VI: The House of the Rising Sun Pt. 1

Howard wasted no time checking out of his Kansas City hotel room the morning after Overload; despite the substantial paycheck he’d been earning as UCI World Heavyweight Champion, he’d be driving to Phoenix – a twenty-two hour drive after a detour to Lincoln, Nebraska. The drive from Kansas City to Lincoln was three hours alone, and he planned to stay in town overnight before beginning the remainder or the nineteen hour drive. Leaving on Monday, he’d be on the road again Tuesday, and it wouldn’t be until Thursday or Friday (depending on the pace he chose) when he’d hit Phoenix. Still, certain things took precedent – he had unfinished business at home, and it was simply a task he couldn’t compromise.

He’d woken up in a hungover haze with a breath of booze and cigarette vapor. Sunglasses managed to keep the uncompromising rays from his eyes, but his head still throbbed and was hardly focused. His drinking had taken a dramatic uptick in the previous two weeks – sometimes it’s more difficult to deal with the aftermath than the situation itself. Nonetheless, a three hour drive would be manageable, and if he resisted temptation to hit the bar or the bottle again tonight, he’d be able to wake up in a proper state of mind for the rest of the endurance-trying trek through the Rocky Mountains and Colorado Desert.

In the meanwhile, all he had was the road before him – nothing save the sound of the radio and his own thoughts. The UCI World Heavyweight Championship sat on the passenger seat beside him, one of the side plates now thoroughly scuffed from the apathy and contempt he’d shown the belt on a weekly basis. As the sun struck the big gold centerplate, his eyes were hit with another vicious sting. After a silent ten minutes of various attempts to ignore its presence, Howard reached over for the belt and tossed it callously into the backseat of his pick-up.

It would hurt him in anyway it could: if it didn’t destroy his family already, it’d be content to aggravate his physical pain for as long as possible. But the belt wasn’t the master of him – he was the master of it.

Or am I?

When he truly considered this, it was a laughable thought; of course it was his master. The words of the Jackal still hung hard and heavy on his mind – they’d never left. So long as that belt was in any proximity to him, he was the ultimate slave. Even when he stepped in the ring and faced his opponents, it was he who was elevating the belt rather than it elevating him. The belt was a quick burst of credibility: an endorsement of something everyone had already known. It was the crown which weighed heavy upon the head. It was his oppressor.

And yet, of course he couldn’t just get rid of it. It had gone beyond the threats of the Jackal – it had become the centerpiece of his life at present. For all he’d given up, all that he’d fought for and sacrificed, this had become his final prize. It sat like a gold star sticker slapped on his chest by a teacher in school – completely hollow and, yet, the envy of all. The torment he’d endured and the jealousy and hatred he continued to endure had sealed his fate: his position as champion had become more and more personal. It was killing him – he woke up in daily pain, unwilling and unable to communicate with almost anyone, feeling more and more exhausted as each week rolled on – but it was that same anger which drove him to the top of the mountain that cemented his desire to stay there. In the face of every heckler, he saw the hecklers of years before. In the face of Alex Richards, he saw Thomas Bates seething for revenge. In the face of Jayson Price, he saw Seth Lerch who’d never given him his fair shake. No, he’d earned this belt through his blood, sweat, and tears; they’d pry it from his cold, dead hands.

He turned on the stereo, flipping through the song selection on his iPod to select “Gorgeous” by Kanye West. When he first began in WCF, “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy” had been an album on heavy rotation for him; it seemed all to appropriate he listen to it now.

“Ain’t no question if I want it; I need it.

I can feel it slowly drifting away from me.

I’m on the edge, so why you playin’? I’m sayin’

I will never ever let you live this down.”

That was what it was – wasn’t it? He’d spent a lifetime clawing his way up to find that “this pimp is on the top of Mt. Olympus.” And yet, there it was – slowly drifting away. And, of course, he knew that failure wasn’t an option: it was exactly what everyone hoped for. He treaded water to prevent himself from going under for a second – if he went under, they’d hold him under. It was his cross to bear; the addiction and burden he couldn’t shake. Hey, who said a Nebraska farm kid can’t relate to Kanye?

“Not for nothing, I’ve foreseen it, I’ve dreamed it.

I can feel it slowly drifting away from me.

No more chance, if you blow this you’re bogus.

I will never ever let you live this down, down, down.”

