Sit

6:00 AM

Blinking red the digital clock, the numbers a volley akin to white phosphorus. Starting late was the worst. With retirement from the old life came a freedom from routines. The ability to draw the covers and ease back to slumber. No more. An hour late, punctuated at five minute intervals, the shrill chirp from the alarm. The rap of his palm against the snooze button. Why not just cut off the alarm? Why keep the cycle repeating? The micro naps between the alarm cry only made him feel worse, merely kept him on edge. And just as he would settle in–

6:05 AM

Brandon wasn’t alone on this trip; Amy was caught with him, and though she was a heavier sleeper, if this spiral continued for much longer–

6:10 AM

Her heels hit him at the hip. Marvelous movement for someone who most assumed would need knee replacements just to be able to move at her age. The wonders of modern medicine. Her soles were cold. Another sensation to jar him from comfort. But it ebbed away. Slowly. Ever so slowly. Ever so–

6:15 AM

“Brandon...” she growled, throwing her blankets over her head. This kick was heavier.

He groaned, opening his eyes in full. Reaching over, he killed the alarm cycle, rolling onto his back. He threw his head back against the pillow, pawing at the nasal pillows from his CPAP, pulling them free with the rest of his mask before tossing it to the nightstand. He listened for the air to halt because if the tube bunched, it would keep the machine running all day, leaving behind a distinct burnt chemical smell that would make sleep impossible until the mask and tubing was replaced.

6:18 AM

There is no clarion call. Legs swung over the bed, he sat on the mattress, staring, already wanting to roll back in bed. His fingers crept across his scalp before sweeping his eyelids. Then, he was up. A later start than intended but there was still plenty of time left in the day to catch up, even if a big part of him would rather be doing anything else.

Grab the phone. A stop in the bathroom. He’d been putting that off as well, as if the need wasn’t growing with each second. Once up, a commitment is made, and until he was ready, why bother? A wash cloth soaked with hot water pressed against his eyes and the bridge of his nose, his fingers working to massage overtop of them. Clad in nothing but a pair of boxers, he walked from the bathroom to the hallway to the living room, looking at his little man, Cheddar, sleeping on his kennel pad. The senior pug was wound tight, limbs seized, a sign of a rough night for the good boy. The pad would’ve been in the bedroom, but over the past year, it was hard for him to walk that far. Better to keep it in the living room to so he could be comfortable.

In the time absent routine, Brandon would take his time with his coffee. Grind and french press. There was something soothing to the process. Such creature comforts had become distant. A simple grind in a filter and purified water in the coffeemaker. No cream. Black. No French Vanilla. He loved French Vanilla.

A price paid to try and stay at the apex of combat sports.

He wasn’t alone any longer; Cheddar waddled into the kitchen, the tag on his collar acting as wind chime. A familiar whine. “Sorry to wake you, bud.” He stooped down to a knee as the coffee bubbled, giving him some wake up pets, then a face rub over his wrinkles. “Good to go out?” Cheddar stumbled as he tried to stand back up, but with his feet gathered underneath him, he made his way to the door, following his old man into the backyard. They didn’t need to go far.

Cloudy, but the air was stinky. An uncomfortable film lacquering the skin. He hated humidity. Always had. He brought out his phone, looking to see what he’d missed over the course of the night. Angelica Brooks had been very busy.

-So for the Cast, think it’d be smart to go over potential win 50.

--Are there any internal plans for this possibly happening?

--Probably going to have to touch on the rumors of you and Wade fighting backstage from a few months back. Some statements you’ve made definitely haven’t cast him or LT in the best light.

--Just want to give heads up for what I’ll hit you with.

--Sorry for the deluge, just got a burst of thought and wanted to get it out there before I forgot.

As his pup finished his business, Brandon grabbed the scoop off the back porch and filled a small baggie, tying it off and tossing it near the glass door. It’d be a lie to say Wade Elliot hadn’t been top of mind since the announcement of the bout for ReVival. Such was the way of things.

In his mind, he was pulling double duty in regards to cleaning up doggie messes.

