I Was Visited Last Night by the Ghost of Jim Irsay, and He Told Me to Kick Your Ass Because "Fuck the Birds" (I Think He Was High on Ghost Coke)

DAY 77 After that match, do I have any right to call myself a “champion”?

No words were spoken during the long walk from the ring to the locker room.

Lips were sealed through the obligatory shower, redressing, and exit to the parking garage.

Not a peep was heard as Green Reaper drove them back to Hotel Leveque.

Throughout the voyage, the match’s final sequence of moves replayed through Kerry Kuroyama’s head in an endless loop. Keeping his mouth shut felt like a Herculean labor.

But back in the privacy of the suite, that dam was ready to burst.

“That goddamn LA MAGIST--”

The words were choked off by a sweet, rubbery bullet hitting the back of his throat.

Ami.

Like a sniper lying in wait, she had been keeping twenty-five sollid miligrams of get-the-fuck-over-it stealthily locked and loaded for the precise moment his trap came open. The missile found its mark with a dime that would've made Peyton weep.

“Shhhhhhh,” she said, putting her index finger over his lips. “It’s over now. Don't let it eat at you.”

Grinning like a lynx, she playfully winked.

“That's my job.”

Kerry couldn’t tell if it was a sign of affection, or a threat.

Dutifully, he swallowed the sour apple-flavored gummy. Her finger moved away from his mouth and lightly prodded his shoulder. As if struck by a poison-tipped arrow, he went limp and fell back into the loveseat.

Ami went into the room’s adjoined kitchen. Seconds later, the blue tooth speakers were jamming out to Fela Kuti and the Africa ‘70.

Infernal woman.

The anger was still fresh. It burned hot like a fire in his chest and head. Every animal urge screamed at him to feed it. To indulge in the familiar, nerve-pulsing sensation of unfettered rage.

But of course, Ami Troy had become the master at taming “Seattle’s Beast”.

And she knew it was next to impossible to be angry when goddamn FELA was playing.

How could anyone, when being bombasted by that swanky horn line? Them infectious grooves? Those hip-bumping BEATS? Such sounds overtook the body in ways that left no room for trivial things like “anger” or “hate” or “violence”.

Only the rhythm of life and love.

A deep breath later, and Kuroyama felt the relaxation settle over him. Slowly, the continuous loop repeating through his head faded away, becoming lost within a cool, almost refreshing fog of tranquility.

“Now, think,” spoke the omnipresent voice of his father from within. “You said yourself, that match was about feeling out the competition, right?”

Right.

“Then it served its purpose. Don’t waste time dwelling on how it ended. Learn from it. Focus on how you can prevent it from happening again.”

Yes…

With heavy emphasis on the word “again.”

Because after tonight, not only did the Anglo Luchador earn his second successful pinfalls over the Emerald Apex, but he had also proven that the reigning Five Star “Champion” could be bested by a mere flash pin.

And, entering a match with Kerry’s Stars on the line, the Last Son of Tenochtitlan undoubtedly had the psychological advantage over him.

So what the hell was he doing wrong?

“I've got a lot of work to do with Ioanna,” he said aloud.

“Maybe…” replied Ami from the kitchen. “But it’s gonna have to wait until she’s back from London.”

Kerry sat up in surprise, a sharp pang of anxiety slicing through his tranquil fog of relaxation like a freezing gale.

“Wait… she’s in London?!”

“Yeah, she left yesterday,” she answered. “Her niece is having surgery.”

She leaned back into the living room, looking at him pointedly.

“Remember…?”

Of course, he didn’t.

“...yeah,” he said anyway, thus reaffirming his dumbass status. “I just… you know, I didn't realize that it was so soon. Best wishes and speedy recovery to Marina, and all that.”

…that was her name, right?

Rolling her eyes, Ami ducked back into the kitchen. Kerry could hear ice cubes hitting glass and liquid pouring.

A bubbling sound to his right caught his attention. He looked, discovering his fur-coated companion Kerry Koalayama sitting snug in a beanbag while smoking from the hose of a hookah packed with eucalyptus leaves.

His “euca-hookah”, if you will.

“Now there’s a book you can take a page from,” advised the voice from within.

“It’s just rotten timing,” bemoaned Kuroyama. “Ascension is in two weeks. If I don’t figure out how to defend myself against these tricky, flippy lucha moves by then, I’m cooked.”

“Medium rare, hopefully,” said Ami as she came back into the living room.

One hand held a glass tumbler and the other held an open Four Loko.

