The Realest Motherfucker

The suit doesn't fit right.

It never does.

It has that old mossy smell, like it's been hibernating in the attic. A forgotten material, tucked away alongside cardboard boxes filled with ancient novels that once told tales of promise and imagination. Stories that believed in something before reality taught them better.

Danny Christie only owns one suit and it's reserved for funerals, courtrooms, and moments where something important has already died. Tonight feels like all three. The fabric clings to him like it knows it doesn't belong. Like it's embarrassed to be here. He tugs at the collar and immediately regrets it.

This place glowed with bright lights the night before. Velvet ropes. The kind of venue where people put on their own suits to feel their own importance. Even if it was a temporary fix, it didn't matter. An invitational privilege where celebrity peacocked and the commoner gawped - either admiring the magnitude of the glitz and the glamour or silently envying it. The extravagance forced Joe Public into quiet reflection, subconsciously comparing their own lives with the rich and famous. A doomed fantasy even from the very beginning.

PRIME'S Yearly End Awards (the YEAs) served as the backdrop to such spellbinding lavishness. Which begged the question: what's with the suit?

The event was already over. What remained was the hangover from it. Rolled-up carpet. Sporadic confetti crumbs. The lingering aroma of expensive perfume, now stale, now dishonest.

It had been alive almost twenty-four hours prior, but the silent digest of what may have happened still lingered. The death of it carried as many questions as it did answers. Winners were called up onto the stage one by one to receive their awards, while the losers festered. They festered with bitterness, with the quiet understanding that a full calendar year of honest work could still sink without so much as a ripple.

Plastic chairs weren't fully stored away. Some stacked haphazardly on the hall floor. Others left scattered in crooked rows, unaltered, as if abandoned mid-thought.

The night before had called upon the deepest of emotions and spoken to them provocatively. Granted, it was the holiday season - emotions always came to the surface then - but restraint amongst forced chaos disguised as fun was a rare skill. One Danny Christie had never been particularly good at.

The night before.

"Name?"

Steve the Bouncer stood planted at the rope line like a man who'd made a career out of saying no. Late forties. Thick neck. Cheap black suit stretched too tight across his shoulders. An earpiece that probably hadn't worked since the early 2000s. Clipboard tucked into his arm like it was government-issued authority. The sort of bloke who peaked when someone once asked him to "keep an eye on things."

"Danny Christie."

Blank stare.

Steve's finger dragged down the list. Slow. Deliberate. Almost bored.

"Other names?"

"Fair Game."

A longer pause. A longer scroll. A longer silence.

Danny Christie stood there repeating his name into a void, watching it slide straight through Steve the Bouncer like rain through a gutter. No recognition. No flicker. Just that finger tracing ink that refused to acknowledge him. And that was the part that cut deepest - not that Steve didn't know him, but that it felt like PRIME didn't either. Like the bosses, the suits, the people who signed the cheques and booked the fights had all looked straight through him and moved on.

It was worse than being deliberately snubbed. Being forgotten meant you'd existed once and failed to leave a mark.

He was full-time. He bled on their canvas. Shown on the ACE NETWORK week in, week out. But outside the wrestling bubble it meant nothing unless your name carried weight before you even said it. Cecilworth Farthington didn't need a list. Ivan Stanislav didn't need permission. Blaze Claymore didn't need to explain himself.

Danny did.

Every time Steve shook his head and tapped the paper again, something in Danny tightened.

Behind him, some influencer with hair like a microwaved hedgehog breezed past security because apparently he once played Background Teen #3 in a Netflix show that got cancelled halfway through episode two. The kind of bloke whose Wikipedia page says personal life: unknown and genuinely means it.

Air Bud could've walked in. The dog. The actual dog. "Yeah sure, golden retriever, go ahead."

But Danny Christie?

Nah.

Chain him up behind the bins. He might bite someone.

Embarrassment curdled into resentment. Resentment hardened into resolve. By the time Danny stepped back from the rope, the decision had already been made - because if a man, a list, and a locked door could erase him this easily, then the only way back in was to make himself impossible to ignore.

He didn't go home.

The van stayed where it was, parked crooked in the far corner of the car park like an afterthought. He slept in the driver's seat with his coat pulled tight, knees jammed against the steering wheel, eyes wide open. Minutes came, not hours. Every time he closed them, he saw the list. Steve's finger. The rope. The shrug.

The disrespect didn't fade. It fermented.

By the time morning bled into night again, Danny Christie hadn't slept - but he had clarity.

