Darkhorse: Weary Minds, Tired Bodies

[Notorious B.O.B.]

“So it’s, ah,” he squints at the screen, the bags under his eyes taking on a slightly more purplish tinge, “a little after three in the morning. Most of you guys,” he chuckles, “have either gone to bed or work.” He knows that a good portion of his viewership hails from across the ocean, so he tries to stream a little longer than he probably should to accommodate their schedules as well.

“Now, while I totally understand that I should be going to be – I mean, look at me, folks,” he says with a laugh, “I look like a zombie. But, even though I should be hitting the sack, I thought that I should get off my butt and actually acknowledge the fact that I’ve got a shot at the Imperial Championship at Night of the Immortals.” He smiles with a small shake of his head, his hair waving in front of his face, “Well, ‘I’ don’t have the shot just yet – there’s just the little matter of going through twenty-nine other guys.

Goes to show you, though,” he continues with a little sniff, “that nothing in this life is easy. IWF doesn’t just hand out title shots; I mean, for all the shit I give Fiona, she had to at least earn her forty-seven title shots.

But the Imperial title,” he can’t contain the grin that spreads across his tired face, “don’t let anyone fool you either, there isn’t a man on this roster than wouldn’t give his left huevo to be the guy.

It’s what we all train for …

what we all fight towards …

anybody who says they don’t care about wins, about losses, or about title … especially that title …

is a liar.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, he brings a hand up to his face dragging it from forehead to chin. The exhaustion becoming a little more apparent with each passing minute. Staying up late playing video games only seems to be exacerbating this condition; but it’s clear that he’s burning the candle at both ends and wearing himself out.

“Doesn’t matter how many titles I’ve won over the years – fact is that here in Imperial, I’ve never been to the top of the mountain.

Oh,” he laughs, “I’ve tried. I’ve put in honest-to-God effort to move up through the ranks. I was undefeated for months before winning the Cruiserweight title, and then continued that trend right up to when it became defunct.” Smiling, he pulls the Invictus title up to his shoulder, tapping it lightly with his fingertips. “Losing out to Bates, no longer being a champion, something broke inside.

All that time spent climbing the mountain, inch by inch up that slope, and in one fell swoop I had lost my footing and began to slip.

And I fell …

It took me a long time to pull my head out of my own ass, but I made a promise to myself that this was going to be my year.

I cut the bullshit,” he snorts, “got the hell over myself and started my assent once more. The view from the bottom of the mountain,” the smile fades, replaces instead with a small frown, “well, honestly, it sucks.

Nobody stands there and remarks at how nice it is to have no motivation, to drive to be better – not even guys like Gillman.

See, love him or hate him, Gillman ‘says’ he isn’t about the titles, the wins or loses, but at the end of the day even he’s showing up and pulling out the stops for this opportunity. Guy could have just said no, stayed home and continued to heal himself up.

But this is an opportunity you just don’t pass up.

This is the kind of match that’s designed to separate the wheat from the chaff – there’s going to be no luck involved in this match, no matter how much the losers are going to protest.

You win this Battle Royal, and you are the man who earned it.

Thing is,” he winks, “because it’s a battle royal, that means that guys like Spike are at an immediate disadvantage. It doesn’t matter how big and bad you are, when you’ve made the waves that he has there’s only so much fight you can have when you’ve got twenty-odd men tossing you over the top rope.

Honestly,” he continues, rubbing the back of his head, “with Spike being the odds on favorite, he’s the man with the bullseye on his back. Now, I’m hoping that he doesn’t pull number 30 out of the hat and screw us all over, but there’s an awfully good chance he doesn’t survive to see the end of the match …

famous last words, eh?”

He chuckles to himself, but there’s still worry etched on his tired face. “So lets pretend for a second that we’re lucky enough to get Spike out of the running, well,” he smiles, “then the whole dynamic of this match changes; becomes an open field where any one of us could walk away with that Imperial title shot.

Johnny Gillman …


Jimmy Karn …

Mike Laszlo or Steve Awesome …

Devlin Raine …

Jacobson or his buddy, The Nighthawk …

or,” he smirks, “the B-oh-B … ‘cause I’ll be damned, if I don’t give this my all …

and who wouldn’t want to see my handsome mug holding the Imperial title?”

Closing his eyes, he laughs and takes a slow, deep breath in through his nose. Opening his eyes for a moment, he cracks his neck to the side and gives a small salute to the webcam before reaching forward and cutting the feed – sending the stream into blackness.