Beasts, Bastards, and Belts

Condolences, Steve.

The invisible hand of fate has dealt you a shitty hand.

If you want someone to blame, look to Max. 

I’m sure he “had his reasons” to walk out and deny me from claiming his CROWN. Damned if I’ll ever know what they were.

But believe me when I say that the last thing I wanted was to make it here by way of a flaccid and uninspiring cout out victory. It especially doesn’t sit well with me, given how this fancy new “taint-licker” term has found its way into the parlance of our times. 

That, and your impulsive need to point out that I’m stablemates with the boss, lends to this bothersome implication that I’m somehow benefactor to favoritism.

Now, it won’t be enough for me to simply win a match and claim a title. Because I have public perception to consider.

I need to prove to the world that when I walk out of that Rogers Centre with that strap on my shoulder, that it belongs there.

Which means at UltraViolence, between those ropes, I can’t afford to be anything less than the uncompromising, skull-crushing motherfucker this company’s come to know.

That ass-kicking I was saving up for Max is still pent up and brewing within me, like an unstable concoction of nitroglycerin. 

Wanting -- BEGGING -- for someone to receive this explosive fury building up inside me.

And as luck should have it, Steve… here you are…

INDIANAPOLIS “HERE WE ARE!!”

Erik Black stood upon a metal catwalk overlooking a bustling production floor, beaming with pride.

“It's amazing how much one can accomplish in such a small amount of time! Last October, after I bit the bullet, sobered up, and made the first real step forward in my life with a single crypto investment! Half a year later, I now hold the very HEART of the wrestling industry in MY hands! And the BLOOD of that industry… runs BLACK!”

On the floor beneath him, a natural chaos copulated with a sterile system of order.

Workers clad in scrubs and N95 masks vigorously toiled in a semi-frenzied trance over endless rows of crafting tables. Chapped hands stuffed upholstery into branded turnbuckle pads. Welding torches fused the steel edges of boxes made into the shape of steps. Hammers and drills assembled beams into the shape of a ring frame.

The atmosphere hanging over the vast room was a bouquet of noises and odors. The uneven banging and clatter-filled cacophony of manual labor. The needling whine of power tools. The relentless hum running machinery. All accentuated further by the inescapable stenches of burnt oil and melting plastic.

And sweat, of course.

The foulest kind, sapped through flesh by way of forced anxiety and rampant oppression.

From above, the devil in white’s voice lilted with all the charisma and bombasity of a revivalist preacher.

“We forge the RINGS! We tailor the GEAR! We print the MERCH! Heck, we even have our own brand of ENERGY DRINKS! Vitamin supplements from the Thai black markets, bypassing those pesky FDA approval prerequisites! And SO MUCH MORE! As for the competition? A bunch of mom-and-pop ventures working out of garages or basements… minnows swimming blind through an OCEAN of opportunity, and NOM-NOM-NOM, one by one they go into the belly of this mechanical MAN-EATER I’ve set upon this world!”

He spoke to an entourage of three, looking down upon the rampant activity below in reserved, observational silence. Their stoic personalities belied irredeemably loud choices in suit design.

Black turned and lithely traipsed further along the catwalk, while his guests obligingly followed.

“And what you’re seeing is but a single facet of a greater DIAMOND, my friend! Besides Indy, I’ve set ROOTS in Chicago… Seattle… NOLA… and Vegas… a vast network that covers the WHOLE COUNTRY! And at least HALF of Canada, too! Long story short, whenever wrestling happens anywhere on this continent, then ERIK BLACK is GUARANTEED to get his cut!”

At the end of the walkway, Black led the group through the exit, leaving behind the hustle and bustle of the factory for the building’s inner atrium.

“But why should it all be MINE… when it can be OURS, Anzu?”

The stonelike face of Anzu Kuroyama, scarred and ancient from years of climbing up through the Tokyo criminal underworld, gave off only the faintest flicker of bemusement.

But Erik was already on a roll…

“You want the debt REPAID? How about a place at the HEAD of this GILDED KINGDOM of mine? I’m talking about a full partnership here! An unbreakable UNION between EAST and WEST!”

The patriarch of Tokyo’s Kuroyama-ikka maintained his silence.

“I assure you, Anzu, this is FAR REMOVED from those glory days of muling DOPE around Tokyo!” Black continued to clamor. “I’ve built a LEGIT operation here… and if you help me expand into Japan, then I PROMISE YOU, Anzu, the whole world will KNEEL to the Kuroyama And Black Athletic--”

“I hate your voice, yagi-san.”

The threatening tone in Kuroyama’s voice was unmistakable.

“But the sound of your screams? That would inspire more joy than any song of lies you can sing for me.”

