Beware the Fury of the Patient Man

$0.50

The goal was ten dollars in quarters.

Or at least close enough to form a roll.

But by the end of the first sixty minutes, only a paltry fifty cents sat at the bottom of the styrofoam cup in Kerry Kuroyama’s hand. Doing the math in his head, he came to the grim realization that he was in for a bit of a wait.

Clearly, there was much more to the art of panhandling than he had anticipated. There were likely better places around the city of Indianapolis to mooch for spare change from passers by, but the bus stop at the corner of Illinois and 38th came with the convenience of being a mere fifteen paces away from the door to his final destination.

In this case, a hasty collection of coin was secondary to having a vantage point for casual observation. Thus, as a man who prided himself in his ability to be patient under any and all circumstances, Kuroyama was resolved to wait it out.

Fortunately, he had on hand a lengthy playlist of movie soundtrack rock stompers--painstakingly prepared ahead of time by the ever-reliable Scott Hunter--to help facilitate a smooth passage of time.

Say what you want about Survivor, but “Burning Heart” still fucks.

$1.00

He knew he was at the right place when the eleven-thirty bus made its stop.

“Becky, I’m well aware that I’m behind on the Odin-damned alimony!”

With a phone pressed to his ear, the viking disembarked, dipping his head to keep his horns from clipping the doorway.

“It’s not like I can just knock over any old seaside village or abbey for a quick buck! I’m a viking living in the twenty-first century! There’s no way I could get away with how we did it in the old days!”

Kerry was only vaguely familiar with the roller coaster life and ever-changing vocations of the erstwhile “Butt Dominator,” Olvir Arsvinnar. A one time seafaring raider, turned pornstar, turned reformed family man. But following what was said to be a nasty divorce, he was now just a wandering wreck, tragically mired in the Hoosier State and desperately struggling to raise money to pay off mounting legal fees.

“But so long as it’s tax season and my CPA license stands, I can assure you that I’m out there every day busting my hump! …NO, that’s not a euphemism!”

Too immersed in his conversation to give the man on the bench anything more than a cursory glance, Arsvinnar’s remaining bus fare slid into Kerry’s cup as he passed by on his way to the renovated old brick garage that stood behind him.

One wouldn’t think the building was still operational, were it not for the plain white piece of paper taped to the door that read “Wrestling School”, along with a number for forward any and all inquiries.

“On that note, once BRAZZERKERS pays me for those scenes I did for them last weekend, I’ll wire you the… Becky? Becky!”

Cursing, the viking stashed his phone into the pocket of his hide britches and pushed his way through the door.

“By Loki’s swollen bollocks, that woman is giving me gray hairs!”

$2.75

The lunch rush brought a slight uptick in foot traffic, along with a swath of bus commuters both boarding and disembarking.

An altruistic few saw the benched individual with his waiting cup and offered what they could. If anyone thought it strange that he hardly looked the part of someone in need--especially considering he was rocking a rather dapper looking smoke gray Joseph Abboud--they respectfully kept it to themselves.

Late in the hour, the bus brought two identical twin brothers. Given their rather outlandish matching ensembles of sleeveless tuxedos, tophats, and white gloves, Kerry could only presume they were a pair of magicians.

“Infernal public transport system!” groused the first once as he stepped to the curb. “Does nothing run on time in this filthy city? I told you, Carlo, it was a mistake coming here! We could have easily found a qualified school back in Vegas!”

“I concur quite accordingly, Gomez,” grumbled his twin. “But our generous patron is giving us quite the deal to train here. Just keep your mind on the long game! By this time next year, we’ll be working at the MGM Grand with our own show! Then, the Amazing Amarettos will FINALLY be on top of the world!”

Kerry cleared his throat to get their attention.

“Spare a quarter, gentlemen?” he asked, holding out his cup. “No nickels or dimes, if you’d please; just quarters.”

Their tenor flipped spectacularly.

“A QUARTER, you say?” echoed Carlo, grinning ear to ear.

“We can readily oblige, sir!” assured Gomez. “Quite AMAZING-ly!”

After some performative hand-waving and oratory zing, they at last procured two quarters from behind either of Kerry’s ears.

“AAAMAAAAAZZIIIIIIIINNG!!” they crowed in unison, and threw their heads back into rambunctious laughter.

The fruits of their magical labor fell into his cup, and the brothers went for the door to the school.

Their assistant, a remarkably haggard woman who looked like she could fit right in at a Glasgow Willy Wonka experience, shuffled on after them, hauling two heavy gym bags over either shoulder.

“Hang in there, buddy,” she muttered ironiccaly between drags off her Pall Mall.

