The Second Chance

DAY 238 There is no better way to shake off a loss than tacos and tequila.

“I… HURRT MYY-SEELF TO-DAYYYY… TO SEE IFFF I CAAN FEE-EELL…”

Beneath a cone of yellow light, a certain mulleted maven from the small fishing village of Miami sat alone on a stool, slouched over a guitar.

“I FOO-CUUSS ONN THE PAAIIN… THE OOON-LYY THIINNG THAT’S REE-ALL…”

Scott Hunter wailed the lyrics with all the fiery bombast of the lead singer to an 80’s hair metal band.

“Uhh, Scott?”

The song screeched to a halt on the startled ping of a sour note. Scott immediately turned his head to the speaker.

Kerry Kuroyama stood to the side of the stage, arms crossed and toe impatiently tapping.

“With all due respect to the late, great Johnny Cash, maybe something less… depressing, yeah?”

Scott’s eyes went wide. “OH… right, good call…”

With a quick clearing of the throat, he readjusted his fingering and strummed a new key.

"EEEEEVERYBODY HUUUUUUURTSSSSS.... SOOOOOOMETIIIIIIMES!!"

Kerry’s eyes rolled back as he heaved out a groan of exasperation.

“I said LESS depressing!” he said with emphasis. “C’mon, bro, we’re trying to lift spirits here!”

Kerry waved a hand back across the drab scene that was the cantina the Vae Victis lot invaded in the late hours after the show ended.

Hardly the liveliest place to hold an after-party, but damned if he was going to sit in a hotel room all night and dwell on the match.

“Okay, okay, loud and clear…”

As Hunter reset himself once more, Kerry flashed him a smile and a thumbs up, and began walking away.

Two steps later, the next song began…

“CAUSE I CAAAN'T MAAAAKE YOOUU LOVE MEEE IF YOOUUU DOOOONN'T!!!”

"Is this not what you wanted?"

The beast within spoke, and Kerry ignored it.

With a heavy sigh, he kept on walking. Returning to the table where Vae Victis had set up camp he was greeted by the simpering faces of Clay Byrd and Ami Troy.

“At least you tried,” said Ami, prodding him with an elbow as he slid back into his seat.

“Seems to be the theme for tonight,” he muttered in reply.

Then, Clay’s skillet-sized hand nearly drove his face into the table with a supportive slap on the back.

“Ain’t no need t’ worry ‘bout Scott,” drawled the cowboy. “Just his way of workin’ out the hurt.”

From across the table, the force of fuzziness and flatulence that was Kerry Koalayama only briefly looked up from his plate of chips and euquesolyptus to weigh in on the conversation with a hearty belch.

“Let’s worry ‘bout workin’ out your own,” Clay went on, nodding to a tray of shooters in the middle of the table.

Kerry looked warily at the dubiously clear, agave-scented liquid that sure as shit wasn’t whisky.

“Who says I need help with that?”

“I do,” said Ami insistently, setting a single shotglass in front of him before taking one for herself.

Clay guffawed as he reached for his own. “Better do as she says, pardner.”

The cowboy’s hearty laughter brought a smile to the champ’s face. He promptly picked up the shooter before him and raised it to the sky.

“To the brotherhood of Glue, then.”

Ami and Clay raised their glasses to join the toast.

“May they enjoy their hard-fought victory tonight,” Kerry went on. “Because next time is gonna be different.”

“Suuuuuure it will,” said Ami with a tinge of sarcasm.

Kerry flashed the Merry Mischief Maker an arched eyebrow and a lopsided smirk that attempted to playfully chide her for her doubt. She retorted with a much-too-cheery grin that all but assured she was going to be riverdancing across his back before the night was through.

“Hear, hear!” Clay proclaimed in agreement.

The glasses clinked. The tequila went down smooth.

On the stage, Scott Hunter continued to serenade the sparse crowd of confused locals

“I’LLL CLOOOSE MY EEEYYEES, THEN I WOOON’T SEEE… THE LOOOOVE YOU DOOON’T FEEELLL WHEN YOU’RE HOOO-OOOLDIN’ MEEEE!!”

Three empty glass shooters hit the table in unison. As soon as the burn hit, Kerry hooh’d and Clay haww’d. Ami, naturally, took hers like a champ.

“Check your phone lately?” she asked Kerry, prodding him again with the elbow.

Kerry had not. It was something of a personal policy of his to keep it out of sight and out of mind following a loss. The last thing he wanted while he was in that state of mind was to be barraged by sympathy texts or see what people were saying on social media.

