Lions and Tigers and Ker-Bears (Oh My!)

This journey is almost over, Dad. The finish line is in sight.

In just a few short weeks, your boy will be back home in the Emerald City.

Mom can’t wait, as you can imagine. Been blowing up my phone since Portland. Asking if I’m eating right. Nagging me as to why I can’t stop in on my way up to Vancouver. Being a mom, I guess you could say.

If only she could understand that this journey’s final destination was always meant to be a grand homecoming.

UltraViolence in Seattle. The perfect storm of consequences and events. A once in a lifetime opportunity to compete on the big stage in front of the city that forged this dynasty.

The only appropriate setting for the world to witness the culmination of our lives’ work.

That’s always been the dream, Dad. For the world to finally witness a Kuroyama walk out onto Lumen Field as a champion. To watch him fight as a champion. And, ultimately, to watch him leave as a champion.

An opportunity like this is everything I’ve been painstakingly working toward since coming here to PRIME.

But, as you’d say, making that dream happen isn’t going to be as easy as clicking my heels and wishing it into reality. Even with the apex in sight, I have to bolster my grip and brace for the coming windshear.

The climb only gets more perilous from here.

And Sage Pontiff is the name of the man standing between me and the summit.

THE SCARECROW

Scott Hunter swiped the alert clear from his screen and stuffed his phone back into his pocket.

Still yoked with the effects of Post Traumatic Scoville Disorder, Kerry Kuroyama could practically feel the acid churning within his panicking stomach.

“I swear, Scott, I think you’re on a crusade to destroy my digestive system…”

Hunter’s response came out in a nearly unintelligible mutter.

“Guess all I do is screw things up…”

“Just a joke, man,” Kerry responded, feeling pained by the terse reaction. Humor had never been his strong suit.

Bags over their shoulders, they exited the gym through the glass front doors at the entrance and stepped out into the streets of downtown Vancouver. They were a convenient ten minute walk from the hotel, though much of the sidewalks were woefully obstructed by the tents and shanties of the city’s homeless.

“The wing place is just around the corner, right?” inquired Kerry. “I’ll grab the food, catch up with you back at the hotel. Cool with you?”

Only Scott’s troubled expression suggested that it was anything but.

“Dude, I gotta ask… are you still mad at me?”

Kerry felt struck by the question. Was he mad? Sure, but then, Kerry Kuroyama took to constant irritability like burning flame to dry kindling. However, it was the “at me” part that threw him for a loop.

“The hell you talking about, Scott?”

It was imperative he get to the bottom of this. The next title defense was in a week’s time, and more than ever, he needed a wingman he could rely on.

Scott let out a groan of exasperation, anxiously running a hand through his immaculately flowing auburn mullet.

“I mean, throwing in the towel,” he said, morosely. “Like, I know I screwed up. I know it’s my fault that you guys lost. And I’m sorry, dude! I’m supposed to be your wingman, and I failed! But Kerry, if you’re angry with me, then just tell me, dude! Tell me what I gotta do to make up for it!”

The shame hit Kerry like a wave. He sighed and looked to his feet, searching for something to say to make it better.

But there was no getting around the guilt of only now realizing how quiet and reticent Scott had been over the past week. Knowing that the whole time, while he was mentally preoccupied on taking the next step, his wingman had been silently beating himself up over nothing.

“I’m not mad at you, Scott,” said Kerry. “I was never mad at you to begin with. Dude, how can I be mad at you? You’re Scott.”

As though a lightbulb had gone off in his head, Hunter blinked. Why yes, naturally, this is factual; he is Scott. And how could anyone possibly be mad at Scott Hunter? The very notion is ridiculous.

“If anyone should take the blame for that loss, it’s me,” explained Kerry. “I’m the one that fucked up and put myself into a bad situation. Throwing in that towel prevented it from getting worse. That’s exactly what a wingman should do. If you hadn’t acted, then I’d be walking into this next match with one less fully functioning arm. Mad at you?”

Kuroyama shook his head and clasped his wingman on the shoulder.

“Nah, Scott. If anything, I’m proud of you. In fact, you’ve fully reaffirmed my trust in you.”

Kerry could immediately see a weight lift from Scott’s sagging shoulders. Hunter seemed to grow two inches taller, his beaming smile finally showing itself.

“Cool, thanks, man!” he exclaimed. “I really needed to hear that!”

