Post by “The Better Man” Warren Kidd on Feb 3, 2024 8:17:17 GMT
This wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last that Warren Harper sat still. Almost frozen in place, back pressed up against the wall, and a relentless, unstoppable clock ticking above his head. Warren was acutely aware and slightly bemused by just how much this small, rather unremarkable and unspeakably plain eggshell blue waiting area bothered him.
His back had always been up against a wall, and for as long as he had been alive, an inescapable clock had always been ticking above his head. Even the indistinct, inane chatter going on around him and the ringing of some unanswered telephone somewhere in his periphery, irrationally irritated and deeply unsettled him. He wasn’t just waiting outside Dr Riley Griffiths’ office anymore. The longer he sat here, and the more he took in the clinical sterility of IWF’s Mental Health and Psychiatric Services Unit, he realised that everything began to blur together.
He no longer sat here of his own volition. He no longer sought help. He was in fact held hostage, forced to confront every internal conflict and feel every negative emotion that he more often than not preferred to bury down deep within himself. Being left alone, at the mercy of the voice in his head never ended well.
For goodness sake, somebody answer the fucking phone, Warren thought, how hard was it to do your damn job and answer somebody’s call for help?
Warren clenched his jaw, and then his fist. He shuffled uncomfortably in his finely upholstered chair and fought the urge to march up to the help desk and rip the phone cord out of the wall. Through narrowed eyes and with a locked jaw, Warren watched a handsome young man finally saunter over to the phone and answer it. The lackadaisical idiot was obviously some new underpaid intern, Warren decided, someone he’d never seen around here in any of his other company mandated mental health check appointments.
However, today was not one of those appointments. He had booked this one himself, mostly because he had nobody else he could talk to who would listen to him without passing judgment on his every action or inaction. He couldn’t talk to Dean this close to Metamorphosis. He couldn’t burden Vivienne with his shit now that she was finally so happy, and he could not distract Shea from her own quest for The Queen’s Gambit. Dr Griffiths was the most neutral option, so here he was.
Warren pushed aside the slight twinge of guilt he felt at not updating the virtual calendar he shared with Dean to reflect this appointment, despite promises that he would always be easily reachable, not for Dean’s sake, but Damien’s. Theoretically, the calendar was meant only to save them both the time and trouble of never knowing when they were free to take care of the boy. In reality, however, the convenient detachment it provided by giving them one less reason to regularly exchange messages and communicate directly had only served to widen the emotional gulf between them further.
Warren avoided updating the calendar as much as he could anyway. Not only did he not enjoy being tracked, but also there was only so many times he could log in and not let his insecurities over how much more preoccupied with other activities and other people Dean had become, particularly over the last month. Almost as if Dean was making good on his New Year’s resolution to be less withdrawn and more social.
Warren never thought Dean was serious. Dean’s lack of any kind of healthy support network was just something Warren had grown accustomed to exploiting, especially over the last year or so. There was a tremendous sense of personal security in knowing Dean was so utterly devoted to Warren and Warren alone. For so long now, Dean had had nowhere else to go, no other options, and that fact had only served to strengthen Warren’s sense of liberty without any real consequences.
Before now, Warren knew he could leave at any time, often for months at a time, and always come back, without explanation. Dean would always be there, waiting, with open arms and a warm bed. Dean never asked why or where he would go, and Warren never felt any guilt for not divulging the details of any of his private excursions. What business were they of Dean’s anyway?
Besides, Warren knew he could check their calendar at any time and find dates occupied by Tim, and he was sure Dean would not tell Warren what any of those one on one meetings were really about. That was the only vindication Warren needed.
Warren had his own educated guesses. Tim was an overly ambitious jerkoff, a divorce lawyer with a clueless dolt of a wife he’d had the great misfortune of meeting at a dinner once at Tim’s house. Warren had first been dragged there over a year ago, at Dean’s insistence. The social event was meant to assuage any doubt that Warren had that the man Dean had met at some Dads with Autistic Children Support Group really was just friendly and not at all interested in Dean sexually.
Warren had left the dinner that night less convinced than he told Dean he was. Warren’s intuition tortured him and insisted that Tim was likely married as a cover. His overly happy bint of a wife was exactly the kind of woman Warren would have selected as a beard himself, after all. But for the sake of avoiding yet another pointless argument that ended inevitably with Warren venting his frustrations about Dean not being as sexually available as he needed, Warren just lied about believing Dean about Tim’s friendship.