But he also knew she wouldn’t have mentioned it unless she knew there was something of interest. So as he pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen, he was hardly surprised to find a single one-word text sent to him from LT only minutes ago.

“Williams,” he said aloud.

The name invoked memories of that first round match back in the Almasy, where he learned firsthand just how savage and ruthless a motherfucker Rob Williams could be between the ropes.

It came as no surprise, then, that he had clawed back from that encounter and earned another shot at the title.

“Hmm…” Kerry hummed thoughtfully.

“Hmmmm…” Ami purred in agreement.

“Hrm?” Clay grunted in confusion.

"Mm-hmm", said the darkness from within with a tone of approval.

The Emerald Apex reached across the table for another shooter.

“I think we’re gonna need mas of these,” he growled before throwing it back.

The cowboy let out a hearty chuckle as he also reached for seconds. “Now yer talkin’!”

“Also…”

His throat practically on fire, Kuroyama pushed his way to his feet, helping the silver mezcal find its way to his gut.

Clearly, the night was only beginning.

“I’m feelin’ a song.”

He turned back to the stage, where Scott was still belting out Bonnie Raitt in the style of Vince Neil, and went for it. Had he eyes in the back of his head, he would have seen Clay and Ami exchange bemused glances from across the table.

The welcome burning sensation in his chest guided him forward. He weaved a path through tables of quiet and confused local patrons until he was back to the far corner of the cantina.

Match? What match? Who-minati?

The Five Star Champion had other concerns.

“HEEERRE IN THE DAA-AAARRK IN THEESE FIII-NAAALL HOOOO-UURSS… I WILL LAYYY DOOWN MYYY HEEEAARRT, AND III’LLL FEEEEL…”

Hunter trailed after being interrupted by the brief squeal of feedback through the establishment’s tiny PA system that came from Kerry taking the mic from the stand.

“Sup, Ker?”

“Sup, Scott,” replied Kerry. “Say, how’s about we hit ‘em with some of that old time rock and roll?”

Beneath his golden brown mullet, the gears turned in Scott’s head. When it finally clicked, his face lit up.

“Oh, sure thing, bro!” he said.

As if it was muscle memory, Hunter’s left hand readjusted itself on the fret board, while the right ripped straight into classic Bob Seger.

Kuroyama cleared his throat, stepped into the light, and raised the mic to his lips. Seconds later, the cantina resounded with his dulcet croon.

“JUST TAKE THEM OOOLD RECORDS OOOFF THE SHEE-EELLF…”

“I want to get one thing straight with you right off the bat, Rob.

“There’s a lot I don’t know about the world you live in.

“But I’d be lying if I said I knew nothing about it.

“There have been enough people in my orbit that have been in that world that I can say I know enough of it. 

“I know it’s a life of survival. I know what kind of beasts that existence makes out of normal, well-adjusted human beings. I know that those among you who suffer from it can’t be judged by something so binary and narrow-minded as black and white.

“And I know how it makes you strong, Rob.

“What escapes me, though, is how any of it is supposed to make you stronger.”

DAY 242 Revenge is a dish best served cold. Unless it’s a taco; then it’s best served with cilantro.

A blurry, mezcal-fueled weekend passed, and the champ had returned home to a city swept up in Superbowl fever.

But that was to be expected. Eleven years after the worst call in the history of professional football, the people of Seattle were beyond eager to witness the score finally being settled with the dreaded New England team.

Kerry couldn’t wait for Sunday. Naturally, he was hosting the game party, even though he knew it likely meant having to withstand the sight of Ami in a Patriots jersey. (ahh, his wounded emerald heart!)

Nevertheless, after the plane landed, he left Sea-Tac straight for Dojo Cascadia, eager to resolve the ever developing situation that had resulted in several ignored voicemails over the past week.

Not that he meant to blow it off entirely. But finding the right balance between managing his affairs at home and his duty to preserve his reign as Five Star Champion of PRIME had been an ongoing work in progress.

Fortunately, Rocko was there when he arrived at the school. Kerry walked in on the salty veteran while he was in the act of cleaning up after the weekly NA meeting.

“How was the drum circle?” he quipped, referring to the fragmented circle of folding chairs.

Walking to the storage room with a chair tucked under either arm, the elder Daymon let out a dry chuckle and shook his head.

“We had a productive meeting,” he said. “But if you have time for smartass remarks, then maybe you have time to make yourself useful?”

Smirking, Kerry grabbed his own pair of chairs and followed him to the adjoining storage room.

“Does this count as helping out around here?”

