Post by “The Better Man” Warren Kidd on Nov 9, 2023 22:17:12 GMT
“You have arrived at your destination.”
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Warren Harper sighed.
He took in the garish yellow neon signage of the ‘discreet little bar’ Cyrus Daniels had invited him to. Now, the ‘dress smart’ part of Cyrus’ text made much more sense. Though he had never set foot inside one unaccompanied before, these distinctly adult bars always had some kind of dress code. A part of Warren suddenly missed and longed for his anchor in these situations - Dean. His husband handled himself much better in this kind of environment than Warren ever had.
Warren had spent much of his life sheltered and protected for his own good. There wasn’t much that ever united his mother and step-father, but their insistence that he be a good boy and stay away from ‘the Devil’s whorehouses’ had been absolute and non-negotiable. He was thirteen when he finally learned why this particular ‘law’ mattered so much to both of them.
Warren shook his head, sighed deeply as he nudged the hesitant Mazda 3 rental along. He needed a quiet and comfortably distant spot to tuck himself away, somewhere that would save him the embarrassment of becoming so flushed that his face matched the deep red finish of the sedan’s metallic paint job. He drove slowly around to the back of the small strip club.
This is what he got for requesting a little more time to get the debt he owed together. Warren had been forced to reschedule their original meeting in Halifax after the importance of preparing for the rest of his matches on this Canadian Tour had become readily apparent. Taking more time to ensure that he was truly ready for the single most important triple threat of his career last week had been worth it, even if forces beyond his control had changed the match to another singles encounter with Gregor Winter at the last minute.
Warren parked behind the club and drummed his thumb nervously on the steering wheel as he waited for any sign of Cyrus Daniels to show. The big Aussie bastard wouldn’t be caught dead in anything other than a big black truck, Warren knew and he hadn’t seen one around here yet. Warren quietly accepted that meeting the big man on his own terms for this exchange meant he was no longer in control of the situation, as he would have been if he had just made the original meeting in Halifax as agreed.
Life always seemed to drag Warren exactly into situations and places he never asked for. Of course Cyrus enjoyed and probably frequented these establishments, but Warren strived to honour his mother’s wishes and stay out of the kind of trouble that had always found her when she had been working. Trouble like John Kidd, his fucking step-father.
Despite many alcohol-fuelled declarations of love and promises to take his self-professed biggest fan to America with him on the night the man Warren would learn several years later to be Spike Kane, found out he had scored his first lucrative major wrestling contract in the US, the selfish Irish prick ended up whispering just enough sweet nothings into Anne’s ear to get his leg over for the night and was nowhere to be seen the next morning.
Anne’s parents had said it was her own damn fault for being so stupid and wanted nothing to do with their only daughter, especially after she had ruined their lives with the unplanned pregnancy. Desperate, alone and early enough along that her baby bump hadn’t yet started to make little Warren noticeable, Anne quickly discovered her body was her greatest asset to make a load of money and quickly. A single night as an exotic dancer easily covered a couple months of food and rent, even at exorbitant London prices.
As financially lucrative a move as stripping had proven in the short term, Anne knew that the good times wouldn’t last. There would be less and less demand as she steadily gained more and more weight, and besides that putting on the shows she used to started to become a wild impracticality the more Warren started to show himself to her in the mirror.
John Kidd was a great boss. She had been nervous about walking into his office at the back of the club she had been working for a few months now and telling him that one of his most popular attractions needed time off to focus on raising Warren alone. He had already done so much for her, took less of his cut from her out of respect for her situation - she literally owed him her life. He had saved her and she was grateful.
Grateful enough to close the door behind her. Grateful enough to get on her knees. Grateful enough to open her mouth. Grateful enough to receive not only let him seed the back of her throat but also to accept him as her own personal God.
John was everything she missed about Michael. The tattoos, the attractive build, the rebellious attitude. The absolute confidence and self-belief. It had all so easily seduced her. The only thing that made sense as their open secret of a love affair bloomed was to raise Warren as a real man’s son, as John Kidd’s baby boy. Anne never intended for Warren to know the truth. John married her quickly, proposed to her in the delivery ward in fact. Michael Kane soon became a bitter memory, John Kidd was her real true love.
A real father, worthy of his name on Warren’s birth certificate.
The chime of an unknown number interrupted Warren’s silent reflective tears, bringing him out of his mother’s storied past into his unwelcome present. Warren answered expecting the raspy voice of Daniels but instead he was greeted by a sweet unfamiliar female voice.
