Post by jamesedwards on Apr 18, 2016 6:27:28 GMT -5
Two Weeks Ago Somewhere in the Sticks of PA
He didn’t remember much of the drive, only the mad itch to get as far away from civilization as possible. He didn’t recall the numerous times he almost swerved off the road or nodded asleep at the wheel, only the fantasy of watching the cursed garments burned to a husk among a pile of smoldering wood. The twists and turns he took to reach his destination faded from his memory after a fraction of a second, but each glance at the cardboard box in his backseat would register with them until the end of his days.
Obsession had overcome him. That was the only plausible explanation for why any human being would be standing over a rusted out trash barrel, match in hand with a look of sadistic mirth on his face at daybreak.
The clothing of misfortune lay at the bottom of the barrel along with some old newspaper and dry wood that he’d scavenged from a nearby tree line. They were a pair of black gloves, long tights with royal blue trim and a faded leather jacket. The wording on the jacket was barely visible. Even in the thinning early morning darkness. He didn’t need to see the words that he’d known by heart for well over the year. They’d been his creed, and they had led him astray. Now he was going to sacrifice them in the hopes that his losing streak would end. Or so he hoped.
Burning Heart.
Those words had not been a selection from a sheet of paper given to him by a member of a marketing department. They were a gift from a dear friend and meant to give him assurance at a point much like this. One where he felt like was at the end of his world.
_____________________________________
A Few Months Ago in Lowell, MA
It was a peaceful night. He had left his window open, and the combination of crickets and passing cars lulled him to sleep.
He would have had an excellent night sleep and needed it badly. Anxiety consumed him for most of the evening before he finally drifted off to sleep. His next match in Fight One was a big one, a main event match against the Army of Two; a team comprised of Vin Wesley and Seth Daniels, two men he'd never been able to beat in the past and who'd made it point to beat the tar out of him every chance they got. This match wasn't one he was looking forward to.
He shot out of bed, "Hold on a fuckin' second."
The pounding only intensified. He felt addled and neglected to turn on the lamp. As a result, he tripped over his shoes and fell face first into the carpet.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath as he fumbled with the lock.
He opened the door and was surprised to find Tommy Fujita standing in the doorway with a brown paper bag stained with grease on the bottom.
Fujita was the manager of Victor Wylde, his tag partner, and a mentor of sorts. A good one too, even if the former Yakuza boss's eccentric behavior and disregard for personal space drove him nuts.
"Tommy, what are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you as well James," said Tommy as he entered the room without waiting for an invitation.
"It's pitch black in here. Don't you have a lamp?"
Before he could answer, Tommy turned the light on and wrinkled his nose in disgust at the mess in the room.
"Don't you ever clean this place? Look at where the shoes are if you don't pick them up someone may fall over them."
Tommy briefly inspected the bed and then propped himself up on it, "This mattress is uncomfortable.Have you spoken to the motel manager about it?"
By this point, he had lost all sense of annoyance and now stood slack jawed.
"Oh, pardon my manners. Do you want a doughnut?", Tommy asked while gesturing towards the bag.
"Nah man, thanks, though. Tommy, what are you doing here?"
"I came to ask you a question."
The situation gets even more bizarre, he thought. Still, he nodded at Tommy to indicate he was ready to proceed.
"My young friend, what is the difference between you and Wesley or Daniels?"
"I don't fuckin know; I guess I don't say a lot of stupid shit like they do."
"Wrong, try again."
"I'm not in the mood for games Tommy."
Tommy did not budge, "Try again."
He gave it a half-assed effort, "I'm not a dumb ass gorilla like Wesley." He smirked at Tommy.
Fujita shifted his face into a scowl that was infamous throughout the Tokyo underworld, "No, no, no! You need to take this seriously you stupid boy."
His voice got tiny, almost a whisper, "There ain't a difference except in ability. I'm just as arrogant as they are, but those two are twice the fighters I am. Why do you think I've never been to beat Seth Daniels one on one?"
Fujita signed and took a long look at his client's young partner. Apparently the boy only could only respond to aggression with rage or timidness. He needed to try a gentle approach.
"James, come here and sit down." Tommy moved to the edge of the bed until his legs were dangling over the edge. He joined Tommy, but his slumped posture indicated he still felt the effects of Tommy's scolding.