No chuckle this time. With added exasperation, Daymon again shook his head.

“It’s a start…”

Rocko stowed his chairs into the storage room first before doing the same with Kerry’s.

As they went back for another trip, Kerry felt the need to cut to brass tacks.

“So… does anyone know where he is?”

The elder Daymon said nothing at first, continuing to methodically break the circle apart one chair after the next.

“Maui,” he finally said after a long beat. “At least, based on the letter he left behind.”

Kuroyama’s face soured at the mental image of his cousin sitting comfortably on a beach, basking in the sunset while he drowning his sorrows on an endless stream of Mai Tais. Taking weeks--maybe even months--to work out what could easily be accomplished with a late night of street tacos and Jose Cuervo.

Meanwhile, Kerry thought, here he was stuck dealing with the problem the dipshit left him with after a colossal ragequit on his professional career.

"Why do you continue wasting your time on these people and their petty drama?"

“Fucking Zack…” he grumbled. “He couldn’t have picked a worse time to pull this shit.”

“The timing is definitely inconvenient,” Rocko concurred, packing away the next set of chairs. “But at least we know where he is.”

“You seem weirdly calm about all this,” Kerry observed.

Daymon’s shoulders lurched into a shrug. “For all the years I wasn’t there for him, I feel Zack’s done alright by himself. One way or another, he’ll find his path forward. He just needs to find himself first.”

“Okay, sure…” Kerry replied with an unconvinced eyeroll. “But if I can get serious, Rock, we should talk about me helping out around here…”

“Sure.”

What was once a circle had been whittled down to a final two. Rocko sat himself in one. Taking his cue, Kuroyama sat in the other.

“Honestly, I know it’s a lot to ask of you,” said Daymon. “The last thing any of us here want is for you to take time away from your obligations as champion. But between this thing with Zack, and Beto disappearing on us, Leo and I would really appreciate it if--”

“You don’t need to explain all this, Rock” said Kerry, holding up a hand to cut him off. “The answer is already yes.”

Daymon blinked in surprise, but remained.

“Sure, I’ll admit, I haven’t been pulling my weight around here,” Kerry continued. “But the truth is, the idea of teaching people how to wrestle is damn intimidating. I may be good at this, but hell if I know how to teach people how to be like me.”

It was a painful but necessary admission. He could go out there and prove he could win titles, but he knew next to jack shit when it came to showing other people how it was done.

“I guess the idea of owning a place like this was much more appealing than actually trying to make it work,” he went on. “I just wanted to continue the family legacy, or whatever. The more I think about it, though, all I really wanted was a place to train that I could call my own.”

The veteran nodded in a way that suggested he understood completely. Kerry had no doubt that it was just as intimidating for him when he took over the reins from his father all those years ago.

Yet, Rocko Daymon adapted to the role. He had to. Otherwise, there would have been no legacy for Kerry to continue.

“I wasn’t lying when I said the timing is shit, because as far as my ‘obligations as champion’ go, I know I should probably be dedicating every minute of my time toward preparing for this motherfucker coming after my title. But I'm going to make this work, Rock. Because this place…”

The Emerald Apex waved his hand across the cavernous room around them

“Dojo Cascadia is bigger than any legacy,” he said. “I feel we’re doing something good for this city. And I feel we’re doing something good for this sport. And no matter the sacrifice, I want to be a part of that.”

After a beat, a smile spread across Rocko’s face.

Kerry didn’t realize how long it had been since he’d seen his former trainer get emotional.

“Thank you, Kerry,” said the elder Daymon.

But Kuroyama shook his head.

“Don’t thank me yet, Rock,” he said.

"After all, Face... there's still a chance you could fuck this up."

“Second chances are rare for most people.

“For some, they never come.

“I learned this the hard way, after my old man’s diagnosis.

“He was fortunate enough to never need a second chance. Whether it was being a wrestler, a teacher, or a father, he got everything right on the first go around.

“But I look at you, Rob, and I see someone that this cosmos has unwittingly blessed with chance after chance after chance. And regardless of the circumstances, you’ll always find a new and creative way to squander it.

“Maybe it’s the sense of atheism that comes with your lifestyle. Something that dispenses the belief in change and progress for an everlasting cycle of despair. A path that provides you with endless excuses to keep you from getting your shit together.

“An ‘eternal climb’, to borrow a term from a certain Bible-thumping jackass.

“And now, life has given you yet another second chance in the form of this match. A second opportunity to take back the title you once held for a cup of coffee.

“I don’t doubt you have the capacity to win it, Rob.