Black’s smile instantly drooped into a sullen grimace.

At the same time, his eyes frantically darted between the patriarch’s two heavies, now suddenly standing uncomfortably close on either side of him.

“I admire your efforts to make up for your insult in Tokyo, yagi-san,” said Kuroyama, turning to take his leave. “But I am comfortable with my wealth.”

Watching him depart, Black saw all of his carefully laid plans suddenly slipping through his fingers. And yet, his nascent instinct to wriggle free from any situation was not lost to him in that moment.

In a flash, his grin reappeared. Now a bit less proud, and noticeably more entreating.

Desperate, even.

“What makes you think any of this is about comfort, Anzu?” he asked, adding a layer of grit to his voice. “This is about control, my friend! The MONEY is just a means to an end!”

Kuroyama stopped and turned to face him.

“So you say, yagi-san…” observed the aging oyabun. “And yet, you have failed to control the mongrel.”

The former Universal Champion blubbered and scoffed dismissively.

“Who… KERRY!? He can sit on a tack, for all I care! Had his chance to buy into this enterprise, and instead he decided to go lick taaaiinn… tai… tai-TAI-TAI--NNNO, I will NOT saying that disgusting word, so I’ll instead just say he decided to go lick TUSHY! But the JOKE’S ON HIM, because he’s already outed himself as a certifiable PUNK and CHOKE ARTIST, and if you don’t believe me, then YOU just watch what happens at UltraViolence!”

Kuroyama cocked his head to the side. His expression remained skeptical, but to Black, his eyes showed that the gears were turning.

“Anzu, look at the big picture! When LINDSAY TROY’s empire inevitably falls, Kerry goes down with it! And YOU?! You’ll be one of the most important men in wrestling! All without ever having stepped into a ring!”

The patriarch’s gaze shifted from the haggling charlatan before him into a thousand-mile stare. Now, Black realized, he was beginning to visualize it.

He had him on the ropes. The time was right to deliver the knock-out blow.

“Let me ask you, Anzu… what do YOU think makes a better tribute to your father’s legacy? When people hear the name ‘KUROYAMA’, just WHO do you want them to think of? Some mid-rate never-was, like your ignorant NEPHEW? Or the man that changed the FACE of an entire INDUSTRY?”

The corners of Anzu Kuroyama’s mouth curled into a devious smile.

The sight would have made any normal person’s blood run cold. For Erik Black, it was a sign that he had performed his own little Tyrese Haliburton-style slam dunk.

“Perhaps…” mused the yakuza boss.

“I KNEW you were the SMART Kuroyama!” boasted the bastard, extending an arm to the elevators. “Well, old friend, why don’t we head on up to my office and get into the PARTICULARS of… this…”

The words ebbed away at the sight of “OUT OF SERVICE” placards strewn over the doors, and a single maintenance man working with wires on a nearby exposed control panel.

“ROCK!!” Black erupted. “Just why the HECK are you down here FIDDLING with the PEOPLE MOVERS when you GOSHDARN KNOW WELL we have a busted ESPRESSO MACHINE up in the EXECUTIVE LOUNGE!?”

Rocko Daymon, a former wrestler turned lowly handyman in the service of an ultra-capitalist lunatic, sighed heavily at the man in white.

“Sorry, Erik, but the systems are still glitchy on most floors,” he answered, more stern than apologetic. “I told you we shouldn’t have cut all those corners with the construction, but you insisted on a three-month timetable, and now we’re absolutely riddled with--”

“I DON’T CARE!” interrupted Black. “If the building is GLITCHY, then I need you to STEP IT UP around here! PROVE TO ME, Rock, that you have some GOSHDARNED WORTH in this world!”

Disaffected by this verbal lashing, Daymon simply shook his head and went back to work on the panel.

Meanwhile, Black’s hand found the elder patriarch’s shoulder as he led the group further along the mezzanine.

“Forget it, we don’t need elevators… do we, Anzu?” he grumbled. “NO, because we have STAIRS! And REAL WINNERS use the STAIRS! RIGHT, Anzu?! We have SO MANY STAIRS! EIGHT-HUNDRED and FIFTY-NINE of them to be exact! Believe me, I know that from experience…”

Daymon watched the entourage depart a moment longer, until they were safely out of earshot.

“You get all that?” he spoke into the transmitter hidden in the sleeve of his flannel.

MONTREAL Standing in the lobby of Le Mount Stephen, Kerry Kuroyama gave his reply.

“Loud and clear.”

One hand held the phone near his mouth, while the other clenched into a fist held at his side, trembling in an effort to contain his rage.

He really needed to punch someone…

And yet, that bastard in white was hundreds of miles away.

