My Story Was Over.

["The Asshole" Whitey Ford]

The coastal Maine sea air wafted around him, the hot scent of seafood and the ocean humidity made the cool breeze almost unpleasant. It was a bright day with a haze of heat rising off the pavement, tourists and locals buzzing by in their cars through the busy interection near Wells Police Department. Sweat lined his brow, a dirty wrist streaking it across his forehead, away from his eyes. From the rooftop he had a clear view of every passerby, wondering vaguely at what brought them to their mundane, normal, everyday average life. With a dismissing grunt, the man turned back to the task at hand and thought to himself.



I can guarantee that whatever path they took to normality was a cakewalk compared to mine.



He had not exactly always held a peaceful, normal, quiet life. But the man threw the thoughts from his head as quickly as he threw the 8 foot piece of plywood up onto the rafters of a roof in progress, slamming it down on the trusses and sliding it into place. A coworker, a man of short stature at 5'2 and affectionately nicknamed 'Teacup' by the rest of the framing crew, gave him a nudge in the ribs with an elbow. "Took you a minute there. Are you getting slow, old man?"



Attempting small talk was still a problem, but so was any physical contact. The elbow not only triggered a PTSD reaction that was a split second from turning violent, but connecting with a scar on his back. An old battle wound from the past that left ever-nagging muscle pain. "Easy, smallstack," he managed to hold back an elbow of his own and offer a small grimace instead. "Watch the scars...still tender sometimes." He could barely be upset anyways; his entire back and most of his arms had scars littering his skin. The sweat made them stick out more in the heat, making them look more like a tattoo, like the large tribal sun on his back.



The shots from the nailgun, which had started just after the elbow, abrubtly ceased, and the now natural reaction to turn and grab another plywood sheet kicked in. As his back turned, he heard Teacup shuffle his feet a bit, and knew what was coming next. "So, uh...where'd you get that scar anyway? It's a lot bigger then, the, uh..." He asked in a hushed tone, embarassed to having given in to his curiosity. "...other ones."



With the sheet over his head and resting on his shoulder, the man paused and sighed. He tried to give an answer, but it wouldn't come to him. He was reeled suddenly by a throbbing headache, and a sharp white flash ripped through his mind. The sudden feeling of falling almost made him fall from his perch on the roof, and his back nearly buckled as the memory of crashing through a table from the top of a steel cage, buried in a pile of sharp wood and--



Barbed wire.



"Car accident." The sheet was slammed down onto the trusses the same as before, but with strength that his lean frame was taut with. Teacup knew the conversation was over. The man remained silent, cursing himself for almost slipping up. Sometimes forgetting where he came from was harder than others. Most days it was a battle to just stay quiet and live his life, unobstructed and relatively fulfilled.



Bad guys don't get happy endings anyways, right?



So he stayed hidden. A carpenter by day, hermit by night, away from his violent past. His battle had been fought, his story was over, and that was the only choice left for him. To vanish. Before he redoubled his efforts towards work and burying his thoughts away once again, his eye caught a hint of blue. Turning his head, a limosuine was parked at the red light, looking very out of place next to a dirty Impala and a Range Rover. The blue was of a flag, raised above through the sunroof of the back cab. White letters were embroidered on the side, only three of them.



A.W.A.



His stare was fixed on the limo in shock and disbelief. As throughts of withdrawals or residual effects from an acid trip years ago raced through his head, the light turned green, and the limo turned the corner. The flag was slowly lowered as it drove off into the distance. Someone knew he had gotten the message.



Some battles are never over...



___________________________________________________-



The drive home after dropping off a few of the guys from the crew was even worse than the rest of the day. At least he could drown out his worry with the vulgar shouts and sounds of a carpenters jobsite while at work, and even the ride with company he could laugh about all the drugs his coworkers did and how hard they partied(in good fun as an outwards appearance; in the back of his head he laughed with pity at their shortcomings.) But once the last man left the passenger seat of his pickup truck, he was all by himself and with his thoughts. The message he saw earlier that afternoon was clear as day. Someone knew where he was, and wanted him to know they were watching.



