The Choke Dealer

Danny Christie. Or, officially: Daniel Creswell Christie. That's it. That's the name. Not something dressed up for the lights. Not some gimmick stitched together for posters and programmes. That's the name his late mother, Mary Christie—God rest her soul—gave him, and it's the same name that'll one day be carved into cold stone when the noise is finished.

But where Danny comes from, a name isn't something you use.

It's something you inherit.

Among travellers, inheritance doesn't come in neat little envelopes from solicitors. It isn't land deeds or trust funds or some dusty will read out in a quiet office. What you inherit is far heavier than that.

You inherit a reputation.

Tough, bruising farmer Barney Gorman, 65, of the Welsh Valleys, once said when asked about the Christie name:

The Christies…? Aye. Them boys'll fight.

Gorman would know. The feared valley farmer spent years locked in a bitter rivalry with Danny's father, Big John Christie. The pair reportedly settled more than one dispute the traditional traveller way— bare-knuckle, in makeshift pits carved out of Welsh farmland. On at least one occasion, witnesses claim the men fought ankle-deep in pig slop over a family grievance that, to outsiders, would've seemed completely trivial. To them, however, it was about the only thing that mattered.

Because when a traveller gives his name, he isn't just telling you who he is.

He's telling you who stood before him.

And long before Danny Christie ever walks into a room… the name Christie has usually arrived first.

Local scallywag Little Stanley Price, 12, speaking from a BMX outside the caravan site, offered this assessment of the man carrying it:

Danny Christie? He's hard as f**k, him. Showed me how to throw a proper one-two.

Price has lived on the same camp as the Christie family most of his life. According to locals, Christie once spent an afternoon teaching the boy how to throw his first punches— left hand, right hand, chin tucked— shortly after stopping him from hurling rocks over the fence of a nearby old folks' home. Lessons, it seems, come in different forms around the camp.

Because that's the other thing about inheritance.

It doesn't just move backwards through blood.

Sometimes it moves forward too. Within the next generation.

Through stories. Through reputation. Through the understanding that when someone says the name Christie…

It's supposed to mean something.

***

Tall tales of local tough guy skullduggery are the pillars of their shallow community. Helping old ladies cross busy roads as a basic example isn't the staple of their existence. An option, of course. But never the designed custom. It is living aimlessly through valueless legends, deplorable idols and sad one-dimensional beliefs. Humble like any British common village, I suppose. Hairdressers, has its local library, and shops selling unhealthy pastries and that alike.

It's approximately midday and the temperature does not truly reflect reality. This is demonstrated by Danny Christie sporting a wife beater as the van sits parked in neutral.

The engine hums and vibrates.

The Challenger of the Alias PRIME championship has a newspaper held up against the steering wheel as he takes a moment out of the hustle and bustle. Frankly, this is his happy place. Which you could easily substitute for any mundane task outside of the treacherous world of show business.

However, something catches his eye, meaning his "Danny Time" is cut short.

Amongst passers-by one character in particular stands out. He staggers, jars (not just his jaw) and bumbles around the shopping centre square, completely shoeless. He is clearly under the influence of something untoward.

The watchful eye of Danny doesn't falter as the down-and-outer comes closer to his boundary.

The window of his transit van slides down.

"What's your name, kid?"

The man looks straight up at Danny and looks spooked. Almost like the alert from MGS transpired with him.

"..Jaffa," he replies hesitantly.

"As in.. Jaffa cakes?"

Jaffa uncomfortably laughs.

"Like a biscuit?"

"It's just my nickname."

"Come on, what's your proper name?"

"..Robbie."

"You mean Robert?"

"Aye, Robert."

"Robert what?"

"..Jefferson."

"Nice to meet you, Robert Jefferson.. my name's–"

"I know who you are, mate."

"Go on, who am I?"

Danny is intrigued, squinting his eyes in the process.

"You're the Choke Dealer.."

Danny strikes the shoeless Robert Jefferson a look. But not just any look. A look that has been summoned from the past. Granted, it has appeared on the ACE NETWORK, on PRIME once or twice (usually around BJP) but it's resurfaced here once again.

Almost like he's resisting one of his default settings. Trying tirelessly to keep his natural feelings at bay for the sake of peaceful harmony.

Because the truth is… people only ever know half a story.