And that was also it – wasn’t it? He’d dreamed about being in this position since he lived back in Lincoln, sacrificing his body and health to reach the level he was at. He’d always known the smartest investment was himself – it had never sat right with him that he hadn’t reached the summit. There he was now, his flag planted and billowing proudly as everyone clambered up the sides to unseat him. King of the Hill – like the old childhood game. He’d taken the hill – now to prove he belonged up there.

And that, of course, was the sticking point. That was what the naysayers and deniers spent their evenings praying for: to expose him. To show Crow’s loss and his victory had been a lucky fluke. He was being tossed his first challenger at the champion: if he blew this, he was bogus. If he failed and Alex won, he’d never hear the end of it. He’d be mocked, laughed at, ridiculed, and slandered by anyone who’d want one up on him. Shadowlove? David Sanchez? The Guardians? Wade Moor? Scarecrow? He could envision them lining up to throw tomatoes his way, lifting Alex Richards’s fat ass onto their shoulders as they chanted “The King is dead! Long live the King!” They’d rub salt in his wounds. He hit the skip button on his play list: “House of the Rising Sun” by the Animals was up next.

That slow, repetitive arpeggio which opened the song and had become so iconic had always fascinated Howard: it was the spiraling drone which drove the song and gave it the sense of madness so palpable in the music. Even the notes of the song seemed to be circling the drain, caught in that same loop of destruction as the main character. The bursts of the electric organ were like punctuation marks on the insanity – a gleeful and almost carnival-like mockery of the agony of the narrator or perhaps even a reflection of the decadent crazed bender of booze, gambling, and whores which consumed him.

Howard let it play on in silence. As he drove towards Lincoln, he wondered what would happen if he never showed at Meltdown – what if he stayed put and mailed the belt back to Price? There was the Jackal, of course; they could run. He could go to Dune who would most assuredly help him. Of course, this wasn’t ideal – taking Joey out of school due to his father’s selfish refusal to perform his duty and risk Sarah enslavement once more because of his own inability to take the strain?

And, of course, did he really want to vacate the belt?

No. It would be impossible for him to walk away. It was all he’d wanted, if he was being truthful. He needed it – he needed it as bad as it needed him. He’d already placed so much on the altar of the belt, even if his hand had been forced, there was no way he could walk away now. He had to continue on – it was the only way.

Howard picked his phone up from the cup holder; he’d finally upgraded to a smart phone with his new salary. He placed it into the holder attached to the dashboard, opening the recording app he’d downloaded, and turning down the volume on his stereo to muffle the sound of the Animals.

He did protest a lyric; the House was not in New Orleans; it was in Chicago.

---

---

The audio recording opened to the sound of the road – the whipping of wind and the purr of the engine. The radio played softly in the background, loud enough to be noticeable but quiet enough to be unintelligible. There was a pause before Howard spoke, perhaps the champion waiting to be sure the recording software was working. When his voice began, it was quiet and methodical.

Howard Black: I’m going to destroy you, Alex.

There was another pause, perhaps the champion composing his thoughts. His words came once more, slowly and clearly selected for their intentionality. Perhaps his tone could have been described as pedantic.

Howard Black: I have a lot of reasons I’m really looking forward to this, to be truthful. It’s kinda funny; I don’t think we ever thought much of each other. I mean, we were never really on a crossed trajectory, were we? Yeah, there was Ultimate Showdown a year ago. Sure, me and some of your buddies don’t exactly get along. Outside that? I mean, we don’t really interact: I’m on the A team, and you’re on the B team.

He laughed, his voice taking an edge of condescension. The brashness of his in-ring promos had finally kicked in; he seemed to have snapped himself out of whatever thoughts and onto his game.

Howard Black: Oh, are you objecting to that? Come on, Alex, let’s be realistic.

I’m a main eventer; you are a mid-carder. This is how things have been. This is how they’ve been since practically the day I stepped foot into the WCF, and they’ve continued since the moment I stepped back into WCF. When you put me next to you, it’s obvious who stands head and shoulders above the other, and it’s not the guy who breaks six feet. My career is an absolute giant which casts a shadow upon every achievement you’ve ever had in an absolute fraction of the time you’ve been slaving away. You’ve been starving, begging for table scraps to get to this point, whereas I’ve held this company down and feasted on it. I’m a top, and you’re a bottom. This match is a pity fuck for you and a hate fuck for me. At the end of the day, you’ll have gotten your little rub, been cooled back off, and sent back to where you belong – the midcard. That’s how life works.