“Don’t mention it,” said Kerry with a nod. “So, back on topic here, what are we watching tonight?”

Scott’s face went stone serious. He answered the query with a Patrick Swayze impression that was so on point, it was scary.

“‘If you want the ultimate, you gotta be willing to pay the ultimate price,’” he quoted. “‘It’s not tragic to die doing what you love.’”

Kuroyama nodded, picking up exactly what his wingman was putting down.

“Point Break it is,” he said. “Have it cued up and ready for me then. I’ll get those wings and be back in no time.”

Kerry handed over his bag and turned to leave.

“Okay, but don’t forget the breaded mushrooms! I got three extra large orders.”

“...breaded mushrooms?” echoed Kerry in confusion. “Scott, why do you need that many--?”

Even as he asked the question, the expectedly absurd answer dawned on him.

“Because, I hear mushrooms are Pontiff’s special sauce,” explained Scott. “They give him Super Mario powers, or something. So I figure, why not level the playing field?”

“I don’t think these mushrooms work that way, Scott,” bemoaned Kerry. “But, then again, I guess it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Anyway, see you in a few.”

“Catch ya later!”

They bumped fists, and went their separate ways.

Kerry approached the corner, occasionally tiptoeing around the odd transient catching zees on the long strip of concrete. He was grateful to be by himself, even if only for a few minutes. While the talk with Scott seemed to smooth things over, it also stood to reason that he had opened a sluice gate from which new doubts and consternations flowed forth.

Scott Hunter was hardly a serious man, but his uncharacteristic dedication to the wingman role was absolute. Problem was, while he found that he had the utmost faith in Scott’s ability to watch his back, the faith he had in himself had dwindled over the course of the past several weeks.

The Crash defense had been too close for comfort. The same went for that harrowing moment in the ring when Farthington had him by the arm. Swift thinking in pivotal moments was all that kept him on the path to bringing the championship with him into Seattle.

But while Kerry was the one holding the belt, there was still a partnership to consider. Trust was always meant to travel both ways. And only now was he beginning to understand the consequences of not holding up his end of the bargain.

He had failed, and Scott had suffered for it.

Internally, he swore to himself that he would never let it happen again.

He turned the corner. The wing place was only a hundred meters and some change up the sidewalk.

He didn’t make it five steps when a voice spoke out from behind him.

“Kerry…”

Instinctively, Kuroyama turned to it.

How long the man had been following him, he couldn’t quite say. The tattered, oversized clothing said homeless, but the face beneath the patches of black whiskers suggested he was still fairly young.

But there was something strangely familiar in his dark eyes…

“Beto?!”

Beto Gutierrez blinked. No doubt it was him. Kerry approached.

“Shit, man, is that you?” he said in astonishment. “How long’s it been? The hell you doing up here in Vancou…ver…?”

He trailed off and froze the moment his eye caught the glimmer of the blade.

“Wallet,” demanded Beto. “Hand it over.”

Kerry’s hands came up. The situation had taken a surprising turn.

Perhaps flying solo was not the best idea.

“Beto…” he said softly. “What is this? What’s wrong, man? Talk to me.”

Gutierrez came a step closer. Kerry could see that his eyes were wide and bloodshot. One hand, open and shaking, came up ready to receive, while the other, tensely closed around the knife’s hilt, was more than ready to give.

“C’mon, vamos, just give me the fucking wallet!” he rasped, a man on the verge of desperation. “I know you’re good for it, big shot!”

Beto continued his approach. Kuroyama could feel his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. There was still an inkling of hope that he could somehow deescalate the situation.

But then, a sense of clarity washed over him. The sense of danger suddenly faded. All he could see was the opportunity, staring him in the face.

And from somewhere inside, a voice was screaming at him to jump on it.

So he did.

“Beto… I’m sorry, man…”

Zero to a hundred, Kerry exploded off the balls of his feet and flung himself forward.

Who am I to judge an addict, Dad?

If these past few months have taught me anything, it’s that I’m a junkie in my own right.

And the name of the drug is violence.

As you know well by now, there’s been a lasting need for that rush ever since I left London. A need to receive pain, in order to better understand my threshold. A need to inflict pain, to test the limits of my morality.

The fight is the only place left in this world where I feel like me anymore, Dad. The only state of being where I’m free from all this goddamn anger and anxiety that clings to me through every waking breath.