"Please listen to me. When I look at you and the Army of Two I do not see a difference in skill. I see a difference in focus and confidence. When Daniels and Wesley go into a fight they believe they can win; they do that because they can block out their blinders. But, that stone heart is also their downfall. A cold heart negates one's ability to believe in the impossible. I promise you the day will come when in a big moment they won't have the heart to dig down and continue. Passion is your greatest strength, James. You have a fire in your soul, a burning heart. Every action in the ring, every word you say is filled with conviction. Whether you believe it or not, in dark times that fire will carry you to glory. The issue is that you turn everything into a wildfire. Everything you touch turns to ash. Look at how you handled your business with that gentleman this afternoon. Your response did you no favours. Showing that man disrespect burned that bridge for you, no pun intended. Do you understand what I am saying?"
He nodded his head in the affirmative.
"Good. Your passion will either consume you or make you soar to heights you cannot imagine at this moment. Only you can decide that. OK, that's enough serious business, let's eat some doughnuts."
Tommy offered him the bag with a smile and punched him on the shoulder.
He smiled back at the older Japanese man and accepted his offer of a sugary treat.
____________________________________
Two Weeks Ago in the Sticks of PA
Passion. He hadn’t felt it in weeks. It was once a trusted companion, just like Tommy, he recalled. No wonder he’d felt alone out in the ring the last few weeks.
His fighting felt clinical. Too cold and precise to be his. The sterility had a purpose. He wanted to win. Letting his heart guide him in battle was foolish. When he did that, he felt drained, and the damage to his body was severe.
With his schedule, a softer approach was needed. It was smarter than emptying his soul on a weekly basis. Yet it made him feel hollow and like he'd betrayed himself.
He had no idea what do. The match in his hand lost its luster as the moments went by and he began to feel guilty about severing his ties to the only way of life that ever made sense to him.
Moments of confusion like this reminded him of the early days of his wrestling career when he was in training. Anytime he felt lost or needed a nudge in the right direction his trainer, Sean Styles, was there to set him straight. He needed him right now, but the old bastard was probably still asleep hours away in Kentucky.
A memory of those golden times would have to suffice.
__________________________________
A Few Months Years Ago in Lexington, KY
The gym was equal parts spartan and cluttered. Grappling mats took up most of the floor. A chaotic assortment of free weights, dumbbells and medicine balls lay in one corner of the mammoth room. Another was taken up by a seldom used desk that was decorated by stacks of paperwork and a landline phone. The third corner was the gem of the place.
A trio of second hand but comfortable couches huddled around a wall mounted 65 inch flat screen television. Below the gaudy electronic was a shelf full of wrestling DVD’s, a real treasure trove full of classic European grappling, Mexican lucha libre and, of course, barbaric Japanese strong style.
Sean was proud of his collection. He’d hoped that his few students would love to spend hours watching matches just like he did. However, few of them had ever taken advantage of the library. They mostly used the TV area as a place to unwind after training and prefered a light hearted, raunchy comedy to combat sports. He was disappointed but understood that sometimes a good laugh dulled the awful sensation of throbbing muscles.
Then the monster arrived. The nickname was more ironic than accurate because the Edwards kid was small and plump when his mother dragged him into the gym late one evening. She said that her son needed an outlet for some anger problems. Sean wasn’t looking to mentor any at-risk youths; that shit was for anyone but a broken ex-fighter. As time went and the baby fat melted off, the Edwards boy showed some potential as a striker. He was a hard worker and Sean took a liking to him, but Christ he loved to watch the tapes. Edwards devoured it every day like Godzilla feasting on the ruins of Tokyo.
James, it took him five months, but Sean finally quit calling him by his last name or nickname, raced through the flashy stuff first. Ladder matches from what Sean called “entertainment companies” and then the barbed wire death shit from sleazy Japan companies. He’d tried the technical battles from late 70’s England next. Sean often found him napping about twenty minutes into those. Then, much to his trainer’s delight, James took an interest in classic Japanese strong style. He started begging to stay late to study and eventually began to take notes. His study paid off, and his striking technique became more fundamental than most low-level veterans on the Kentucky circuit, at least in Sean’s opinion.
The only bad habit relentless tape watching yielded might be fascination with a particular wrestler or promotion. With James’ studious nature, Sean figured he wouldn’t have to worry about it. That hunch blew to kingdom come just a little over a year into James’ training. He fell in love and with the oddest possible choice: Tenryu Kobashi.