The intern caught Warren unconsciously fixated on him, who smiled and winked at him whilst he nodded with the phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. If only the man wasn’t so obviously busy and Warren so obviously married, he may have returned the subtle flicker of clear interest. Instead, the move finally forced Warren to break eye contact and instead focus on the blueness of the walls that so perfectly complemented the fresh redness in his cheeks.
By the time Dr Griffiths finally saw him, Warren’s throbbing migraine had become so deeply entrenched that he had to admit defeat and request that his therapist darken the room and speak softer than usual. His stomach danced with nausea even as he laid on the couch. Dr Griffiths rolled down the blinds and shut out all natural light from the room.
“Thanks Doc,” Warren said softly. “Where should I begin?”
“Wherever you feel most comfortable, Mr Harper. I’m here to listen.”
Warren didn’t have the strength to object to the use of his married name, so for at least this session he was overshadowed by his husband once more. The most typical story of his whole life. He grit his teeth and cursed some unseen Father, as was also his custom.
“I’ve started to remember some things,” Warren began. “Things that shocked me.”
“Go on.”
“I remember, Max. Specifically I remember a relationship. With her and Dean.”
“Oh, well, this certainly recontextualises your sexual fantasies about Miss Rodgers and Miss O’Hara rather significantly. Do you think it’s possible they weren’t just fantasies but more memories trying to resurface?”
“Possible, but not bloody likely. I’d never forget a slice of heaven like that Doc,” Warren said. “I’m certain of it. Besides, Dean got the threesome with Viv, not me. And Shea is far too much of a good Catholic girl to be interested in a fuck up like me.” Warren awkwardly swallowed. His head hurt too much to shake, to say nothing of his broken heart. “No. Besides, I missed my connection with Viv when I went out of my way to reunite her with Cyrus. She deserves happiness, and all the things I can’t give her. But Cyrus can, being a real man and the Alpha type she goes gaga for.”
“Well, that’s encouraging.”
“What?”
“You put somebody’s happiness above your own, demonstrating selflessness. I recall your fear that maybe you were incapable of true empathy and emotional growth. The situation with Miss Rodgers you just described clearly demonstrates your capacity for change and maturity.”
“I guess. It’s always been easier with women, in general, Doc.”
“Well, you said before that you always felt closer to the women in your family.”
“Yeah. My favourite childhood memories are about Mom and Aunt Janine.” Warren smiled. “Mom wasn’t perfect, but her heart was in the right place more often than not. Like when she brought me my pet budgie, Alan as an apology for John hitting me the first time. I loved that little blue fuck, because it’s the first time I remember Mom sharing anything special with me.” Warren fought back tears. “That was probably the first time I truly felt like her son. She was crazy about birds. Said they were God’s most precious creatures. I think she loved how free they were, just naturally soaring. Like we never could from the gilded cage John kept us both in, you know?”
“Is that why you resent your husband? Dean’s overprotective nature? Trying to keep you safe from the dangers of the world, like John always told you he was doing for you and your mother?”
“Honestly, Doc, sometimes it really feels like the only real difference between John and Dean is that Dean’s fucked up justifications for trying to wrap me up in cotton do not include trying to beat the horny and the gay out of me. Of course, that might change at Metamorphosis,” Warren laughed. “We haven’t fucked like we used to in ages. I miss when he couldn’t keep his hands off me, now it’s all excuses as to why he can’t. I’ve heard it all, everything from Damien might hear us to processing his grandmother’s sexual abuse of him with a new therapist. I’m a very physical lover, Doc, does that make me a terrible person? I find it easier to show rather than tell, and now he has limited my ability to do that. And so naturally I’m the horny fuck who just doesn’t understand his trauma. Which, you know, fine, if it really makes him feel better to paint me as the bad guy in all this, fair enough. I’ll make him the victim that he’s so damned desperate to be, but I hope he understands what he’s really asking for.”
“And what’s that?”
“Hell.”
His back had always been up against a wall, and for as long as he had been alive, an inescapable clock had always been ticking above his head. Even the indistinct, inane chatter going on around him and the ringing of some unanswered telephone somewhere in his periphery, irrationally irritated and deeply unsettled him. He wasn’t just waiting outside Dr Riley Griffiths’ office anymore. The longer he sat here, and the more he took in the clinical sterility of IWF’s Mental Health and Psychiatric Services Unit, he realised that everything began to blur together.
