Opportunity

[Ethan King]

“Timing. Is. Everything.”

Ethan King sits at the head of a long boardroom table in a high-backed leather chair, his elbows propped up on the table with his fingers latticed together as he stares over them into the camera, his ever-present smile seeming to glow as he looks on with intense, laser-focus.

“The first value that any successful individual needs to learn is patience. As tempting as it is, you need to know better than to reach out and snatch every opportunity that comes your way as soon as you see it. You can’t stretch yourself, can’t overextend. You need to take your time. Watch. Learn. It’s challenging of course, especially for a man of my… singular ambition. Patience is among the most bitter pills that the path to success has forced me to swallow. You have to give up. You have to walk away. You have to admit that you’ve taken your licks, assess your losses, and walk on home - because if you don’t? You can go mad.”

He chuckles softly.

“I know better than most men the truth of the… madness… that can consume a man if he lets himself become obsessed with his failures. If he focuses entirely on the past and the present, he loses sight of the road ahead. This company has made me crack, and crack harder than I ever thought I would. After all my victories, all my accomplishments, after establishing the potential of my dynasty, an obsession with shattering a single man snatched it all away from me. I failed. I was on top of the world, Champion of this Company after one of the finest nights of my long and illustrious career, but I let my obsession with a fleeting, personal, pointless opportunity get the best of me - and it all fell apart. I let myself care too much about the man I was fighting and lost sight of the bigger picture - and as hard as I fought to reclaim the glory that I had obtained, that I had fought and bled for? I never was able to reclaim it. I lost sight of the road ahead, and I forgot what it meant to be Ethan King.”

He unfolds his hands, leaning back in his chair as he drums his fingers on the table in an oddly haunting and maddening pattern.

“I forgot a simple truth. It’s not about settling grudges or petty vendettas. You can pursue those dreams, bury those hatchets and the bodies alongside them, and you can revel in the exquisite satisfaction of being able to watch the soil fall on their lifeless - or better, very much alive and panicking faces. But it all has to be in service to the greater purpose of establishing dominance. Dominance is all that matters. Who is at the top. Who holds the crown. Who sits the throne and forces the rest of the world to bow. That is the game that we must remember to play. That is the truth that you must focus on, and that is what requires you to learn… utmost patience.

But if you learn to master it? That one, simple word can pay you back a thousand-fold - because you find yourself in a moment like this, where after years of waiting the perfect opportunity has presented itself. One filled with victory and poetry… a story so long in the making I’d honestly forgotten half of the chapters.”

He leans forward.

“Because as much as I meant every word when I told you that this wasn’t personal, Dean Harper… as much as I truly mean it when I say that you are, and always will be, a barely consequential footnote in the annals of the history of Ethan King? The reverse is so very far from true.”

His grin sharpens as though carved into his face like with a jagged knife.

“I have always been your greatest failure, Dean Harper. For all your power, for all the prominence of the legacy you’ve built… I have always been the phantom you could never exorcize. The haunting voice of failure you could never banish. The defeat you could never avenge. I am your nemesis, Dean Harper… and it must be a cruel twist of the blade in your gut to know that you will never be mine.”

---

“I gotta hand it to you, Ethan - for a man who spends so much time in an office and the lap of luxury, you’ve managed to keep your shape pretty well.”

Andrew Jacobsen grabbed a towel and wiped some of the sweat from his brow as the two of them took a break from training. For the last six months, Andrew had been visiting Ethan at his private gym several times a week to help him shake off the ring rust, making sure that he was at peak performance capabilities before his planned return at the 2024 Roulette. Andrew was still the godfather to Ethan and Gwen’s children, so nobody would bat an eye or have the slightest suspicion if he came to visit their home. It would keep media attention off of Ethan’s training, and ensure that his return was the shocking surprise he wanted it to be.

No. Needed it to be.

Ethan shrugged idly. “I don’t want to end up fat and useless like a lot of my billionaire peers end up being when they get old,” he replied with a chuckle. “A King’s body is a temple, and temples need to be well kept if they’re going to encourage worship. So I’ve been eating healthy and keeping an active lifestyle to make sure that when the time came to make this move, I’d be as close to ready as I can be.”

Andrew smiled back at his friend. “Well, whatever you’ve been doing has worked. You’re in the best shape of your life at damn near forty. I’m a bit jealous.”

Andrew’s years of retirement were starting to show. He was still in excellent fitness, but he hadn’t been staying in fighting shape. It didn’t take a master detective to see the hint of envy in Andrew’s eye or hear the pang of sadness in his voice. Ethan knew that if Andrew had it his way, he’d never have stopped being an active competitor in IWF - or if not his home company, then still wrestling to some capacity. Ethan could only give him a knowing smile and a grateful nod. Helping Ethan get back into shape enough to fight again was hard for Andrew, knowing that he couldn’t follow.

“How’s the neck?”

Andrew rubbed the back of the neck, wincing slightly as he did so.