“Mr Warren Harper?”
“Speaking.”
“My name’s Florence Whittaker. Your husband Dean hired me to take care of your son.”
“Damien? Is there something wrong? Is he sick?”
“He’s fine Mr Harper, I know your husband said not to call you unless absolutely necessary, but the boy says he misses you terribly and says he can’t sleep without talking to you…”
“Put him on,” Warren sighed, running a hand through his hair in quiet exasperation.
“Dad?”
“Hey buddy, what’s up?” Warren hated this. He never knew what to say.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“What for, bud?”
“For being weird. For making you leave. If you come back, I promise I’ll be better. I miss you. I love you. Please come home.”
A sudden sharp knuckle tap on the driver’s side window prevented Warren from fully processing Damien’s desperate bargaining to get his father’s love back. Warren would have jumped out of his seat had he not been still firmly belted in.
Cyrus grinned at him.
”It’s not your fault, kiddo. Listen, I can’t talk right now. It’s late and you should get to bed. We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Promise?”
Warren quickly withdrew the phone from his ear and ended the call abruptly, embarrassed to have almost been caught having an emotional moment with Damien.
Cyrus would have never respected him, and right now that was the most important thing in the world. Especially with another Tytus Rost mauling in his immediate future. He needed Cyrus again. He wouldn’t survive without him.
Warren rolled down the window to address the big bastard.
“Jesus Cy, you scared the bejesus outta me!”
“I got tired of waiting for you inside,” Cyrus said, opening Warren’s door and inviting him to step outside of the sedan that was much too small for the two of them. “It’s okay you know, they don’t bite unless you pay them for it.”
“Ha, funny.” Warren left his phone on the passenger seat, stepping out into the uniquely Canadian chill to meet Cyrus on his own terms.
“Speaking of payment,`” Cyrus took a moment to light up his cigarette, “You better have mine.”
“Of course, a deal’s a deal,” Warren opened the back of the five seater and retrieved a black duffel bag. He handed it quickly to Cyrus. “It’s all there.”
“It better be,” Cyrus let the cigarette hang out in his mouth as he unzipped to ensure the piles of green they had agreed on were there. Satisfied, he zipped the bag back up and slung it over his shoulder. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr Kane.”
Cyrus turned to leave. That could have been the end of their little bargain, but Warren was scheduled to face Tytus again much sooner than he had anticipated or been prepared for. Warren realised quickly that Cyrus and his method for dealing with imposing physical threats was indispensable. He could not let such a valuable resource go.
“I know what we agreed,” Warren said, reaching for him, “But I have to face the Russian again in a few days, so I was wondering if you’d consider a more thorough training exercise.”
“An altered deal means an altered price,” Cyrus said.
“I can afford it,” Warren said confidently. “Name your price.”
“Not here,” Cyrus insisted. “We should discuss this like civilised men, over drinks. Inside.”
Warren swallowed, a flicker of apprehension coloured his face. He didn’t typically drink, just like he didn’t typically visit titty bars. And yet, here he was, way out of his comfort zone. He had come too far to turn back now. He wasn’t strong enough to do this all on his own, just like his mother hadn’t been.
He needed a real man to guide him, to care for him, to protect him.
He couldn’t be weak, he needed Cyrus to respect him.
“Oh, what the hell,” Warren smiled. “You only live once, right?”
“Right,” Cyrus grinned, throwing a big strong arm around Warren. “Your old man would be proud.”
Warren hoped more than anything that was true. He had wished for nothing more than for his father to be proud of anything Warren did. Anything. Just one thing. He didn’t ask for too much, did he? He deserved his father’s love, he would earn it, even from beyond the grave.
Cyrus guided the young Kane around to the front of the club, took a moment to deposit the bag into the back of his own rented SUV, before taking Warren into the heart of one of Quebec’s best kept secrets.
Warren’s journey to becoming a man finally worthy of a father’s love began here.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Warren Harper sighed.
He took in the garish yellow neon signage of the ‘discreet little bar’ Cyrus Daniels had invited him to. Now, the ‘dress smart’ part of Cyrus’ text made much more sense. Though he had never set foot inside one unaccompanied before, these distinctly adult bars always had some kind of dress code. A part of Warren suddenly missed and longed for his anchor in these situations - Dean. His husband handled himself much better in this kind of environment than Warren ever had.
