Post by “The Better Man” Warren Kidd on Oct 27, 2023 15:47:30 GMT
For Warren Harper, a cold day in Hell had arrived just in time for Halloween. Everything hurt - every muscle, every joint staged a loud formal protest not only against the Canadian climate but also the notion of wrestling the Russian Lion, Tytus Rost in a few days time. His thirty minute showcase against the young hungry cub, TJ Alexander had taken more out of Warren than he would ever publicly admit.
Since his return, Warren had grown a little too accustomed to the lighter work schedule that he had negotiated hard for, unashamedly evoking the name of his legendary father to add more benefits to his contract than he had earned. IWF still owed him big time for Spike’s untimely death after all, especially if they expected him not to take his generational talent elsewhere. Jess Fowler had called him with a new deal once he was cleared, not the other way around, after all.
His rematch with TJ on Tuesday night had impressed management enough that he was rudely awoken by a call from Eddie D on Wednesday morning informing him that his brief international stop had been extended to now include the Halloween Hell edition of Odyssey, a show he didn’t ordinarily have to work because he was better than the secondary show and someone of his name value surely only ever needed to work the flagship broadcast.
Eddie explained that whilst this was typically true, it was a special show with a PPV level payday attached, and it was that monetary incentive that sweetened the deal enough for Warren to push through the pain and agree to work the show. With the agreement sealed, Eddie informed him of who he would be working with. Warren went pale, felt tricked, he really should have asked about his opponent before taking the big money deal.
It was not a mistake he intended to make again, but for right now, he was stuck with the notion of facing Tytus with little time or resources at his disposal. He spent much of Wednesday considering his options, and on Thursday morning he hit upon a most unorthodox strategy and called in the most unlikely favour of his entire life.
It was very late Friday evening when Warren pulled up in his rental car to an unfamiliar gym complex and met up with a tall, bald, muscular man with a scruffy ginger goatee who introduced himself as Billy, the owner of this secluded little gem apparently.
“Kane, I presume?” Billy flashed a yellow tinged smile as Warren nodded. “He’s expecting you. Follow me please.”
Warren felt a growing sense of unease, not only at using an identity that still didn’t fit him as comfortably as he needed it to, but also at just how deeply into the bowels of the complex he was being led. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have kept Shea in the dark about all of this. Nobody else knew he was here, if he disappeared without a trace suddenly.
He could have swallowed his pride and trained with Dean who was booked on the same show, maybe used the opportunity to repair his fractured marriage, but he knew Dean would never push him as far as he needed to not only survive a match with a true beast like Tytus Rost but to walk out with the win ultimately. Dean had been much too thoroughly domesticated, largely thanks to Warren’s efforts.
Thankfully Warren didn’t have too long to dwell on just how deeply he regretted defanging Dean Harper as Billy took him into a large back room with an illegal cage set up.
The lights were dimmer than he expected but not dim enough to hide some of the fresher blood stains against the tired steel mesh. This was a world away from the sanitation and inviting atmosphere of the IWF Performance Centre.
A seven foot bald hulk of a man in black MMA shorts and unmarked fingerless gloves stood with his back towards Warren inside the cage.
“Daniels, the boy you were expecting is here,” Billy called.
Warren wanted to believe the blood stains were older than they were, just a part of the elaborate theatricality Warren was used to in his profession, but as he took in the grim atmosphere of his surroundings he started to second guess himself.
In his desperation and fear had he wandered too far into an unfamiliar world? Did he really need to come here to beat a man like Tytus Rost?
“Leave us.” Daniels’ raspy voice cut through Warren’s doubt and apprehension quickly, telling the tale of a lifetime spent smoking.
“Try not to make too much of a mess,” Billy said as he took his leave. It was unclear if he was advising Warren or the man Warren had come here to see.
The door closed leaving Warren alone with the hardened Aussie ex con, one of his father’s most respected challenges and a man who had beaten the tar out of Warren before to take an Invictus Championship that wasn’t being held hostage by an overhyped Indy darling.
Cyrus slowly turned to face Warren with a smirk.
“Ya actually came, ya must be desperate,” Cyrus observed.
“Not desperate so much as knowing I can’t afford to embarrass myself, not when my career is finally on an upswing again,” Warren said earnestly. “You’re exactly the kind of man I need to help me prepare for the Russian, similar moveset, attitude and power, things I either lack or am not prepared to deal with.”
Cyrus gestured with a hand for Warren to enter the cage. Warren took a moment to remove his leather jacket and now stood in his wrestling gear. He entered the cage slowly. Cyrus moved around to quickly shut it behind him.