Whether it’s Rose or Clay Byrd, they’re parroting a smear that has been ingrained into the ecosystem of PRIME. Hero. The gallant knight who comes on down at the first sign of darkness, ready to strike down the evils of the squared circle. No matter how much I’ve said it, no matter my actions, it’s been such a fundamental sticking point that I’ve had to fight with, address. Hell...despite intention...had to become it. Not at all times. It's tiring, burrowing in deep, especially at the times of vulnerability I’ve felt. Those valleys between the peaks. 

When I returned with PRIME in 2022, I discussed at length, with Lindsay Troy, what we envisioned for the reborn promotion. She’d tried on so many occasions to get me off the sidelines, whether it was the place that had the demon brain man with the Heinz 57 eyes or the Weird Place in Chicago. Over and over, it was lawless trash, getting in the way of the sport of professional wrestling. Run-ins and escalation. I felt like we both agreed that PRIME should be something better. Something more.

It wasn’t just an agreement; it was a promise. The new PRIME wouldn’t devolve into the insanity that had taken place before. Angelo Deville wouldn’t be able to run roughshod with his homophobia and racism, orchestrating the downfall of enemies for near a year behind an army of sycophants. Devin Shakur damn near crippling Tyler Rayne by compound fracturing both his legs? The invasion of Sin City Championship Wrestling and The Dead Man’s Hand? Hell, even what I did to Caesar at Tropical Turmoil all those years ago? Unacceptable. No...we were going to wrestle in the ring, and PRIME was going represent what she herself had fought so desperately for during her entire time as a wrestler here.

There would be checks and balances. We would have a full staff of security, not just from the MGM Grand, but from our own people. Dam. The Enemigos. But topping it all off...we’d have a former multiple time Intense Champion ready to throw down the law. We’d have Wade Elliott watching our backs.

That sounded good to me. Hell, few cared about PRIME like Wade. He knew what this place meant. And I liked the call. I respected the call.

Until what he did made it so I couldn’t anymore.

Singles win number fifty. How insane was such a mark? PRIME was known throughout its time as the pinnacle of the sport, the Number One By Definition tagline emblematic of the pool of talent it housed. And in its entire history, throughout its ages, nobody else was close to such a mark. Not Chandler Tsonda or Lindsay Troy. Not Killean Sirrajin or Matt Ward. Not Jason Snow or Nova. The closest among them to such a feat were behind him by near double digits. They’d need to come back to this PRIME and have an undefeated year to draw close in the race.

Doing so came with a cost. The physical. The mental. The spiritual. A dedication to the craft, longevity, staying power. Brandon lost nearly a year in top level ability thanks to Ivan Stanislav hurting his shoulder, thanks to his own son tearing his tricep. Recovery. The sands in the hourglass were always undefeated, but if he could slow them, mitigate them..reaching into the refrigerator, he grabbed the mason jar on the top shelf, filled to the brim with overnight oats. Steel cut. No fruit. Plain fat free greek yogurt.

Bland.

Distant were the days spent on the beaches with Lindsay, soaking up the rays while bilking a money mark for what amounted to a well paid vacation to go in, wrestle, and dominate. They’d eat plantains and other local delicacies. Since leaving Pakistan, he’d become a foodie. Since that night at UltraViolence, food wasn’t for anything else but fuel. Counted macros. Clean fuel used for an engine. Less wear and tear on joints. Help his tendons better recover. He sat at the table, untwisting the top of the oats, a spoon in hand. There was a cost to being at the top of PRIME. This...he’d convinced himself...was one of them.

He didn’t want to hate Wade Elliott. Their paths had rarely crossed, in truth. There was no grand rivalry, no rich through-line in their pasts. One doesn’t get to such a place in PRIME without a cost. Going in and wrestling, dominating others physically. Breaking their wills. Smashing their hopes and crushing long desired dreams. Brandon had to find that place within himself to pull from. Somewhere within he’d walled away. The price of the return.

The other price stared at him through his phone.

Covington wins Silver at 2024 USMC Juniors.

Take a spoonful of breakfast with the doom scroll and stop to watch the matches. Try and choke it down when he realizes the pride for his son and knows that, regardless, he hates you. Brandon had stripped himself of so much to continue on.

Had it been worth it?

