a tripod has three legs...and youve got none to stand on..

[Holden Ross]

He is snoring softly when she enters the room. She carries a tray over to the bed and sets it carefully on the empty space in the bed which she occupied an hour earlier. The tray has a plate with a steaming pie of scrambled eggs, fresh cooked, crispy bacon, golden fried hash browns, and a stack of toast. A cup of coffee and a glass of milk rounds out the breakfast she has prepared for her lover. She kisses him, gently, on the forehead and his eyes flutter open.

Brooke is her name and she picked him up after flirting with him at a local gas station. She is barely twenty-one, short, and has hair made up of three different colors. He gives her a grin and looks around both confused and nervous. It’s his first blackout in months and his stomach feels like a roiling pot of lava. She plops down on the bed, tucking a socked foot under her firm ass. She leans in and they kiss, briefly, before he breaks away. Her smile falters for a moment but returns bigger and brighter.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, her eyes pleading with him for his approval. He gives a shake of his head.

“No, but, to be honest, I don’t have the slightest fucking clue who you are. I’ve been sober for a few months and last night was my first slip up. Where am ?” he asks, instantly wilting her joy of having him, in particular, as a house guest.

“You're in my room,” she replies, reaching out and putting a hand on his. He quickly pulls his away and climbs out of bed, tugging his jeans on and hurriedly dressing. From somewhere else in the bowels of the home. He looks around, confused, and she attempts to put his mind at ease. “That’s my mom! She cooked this for you….”

He grabs his jacket from off of a chair and shrugs it on, shirtless, and slips his feet into his Converse Chuck Taylor All-Stars. Her brow creases in confusion as he slides her window open and looks outside, to be sure he isn’t too high up, before hooking a leg over the sill.

“Where are you-“ is all he hears as he dips out the window and begins to hurry across the patch of brown and green grass, past a beat up Chrysler mini-van, and onto the street where he sees his Caddy, front passenger tire on top of the curb, but otherwise pristine. As he unlocks the drivers side door, a chirp from his phone from within his coat pocket, draws his attention. It’s Brooke; ”Call me sweety!” is all he reads of the paragraph worth of a text message before he deletes it….

A few days later…

Cameras open on Holden, sitting on his Throne of scrap iron, the Underground Championship propped up on the ground, next to his left foot, so that the face of the belt is shown. He is clad in a black t-shirt with a red Leviathan's Cross on the front, baggy jeans, and a battered pair of Doc Martins. Upon his head is wrapped a folded black bandana with white accents. He also puffs casually off of a blunt.

“The World was introduced to the greatest trio to ever join forces. Angelo, Hunter, and myself; we are the future of this floundering company. Stormm may hold the World Championship but that is only on borrowed time; one of us will eventually be holding that belt. Along with Hunter's North American belt and my Underground Crown, Hunter and I are also the P.C.W.’s self proclaimed Tag Team Champions.” He takes a long pull from the blunt and looks around as if he is searching for something. Upon exhaling the smoke, he has a brief coughing fit, and spits a wad of phlegm off camera. “I don’t see anyone steppin up to contest it either….”
He takes another long pull, causing the cherry to glow a bright orange, before exhaling the smoke as rings into the air above his head. In the background, his Dwarven cousin, Wes, drags a length of steel through the shot, from off camera on the left to off camera on the right, seemingly oblivious to the promo being recorded. This all takes nearly a minute and the entire time, Holden is glaring daggers at his cousin, who will surely hear about it later…

“I've read Ms. Gordon's blog and, to be honest, ain’t impressed in the slightest; although, she once held the belt I now carry, and for the second time. And just to address her claims of “not knowing Willard as Seromine,” I was there for his circus cult, indoctrinated by Gabriel, I mean, Rick, before devoting myself to Seromine. I gladly carried out his bidding and, if we're being truthful, I’d offer him aid or bail him out of trouble in a heartbeat; all he needs to do is ask. Trust me, Brenna, your no unique snowflake, more like a used rubber. Used up, discarded, and forgotten….

Which reminds me of the second competitor in this match; Rick “Don't-call-me-Gabriel” Majors. Rick, you and I have fought against each other and with each other, shoulder-to-shoulder in a common goal. We have spilled each others blood as well together, we have spilled the blood of others. And it is well documented you know my Father, which help facilitate getting me into the P.C.W. This week, Rick, you have once again chosen the wrong side to fight for. And standing with Stormm and Brenna is only gonna get you hurt....if need be….I will be the one to send you to pasture. Is that what you want, Rick? I can give you that release….any one of us three would be more than happy to put you on the shelf.”

He takes one last pull before flicking the roach off camera. Wes, in the background, crosses with a wooden baseball bat resting on his shoulder.

“And last, but certainly not least, we got the third person out of the trio of victims; the World Champ, Stormm. I don’t know a whole lot about him other than he has been at the top of the card as long as Rick, if not longer. It's time for a change. We three are the cleansing flame which is going to burn the sickness out of Pure Class. We are the cure while Rick, Stormm, and their ilk, are the disease. Brenna, you’re just collateral damage. I cant help it you took it so personal. Stay home, Brenna, if you don’t wanna leave the ring on a stretcher, like your partners are going to. We are the future of P.C.W. You can’t stop progress…”

Holden smirks as the camera fades to black.

Later that night

Holden is locking the last of several padlocks on one of several heavy chains securing the gate of the scrap yard. A black BMW Three series sits idling next to his Caddy. He recognizes it as Tabitha’sand blows her a kiss….