You don’t deserve to be in this match. To be fair, Andre Holmes didn’t deserve it either. It says volumes about how badly Price is waiting for David Sanchez to become available that you two were booked as the perennial contenders to my title. What did you even do, Alex? You beat up Taylor “Who?” Wright. You are a member of the Guardians. Oh, and I guess you beat Bobby Cairo once.

Yeah, stop the fucking presses: Alex Richards once beat Bobby Cairo.

The sound of a finger popping a cheek and a soft whistle followed – an easy mockery of the opponent.

Howard Black: It seems every time your name gets tossed around as a top dog, this little factoid has to get brought up as some sort of “endorsement” of your skill. I mean, sure, Bobby Cairo was a WCF Hall of Famer, multiple time World Champion, and one of the most successful WCF Tag Team Champions of all time. But know what Bobby Cairo was not? Howard fucking Black. Do you know what my record over Bobby Cairo is, Alex? Two-Oh. I have made Bobby Cairo a fucking joke since the moment he crossed paths with me. I made him the Gonefather when he couldn’t handle the fact that Dune and I alone is more than his tag team and a Gonzo thrown on top.

And it’s funny because Bobby Cairo once described me as “throwing poo-poo at the boom-boom wall and hoping it sticks”, only for my career to have gelled far beyond his. That’s what’s so funny about these shit talking little faction-happy idiots (like yourself): the image of your prestige and the reality of it are miles apart. Case-in-point: Imperium. What seemed to be a conglomeration of talent which would show united domination and crush Pantheon became a punch line: a short-hand for unwarranted self-importance, blithering incompetence, and juvenile tantrum-throwing. Imperium was a farce, a house of cards which imploded in record time and dragged down everyone but Joey Flash.

He paused again, his next sentence coming out slow and savored.

Howard Black: But know what wasn’t too different? Pantheon.

There was another pause, his voice coming back louder and more aggressive. He spoke in a bark – a verbally jabbed finger punching through the recording.

Howard Black: From the moment I stepped into WCF, I heard all this talk of the legacy of Pantheon. “Oh, Pantheon is so dominant.” “Pantheon is the most decorated stable in WCF history.” Do you know what that domination looked like to me? It looked like three tertiary belts: Hardcore, Internet, and People’s Title. And you know what? As much as you all thought you elevated them or brought them prestige, all three of you ended your reigns on wet farts: you and Crow swapping at Ultimate Showdown for belts neither of you were competent enough to defend, and Omega playing his bi-yearly disappearing act before coming back and pulling another to screw me. That’s not domination, Alex. That’s only domination if you’re a pipsqueak entering the company. There’s a big difference between running the school yard and running the town.

The irony, of course, is that while Pantheon was posited as the big enemy of Imperium, everyone else did all the work for you: the DRG toppled Kaz’s US Title reign, Dune broke ICE Beckman, and Occulo and I drove off Cairo. Why even bother including Pantheon in the equation? You did absolutely nothing but sit on your hands – a recurring theme for any merry band of losers who seems to let you tag along, Alex. Perhaps you’re an indicator of something: high-minded, lazy, overrated stables who have no bearing on the rest of us. Perhaps it’s you, Alex: you’re the ultimate marker of mediocrity.

Have I mentioned the staggering parallels between Imperium and Pantheon? If you don’t believe me:

Grizzled veteran in the Hall of Fame who barely wins anymore, tainting an illustrious career? Corey Black, meet Bobby Cairo.

Overrated Starscream lurking just to the right, more likely to actually claim that top belt and resentful of his lack of pole position within the group? Jayson Price, meet Natural ICE Beckman.

Retired veteran who is a member in name and appearance only but actually contributes nothing? Chelsea Armstrong, meet Odin Balfore.

Arrogant, insufferable, wannabe genius who thinks he’s at a far higher position than he is due to his own delusions of talent? Jay Omega, meet Joey Flash.

Plucky black sheep who no one quite understands his membership? Scarecrow, meet Kaz Mazy.

Groan-inducing, boring, one-dimensional gimmick champion who has drained the desire for competition out of the Internet Division but can’t seem to make it work beyond their niche? Alex Richards, meet Zombie McMorris.

