Blame

[King]

"The man who can smile when things go wrong has thought of someone else he can blame it on."

-Robert Bloch

The goal had been to savor the sweet, sweet taste of championship gold once more. A plan had been carefully crafted to see the goal to fruition, with every last detail ran through twice. To take the title specifically from Wraith -to stand over the boy as he lay bleeding, taunting him with what was once his- would be the ultimate victory.

How quickly things can sometimes unravel.

The curtain had fallen on Legacy, and Savage By Nature had lost. The championship belt that was supposed to be draped over Stephen Terrella's shoulder was still with the boy that believes himself an heir; and the belt that was supposed to be wrapped around the waist of Stephen's partner, Alexandra Calaway, was still in Angel Blake's possession. This was not supposed to be.

As Stephen sat in his locker room, leaned forward on the chair, elbows resting on his knees, with a towel draped over his bald head; he contemplated how he had arrived at this destination while staring at the floor. This was the bitterest of pills, and the sting of the Skoal shoved neatly inside his lower lip did nothing to drown the taste. He harbored such an intense, deep-burning hatred for the young man known to the world as Wraith -and by extension, that entire family- and the 'Genocide Kicks' to Portia had only fed the flames.

Every time he had ever pursued anything, there was constantly a member of that family in his path. Every time that he ever achieved anything, there was constantly a member of that family on his six. Every time something would just slip through his grasp, he could hear Wraith in his head, gloating. Now that he has tried to build something, it is also the boy that threatens to tear it apart with his charms.

Stephen spits a mouthful of tobacco juice onto the floor, which splashes down in what has become a small puddle. "What the fuck do I got to do", that is the question he silently asks himself. For a man that spends countless hours lifting weights, forging his iron-like physique, he knew the answer simply wasn't to lift harder. His strength hadn't failed him. He had walked into Legacy far superior to his adversaries in that regard, and left empty-handed despite that advantage. Physically, it was only his surgically repaired knee that betrayed him– and for a man forty-four years of age, he understood that was as good as it would ever get.

Beneath the towel, he silently reasons: "Shit would have gone a helluva lot different though if Brandy had just done what I fucking asked her to do. Instead she's got to go fuck that little bastard. Now she's worried about his fucking feelings."

Stephen knew how people viewed Portia and him, he simply didn't care. Working as a bouncer had taught him a few things, situational awareness being chief among them. What fans and his opponents may often classify as systematic cheating, he benignly rationalizes as being situationally aware.

Prior to the match, had things gone south, the original plan was always to exploit the numbers advantage. When Portia was on the apron, his strategy was to have Brandy Cvetkova -professionally known as the Black Widow- disarm Sanguis Immortalis by misting one of them in the face. Her refusal to do so due to her relationship with Wraith had come to infuriate him more by the day, too.

Stephen's eyes wander upward, over to the black leather couch that Portia is laying on. Eyes closed and an ice pack on her jaw, the one person in the world capable of calming Stephen down is in no position to currently do so. Unchecked, the anger inside of him boils to a whistle. The hardest part of it all for him was knowing the woman he loved -Portia- took the bullet she did.

He didn't blame himself, nor Alexandra Calaway for what had happened. There was plenty of blame to be laid, however- starting with Sanguis Immortalis, and ending at Brandy's doorsteps for not going along with the plan.

I'm going to make that fucking bitch regret choosing that little bastard," he thought to himself. "I'm going to rip his ass apart piece-by-piece, and I'm going to make sure she watches him suffer. When I'm done, she can have what's left. Maybe I'll leave her a fucking finger intact."

His train of thought is soon broken by the sound of the handle on the door turning, before it opens with a bit of a creak. Pulling the towel off his head, he looks toward the door, inquiring: "Calaway?"

An older man, perhaps fifty-ish in age walks into the room. 'No, I got your text about my daughter. I know better than anyone how difficult she can be…"

—------------------

< Roll footage. >

Positioned closely behind his fiancee, Portia, Stephen Terrella stands casually dressed, his massive arms folded across his chest. Portia stands just in front of him, flexing her jaw as she still feels a few lingering effects from the superkicks she took at Legacy.

"Let me make one thing perfectly clear," Portia says. "We asked for this match, Frank."

"We went to Randon Haynes, and we demanded a way to make a statement. We want Angel and Wraith to understand that it's not only a matter of time before Stephen and Alexandra come for those World Tag Team Championships again, but it's only a matter of time until they take them. We won't make the same mistakes twice."

"But Frank, let me explain how you fit into all of this– and I'll try to speak slowly, and use small words so that tiny redneck brain of yours can understand, k?"

Portia holds up a piece of plain white paper that she had been holding at her side, with two stick figures drawn in blue crayon on it. Pointing to the first figure with her perfectly manicured finger, she explains, "This is you, Frank." Sliding her finger across the page, she adds, "and this is your brother. Eric, was it? Evan, maybe? Anyway, he's dead- so not important."

"The two of you used to be a big deal in tag team wrestling. You even held the tag team championships long, long ago when, ya know, what's-his-name wasn't unalive. And bravo for that, it's not an easy thing to do. But I don't want to get your brain off track here."

"So Earl croaks. Verona feels sad for you. Awe." She mockingly wipes a fake tear from her eye. "But you get a pity contract. Probably even pays a little better than those legends' deals they hand out. Ya'know, the ones where they parade some old, washed up has been out for an extra fifteen minutes here and there."

"Now Stephen," she says, motioning to her fiance, a la Vanna White, "wanted to face some former World Tag Team Champions with Alexandra. Which, small problem- there aren't many that still go here, unless Dean and Warren got a lot of couple's therapy in a week's time."

"Enter you, Frank."

"Now we understand you can't just dig up a partner. That's a felony, after all. Sooo, fair being fair, we said to Randon: make it Stephen Terrella versus Frank Black, one half of a former championship team versus one half of a former championship team. The match sells itself! So with a little bit of persuasion, here we are!"

Portia glances back at Stephen, letting him know to: "Tell him where here is, baby."

Terrella remains standing as firm as an oak tree, feet planted shoulder width apart. "The place where you throw every last thing you fucking got at me, Black– and you realize that shit ain't going to be enough. 'Cuz when I look across that ring, I ain't going to see Frank Black. I don't give a damn about Frank Black. I'm going to see Wraith. I'm going to see Angel Blake. Yeah, you ain't them. Don't mean I ain't going to beat on you all the same."

"'Cuz for the past week, the only sound I hear in my head is the ring announcer saying: aaaannndd stillllll…!"

"For a week the only motherfucking image I keep seeing in my mind is Sanguis Immortalis delivering a pair of Genocide Kicks to my girl, and I'm fucking pissed off about it!"

"They're going to pay for that in both blood and gold! But Frank, they ain't coming to Odyssey– your ass is! And I'm going to annihilate you, bitch!"

"When you're sitting in a wheelchair, yanking on some cow's tit -whatever the hell it is you do- I just want you to remember who you need to blame for that. Might be my hands that do it, but Angel and Wraith are the ones you can thank for your future fucking suffering."

Portia chimes in, "Oh, and Brandy… make sure you watch closely as well. You're either with us or against us, and there will be no saving anyone that stands in our way."

< End footage. >