“An apex is always surrounded only by emptiness.” - Alan Dean Foster There is a man.

They say he is most unlike any other man.

In a world of outlaws, mud shows, and cancer, he stands above it all as a beacon of serious wrestling.

In case you don't understand that, he has a dragon tattooed on his back. He actually spent a lot of time on it. He actually posed to the camera displaying the tattoo.

Of course, he doesn't call himself the Dragon.

He calls himself the Emerald Apex.

And like… my whole thing is this, right?

What kind of stupid fucking mark calls himself the Emerald Apex and then gets a giant dragon tattoo instead of a beautiful, emerald mountain landscape? 

You know?

Do you know what I mean? It's a consistency issue. A consistency in packaging issue.

The packaging, Kerry.

You need better packaging.

Because…

And forgive me for saying so…

But if every time you have an opportunity to show you're the Emerald Apex you claim to be…

And you end up lying flat on your dragon tattoo instead…

Well, what does it even mean to be an Emerald Apex, at that point? 

Like, if Brandon Youngblood, who is old as dirt and took five fucking chairshots to lay me out, can finish you without even ONE chairshot, what does that say about the Emerald Apex?

252 Days. That’s how long your Five Star reign went. I know, because when I first got word of this booking, I felt… nervous, for some reason.

So I looked into everything you've been up to since I got here, and before.

That title reign, Kerry? That title reign was very impressive.

But then you lost the belt to a drugged out fucking crybaby that hangs out with a dickless wonder, alongside Anna fucking Daniels and a roided out cowboy.

Fair enough, right? Title reigns aren't meant to last forever.

BUT…

And that's a big ass BUT for a reason, Kerry.

You were supposed to use that as a springboard to catapult yourself to the main event. To the Universal title picture.

Instead you stayed in the muck and mire.

Where I come from, we don't call that an Apex, Kerry.

It's literally disrespectful to other apexes to call yourself that at this point.

I have a better, more salient nickname for you, if you'd like.

Are you ready?

“The Stupid Fucking Mark.”

Kerry “The Stupid Fucking Mark” Kuroyama, permanently number 4 in Vae Victus, once had an impressive title reign, and remains ever reliant on having a hot girlfriend and dumb ass friends to keep his mind away from that one, brutal truth.

The truth that no one wants to hear but needs to.

Kerry, I'm going to do you a favor and tell you what no one else will.

A truth you already know in the back of the mind. 

A truth that makes you, in your weakest moments, wonder if you even belong in PRIME anymore.

It'll be good to hear it from someone other than you. Healthy, even.

You ready?

Here goes:

You peaked, Kerry. You reached whatever apex you were capable of already.

And now you are on your descent.

Borderline hall of famer ain't bad, Kerry. I don't see you getting in on the first ballot or anything, but you know — eventually, right? Maybe.

Eventually. Maybe.

Such great words for your entire career.

He'll get where he wants to go, that Kerry Kuroyama.

Just… you know, not right now.

Eventually... maybe.

Kerry “The Emerald Eventually Maybe” Kuroyama. 

Hmm.

I like it. 

💚 ⛰️ 🧂

“Beyond every mountain, more mountains.” - Haitian Proverb Did you know that every Waffle House is a mountain range? It's true. Just ask the people inside at any given time. Every customer in there is experiencing a peak or a valley along with their waffles and hash browns.

This includes one Big Ian Salt, and he is certainly in a valley.

Sitting in the corner booth with just a glass of water in front of him, his right leg quakes under the table, shaking nervously, vibrating like a dog trying very hard to contain its desire to be loved on.

She will be there any minute.

It will be the first time they spoke in many weeks — since that fateful morning when, still known as Big John Pepper, he fled the Fred Dick Family Compound to become an Egg Bandit. It was an unpopular decision. It hurt the people he cared about.

From the outside of the Waffle House, Big Ian must cut a very imposing figure looking through the glass windows. But from the inside, even more so. Sitting down in a booth, he's still a head or three taller than the waitress who refills his water.

Then he sees her car, a Mitsubishi outlander with dice in the mirror — like the taxi in the Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song — pull into the degraded, poorly paved parking lot that surrounded the Waffle House.

His knee stops shaking.

So nervous that his body simply freezes in place.

Then she comes inside, a massive pair of sunglasses, a messy bun and workout clothes. If Big Ian could just fucking dissipated into thin air, he would. His nerves are on the verge of developing cysts.

She ranges across all the peaks and valleys until she reaches his booth. He silently assumes she must've been keeping up with his career, as she makes no mention of the tracksuit, nor does she acknowledge it.

“Hi Randi,” Big Ian says as she sits down opposite him in the booth.

“Hey,” she says, and that's all she says, even though she'd like to say a lot more. But you know how it is. Sometimes, when you have the most to say is when you can't find the beginning of where to start.

Big Ian finds himself in a very similar position as her, unsure of where to start.

“Hey there darlin’,” a waitress named Samantha with a meth addiction and a cross necklace says. “Can I get you started with anything to drink?”