Kobashi was fighter lost to time, which Sean thought for the best since the only good thing the guy ever did was a take a beating like no other. He was a cult figure and nothing more. A pudgy fireplug that threw a halfway decent roundhouse. Not the kind of fighter that budding rookies wanted to emulate.
Except James. His face lit up every time he viewed one of Tenryu’s fruitless quests for glory. Every time Sean wanted to tell James to quit wasting his time he saw the kid’s face glow. He couldn’t break the kids heart.
Turns out Sean didn’t have to. One day, while he was getting caught up on paperwork, Sean spied James with a sour look on his face. He thought nothing of it until the occasional glance at his protege revealed the same dour expression. Something was wrong.
Sean put his paperwork down and called out, “Hey kid, what’s with the sour look on that ugly mug of yours?”
James gave him nothing. Usually, their friendly banter brought him out of one of his funks. Sean sighed and got up from his desk. The damn paperwork could wait.
He quickly crossed the room and plopped down on the couch next to James. The image on the TV showed a battered, broken Kobashi on his back surrounded by entire roster in the ring. Ah hell, Sean thought, this was the match where he broke his neck.
They sat in silence. Sean waited for James to speak and break it. There was no point in pressing the issue. That always set James off anyways.
“He never made it”, the youngster eventually said.
“What do you mean James?”
“Tenryu never became the ace.”
“Huh?”
“He never became the ace.”
Aha! That’s what the crazy guy chased all those years, Sean thought. Kobashi never wanted gold or fame. He just wanted to be known as the best his company had to offer: the ace.
“It depends on who you ask”, Sean said.
“What the fuck do you mean by that?”
:”Watch your damn mouth, James!”
That got the kid to smile, slightly. “The Japanese have a rigid definition of what it means to be the ace. Wins and losses and championship belts mean too much over there…”
“What matters here then?”
“Good question, it depends on the promoter. Some of them think that the guy or gal that brings in the most bread is the ace. A couple of em’ go by the Japanese definition. Those aren’t right in my book. Accolades and marketability don’t make you a true ace.”
“A true ace?”
“A true ace is the heart and soul of a company. That guy’s spirit inspires his colleagues in the back. His desire wins over the crowd night after night. All those guys in the ring with Kobashi didn’t have to be there. They wanted too though because they respected him. That’s why I think he succeeded and became a true ace. Don’t ever quit, kid. I promise that even if you ended up a broken down old fart like men, at least you’ll have good memories and friends to last you a lifetime. Now, let’s lighten this funeral home up, yeah? Where’s my copy of ‘In the Army Now’.”
James groaned. The kid may have great taste in wrestlers, but his taste in flicks was garbage. Who didn’t love Pauly Shore?
_____________________________
Two Weeks Ago in the Sticks of PA
He tossed the pack of matches onto the ground and threw his arms in the air out of frustration. A slew of curse words escaped his lips. They were mumbled instead of his usual shouts. He didn’t want to attract any unwanted attention.
His eyes turned back towards the garbage can. All three items of his ring gear remained in it. Part of him hoped it was all some awful hallucination from his lack of sleep.
There wasn’t any point in doing this. He’d made a rash decision to get rid of something so meaningful, something that was a part of him. So he quickly grabbed them and brought them close to his chest.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he traced the words on the back of his jacket.
Burning Heart.
It wasn’t just a monicker. It wasn’t a curse. No, those words were a blessing and a reminder he should never stray from his path of soulful fighting that flamed with the heat of a thousand stars.
Through watery eyes he scanned the horizon and saw two shadowy figures, one held up a stained paper bag and the other a DVD case. Both smiled at him. He returned the gesture.
Everything was going to be okay.
_________________________________
“Every single one of us in this match have little to nothing in common except one thing: we all agree that we are about to talk into match straight out of one of those shitty torture porn horror films. All weekend long I’ve kept asking myself, why am I about to do this? What is the point in breakin’ myself in half? That same question has been on y’all’s mind too.
I betcha’ a good bottle of whiskey I’d get the same answer from all five of you: the Legacy Championship. That’s all well and good, but it is an answer that reeks of bullshit. We’re about to maim each other, y’all, you could at least do the courtesy of being honest.
This match is about settlin’ scores and provin’ points.