We aren't really privy to the details of Danny Christie's teenage years. Life was tough back then. Truth be told, it's still tough now. And when you grow up on a traveller camp with more mouths than money, a young man learns quickly that survival starts asking questions long before you're old enough to answer them properly.

So whatever little ventures Danny Christie might have tried to conjure up for himself back then… whatever ways he thought might help support the family name and the family table…

That was his cross to bear.

And maybe that's where the name came from.

But that's not the only reason people started calling him....... The Choke Dealer.

*** The memory drifts back like dust floating through sunlight. A hay barn somewhere in the Welsh valleys. The sort of place that smells like old timber, wet earth and livestock long since gone. Straw scattered across the ground where a rough circle has formed— boots stamping it down into something that passes for a ring. Men stood shoulder to shoulder around it. Travellers. Farmers. Old boys with folded arms. Young lads climbing fence posts to get a better look. No cameras. No lights. Just breath in the cold air and the low murmur of men waiting for violence. Danny Christie was twenty-one years old. Lean. Hard. But young enough that some of the men in that barn were already whispering the same thing. The boy's bitten off more than he can chew. Because across from him stood something that barely looked human. Seven foot tall if he was an inch, and twice as wide. A giant of a man. Shoulders like a tractor axle. The kind of monstrous build that makes people start muttering comparisons before the fight has even begun. The sort of brute that would make someone like Ivan Stanislav look less like a wrestler and more like distant family. One local, by the name of Snakey Jakey (don't ask) claimed he had the full scoop on the towering combatant. However the legitimacy of Jakey's findings were always taken with a pinch of salt. Snakey Jakey said:

Ah yeah I knows 'im, course I knows 'im, seen 'im about years ago I 'ave, big fella, big fella, seven foot easy, might be eight mind, depends if 'e's slouchin' or not, you know what I mean. Came round the valleys once wi' some Romanians or Bulgarians or summat like that, couldn't rightly say, big long coats they 'ad on 'em, looked like undertakers the lot of 'em. Fella eats raw eggs I'm told, dozen at a time, shell an' all, crunch crunch like that. Strong as a tractor that bloke, lifted a motorbike clean over a gate once, swear on me mother's grave I seen it. Some say 'e fought bears back wherever 'e's from, others say 'e used to guard them illegal dog fights up north somewhere, nasty business that, real nasty. All I knows is I wouldn't fancy fightin' the big bastard meself, not for money nor pride neither, not unless someone slipped 'im somethin' first. Though mind you, they did say that young Christie lad's takin' the fight… so we'll see won't we, we'll see…