“A coke's fine,” Randi answers.

As the waitress walks off to fetch a coke from behind the bar counter, Big Ian shakes his head.

“It's bad for you,” he says.

“What is?” She asks.

“Coke.”

“Yeah, well… so is salt.”

Did it land? Did the Big John Pepper inside his Big Salty Heart immediately attempt to emerge, if only for a moment, to the surface, just to scream that he didn't want it to be this way, but it had to be this way?

Of course.

Randi glimpses him in that moment where he almost screams, the one she thinks of as the real him. And she almost smiles when she spots him, but then he disappears and so does her urge to smile.

“So why did you ask me here?” Randi says.

“I uhm…” Big Ian allows the waitress to interrupt him as she places the coke in front of Randi. She takes their food orders and heads away.

“I, uh… well I… I have an idea on how… we could still be friends… despite uhm… despite everything that I did. If… if you're interested.”

If he could've dug his toe into the ground while he said all that, he would've. If he had known about this thing 👉 👈 he would've done it. It was a childish nervousness that spit that series of words and ellipses out of his mouth. Randi recognized it well. It was the same nervousness he had about trying broccoli for the first time. He had spit that out, too.

“I'm listening,” she says with a terse tone.

“Well… Fred can't be my manager,” he begins. “I'd like him to be, but it just doesn't work. It's too conflicting. His primary responsibility is to the Whoresmen, and he and Cancer argue in veiled shots about rookie of the year awards.”

“What's this got to do with me?”

“I'm getting to it,” Big Ian says. “You know, Cancer has Vickie. She actually helped him win his last bout while I was getting skullfucked by Brandon Youngblood every ten minutes.”

This brings a laugh from Randi, a startled one, as the waitress Samantha places their meals in front of them.

“I'm sorry,” she says, fighting a grin and picking up her fork. “I shouldn't laugh at that.”

“Truth is funny sometimes,” Salt replies, grinning himself. “So I'm thinking that… like… I really miss you. I really miss us. And if you were my valet, we could see each other more.”

Randi bites her hashbrowns. Then her eggs. In fact, they both eat quietly for several minutes. Big Ian's leg shakes the entire time.

Then she says,

“Well—”

💚 ⛰️ 🧂

Few people understand you like I do, Kerry.

Few people are intimately familiar with what you and I are familiar with.

I know you like the back of your hand.

I know you like the voice in the back of your head that reminds you of the bitter facts.

And here lately?

Here lately when you get out of bed and go brush your teeth and stare at your face in the mirror and you ask yourself, “Can I get to where I want to go? Am I even capable of it?”

I've been doing the same exact thing.

But the difference in you and me? 

The difference in you and me is that I was willing to cut ties with the people that hold me back from my ambitions.

How long is your girlfriend going to keep her beast tamed, Kerry?

How long are you going to settle for being the 4th man in your stable?

How long are you going to allow Rezin to distract this tamed beast?

Eventually…

Eventually you'll have to decide on what matters most to you.

Your ambitions.

Or your people.

And that decision will determine what heights the Emerald Apex will reach.

Have you already kissed the highest part of the sky you'll ever reach?

Well, hey, at least your girlfriend is hot.

Maybe the kids you two end up creating will make better decisions.

💚 ⛰️ 🧂

Randi bites her hashbrowns. Then her eggs. In fact, they both eat quietly for several minutes. Big Ian's leg shakes the entire time.

Then she says,

“Well— I don't think I can.”

Big Ian Salt frowns. Winces, even. The emotional sting is almost too much to bear.

“Wh-why?” Ian asks, eyes starting to water.

“I don't even know who you are anymore,” she replies. “I became friends with a man. A real man. A great man. A man who would put people before his career. Then that man switched up. Became someone else completely. Started wearing another man's clothes. Started wearing another man's name. You used to be something really… cool… and unique… and now you're just… you're just—”

“Let me stop you right there,” Ian said, a tonal shift in his voice that suggests a process has been deployed. A shutting down of the heart. Damming the river of emotion. A total and complete shutdown. A closing out. A knife placed flush in a Pepper soul that gave way to more Salt.

“I am Big Ian Salt,” he said, adjusting the color of his tracksuit. “I am Cancer Jiles’ hand-picked protégé. And if I am wearing another man's clothes? It's because I look better than him in it. If I'm wearing another man's name? It's because I look better than HIM in it. And I am — let me make this very clear to you — extremely, extremely fucking cool. Fuck, lady. I hang with the King of Cool. Do you understand? No, of course you don't understand. All you understand is the world you have at home. A fucking homemaker. That's all you are. I should've fucking known better.”

He slides out of the booth and stands to his feet.

Despite his insults, which do hurt, Randi considers apologizing for hurting his feelings. Can you believe it? She actually considers it.

But then Big Ian mutters something that sends steam coming from her ears.

She almost can't believe he says it.

She gives him a chance to clean it up:

“What did you just say?”