Alice knows damn well that her entire title reign is built around runnin’. She ran from a cage to win the start the damn thing and then used a distraction to run through Rocky Hollywood’s legs so she could keep it alive. The poor girl is gonna’ break herself to prove that, and that’s fine, except she keeps lying about it.
Do us all a favor and quit sayin’ that you want to win this match for the fans Alice or prove a point. It just makes us all want to kick your teeth down your throat. If you’d been honest from day one, the drum beats callin’ you a fluke will still pound as loud as they do. You’re the one creating your critics. Even if you win this thing, they are still gonna’ be there, and you’ll have broken yourself for nothing.
Noah Hanson, brother you’ve been quick to point out to the world that this match is gonna’ be your coronation. It is will prove that can earn the title instead of having it handed to you because you are suckin’ at Ms. White’s toxic tits. The win ain’t gonna’ remove the milk from your lips or give you the crown you so desperately seek.
You will always be a chicken shit to me and the rest of the roster. Don’t act like you're some master villain. Real big bads stand in the sun and face down their enemies. They don’t hide behind Ms. White’s skirts and lob insults. The list of people you’ve wronged grows by the day, and if you somehow win the title they are still gonna’ hunt you down like a dog, and when Ms. White saves you, again, they will still call you bitch they already do.
Now, to be fair, Hollywood, Bohannon and Bull have all been honest about what this match really is. Bull wants to break fuckers. Cool deal. Hollywood wants a chance to slap Alice around and prove he beat up a girl. Not cool but that’s gonna’ happen in our sport. Bohannon wants to finally have his big moment. I respect that.
Add me to that list of honest men. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m here to fight because it is what I do. What I fight for and against change before every match but inside the ring it never does. Once that bell rings I know I have a job to do: prove to myself that I can win.
I don’t give a damn about what any of you think about me. I’ve wasted enough time talking about how that almost my North Atlantic career. Honestly, I don’t care what the fans or management have to say about me going into this match. All that matters is what I need to prove to myself.
I wanna’ prove to myself that I do actually belong in this match with the best this promotion has to offer. I wanna’ prove that I can fight with fire in my soul after a month where it’s been extinguished.
Most of all, I need to know that I don’t just call myself the Burning Heart, that I am the Burning Heart. The eternal flame of fighting spirit. North Atlantic Wrestling’s ace on fire.”
He didn’t remember much of the drive, only the mad itch to get as far away from civilization as possible. He didn’t recall the numerous times he almost swerved off the road or nodded asleep at the wheel, only the fantasy of watching the cursed garments burned to a husk among a pile of smoldering wood. The twists and turns he took to reach his destination faded from his memory after a fraction of a second, but each glance at the cardboard box in his backseat would register with them until the end of his days.
Obsession had overcome him. That was the only plausible explanation for why any human being would be standing over a rusted out trash barrel, match in hand with a look of sadistic mirth on his face at daybreak.
The clothing of misfortune lay at the bottom of the barrel along with some old newspaper and dry wood that he’d scavenged from a nearby tree line. They were a pair of black gloves, long tights with royal blue trim and a faded leather jacket. The wording on the jacket was barely visible. Even in the thinning early morning darkness. He didn’t need to see the words that he’d known by heart for well over the year. They’d been his creed, and they had led him astray. Now he was going to sacrifice them in the hopes that his losing streak would end. Or so he hoped.
Burning Heart.
Those words had not been a selection from a sheet of paper given to him by a member of a marketing department. They were a gift from a dear friend and meant to give him assurance at a point much like this. One where he felt like was at the end of his world.
_____________________________________
A Few Months Ago in Lowell, MA
It was a peaceful night. He had left his window open, and the combination of crickets and passing cars lulled him to sleep.
He would have had an excellent night sleep and needed it badly. Anxiety consumed him for most of the evening before he finally drifted off to sleep. His next match in Fight One was a big one, a main event match against the Army of Two; a team comprised of Vin Wesley and Seth Daniels, two men he'd never been able to beat in the past and who'd made it point to beat the tar out of him every chance they got. This match wasn't one he was looking forward to.
He shot out of bed, "Hold on a fuckin' second."
The pounding only intensified. He felt addled and neglected to turn on the lamp. As a result, he tripped over his shoes and fell face first into the carpet.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath as he fumbled with the lock.
He opened the door and was surprised to find Tommy Fujita standing in the doorway with a brown paper bag stained with grease on the bottom.
