Laredo, Texas

Arrangements were made after Keith signed the contract with PRIME.  The plan? To stay back, train, and build more confidence before it was showtime.

John Blackfeather, formerly known as a full-blooded Comanche named ‘Savage John’ Blackfeather, was a regular during the LeSabre days.  He is one of the wisest men Keith knows, and he owns land near Laredo.  That's not far from Tom Scarpathian. That’s a key reason for the location.  Mr. Scarpathian has intel on Keith's mother.

Blackfeather always treated Keith like a man, and was supportive of Tawny.  Unfortunately John has no information regarding Tawny’s whereabouts.  Nonetheless, Keith was given shelter with the Blackfeather’s, and an unlimited timeclock.  They're also pet friendly and they love Keeter Gabriel.  He's a cute parakeet.

There is another reason why Keith chose to stay with John.  The Blackfeather Ranch has 40 acres of cattle land.  That's 30 football fields of soil.  One of the unique aspects of the ranch is John Blackfeather's training grounds.  Most men train in a gym with weights, and equipment, then hit a typical wrestling ring and spar; all of that is done in John’s barn as well.  It's just done in a different, more savage, type of way.  John has a unique approach to physical and mental conditioning.

Intense sessions were conducted that involved violent workshops and drills that would be seen as acts of abuse if they weren't voluntary.  The philosophy being that Keith needed to endure Hell prior to enduring PRIME.  There’s a rogues gallery of characters in that company.  Each and every PRIME warrior will push Keith to his limits.  Therefore, he must expand his limitations, embrace being uncomfortable, and prepare to expect the unexpected.

Such as dodging hatchets.  Or, enduring hours of Communist propaganda without a way to blink.  John clipped Keith's eyelids with a special contraption that kept his eyes open and moistened them as well.  He could not blink during the videos and he could not look away.  Ivan Stanislav, the Red Army, Stalin, Lenin, Marx, Putin, Russian Imperial marches, the stink of KGB, it was all being absorbed, analyzed, computed.

Another video was on a loop for one hour and was about a giant foot smashing eggs.

The goal is to understand his enemy.  He was given tasks such as attempting to catch a greased pig, being forced to recite the history of Nascar, etc.  That was on top of sparring in the death barn, non-stop hyperbolic fitness drills that made everywhere hurt, and the occasional slave labor.

“You must understand,” John explained, “and you must endure.  PRIME is not for the weak.  You must shatter weakness.  Embrace the strength.  Let it speak to you in only a tongue you'd understand.  The feeling you call pain is but a memory you forget to erase.  Let go.  Behold.  Be Keith Castle.”

Blackfeather's face is painted white, faded, his wrinkles defined, and a mouth that was dark and deflated.  Flames of a fire flicker beneath them.  Keith is handed a large seashell filled with a clear liquid.  John motions for Keith to drink, and Keith obliges.  A soured, puckered, face.  The unidentified swig tasted much like -

“Holy shit,” Keith looks disgusted and examined the shell.  “That was awful.  What the Hell was that?” Keith’s question is met with the intense Blackfeather stare.  The stare meant one thing, and that one thing meant that John wasn't going to speak.  Lips locked, sealed, FAFO.  Once locked in, the Blackfeather stare could not be undone for at least 12 hours.

Suddenly, Keith felt an urge to be poetic about existence.

“Be Keith Castle?  This is who I am.  I'm a fighter.  This is what I know.  I have a connection with the wrestling ring.  I get satisfaction out of fighting, and no matter the outcome.  It's an addiction.”

There's no response from John Blackfeather.  Only a stone cold glare and the sparks exploding from the pop of wood in the fire.  Keith pounds the tip of his index finger into his chest.

“It’s the fire in my heart and the respect that I have for this sport.  I praise God for this.  All the players that carved me into the object that I am today.  I praise you.  It's all been a worthy cause, and I will guarantee allegiance by proving my worth in the realm of PRIME.”

“The men and women of PRIME are the best of the best.  There's nothing out there that compares.  PRIME has a locker room full of all-star athletes and entertainers.  Each wrestler, in their special way, defines what it is to be who we are.  Now I can add this to the fold.”

The fire becomes the backdrop of projection.  Images appear in the flames.  Captured motion.  A montage of PRIME’s mythic rares, legends such as Coral Avalon, FLAMBERGE, Brandon Youngblood; clips from Colossal main events, flashbacks to unforgettable ReVival’s, and the everlasting image of every countenance that’s nurtured the company all these years.