Someone spat into the hay. Someone shouted. "Let 'em go!" The giant came forward like a runaway horse. His first punch landed. The crack of it echoed around the barn and Danny's head snapped sideways. Another followed. Then another. Heavy blows that made the watching crowd wince as blood began running from Christie's nose, splattering dark into the straw beneath his boots. The giant roared. A deep, animal roar that filled the barn as he realised the size of the advantage he had. Another swing. This one caught Danny square in the chest and sent him stumbling backwards… straight through a rotten wooden fence panel that exploded into splinters around him. For a moment all anyone could see was dust and broken timber. Someone laughed. "Fight's done." The giant stood there breathing like a bull, chest heaving, arms wide, soaking in the moment as if the whole thing had already been decided. Then the dust shifted. Danny Christie climbed out of the wreckage of that fence. He looked a mess. Blood down his face. Hay stuck to his clothes. His eyes glassy, unfocused, like the world hadn't quite caught up with him yet. For a second he just stood there swaying. Dazed. Then.. a split second of clarity. Danny slowly lifted both hands in the air… and gave the towering giant the double bird. "YOU.. BIG.. CUNT!" The barn erupted. The giant charged again, furious now. Swinging wild, drunk on anger and the noise of the crowd. Danny slipped the first shot. Stepped inside the second. And suddenly the fight stopped looking like a beating. It became a scramble. Christie climbing that enormous frame like a man scaling a tree. Arms threading under the chin. Chest tight against the giant's back. And then… The choke. Rear naked. Sunk in deep. Seven feet of giant clawing desperately at arms that wouldn't move. The barn fell quiet except for boots grinding straw. The giant staggered. Once. Twice. Then the mountain collapsed. Seven feet of man crashing into the hay while a bloodied twenty-one-year-old traveller held on tight until the lights went out. Then the roar. And somewhere in the back of that barn someone began chanting the name that would follow Danny Christie around the travelling communities for life. " ..Choke Dea-ler! Choke Dea-ler!" It spreads all across the lands and villages. When he walks through markets, women subtly show their availability. Men from all ages and backgrounds want to shake this man's hand. Now that name never quite makes the mainstream. When Danny Christie's notoriety eventually spreads across the internet, it isn't chokes in dusty barns that people are watching. It is knockouts. One punch and night-night. But names like The Choke Dealer don't disappear so easily. Certainly time goes by and people move on; taking their caravan to a brand new campsite. But the poetic violence carries on. The urban legend grows. "The Choke Dealer" His alias. *** The engine cuts and silence settles over the campsite. Danny Christie keeps his hands on the wheel a moment longer than necessary, eyes fixed ahead on the stairs up to the caravan. He already knows what might be waiting inside. Or who. The relationship has never quite recovered. Not after the accident. Not after that split-second mistake— headlights, adrenaline, seeing a figure and thinking it was Big John Pepper instead of his own father. Realising too late. Metal into bone. Impact into consequence. That kind of thing doesn't just get brushed off. Big John Christie is still there, though. In the corner at every ReVival. Present and as loyal as his lurcher. There is no voice behind it anymore. There is no intent there with his guidance and instructions. Just a man standing where he is supposed to stand, saying what he is supposed to say. Soulless. Like obligation has replaced instinct. And somehow that feels worse than if he'd stayed away entirely. Danny exhales, pushes the door open, and steps out of the van. The gravel crunches under his boots as he approaches the caravan, each step carrying a weight that has nothing to do with distance. "Hey Judy." His dad's lurcher is tied up outside. It isn't overly excited to see Danny but that is purely down to its age (most likely). A quick rub of its head and with slight hesitation, he eventually opens the door to the caravan. It's empty. No sign of his father. No movement. No voice. No imminent "his house, his rules" laws. Just stillness sitting in the space where something used to live. Whatever Danny has come here for, it isn't to talk. Men like the Christies don't do that. No heart-to-hearts. No emotional unpacking. If anything, that absence of expression is something he's inherited. Learned behaviour. Passed down like everything else. He doesn't leave. Instead, he stands there, letting the place settle around him. The worn seats. The infested smell of smoke. The quiet hum of memory in the walls. It holds him in place, like nostalgia has more control over his feet than he does. His eyes drift to the cabinet.