Tabor. Ripper. Croc. Reese. Jordan. He counted the enemies he had made during his time at Albany Wrestling Alliance. The list was massive, but a few prominent and very dangerous names were on the top of the list. But it might not even be from then, this could be from after...



The problem with being a bad man is not that you make enemies. You expect and accept that fact the second you decide to be a true and blue asshole. The real problem with being a bad man, and a very good one at that, is that you make a LOT of enemies. The name pool was endless now, so he gave up trying to figure out who...and started to focus on the why. What would anyone gain from seeking him out after he's been gone for so long? Every tie in his past was cut; every feud was finished. His enemies sought nothing but his absence, and they were given that...so what else could they want?



It was a question that would cause him to miss sleep, that was one thing he was sure of. A year past he'd drink himself to sleep just to avoid having to think about problems that annoyed him. But he was a sober man now, and sleep was a constant rarity.



Tempting, though...Even if he could have stopped for beer, the last store lay three miles behind him now, as he turned into the driveway of his plain white single wide trailer. The yard was partially covored by an oak tree, but the rest was open and unkempt. He may be a different man, but mowing the lawn would never be on his list of things to do. Gotta fuck the system somehow, right?



With his keys out of the ignition and his rusty red door creaking open, his tattered steel toe boot was barely on the dirt before he had a very intense and sudden feeling of unease. He tried to slow his breathing to quite the slight rasp from years of smoking and strained his eyes and eyes, trying to pick up what it was that put him on edge. There was a dull roar of traffic from a semi-major route nearby, the wind rustling through the trees...there were no tire tracks besides his in the dirt driveway. The birds were quiet, though...



Why would that even fucking matter? I never pay attention to what the birds sound like.



Everything was exactly the way it should be. If this were any other day, he would have shrugged off the notion and continued inside like normal. But with the AWA flag being flown earlier that day, he couldn't shake the small, gnawing sense of fear. However, the fear was not for his own well being. His knuckles cracked as he clenched his left fist, the right arm slamming the door of his truck shut. His eyes steadied at the door and his lips turned into a scowl. He knew someone was inside of that trailer waiting for him.



And he was afraid of what he was about to do to that poor soul.



The time to think was over, and the time for action was right then and there. The man marched steadily towards the porch, stomping up the rotten wood stairs, and planted Spartan-esque kick straight through the screen door and through the wooden one, sending it flying open. He jerked his leg back through screen door and burst inside to meet...nothing.



The TV was left on from earlier that morning, the Discovery Channel playing some documentary about ancient Egypt, it's glow illuminating his ratty blue recliner with a pizza box from last nights supper still sitting at its feet. The air reeked of cigarretes and dust floated through the air freely in the dying light coming in from the windows. For a second he relaxed, unclenching his fists and starting to doubt himself. Maybe I'm just paranoid...maybe it was just a fan from earlier, a weird secret admirer...nobody is here. I really have to stop wearing so much cologne though, this place reeks...



He shut the door behind him sheepishly, glad that he was smart enough to choose a lot with no neighbors. At about the same time he remembered that he hadn't worn cologne in years, he was hit over the head with something very hard and very metal. As the CLANG rang out through the room, the man fell to one knee, grasping at his head. Once the stars cleared enough for his vision to do the same, he looked up into the shadowy faces of two young men. They were probably in their twenties, dressed in polo shirts...not the average look for a thug. One of them ran his hand through his shaggy brown hair and grinned down at him. "Talk about a 'blast from the past,' huh?"



He winced, half from the throbbing pain in his head and half in utter confusion. The other polo-boy, who was shorter than the other and had a terrible, douchey black moustache, slapped his friend on the shoulder, and brandished a steel chair in front of him. "Steel chair? Get it?"



Uuuuggghhh...With shaky knees, the man stood up on both feet, shaking the cobwebs from his head. His long, dirty blond hair had been tied up in a ponytail, but shook free and rested down to his shoulders know. "Are you fucking kidding me?" He massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.



"What are you talking about?" One of the douchebags asked him a stupid question; he didn't care which one.