He no longer sat here of his own volition. He no longer sought help. He was in fact held hostage, forced to confront every internal conflict and feel every negative emotion that he more often than not preferred to bury down deep within himself. Being left alone, at the mercy of the voice in his head never ended well.
For goodness sake, somebody answer the fucking phone, Warren thought, how hard was it to do your damn job and answer somebody’s call for help?
Warren clenched his jaw, and then his fist. He shuffled uncomfortably in his finely upholstered chair and fought the urge to march up to the help desk and rip the phone cord out of the wall. Through narrowed eyes and with a locked jaw, Warren watched a handsome young man finally saunter over to the phone and answer it. The lackadaisical idiot was obviously some new underpaid intern, Warren decided, someone he’d never seen around here in any of his other company mandated mental health check appointments.
However, today was not one of those appointments. He had booked this one himself, mostly because he had nobody else he could talk to who would listen to him without passing judgment on his every action or inaction. He couldn’t talk to Dean this close to Metamorphosis. He couldn’t burden Vivienne with his shit now that she was finally so happy, and he could not distract Shea from her own quest for The Queen’s Gambit. Dr Griffiths was the most neutral option, so here he was.
Warren pushed aside the slight twinge of guilt he felt at not updating the virtual calendar he shared with Dean to reflect this appointment, despite promises that he would always be easily reachable, not for Dean’s sake, but Damien’s. Theoretically, the calendar was meant only to save them both the time and trouble of never knowing when they were free to take care of the boy. In reality, however, the convenient detachment it provided by giving them one less reason to regularly exchange messages and communicate directly had only served to widen the emotional gulf between them further.
Warren avoided updating the calendar as much as he could anyway. Not only did he not enjoy being tracked, but also there was only so many times he could log in and not let his insecurities over how much more preoccupied with other activities and other people Dean had become, particularly over the last month. Almost as if Dean was making good on his New Year’s resolution to be less withdrawn and more social.
Warren never thought Dean was serious. Dean’s lack of any kind of healthy support network was just something Warren had grown accustomed to exploiting, especially over the last year or so. There was a tremendous sense of personal security in knowing Dean was so utterly devoted to Warren and Warren alone. For so long now, Dean had had nowhere else to go, no other options, and that fact had only served to strengthen Warren’s sense of liberty without any real consequences.
Before now, Warren knew he could leave at any time, often for months at a time, and always come back, without explanation. Dean would always be there, waiting, with open arms and a warm bed. Dean never asked why or where he would go, and Warren never felt any guilt for not divulging the details of any of his private excursions. What business were they of Dean’s anyway?
Besides, Warren knew he could check their calendar at any time and find dates occupied by Tim, and he was sure Dean would not tell Warren what any of those one on one meetings were really about. That was the only vindication Warren needed.
Warren had his own educated guesses. Tim was an overly ambitious jerkoff, a divorce lawyer with a clueless dolt of a wife he’d had the great misfortune of meeting at a dinner once at Tim’s house. Warren had first been dragged there over a year ago, at Dean’s insistence. The social event was meant to assuage any doubt that Warren had that the man Dean had met at some Dads with Autistic Children Support Group really was just friendly and not at all interested in Dean sexually.
Warren had left the dinner that night less convinced than he told Dean he was. Warren’s intuition tortured him and insisted that Tim was likely married as a cover. His overly happy bint of a wife was exactly the kind of woman Warren would have selected as a beard himself, after all. But for the sake of avoiding yet another pointless argument that ended inevitably with Warren venting his frustrations about Dean not being as sexually available as he needed, Warren just lied about believing Dean about Tim’s friendship.
The intern caught Warren unconsciously fixated on him, who smiled and winked at him whilst he nodded with the phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. If only the man wasn’t so obviously busy and Warren so obviously married, he may have returned the subtle flicker of clear interest. Instead, the move finally forced Warren to break eye contact and instead focus on the blueness of the walls that so perfectly complemented the fresh redness in his cheeks.
***
Metamorphosis [a.]
Physical change of form, structure or substance, especially by supernatural means.
***
~~~
In near darkness, Warren Harper sat on the ground, cross-legged. A single yellowish spotlight from some distorted heaven way beyond the troubled young star illuminated him. It was the only source of light in the room.
Uncharacteristically, Warren wore black aviator sunglasses, alongside his typical black leather jacket, under which is an old black Steve Awesome ‘Nobody’s Favorite’ T-Shirt. He also wore black denim jeans.
A white-handled sledgehammer with a red broken heart painted on it rested across Warren’s lap. The black head of the already formidable weapon was wrapped in barbed wire.