Thing is, I never felt psilocybin was required to understand that about myself. All I really need is a steady stream of motherfuckers bold enough to step into the ring with me.

And right now, the Alias Championship is the key to keeping that stream flowing. Chum for the sharks, in ten pounds of leather and metal.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned from dipshits of this sport like Rezin, it’s that even the stoners can stumble their way into success.

So I don’t know if Sage Pontiff is a modern-day Bodhisattva, or just another common burnout. I don’t know if behind all the preachy, meandering, over-analytical speeches, there’s anything of any actual substance or merit in there. I don’t know if he understands what the Alias Championship means to me -- what this journey has meant to me, and what I’ve become through it.

Frankly, I don’t even know if he was aware of my existence before this match was announced.

What I do know about Sage Pontiff is that he can fight.

And I’m counting on it.

Because all I need from him... is an opportunity.

The opportunity to fulfill that need.

THE TIN MAN

Kerry sat on the curb, in the shadow of the officer. The nametag read “TREMBLAY”.

“Kerry Kuroyama.”

“...care to spell that?”

He shut his eyes and sighed.

“...Kay-You-Are-Oh-Why-Aye-Em-Aye.”

The cop nodded, jotting it down letter for letter. Kerry was losing himself in the criss-crossing red and blue lights flashing across the buildings.

“So just to recap, you’re saying you’re familiar with the suspect?”

Kerry tried to focus on the question. Someone was encroaching on his space -- one of the EMTs, working a needle and thread through the three-inch wide gash in his shoulder. He hadn’t noticed he’d been cut during the struggle until things had settled down.

“That’s right,” said eventually Kerry answered. “His name’s Alberto Gutierrez.”

The tip of Officer Tremblay’s pencil paused over his notepad.

“...and how do you spell that?”

Kerry rolled his eyes, and gave Vancouver’s finest a second lesson in spelling.

“Thank you,” said Tremblay, dryly. “Now, is there any reason you can think of why the suspect may have targeted you this evening?”

Kerry’s gaze shifted from the lights on the building to his own hands cradled in his lap. Beto’s blood had begun to dry.

“No,” said Kerry, shaking his head. “Just showed up and demanded I hand over my wallet. Haven’t seen him in over seven years.”

Had it really been that long? Seemed like eons ago when the dim-witted kid from Sacramento first walked through the doors of The Dojo and asked for someone to show him the ropes.

And they did. And though it was like breaking in a stallion, Beto Gutierrez was revealed to be a natural in the ring. Even had prospects of going pro.

Now Kerry couldn’t help but wonder, what the hell happened?

The EMT working on his arm sealed the wound, clipped the thread, and told him to keep it clean for the next few weeks before returning to the ambulance, where the other emergency crewmembers were busy loading Beto into the back,

The bandages on his face were already soaked through.

“Is he going to be okay?” asked Kerry.

Tremblay paused again in his note-taking.

“...why do you care?” he countered.

Kerry looked up at the cop standing over him. The indifference in his face was more than salient. Just another night in Vancouver. These dealings with the insufferable dregs of society were commonplace.

And he had no heart for them. As someone paid to be a soulless stormtrooper, such a thing would have only served to interfere with his duty.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about him,” continued Officer Tremblay. “In my experience, the worst ones always turn out just fine.”

The ambulance doors slammed shut. The shriek of a siren filled the air. And the emergency vehicle peeled off, disappearing around a corner on its way to the nearest local medical facility.

“Anyway, I’m not pressing charges,” said Kerry, suddenly wanting to be anywhere else than that place. “Are we done here?”

“We can be, if that’s what you want,” said Tremblay, putting away his notepad and handing a business card. “Feel free to get ahold of me if you have any questions.”

Kuroyama audibly huffed as he swiped the card and pushed himself to his feet.

“Word of advice, sir?” began Tremblay, apparently having more to say. “Next time you run into a situation like this again, just hand over the wallet and run away. No price is worth the risk of someone’s life. Keep the cowboy shit in your own country.”

Officer Tremblay cleared his throat, readjusted his belt, and turned back to his car, missing the bird that Kerry was sending to the back of his head.

Then…

“Kerry!”

Relief washed over Kuroyama at the sight of Scott running up to the scene.

“You missed all of Point Break, dude!”

As he got closer, Scott slowed to a halt.

“Dude… are you okay?”