"So you break into my house to do...whatever the fuck it is you're doing, and you hit me with a steel chair, THEN try to explain the joke to me? Are you FUCKING serious?" He kicked an endtable over, sending it sprawling into his kitchen. The two attackers appeared dumbfounded. "I get it, asshole! I used to be a wrestler, I am AWARE of that fucking fact. You couldn't use something else, like a fucking...a fucking baseball bat or a...TAZER or some shit?"



"We, uh--"



"HOLY FUCKING SHIT!" He threw his arms straight up above his head as a realization dawned on him. "I don't even fucking OWN a steel chair! You broke into my house, and brought your own fucking chair. That's weird man. That's fucking weird."



"LISTEN!" Shaggy leveled a finger at him...he just stared right down it, not wanting to continue this conversation any further. "We broke into your place to give you a message. You're to come with us, and we wanted you to know that we're not asking. That was a warning."



He paused for a second, letting his shoulders sag a bit. It had been a long time since it came to this, and truth was he almost enjoyed not being...the way he used to be. But deep down, inside his black heart...he was like a kid in a candy store at that moment. "Well...that turns out to be just about as useful as a shove before a fistfight."



The two thugs looked at each other, baffled, but the next moment their world was upside down. The man rocketed forward, taking them both down in a tackle around the waist. They toppled over the couch in the center of the room, luckily bouncing in different directions. Rolling hard on one shoulder, he managed to land in a crouching position, and immediately went to work with haymaker right hands to Moustache, who barely had time to lift his head from the ground. Blood from an already broken nose splattered on the floor as he lay another big shot with such intensity that spit flew from his gritted teeth.



A sharp pain hit his side as he wound back to throw another punch. Shaggy had gotten to his feet as well and landed a well placed elbow to his ribs. The strike was followed by a straight punch to his shoulder blade, causing his entire left side to sieze up for a moment. A moment was all it took for Shaggy to clobber him with a double axe handle to the back of the head.



For a bunch of polo-wearing idiots, they might actually know what they're doing...Ignoring the pain in his shoulder to lift his head up off the cold linoleum floor, he barely had the wherewithall to roll out of the way of a stomp directed at his temple. A back elbow connected straight into Shaggy's groin sent the thug reeling backwards and hunched over. Before he could get back to his feet, the man stepped deftly to one side, grabbing a recovered and charging Moustache by the scruff of the neck, using his moment to send him headfirst into the refridgerator. In only an instant, a light turned on in his head. Just like second nature and without a moments hesitation, the man flipped backwards and landed a heavy downwards kick to the skull of Shaggy, leaving him facefirst on the floor and unconcious.



Still got it.



Moustache had recovered again, and with a roar that is almost always only heard by a bad guy making a final, hopeless charge...did just that. The man scooped up the steel chair dropped by the initial tackle, and with a monster swing connects it with Moustache's head. The chair drops to the ground. So does Moustache.



Breathing heavily, not used to that type of violent exertion anymore, the man grinned to himself as he stood amongst the carnage. "Heh...fuckin'...polo motherfuckers. A steel fucking chair, like I don't know I'm a wrestler. Fucking bullshit...assholes. But hey, I still got it!"



"That you do, mate."



A strong british accent, countless volts of electricity being coursed into his back with a loud SNAP, and he was brought directly down to his knees. His eyes went red; furious, trying with all his will and strength to move but his muscles were seized up. One hand went to the floor as he heard the loud stomp of expensive shoes circle around him. He could barley lift his head, but could see the dress pants...



...of a suit...



...belonging to a name he had forgotten to think of in the truck when he thought of possible enemies. "Good call on the tazer, I agree with you these muggings should be simple and efficent. Kids these days with their fuckin' bravado, though...you did forget one thing though." His face was grabbed in a vice like grip, and lifted to look his attacker in the eyes.



Michael John Windsor smiled his toothy British grin and held his free hand up, donning a pair of brass knuckles. Windsor wound up the finishing blow, and a few moments later he knew no more.