Her grin looked nothing short of voracious.

“Although… I dunno, you might also make a good poke bowl.”

She fell into the seat next to him and propped her legs across his lap. The tumbler found its way into his hand. Kerry could tell by the bouquet it was Yamazaki Single Malt.

Infernal, diabolical, beautiful woman.

The glass came to his lips. The whisky went down smooth, expunging the fire in his chest and sending a light wave of tingling electricity through his extremities.

Tag match? What tag match?

“At least we’ll be in Indianapolis,” she said. “So it won’t be hard to find someone to work with on a temporary basis.”

The gears of deliberation turned in the head of the Emerald Apex. Aside from that annoying dipshit in white, who else did he know in Indy?

“I can think of at least one person…” pondered the voice from within.

With a groan, Kerry realized he knew one as well.

“Now that you mention it,” he began. “There is someone who can help me…”

His phone came up so he could make the call…

…and Ami’s foot kicked it out of his hand.

“Worry about it tomorrow,” she said. “For the rest of tonight, you’re all mine.”

Then the grin disappeared.

And Kerry knew that he was doomed.

I am beyond reality. Deep space surrounds me as far as the eye can see. I am drifting through the aether, kilometers tall, two-fingers of Yamazaki in my hand and the Afrobeat rhythms of Fela Kuti pounding in my soul. …what the hell was in that gummy? “I won’t pretend that I’ve manufactured this animosity between us, Mr. Battaglia.” I can hear my own disembodied voice speaking from beyond the pale. …do I really sound like that? “So you wouldn’t shake my hand.

“The hand of one of your greatest fans from half a lifetime ago.

“Is that really any reason to hold a grudge?

“When you step back and look at it from afar… no… I suppose isn’t.”

Shit, I DO sound like that.

“Yet I’ve cultivated that animosity. For the sole reason of weaponizing it.

“From the very beginning, rage has been my greatest asset in the ring.

“The fuel to my engine of fury. The impetus to this eternal climb.

“I go out of my way to find reasons to be angry. And then I pack those feelings into a make-believe chest and lock it tight, telling myself that I’ll unleash that wrath upon the world ‘when the time is right’.

“But that time never seems to come.”

Something in the distance catches my eye.

Bright, burning celestial forms emerge from the endless soup of time-space stretched out ahead of me.

I count five of them.

“Only now, Mr. Battaglia… I think I’ve finally come to understand how animosity can be less of a weapon.

“And more of a crutch.”

DAY 81 What the hell is a “hoosier” anyway?

True to its reputation, Indiana is basketball country.

And “The Fever” could be taken as more than just the name of a team. Hoosier hysteria, as it’s also known by, was the only appropriate way to describe the infectious spirit the game held over the state.

A disease that had become synonymous with the home of Larry Bird, the Old Oaken Bucket rivalry, the Milan Miracle, and the infamous Reggie Miller “choke” gesture.

Rocko Daymon had stopped following the sport after the Sonics left Seattle a little over fifteen years ago. But after two years of living in Hoosier State, it was safe to say he caught the bug.

“I was really hoping Clark would be cleared to play tonight,” he said. “They need every win they can get to make the play-offs.”

The Gainbridge Fieldhouse was nearly filled to capacity. The Fever, clad in their red-and-black Stranger Things-themed jerseys, hosted the Seattle Storm in what was steadily looking like an easy rout for a team missing its star player.

“Looks like they didn’t need her…” grumbled Kerry, looking at a scoreboard that consistently showed the home team up by double digits for much of the game.

As if to reinforce the point, Aaliyah Boston took a pass as she slipped inside and rolled in the rock for another easy lay-up, extending the Fever’s lead to twenty. With a whoop, Rocko popped to his feet and applauded, along with thousands of other fans in attendance.

Kuroyama, looking rather out of place in his green and yellow Storm t-shirt, couldn’t ignore a slight feeling of betrayal at the sight of his former mentor cheering against the city that was once his home.

Yet at the same time, he couldn’t quite remember seeing the elder Daymon look so alive. After all the shit his life had handed him, somehow he was finding joy in it once more.

“Another book you can take a page from,” prodded that voice from within.

They sat together in one of the arena’s lower level suites, rented out for the evening on Troy’s dime.

“Are you sure it’s safe for us to be seen out in public together?” asked Kerry. “I mean, I don’t want to get you in trouble with your employer…”

Rocko shrugged, continuing to watch the game play out below them. “Last I heard, the esteemed Mr. Black was last seen stuffing a bunch of cash into a briefcase and before hopping on a private jet bound for somewhere in the Bahamas.”