Kerry could only imagine what he was seeing. A nervous wreck, eyes wide, shirt splashed with blood, and stained hands that shook as he struggled to light a Luxury Black perched between his lips.

“I’m fine, Scott.”

But Hunter was visibly distraught.

“Dude… I should’ve been here.”

“I said I’m fine, Scott,” Kerry reassured him. “Really. Just… don’t tell Lindsay about this.”

His thumb continuously slipped from the wheel of his Zippo. Without thinking, Hunter hurried forward and offered his steady hands to light the cigarette for him.

“I should have been here, dude,” he repeated. “I’m your wingman.”

Kuroyama took a drag. The sensation of fire filled his chest. Slowly, the tremors went away.

What the fuck had come over him?

And why did it feel so goddamn good?

“I’m sorry, Scott,” he said. “I guess I wasn’t the only one looking for a fix tonight…”

Hunter’s head cocked to the side, and his face assumed the lost dog look.

“So wait… did you get the wings?”

We really tried to do our part with The Dojo, Dad.

We took in younger guys from underprivileged backgrounds. Tried to give them a necessary change in life direction. Tried to put them on the right track. Fighting poverty through the power of pro wrestling, or some shit.

I think it was important to Rocko that we do something. Maybe as a way of paying it forward, after you took him under your wing all those years ago and helped him out of his own situation. Or maybe as a mechanism to deal with his own demons.

But when The Dojo folded, so too did the lives of everyone we worked so hard to build up.

Maybe it was all in vain. Maybe we’re all condemned to be slaves to our worst instincts.

Even now, staring at this blood on my hands, I can't help but see myself as any different.

The point is, Dad, we tried.

Except the only thing that effort has left with me is the growing the dread of what I’m slowly becoming in this pursuit of glory.

I’m living an existence of close calls. Forever on the edge. Constantly contending with either outright hostility or stark indifference from all the other self-importants in that locker room. I scrape, strive, and suffer just to be something more, and my reward is a world that eagerly waits for my failure.

The deeper I get into this, the more I understand why you chose to settle down. Why Drakos chose to keep her ferocity caged in the back of a shitty bakery.

Outside of that ring, there’s no place for beasts like us in this society.

But a beast can still dream… right, Dad?

Can Sage?

Can he say his journey really compares to mine? Does he have any understanding of what this Alias Championship means to me? To US? Does he understand the lengths I will go to for the sake of keeping this dream of ours alive?

Does he have any ambitions to speak of whatsoever? Does he have the capacity to understand anything beyond his own insular delusions?

I couldn't tell you... but regardless, the Emerald City awaits.

You of all people would understand that I never set out to be a monster, Dad. But I’ll gladly put a motherfucker out of his misery if his suffering leads him in the way of our dream. So I’ll be Sage Pontiff’s fifty-year storm. I’ll give him that final ride he’s sought after his entire career.

As another Bodhisattva once said, “If you want the ultimate, you've got to be willing to pay the ultimate price.”

Willing or not, Sage is paying that price.

Vaya con fucking dios.

THE COWARDLY LION

There was a real temptation to hit the bar downstairs. Just for a finger or two was all he’d need to settle the nerves. But...

NO.

Feeding the insatiable appetite of one beast was enough for one night.

He found his phone. Dialed a number in the 317 area code. It rang. And rang. And rang.

Was he a fool to think anyone would be up this late? Maybe.

But then the line opened, and a ragged cough greeted him on the other end.

“Uhh--THANK YOU for callin’ the Set The Ring Ablaze Wrestling School!” croaked the familiar voice, speaking from halfway across the country.. “Our regular hours are--”

“Erik, it’s Kerry.”

A long pause followed.

“Sup, Kerry?” Rezin finally replied. “What can I do ya for?”

“Wanted to ask a small favor from you. A message to pass along to Rocko, next time you see him.”

Another pause. Then, a grunt.

“Okay, shoot...”

“Tell him that once I’m back in Seattle, I intend to reform The Dojo. And that his help isn’t needed.”

A third, even longer pause.

“That’s a tall order, Ker. Might need ya to do a favor for me in return.”

Kuroyama expected nothing less.

“What do you need?”

The pitch in the Goat Bastard’s voice dropped an octave. The words came out with guttural weight.

“Beat the shit outta Sage for me.”

The line went dead. Kerry smiled.

“Deal.”