Warren had spent much of his life sheltered and protected for his own good. There wasn’t much that ever united his mother and step-father, but their insistence that he be a good boy and stay away from ‘the Devil’s whorehouses’ had been absolute and non-negotiable. He was thirteen when he finally learned why this particular ‘law’ mattered so much to both of them.
Warren shook his head, sighed deeply as he nudged the hesitant Mazda 3 rental along. He needed a quiet and comfortably distant spot to tuck himself away, somewhere that would save him the embarrassment of becoming so flushed that his face matched the deep red finish of the sedan’s metallic paint job. He drove slowly around to the back of the small strip club.
This is what he got for requesting a little more time to get the debt he owed together. Warren had been forced to reschedule their original meeting in Halifax after the importance of preparing for the rest of his matches on this Canadian Tour had become readily apparent. Taking more time to ensure that he was truly ready for the single most important triple threat of his career last week had been worth it, even if forces beyond his control had changed the match to another singles encounter with Gregor Winter at the last minute.
Warren parked behind the club and drummed his thumb nervously on the steering wheel as he waited for any sign of Cyrus Daniels to show. The big Aussie bastard wouldn’t be caught dead in anything other than a big black truck, Warren knew and he hadn’t seen one around here yet. Warren quietly accepted that meeting the big man on his own terms for this exchange meant he was no longer in control of the situation, as he would have been if he had just made the original meeting in Halifax as agreed.
Life always seemed to drag Warren exactly into situations and places he never asked for. Of course Cyrus enjoyed and probably frequented these establishments, but Warren strived to honour his mother’s wishes and stay out of the kind of trouble that had always found her when she had been working. Trouble like John Kidd, his fucking step-father.
Despite many alcohol-fuelled declarations of love and promises to take his self-professed biggest fan to America with him on the night the man Warren would learn several years later to be Spike Kane, found out he had scored his first lucrative major wrestling contract in the US, the selfish Irish prick ended up whispering just enough sweet nothings into Anne’s ear to get his leg over for the night and was nowhere to be seen the next morning.
Anne’s parents had said it was her own damn fault for being so stupid and wanted nothing to do with their only daughter, especially after she had ruined their lives with the unplanned pregnancy. Desperate, alone and early enough along that her baby bump hadn’t yet started to make little Warren noticeable, Anne quickly discovered her body was her greatest asset to make a load of money and quickly. A single night as an exotic dancer easily covered a couple months of food and rent, even at exorbitant London prices.
As financially lucrative a move as stripping had proven in the short term, Anne knew that the good times wouldn’t last. There would be less and less demand as she steadily gained more and more weight, and besides that putting on the shows she used to started to become a wild impracticality the more Warren started to show himself to her in the mirror.
John Kidd was a great boss. She had been nervous about walking into his office at the back of the club she had been working for a few months now and telling him that one of his most popular attractions needed time off to focus on raising Warren alone. He had already done so much for her, took less of his cut from her out of respect for her situation - she literally owed him her life. He had saved her and she was grateful.
Grateful enough to close the door behind her. Grateful enough to get on her knees. Grateful enough to open her mouth. Grateful enough to receive not only let him seed the back of her throat but also to accept him as her own personal God.
John was everything she missed about Michael. The tattoos, the attractive build, the rebellious attitude. The absolute confidence and self-belief. It had all so easily seduced her. The only thing that made sense as their open secret of a love affair bloomed was to raise Warren as a real man’s son, as John Kidd’s baby boy. Anne never intended for Warren to know the truth. John married her quickly, proposed to her in the delivery ward in fact. Michael Kane soon became a bitter memory, John Kidd was her real true love.
A real father, worthy of his name on Warren’s birth certificate.
The chime of an unknown number interrupted Warren’s silent reflective tears, bringing him out of his mother’s storied past into his unwelcome present. Warren answered expecting the raspy voice of Daniels but instead he was greeted by a sweet unfamiliar female voice.
“Mr Warren Harper?”
“Speaking.”
“My name’s Florence Whittaker. Your husband Dean hired me to take care of your son.”
“Damien? Is there something wrong? Is he sick?”
“He’s fine Mr Harper, I know your husband said not to call you unless absolutely necessary, but the boy says he misses you terribly and says he can’t sleep without talking to you…”
“Put him on,” Warren sighed, running a hand through his hair in quiet exasperation.
“Dad?”
“Hey buddy, what’s up?” Warren hated this. He never knew what to say.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“What for, bud?”