There was no escape now, Warren was committed to this.
“This ain’t the PC, ya know that right?”
“Yeah, well Tytus ain’t gonna be a match, it’s going to be a fight, and that I understand is a particular talent of yours,” Warren said. “I know it’s short notice but I need you to prepare me for the first real fight I’ve faced since my return.”
“Oh, don’t worry Kane, I’ll make sure you get what ya paid for.”
Cyrus stepped forward and clocked Warren with a stiff shot to the gut he wasn’t prepared for. Warren doubled over, gasping the wind knocked right out of him. Of all the ways Warren had used his late father’s inheritance, this was one of the most painful but an expenditure Warren knew Spike would have approved of as Warren was doing it to benefit his wrestling career.
Cyrus quickly followed up with a takedown against the cage wall and a ground and pound, one of Tytus’ most devastating offensive techniques. If he could take this, he could take anything Rost threw at him or at least that was the working theory.
Cyrus bust Warren open with ruthless efficiency, and Warren’s blood soon covered his face and the mat. Warren endured one of the worst beatings of his life with almost no offense. Tytus would maul him just like he had TJ, Warren just had to take it long enough for the man who wrestled bears for recreation to tire himself out.
If there’s one thing John Kidd had taught Warren a little too well, it was how to take one hell of a beating. Warren flashed back to several painful times in his life when he had taken all the slaps, fists and kicks meant for his mother. The only way he knew how to protect her.
Occasionally it worked, but most of the time, John just beat on the two of them indiscriminately, one after the other, and it was for all those times Warren had failed to be a good son that he allowed Cyrus to give him exactly what he deserved, exactly what he had paid for, the beating of his life.
Cyrus only changed up his offense, with German suplex after German suplex for his own amusement. After two dozen of them, Cyrus scooped up a lifeless Warren and planted him with The Price Of Freedom multiple times, it was a variation of Rost’s finish that he would continue to take until he learned how to effectively slide off Cyrus’ massive shoulders and have enough energy to counter into enough Reclamations to keep the much bigger man down.
How many was that exactly?
Warren wasn’t sure, but the beatings would continue until he either found out or dropped dead in a cage just like his father before him…as a Kane, he deserved no less after all.
Warren embraced the uniquely Canadian chill of the next morning in a turtleneck and leather jacket. His wrists and hands heavily taped, his face heavily bruised and swollen, Shea iced it for him, even without knowing the full story of what exactly Warren had put himself through to end up like this.
They stood out on the balcony of their expensive Toronto suite as Warren reflected that facing Tytus wasn’t a matter of who cut the most scathing promo but rather who survived the worst beat down.
There was nothing he could possibly say that would promote the match any better than Tytus’ maulings sold themselves. Tytus wasn’t a man who dissected his opponents with words, especially now that he had left his ultimate hype man at home on the Texas farm.
Warren had family in Texas, an aunt he really should visit and reconnect with more often, he reflected. If he survived this mauling, he would try he promised himself, but it was a big if.
Tytus had all the physical advantages and a deceptive speed for a man of his stature.
Warren watched a compilation of Tytus Rost’s matches on his phone, almost to the point of obsession, looking for something, anything her could ruthlessly and shamelessly exploit in one of the very few openings he was sure Tytus would even give him.
The chinks in the rugged Russian Lion’s armour were subtle but definitely there.
The knee.
The shoulder.
Warren smiled, a plan of action forming in his mind. It wouldn’t be clean or pretty or even ethical, but this was not simply a match to win anymore, it was yet another Hell to survive and that was something Warren had been indoctrinated in a long time ago.
He reflected on a brand new appreciation for every different type of Hell that anybody had ever put him through. Everyone from John, Judas, Spike, Rowan, Eternity and most recently Cyrus.
He had survived all that shit and had come too far to truly believe a rugged old Russian bear of a man would be the end of him, especially when Tytus wasn’t even the kind of bear Warren might actually have enjoyed wrestling.
As he held Shea’s gaze for longer than he should as she held an ice pack to his cheek, he reflected on how long he had gone without sex. It was a consequence of the separation that hadn’t really hit him until now in this quiet moment where he pondered just how many regrets he would leave behind if Tytus crippled or killed him in that ring on Tuesday night.
Not telling Shea how he really felt about her had been a regret he had lived with for years. It was too late now, he’d missed that train, she saw him as nothing more than a gay best friend, and even if she didn’t, he was still married to Dean Harper.