“The pain’s manageable these days,” he replied, trying to sound casual enough to play it off, but Ethan could hear the tension. “It’s… you know, it’s stiff. It’ll always be a bit stiff. And it means I can spend more time at home with the family, so I really shouldn’t complain…”

Ethan nodded to himself before heading over to the cooler, taking out two bottles of the shitty Japanese beer the two of them would drink together so often when they tag-teamed together in the country’s independent circuit. He tossed Andrew one, letting his smile turn serious.

“You’re a wrestler, Andrew. You always have been, and at heart you always will be.” He faltered for a moment. “I… I can try to find other doctors. You know, there have to be surgeons and physicians outside of the Mayo Clinic who have that level of expertise. I’m sure there has to be someone who can…”

He trailed off. They’d had this conversation a dozen times. Ethan looked on his own, without Andrew’s knowing, almost every month. He knew that there wasn’t anyone who could give his friend a better prognosis. Andrew Jacobsen would never wrestle again. No company in the world would medically clear him… and more importantly, Andrew himself was too aware of what he had to lose if anything went even a little bit wrong. Chronic pain and a stiff neck was nothing compared to full body paralysis. Andrew had, in his heart, accepted it. Andrew was good at that. Accepting things for what they were. Finding silver linings.

Ethan had never been willing to accept that he could not change fate - especially when the world told him ‘No’. There was always another answer, a side passage, a workaround. And when there wasn’t? He’d force reality to bend to his fucking will until there was one. He was Ethan Goddamn King, dammit - the world was supposed to be his fucking playground. How dare something so trite and petty as a neck injury have the gall to present a problem that he couldn’t fix?!

But here he was. Looking at his best friend. One of the best wrestlers the world had ever known - forced into a retirement he didn’t deserve by an injury that defied correction. All of King’s horses and all of King’s men couldn’t put The North Star together again.

And the world had moved on. Andrew’s records had been broken. His championship reigns all but forgotten. For all of his accomplishments, all of his victories, the mark he’d left on the world of professional wrestling… looking at the IWF today, you’d be hard pressed to remember that Andrew Jacobsen had ever existed. Barely a footnote. And for all his potential and raw talent, a simple injury would make sure that it would likely stay that way forever - at best just a face in the crowd for Hall of Fame dinners and events, an increasingly unrecognized face at charity drives. Andrew Who?

It made Ethan’s blood boil. And that anger at the indignity his best friend was forced to suffer had been reaching a peak of late. If Andrew Jacobsen could be so easily forgotten and cast aside, then what had the world of professional wrestling come to? Where was the honor? The respect? He turned on IWF Sacrifice and watched every show, watching these snot-nosed punks run rampant and act as though they had the right to stand in the shoes of the legends who made their current lives possible… and it made his fury rise so high that he would shatter the glass of scotch in his hand.

And a quiet voice in the back of his head couldn't help but ask: If they can forget him after all he's accomplished... what does that mean for me?

Something needed to be done.

Andrew’s voice pulled Ethan out of his train of thought. “Ethan… I appreciate all that you’ve done helping me connect with new doctors. I really do. But I need to stop living hanging on to that dream. Sometimes you need to just accept reality. I’m not happy about it, but I don’t want to lose my life chasing something that all the best doctors in the world say is medically impossible.”

“Medical science advances all the time,” Ethan replied a little sharply.

“I get that,” Andrew replied, his voice calm and reassuring as it always fucking was. “And if the chance comes my way… maybe I’ll take it. But I want to enjoy what I have. I can be satisfied with a good life. It’s better than what most people get. I’ll be okay. This isn’t the Osaka gutter. You don’t need to save me.”

Ethan stared at Andrew for a few long seconds before letting out a quiet sigh.

“I… fine. Fine. I’ll drop it. If some new treatment comes out we can maybe revisit, but… If you want me to stop scouring the earth for you, then… then I will.”

Andrew stood and crossed the room, resting a kind hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, brother. I’ll be okay. For now let's focus on you, yeah? Usually your favorite subject anyway.”

---

“Let’s turn the clock back. Back longer than most of the other men in this company have been around, Dean-O. Back to one of the best nights of my life… and one of the worst of yours. March 24, 2019. High Stakes. The Roulette. The night I proved that despite the moniker taken by one of the forgotten has-beens of the Age of Gods, I am the true Oracle of the IWF.”

He tilts his head slowly to the side, his smile warming at the memory.

“Do you remember the promises I made you before that match, Harper? Because I do. I remember every single one of them. I promised you that night that I would take the Strong Style Championship away from you before the Roulette - And I Did. I told you that I would then go into the Roulette itself and personally eliminate you… And. I Did. I promised that I would take your belt only to drop it thanks to the shot at the Real title at Night of the Immortals, going toe to toe against your little flirty-fuck-friend Xavier Cross, where I would rip the belt from his hands and become World Champion, a victory built on the immaculate foundations of your utter and complete failure.”

He spreads his arms wide.

“Say it with me, kids: And. I. Did.”

His grin sharpens once again as he stands, straightening his tie. He leans forward, propping himself up with his hands on the table, glaring into the camera with that ever present confident grin.