Fujita was the manager of Victor Wylde, his tag partner, and a mentor of sorts. A good one too, even if the former Yakuza boss's eccentric behavior and disregard for personal space drove him nuts.
"Tommy, what are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you as well James," said Tommy as he entered the room without waiting for an invitation.
"It's pitch black in here. Don't you have a lamp?"
Before he could answer, Tommy turned the light on and wrinkled his nose in disgust at the mess in the room.
"Don't you ever clean this place? Look at where the shoes are if you don't pick them up someone may fall over them."
Tommy briefly inspected the bed and then propped himself up on it, "This mattress is uncomfortable.Have you spoken to the motel manager about it?"
By this point, he had lost all sense of annoyance and now stood slack jawed.
"Oh, pardon my manners. Do you want a doughnut?", Tommy asked while gesturing towards the bag.
"Nah man, thanks, though. Tommy, what are you doing here?"
"I came to ask you a question."
The situation gets even more bizarre, he thought. Still, he nodded at Tommy to indicate he was ready to proceed.
"My young friend, what is the difference between you and Wesley or Daniels?"
"I don't fuckin know; I guess I don't say a lot of stupid shit like they do."
"Wrong, try again."
"I'm not in the mood for games Tommy."
Tommy did not budge, "Try again."
He gave it a half-assed effort, "I'm not a dumb ass gorilla like Wesley." He smirked at Tommy.
Fujita shifted his face into a scowl that was infamous throughout the Tokyo underworld, "No, no, no! You need to take this seriously you stupid boy."
His voice got tiny, almost a whisper, "There ain't a difference except in ability. I'm just as arrogant as they are, but those two are twice the fighters I am. Why do you think I've never been to beat Seth Daniels one on one?"
Fujita signed and took a long look at his client's young partner. Apparently the boy only could only respond to aggression with rage or timidness. He needed to try a gentle approach.
"James, come here and sit down." Tommy moved to the edge of the bed until his legs were dangling over the edge. He joined Tommy, but his slumped posture indicated he still felt the effects of Tommy's scolding.
"Please listen to me. When I look at you and the Army of Two I do not see a difference in skill. I see a difference in focus and confidence. When Daniels and Wesley go into a fight they believe they can win; they do that because they can block out their blinders. But, that stone heart is also their downfall. A cold heart negates one's ability to believe in the impossible. I promise you the day will come when in a big moment they won't have the heart to dig down and continue. Passion is your greatest strength, James. You have a fire in your soul, a burning heart. Every action in the ring, every word you say is filled with conviction. Whether you believe it or not, in dark times that fire will carry you to glory. The issue is that you turn everything into a wildfire. Everything you touch turns to ash. Look at how you handled your business with that gentleman this afternoon. Your response did you no favours. Showing that man disrespect burned that bridge for you, no pun intended. Do you understand what I am saying?"
He nodded his head in the affirmative.
"Good. Your passion will either consume you or make you soar to heights you cannot imagine at this moment. Only you can decide that. OK, that's enough serious business, let's eat some doughnuts."
Tommy offered him the bag with a smile and punched him on the shoulder.
He smiled back at the older Japanese man and accepted his offer of a sugary treat.
____________________________________
Two Weeks Ago in the Sticks of PA
Passion. He hadn’t felt it in weeks. It was once a trusted companion, just like Tommy, he recalled. No wonder he’d felt alone out in the ring the last few weeks.
His fighting felt clinical. Too cold and precise to be his. The sterility had a purpose. He wanted to win. Letting his heart guide him in battle was foolish. When he did that, he felt drained, and the damage to his body was severe.
With his schedule, a softer approach was needed. It was smarter than emptying his soul on a weekly basis. Yet it made him feel hollow and like he'd betrayed himself.
He had no idea what do. The match in his hand lost its luster as the moments went by and he began to feel guilty about severing his ties to the only way of life that ever made sense to him.
Moments of confusion like this reminded him of the early days of his wrestling career when he was in training. Anytime he felt lost or needed a nudge in the right direction his trainer, Sean Styles, was there to set him straight. He needed him right now, but the old bastard was probably still asleep hours away in Kentucky.
A memory of those golden times would have to suffice.
__________________________________
A Few Months Years Ago in Lexington, KY
The gym was equal parts spartan and cluttered. Grappling mats took up most of the floor. A chaotic assortment of free weights, dumbbells and medicine balls lay in one corner of the mammoth room. Another was taken up by a seldom used desk that was decorated by stacks of paperwork and a landline phone. The third corner was the gem of the place.
