwdriver. Almost took his eye out.

Does that amuse you?

So Jackson the killer... the heartless demon speeding... well, that guy died a long time ago, Brando. He died in a solitary confinement cell back in 2011— two weeks locked inside my own head and I emerged as something new. I came out with a stark realization of just how much I fucked up over the years. In early 2013 I voluntarily locked myself in another room and I kicked the habit. Been clean for 10 months now and I know that's just a copout to a guy like you. Means I'm weak. I'm a quitter. Couldn't handle the cocktails like the big boys.

These days I have the hunger. I have the desire. I have that Liam Neeson-esque 'specific set of skills' and I'm here to do one thing and one thing only: it's tattooed on my back, kiddo. Search & destroy. Kick ass. Win. However you want to distill it, semantics wise. It's all the same thing and it involves you crying like a bitch when I walk out the winner and PWP 14. 

I let the past go. I let my cunt of an ex-wife Ryann go. I released her from the sick cycle of hurt we had going on and I cut her out of my life more than two years ago. I moved on as a new man— a goddamn honest man and I met Alyvia. I told her everything about me from that very first interaction. It was liberating to be that FREE. I told her about the violence. I told her about the abuse at the hands of my father. I told her about the women I had in every city— told her about Xavier and Mark Chapman and the other guys that Ryann cheated on me with. I told her all the times I lied and didn't come home. I told her how badly I need to collect accolades because I feel empty inside.

All of that was laid out in the open before we even went on our first date.

I have no secrets anymore, Brando. They know everything about me.

It's all out there. I'm an open book and you have nothing to exploit. So go ahead and talk the big game about how you're going to come at me hard. Full bore. Why not? A win over the 'insufferable asshole' Jackson will look pretty fucking good on that pedigree even without all the other fluff that's been stacked on top from past runs in small ponds. Better than a handful of victories over scrubs like Stefan Raab and Solara Newton, right?

Which reminds me… did you hear that dumpster fire finally closed its doors?

I know the fears that are clouding your judgment, Brando. I know who you are, and I know how to take you apart between those ropes. Recite all the bullshit you want about how you've gotten under my skin— the truth is, you haven't. Raab doling out respect to me after I wiped the canvas with his fat ass did a far better job of fucking with my head than you ever could.

Nobody cares, because I'm not the type to make empty promises. I will never blow hot air up your ass.

I know you. There's no door you can close to shut me out. I'm already inside your head. You're feeling this and walking in with a smile and revenge between your teeth. You think you've got this one in the bag. You're sporting that ego on your sleeve along with those tattoos you love to show off. Not that I'm shocked. It is, after all, what you do best. Not splitting hairs over that. I'm no exception to that rule. Ego may as well be my middle name.

I would love to dazzle you with some blistering rhetoric, but I'd much rather train for a few more hours before I call it a night. Forgive me for not really giving you the airtime you deserve. I'm sure you don't care, don't understand, and really don't want to look past the statue of EGO that you stand behind. Yeah, I know you. Hell, up until a year ago... I WAS YOU.

Is this what you want to be known for? You want to be a martyr for some cause that's a joke to begin with? You want to be grease in the gears of the machine? You want to be dead in a ditch with a mind full of chemicals, role model to none?

Here's what you get. Here's what it all boils down to. I can't lie anymore. You can't be their champion when you don't understand what you're up against. I beat Chris Night last time, Brando— none of them thought I could do it. It wasn't a fluke. This time is bigger. This time is about putting the LAST brick into my legacy and sealing in that last line of mortar. It's about me proving that 2015 is MY last hurrah by ripping it from your undeserving hands and holding this fucking belt as long as I can. You see, Brando, this is what I hoped for all along. This is what I wanted.

Fuck Sister Christian.

Fuck that goddamn scrub Dexter Jacobs.

Fuck Chris Night.

He's not worthy of this spotlight like you are. He's not ready to be my victim a second time. Not like you are.

I thrive in situations where I can control the pain that is dished back to me. I was taught how to take a beating. By my father. By life. I know hurt. I know pain.

PAIN.

It's over, Brando. The PWP of last year has already been torn down and forgotten. It's a new beginning. You're going to be buried under rubble. Don't sweat it. Don't get pissed off. You bought into your own hype, that's all. I won't fault you that; I've done in a thousand times over the years.

You want the limelight? Take it. Take hold of it with both hands, and pull it from my grasp. I want you to. You earned it with your ego, and your greed.

Reach out, and touch your downfall. Embrace it.

Heh, the path is clear now. Direct and uncluttered. I'm on my way to the end. The shortest distance between two points is the truth. Remember that. Maybe we can have it engraved on your tombstone.

—Jax.