_______________________



The longest running International Champion...most hated man in all of PCW. One of the greatest talents of all time!" The sound of MJW's voice woke up from his knuckle-induced slumber. A ragged cough ripped through his lungs and over his lips, spittles of blood flying through the air. He was still in his trailer, that he could tell; the strong smell of cologne was still there but closer. The two men who had tried and failed to beat him down, now sat on his couch and stared blankly up at the television. He knew he was fucked, but the idea was really hammered home when he tried to move his hands and feet only to find them handcuffed...and tied with a thick rope...to the steel chair he sat in. Windsor snapped his fingers in front of his blurry eyes, drawing his attention to his former managed, also seated in front of him. "Over here, old friend. We have some catching up to do."



He remained silent, staring hard at MJW with a very obvious message that it was a good thing he was tied to a chair. Windsor scoffed...he had never been afraid of his violent tendencies, being cut from the same cloth. "You've changed, mate! I'm surprised. No scraggly old beard..." Windsor reached forward to scratch his clean shaven face mockingly. He jerked his face away, counting the ways he wished he could kill his old manager. "No drugs or hookers...that one really surprised me...but most of all, no beer! Now what's up with that? Did you find...Jesus or something?"



He sat there, stoic and brooding. He couldn't afford to play this type of game; answering any questions would just prolongue the time it takes to find out why Windsor is here. I'll stonewall him. Say nothing so he has to say everything. Then I'll get the fuck out of this chair and make him eat that suit. Whitey did manage a confident grin.



Until Windsor unexpectadely gave him another shot in the jaw with the brass knuckles. This time it didn't quite put him out, but his head was ringing something fierce. A Charlie Brown kind of voice started up, and it took him a bit to realize it was Windsor trying to talk to him.



"I'm telling you now, I...no, WE don't have time for this." The angry brit scolded him, but in a quiet voice that meant business. He slid the chairs a bit closer together, looking him straight in the eye. "I wouldn't be fucking around with all of this if I didn't think it was neccessary. But I need to know if you're still the man you used to be.



He resisted the urge to keep remaining silent, but knew it was no hope. That would only give him more scars and possible brain damage at this point. "What the fuck are you talking about?"



Windsor nodded, approving his decision. "Not so fast. Why the lack of booze?"



"Are you fucking serious? You beat me up to question my sobriety?"



"Answer the fuckin' question!" Windsor menaced him with the brass knuckles once more.



With a long, drawn out sigh, he finally answered. "Drinking is my favorite fucking thing to do...or it used to be. But I'm not that man anymore."



"You're an alcoholic, mate."



"I love Mountain Dew."



"You're a murderer."



"I've never been a fight in my life."



"You're a damned wrestler!"



"I'm a subcontract--"



“YOU’RE WHITEY FUCKING FORD, MATE! LISTEN TO YOU!” Windsor screamed, grabbing him by the front of his shirt.



It had been a long time since he’d heard that name, something that seemed like a lifetime ago. It resonated in his mind, the veil he had put up to forget who he was finally broken down. The bloody, the violence, the pain...the treachery and backstabbing, the victories...the glory...all fresh on his mind once more. “Not anymore. That guy fulfilled his purpose.”



Windsor calmed his tone, and released the front of his shirt, giving him a knowing look. The one thing in the world Whitey hated the most about Michael John Windsor was that he was damned good at getting people to say what he wanted. “To be the best in the world, right?”



Ford nodded. “I did that. I beat the best that PCW had. Chewed them up, spit them out, and I proved that I’m the best. Every. Period.”



“But you lost to Sad--”



“I lost to the entire fucking roster!” It was Ford’s turn to have an outburst. He strained against his restraints, but to no avail. He knew Sadistic’s name would be brought up at some point, and knew this would be the reaction. “Sadistic needed me to be tired to beat me. I knew that and I still fucking know that, so when I realized that no single man or woman could hold a candle to me I ducked out. My job was done, my point was proven, and I’m free to fuck off any way I please now. So if I want to be someone else than Whitey Ford, I can. I’ve proved my fucking point.”



“Oh, right, right...well, then.” Windsor leaned back in his chair and pulled a flask from his jacket pocket. “So you left Pure Class Wrestling in the hands...well, I mean, the hand. Black Hand, y’know.”