I’d like to say this isn’t personal, but the truth is? I can’t abide by that. There’s a danger to the manufacture of rage. Getting to that place where I need to go to do what I need to do in the ring. There’s a burden to it. A heaviness. It all builds to this crescendo, and in the ring, it gets spent, and in the days subsequent, I have to deal with fallout. The drain of it. The loss of energy. Doesn’t matter if it's win or lose. It’s a feature of the hunt.

Not always. Not always, I have to remind myself. Just like it wasn’t always me, sitting at the table, choking down mush. See, I’d punished myself a lot over a lot of things. My own actions. Over the abuse I suffered at the hands of my father that I had no control over. I'd punished and denied myself, and when I returned to the world, I mandated that I was going to live. To enjoy life. Food. Cigars. Family. My community. All of that simple shit that filled the vacancies within myself. I had to trim up for the return to PRIME, but one of the only good things I got from my parents was high metabolism. I work out hard and heavy, and I can keep enjoying food. I spend my time being available for media, for being the vanguard for PRIME’s launch to a worldwide touring brand, but I still come home and make a difference in the Chippewa Valley. And then I got kicked in the face and my nose got shattered and a little lizard boy grabbed a bottom rope and I proceeded to get mind fucked.

Sit there.

Put the pieces back together. 

That, I understand. The sleep deprivation and anxiety attacks as a result had my mind in a fog. Like I was in need of severe reconstruction beyond just my nose. I’d say I don’t want to hate you, Wade, but that’s a lie. 

I’d like to say your existence doesn’t gall me right now, but that’d be untrue. And it's not over the 07 Jewel In The Crown you get to be linked as runner up in when that tournament was actually between me and Tsonda.

I wish I’d have grabbed the thread on those nights in 22 rather than seeing it now. But hey, that’s what being my opponent does for someone like you; it shines the spotlight hot and heavy over your festering cyst of bullshit. I’m not alone in saying I’m not a hero. Dusk and Pontiff and Diamonds...you haven’t had to come face to face with someone who has had to wear the cape. Who has had to be pointed at as the moral savior of PRIME. 

But now you do.

And from all of them, let me just tell you this; it’s time you know what you’ve cost all of us, you worthless, lazy mutt.

Fuel. A few bites was all it took to turn his stomach. Week after week, month after month, the same morsels choked down. Festival Foods had been open for just over an hour, and the butcher shop was already bustling with pre-rush work, roasts packaged for customers to pick up later in the evening, other Sunday orders being prepared. Brandon’s eye scanned the meat case, focusing in on the cuts of steak, waiting with his ticket in hand.

74

A quick call. Porterhouse, third one up. The man in the smock affirmed his tastes. Good choice, sir. Very good choice. Anything else? The New York Strip near the back looks pretty good, he’ll take that too. Wrapped in butcher paper and price stickered at the seam, then tossed into the cart with the thyme and garlic and salted butter. Next would be a trip down the coffee aisle, and then, maybe some eggs.

A Diamond hoodie and Diamond athletic short ensemble with a pair of PRIME flip flops; Youngblood failed being inconspicuous, gawkers looking his way, snapping pictures. In truth, over the course of the ReVival, he’d become more and more withdrawn from the community. It was like he was waking up into the present after being asleep in cryostasis, stuck so deep in the past.

Which of the grinds would be best? French vanilla would sure hit the spot.

It’s me and it’s Colton. It was Avalon, but then he became a Bandit. Caesar and Hanlon, but one has disappeared from existence and the other has disappeared up his own ass. Jared Sykes and Justine Calvin. We’ve spent a goddamn age being chewed up with machine gun fire, having a bunch of shitbags revel in the fact that we’re failing to protect PRIME and be the heroes it needs. 

How about this?

How about I’m tired of having to own the sins of Wade fucking Elliott because HE failed at doing his job.

You and Dam, Wade. You and Dam. You were front and center as security. You were the cavalry. The front line to make it so the horseshit stopped. And while I was working to rebuild my goddamn face at the end of 2022, I realize...I realize just where a big fundamental shift happened in my mind. Where I started to believe the bullshit.

We’re a few weeks away from the September 9th, bud. The man who caved my face in, who took my Universal Championship...he was set to defend that title against both Julian Bathory and Cancer Jiles. Near two years ago, Bad Dog. I wanted him to make it through that defense. I craved facing off against him at Colossus in Madison Square Garden. Atken v. Youngblood II, for the richest prize in all of sports. A chance to redeem myself through combat. And Bathory and Jiles...they brained him. They concussed him and put him in a wheelchair and they did it because you and yours sat backstage, dicks in hand, letting it happen.

