The Fuckin' Wine Bar

A cool morning and a bright sun creeping over the Spring Mountain range. Cool for Vegas standards. Winter's swift approach made itself known at night when the temperatures dove into the forties, sometimes thirties. It made for better sleep, and better sleep meant crawling out of bed just a little bit earlier.

Early enough to leave his Queen in bed for an extra hour shut-eye. She deserved a day off from her early morning run.

Early enough to leave the German Shepard undisturbed at the foot of their bed.

Early enough that the clinking from retrieving a coffee mug wouldn't wake either of them.

A long sip straining through a gray mustache, followed by the wipe of a forearm and a long exhale from deep within his chest.

Twirling the coffee in his cup, sharp blue eyes scanning the yard. Quiet. Peaceful.

Intruder.

He spotted the black-tipped tail first, flicking as it rested in the dirt at the edge of the lawn. A tail belonging to a slender canine body, shades of tan, brown, and white flowing through its coat, leading to a pair of keen yellow eyes, black pupils like darts from across the grass.

Coyote.

He felt his body tense in the adirondack chair, and his hand stopped swirling his coffee. Narrowing eyes dared not stray, nor would Coyote's. It knew it had been spotted, as was the intention.

He swallowed hard. His mouth getting dry.

"You said you weren't comin' 'round no more."

Coyote did not flinch.

Breath quickened through the nose.

"Th'others come along?' he asked? "Th'dead man? Bill?"

Coyote did not respond. He curled his lips in.

"I don't need ya," he growled quietly. "Y'all told me I didn't need ya back then, an' I'm tellin' ya I don't need ya now."

Hot air through his nostrils as the Coyote refused to flinch. He sat forward in his seat, preparing to raise his voice.

But the German Shepard would do that for him.

Scratches against the glass sliding door accompanied by deep, muffled barks sent the Coyote trotting away. He stood from his chair, watching it disappear from view, before turning to the door and sliding it open, crouching to scratch the Shepard's ears and calm him down.

"Is everything alright?" came a voice from the stairs, tinged with the remnants of sleep.

He looked up to see his Queen at the foot of the stairs, rubbing the tired from her eyes, curls hanging in her vision.

"Everythin's fine," he said, patting the Shepard on the haunch and letting him through the door to investigate the yard.

"He must've seen somethin'."

"They got anythin' else in here?"

Wade watched the "legs" of his cabernet run down the bowl of his glass with a raised eyebrow.

"It's a wine bar, boss. They do wine here, and they do it real well. 'Sides, it's the third Friday of the month. My pick for drinks."

Dametreyus took a gentle sip of his Tempranillo, the glass looking comically small in his giant hand. Wade set his glass down on the marble bar top, feeling very out of place at the Garagiste Wine Room on the Las Vegas Strip. He crossed his arms over his gray t-shirt-clad chest and tapped his boot against the leg of his stool.

"C'mon, boss," Dam pleaded in his deep, harmonious tone. "At least pretenda lil' bit for your old buddy."

"Ah, it ain't th'wine or th'place," said Wade, waving the notion away. Dam couldn't help but snort, spinning his vintage within the glass.

"It's th'kid, ain't it?"

The Bad Dog turned a curious eye.

"Ray? Yer thinkin' I'm out've sorts 'cause've Paxton fuckin' Ray?"

Dam tilted his head, taking another small sip. "Seems like part've it."

Wade's turn to snort, but Dam was always right on the money. There was plenty tumbling around in The 'Bama Bruiser's noggin'; a wedding, first and foremost, the thought of which raised his blood pressure a little bit each day since he proposed to Lindsay Troy. Between travel, board meetings, and ReVivals, the Queen of the Ring had started putting together binders and idea boards for the big day, enough to make a man like Wade's head spin. The prospect and pressure of marrying the undisputed greatest woman in wrestling history, or maybe just greatest in wrestling period, took up a lot of mental bandwidth.

But he'd be a liar if Paxton Ray wasn't hiding in the shadows of his mind.

"C'mon, Wade," said Dam, scratching at his own gray stubble. "You were eggin' the kid on back in Salt Lake."

"I weren't eggin' nothin'," Wade scoffed. "The lil' shit came lookin' fer someone to hold his god-damn hand. All I told 'im was the fuckin' truth."

The bartender, dressed proper and placing glass in a mahogany hanging wine glass rack, turned a disapproving eye toward the language coming from Wade's mouth. Elliott held up an apologetic paw. Dam chuckled.

"I know, I ain't got a whole lotta love for him either," said Dam, nodding to the bartender for another tempranillo. "He's come a long way, though."

"Maybe," Wade replied, choking down a sip of his cabernet. "Not far enough in my book."

"'Cause you're the moral center 'round here, right boss?" Dam jabbed.

"I didn't put nobody in a god-damn wheel chair, Dam. An' I sure as shit didn't turn my back on nobod..."

The incredulous stare of Dametreyus stopped Wade's response dead.

"What? asked Elliott, exasperated.

"2009. ReVolution 192."

Wade threw his hands up, and rolled his eyes.

"I didn't like Killean all that much t'begin with! Sumbitch had it comin', shovin' his nose in my god-damn business..."

"And the show before that, 191 in Denver."

"Rayne? Me an' Rayne were never watchin' out fer each other. I hated that sonnuva bitch!"