“I've been told that the PRIME arena is where we are sent to be immortalized.  Based on what I've witnessed?  This is very true.  There are feared warriors, legends of the ring, who are extremely intimidating, and challenge my sense of purpose.  This is a big deal.”

He notices that Blackfeather is no longer sitting across the fire.  The Comanche transformed into the mirror image of Keith Castle. Keith studies his carbon copy.  He looks older, but not unfamiliar.  There’s still a lot of youth and years left.

“Be Keith Castle.  That's all I know.  This is what I do. I am one of one.  I’ve been calling this destiny and claiming I've made it to the big leagues.  Yes, but the reality is that the uphill battle doesn't end.  It never will.”

Blackfeather is gone.  Keith is alone by the fire.  The flames grow stronger.  The light brightens.  Pupils dilate and nearly overtake his brown iris.

“Every dream ends on top of some hill that we’re willing to die on.  I've patiently, diligently, worked hard my entire life to get there and that's not going to stop.  I'm going to work harder.  I'm going to get stronger.  I will not back down.  I will not be dishonored.  I will compete for my rightful spot on top and in the Pantheon of PRIME.”

Tom Scarpathian was once a promoter with a pied piper cult of personality.  It was his decision to book Tawny for the GDWF’s illustrious Women’s Championship in 1989.  They called him Commissioner Tom.

That belt may have been the proverbial icing on Tawny’s cake.  She was sucked into a vortex of narcissism and evolved into a lust-raged succubus.  It took five matches to subdue ‘Tenacious’ Tawny.  The belt was lost to Linda Von Luffstein.

Tawny relayed her grievance to Tom in regards to his booking decisions.  This altercation became the seed of their severance.  They stayed acquaintances up to her disappearance, but her booking level was drastically decreased.  Tawny was the headline of the women’s division.  Not anymore.  Struck down by the Judas due to a lack of understanding, and the fact that she was pregnant.  It didn’t matter how she was booked, or how bombastic her behavior.  Her fans were there to support her.

The first step of the journey brings Keith to an estranged side of town.  An apartment complex that sits on top of a hill.  Tom Scarpathian lives on the first floor in apartment A13.

Keith is confused.  He scratches underneath his man-bun while wondering why Tom didn't live a more lavish lifestyle.  No, his apartment smells like motor oil, stale tobacco, and a sewage issue.  Any sign of success has been replaced with a pitiful version of a once respected leader of the industry.

There’s nothing luxurious here except for Keith's threads, which are even basic and unimpressive. Tom's fantastic past was presented in picture frames that were so cheap they were falling apart.  Stains littered the corduroy couch Tom was sitting on, and Keith’s recliner shed unsightly lacerations across its pseudo-leather exterior.

Tom Scarpathian is a large man with arms that seem tentacle-like and a mildly entertaining gait.  A knock kneed modified pimp’n’skip.  He’s built oddly and belongs to a culture that wears their hair like they are members of the Ramones.  The ‘Ramona Quimby, Age Eight’, type of cut.  Tom’s tired brown eyes drooped as if being pulled by his natural frown.  He has the facial personality of a catfish.  His awkwardly long fingers held a photograph that his eyes blankly examined.

“This was the last time I saw your mother,” Tom had a strange smile that seemed lifeless and difficult to complete.  The man has a jarring pompous voice that doesn't fit his bone structure.  “She's a wonderful woman.  You say you're her son?” Tom lowered the photo and gave Keith a cold stare.  “I remember her son.  Kind of an interesting lad.  You don't look like Kevin.”

“It's Keith, actually,” Keith informs under a light chuckle.

“Ah, yes, Keith, you do look like Keith,” Tom is instantly reminded with another painful smile, and he slaps his knee.  “Ok then.  That picture was taken outside the bar about four blocks from here.  Patty McGee’s, but it's been closed now about six or so years.  Depressing, really.  That was our hole away from hole.  Come to think of it, that may have been the last night we were in Patty's.”

Keith interrupts.  “Ok, did she live around here, or perhaps she still does?” Tom stares at Keith for a moment.  Either he's studying Keith’s expression, he's unhappy with the interruption, or he's simply stuck in a cosmic freeze.  This lasts a rather impressive one minute.

“Understood,” Tom says with a sudden nonchalance.  “She did live downtown for a while.  With Skip Peabody over on the dirty end.  I reckon she wasn't there long.  Skip was a real slime ball.  That man earned his dip in the lake of fire.  Not sure who lives over there anymore.  Tawny left town, Skip was stabbed to death, and the rest of that rat show dissolved.”

