I’m sitting a dark room, staring blankly at the wall in front of me. The sound of a ticking clock serenades me as I watch nothing. Nothing in particular, I should say. Not just nothing because there is something there, I just don’t know what it is. Shadows. Shadows dancing around, stirring, fidgeting, anything. I see brief motions and hear faint noises. Breathing. This fading discomfort on the back of my neck, as if someone’s stroking it. I tense up each time and I swear I can hear a chuckle or something. I know I’m not alone in here, but I don’t know much else beyond that.

I don’t even know how I got here. Last I remember, I was heading to bed. Bed, being the little mattress on the floor of my St, Louis apartment. Or how my hands got tied, I don’t know how that happened either. Last thing I felt was a gloved hand on my wrist and then a sharp prick. Then blackness.

Then here. Wherever here is, at least.

I struggle with my restraints for the fifth time. Nothing. They don’t budge. Just like last time and the time before that. I inhale sharply, before coughing as I find breathing painful. My ribs ache something awful and there’s this pounding in my skull that makes me feel like it’s going to split in half.

Whistling.

I grit my teeth and cock my head, trying to cover at least one of my ears with my shoulder. It’s high pitched and piercing, boring right through my eardrums.

Then the fingers on my neck. They feel rough, like sandpaper.

They wrap almost all the way around my throat, jerking my head back onto the back of the chair. I look straight up at the ceiling to see something written on the ceiling.

“Wake up.”

My eyes snap open and lurch forward. I’m back home and the alarm clock is blaring. Of course it is. My eyes still heavy, I smack the clock until it shuts up. Then I pull the sheet off me and toss it onto the floor. I rub my eyes and force myself to stand.

As I crack my back I can feel my heart rate slow down. My bare feet press into the carpet and I close my eyes tight for a second before pushing myself forward with a grunt.

A shower and a change of clothes later, I make my way to the door when I see something, unexpected to say the least.

A rorschach test pinned to my door. However, more striking is what’s scribbled on the bottom of the page. Almost illegible. I squint my eyes and stare at it, hoping to decipher it through sheer force of will.

Low and behold, I do.

“Wake up.”

My eyes go wide and my heart rate kicks into high gear. I reach for the door handle with a shaking hand.

Jesus.


”Well, I sure crashed and burned in spectacular manner last time I showed up on XWF programming. Looking back, hindsight being 20/20, it’s actually kind of funny. I walk into that match already holding a victory over one of my opponents and yet everything fell right through my fingers. I never took control of anything there. Embarrassing? A little, but you live and you learn and you come back much stronger than before. Here I am.

And all that other good nonsense.

Now, let’s get to the man of the hour. Muddy Waters. The insipid, drunken louse of a man, but the man of the hour nonetheless. See, Muddy’s lived his whole life hearing about how he would never be anything. Now, do you wonder why? Because I don’t. It’s obvious. He’s a drunken redneck loser.

Ooh, loser. A bit hypocritical there, eh? Not if you take into account that unlike Muddy I have succeeded in the realm of wrestling before. But I’m not going to start resting on my past victories when even they weren’t that impressive. I mean, who hasn’t beaten Hero Xtreme or Mastermind? Right, Muddy for starters but that’s to be expected of the debuting rookie.

Oh, Muddy. What are we going to do with you? You and your delusions of grandeur, like you were made for anything higher than being the muck beneath the boots of everyone you stand across the ring from. It’s dreadful, truly and honestly. Saddening even, that you have such high hopes for yourself. I almost wish I wasn’t the one to have to dash them. At the very least that job could’ve been handed over to someone who might’ve enjoyed it a little bit. See, I don’t like what I’m going to do to you, Muddy. How I’m going to shatter each and every aspiration of yours with one well placed knee to the side of the head, I don’t like it one bit.

But, I will. Because I’m contractually obligated to.

No hard feelings. None at all, at least not from my perspective. No matter how many times you infer that I’m a homosexual, no doubt in order to feel like you have a shot with me just like you have a shot of winning this match, I am not fettered. Why should I be? A grown man settles down a bout of psychological warfare and the premise of his opening salvo is how he’s the pride of some Kentucky county and how I’m gay?

He’s pointing his gun right at me, and firing blanks. Each blow aimed in my direction but there is no bullet so nothing ever hits me. Every remark he probably thinks is so goddamn clever is as impactful as the wind hitting my face. Reality, Muddy. The world we actually live in, not the one where you’re the hero of the story because you aren’t.

In reality, I’m the hero.

I’m the hero and I recently suffered my first crushing defeat. Battered and broken I look towards the horizon, desperately searching for something to inspire me to fight on. And out from the horizon steps you.

The quirky, ambiguously gay, southern stereotype of a miniboss.

So, knowing that there’s only one possible outcome to this encounter I force myself to my feet and look you in the eyes. Then I strike.

And you fall. Down to the dirt, back to where you came from, the place you were always meant to be.

Gone. Away.

Doesn’t matter where so long as it isn’t here. My path. I’m done with you, crumpled you up like a wrapper and tossed you in the nearest trash can.

I know how this is going to end before it even starts.

The sad thing is that you don’t. You still think you got this, don’t you? You still think you’re the hero.

You’re not even the villain.”