Strictly No Pyro

A sullen fog nestles beneath the hoary clouds on the North Wales mountains. It’s four, or possibly five, o’clock in the morning. The temperature could freeze bones, and the sparrow bird heckles loudest from the flock. The aroma of manure faintly tickles the nose hairs, with herds of sheep surrounding the lands, acting as harmless gatekeepers.

Danny Christie lives here? Hardly. Granted, there’s a decaying caravan roof over a potential resident’s head for sheer minimalistic refuge, should they desire. However, given the ability of choice made readily available to anyone, then the village off the mountain neighbouring below would be a more preferred residence.

Danny Christie is seen ambling about in the part-consumed haze, shirtless. Not daunted by the subpar temperatures, he leisurely completes his attire with a pair of sweatpants and sliders on his feet. Mad? Meet Danny Christie.

Sure, Danny had slept in the old rust can (currently sitting on bricks in the background) once or twice in his life, but that was never a case of choice. Merely a necessity. And okay, it had the most basic yet threadbare facilities if you needed to survive, but that’s not its designed purpose. Certainly not for Danny Christie, that is.

Danny begins dragging an axe along the worn tattered grass, soon hoisting it up on his shoulder. He stops for a moment and listens. Listening to all the flock, and not just the sparrow. With an exaggerated inhale, taking in the wild.

It was a makeshift space. Danny Christie’s opportunity at escapism. But from what exactly? Who knows. The guy seemed secure; of who he was and what he’d already achieved. A quick Google search would tell you all about this man’s combat sports achievements. A life’s mission dreamed and fulfilled. Contentment, you ask? Doubtful. Danny is always up at the crack of dawn like his next fight is only ever two minutes around the corner. Furthermore, the shape he’s in also doesn’t scream of a man that’s ready to become a permanent (or temporary) couch potato, where he would reminisce about old war tales in hay bale arenas he took part in across Britain to anyone who would care to listen. No, that’s not Danny Christie. Never was and never will be until the day he dies. Yet when that day does come (the day he dies), his legacy will remain solidified forevermore in local folklore and beyond.

“Are you going to have your eggs or what?”

Now then… John Christie. Now there’s a character. The father of our very own Danny Christie. A born and raised traveller from the islands of wherever he so damn pleases. As John, rather uncouthly, in his white wifebeater (exposing his grey body hair), presents a liquid-filled pint glass.

“Dad man, this isn’t Rocky.” Danny retorted, with his words spilling out in a plume of mist.

John ventured back inside of the dilapidated caravan from the doorway, with Danny preparing to chop wood… ironically.

See, “Big” John Christie had a track record of meddling in Danny’s business; personally and professionally. Yes, he practically raised all of his kids on his own (four boys) through his tough-love methods. However, Danny was favoured. Certainly not through privilege or kindness. Actually, rather the opposite. Because Danny held gifts: the gifts of lightning, quick sharpness, and one-punch knockout power. Therefore, Danny needed to run the mental and physical gauntlet. Abusive? Well, not considered to be growing up in the ’90s where John’s non-PC parenting was concerned. Teachings passed down from generations of the Christie family tree. However, I’m almost certain the story of “Big” John Christie forcing a “Little” Danny Christie to knock out a fully grown male cow at the tender age of twelve probably wasn’t his finest hour as a father. Regardless, Danny was special.

Consistent sounds of wood being chopped fill our hearing faculties, with each swing connecting with the logs, creating a split so effortlessly down the center. Danny Christie using precision, not brawn.

For as much as Danny Christie has hit some meaningful notoriety with his bare-knuckle fights on a humble level - transcending into world level thanks to the power of the internet - any impressionable male ranging from the ages of sixteen up to forty really idolized “Fair Game” Danny Christie. Meanwhile, John forged his own legend, as the curious eye of “Big” John firmly cascaded out from the caravan window, sipping on some unknown morning-desired hot beverage.

Granted, John Christie’s outward persona would predictably scream buffoon to any rigid perception, that label would remain largely disingenuous in reality, however. John Christie, himself, was a marketing mastermind, which subsequently made Danny Christie into a promoter’s dream. I mean, there’s one thing to sell a fight, but to take a shit on your son’s opponent’s front yard at silly o’clock in the morning for the whole of the internet to see - that’s complete box office.