No, he couldn’t fuck any of that up right now, his only recourse was to handle this like he would handle the beating from Rost at Halloween Hell, by being a much bigger man than anybody who knew him ever gave him credit for.
It was how he had survived most of his life, he just needed to stay the course.
Like a stubborn bastard, like a Kane.
Since his return, Warren had grown a little too accustomed to the lighter work schedule that he had negotiated hard for, unashamedly evoking the name of his legendary father to add more benefits to his contract than he had earned. IWF still owed him big time for Spike’s untimely death after all, especially if they expected him not to take his generational talent elsewhere. Jess Fowler had called him with a new deal once he was cleared, not the other way around, after all.
His rematch with TJ on Tuesday night had impressed management enough that he was rudely awoken by a call from Eddie D on Wednesday morning informing him that his brief international stop had been extended to now include the Halloween Hell edition of Odyssey, a show he didn’t ordinarily have to work because he was better than the secondary show and someone of his name value surely only ever needed to work the flagship broadcast.
Eddie explained that whilst this was typically true, it was a special show with a PPV level payday attached, and it was that monetary incentive that sweetened the deal enough for Warren to push through the pain and agree to work the show. With the agreement sealed, Eddie informed him of who he would be working with. Warren went pale, felt tricked, he really should have asked about his opponent before taking the big money deal.
It was not a mistake he intended to make again, but for right now, he was stuck with the notion of facing Tytus with little time or resources at his disposal. He spent much of Wednesday considering his options, and on Thursday morning he hit upon a most unorthodox strategy and called in the most unlikely favour of his entire life.
It was very late Friday evening when Warren pulled up in his rental car to an unfamiliar gym complex and met up with a tall, bald, muscular man with a scruffy ginger goatee who introduced himself as Billy, the owner of this secluded little gem apparently.
“Kane, I presume?” Billy flashed a yellow tinged smile as Warren nodded. “He’s expecting you. Follow me please.”
Warren felt a growing sense of unease, not only at using an identity that still didn’t fit him as comfortably as he needed it to, but also at just how deeply into the bowels of the complex he was being led. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have kept Shea in the dark about all of this. Nobody else knew he was here, if he disappeared without a trace suddenly.
He could have swallowed his pride and trained with Dean who was booked on the same show, maybe used the opportunity to repair his fractured marriage, but he knew Dean would never push him as far as he needed to not only survive a match with a true beast like Tytus Rost but to walk out with the win ultimately. Dean had been much too thoroughly domesticated, largely thanks to Warren’s efforts.
Thankfully Warren didn’t have too long to dwell on just how deeply he regretted defanging Dean Harper as Billy took him into a large back room with an illegal cage set up.
The lights were dimmer than he expected but not dim enough to hide some of the fresher blood stains against the tired steel mesh. This was a world away from the sanitation and inviting atmosphere of the IWF Performance Centre.
A seven foot bald hulk of a man in black MMA shorts and unmarked fingerless gloves stood with his back towards Warren inside the cage.
“Daniels, the boy you were expecting is here,” Billy called.
Warren wanted to believe the blood stains were older than they were, just a part of the elaborate theatricality Warren was used to in his profession, but as he took in the grim atmosphere of his surroundings he started to second guess himself.
In his desperation and fear had he wandered too far into an unfamiliar world? Did he really need to come here to beat a man like Tytus Rost?
“Leave us.” Daniels’ raspy voice cut through Warren’s doubt and apprehension quickly, telling the tale of a lifetime spent smoking.
“Try not to make too much of a mess,” Billy said as he took his leave. It was unclear if he was advising Warren or the man Warren had come here to see.
The door closed leaving Warren alone with the hardened Aussie ex con, one of his father’s most respected challenges and a man who had beaten the tar out of Warren before to take an Invictus Championship that wasn’t being held hostage by an overhyped Indy darling.
Cyrus slowly turned to face Warren with a smirk.
“Ya actually came, ya must be desperate,” Cyrus observed.
“Not desperate so much as knowing I can’t afford to embarrass myself, not when my career is finally on an upswing again,” Warren said earnestly. “You’re exactly the kind of man I need to help me prepare for the Russian, similar moveset, attitude and power, things I either lack or am not prepared to deal with.”
Cyrus gestured with a hand for Warren to enter the cage. Warren took a moment to remove his leather jacket and now stood in his wrestling gear. He entered the cage slowly. Cyrus moved around to quickly shut it behind him.
There was no escape now, Warren was committed to this.
“This ain’t the PC, ya know that right?”
“Yeah, well Tytus ain’t gonna be a match, it’s going to be a fight, and that I understand is a particular talent of yours,” Warren said. “I know it’s short notice but I need you to prepare me for the first real fight I’ve faced since my return.”