“I have always been your Kryptonite. In all the times you and I have shared the ring, you have always failed to put me away. Your closest thing to a win over me was a tag team match where you were quick enough to pin Andrew Jacobsen before I could send you and your daddy back to the trailer park the IWF pulled you from.

I’ve always seen through you, Harper. I’ve always seen you for exactly what you are - just an up-jumped camera boy with delusions of greatness. And I’ll give you credit - you’ve come far since I left the company. World Champion. The man who put Angel Blake to pasture. You just… really love beating the last gasp out of old men, don’t you Dean? But that’s not the point I’m going to needle at. The point is… for your whole damn career, you’ve been built as this skull-licking, inhuman monster. They warned me to take you seriously back in 2019, and they’re warning me now. Hell, people tried to stop me from coming out and answering that challenge of yours on Sacrifice. ‘You can’t seriously go against Dean Harper right after your return!’ they said. ‘The man’s a monster! He’ll kill you!’.”

Ethan chuckles darkly.

“But I’m not a terminally ill old man looking for a way to die on his own terms. I’m not some star struck new kid on the block intimidated by cheap theatrics and a bit of psychopathy. I see you, Dean. I see through your posturing, your facade… and all I see is a punk kid with a big name who’s gotten in way over his head. You have built your legend so high that your back isn’t strong enough to carry the weight. You won a few big matches, got a reputation for explosive violence, and most of all? You got lucky. You were lucky enough to end some prominent careers, win some fancy titles, and the one thing I can give you honest credit for is that you were smart and charismatic enough to capitalize. But you’ve bought into your own hype. Now you’re reaching the end of the road, so full of pride and bombast that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel small.”

His grin turns positively cruel.

“What I’m saying here, Dean? Is that you didn’t kill Spike Kane.

You Became Him.

Hell, Dean. You’ve become him so fucking completely that you’ve topped it off with adding the hobbies of failed marriages and a favorite pastime of drunkenly beating the shit out of Warren. Did he call you daddy? Because the shoe sure fucking fits.”

His hands curl into fists as he flexes his shoulders slightly, his grin now turning into a leer.

“So here’s what’s going to happen, Dean. One last prediction from me to you. A grand finale our story. One last gift for me to share with you before you take the fucking hint and never step up to me again. I hope you’re listening closely, because I’m very particular with my words and I don’t waste time on needless repetition.”

He holds up a finger. “First, I’m going to give you a present. I’m going to cement what you’ve been fighting for for so long, and prove to the whole of the world that you - not Wraith - are the true heir to Angel Blake’s Legacy. How?

By making sure that you, like him, lose your World Championship to an open challenge on a random episode of Sacrifice.

Don’t you love it when poetry makes such a perfect rhyme? You’d think you’d know better, of all people. You ended daddy’s career by seizing your opportune moment. You Blakes… show-stealing crowd-whores as you are? You thrive on the grand stage. Leap at the big moment. But then your ego gets too much to bear. You adopt fancy titles like ‘God’... and then you stick your dick out far enough that someone with a cleaver has a clear line to chop.”

He holds up a second figure.

“I become World Champion, and in so doing I give you my second gift - Warren Kane will no longer care about you. Not that he seems to have done that in a while, of course. Not really. We can all see just how much he truly stopped loving you a long time ago, but he’s still convinced himself he’s somehow the hero of the story. But you’ll get the gift of seeing the he was only paying attention to you because of that sparkly belt you get to wear for the next few days. Once that’s done? His eyes will turn to me, and you’ll get to rest easy knowing that I spared you another miserable match with that clout-chasing ball of need. All the while, I get the satisfaction of taking something a Kane wants out of his grubby little hands by denying him his last fruitless shot at revenge. And hell. Maybe he’ll fool himself into thinking he has a chance at beating me instead of staring into the abyss of yet another high profile loss against his Formerly Better Half.”

He takes a deep breath of pure satisfaction, seeming to sip the air like one would a fine wine.

“And then… I Rule.

Warren and I will have one match. One. Singular. And then the rest of the company will get their fair shots at the King. I will reign on high from this company with the belt I took from you in hand… and I will leave you alone. Because what we have between us? From this direction, kiddo… it really wasn’t personal. You’ll get to go back to where you came from. Hell, keep wrestling for all I care. Go fight someone new. Have some fun. Maybe take a reign as Invictus Champion for a bit. As a treat. You deserve it. Because as much as I talk shit? You’re not a bad wrestler. I wouldn’t go so far as to parrot Pax Stormcrow and say you’re the best wrestler this company has ever produced… but I’d put you in the top five.

You’re good, Dean.

But you’re not enough. You’re not me.

You're not Ethan Fucking King.”

For the first time, his smile fades.

“Because unlike me, you can’t help but make it personal. You’re too invested. Too overextended. Too emotional. Too bitter. You’ll lose to me for the same reasons Warren keeps losing to you. For the same reason I lost to Rob Diamond. Hate’s a strong motivator, Dean, but you’ve lost your grasp of the big picture - and because of that, the moment you issued that challenge, you showed that you didn’t have that critical ingredient to true success.

You ran out of patience.

You lost your sense of timing.

And Timing. Is. Everything.”