Instead, he doubles down.

“I said you're just a fucking mark BITCH.”

SMACK.

She slaps the taste out of his mouth.

She throws her coke at him. It splatters all over the chest of his tracksuit.

“Fuck you,” she says through grit teeth, before storming towards the exit.

Waffle House is a mountain range.

And Big Ian Salt, covered in coke and struggling with serious embarrassment, stands in, perhaps, the lowest valley he has ever occupied.

💚 ⛰️ 🧂

I want to challenge you, Kerry.

Not just in the ring but, with a thought exercise, if you don't mind.

Imagine…

Imagine what your life would be like if you broke up with Ami Troy, left Vae Victus, and truly became the beast that's tattooed on your back.

What would you be?

Well, I can tell you. Because I've done these kinds of things myself. Quite recently, in fact.

First things first:

You'll be lonely.

You'll be dreadfully lonely. And you won't have any real friends, at least not right away. You'll find that the people who were nice to you in the past are suddenly quite cruel to you, and they'll feel no remorse because they will perceive that you have earned their cruelty.

You'll be at odds with Lindsay Troy and the rest of Vae Victus. This will be especially hard for you, perhaps even harder than breaking up with her daughter, as it will mean being at odds with your actual soul mate, Scott Hunter, and his new tag team partner, Clay Byrd. I imagine you'll also not be able to hang out on an airship anymore. A real shame.

You'll also win more. You'll win more because you will have far less distractions from your own potential, and the harvest of it. You'll win more because as all your former friends hate you, it will fuel you to hurt your opponents even more. You will be fueled by spite. By Salt. You will no longer have to worry about Ami Troy getting hurt at ringside, meaning you have less backs to watch.

You'll also become the Universal Champion. Because without all of the distraction, and with all that spite, you will be able to adjust precisely how high the Emerald Apex reaches. And your greatness will thereby never be questioned again. And you will finally be what everyone thought you were on your way to becoming before you faltered after dropping the Five Star.

A legend.

A living fucking legend.

Wouldn't that be nice, Kerry?

Wouldn't that be oh so nice?

💚 ⛰️ 🧂

Upon leaving the Waffle House, Big Ian Salt caught an Uber. In the Uber, he decided he was really fucking sick of relying on other people for rides. So he got dropped off at the airport, and then immediately got another Uber to the nearest car dealership.

He arrived at a Mercedes-Benz dealership and demanded to test drive their most spacious luxury vehicle.

Hours later, he drove off the lot in a brand new Mercedes-Benz GLS.

He enjoyed having control of the car he was in. So often since Fred Dick taught him to drive and then took him to get his license and then told him how proud he was of him for passing his test, he hadn't had a chance to utilize his new skills.

As he thought about that day — one of the greatest days in his life — he found his foot getting heavier on the gas pedal.

But it was such a hard day to forget. He walked into the RV and proudly displayed his license to Randi, who had already had Dairy Queen prepare an ice cream cake for him that said, “Congratulations, Big John!” on it. STRONK TWO ate none of it, but she had thought of his dietary restrictions and made a meatloaf just for him.

The Lasagna Boys even got the good Chef Buoyardees. The spaghettis with the big meatballs in it.

That night, they partied sober, listening to 90s alternative and playing pin the tail on the donkey (Toddrick was the ceremonial donkey).

By the time he snapped out of the nostalgic day dream he was going 75 on a 65. Kind of fast but the car handled the speed very well. It reminded him of the time Miguel was tasked by Fred with taking Big John Pepper to the hobby store to buy some model airplane kits for them to do together. Miguel was flying down the interstate. Got pulled over by a cop. Cop gave him just a warning after he and Big John talked a bit. Miguel had called Big John his “good luck charm.”

Big Ian was going 85 on a 65 now, weaving through traffic expertly in his brand new whip — and indeed, he was truly whipping that bad boy around. He almost didn't even give a fuck.

He was just so fucking mad.

The audacity Randi had to talk to him like that. To treat him that way. He rubbed his cheek, the flesh on it still stung from her slap. She slapped him! She fucking slapped him!

95 miles per hour.

The fucking nerve. The fucking god damn nerve of Randi Dick. It was enough to drive him crazy.

And enough to make him drive crazy.

105 miles per hour.

Even the interstate traffic was having to move out of the way of the psychotic man in the brand new Mercedes. He was only tapping the breaks as he skirted in and out of multiple lanes, finding even the passing lane on the far left to be far too slow for his tastes. He had this extremely intense boiling in his blood that caused the salt to flow like lava and crystallize on the surface of his brain.

This, in turn, gave way to a reckless ideation. Too much salt, maybe. Not enough Pepper to balance it out.

And thereby, the thoughts he had in that moment were not for the feint of heart.

He laughed about it to himself.

It was kind of funny when he thought about it.

He had just bought a brand new car.

And all he wanted to do with it was crash it.

“Over every mountain, there is a path, although it may not be seen from the valley.” -Theodore Roethke