A trio of second hand but comfortable couches huddled around a wall mounted 65 inch flat screen television. Below the gaudy electronic was a shelf full of wrestling DVD’s, a real treasure trove full of classic European grappling, Mexican lucha libre and, of course, barbaric Japanese strong style.
Sean was proud of his collection. He’d hoped that his few students would love to spend hours watching matches just like he did. However, few of them had ever taken advantage of the library. They mostly used the TV area as a place to unwind after training and prefered a light hearted, raunchy comedy to combat sports. He was disappointed but understood that sometimes a good laugh dulled the awful sensation of throbbing muscles.
Then the monster arrived. The nickname was more ironic than accurate because the Edwards kid was small and plump when his mother dragged him into the gym late one evening. She said that her son needed an outlet for some anger problems. Sean wasn’t looking to mentor any at-risk youths; that shit was for anyone but a broken ex-fighter. As time went and the baby fat melted off, the Edwards boy showed some potential as a striker. He was a hard worker and Sean took a liking to him, but Christ he loved to watch the tapes. Edwards devoured it every day like Godzilla feasting on the ruins of Tokyo.
James, it took him five months, but Sean finally quit calling him by his last name or nickname, raced through the flashy stuff first. Ladder matches from what Sean called “entertainment companies” and then the barbed wire death shit from sleazy Japan companies. He’d tried the technical battles from late 70’s England next. Sean often found him napping about twenty minutes into those. Then, much to his trainer’s delight, James took an interest in classic Japanese strong style. He started begging to stay late to study and eventually began to take notes. His study paid off, and his striking technique became more fundamental than most low-level veterans on the Kentucky circuit, at least in Sean’s opinion.
The only bad habit relentless tape watching yielded might be fascination with a particular wrestler or promotion. With James’ studious nature, Sean figured he wouldn’t have to worry about it. That hunch blew to kingdom come just a little over a year into James’ training. He fell in love and with the oddest possible choice: Tenryu Kobashi.
Kobashi was fighter lost to time, which Sean thought for the best since the only good thing the guy ever did was a take a beating like no other. He was a cult figure and nothing more. A pudgy fireplug that threw a halfway decent roundhouse. Not the kind of fighter that budding rookies wanted to emulate.
Except James. His face lit up every time he viewed one of Tenryu’s fruitless quests for glory. Every time Sean wanted to tell James to quit wasting his time he saw the kid’s face glow. He couldn’t break the kids heart.
Turns out Sean didn’t have to. One day, while he was getting caught up on paperwork, Sean spied James with a sour look on his face. He thought nothing of it until the occasional glance at his protege revealed the same dour expression. Something was wrong.
Sean put his paperwork down and called out, “Hey kid, what’s with the sour look on that ugly mug of yours?”
James gave him nothing. Usually, their friendly banter brought him out of one of his funks. Sean sighed and got up from his desk. The damn paperwork could wait.
He quickly crossed the room and plopped down on the couch next to James. The image on the TV showed a battered, broken Kobashi on his back surrounded by entire roster in the ring. Ah hell, Sean thought, this was the match where he broke his neck.
They sat in silence. Sean waited for James to speak and break it. There was no point in pressing the issue. That always set James off anyways.
“He never made it”, the youngster eventually said.
“What do you mean James?”
“Tenryu never became the ace.”
“Huh?”
“He never became the ace.”
Aha! That’s what the crazy guy chased all those years, Sean thought. Kobashi never wanted gold or fame. He just wanted to be known as the best his company had to offer: the ace.
“It depends on who you ask”, Sean said.
“What the fuck do you mean by that?”
:”Watch your damn mouth, James!”
That got the kid to smile, slightly. “The Japanese have a rigid definition of what it means to be the ace. Wins and losses and championship belts mean too much over there…”
“What matters here then?”
“Good question, it depends on the promoter. Some of them think that the guy or gal that brings in the most bread is the ace. A couple of em’ go by the Japanese definition. Those aren’t right in my book. Accolades and marketability don’t make you a true ace.”
“A true ace?”