Kerry again checked his cup. Despite only being only a quarter of the way to the finish line, he was determined to hang in there for as long as it took.

$3.25

“Hey wait, aren’t you Kenny Kumonyomama?”

Kerry was only scarcely surprised to see the Chickentenders kid step off the bus.

“Dude, are you here in Indianapolis to learn how to wrestle too? Yeah, this city pretty much eats my butt, but I guess my dad does lawyer work for the owners ‘pro-boner’ or something, so I can pretty much work out here for free, even though I’m pretty sure I don’t really need to, cause I watch Cancer’s matches pretty regularly now, but for some reason I didn’t make the Bandits WarGames team, so I guess I need to brush up on my mad skillz a bit, even though I’d rather be…”

The nineteen-year-old was sadly unacquainted with the virtue of punctuation. Chickentenders droned on, while Kuroyama silently nodded along, pretending to pay attention but quietly hoping that a lack of engagement would help the dim-witted son of a sleaze-bag lawyer get the hint.

But Chris Chickentenders was as dense as they come. To wit, he rather absent-mindedly offered to Kerry’s cup a stack of quarters which were in all likelihood his weekly laundry expenses.

“…probably see you again at the Culture Shock press conference, at least if my dad’s law firm hosts it again this year, but I guess he really hates Welsh people after they fired him from their rugby union for being too sexy or something, but maybe he’ll change his mind now that their princess has cancer, but anyway guess I better get to work or something, cause today’s butt ain’t gonna eat itself.”

And with that, Chickentenders nonchalantly popped the collar of his acid-washed denim jacket and saw himself inside.

No, Kerry thought. That butt was definitely not going to eat itself.

$5.00

Five hours had passed when a beleaguered groan verberated from within an inconspicuous aluminum trash can against the wall behind him.

A smile formed on Kerry’s face. He’d finally outlasted the grimy bastard.

“That you, dipshit?”

The lid popped up. The grizzled face of the twenty-seventh Universal Champion of PRIME peered out like a regular Strawscar the Grouch.

“SHIT! You knew? The WHOLE TIME?! HOW!?”

Erik Black, more popularly known to the wrestling world as Rezin, appeared (and reeked) exactly like one would expect of a person who had been marinating inside a waste bin all day.

“Anyone can smell you coming from a mile away,” Kerry responded. “For that matter, I also know you've been shadowing me these past few weeks. Anybody ever told you that you’re a lousy spy?”

Black grimaced in surprise, unnerved that he had apparently lost a step in his stealth game. If Vae Victis scum could detect his reconnaissance efforts, then there was no telling what the Feds already had on him.

“Yeah, well, if it meant wastin’ the whole day sittin’ on my ass, not doin’ a damb thing, then I’ll gratefully pass. Waitin’ on you to do somethin’ is borin’ me to tears over here. Ain’t got the attention span for that kinda shit.”

The Goat Bastard attempted to pull himself free, only to lose his balance and send the trash can crashing onto its side. Garbage of the technical and human varieties spilled out onto the sidewalk.

“BLEGHK!!”

Back on his feet, Rezin dusted himself off and found his way over to the other side of the bench. As he did, Kerry drew in the last good breath he knew he’d get until this rank motherfucker left him alone.

“Well hey, since errything’s all out in the open now…” began Black, withdrawing a pre-rolled joint from behind his ear and lighting up. “Maybe ya’d kindly like to share what the fuck is cookin’ so hot that it got the ol’ Pacific Buzzkill to pay a special visit to my neck of the woods, actin’ all handsomest hobo in the world outside my place of business.”

He thumbed over his shoulder to the building behind them.

Kuroyama snorted indifferently. “You can rest assured, I’m not interested in whatever ‘business’ you have going on in there.”

The sardonic grin on the Goat Bastard’s whisker-lined face grew even wider. Kerry was trying to deflect, but the former Universal Champion could see through it as easily as he could see through a brick wall.

Under the influence of the proper mind-altering substances, that is.

“Ahh, so this is about him, eh?”

Kerry said nothing. Because the silence all but confirmed his suspicion, Erik chuckled in triumph.

“Heh… shoulda known. Been a long time comin’, ain’t it?”

Yes. Eight years, in fact.

But Kerry remained mute. He wasn’t exactly fond of this asshole prying into his personal matters.

“Lemme ask, tho… do ya think his apologizin’ for what he did is gonna make things any different? Like I mean, what’s done is done, right?”

Right. There were no words that could undo the pain that had been put upon him. But Kerry’s intentions this day extended beyond seeking any feckless apology.

“He’s in there now, ya know. I can walk ya in, if ya feel more comfortable havin’ a formal invitation, or whatever.”