As if turning his cousin wasn’t bad enough, now the son of a bitch had wooed his cantankerous yakuza boss uncle into his toxic web of influence.

What new low would he go to next? Dating his mother!?

Don’t be stupid, said that voice from within.

“Do with this info whatever you see fit,” crackled Daymon’s voice through the phone’s speaker. “I’ll reach out again if anything else comes up.”

“Yeah, likewise…”

Kuroyama’s thoughts went to the file that Rocko had entrusted to him months ago back in Calgary. All of a sudden, the multitude of dates and names he gleaned through that random mess of paperwork began to fill in the missing pieces of a greater puzzle.

But the timing was unfortunate. Especially considering how events that unfolded the prior evening in Centre Bell had drastically changed the landscape.

“Also… good luck in Toronto.”

Kerry’s eyes impulsively shut themselves. A heavy sigh later, and the tension and rage that had overtaken him gradually began to fade.

It had been ten years since their relationship as teacher and student had unceremoniously ended. But for some reason, hearing those words now brought him an indescribable sense of relief and assurance.

“I appreciate it, Rock,” he said into the phone. “Until next time…”

The call ended, and Kerry slid the phone into his back pocket.

Now that you know this, said that voice from within. What are you intending to do about it?

But that was the catch, he thought to himself.

What really could be done about it?

Instinctively, he reached behind his head and probed at the lump left behind by the impact of the Five Star belt. The good news was that Filhgud assured him it wasn’t a concussion. However, its lingering soreness served as a bitter reminder that he was paying the greater price.

Paying for the mistake of taking his eyes off his opponent.

And he had to admit to himself that it was worrying, being two weeks away from what could be the match that could turn the page on his entire career, and realizing that he was still susceptible to falling for distractions.

So, yeah.

What could he do?

Deal with one headache at a time.

Exactly.

And given the very obvious physical one he was currently dealing with, he knew the face waiting for the shaking fist held at his side belonged only to Steve Harrison.

“Mornin’, Kerry-dactyl!”

Kuroyama looked to see Scott Hunter bounding down the final few steps of the luxuriant stairway leading down from the upper levels, bag in hand and a proud and radiant smile showing on his handsome mug.

He had every right to be feeling chipper, given his win the previous night. Still, Kerry could scarcely believe that only hours ago, at the celebratory after-party at Francesco’s, he watched this same man absolutely DESTROY the dancefloor to a string of 80’s rock classics.

At one point, Foreigner hit the stereo, and some poor woman nearly busted a hip from a barrage of pelvic thrusts timed to “Juke Box Hero”.

“Morning, winner,” replied Kerry, greeting his friend with an obligatory fist bump. “We’re all checked out, and the ride is waiting.”

Kuroyama was apparently doing a poor job at masking his emotions, because Scott’s grin quickly morphed into a concerned frown.

“What’s bugging you, dude?” he asked. “Trouble sleeping?”

As a matter of fact, the night did provide him much rest. Dear Ami saw to that.

“Not quite,” Kerry answered. “Just got word that Raisin’s brewing up a fresh batch of bullshittery.”

“Ugh, that nerd again!” Scott seethed, punching into the palm of his hand. “We should just make a special trip down there to Indian-CRAP-olis and beat his ass already!”

“I feel you there, dude…”

An honest sentiment. At this point, giving that bastard the drubbing of a lifetime was a matter of when, not if.

“...but right now, I need all my attention on Harrison.”

Hunter briefly considered this reasoning, and eventually nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he concurred. “Winning the Five Star is what’s really important! Plus, I hear Harrison’s got a pet octopus, and dude… I’m not sure Kerry Koalayama’s extra opposable thumbs can compensate for eight whole tentacles!”

Kerry shook his head, unsure how to explain to his faithful Wingman that “The Octopus” referred to the clandestine organization with a vested interest in the Immortal Jellyfish and his career trajectory.

“I wouldn’t worry about Fuzzball…” said Kerry, and reached for his friend’s bag. “Here, hand me that.”

Hunter looked confusedly to his baggage, then back at Kerry. Was he picking up what the Emerald Apex was putting down?

Kerry answered in the form of a reassuring smile. “You’ve earned it, dude.”

Scott beamed once more. Never did he ever predict that one day, someone else would be carrying his bags.

But for Kerry, it was a way of telling his loyal Wingman without words that he was finally earning his place within the Vae Victis pantheon.

The two crossed the hotel lobby, passing the check-in desk to the sliding glass doors leading out into the streets of Montreal.

“I wouldn’t be too worried if I were you, dude,” said Hunter, continuing the conversation. “After all, you’ve already beaten this guy once, right?”