“No mention of where she was going?” Keith asked.  He’s leaning forward, arms on knees, and a face that's completely absorbed by Tom’s mystique and story.  Like a curious child.

“Well, yes, but you have to forgive me,” Tom lays the photo on a nearby end table and then lights a cigarette .  “I have not thought about this, or her, in a long time.  I'm slowly melting away into a morbid sludge, in case you haven't noticed.  It's a real surprise to me that I even remembered her.  She was kind of hard to forget though.  I can’t quite remember what she told me.”  Keith was instantly deflated and closed his eyes.

“But, you may be obliged to visit Josephine Wallace.  Lean, Mean, Josephine!” Tom’s laugh is just as eerie as everything else about him, a cackle that’s summoned from deep within the bowels of his tar-filled lungs.  “They used to talk all the time.  Best friends, basically.  If anyone would know your mothers exact coordinates then it’d be that bitch,” A sudden showing of Tom’s war torn teeth in an exasperating display of grinning. “You can find her tending the bar at Gypsy’s.  Later in the evening with all the nighthawks.”

“Well, ok,” Keith says, slightly unsatisfied.  There's a brief moment of contemplation.  Tom offers a cigarette but is politely denied.  That's not one of Keith's habits.  “Mr. Scarpathian, do you think that she's running from something?”

Tom takes a drag of the cigarette and speaks through an eruption of thick smoke.  “I'd suspect she has a past that doesn't give up on catching her.  We all do.  I believe that every human being on this planet is running from something.  Usually themselves.” He points his cigarette instinctively at Keith to present a somewhat cocky gaze that signifies the passing of virtue and wisdom.

“Right,” Keith pauses to reflect on Tom’s answer, scratching his dark chin stubble, and generating his next strategy.  “I suppose the next step is Josephine Wallace, bartender.  I'll head over to Gypsy’s this evening and talk with her.” Keith stands, starting his exit, and gently raises his brow to ask a razor sharp question.  “If you don't mind me asking, and I promise this means no harm, but I am relatively concerned.  What exactly happened to you?”

The question doesn't take Tom by surprise.  A dab of ash falls into the ashtray.  It's obvious to Tom that Keith is legitimately curious with concern.  This is not only in reference to Tom’s appearance but also that Tom in his picture with Keith's mother looked more like post Mothman Prophecies Richard Gere with an overly dramatic bowl cut.

“I guess you could say that I stopped running,” Tom genuinely replies.  “It slowly consumes you once it catches you.  Turns you into a glob of your former self.  Most of us deserve it.  It's kinda like poetic justice.  Some folk never stop running.  No need to.  I needed to.  Just doing my part to balance the universe,” then he takes a slow drag while releasing a sigh shrouded in smoke.

“I appreciate your time,” Keith grins and extends for the handshake.

Tom nods and reciprocates, but he doesn’t look humored by his answer.  He half-smirks, and then hands Keith the picture of his mother.  “Keep it,” Tom demands.

“Serious?” Keith surprisingly questions.  He studies the photo and stares in awe at his mother’s face.  This is the first image he’s seen of his mom since the day she left.  The image in his mind was beginning to change day-by-day.  His memory was beginning to sabotage him by manipulating anything he could remember about her.  She looked older in the photograph, and her lips were sunk in.

“Just be careful.  Tawny Castle was a woman of multitudes,” Tom ashes onto the carpet and then slowly rises to stand six inches taller than the six foot Keith Castle.  “That’s not giving her enough credit, really.  Your mother is the only woman I’ve ever met strong enough to not give a shit about anything other than survival.  Any threat to her will and she’d find a way to move on, and sometimes immediately.  With that being said, I suggest proceeding with caution.  She messed with some pretty solid sociopaths, and criminals.  What lies beyond some of them doors could taint a man askew,” Tom’s smile crept slowly across his saggy cheeks and his eyes drooped more.

“Trust me, I know,” Keith says with a wink and a chuckle.  He hurries to the door.  “Thank you for the photo!”

Later that night, in a bedroom loft built into the rafters of John Blackfeather's death barn, Keith sat with Keeter Gabriel perched on his naked shoulder.  The adorable blue and white parakeet chirped and whistled.  Keith smiled and rubbed under Keeter’s mandible with his index finger.

“Mr. Scarpathian shared something valuable that will aid my journey.  Ms. Josephine Wallace becomes a new piece to the puzzle,” Keith tells the bird.  “It's a start, at least.  My mother is like finding a single needle in a whole lot of haystacks.  But, my faith is rock solid, and I don't intend to quit.”