Kuroyama nodded in satisfaction, yet still harbored the dread that his dealings with the erstwhile Goat Bastard were far from over.

Black was a fucking idiot, to which there was no doubt. But he was anything but a complete pushover.

For the time being, however, he could cross the deathray off his list of stupid shit he needed to worry about.

Seattle called for a much-needed time out, and Kerry jumped on the opportunity to finally talk business.

“Forgive me for being blunt,” he began, in an effort not to come off as rude. “But when I asked you for help preparing for the Anglo Luchador the other day, the last thing I expected was an invitation to a basketball game.”

Daymon sat back in his seat, blowing raspberries through his lips in the universal sign of a man who had no answers to give.

“If I’m being honest, Kerry, I’m not sure how to help you,” he said. “If you’re looking for hands-on work, there’s not much I can show you. I mean, at your level, you should be the one training me. But I’m flattered that you’d give me the consideration given… you know, given some of the choices I’ve made.”

Kerry scoffed. “That’s water under the bridge, so long as you’re on the up-and-up, Rock. But the real reason I came to you is because you know what it’s like to fight the Anglo Luchador.”

“That was seventeen years ago, Kerry,” countered Daymon, shaking his head before he dared getting lost in the ancient history of long forgotten memories. “Even then, he was hard to figure out. And I feel age has only added to his savvy.”

Kuroyama let out a deflated sigh.

“This guy’s got my number, Rock,” he said. “He’s gotten me twice with the same lucha bullshit.”

Again, Daymon shook his head.

“It’s not ‘lucha bullshit’ you should be worried about, Kerry,” said his former mentor. “Tom has two pins over you because he simply outwrestled you. Simple as that.”

He waved the court below them.

“You know, I actually prefer the women’s league to the men’s,” he said, suddenly changing the subject. “No disrespect to the gentlemen… but their game is based more on physicality and individual efforts. A lot of times, it comes down to the star player driving the lane and picking up the easy lay-up. Talented players can do that often… but it gets predictable.”

Kerry could tell he was doing more than espousing his opinions on basketball. A message was being relayed.

“You get less of that in the WNBA,” Daymon continued. “The ladies don’t have physicality to rely on. So they utilize passes. Assists. Offensive and defensive schemes. A combination of skill, speed, and strategy that actually makes for better basketball.”

Now Kerry began to wonder how much of his own skill relied on “driving the lane”. How much he had ignored the basic fundamentals of grappling.

No wonder the Anglo Luchador had been wrestling circles around him.

The arena buzzer sounded as the teams took to the court once more and went into formation. A referee’s whistle later, and the ball was back into play.

Kuroyama slapped Daymon on the shoulder.

“See?” he said. “I knew you could help me.”

“Somehow, I have become The Stick.”

The first celestial body approaches me, burning pink as a rose.

Looking deep within its core, I can see memories from my past.

I can see Jonathan-Christopher Hall.

Some brazen cameraman decides to get up on the apron to get a closer shot of the action, allowing the eventual Almasy winner to grab the hardware and bring it down over the back of my head. Three counts and two feet on the ropes later, I’m out of the tournament.

“The universal unit of measurement that every PRIME wrestler measures themselves by."

Time seems to skip ahead.

Over a year later, I’m repaying the favor to Hall by way of a Kuroyama Driver.

The scenes fade. The blazing sphere seems to burn brighter.

I take it into the palm of my free hand, press it against my chest.

Its energy is absorbed into me.

“People rate themselves by how many times they’ve pinned the Emerald Apex.”

A second celestial body approaches, blue as the sky.

Within it, I can see Nate Colton.

It’s my first Colossus appearance, and the two of us are going blow for blow like the goddamn naturals we are. The race for the pin is dead even, until the New Diamond surprises me with a crucifix roll-up.

“And I suppose I have you to thank for that, Mr. Battaglia…”

Once again, time skips ahead. I watch myself fighting Nate a year later, eventually evening the odds with a crucifix of my own.

The orb luminously burns, and as with the first, I draw it close and absorb it into my chest.

I am beginning to feel the effects within me. Subtle, but nascent.

“After all, you were one of the first to see defeating a member of Vae Victis as a notch in your belt.”

Now the third celestial body, red as a tomato, draws close.

Crash Jackson is twirling through the air in a graceful arc, landing on top of me with the Crash Dot Com. He picks up the three, and the capacity crowd pops loud. A hero-making moment for the young star.