Blaze Clayton. Beware. I suppose. However, you could say Blaze’s only saving grace is that “Big” John Christie is probably a little out of his depth here. Albeit, John was a proud fighting man in his own right. With his epic battles with tough local farmer Barney Gorman on this very landscape - rolling about in sheep excrement to the death - is enough to make anyone’s toes curl. But let’s face it, this is pro-wrestling. This is PRIME. John doesn’t know anything beyond his sneeriness on the squared circle. John’s only exposure to any sort of wrestling was every Sunday morning, catching World of Sport with his late mother (Kathleen Christie). The character Big Daddy being the main protagonist and a staple in everyone’s home across the whole of the UK throughout the ’80s. Adoring fans would chant: easy, easy, easy so passionately and animatedly. But of course, back in John’s day, pro-wrestling was at the peak of its powers, with it ultimately dropping off a cliff and burning. Only sparse nostalgic recollections can be encountered. It had its heyday, and John’s ignorance surrounding wrestling, particularly PRIME (especially PRIME), was so outdated and disjointed.

Danny stood up from tossing the freshly chopped logs, put his hands on his hips, and contentedly exhaled. His eyes then deviated off centre to something attracting his interest - that being the red light on a PRIME camera. John, meanwhile, stood in the caravan doorway yet again and swirled his mug, looking at the contents of what’s left.

“You know you got famous from a shaky phone in a car park. This… this is alien,” John said, to break the calm ambience.

“Then I’ll stove his head in too.”

“You can’t be doing that to E.T., son.”

John’s response simmered any potential escalation. It was always like that between those two. Tensions were always boiling, but with sheer love in its undertones. Danny knew that, surely. Although John was never going to admit it. Too proud.

Danny’s eyes locked into the red light with a look of determination. John, ever so astutely, recognises this and immediately throws the rest of his drink away on the patchy grass. Soon after, he puts the mug on the side and retrieves a jacket from its hook. He puts it on, and it’s his cornerman’s jacket, donning proudly the JC initials embroidered on the peck area.

Danny Christie was often described as the hardest man at the barbeque by locals. But those sorts of remarks kind of insulted Danny. Fighting is an art form to him, and his abilities to achieve such violently inflicted artwork on people’s faces was much to be admired. It should never be sold short in his eyes.

John rambled to the back of the caravan whilst Danny parked his glare. He began nodding and delivered a knowing expression. Like he already knows the task at hand.

You see, for us fight fans, the most intriguing thing about Danny Christie’s debut match is that stylistically it has the hallmarks to be a classic. Because Danny knows better than anybody that styles make fights. And whilst Blaze is chasing the viral image, Danny Christie has already lived it. Been there and got the t-shirt. For him, it’s not everything it’s cracked up to be: modest amount of fame, girls… respect. He’d trade it all for some precious dose of peace. Whereas the struggle for Danny lies within the contradiction - there can’t be peace when viral knockouts are his game.

The odd noise peeps over from the caravan. Who knows what John is up to. He’s already done a tip run this week, but Danny trusted his dad’s judgement. Especially when it came to fighting. So he bided his time.

Danny Christie versus Blaze Claymore could be interpreted as an open canvas for these artists. That was certainly the opinion of Danny Christie. He knew the onus and the PRIME cameras were on him, not so much Blaze Claymore, to impress… Danny Christie. First impressions being everything. If “Big” John Christie had a wardrobe malfunction for example (Janet Jackson style) then Danny Christie's pro-wrestling career is instantly down the toilet. Game-over. Not only that but Danny also has to contend with a wounded animal. Maybe not so much physically but Blaze Claymore might just go hell for leather and actually go toe-to-toe with Christie. Because a loss to any man hurts.. cuts deep. Danny has been in the same territory many times before. But chin up, ay boys? Once you can take a beating you can certainly then give it. That's more of John dialogue.. Definitely John Dialogue.

The canvas was Danny's to show everything he has got. Did that come with pressure? Please, pressure is for tires. “Fair Game” Danny Christie knew wrestling fans and non-wrestling fans alike would be tuning in on the Ace Network to see whether The Bare-Knuckle King could make the sports discipline crossover. Could the heavy hitting extraordinaire with a PhD in breaking people’s faces adjust to life inside of the squared circle? Arise Dr. Punch-a-lot. And not just adjust, but to make a name - that name being the proud name of Danny Christie.