“Oh, don’t worry Kane, I’ll make sure you get what ya paid for.”
Cyrus stepped forward and clocked Warren with a stiff shot to the gut he wasn’t prepared for. Warren doubled over, gasping the wind knocked right out of him. Of all the ways Warren had used his late father’s inheritance, this was one of the most painful but an expenditure Warren knew Spike would have approved of as Warren was doing it to benefit his wrestling career.
Cyrus quickly followed up with a takedown against the cage wall and a ground and pound, one of Tytus’ most devastating offensive techniques. If he could take this, he could take anything Rost threw at him or at least that was the working theory.
Cyrus bust Warren open with ruthless efficiency, and Warren’s blood soon covered his face and the mat. Warren endured one of the worst beatings of his life with almost no offense. Tytus would maul him just like he had TJ, Warren just had to take it long enough for the man who wrestled bears for recreation to tire himself out.
If there’s one thing John Kidd had taught Warren a little too well, it was how to take one hell of a beating. Warren flashed back to several painful times in his life when he had taken all the slaps, fists and kicks meant for his mother. The only way he knew how to protect her.
Occasionally it worked, but most of the time, John just beat on the two of them indiscriminately, one after the other, and it was for all those times Warren had failed to be a good son that he allowed Cyrus to give him exactly what he deserved, exactly what he had paid for, the beating of his life.
Cyrus only changed up his offense, with German suplex after German suplex for his own amusement. After two dozen of them, Cyrus scooped up a lifeless Warren and planted him with The Price Of Freedom multiple times, it was a variation of Rost’s finish that he would continue to take until he learned how to effectively slide off Cyrus’ massive shoulders and have enough energy to counter into enough Reclamations to keep the much bigger man down.
How many was that exactly?
Warren wasn’t sure, but the beatings would continue until he either found out or dropped dead in a cage just like his father before him…as a Kane, he deserved no less after all.
~~~
Warren embraced the uniquely Canadian chill of the next morning in a turtleneck and leather jacket. His wrists and hands heavily taped, his face heavily bruised and swollen, Shea iced it for him, even without knowing the full story of what exactly Warren had put himself through to end up like this.
They stood out on the balcony of their expensive Toronto suite as Warren reflected that facing Tytus wasn’t a matter of who cut the most scathing promo but rather who survived the worst beat down.
There was nothing he could possibly say that would promote the match any better than Tytus’ maulings sold themselves. Tytus wasn’t a man who dissected his opponents with words, especially now that he had left his ultimate hype man at home on the Texas farm.
Warren had family in Texas, an aunt he really should visit and reconnect with more often, he reflected. If he survived this mauling, he would try he promised himself, but it was a big if.
Tytus had all the physical advantages and a deceptive speed for a man of his stature.
Warren watched a compilation of Tytus Rost’s matches on his phone, almost to the point of obsession, looking for something, anything her could ruthlessly and shamelessly exploit in one of the very few openings he was sure Tytus would even give him.
The chinks in the rugged Russian Lion’s armour were subtle but definitely there.
The knee.
The shoulder.
Warren smiled, a plan of action forming in his mind. It wouldn’t be clean or pretty or even ethical, but this was not simply a match to win anymore, it was yet another Hell to survive and that was something Warren had been indoctrinated in a long time ago.
He reflected on a brand new appreciation for every different type of Hell that anybody had ever put him through. Everyone from John, Judas, Spike, Rowan, Eternity and most recently Cyrus.
He had survived all that shit and had come too far to truly believe a rugged old Russian bear of a man would be the end of him, especially when Tytus wasn’t even the kind of bear Warren might actually have enjoyed wrestling.
As he held Shea’s gaze for longer than he should as she held an ice pack to his cheek, he reflected on how long he had gone without sex. It was a consequence of the separation that hadn’t really hit him until now in this quiet moment where he pondered just how many regrets he would leave behind if Tytus crippled or killed him in that ring on Tuesday night.
Not telling Shea how he really felt about her had been a regret he had lived with for years. It was too late now, he’d missed that train, she saw him as nothing more than a gay best friend, and even if she didn’t, he was still married to Dean Harper.
No, he couldn’t fuck any of that up right now, his only recourse was to handle this like he would handle the beating from Rost at Halloween Hell, by being a much bigger man than anybody who knew him ever gave him credit for.
It was how he had survived most of his life, he just needed to stay the course.
Like a stubborn bastard, like a Kane.
Well howdy there pardner.