“But I strongly doubt your ability to use it to do anything meaningful.

“Look around you. Despair is everywhere. The world has become an angry, spiteful place.

“And rather than defy it, you and the other Whoresmen choose to indulge in it.

“I won’t pretend that I can do anything to change it under my own power. But so long as this world recognizes me as a champion, I’ll do everything in my power to fight that despair. And I’ll do anything I can to ensure that These Stars are the guiding light out of the all-consuming void.

“So I’m asking you, Rob… here and now, as you embark on yet another chance to do something different with your life…

“Will you make the right choice?

“Or will you perpetuate the cycle?”

DAY 244 It’s weird to think this is only the second koala-napping to take place…

Kerry couldn’t say what stirred him awake that late hour.

An unseen force? An unconscious urge? A stirring within the cosmic fabric of time and space?

Whatever the reason, while the Kuroyama Lodge stood still and silent on its remote mountain overlook, sleep escaped the Emerald Apex.

He arose, legs instinctively carrying him to his bedroom’s ensuite for the obligatory late night draining of the lizard.

Yet when he flicked on the light, the sight of a second face alongside his own reflection in the mirror caused him to jump as though he was Wile E. Coyote being startled by the Roadrunner.

“KURRY!!” croaked Rezin.

“FUCK!!” exclaimed Kerry.

Kuroyama whirled, hands knocking everything hanging off the walls of his bathroom into disarray. On the list of pants-shittingly frightening things one could witness in this world, finding “The Escape Artist” Rezin standing in your house in the middle of the night likely ranks close to the top.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU--WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU--HOW THE FUCK DID YOU--?!”

Erik Black’s eyes were sunken and bloodshot. His dark hair hung loose and stringy off the sides of his white, bald pate. The beginnings of a new hobo bear were already sprouting across his jawline.

He was far removed from the devil in white that had plagued him for over a year.

Ignoring Kerry’s stammered questions, the Goat Bastard’s wiry arms held up the fat and furry mass of the Eucalpytic Apex, whose beady black stared indifferently back at his human counterpart.

“LOOK, I don’t have long here!” he rasped. “But I NEED TO BORROW YOUR KOALA!!”

“The HELL you ARE!” Kerry boldly replied, ready to throw himself upon the dastardly dopesmoking force of chaos and brain the bastard on his bedroom floor.

“Don’t worry, WE’RE FIGHTIN’ FASCISM TOGETHER!!” said Rezin. “Also, buddy, do yourself a favor arready, and FEED THAT BEAST!”

Kerry froze.

“Wait… beast?”

“Yeah, you know, THE BEAST!” Rezin repeated insistently. “With the MEAT and the MOON and the OCEAN and the--LOOK, I was on ACID at the time, but SURRIOUSLY, I can’t talk now! ASK ME LATER!”

Rezin stepped through the doorway, disappearing into darkness.

“You fucker…” Kuroyama cursed as he ran out after him.

“KERRY!!”

He slid to a halt.

Rather than finding the Goat Bastard waiting across the threshold, Ami was there.

And the anger on her face spelled certain doom

"WHO STOLE MY WEED?!"

Kerry appealingly held out his hands.

"Well obviously, I didn't--"

Before he could finish the sentence, her balled up fist socked him in the mouth and put him on his back.

"THEN GET OUT THERE AND FIND IT!!"

“March 28th.

“I have the date circled on every calendar in my house.

“Would you care to know why, Rob?

“On that date, so long as I still hold this title, the record would be broken.

“The only problem is that a ‘Legend’ is standing in my way.

“I need you to understand what I’m fighting for, Rob.

“I’m battling for a title. A record. A legacy.

“And above all else… survival.

“A kind different from your own.

“A kind that’s no longer fighting to get ahead. 

“Because at the apex, you fight only to stay alive.

“And I’m not ready to die, Rob.”

DAY 245 Today’s wrestling ain’t got the same soul…

Just an ordinary day at Dojo Cascadia.

The class was a diverse lot. Seven men, three women. They ranged from young to old in age, and light to heavy in size. What brought them there, none could say. Some were hopeful to reach for the stars. Others, simply hopeful to find a sense of order and balance in their lives.

Spread across the floor, they stretched and warmed up their bodies for a two-hour training session. Nothing outside the usual routine.

That was until the reigning Five Star Champion of PRIME Wrestling walked out from the back wearing the tracksuit of an instructor.

And bearing a very noticeable swollen lip.

“Okay then…” said Kerry, addressing the class for the very first time. “Who’s ready to learn about that old time rock and roll?”