The same venue. The same doors. The same rope.

And Steve.

Steve was back on shift. Same suit. Same clipboard. Same confidence born from never having consequences.

He didn't recognise Danny Christie.

Which was ironic.

Because that's why he never saw it coming.

The punch was sudden. Brutal. Bare-knuckle honest. It landed clean and Steve dropped exactly where he stood, folding into the floor like a man whose job had finally betrayed him. His clipboard skidded across the tiles. His head found the ground. He snored almost immediately - deep, animal, overfed. Like a pot-bellied pig that had eaten too much over Christmas and passed out content.

Danny stepped over him without ceremony.

And finally - finally - he was inside the hall.

He didn't have to buy a ticket which was on offer the night before. He couldn't stomach that. It was more ridicule amounted on top of already formed sinking shame. This was his ticket – a ticket to right the wrongs and to tell it straight. For all to hear.

Let the room echo with frustration. The anger. The full sense of injustice.

He was far from being the voice of the voiceless. But this was his chance. His opportunity. To fully and truly speak his mind. Get things off his chest and allow all of the damaging internal synchronicities to flood through.

Danny Christie climbs the steps slowly, not because he needs to but because it feels right to let the moment breathe. The stage still smells faintly of polish and warm electronics, the ghost of applause clinging to it like a bad habit. He positions himself behind the podium - solid, overbuilt, more ceremonial than practical - and places both hands on either side of it. The lights aren't fully up. The house lights never came back on. Only a soft, deliberate glow hangs over the stage, enough to outline him, enough to leave the rest of the room in shadow.

Rows of empty chairs stare back at him.

This is where the important people were. The suits. The executives. The winners with their rehearsed gratitude and borrowed sincerity. Twenty-four hours ago this room was alive - laughter bouncing off walls, glasses clinking, egos feeding off one another. Jokes that landed because the right people were laughing. Stories told louder than they needed to be. For a brief window, everyone here believed they mattered more than usual.

The stage was set for winners thanking their God, thanking their manager, thanking their trainer, and thanking their goldfish for believing in them when nobody else did. The stage where millionaires tell ordinary people how to live their lives while wearing watches worth more than those lives.

Danny exhales slowly through his nose. He imagines it filled again - not because he misses it, but because it's useful to remember. He pictures the smiles, the applause, the forced warmth. Memories already rotting under the weight of time, destined to belong to nobody in particular. All of it temporary. All of it gone. The night happened whether he was there or not. The world didn't stall. It never does.

There's no microphone.

No feedback squeal. No red light.

He doesn't need amplification. His voice was built for rooms that didn't want to hear it. For corners. For locker rooms. For moments where things weren't supposed to be said out loud. This stage, half-lit and abandoned, suits him better than it ever would with an audience.

Danny Christie isn't PR trained. He isn't media polished. He doesn't soften his edges or rehearse soundbites in the mirror. He doesn't know how to say the right thing at the right time, and even if he did, he wouldn't trust it. He's a company's worst nightmare because he can't be steered. Can't be framed. Can't be rolled out with a smile and wheeled back in when it's convenient.

Put him in front of sponsors and he'll talk about blood. Put him on a press tour and he'll tell the truth. Give him a script and he'll tear it up just to see who flinches first.

This - this quiet, this shadowed stage - is where he belongs. Not under spotlights designed to flatter, but in the half-dark where words don't need permission. Where there's no applause to chase and no approval to earn. The stage doesn't judge him. It doesn't expect him to be anything other than what he is.

Danny Christie grips the edge of the podium and leans in, staring out at the empty room.

"Welcome, everyone, to the prestigious PRIME 2025 Annual Awards," he says, voice steady, formal enough to pass. "I am your host, Daniel Christie, and tonight - "

Not with sound, but with memory.

Laughter that isn't there anymore. Applause that once bounced off these walls and decided he wasn't worth the effort. The imagined murmur of guests leaning into each other, grinning behind glasses of champagne. The kind of laughter that isn't meant to be cruel, but always is. The kind that says of course it isn't you without ever needing to say it out loud.

Danny exhales sharply.

" - ah, just fuck off."

The words hang there, naked, unfiltered. He can almost hear the reaction. The polite gasps from tables dressed in white linen. The forced chuckles from people who laugh because they think they're supposed to. Somewhere in his head, a producer is already panicking. Somewhere else, a camera cuts away that doesn't exist.

He lets it breathe, soaking in the phantom response. The imagined torment becomes fuel - heckles without faces, judgement without accountability. He can see them now, clearer than if they were actually here. Smiling. Whispering. Waiting for him to trip over himself so they can feel better about theirs.