An ill-timed migraine caused Warren to gently massage his temples. Generally, pain medication was a last resort, never a first. He grit his teeth and pushed through the throbbing pain, determined to ride it out long before he stepped into the ring with his husband on Sunday.
Those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
And we have quite the storied history already, don’t we Sweetness?
No matter how desperately I’ve wanted to top you privately, and no matter how urgently I’ve needed to top you professionally, I’ve never been able to quite get there. I’ve come close a few times, but I’ve never managed to be quite good enough.
At this point in my career, I probably should learn my place.
I should just accept the narrative of my entire damned life.
Personally or professionally, it doesn’t matter, whenever anybody thinks of me all they see is a bitter, whiny, spoilt brat, who associates with all the greatness that he just doesn’t have the talent or skill to even emulate, never mind match.
I’ve never been man enough to be considered a true Kidd.
I’ve never been man enough to be considered a true Kane.
And I’ve never been man enough to be considered a true Harper.
Trust me honey, nobody is more painfully aware that I’m starting to rival Crystal Hilton in terms of name changes and failed reinventions, and whilst I could waste my time and yours by being as much of a salty stuck up bitch as she was when everyone except Zelda Knite wouldn’t take pity on her and carry her to greatness, I’m not going to.
Because I’m a bigger man than that.
Because I’m a better man than that.
Instead, I’m going to acknowledge the stark reality of our situation for what it really is, Dean. And I know full well that doing so not only doesn’t paint me in a very favourable light at all, but also it absolutely sickens me. The cold, hard truth of the matter is simply that even if I manage to do the damned impossible and put you down for the ten count, and even if by some amazing grace of God, I shock the world by walking out with the World Championship for the second time in my career, I will still be considered half the competitor that you are.
No matter what happens at Metamorphosis, you will still be considered my better half, professionally. Ultimately, it doesn’t even matter what happens in our marriage in the end, you will always be considered my better half, personally.
We both know I’m the real problem here.
I always have been.
Hell, let’s face facts here, I was conceived to be a real fucking problem.
First, I was Anne’s problematic pregnancy.
Next, I was John’s problematic child.
Then, I was Spike’s problematic successor.
Now, I’m Dean’s problematic husband.
The common thread in all this is that I’ve always been somebody’s problem, and the only solution anybody could ever come up with was to silence and condemn me to their fucking shadow. Anne did it, John did it, Judas did it, Rowan did it. Everyone whose affection and approval I’ve ever chased throughout my entire fucking life has done it.
It didn’t matter how loyal or committed to them I was.
The second I used my voice to express my own desires, I was devalued.
The second I spoke out of turn or fell out of lockstep with what my masters wanted, I was invalidated. Fuck me for wanting to escape the shadows and break the cages you all wanted to keep me in, right?
Well, do me a favour Dean, take your bat and please go fuck yourself with it.
I married you because I thought you were different. I fell in love with you when you swore to me that you’d never relegate me to your shadow, no matter what. I fucking believed you when you said that you’d never treat me like all of my fucking abusers, but now I know and the world can see how fucking full of shit you are, Dean.
I may have strained our vows a little with the trial separation.
But it is you who has broken them, not me.
In sickness, and in health Dean, remember that, you selfish cunt?
I’m sick Dean, I have been ever since I pleaded with Eternity to exorcise my demons.
I did that for us, for our relationship. Because I wanted to be better, I didn’t want to lose you to my darkness, like I lost Max. It was my fault she got sick, hell, I probably ended up killing her. I’ll never know for sure and I’ll never get any fucking closure, I know that now.
I didn’t know what else to do but to try and purge myself of my darkness.
Eternity warned me there would be consequences.
She told me that every loss had a price, and I’ve paid with my memories.
I’ve been trying to piece myself together as best I could, of course. I did all the recommended therapies and I’ve cycled through every recommended medication and I’ve had every damned neurologist I’ve visited tell me the same fucking thing.
The memory problems are permanent.
Some of my memories will never return.
And if you’re still not quite understanding what the hell that means, Dean, it means that the person you fell in love with all those years ago when we first started dating is dead. I’ll never be that person again. I’ll never be the love of your life ever again.
Honestly, that version of me died with Max.
I returned to you as a hollow shell of a man, lost and confused after her death, and tried to make us feel whole again, but I know now that will never happen. Not through any fucking fault of mine, nor yours.
She’s just that fucking irreplaceable.