“For being weird. For making you leave. If you come back, I promise I’ll be better. I miss you. I love you. Please come home.”
A sudden sharp knuckle tap on the driver’s side window prevented Warren from fully processing Damien’s desperate bargaining to get his father’s love back. Warren would have jumped out of his seat had he not been still firmly belted in.
Cyrus grinned at him.
”It’s not your fault, kiddo. Listen, I can’t talk right now. It’s late and you should get to bed. We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Promise?”
Warren quickly withdrew the phone from his ear and ended the call abruptly, embarrassed to have almost been caught having an emotional moment with Damien.
Cyrus would have never respected him, and right now that was the most important thing in the world. Especially with another Tytus Rost mauling in his immediate future. He needed Cyrus again. He wouldn’t survive without him.
Warren rolled down the window to address the big bastard.
“Jesus Cy, you scared the bejesus outta me!”
“I got tired of waiting for you inside,” Cyrus said, opening Warren’s door and inviting him to step outside of the sedan that was much too small for the two of them. “It’s okay you know, they don’t bite unless you pay them for it.”
“Ha, funny.” Warren left his phone on the passenger seat, stepping out into the uniquely Canadian chill to meet Cyrus on his own terms.
“Speaking of payment,`” Cyrus took a moment to light up his cigarette, “You better have mine.”
“Of course, a deal’s a deal,” Warren opened the back of the five seater and retrieved a black duffel bag. He handed it quickly to Cyrus. “It’s all there.”
“It better be,” Cyrus let the cigarette hang out in his mouth as he unzipped to ensure the piles of green they had agreed on were there. Satisfied, he zipped the bag back up and slung it over his shoulder. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr Kane.”
Cyrus turned to leave. That could have been the end of their little bargain, but Warren was scheduled to face Tytus again much sooner than he had anticipated or been prepared for. Warren realised quickly that Cyrus and his method for dealing with imposing physical threats was indispensable. He could not let such a valuable resource go.
“I know what we agreed,” Warren said, reaching for him, “But I have to face the Russian again in a few days, so I was wondering if you’d consider a more thorough training exercise.”
“An altered deal means an altered price,” Cyrus said.
“I can afford it,” Warren said confidently. “Name your price.”
“Not here,” Cyrus insisted. “We should discuss this like civilised men, over drinks. Inside.”
Warren swallowed, a flicker of apprehension coloured his face. He didn’t typically drink, just like he didn’t typically visit titty bars. And yet, here he was, way out of his comfort zone. He had come too far to turn back now. He wasn’t strong enough to do this all on his own, just like his mother hadn’t been.
He needed a real man to guide him, to care for him, to protect him.
He couldn’t be weak, he needed Cyrus to respect him.
“Oh, what the hell,” Warren smiled. “You only live once, right?”
“Right,” Cyrus grinned, throwing a big strong arm around Warren. “Your old man would be proud.”
Warren hoped more than anything that was true. He had wished for nothing more than for his father to be proud of anything Warren did. Anything. Just one thing. He didn’t ask for too much, did he? He deserved his father’s love, he would earn it, even from beyond the grave.
Cyrus guided the young Kane around to the front of the club, took a moment to deposit the bag into the back of his own rented SUV, before taking Warren into the heart of one of Quebec’s best kept secrets.
Warren’s journey to becoming a man finally worthy of a father’s love began here.
~~~
A single yellow spotlight from above once again illuminated Warren Harper as he sat once more backwards on a steel chair in a nice white shirt and black pants, the top two buttons undone and of course his trademark black leather jacket completed the package.
Russian subtitles occupied the lower third of the screen for the audience at home, as Warren wanted to ensure that Tytus Rost heard every single word of his fighting talk loud and clear. Warren needed his passion and dedication and iron will to be recognised and respected.
Tytus Rost.
I knew this day would come again, I just did not know how soon.
In the professional wrestling world, men like us seldom ever wage the kind of war we had two weeks ago at Halloween Hell just once. There is just too much easy promotional money on the table not to give the IWF fans another potential Tytus Rost mauling on the final stop of our little Canadian tour for the year.
I never did get to thank you for giving me a match truly worthy of my debut on Odyssey. You made me earn my place as a special attraction on that show, and now we get to dance one more time for the blood thirsty Canucks of Montreal, Quebec.
So thank you, Tytus.