"I ain't talkin' 'bout Tyler, boss."

The Southern Sparkplug couldn't keep up the fight. He knew exactly what Dam was talking about. The memory was burned into his consciousness. He exhaled heavy through his nose, and took a long, reluctant swig from his wine glass. As much as he didn't want to think about that night, he had no choice. It was like a scab that refused to heal over.

And probably never would.

Back in '09.

"C'mon, Angus."

Backstage at the Allen Fieldhouse in Denver, Colorado, Angus the Bluetick Hound stood torn, ears and head drooped in the center of the hallway.

At his side, with a rugged hand gripping his collar, was his master. The Bad Dog, Wade Elliott. With thunder in his eyes.

Down the hall, Lindsay Troy, who had become a close friend to Wade's four-legged companion.

Angus was saddened. He had seen Wade at his worst time and time again, but had remained at his side regardless. The so-called :Bad Dog" had rescued him, after all, and had gave him a name.

But the yelling, and the screaming between these two? It hurt him deeply.

What kind of man had Wade Elliott become? Angus could barely recognize him.

And Lindsay? She was just trying to do her best for the people she care for most. Even Wade.

Angus turned his dark, solemn gaze to Wade, a man without his drifter's hat, who stared back with a storm building behind his blues.

"C'MON!!!" The Bad Dog roared.

A tug on his collar, but Angus didn't move. He couldn't. He just couldn't.

And his heart sunk in his small chest as Wade let go of his collar.

Slowly, Angus padded over to Lindsay Troy's feet. He couldn't bare to look back at his old master, but he knew what was there regardless; a man broken, and transforming into something absolutely awful. He wanted so badly to stay at his side, and help him through whatever was tormenting him.

But he couldn't take a part in it anymore.

"Go on an' keep my hat, too," Angus heard Wade say, a noticeable choke in his gravelly words. They were some of the last words he'd hear from him for a very long time.

"Looks like ya already took everythin' else."

Wade and Dametreyus stepped out on the Las Vegas Strip. Dam could have used another tempranillo, but Wade had quite enough of wine.The walked quietly together, most people traveling the opposite direction opting to move around the massive frame of Dam, allowing them to maintain their gait.

"You know, boss. That hurt me real good, too."

Wade replied by turning a curious eye.

"Back in '09," Dam clarified, deciding to avoid eye contact. "When you an' Lindsay blew up on each other, and when ya put Killean through that table. All the mean things you said to Tsonda. That hurt to watch."

"It had nothin' to do with you, Dam," Wade tried to reassure him, kicking his boot at the concrete.

"But it did, though," he shot back, putting a giant hand on Wade's shoulder, stopping them in the sidewalk. "We was becomin' friends, wasn't we? Danny was gone, I was tryin' to keep on makin' a livin', an' then you go an' do all that? C'mon, boss! You can't go and forget them things!"

A beat, and a few measured breaths from the big man.

"Just 'cause the past is in the past, don't mean it didn't happen, man. It all comes back around 'ventually."

The Bad Dog felt more like a sheep there on the Strip; the mountain, no, monument of a man in Dametreyus, giving him a talking to a long time coming. Nearly two decades too late. Wade exhaled heavily, and nodded his head.

"Yer right. I know yer right," he said, low and gravelly.

Dam took a moment, breathing in deep.

"Paxton 's come a real long way. And damn, Wade. Can't you see it?"

The 'Bama Bruiser furled his brow, confused.

"See what?"

"He's just like you, man. Just like you."

Wade didn't want to hear it. He'd tried so hard to leave those old versions of himself behind with the ReVival era. But again, Dam was right. So much of the Bayou Butcher was familiar to the Southern Sparkplug; a lanky southern kid full of piss and vinegar who'd rather throw fists than reverse a sleeper hold. A young buck just trying to make his way. Trying to right a few wrongs.

He could help him out. Give him the head start that wasn't afforded to him.

Guess he'd find out eventually.

"Look," said Wade after a long silence. It took me gettin' my ass whipped by Chandler t'git me in th'right direction. If I'm gona give Ray any sort've grace, he's gonna need to take a beatin' first."

The Bad Dog clapped a strong paw to Dam's shoulder, and nodded his head.

"But I'll give it a try. Promise ya."

Dam returned the clap to the shoulder, and the two carried on down the Strip.

"Just as long as we ain't goin' back to that fuckin' wine bar."

Koji greeted Wade at the door with happy pants and a wagging tail, earning a few playful scratches behind the ears.

"Heyyy," came Lindsay's voice from their large sectional couch, her long legs up on the coffee table with a laptop in her lap. "How was boy's date with Dam?"

Wade snorted, kicking off his boots at the entry and thudding over to his Queen, leaning over the top of her head and pushing her curls to the side, planting an upside-down kiss on her lips.

"Enlightenin'," he replied, making moves to the kitchen. More specifically the bourbon cabinet.

"That's not exactly a word in your vocabulary," she ribbed, tapping away on the keyboard. "What sort of deep wisdom did he have to share?"

"Oh, ya know..." he deflected with a grin, taking a short sip and gazing through the window above their sink.

Wade wasn't at all surprised when he spotted a coyote, sitting at the edge of their lawn, yellow eyes staring right back at him.

He smiled behind his gray beard, and raised his glass for another sip.

"...nothin' I ain't heard before."