Nearing the two year anniversary of UltraViolence 2022 as well. I’d have loved to keep my mind on what was going on that night. Truly would’ve. But as I was preparing for Caesar, as others of us were preparing for our own matches, Paxton Ray and Jonathan Rhine went and got a win over the eGG Bandits. A feel good moment for all. And then the Lullabies started happening. Raining down. Was it seven? Eight? Which one took Jon’s legs away from him, Wade? Where were you and Dam and the Enemigos? Were you in the back, conducting meetings on contingencies in case Jiles won and took the Universal to The Weird Place? 

When you cashed your check for that night’s work, did you put ‘For Nora’ in the memo field, you sack of shit, you absolute fucking disgrace.

Or was it the show after, when everyone else was in the fucking Skybox, treating it like it was Fort Knox, while you watched on a monitor, playing gin fucking rummy with Nova, whining about your cards, when a FUCKING WAR CRIME WENT DOWN IN THE RING?! Huh? Huh? Oh yeah, me and mine, we had to be the heroes then. The show after that, when those Convoy pieces of shit were going to try it again, YOU STILL COULDN’T GET OFF YOUR NO GOOD FUCKING ASS AND DO ANYTHING! WE HAD TO COME OUT AND SAVE THE DAY!

You worthless sack of shit. How goddamn embarrassing is it that after all of that, after all of that, you got put in the Hall of Fame at that year’s Colossus? Yes, let’s reward The Bad Dog for what he accomplished. All as it’s on us to save the day. It’s on us to do what is necessary. 

You couldn’t be there to make a difference for any of that...but you can be there to stick your nose in business involving me and your fiance when it came to Snow? Like you understand? Like you got say in the matter? It's between US. Do you know FUCK ALL about the lengths I went to try and find my brother in arms? Every avenue, a dead end, pointing to an unmarked grave in a place only a handful of us will ever know about. And she kept that hidden from me. Your soon to be wife wants to get flippant and act like smart ass Lindsay Troy, like it's none of my concern. What, you think I was going to hit her? Like I haven't been dogged with that shit for the last eighteen years. And I paid for it. Want to run that game? Better make sure she doesn't end up barefoot and pregnant in a trailer. 

I paid the blood price for my sins. You? I guess there's blood in the laser treatment when they removed those stars and fucking bars you wore on your goddamn breast.

I’m going to do what I should’ve done to you after you failed to protect us. You think Diamonds are cheap? They’re the hardest mineral naturally occurring on Earth. Crafting them takes time. Precision. Hard work. Diligence.

Earned.

Something that some wannabe trashy junkyard dog wouldn’t understand.

It’s okay...you’ll have plenty of time to think on it. Sit, Boy. It’s the only thing you’ll be good for after I rip off your goddamn leg.

Food is fuel. That doesn’t mean it has to be bland and joyless.

Coffee on the percolator. The cast iron skillet, piping hot, and the porterhouse having a wonderful sear. A brush of the thyme and garlic. Baste with butter. Let it rest for ten minutes. The scent wafts through the house as the early morning ebbs away. Cheddar panted at the foot of his old man, eyes looking upward with wanting. Two eggs. Make it three. They sizzle and set, and the juices work to imbue them with flavor.

Pour himself a cup. The boys are no longer alone in the kitchen. “I thought we were trying to do the whole clean eating thing.”

“I won an Almasy eating whatever the fuck I wanted.” On the cutting board, he sliced off the tenderloin from the porterhouse, making it into miniature strips before putting it on the kitchen floor for Cheddar. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to go back to doing that.” He looked over his shoulder to Amy, pointing out towards the counter. “I got you a Strip if you want it.”

She sighed in relief. “Oh THANK fuck...” she trailed off, grabbing a coffee cup before pouring herself a hefty amount. “If I was going to choke down another night of salad and chicken breasts–”

“French vanilla is in the fridge, if you want it.” He tore into his own steak as he put hers on the skillet, letting it settle as he dipped his forkful into the yolk. “And how many eggs you going to want?”