Kerry turned down the offer with a shake of his head.

“I think I’ll wait a bit longer, thanks.”

With a cloud of gray smoke escaping his lungs, the Escape Artist stared at him in confusion.

“...why?”

Kerry glanced into his cup and gave his earnings a shake, estimating how much he’d gathered over the course of the afternoon. Many hours in, but still only halfway to where he needed to be.

“The time isn’t right.”

Black studied him for a long moment before deciding, with a raspy chuckle of dismissal, that he’d rather not poke that particular bear.

“Heh heh… the ‘time ain’t right.’ Okay. Or, maybe, ya just don’t want us down-on-our-luck weirdos and creeps and misfits hangin’ around while ya have your sooper surrious heart-to-heart, yeah?”

Kerry maintained his silence, but affirmed the question with a noncommittal shrug.

“Well hey, since I’m feelin’ generous today…” began Black, reaching (uncomfortably deep) into his weathered black trousers. “Lemme help out with whatever it is ya got goin’ on here.”

When his hand emerged, it brought with it a handful of grime-encrusted quarters and dropped them into the cup.

“Can’t pass up the opportunity to help a fellow wrestlin’ junkie embrace his inner absurd. Just don’t go blowin’ it at the arcade, or anything.”

“Thanks, Erik,” he said, and struggled to push out the following words. “I… appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the Goat Bastard, waving him off. “But tell me, they missin’ me in PRIME yet?”

Kerry scratched the back of his head. He didn’t quite know how to break it to him.

“Colton probably does, yeah. Not sure about the others. Pretty sure half the current locker room has no idea who you are, other than ‘that tin-foil hat emoji guy’.”

The former Universal Champion winced.

“Oof… well… welcome to the ADHD world of modern wrestling, I guess.”

Kerry could feel the earth begin to rumble beneath his feet. This was something new and unexpected.

“You… get many earthquakes in Indiana?”

Sighing, Black took one last drag before pitching the roach into the gutter.

“Guess that’s my cue…”

Of all things to come rounding the corner right then, the last thing Kuroyama would have expected was a midnight black battalion tank, adorned in massive spikes and bleeding skulls.

“...what the fuck is that?”

Erik didn’t answer. He instead rose to his feet and cracked his neck, loosening up for a fight.

“Gonna have to draw this dialogue to a close, Ker. Punk rock shit, and all that. Sure you wanna keep hangin’ out here? Cuz… well, I’ll be honest, it’s about to get weird.”

Black backed up to the building and pounded twice on the large metal bay door leading into the former garage.

“HEADS UP, gang! We gotta ‘nother damb invasion on our hands here!”

The sounds of bodies scrambling to action came from within. But Kuroyama couldn’t take his eyes off the killdozer, coming to a halt just across the street.

He could not know, nor did he care to know, what was about to unfold, but found himself very near his personal limit.

Couldn’t he at least make it to WarGames before his brain imploded on itself with an overload of processing stupid bullshittery?

“Uh… don’t mind me. Do your… your what-have-you.”

Kerry put in his earbuds and cranked the volume on his phone. The outside world faded to the beat of the theme to Beverly Hills Cop.

“Aight, suit yourself,” responded Black. “Kick some ass over in Cardiff for me, by the way. Tho I gotta say, my guy, ya got so much more to offer than just bein’ a bit player in the Ivan/Vickie show!”

The top hatch to the ridiculously violent-looking tank of death and destruction swung open. The upper torso of a beast of a human being appeared. Much like the chariot he rode in on, the black bodysuit of the monstrous man with the painted face was likewise punctuated with spikes and skulls.

“INFIDELS!! COWER BEFORE THE MIGHT OF THE BARON OF BRUTALITY!! MAGNUS DESTRUCTO HAS COME TO BRING YOU TO YOUR DOOOOOMMM!!!”

The bay door folded up. The viking, the twin magic nuts, and the Chickentenders twerp came out together into the street.

Arsvinnar heroically pointed his battle-ax in the direction of the tank-riding man monster.

“MAGNUSSS!! Was the DRUBBING we gave you last time NOT ENOUGH to get the POINT across?! Then let the Gods in Valhalla bear witness to our glorious triumph ONCE MORE!”

The Bang! Hardweight Champion roared in anger, shaking his massive gauntleted fists over toward the heavens like some 80’s cartoon villain.

“OLVIRRRR!! TONIGHT, I WILL DRINK YOUR BLOOD FROM YOUR SKULLLLL!!”

The Emerald Apex could only think of a single word to say in this moment.

“Nope.”