Then it jumps ahead by a couple months, when I brought that hero crashing back down to reality -- and the mat -- with a Driver off the turnbuckles.

Another humiliation, answered by an act of redemption.

I am now beginning to understand what is being shown to me.

The stellar body burns bright, and into my chest it goes.

I am beginning to feel as light as a cloud, and as powerful as a volcano. My colossal form hums with verdant levin and radiates a divine glow. 

“I should take that as a point of pride.”

The fourth floats near, shining silver as snow.

Deep within, I see myself at a different Colossus, lying on the mat once more.

I can see The Stars… but they’re nowhere near me.

Don Winters holds Them high overhead, basking in the crowning moment of his record breaking title reign. A moment that was earned on my back and effort.

A moment that is about as relevant today as Winters himself. 

“Yet… I’m not feeling it.”

The image dissolves as time jumps forward once more. Don fades, and I replace him.

The Stars, once woefully out of my reach, are now in my hands.

“I never asked to be this company’s Stick.”

The fourth celestial body enters my chest.

Its energy hits me with a jolt. The power is overwhelming. Pain, pleasure, and total consciousness in an instant.

My raison d'être has never been clearer to me than it is in this one moment.

Greatness is not about being.

Greatness is about becoming.

And through this journey of adversity and ignominy and eventual absolution, tirelessly reaching for the apex, I have become more than I could have ever imagined.

What’s another word for a climb to the top?

Ascension.

“And yet, in becoming that, my story has been lost.”

The fifth star hovers ahead of me.

It glows green as an emerald, so bright I have to shield my eyes.

“I didn’t bust my ass all these years just to become a standard.”

The mask of the Anglo Luchador stares back at me from the core.

“My life’s work was to make myself ready for the real moments.”

It’s ReVival 44, the Last Son of Tenochtitlan is putting my shoulders to the mat with the La Magistral.

“To be ready to GO, at the pull of a trigger.”

It’s ReVival 74, and he’s repeating history.

“These Stars won't be complete until I've finally beaten you.”

My hand reaches for the verdant sun, and takes it within my palm.

The past fades away.

The future I see is white and empty.

And now it's literally and figuratively in my hands.

“And this Championship will have been all for nothing if I were to allow you to take it from me now.”

DAY 85 At this point, nothing would surprise me.

“Disappointing…”

The devil in white sat in a plush, high-backed chair, irradiated in the blue-green glow of a bank of monitors.

His lips curled into a frown as he gazed up at one in particular

“See what happens, my friend?” asked Erik Black, addressing the young man standing off to the side.

The view was zoomed in on Kuroyama and Daymon, sitting together high up in the seats of the sports arena.

“Do you see what happens when you invest TRUST in the wrong people?”

With a frustrated grunt, he flipped a switch, and the monitor went dead.

The air filled with the grating sound of chair legs scraping against tile as Black pushed away from the surveillance station and rose to his feet.

“I bring that worthless junkie in off the street,” he grumbled contemptuously. “I got him CLEAN! I gave him a JOB! I gifted him a SECOND CHANCE in life! And HOW does he repay me? He goes behind my back, and sells secrets to that Kuroyama brat…”

Angrily, he shook his head as crossed the length of his underground bunker.

He was a man in desperate need for the calming grooves of Afrobeats. But in this cold, dank place, several stories beneath the KABAL skyscraper, the rhythm of life and love was nowhere to be had.

“I wonder how long he’s been betraying me…” Black continued. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter. He’ll pay… I can ASSURE you of that!”

Hands clawed at the open air in a manner that can only be described as diabolical.

“Those Vae Victis SCUM…” he grumbled. “They think they can come into my home, rough me up, and steal my deathray… they think they can end this as easy as THAT! But HA!”

Embedded within the far wall, a massive vault door loomed over the two of them. On a nearby keypad, Black’s gnarled fingers quickly pushed in a combination of numbers.

“I assure you, my friend… this is NOT an END!”

Within seconds, the metal slab within the wall cracked open with a metallic grind and hiss. White trails of dust and vapor burst forth from the cavity like the ghosts of forgotten martyrs.

“This is merely an ESCALATION!”

Black entered the darkened recess, followed close by his associate.

Resting upon a pedestal, a small vial of glowing red liquid beckoned them forth.

Grinning insidiously, Black took the vial up in his hand.

Scrawled upon the label were two words:

CRIMSON SERUM