~~IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING BENITO ANGELO VS. JIM CAEDUS~~


Behind me the EMTs attend to my opponent as I push my way through the throngs of natives and tourists, drunks and thugs, marks and smarks, XWF fans all. Good people.

I hate people.

I cringe as hands pat my back, palms tussle my hair, phalanges patronize my person, violating my space...fucking Benito. Had this not been my first match in four years, had Benito not been so tough, I'd be landing some accidental licks on these rat-bastard fans. But he _had_ been tough, the _match_ had been tough...and right about now I need to empty my guts.

Seconds later I'm puking into the street but no one notices, their attention is glued to the ring as the show goes on. I feel better. Exhilarated even. Having snatched a modicum of revenge, having _earned it_, I know that for a few hours the nagging sensation, the itch to maim, will thankfully leave me be so I turn round and I enjoy the remainder of XWF's Savage Saturday Night as a fan from the outskirts of the pack.

The brawls, the blood...I think I'm going to like it here.

Following the main event I attend the mandatory team meeting on the chartered bus. Hotel bookings, morning flights and the next card are discussed. The former Television Champion Thomas Nixon causes a bit of a stir, upset with his current situation having to now fight both Brandon Moore and Cain to regain what he sees as his property. Vincent Lane solidifies his position as a shepard of wolves, not sheep, and punctuates his point with a bit of verbal venom. A roster member or two sprinkle their own salt on the wound. I keep to myself. It's not wise to get involved with the drama of others...not if you can't capitalize in some fashion.

An hour later and the XWF is on it's way to the hotel. Not me, I'm still penniless. This ain't a fringe federation, this is a billion dollar company and I can expect my pay during the next cycle of checks. That means I'll be needing a place to stay. That means I'll be hunting for my meal in the garbage tonight. I find a slice of New York pizza with a single bite out of it calling to me from a full trash can near Times Square and I dig in.

"Hey new guy."

I drop my pizza in shock and turn. There's a group of fans recording me with their smartphones and I growl, I feint and elicit flinches.

"Fuck off," I snarl through a mouthful of congealed cheese, sauce and dough!

They backpedal but remain. They think I'm cutting an IC response. I really wish there weren't so many eyes upon me because I'd be scooping a few free with my fingers if I could.

"Hey new guy."

It's a woman in her twenties. She's dressed provocatively and smiling.

"You don't know me, girl."

"I know all about'cha Jimmy-"

'_Jimmy_!?'

"-I've got a condo about forty minutes from here if you need a place to stay tonight. I, uh, have food too if you're hungry."

I do need a place to stay. I am hungry. Who the fuck is this chick? 'New guy' she called me. 'Jimmy'. She must be a wrestling groupie. A slut looking for the next conquest to pad her resumé.

"I've got a wife and daughter," I say.

Her brow furrows in...what is that? Pity? "I know all about your...marital status, Jim. You don't have to be nervous, I'll take good care of you."

"You don't know me."

"Actually I've been a fan of yours since I was fourteen. Like I said, I know all about you."

I don't respond, I simply stare silently.

"Soooo...are you coming?"

...............I nod.

The girl grins and hails a cab. We get in.

'Are you thinking of doing what I think you're thinking of doing?'

Shut up.

'Dude...why?'

Shut. Up.

'Hey, I'm not saying anything...just don't lose track of time. You've got a job again. More than that, you've got an opportunity to get everything you want. To fix this shit.'

There's no fixing it.

'You know what I mean Goddammit. Look, have your...fun...just be cautious. You've come too far.'

Have my fun? Oh I will. I will.
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