Just as Imperium died with a whimper rather than a bang, so did Pantheon. As Imperium was shredded by the Dark Riders Gang and the Sentinels, Pantheon was bullied, beaten, and embarrassed to death by #BeachKrew. And that has to sting the most of all, doesn’t it, Alex? After months and months of these idiot losers running circles around you, you’d sworn revenge. You watched one of your best friends murdered by Wade Moor; you’d had to deal with Jared Holmes mocking your childhood traumas; you saw an absolute smack in the face every time you stepped in the ring with them. I remember watching your on TV, seeing how the mention of their name would draw the usual quirky loveableness from your eyes and replace it with that cold, detached stare of hatred. I saw your shake in fury and clench your fists, swearing revenge even if you had to do it yourself. And when you finally had that chance? When you walked into Hellimination with your friends at your side, ready to take #BeachKrew down a peg?

Your boys let you down.

You didn’t even get past the first round.

Your team lost in under a minute.

There was another pause, this one longer. The sound of a shuffling cut through the audio, followed by the scraping of steel on flint and the sound of an exhale as the champion lit a cigarette before talking again.

Howard Black: We all remember who went on to win, right? Fucking #BeachKrew. Just as it had always been, the definition of insanity was repeating the same thing and expecting different results. Pantheon tried to face #BeachKrew; it lost. Some things never change. Sometimes life doesn’t have happy endings. And that’s when you quietly tucked your tail between your legs and walked away.

Now you’re back in UCI, and in the absence of Omega, apathy of the Polar Phantasm, and the muted ambitions of Bonnie, you’ve found yourself front and center to take a shot at the top of the mountain. This card seems like it should be a gift-wrapped present to the Guardians: Polar Phantasm facing off against the biggest choke-artist to never do blowjob porn and Bonnie getting a shot against an absolutely beatable opponent. As for you? I can only wonder how it’s going to be when you walk back in the Guardians’ locker room at the end of the night and have to inform your teammates that you’re the “one” in their “two and one” record for the night. That you bit off more than you could chew and had to pay the piper. That you weren’t good enough and have let the team down. That behind all of their encouraging pats on the shoulders and comforting words, you can see that disappointment in their eyes and that haunting feeling that one of them – probably Polar, who’s the undisputed leader and has nothing really going on – must be quietly wondering, “What if it had been me?”

They say if you hang out with losers long enough, you’ll become one. Maybe at one point, we can say this is what the Pack and Pantheon did to you. But these days? Have you wondered if that’s your influence on the Guardians?

You have done absolutely nothing of note, save earn this shot. If I have to hear one more person bring up how you beat Bobby Cairo, I’m going to go full Chris Benoit. Eventually, Alex, you need to see that there comes a time when one must transcend past their former glories and make some new accolades in the present. I no longer need to talk about beating Bates or beating Dune: I have the UCI World Heavyweight Championship. I’m undefeated, and it’s almost unanimously decided that things will stay that way until sheer boredom overtakes me. These are recent accomplishments: my career only continues to go up, even after it seems like it’s peaked. You, on the other hand, have clung desperately to that single stupid win over Bobby Cairo. At this point, you’re sounding like that guy who threw the game-winning touchdown at his high school homecoming game and won’t shut the fuck up about it fifteen years later, despite living out of his Camry and working at a donut shop. Nobody cares anymore. You haven’t done anything since.

There was another pause for another drag from the cigarette. Howard’s voice came back once more loud and mocking, a man openly laughing in disbelief at his opponent.

Howard Black: And you’re not going to do anything now. You have none of the qualities or qualifications that make for a champion. You’re one-dimensional in the ring; you’re absolutely boring on the microphone. Your ability to draw a pop speaks more to my ability to draw heat; I’d make Erin Fausse look like goddamn Kurt Angle in the eyes of the audience. Your ticket to even getting this shot was beating up some absolute nobody whose entire career can be summarized as “does shit for David Sanchez.” This isn’t team sports, Alex: this is singles. Just because Mo Williams was on the Playoff-winning Cleveland Cavs doesn’t mean he can beat Steph Curry in a game of one-on-one. And herein lies your big problem.

You, Alex, can’t stand on your own two feet.

You, Alex, are a chronic teammate.

You, Alex, are not a star player.