Kerry nodded, clearly recalling that first meeting on a distinctly hazy October evening in Spokane.

Back then, he was the one holding the champion’s advantage. And while the match ultimately ended with a third and final successful defense of the Alias Title, he couldn’t deny that the Miracle Man had come dangerously close to walking away with the belt.

And you know damn well that since then, he’s only gotten better, said that voice from within.

“Given the tear he’s been on this year, I’m not about to take any chances,” Kerry contended. “This isn’t the same Steve Harrison as before. This group backing him has really turned him into… something else.”

Something that had gotten scary good in the half year since their last meeting.

The glass doors slid aside, and they stepped out into the crisp, cool air of a typical Montreal morning.

Looking at the waiting queue of cars at the curb, Kerry recognized their ride (a black 2010 Elantra, according to the app), and promptly began walking to it.

“Yeah, but… haven’t you also been tearing it up?” proffered Scott.

Given Kuroyama’s record as of late, it was hard to argue with that.

Still, whenever anyone reminded him that he’d only lost once in a full calendar year, his mind couldn’t help but fixate on that one glaring imperfection on his record.

Because a hundred wins couldn’t overshadow losing a single match with so much at stake.

He still recalled every agonizing minute of that fight in Los Angeles, in the way traumatic experiences tend to burn themselves to memory. Some mornings, he woke up with a phantom pain in his left arm, where Don Winters had done the most damage.

Of course, he never shared this with anyone. Words couldn’t change an outcome that was already set in stone, he reasoned.

But the failure of that night still haunted him. And he only hoped that by taking the Five Star Title this time around, he could finally begin exorcising that dark demon clinging to his back.

“It’s been a good year, yeah…” he conceded. “But for whatever reason, I feel like I still have something to prove to PRIME. And I’m not letting up until I’m convinced the world gets the message.”

Kerry trailed off and stopped in his tracks at the sight of their Uber driver.

Specifically, his skull mask and glowing green eyes.

“Oh, fuck m--”

“THIS IS A MESSAGE, Kerry Kuroyama!”

Not again.

Green Reaper sat in the driver’s seat, speaking to them in his annoyingly digitized voice through the open window.

“On behalf of the REZISTANCE, we once more call upon you to join forces with--”

“Fuuu-UUCK all that!” interjected the Emerald Apex, quickly shutting that shit down. “Goddamnit, this is why I HATE going through Uber! I already told you mooks, I’m not getting anywhere near your goofy-goober goonery shit! Do you know what happened last time you came around? Kerry Koalayama dug that weird transmitter thing out of the trash, and now he’s building a satellite dish in my backyard out of random kitchen appliances!”

“Ah, come on, man!” groaned the Green Reaper. “Don’t you see we have a mutual foe here!?”

Angrily, the Emerald Apex threw the bags to the pavement, reached through the open window, and grabbed the reaper by his midnight black cowl.

“Listen, pal,” he proclaimed, in a voice that can be described as firm. “Right now, I am tired, I am stressed, and most of all, I am PISSED! So here’s what happening… we’re getting in this goddamn car, and you’re going to goddamn drive us to the goddamn train station! Because I have to get to goddamn Toronto, to compete in a goddamn wrestling match for the chance to win a goddamn championship! Now are you looking to dig your grave any deeper by keeping up with the clown-speak, or are you gonna do your job? Because our train leaves in an hour, let me tell you, Spooky, I fucking HATE being late!”

The glowing green eyes of the deathmask continued to stare back at him in silent judgement for a few lingering moments…

Then, wilting in defeat, the reaper in green turned back to the dash of his vehicle. With the push of a button, the trunk popped open.

“Alright, let’s go…” he said, begrudgingly. “I can’t afford another bad review.”

TORONTO I suppose one way or another, Steve… history is doomed to repeat itself at UltraViolence.

Either I lose out on my second effort to become the Five Star Champion, or you suffer back to back losses to the Emerald Apex.

I fully realize what they'll say about me if I fall short twice in this endeavor. Honestly, it’s impossible to approach a match like this without that thought crossing my mind at least a few times.

But I’m willing to accept the criticism. Because I have faith that my fists, body, and mind will find a way to eventually answer it.

I take assurance in knowing exactly how I earned this opportunity.

I'm here because of a WILL that is as constant and everlasting as the weather.

I’m here because I have a thirst for glory that can NEVER be quenched.

I’m here because it’s in my nature to drop any and every motherfucker that stands across from me in that ring on their head.

And no matter how many times I’m turned away from that title, Steve, I’ll inevitably keep coming back to fight for it, until the day it’s finally mine.

So keep running while you can, Steve.

Because honestly, I don't want this chase to ever end.