“A true ace is the heart and soul of a company. That guy’s spirit inspires his colleagues in the back. His desire wins over the crowd night after night. All those guys in the ring with Kobashi didn’t have to be there. They wanted too though because they respected him. That’s why I think he succeeded and became a true ace. Don’t ever quit, kid. I promise that even if you ended up a broken down old fart like men, at least you’ll have good memories and friends to last you a lifetime. Now, let’s lighten this funeral home up, yeah? Where’s my copy of ‘In the Army Now’.”
James groaned. The kid may have great taste in wrestlers, but his taste in flicks was garbage. Who didn’t love Pauly Shore?
_____________________________
Two Weeks Ago in the Sticks of PA
He tossed the pack of matches onto the ground and threw his arms in the air out of frustration. A slew of curse words escaped his lips. They were mumbled instead of his usual shouts. He didn’t want to attract any unwanted attention.
His eyes turned back towards the garbage can. All three items of his ring gear remained in it. Part of him hoped it was all some awful hallucination from his lack of sleep.
There wasn’t any point in doing this. He’d made a rash decision to get rid of something so meaningful, something that was a part of him. So he quickly grabbed them and brought them close to his chest.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he traced the words on the back of his jacket.
Burning Heart.
It wasn’t just a monicker. It wasn’t a curse. No, those words were a blessing and a reminder he should never stray from his path of soulful fighting that flamed with the heat of a thousand stars.
Through watery eyes he scanned the horizon and saw two shadowy figures, one held up a stained paper bag and the other a DVD case. Both smiled at him. He returned the gesture.
Everything was going to be okay.
_________________________________
“Every single one of us in this match have little to nothing in common except one thing: we all agree that we are about to talk into match straight out of one of those shitty torture porn horror films. All weekend long I’ve kept asking myself, why am I about to do this? What is the point in breakin’ myself in half? That same question has been on y’all’s mind too.
I betcha’ a good bottle of whiskey I’d get the same answer from all five of you: the Legacy Championship. That’s all well and good, but it is an answer that reeks of bullshit. We’re about to maim each other, y’all, you could at least do the courtesy of being honest.
This match is about settlin’ scores and provin’ points.
Alice knows damn well that her entire title reign is built around runnin’. She ran from a cage to win the start the damn thing and then used a distraction to run through Rocky Hollywood’s legs so she could keep it alive. The poor girl is gonna’ break herself to prove that, and that’s fine, except she keeps lying about it.
Do us all a favor and quit sayin’ that you want to win this match for the fans Alice or prove a point. It just makes us all want to kick your teeth down your throat. If you’d been honest from day one, the drum beats callin’ you a fluke will still pound as loud as they do. You’re the one creating your critics. Even if you win this thing, they are still gonna’ be there, and you’ll have broken yourself for nothing.
Noah Hanson, brother you’ve been quick to point out to the world that this match is gonna’ be your coronation. It is will prove that can earn the title instead of having it handed to you because you are suckin’ at Ms. White’s toxic tits. The win ain’t gonna’ remove the milk from your lips or give you the crown you so desperately seek.
You will always be a chicken shit to me and the rest of the roster. Don’t act like you're some master villain. Real big bads stand in the sun and face down their enemies. They don’t hide behind Ms. White’s skirts and lob insults. The list of people you’ve wronged grows by the day, and if you somehow win the title they are still gonna’ hunt you down like a dog, and when Ms. White saves you, again, they will still call you bitch they already do.
Now, to be fair, Hollywood, Bohannon and Bull have all been honest about what this match really is. Bull wants to break fuckers. Cool deal. Hollywood wants a chance to slap Alice around and prove he beat up a girl. Not cool but that’s gonna’ happen in our sport. Bohannon wants to finally have his big moment. I respect that.
Add me to that list of honest men. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m here to fight because it is what I do. What I fight for and against change before every match but inside the ring it never does. Once that bell rings I know I have a job to do: prove to myself that I can win.
I don’t give a damn about what any of you think about me. I’ve wasted enough time talking about how that almost my North Atlantic career. Honestly, I don’t care what the fans or management have to say about me going into this match. All that matters is what I need to prove to myself.
I wanna’ prove to myself that I do actually belong in this match with the best this promotion has to offer. I wanna’ prove that I can fight with fire in my soul after a month where it’s been extinguished.
Most of all, I need to know that I don’t just call myself the Burning Heart, that I am the Burning Heart. The eternal flame of fighting spirit. North Atlantic Wrestling’s ace on fire.”