“Yeah, ok. I did. I built PCW up to something it had never been before. I raised my kingdom and passed it on. I’ll be remembered as the greatest talent they’ve ever seen. When people hear about PCW a hundred years from now, they’ll still see my face.”



Unscrewing the cap to his flask, Windsor takes a slow drag and cringes at the taste, letting the facial expression stay. “I don’t know if that’s something that I’d want my name on anymore, mate.” Whitey furled his brow as Windsor continued. “I remember when we first came into PCW, we took it by storm with the AWAssholes. Nothing was better than that; glorious battles, us upsetting the hometeam on their own turf. But then we became PCW; we represented the best of the best. The class in pure class was made up of our actions; while not always the most popular actions, we were not to be fucked with.”



“After you left, Ford, The Black Hand did whatever the bloody hell they pleased. As time went by, they faded into the background...and there is no longer class in PCW. It’s a sad, hollow shell of itself! People are masquarading as champions and actual top class talent, there are clowns and freakshows running amok, and Alexa Black actually has a decent foot of power amongst the ranks with her group.”



“FUCKING BULLSHIT!” Ford spat out.



“I know, I know. It’s really depressing actually...but that’s where we come in. When we became the best that PCW had to offer, we became PCW. I can’t bear to look at it in it’s current state.”



“So what do you expect me to do?” Ford asked, then shook his head abrubtly. “Wait, no, how did you expect this fucking conversation to go? You came in here, kicked my ass, ruined my shit, and now you’re talking like you want me to go back to PCW, just like that? This isn’t a movie! Couldn’t you have just written me a letter?!”



MJW shrugged. “I’m still a little iffy on your reading skills, I thought you might be too fucked up to understand the gravity of the situation.”



“I’M SOBER!”



“And I still don’t really believe that.” Windsor narrowed his eyes at Ford once again. “All I’m saying is that you needed to hear this, and you’re not exactly the easiest man to talk to when you’re not restrained.” Whitey gave a nod to agree. “And think...be real here. If it wasn’t for PCW, you wouldn’t have been able to prove you were the best. PCW...made you, my friend. The Black Hand couldn’t handle it at the top and let everything fall to shit. It’s high time we went back and put everything back together again.”



Whitey’s face was taut with indecisiveness. On one hand, he really wanted to strangle MJW and his two accomplices. On the other...the hiding was becoming tiring. A normal life may have worked out, but he worked far too hard in PCW to let it fall from glory. He had to set things right...giving up PCW to the Black Hand was a mistake and it was time for him to rectify that.



“Now I’m going to ask you again...are you a subcontractor?” MJW asked, leaning forward to offer a drink to his former employee. Whitey leaned forward to take a sip from the flask...but rolled his shoulders instead, the ropes binding his wrists falling to the floor. The handcuffs were already unshackled from one hand, and it darted forward to grab the flask for himself.



“No.” Ford reared his head back and took a few deep gulps to finish off the flask. He lowered his head, unaffected by the liquor. “I’m an asshole.”



With a look of disbelief, Windsor just nodded in approval. As Whitey went to work undoing his foot restraints, MJW coughs. “So...you’re back. Just like that.”



Whitey glanced up from his feet, but only for a moment. “Yah.”



“Thinking about it, this whole thing was pretty excessive.”



“Yeah, but it would have been really boring any other way.” Ford tossed the rope to the side of the room, going to work on the handcuffs around his ankles. “If you would have been just like ‘Hey, come back!’ and I was like ‘ok!’ it wouldn’t have had the same effect.”



“When did you become a fuckin’ spy, by the way? You can get out of handcuffs?”



“I watch a lot of Jason Bourne movies. Who are the polo kids?” Whitey motioned with a hand towards the couch, where the two thugs still sit, nursing their wounds. As Windsor goes to resond, Whitey waves him off. “Nevermind, I’ve already decided. Moustache and Shaggy. Keep them around...I’m sure we’ll find a use for them. I need to make some calls and unfreeze my accounts.”



“The plane leaves in the morning, mate.”