I wish she wasn’t, because then we might still be able to make this work, you and I.
God knows I’ve been trying, for Damien if nothing else.
But maybe it’s time to concede and embrace our marriage for the lost cause it is.
~~~
By the time Dr Griffiths finally saw him, Warren’s throbbing migraine had become so deeply entrenched that he had to admit defeat and request that his therapist darken the room and speak softer than usual. His stomach danced with nausea even as he laid on the couch. Dr Griffiths rolled down the blinds and shut out all natural light from the room.
“Thanks Doc,” Warren said softly. “Where should I begin?”
“Wherever you feel most comfortable, Mr Harper. I’m here to listen.”
Warren didn’t have the strength to object to the use of his married name, so for at least this session he was overshadowed by his husband once more. The most typical story of his whole life. He grit his teeth and cursed some unseen Father, as was also his custom.
“I’ve started to remember some things,” Warren began. “Things that shocked me.”
“Go on.”
“I remember, Max. Specifically I remember a relationship. With her and Dean.”
“Oh, well, this certainly recontextualises your sexual fantasies about Miss Rodgers and Miss O’Hara rather significantly. Do you think it’s possible they weren’t just fantasies but more memories trying to resurface?”
“Possible, but not bloody likely. I’d never forget a slice of heaven like that Doc,” Warren said. “I’m certain of it. Besides, Dean got the threesome with Viv, not me. And Shea is far too much of a good Catholic girl to be interested in a fuck up like me.” Warren awkwardly swallowed. His head hurt too much to shake, to say nothing of his broken heart. “No. Besides, I missed my connection with Viv when I went out of my way to reunite her with Cyrus. She deserves happiness, and all the things I can’t give her. But Cyrus can, being a real man and the Alpha type she goes gaga for.”
“Well, that’s encouraging.”
“What?”
“You put somebody’s happiness above your own, demonstrating selflessness. I recall your fear that maybe you were incapable of true empathy and emotional growth. The situation with Miss Rodgers you just described clearly demonstrates your capacity for change and maturity.”
“I guess. It’s always been easier with women, in general, Doc.”
“Well, you said before that you always felt closer to the women in your family.”
“Yeah. My favourite childhood memories are about Mom and Aunt Janine.” Warren smiled. “Mom wasn’t perfect, but her heart was in the right place more often than not. Like when she brought me my pet budgie, Alan as an apology for John hitting me the first time. I loved that little blue fuck, because it’s the first time I remember Mom sharing anything special with me.” Warren fought back tears. “That was probably the first time I truly felt like her son. She was crazy about birds. Said they were God’s most precious creatures. I think she loved how free they were, just naturally soaring. Like we never could from the gilded cage John kept us both in, you know?”
“Is that why you resent your husband? Dean’s overprotective nature? Trying to keep you safe from the dangers of the world, like John always told you he was doing for you and your mother?”
“Honestly, Doc, sometimes it really feels like the only real difference between John and Dean is that Dean’s fucked up justifications for trying to wrap me up in cotton do not include trying to beat the horny and the gay out of me. Of course, that might change at Metamorphosis,” Warren laughed. “We haven’t fucked like we used to in ages. I miss when he couldn’t keep his hands off me, now it’s all excuses as to why he can’t. I’ve heard it all, everything from Damien might hear us to processing his grandmother’s sexual abuse of him with a new therapist. I’m a very physical lover, Doc, does that make me a terrible person? I find it easier to show rather than tell, and now he has limited my ability to do that. And so naturally I’m the horny fuck who just doesn’t understand his trauma. Which, you know, fine, if it really makes him feel better to paint me as the bad guy in all this, fair enough. I’ll make him the victim that he’s so damned desperate to be, but I hope he understands what he’s really asking for.”
“And what’s that?”
“Hell.”
***
Metamorphosis [b.]
Striking change in appearance, character or circumstances.
***
~~~
Without some of my most significant memories, I’ll never be whole again.
That means we’ll never be whole again.
You want to know why I’ve been dragging my feet on just divorcing you? Fine, the truth is some fucked up part of me doesn’t want to let you go, because I’m afraid that I really will never do any better. And then, I’ll die unloved and all alone, just like John told me I would if I insisted on being such a disgraceful little fag.
Excuse me for not wanting to prove the homophobic bastard right.
I never planned for our shit to go on as long as it has, and I sure as shit never intended for it to become a full blown public spectacle. I haven’t even considered contacting a divorce lawyer, but you’ve got them crawling up your ass and gassing you up against me, haven’t you, Dean?