Keeter tilts his head and Keith sighs.  “The only guarantee is that there are no guarantees.  No expectations.  Be prepared for disappointment and remember who we’re dealing with.  This is a bold, big-balled, investment we’re talking about.  All for an experienced flake artist, no less.  Why waste our time?  Because I've got to know.  I need to know.  I have to know if there's a chance, or…if there never will be.”

The bird leaps off Keith's bare shoulder and softly lands on the coffee table.  Keeter holds out his wings and squawks.  A ghost  jab with one wing toward Keith, followed by the other.  Rotate.  More jabs.  It suddenly dawned on Keith what Keeter was doing and he looks stunned for not quickly understanding.

“Ah, yes!” Keith exclaims proudly.  “The fight of my life.  My first match with PRIME.  I'm extremely excited.  I know that I seem to have a distraction, but I can guarantee you that I am not distracted.  Trust that I am truly invested in putting on the best match with them.”

Keeter nods and whistles and that catches Keith off guard.  The bird is rather animated this evening.

“What do you want me to say about them?  I've got nothing but respect for every single person and Max Kael on that roster.  You want me to say,” but Keith catches himself and realizes there’s a better way to phrase this thought, “that they are potentially worthy?  I'm going to be real honest,” he takes another moment to gather his thoughts.  A man like Felix Mullen, simple in concept to this industry, is actually a rather complex individual.  Thoughts had to be gathered.

“I believe that Mr. Mullen means well,” Keith smoothly continues, gliding back into the conversation with not even a slight sigh or segue. He looks down at an engrossed Keeter.  “We all mean well in some regard.  I'm not really sure what Felix means well too, or to whom, but he means well to someone or something.”

Keith’s confusion is evident in his tone and word choice.   He's very unsure about his upcoming opponent.  His first match, a singles match against Felix Mullen, is booked for PRIME ReVival 82.  This is Keith's big debut match. Every member is here for a very special reason.  That's perhaps why Keith is currently confused.

“You know, Keet,” Keith continues, shattering his confusion, “I know very little about Felix Mullen.  What I do know is that he seems like a passionate man who may, or may not, be investing part of his time in the wrong industry? Who am I to judge?  It's hard to judge a man’s in-ring finesse and prowess when their first match in PRIME was against Ivan Stanislav.  That's quite unfair but not everyone finds treasure upon Fortuna's mighty spin.”

An animated lightbulb turns on and then pops like a balloon above Keith's head.  The smirk that he's sharing with Keeter is highlighted by two brown eyes as wide as planets and as bright as those new annoying headlights on a lot of new models of vehicles.

“Felix Mullen is like PRIME’s ultimate version of Ignatius J. Reilly; if something like that were to exist,” Keith says as the smirk transitions into more of a grin.  He looks around the loft.  “Ah, this is nice.  I'm just so happy and proud to be here.  I'm proud to be Felix Mullen’s second match in PRIME.  I'm excited to circle the ring with him and put on a clinic before a sold out crowd.  I am so happy to be here.  Here's to us, Felix,” Keith raises a small clay mug.  A string hangs over the side of the orange mug.  Souped up tea, usually strengthened with a serving of honey for enhancement, is Keith's drink of choice.

“To success,” he says just before taking a swig.  His eyes close and he smiles like a pleasantly satisfied child.  Keeter lands on his shoulder and breaks his concentration.  A signaling tweet.

“Never underestimate anyone, Keet, you're absolutely right.  Mr. Mullen went fisticuffs with Ivan Stanislav.  The Ivan Stanislav.  First match.  Was it an impressive version of Felix Mullen that one must presently fear? Absolutely not, but once again - it's Ivan Stanislav we're talking about.  He's very good at humbling the soul.  But, here we are.  Felix is back.  One can only believe he learned from his last performance?  Or, will he carry its haunting aftermath with him forever?”

He smiles and pokes Keeter on the beak.  “I could make for a pretty good narrator for one of them PRIME commercials.  They got a pretty dang good narrator right now though, but when the time is right, of course,” then Keith stretches to the right, his abs bending the hairy six pack like an accordion, then to the left.  “Let's make this a milestone match for both of us, Mr. Mullen.  I'm not worried about anything other than that.  Let's put that first match to rest.  Let's replace its memory with one that's got more flavor.  Let's start ReVival off with a banger.”

There's a lot on Keith's mind, and a journey he's very invested in.  His first match is still a primary focus.  The next step of his journey, however, will take him into a primary underbelly of the industry's past.  A past that the wrestling industry takes pride in hiding.  There are plenty of pieces left to his mother's puzzle.