Can I literally guess what you’re doing differently to prepare for the biggest match of your career this week? My thoughts: absolutely nothing. Even though you’re about to go toe-to-toe with the single most dominant star in the history of UCI this week – a man far above and beyond the people who you’ve taken losses to – you’re going to be spirited away another whacky misadventure with your idiot pals across the Galaxy. I can almost guarantee with one hundred percent certainty that you’ll tangle with the Syndicate or some silly villain, you’ll run around Chicago, you’ll say a few stray things about me or cut an interview with FPV, and that’ll be it. I’m going to do you a favor, Alex: I’m going to reveal why you have no chance in this match and why your career is in such a rut. Maybe, with a little studying, a little will come on in the attic, and you can turn things around. At any rate, it’s about time someone told you the truth:

There was another long pause, the voice of the champion once more coming back slow and quiet, perhaps even remorseful.

Howard Black: You don’t want it bad enough.

Another pause and a drag on the cigarette followed the point. When he spoke again, his voice returned to the prior tone and volume, an edge of accusatory aggression accompanying it.

Howard Black: You don’t care, Alex. You may think you care – and you may even have your pride bruised when you lose on Sunday – but you’ll ultimately go back to your friends, jump in their Ranchero, and continue on with business as usual. You don’t have an investment in winning this belt: you have safety nets should you lose. If you fall, you’ll be caught. You’re distracted and spread thin; you have commitments you feel obligated to uphold. You aren’t in this for yourself; you’re ultimate a member of the Guardians first and foremost. This is exactly what’s holding you back. This is why you’ll never crack the top.

To become the UCI World Heavyweight Champion, it needs to be your absolute focus. If you put any other thing above your pursuit, you’ll absolutely fail. You know why? Because the champion will have his defense of the belt as his number one priority. You can’t just think something you only kind of want is going to be driven by enough force-of-will to usurp someone who wants it more than anything; that’s not how it works. You actually have nothing to lose in this match: your membership with the Guardians isn’t going anywhere, your career isn’t going to be tarnished, and no one’s opinion of you will change – as you’ll be essentially reinforcing what everyone already suspects. Me, on the other hand? I have everything to lose: this belt is my fucking everything.

And it’s all of those safety nets – that membership to the Guardians – that will hold you back. When mommy will always love her best boy, you never have to worry about letting them down. If your parents will coddle and support you, you’ll live in their basement until you’re forty. This week is going to be the exact same par-the-course for you: where you’ll go do some favor for the others because they’re “your friends”. And everything you do for them will be seconds you’ve wasted that could have been spent preparing for me. No, Alex, your flights of fancy out to save Chicago aren’t better preparing you for this match. I’m not 8-Bit. I’m not even David Sanchez. What I am is Howard motherfucking Black, the UCI World Heavyweight Champion. What I am is the Best There Is. If you think for a second that anything you’ve faced is comparable, you’re incorrect. And Alex? I’ve been preparing for you. I’m ready, and I’m focused on a sole target: you.

Another pause, another drag.

Howard Black: Truth be told, I’ve wanted to take a crack at the Guardians for quite some time, now. Your presence in this company insults me, and your delusion that you have a moral high ground above anyone is even more appalling. Between Bonnie Blue switching loyalties at the drop of a hat, Polar’s apathy, and your taunting and ridicule of me across the media, this is going to be sweet. But do you know what really drives me to want to tear you all down? What drives my disgust of your group and its feelings of moral superiority?

Another pause. This time, Howard’s voice came back low and venomous – the words sliding off his tongue with bitter disgust.

Howard Black: Your association with Jay Omega.

There was little pause this time; Howard’s words came out rapidly, though he stayed quiet and focused.

Truth be told, one of the biggest motivators for me to return from retirement was to wrap up my unfinished business with him. I’m legitimately upset that he’s taken off for some faraway place: I wanted his head as the aesthetic centerpiece of my career. Oh, I’m not over what he did to me – by any stretch. Would you like a refresher, Alex? You strike me as thick or stupid enough to have forgotten, after all:

Jay Omega is the reason my career was almost ended.

Flashback to the Ultimate Showdown: Omega and I were eliminated third and fourth, winding up as tag champions together. By no means did we like each other; I don’t even think we respected one another. It’s funny because I used to think so highly of you all – it was all of us against the Dark Riders Gang, wasn’t it? Then you put a little personal stakes on the line and everyone’s true colors come out – none of you liked or respected me. I went into the Ultimate Showdown knowing it was everyone for themselves but never expected the sniveling little tricks Jay would pull – how Scarecrow would blindside me. But the worst wasn’t what happened in that match – it’s what came after.

His voice raised now, loud and angry.