This is how the night went, after all.

Only difference is this time, he's the one holding the stage.

"Heel of the Year. Drum roll please..."

Danny mocks a drum roll but gives up, instantly.

"Spoiler alert: it's not The Bareknuckle King"

He imitates opening a pretend envelope.

"The winner goes to..."

He exaggerates the suspense.

"Oh fucking get on with it!"

The crowd looks confused, not knowing what to do. Oddly, within this fictitious roleplay – Anne Hathaway is the one that it's zoning in on the most. But it's not the real Anne Hathaway. Of course not. But it's the vision of her which speaks mostly about the fakery. Granted the presentation seems nice but those eyes tell a totally different story. It's something that the subconscious knows there's an imbalance.

"...Ivan Stanislav!!!"

Spoken with such conviction.

"Now come up and get your prize, big boy"

Danny emblazoned a huge grin on his face which seemed largely out of place. He imagined Ivan dominating the scene where chairs moved willingly without prior notice. He got on stage and stood beside the podium.

Danny put an arm around the unseen Ivan Stanislav. It was high and wide but estimated where his shoulders would be. It remained in that position.

"Tell me Ivan... what does it feel like to be bad?"

Danny looks to the side of him where the imaginary Ivan Stanislav is.

"Actually, don't answer that... I'll do it"

He looks straight ahead now and puts his arm down. Hands gripped around the podium edges.

"What does it feel like to be bad, Ivan? You must feel incredible knowing everyone hates your stinking guts, knowing you can behave like a spoiled silverback that's run out of baby milk - smashing everything in sight, poisoning rooms, bending rules - and still walk away with all the plaudits. All the awards. And the best part? You get to wrap it up as the family man. The big teddy bear. The gentle giant who just had to do those awful things. Your destruction gets justified. Sanitised. Turned into folklore. But what doesn't get justified is the hypocrisy - the cuddly image stapled onto a real dickhead that perfectly matches that stupid, big, fat head of yours."

He turns to Ivan once more with daggers. Ivan is unaware and naturally browbeat. Still proud, with his non-existent award.

"Next up… Rookie of the Year."

Danny lets out a little gleeful noise, mockingly.

"One for the little people…"

The room smiles politely, acknowledging the tiny victories, the ones still clawing at that prestigious prize.

"Right, let's get on with it… because I can't be arsed. Thirty seconds of sleep and I'm probably facing a GHB charge anyway."

He opens the pretend envelope.

"Blaze Claymore!! Yay!! You did it, wee-buddy!!"

The room looks around. There's no Blaze. Danny cups his hand to his ear, like there's an earpiece feeding him excuses.

"Oh… I forgot. Blaze Claymore couldn't make it tonight. Way past his bedtime. Not taking the piss here. Former Z-lister, not used to these parties, these events. Even now, he'd rather be at home, Spiderman pyjamas on, bunny slippers, watching The Snowman on repeat, screeching 'I'm Walking Through the Air' on his mam's coffee table. Choosing comfort. Don't worry, mate.. you're not missing much. Place stinks anyway."

Danny Christie glares at the empty stage where Blaze Claymore should be. Rookie of the Year. Little man's award, in Danny's one-sided clouded judgment. Fact is, he doesn't hate Blaze - he hates the song and dance. The applause for doing what looks right, not what means anything. Maybe it's projection. Blaze beat him, sure, but really it's the show that won, the spotlight that ignored him, the system that hands out recognition while he crawled through doors that wouldn't open. That plastic applause, that hollow celebration - that's what burns.

Blaze Claymore accepted token gestures from the machine. Which fed his self-worth. The weekly washing of Max Kael's wrestling gear has truly paid off. Blazey is truly the boy that dreamed.

"Let's skip over a few... cos this is shit. And to the ones who can also see through this bullshit and have the ambition to have some fun and go live a little. Then push over a sleeping cow tonight. But not with me... cos I hate you. You're not invited."

Shockwaves sent around the room. But with it all vented from Planet Fantasia, or Narnia. Or The Never Ending Story. It doesn't matter. It's the world of wonder and shattered dreams.

Danny pulls out an imaginary huge envelope.

"Wow. This is a biggie. Someone's real-real special. Someone's not just top of the class but top of pops..."

He strikes a quick look of confusion.

"Wait... what's the category?"

Confusion turns into contemplation.