Thank you for giving me one of the most savage beatings I know you are more than capable of and in so doing giving me the perfect opportunity to prove why my single greatest strength in life is and always has been my unparalleled resiliency in the face of monumental physical adversity.
You see, long before my father, Spike Kane, became the legendary scourge everybody and their mother apparently despised in this industry, he cut his teeth as a spot monkey against guys like you, Tytus.
He carved a long and bloody legacy out of beating and in most cases utterly humiliating the bitter, jaded, and grizzled veterans who saw him as nothing more than a glorified stuntman, a hardcore spot monkey. They all saw him as a cocky little shit who wasn’t worthy of spit-shining the working boots of the true veterans of our fucked up little sport.
It took him far longer to not only be acknowledged, but truly accepted by his peers at the time. Even I, his first born son, have only just begun to understand the kind of hardships he tried to prepare me for in his own twisted way. I regret deeply not taking his lessons or his training to heart because in my youthful arrogance I always felt I knew better.
There was nothing the bitter old man could ever teach me about this business in the 21st century I thought. Times had changed and the business had evolved far beyond his heyday. I convinced myself that the wrestling landscape of 1996 bore absolutely no relevance to the kind of challenges I face as a competitor today.
But as I sit here now, today, still not fully recovered from the last beating you gave me and preparing as best I can for your next one Tytus, I can’t help but recognise the pattern that this business has always been beholden to.
A certain mould of professional wrestler that even someone as big and bad and purpose built for success in this company as The Russian Lion cannot ever hope to truly break or ever completely transcend. A flaw inherent even in the most perfect physical wrestling juggernaut such as yourself, Tytus. A commonality that binds us far tighter than it will ever divide us, my friend.
The need for universal adoration.
The roar of the crowd.
Even with the uncompromising love of six children and the unconditional dotage of a beautiful wife, something is missing in your life, isn’t it, Rost? You can’t quite put your finger on it, but you keep hoping, as I and many many others who choose this line of work also do, that somehow the chants of thousands of strangers will fill the inescapable void that only seems to exist in the hearts and minds of professional wrestlers.
You can lie and convince yourself that you’re really still only doing this to provide for your family, and because they love you as much as they do they might even believe you, but I know the truth. I know that deep down your motivations for fighting as long and as hard as you do are the very same ones that ended up killing my father in that ring five years ago.
You crave validation and acceptance and legendary status in this business just as much as we all do, and that makes you no different to any other old timer that has hung around this business for too long whilst utterly neglecting his kids and those who love him back home.
You are a mere shadow of everything I hate about Spike Kane, Tytus, but through you I finally understand why he chose an early grave over the responsibility of raising me right.
He, like you, was a product of a broken system.
He, like you, was fostered by an exploitative industry.
I may never be able to forgive Spike Kane for abandoning my mother and I to chase the fleeting highs of this business, but thanks to my war with you Tytus, I finally understand my true purpose.
I finally understand the nature of my burden, and I finally realise that my father would have never failed me if this fucking business hadn’t failed him first. I don’t have to forgive Michael Patrick Kane to acknowledge that it wasn’t all his fault that professional wrestling so utterly consumed and burned him out.
He gave this industry his very last breath, and now I see you Rost hobbling that very same path, bad knee and all. You and I both know you literally cannot shoulder the responsibility of representing this company at the most elite level. You are a special attraction, the full time responsibility of changing the culture and custom of this business is much too great for you, even if you won’t admit it.
Stay true to your nature Tytus, and beat the shit out of me, again.
And I will stay true to mine, and endure your very best, again.
Because I understand now that that is exactly what needs to happen this week for the wheels of change to truly be set in motion, not just for IWF but the entire professional wrestling industry. I need to sacrifice myself once more to truly prove myself worthy of my glorious purpose.
My destiny as World Champion has never been more clear to me.
I need to lead this industry into a brighter tomorrow.
I need to have the power to institute a true cultural shift around here.
As World Champion, my voice will finally be heard and I give you my word Tytus that I will make sure that men such as yourself, distinguished legends of this sport are never relied upon so heavily that you feel obligated to still be here doing this when it is obvious to everyone you are well past your prime.
Beat me up if you must Tytus, I won’t begrudge you another main event paycheque.
But the honour of challenging Dean Blake-Harper is mine alone.
The next storied chapter of the Blake-Kane rivalry.
The only form of therapy any bloody member of my family has ever truly embraced.
Well howdy there pardner.