Go on, tell me I’m wrong. Give me another reason for all the meetings with Tim.
Christ, you don’t even see your father as much as you see that parasite.
Oh, that’s my fault too, isn’t it?
Of fucking course.
Of fucking course.
I don’t know why you need to be told specifically that even though I wouldn’t be caught dead within spitting distance of the morons on your father’s side of the family, I’ve never said you couldn’t see them. You misinterpreted all that shit on your own.
Why the fuck would I keep you from your father?
You want to swing from Daddy Angel’s nuts so bad, go ahead.
You should just limit Damien’s exposure to him and other psychopaths in his circle who are so insecure about their spot in this business that they will insist on going too far more often than not. Fuck me for tying to be a responsible parent, I guess.
You want to expose Damien to the end result of unresolved trauma so badly?
Fine, you go right ahead and break the only firm rule for our son that we’ve ever agreed upon.
As soon as the replay of Metamorphosis X hits the network on Monday morning, show him our match.
I fucking dare you.
Show him just what a petty and shortsighted little bitch you really are.
I want to be there when you try explaining that you beat the shit out of his favourite dad because fourteen pounds of gold and leather meant more to you than the promise we made to Max together.
You remember that, don’t you Dean?
Our promise to put Damien’s best interests ahead of our own petty bullshit.
Go ahead, beat the holy hell out of me.
I promise you it will change nothing.
I promise you it will change nothing.
Just like it never did when John and Spike tried to teach me their fucked up little lessons either. You won’t be the first or the last man to try and prove your absolute power and superiority over me by physically beating the shit out of me.
We’ve both spent a lifetime taking beatings. You’ve taken your whooping from the maternal figures in your life and me from the paternal figures in my life. You’ve watched some of mine at the hands of Spike just as I’ve seen some of yours at the hands of Rowan.
In each and every single one of those horrific situations, we’ve emerged as the last ones standing. We’ve taken blows that would have killed lesser men. We’ve survived and forged wills of iron and nerves of steel.
Two of a kind, split right down the centre.
The last two men from the original and best incarnation of The Pack.
We’ve been conditioned for this for most of our damned lives, as two equal but opposite forces of a cruel and vindictive nature. I once believed our destinies began and ended in each other’s hearts.
That really was just wishful thinking wasn’t it, Dean?
A nice little dream to warm the soul for a while, before cold reality sets in.
We’re destined for so much more than love and war, Sweetness.
The irresistible Blake meets The Immovable Kane.
A paradox as intricate as it is infinite.
That is our true destiny, Dean.
We’re doomed to dance forever.
Two everlasting constants in professional wrestling.
Two bloody custodians of monumental legacies.
You can’t kill me, and I can’t quit you.
This match is ihe inevitable impasse of that conclusion.
I know it’s dreadfully cliche after everything we’ve been through together, still just because it’s cliche doesn’t make it ring any less true. Nothing lasts forever. Even the brightest sun sets eventually. A fact that you should be more mindful of than you are Dean. As undeniable as you are, I’ve been there for even your most momentary lapses.
And a momentary lapse of judgment is all I need in this match, Sweetheart.
A momentary lapse between nine and ten is all it will take for everything to change.
Something desperately needs to change between us, Dean. I said it a couple of weeks ago when I first laid out this challenge. After what happened in the Extinction Event, I was always going to come for my rematch. It just wasn’t always going to be a Last Man Standing. My first instinct was to challenge you to my father’s match - the Dragon’s Den, and as perversely fun as it would have been to dare you to do what you did to him six years ago, after thinking about it, I realised that I’d only be compounding the shadows in which I have lingered for my entire life.
I am no more my father’s shadow than I am yours, Dean.
You’ve stopped believing in me, as is your prerogative.
But I haven’t even started believing in myself yet.
Imagine what I could achieve if I did.
Surely such a monumental shift in the natural order of how things have always been between the two of us would be enough to knock even the greatest second greatest World Champion in IWF history, Dean Harper on his over privileged and overprotected sweet little ass for a count of ten.
Everything could change in a split second, and it will this Sunday.
I can feel it in my innately broken heart. Cracked enough to still skip a beat at the thought of you, but not completely shattered yet. In his guilt Spike Kane left me many things, but his heart wasn’t one of them.
My father’s heart may have given out on you, Dean.
Mine never will.
No matter how much you need it to.
Well howdy there pardner.