While Blaze Claymore presented a more abstract portfolio and teased light and darkness shades, Danny Christie mainly only had two colours: black and blue. This did pose a legitimate threat, however. It was something Danny had been worlds apart from. Though if you were to ask Danny about this prospect, he would simply not allow such brainwaves to form. He would brush it off like it was a game of Whack-a-Mole, and it would be only a matter of time before all of the moles were laid out cold on the embankment.

Meanwhile, here comes “Big” John rolling a steel drum container; first with his hands, then shoving it with his foot in the direction of Danny Christie. This then sparked Danny into action as he assisted his dad. Whilst Danny positioned the drum container in front of the observing PRIME camera lens, John pulled a plastic pipe from underneath the caravan. The pipe was connected to an abandoned car beyond the caravan itself, and John immediately rested it inside of the container. Both men quietly watched the drum fill up with gasoline. They didn’t need to say anything. It wasn’t awkward; there was never an awkward moment between them. Danny Christie then brought up his open palms in front of him and truly examined his hands. He slowly twirled them over and under in the air in front of his chest.

A moment’s reflection, perhaps? I mean, Danny Christie wasn’t one to overthink, live by regret, or be die hard sentimental. To be truthful, Danny was often hard to read. Not one of these heart.on your sleeve kind of guys. I suppose by that metric he was an easy target. If your heart is on display, then it can be easily crushed. Heck, why honestly be the crushee when you can be the crusher, right?

Or maybe this was about Danny Christie’s future. I mean, we’re not fortune-tellers here at PRIME. Granted, the fans love a good rumour, but just take a look at those war-torn hands. They tell a story by themselves - with broken fingers unrepaired, stressed skin, and overworked knuckles. With deep, provoking self-thought in Danny’s case (which certainly isn’t coming internally); he can already hear the fans. The fans that adore him and love his fights. The same fans that sing “Sweet Caroline” along with Neil Diamond just to support “Fair Game” Danny Christie.

But which fans are we talking about exactly? The fans that bay for blood behind a computer screen, digesting Danny Christie’s top ten knockouts. Whether it be in a backyard, farmer’s field, back alley, boxing ring, or an MMA cage. The question lingering in Danny Christie’s mind is: will they turn up? The fans that give him so much adrenaline, like he can defeat a whole bastard army whomever may doubt him… will they be there? And will the PRIME audience take him in as one of their very own?

PRIME was witnessing an old bare-knuckle traveller ritual: fists dipped in gasoline. The theory is that it would naturally strengthen and harden the fists exceedingly. Something not really practised in modern-day fighting, but what “Big” John Christie didn’t know about fighting wasn’t worth knowing anyway (in his eyes). Does it work? Whether it does or doesn’t is irrelevant. Danny Christie believes so. Even if it acted as a placebo effect, that was okay too - it added in abundance to a mentality warrior like Christie.

Once Danny had finished the visualization of what these equalisers (his hands) were going to do to Blaze Claymore - perhaps the visual of a bomb being detonated at ReVival 76 (I won’t be excused for using the pun) - Danny then submerged both hands into the gasoline. His head slowly rose, his gaze locking in on the PRIME camera again.

“Come on, forget these cameras. We’ve got enough footage here-”

Danny Christie interrupts his dad, which is a rarity through respect mainly. And with gritted teeth and a cold look of violence on his face, he daggers: “No nonsense. No smoke, no mirrors, no pyro. But I’ll tell ya… I’ll still go out in a blaze.”

Words cutting through the PRIME camera lens. It wasn’t about the glitz or the glamour, the TV stations, the wrestlers, the smoke, the mirrors, the spandex, the pyro.. but the fans?

“Big” John Christie walks off. Presumably to detach the pipe from the abandoned car. For how long Danny Christie will stand there (shirtless) with his fists submerged in gasoline is anyone’s estimate. However, if it was left up to Danny to decide, then it could be days… weeks, in fact. He’ll create his own internal battle and even want to bash his own shadow. In any event, this is almost definitely an all-nighter… can we hear the sparrow again?