Howard Black: Your stablemate was so up his own ass about totally burning out like the loser he is, he decided to off himself … leaving me without a partner, facing Joey Flash and Johnny Fly the next week. And when I stood staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, where were you all? Who was there to pick up the pieces of Jay Omega’s temper tantrum? Where were you? Where was Scarecrow? Where was Pantheon?

You’re not heroes, you’re self-aggrandizing losers. You are selfish psychopaths who only trump their morality when most convenient to boost their publicity or demonize someone they don’t like. You’re hollow and paper-thin: a papier-mâché statue of what a good guy looks like. Look at me, Alex. Look at the monster before you who has reveled in tearing through this company – I’m the monster your act created. I’m the real hero who gave everything he could until the weight of the world made him fall from grace. I’m not what you’ll become – I’m what you’ve always been. It’s the Dark Knight Feeling, Alex: you can’t see it yet, but you, too, will live long enough to see yourself become a villain.

He paused again, his voice returning once more quiet and almost apologetic. He sighed before he spoke.

Howard Black: I’ve never forgiven any of you for allowing my livelihood to be nearly ended by a man you all professed to hate. I am even more insulted that you all think you can band together again and proclaim yourselves the “good guys”. Fighting “the bad guys” doesn’t make you a hero, Alex: it makes you the person on the other side. Getting a shot at the Champion does not make you worthy of holding the belt; ask Gonzo Murdock. Just as he was to Dune, you’re the filled competitor being fed to me before I turn my sights to David Sanchez.

Pretenders have two options: failure or cease their act. I guarantee you’ll meet the former; you’re too blind to see the error of your own ways. You’re too arrogant to admit that this is above your head and you need to change strategy. I’m going to expose you. Then I’m going to embarrass you. Then I’m going to make you tap out.

I’m sorry. This is how it was always going to be.

There was the rustling of a hand reaching for something beside the microphone, then the recording ended.

---

When he hit Omaha, the boredom of the road finally overtook Howard. He picked up his phone and flipped through his contacts, finally settling on “FPV” and hitting the call button. The line rang a few times before clicking to life, the familiar voice of the UCI Interviewer ringing through.

Frank Venable: Hello?

Howard Black: Frank, it’s Howard.

Frank’s tone was one of mild surprise and slight hesitation.

Frank Venable: Oh! Uh… what’s up?

Howard Black: You remember that interview we had set-up for me to do over the phone in a few days?

Frank Venable: Yeah, why?

Howard Black: I’d like to do it now, if you got the time.

There was a momentary pause on the line. Frank’s response was hesitant.

Frank Venable: I mean… I suppose. You know, I’m not Hank Brown – I’m not just waiting around to interview people and nothing else.

Howard pursed his lips, his frustration slightly palpable as his voice raised. His tone was firm.

Howard Black: And Frank, I’m the UCI World Heavyweight Champion, okay? I’m not some fucking rando like Shadowlove or Chase Jackson; I think you can give me a little accommodation.

Frank Venable: No, look Howie, I get it. Sure, you’re the champ and all, but don’t think you can abuse that. Yeah, I’ll give you this interview now, but this isn’t precedent, okay?

Howard sighed, the voice of the interviewer making clear he wouldn’t be toyed with.

Howard Black: Alright, fine. Cool. Just this once.

Frank Venable: How long do you have?

Howard Black: About an hour.

Frank Venable: Alright, that’s fine. And why the hell do you want to switch it up, anyway? Didn’t you book this so you’d have something to do while driving?

Howard shrugged – not that Frank could see it.

Howard Black: Just in the right mood for it now.

Frank Venable: Gotcha…

There was a pause on the line – two men silently contemplating the other and curious about their mentality. With a sigh, Frank spoke again.

Frank Venable: Let me get my stuff. Hold on a second.

After a few minutes of dead line, the sound of motion indicated the return of FPV.

Frank Venable: Okay, ready?

Howard Black: Yeah.

Frank Venable: Good evening, ladies and gentleman! It’s your favorite backstage interview, FPV, here with UCI World Heavyweight Champion, Howard Black! You’ve all been asking for Howie to sit down with me since his return, and now with less than a week until his first title defense against Alex Richards at Meltdown, here he is! Howard, you’re driving from Kansas City to Phoenix, isn’t that right?

Howard Black: Sure is.

Frank Venable: And can I ask what in God’s name has compelled you to do that?

Howard Black: I, uh… I guess I just have my habits.

Frank Venable: Do you think it’ll affect your performance in the ring? Maybe the exhaustion or whatnot?