"...Stable Of The Year, ReVival Match Of The Year, Wrestler Of The Year, Hall Of Fame..."

Contemplation turns into focus. Down goes the pretend envelope. There's a sharp shift in demeanour. From buffoonery into solid poise.

"Cecilworth Farthington."

It would be extremely hard to spin this one, even with deflection at its harsh, jealous core. Danny Christie knew he'd be watching this very promo of his, which is why he needed to pick his words correctly. Not through fear, but so Cecil truly understands. Truly doesn't misinterpret. Perhaps not in admiration - because, let's face it… Danny really didn't admire much in himself, let alone anyone else. But that's probably why the Universal Champion is where he is. The very fact he watches. He watches every single second on the ACE NETWORK. He doesn't skip a beat. That's what makes the great great, and the envious stuck in the poisoned well.

There was a gulf in class. That was evident to see. Not just because Cecil is Universal Champion and a multi-award winner while Danny still fought in pig shit on weeknights. It was because of data. Because of performance. The attitude: first one in and last one to leave, that kind of attitude. That kind of separation. The separation that kept the successful on top of the mountain regardless of what amount of cash fluttered around.

Danny knew that. Of course he did. But his pride wrestled with it. There's no fathomable cause in his own mind where the victim mentality could surf in his brainwaves. And not because he even knew Cecil. Far from it. Sure, they probably passed each other in locker rooms and the like, but they hadn't worked together. They were leagues apart. Cecil, to even consider Danny Christie as a viable option, would ultimately be giving out irregular favours - which weren't earned.

But having the ability to be fully immersed. Not just a bit-part player. Taking PRIME as a life bond. No cutting corners to the top is the mark of the killer. The one who wakes while the rest sleep. The one who bleeds quietly in the corner while everyone else poses. That's what separates the men from the actors, the real from the performative.

In a different universe, Danny might have wished he could be every inch like Cecil Farthington. Talk like him, walk like him, command the room with that measured confidence. But he knew he couldn't. Danny Christie was his own man. A bareknuckle fighter, blunt, unpolished, and unafraid. He respected Cecil, sure - respect without imitation - but he never envied the halo. He didn't want it. The mountain Cecil stood on was built on a different kind of soil, one Danny didn't intend to tread. Danny had his own fight, his own rules, his own scars. And in the end, that made him just as dangerous, just as uncompromising, and infinitely less predictable.

"...Congratulations."

And he meant it. He truly-truly meant it.

Danny hits his gaze with pure raw emotion.

"The final award, boys and girls… yes, the final award, boys and girls..."

The clownery returns.

"Is named…"

He rummages behind the podium to retrieve a gold pristine trophy of his own. Its design is in the shape and form of a large boxing glove.

"..THE REALEST MOTHERFUCKER!"

Danny's expression thunders with aggression.

"..Love me fuckers!"

The transition from menace to uncompromised unhinged happiness is left for all to see. The room responds with a standing ovation as he holds the trophy up to the side of his face. Truly soaking up the affirmation.

Rose petals from the realms of where the fuck are thrown by his feet.

Suddenly, a still shot of Danny Christie tapping out like a little bitch to Bryan Dawkins on a projector screen at ReVival 79 came a crashing reminder. This translated to Danny's reaction who observed the imagery with deep regret.

He hadn't forgotten. It still sat in the belly like shameful lead - heavy, cold, and it wouldn't crap away no matter how much time passed. That image on the projector screen at ReVival 79: hands slapping the mat, tapping out to Bryan Dawkins. One moment that everyone else archived, dismissed, moved on from. Everyone had forgotten. But he hadn't. He couldn't. That kind of humiliation didn't fade - it fermented, settled into muscle and sinew, threaded into identity.

That tap out was what kept him off Colossus. Not injury. Not choice. Just deemed unfit for the room, stinking out the joint by omission. A quiet decision made loud by absence. And now ReVival 80 waited, with all its smiles, posters, and selective memory. Luc Labelle would be there. Former champion. Polished. Respected. Moving through the world like the ground owed them something. And Danny Christie would have to stand across from that, carrying the weight of last year while Labelle carried nothing at all. That was the difference. That was the pressure. That was the danger.

But this was where it turned. A reset, whether anyone liked it or not. New start. Everyone on an even keel. All even Stevens. The next winners for these awards hadn't been decided yet, no matter how much anyone tried to pretend otherwise. No Men in Black moment could make anyone forget what they'd seen before. That would be done with fists.

Because Danny Christie is The Realest Motherfucker.

And he is tailor-made for this shit.