Cranking the volume on his phone, he lowered his shades and closed his eyes, effectively tuning himself out from what we can all agree would have been a more interesting scene than a dude sitting on a bench all day.

$9.50

Throughout the course of its twenty-ish years of operation, the Dojo Wrestling Academy of Seattle kept a basic creed emblazoned on its wall over a swirling taiko symbol.

Patience. Practice. Persistence.

A simple and to the point trinomial, perfectly in line with the vision of founders Zack Kuroyama and Rocko Daymon when they built the school back in 2002. It was meant to serve as a logical center to serve as the cornerstone to setting a routine and instilling discipline, as well as a reminder to its young prospects that progress is oftentimes a gradual undertaking.

It factored heavily into Kerry’s own upbringing. In times where he felt lost, he could always fall back on those three simple words to remind himself that time spun like a wheel, and working for success was a constant grind.

And through that grind, one could, theoretically, build themselves into something powerful.

He truly believed that, until eight years ago.

The day was still fresh in his mind. They were booked to fight that night. Kerry found Daymon in the hotel room they had been living out of since arriving in New Orleans a month ago. He was drowsy. Somewhat distant. Mumbling that he had just woken up from a nap.

Looking back, Kuroyama felt stupid for not noticing the signs when they were staring him in the face.

Then Rocko asked his protege to lend him ten dollars, and promptly left, cash-in-hand, to pick up “victory beers”.

Gone.

His partner. His mentor. His personal hero.

The man who somehow successfully filled the void in his life after his own father left this world.

Since that day, the meaning of that creed was lost to him. Now, it sounded more akin to a justification for insanity. If you bang your head against the wall long enough, you might put a crack in it, sure, but honestly, if that’s your measure for “success”, then is it really worth turning your frontal lobe into mush?

Persistence was important, but it was only ever as effective as the cause one was to pursue.

Practice mattered, but there was a difference between actual advancement and plateauing on fundamentals and basics.

And patience, of course, couldn’t be defined as passively waiting for something to happen.

For Kerry, it meant knowing and seeing exactly when and how to act.

But after eight years of waiting to muster up the nerve to face his former mentor, and spending eight hours out of the day enduring one ludicrous fool after the next, the time was finally right.

Evening was beginning to settle over Indianapolis. The clownshow carnage that was Olvir vs. Magnus III ended well over an hour ago, and the freaks (thankfully) cleared out.

With the classes concluded for the day, head trainer Rocko Daymon exited the building and proceeded to lock the door behind him.

“Rock.”

He turned his head toward the voice, and blinked in surprise.

“Kerry? How long have you been waiti--”

The fist connected on the left side, just above the jaw.

The nine dollars and fifty cents worth of quarters (enough to form a roll) he held within his fist went raining across the concrete.

Daymon joined them, splayed out on his back, discombobulated and wondering what the fuck had just happened.

Kerry filled his lungs deep and exhaled slowly, savoring the feeling of eight years of stored tension leaving him all at once.

His patience, rewarded. His discipline, reaffirmed. His years of rage, successfully cultivated into a flower of vindication.

It was the perfect opportunity to cross something off his shitlist before going into the WarGames. Now, it felt like twenty-one motherfuckers were lining up right into his crosshairs.

Twenty-seven, if you included the other saps on his “team”.

Now he only had to wait for the right moment to pull the trigger.

On the ground, Rocko groaned in pain. Kerry knelt over him and waited for his eyes to refocus before extending his hand.

“Sorry… I’ve been waiting a long time to do that.”

And it was worth every damn second, he thought to himself.

Daymon stared at the hand for a moment before accepting it, and allowing himself to be pulled back to his feet.

“Wish you’d done it sooner…” he responded semi-coherently, rubbing the welt left on his face with a certain amount of acceptance.

Kerry helped him find a seat on the same bench he’d been warming throughout the afternoon.

“Use it as a reminder to keep your shit together then. At least for a little bit longer, yeah? If not for the sake of these circus freaks you got here, then at least do it for Zack.”

Daymon groaned at the mention of his son’s name. It stung in ways that a busted jaw couldn’t compare.

Right then, a cherry red Ferrari Testarossa pulled up to the curb and honked twice. Scott’s timing was impeccably on schedule.

“Anyway, Rock, keep up the good work. Otherwise… I guess I’ll just have to come pay you another visit.”

Kerry patted his former mentor twice on the shoulder as he rose to his feet and made for the passenger side.

“And if you ever feel yourself losing your way, just remember: Persistence… practice…”

Opening the door, he spared a moment to look back, drop his shades, and give his former mentor a knowing wink.

“...and patience.”

He dipped in, shutting the door behind him. The Testarossa peeled off into the night.