Howard Black: Um… No, actually I think the opposite. I think you adjust better to time zone changes by driving over them and slowly acclimating than skipping through several in the course of a few hours. Don’t get me wrong, driving back will be a real bitch, but I don’t think it’s going to physiologically affect me.

Frank Venable: What about the tedium of the drive? Any mental impact? Or maybe the time you could be spending training?

Howard paused, pursing his lips again in thought.

Howard Black: No. I’ve been studying Alex for quite some time now. If anything, I think this time in the car gives me more time to think about the match. Study it. Get into the right mentality and develop my strategy.

Frank Venable: Do you think you need much of a strategy for this match?

Howard scoffed.

Howard Black: No. It’s Alex Richards.

Frank Venable: Some say Alex Richards is an interim contender, with pundits arguing his resume and current record isn’t worthy of this match.

Howard Black: They’re right.

Frank Venable: You think so?

Howard Black: Absolutely. Of all three remaining members of the Guardians, Alex Richards is the least impressive. Polar and Bonnie are the Tag Team Champions; Bonnie has a shot at Updegraff, so why is Polar treading water in a match against Jayden Thunder? What did Alex do to deserve this shot – beat a member of Syndicate? If that’s the case, I think Wentworth deserves this shot for beating David Sanchez, or maybe Chase Jackson for beating Jessica Buck. Richards has done nothing exceptional.

Frank Venable: All things considered, Richards has actually had a rather good singles record in UCI. His last defeat was months ago.

Howard Black: And?

Frank Venable: You don’t think it’s a bit delusional to dismiss him so easily?

Howard Black: Wasn’t I dismissed? Am I not still being dismissed despite everything I’ve accomplished? Oh, so Richards has beaten Kemp, See Jay Three, and Andre Holmes – so what. I’ve beaten Holmes, Scarecrow, Andre Jenson, Wentworth Updegraff, and Shadowlove. My competition has been head and shoulders more difficult than that of Richards, even if his padded record suggests otherwise. Richards has always been lucky enough to catch people when they’re lazy and apathetic; frankly I don’t blame them. Richards is the most boring opponent I can imagine having to face.

Frank Venable: Boring?

Howard Black: Yeah, boring. What’s he going to do? Call me a midget? Call me a misogynist? I don’t think Richards ever has his head in the game – he’s too busy getting loaded to be bothered with actually putting meaningful effort into a fight. He’s too content with being a sideliner. Alex Richards is the second string quarterback called up because the starter was injured. If Jay Omega was around, Richards wouldn’t be in this match.

Frank Venable: But you can’t deny his physical abilities.

Howard Black: Sure I can; taking down big guys in the ring is my forte. Has it not been thoroughly demonstrated against opponents like Bates and Oblivion? Why does Richards think he’ll have some edge against me that they didn’t? The fact is that Richards was the least accomplished member of Pantheon and is the least accomplished member of the Guardians. He’s the kid brother – he’s the also-ran. There are league, Frank, and Alex isn’t in mine. He’s a minor league player; he may be the best, but he’s only the best in the Minors.

Frank Venable: So if you consider Alex beneath you, I assume you’re looking forward to facing David Sanchez in the future?

Howard Black: What makes you think Sanchez is worthy, either?

Frank Venable: His reign as UCI Intercontinental Champion was nothing to sneeze at. He’s also demonstrated the desire to face for the UCI World Heavyweight Championship.

Howard Black: And? Has he earned that shot at me? Who has Sanchez put away that merit him be put on my level? He’s made clear he wants a shot – great first step. Since then, he lost his championship everyone thought so highly about.

Frank Venable: You distracted him, did you not?

Howard Black: And that’s all it took? Why does everyone fall for these stupid distractions? It’s the oldest trick in the book – Sanchez got out of his head and it cost him. He’s been out of his head for a while now. If anything, Sanchez losing the belt in such a fashion proves he’s not ready yet.

Frank Venable: But if he was given that shot, you’d be unwise to dismiss him.

Howard Black: In the same way I’m not going to dismiss Alex Richards. There’s only one thing on my mind going to Meltdown: him.

Frank Venable: Not David Sanchez?