Filled to capacity. Every piece left untouched. Like it's intended. Even the dust that collated over the years has its own place in history. He steps closer, gaze moving across it until it settles on the medals hanging from the side. Amateur wrestling first… then the boxing trophies lined across the shelf. A faint smirk touches his face. Not pride. Recognition. He remembers those days. Not choosing it. Being dragged through it. Learning the hard way. Every round, every drill, every second under pressure… with one constant stood nearby. With expectation. Through loyalty and adversity. Through pain and suffering. ..His dad. Already in the moment before the words even land. Breathing heavy. Energy building like he's the one about to fight. A spit hits the floor— not disrespect, just feeling spilling over into downright passion. "We are firemen, boy!" A step forward. "The heat don't bother us!" Another breath, sharper this time. "We LIVE in it! We TRAIN in it!" His hand thumps into Danny's chest. "Flames don't scare us— what do we do?!" He doesn't wait. He never did. "We CONTROL it!" Another step. "We move it where we WANT—" His hand grips the back of Danny's neck, pulling him in, not gently… but not cruelly either. Like he needs him to feel it. "—and then we put the bastard OUT!" Danny's expression tightens slightly. Because that isn't just words. That is belief. His gaze shifts. Almost deliberately. Like he's moving away before it pulls him too far back in. His eyes land on the photo resting at the back of the cabinet. The barn. The giant. Danny standing over the giant, victoriously. Like something biblical where he's momentarily called David. His thumb brushes across it… and the noise comes back. Not all of it. Just one voice. His father's. Louder than everything else. Overwhelmed by it. Like above all the achievements on this trophy cabinet, this is his biggest feat. This is more real as it isn't just about the materialism but the reputation. Name-value. The name Christie as it is pitted against another name out of the combat sphere: only wanting nothing but the major bragging rights. Danny exhales slowly. But the moment doesn't fade. It deepens. Because his dad doesn't just shout that name. He feels it. And you can hear it in what comes next. Another breath. A shake of the head. Like he's trying to steady himself but can't quite do it. A spit to the side— again, not thought about. Just the moment taking over. "Miracles…" A small scoff, but there's emotion sitting underneath it now. "Miracles ain't angels, son…" He steps closer. Not towering. Not threatening. Just… present. "They're made." Danny's grip tightens on the photo. "You wanna see your mother again?" That one lands deep. "They'll bring her back." A finger taps Danny's head. "In here." Then presses against his chest. "And in 'ere." His voice steadies, but the feeling doesn't leave it. "They're gonna talk about you... They're gonna say your name…" A pause. "And when they do—" His jaw tightens. "They're sayin' hers too." Beat. "What she built." A breath in. "World champion." Not hype. Not noise. Truth, as far as he's concerned. "Not for you." And one last exhale, the edge of that same emotion still there. "For the name." DC doesn't allow himself to be overcome by emotion. All that stuff he saw as weakness upon the surface. Leave that buried with the Titanic. He straightens up. Pulls himself back into the room. Back into the present tense. Back into the man he's decided to be, rather than the boy this caravan keeps trying to resurrect. Then he sees it. The final piece of the jigsaw. Sitting on the floor at the base of the caravan door. Wedged in at an angle. Doing the most unglamorous, thankless, anonymous job an object can be tasked with. A doorstop. The self-awarded Realest Motherfucker Award trophy. DC stares at it for a long moment. Doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just takes it in the way a man takes in something he isn't quite sure how to file away. Because there are things in life you can rationalise quickly— a bad result, a bad hand, a bad road. You absorb it and you keep moving. But this? This requires a second look. And a third. Because that trophy wasn't some prop. Wasn't some gimmick plucked off a shelf for the sake of a bit of spectacle. That award meant something. Still means something. In a world saturated with pantomime— with clowns in face paint, with overweight park rangers patrolling the borders of mythical lands of make-believe, with men dressing up their mediocrity in catchphrases and costumes and carefully managed personas— DC planted a flag. And his father had made it a doorstop. DC crouches down slowly. Eyes level with it now. Studying it like it's evidence at a crime scene. Maybe it's disrespect. Maybe it's indifference. Maybe Big John Christie doesn't deal in symbols the way his son does. Maybe a trophy is just a trophy to a man who measured everything in blood and outcomes. Maybe the old man simply needed something to stop the door swinging shut on a cold night and grabbed the nearest thing to hand. But DC had thought his father was on board with what that award represented. That particular maybe is the one that sits heaviest. He reaches down— The television switches on. No remote and no reasonable explanation presenting itself in the immediate vicinity. For crying out loud you can't even blame the dog's arse in this instance because it was banished to the outdoors. DC doesn't move. Stays crouched. Eyes cutting sideways to the screen with the particular stillness of a man who has learned to pay attention when the world does something it isn't supposed to do. Random coincidence? Or the mythical workings of something that has no interest in being explained away? The ACE NETWORK fills the screen. "I'm telling you now, Pepper... this isn't the time you shape-shifting bastard." Bizarelly, it's BJP and DC doing their thing at ReVival 82. The tag team match versus Masters Of The Moscowverse. Where it all began. The two of them moving like they'd been built in the same factory— instinct and timing and the kind of chemistry that doesn't get coached, only discovered. The kind of partnership that looks inevitable in hindsight but felt, in the moment, like something that had no right to work as well as it did. DC watches himself on that screen. Then watches BJP. The caravan is completely silent except for the sound of the broadcast filling its walls. "Your winners by pinfall, Danny Christie and Biiig Jooohnnn Ppepperrr!" The ring announcement from Vince Howard peaks in volume to maximum overload. The whole caravan shakes, the dog yelps and Danny Christie looks completely awestruck. What were these messages? Could it be divine? The outside world wouldn't see it. But DC did. And the uncomfortable truth sitting at the centre of all of it— the thing the old arrogance had kept buried— was that somewhere along the way, the name had become the mission. Rather than what the name was supposed to stand for. Something far greater had been overlooked. And now it was making itself impossible to ignore. Tony Gamble is the Alias Champion. A man named Gamble. Holding a championship called the Alias. That isn't coincidence— that's the next chapter announcing itself. That's a fixture. That's a name with a part to play in whatever this is becoming. So the question lands clean. Would DC be willing to gamble it all— everything the Christie name carries, everything it cost, everything it was ever supposed to mean— for mere namesake?