Howard Black: David Sanchez isn’t my opponent. If I think about Sanchez, I’ll be wrestling to beat him. How you beat David Sanchez is not the same way you beat Richards; I have to keep my mind on Richards. There’s a difference between confidence and apathy. I’m not apathetic in facing the Duke; I’m going to go as hard against him as I’d go against anyone. That’s what you do as champion: you never take days off. I kicked Andre Jenson’s ass because I put as much effort into beating him as I did into beating Crow. Jenson just required less effort to take down; it was an easy, overkill victory. Richards is going to be just as much of an easy, overkill victory.

The Nebraska Crossing Outlet mall flew past him – it was twenty more minutes to Lincoln. The two were quiet for a moment.

Howard Black: Do you have any more questions, Frank?

Frank Venable: Yeah, um, this wasn’t on my list, but…

He paused, perhaps in hesitation.

Frank Venable: What’s going on, Howie? There’s a lot of rumors that something bad happened to make you like this. Some folks think it’s an act to distract from something bigger. All these people are speculating on what this whole “I’m sorry” thing means – what it meant when you told Crow you loved him before you practically snapped his arm in half. What do you have to say, Howie? Tell us.

Howard went quiet, his eyes locked on the road as his mind turned the question over. Was it worth talking about? The blood was on the wall – perhaps he might as well just admit it. But what would it do? Would anyone believe him?


Frank Venable: Howie? Are you still there?

Howard shook his head – no, of course he couldn’t say that. It didn’t matter – he needed to keep the act up.

Howard Black: Sometimes, Frank…

He paused again, his voice filled with hesitation. He swallowed, mustering the courage to be that character once more; the one who struck fear into the hearts of the company. The one he’d be just fine during this interview until that question.

Howard Black: …Life isn’t fair. Truth be told, Cory deserved to be champion. But I also deserved to be champion. He had his time – he was unlucky enough to have it when it was my time. In this business, there’s only one person you can look out for: yourself. I have a family to provide for. I also have to think about my own legacy; this was what I needed to underline everything I did. I was tired of being second place. I was tired of being an afterthought or the supporting actor in my own movie. I did what I had to do. I stepped into the ring with Cory, I twisted his mind into knots, I punked him out, then I took the belt from him. And because I did so in a way that endeared me to no one – because I wised up to the fact that I couldn’t be the same doormat I had been for so long if I wanted to succeed – I have been hated and vilified.

The people in this company are hypocrites for their treatment of me. No one wants to talk about how I was bullied and tormented throughout my career at WCF. No one wants to mention how the breaking of my arm and possible ruining of my career was met with a literal clap by Thomas Bates. I stood up for Dune in the face of Joey Flash wanting to literally murder him. I mentored younger wrestlers like Spencer Adams and took a stand against toxic issues which led me to be persona non grata. I was double crossed by Jay Omega, who I respected, in Ultimate Showdown. I went out on a limb for Kaz Mazy, whom everyone had given up on. The sacrifices I made and abuse I took were towering.

And now when I’m tired of sacrificing and taking it, I’m the bad guy? When I finally take a swipe at Grayson Pierce after months of him defaming me, I’ve gone too far? When I’m straight-up with Andre Holmes rather than talk behind his back like Scarecrow, I’m the prick?

Frank Venable: You don’t think making a joke about the tragic death of Grayson Pierce’s kids is going to far?

Howard Black: And Grayson didn’t make comments about the death of Christian Malignaggi? There is an absolute double standard being enforced. It’s fucking revolting. So yeah, I decided to not even bother. Did I feel bad for what I did to Crow? Well, sure, but also no. Am I going to feel bad for embarrassing Alex Richards? Well, yes and no. It’s soul-crushing to learn you aren’t good enough or aren’t ready. You have no idea what I went through when I lost at Ultimate Showdown and had my arm broken the next week. But it has to happen. It’s how you get better. Maybe Alex will wake up.

Frank Venable: That’s… an interesting perspective.

There was another pause.

Frank Venable: Any last comments?

Howard Black: I’m good.

Frank Venable: Well, that’s all for tonight UCI Faithful. I’m your host, FPV. See you later.

Frank hung up the phone – no debriefing, no friendly banter afterward. It didn’t bother Howard – he had nothing to say to Frank. All that was left was the remained of a ten minute drive into Lincoln as the first exit for Waverly glided behind him. He’d spend one night home – a home where he wasn’t welcome and would gain no happiness – before he’d be back on the road towards his addiction. He turned the stereo back up: it had cycled once through the playlist and was back on “House of the Rising Son.” After Lincoln, he’d be going back to the Warehouse – the ruin of many a poor boy. And God, he knew he was one.

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