It had rained the night before.

Meredith Wesley sighed, tapping her foot impatiently, glancing down at the sloshing, rippling layer of water she disturbed with each frustrated tap. The 'show' - as it was described her escort/guide to London's vast underworld John Dozerman - was supposed to begin five minutes ago. Punctuality means a lot to Daddy, she thought - if only to serve as a momentary distraction from her mounting boredom. He would not approve of this.

The foul stench of body odor floated in the thick, musty air. Meredith glanced around the waterlogged sardine can of a room - of course she was the only woman. Just a spectator, whose attendance was only permitted in the first place based on the merits of her last name. Not that she minded: she felt much more at ease around the absolute worst of society. Among them, she didn't have to bother any veneer of civility.

"Alright gentle- uh, lady and gentlemen..." spoke the stammering, unsure voice of the hefty, balding man in front of the semicircle of shifty-types packed into the room, sweating profusely. "Let's get the um, show on the r-road."

His name was James Overly - one of her father's off-the-books employees. They'd met once a few years prior, naturally at one of James Wesley's parties. She was amused to see his awkwardness wasn't just a situational trait.

She looked away from the sad-sack in the ill-fitting, sweat-stained shirt, towards the man who'd been glancing over at her since she walked in. Some effete, pretty-boy twink who looked like he had just about as much business being there as she did. Less so, even - after all, it was through her father's blessing that any of them were there in the first place: who was he?

Some balls on him, she thought, must not know who I am.

She tugged on Dozerman's arm and pointed at the man. "Who's the queer?"

"'Pretty Boy' Braddock," Dozerman grumbled. "Absolute bellend. Quick bastard though - and his own biggest fan."

"Not very popular, I take it?"

"Very popular: everyone wants to beat his ass."

Meredith smirked. "Maybe we could ensure someone gets their wish tonight."

Dozerman nodded, and without another word he made his way though the crowd, approaching Braddock with the poise of a giant despite being roughly the same height as the prick. Meredith couldn't hear the words the two exchanged over the rambling, nigh-incoherent mess of Overly's 'rule-explaining' spiel; however, the sight of her muscled-up pitbull handing over a wad of 50-pound notes to the shitheel brought a smile to her face.

Let's see how pretty you are with a few missing teeth.

By the time Dozerman made it back to her side, Overly's rant had finished and the dense semicircle spread into a full circle around the first two combatants of the evening - two newcomers, risking life and limb for 50 pounds.

God bless these poor bastards.

The fight failed to capture her attention, to pry her away from her soon-to-be-fulfilled fantasy of Braddock's brutalization. Even when the small Pakistani man began slamming his opponent's face into the watery floor, staining the pool crimson.

The following few fights produced the same reaction as she waited for her investment to pay off. Flurries of savage violence that would, on a normal occasion, excite her to no end but since those on the receiving end weren't named Braddock, they failed to register. She tuned out the cheering and applause from the others, focusing all of her attention on the smug bastard.

Come on.

Finally, the moment of truth arrived. The man Braddock was set to face off with had to have been twice Braddock's age: a rough, bearded man. The type who'd eat nails for breakfast. This'll be good.

Overly called for the fight to begin, and the 'Pretty Boy' sauntered to the middle of the circle, cocked his head, and stuck his chin out, winking at Meredith and Dozerman. His opponent was caught off guard by the gesture, and kept his hands raised, not falling for what he saw as obvious bait.

"Come on, ya pansy! Hit me with ya best shot! Everyone's watchin'!"

The man sighed and reared back. The punch seemed to go in slow motion as Meredith watched intently - unable to blink. After all, she couldn't stand to miss this moment.

Her hypnotized, trance-like smile turned to a scowl immediately when Felix ducked at the last second. His opponent, who'd put too much force into the strike, stumbled. Off-balance for a second, but that was all the 'Pretty Boy' needed. He descended upon the poor bastard with an uppercut that cut through his opponent's beard and caught him right under the chin. Meredith's hand balled into a fist as she watched the debacle, though she slowly began to uncurl her fingers the more she watched.

She was in a daze for a completely different reason.

The way Braddock moved, the way he threw his punches - there was a certain gracefulness to every move he made. A sense of precision, obvious technique that was foreign to the more blunt, direct fighters that made up the rest of the 'roster'. A punch to the ear knocked his opponent off his feet, splashing into the crimson pool - but that didn't save him from Braddock. No, Braddock followed him right down, raining punch after punch upon him. Braddock's face was contorted in pure, seething rage.

Despite herself, Meredith smiled. Beamed.

Overly had to pry Braddock off of his opponent. In the blink of an eye, Braddock was back to his smirking demeanor. He snatched his fight purse from Overly's grubby sausage fingers and made his way through the crowd, stopping in front of Meredith and Dozerman. He reached into his pants-pocket and retrieved his bribe - before placing it in Meredith's open hand.

She glanced down at his hands - bruised and bleeding. Still in better shape than the poor bastard's face.

"Sorry doll, gonna 'ave to try a li'l 'arder then that. Got a reputation to uphold and all."

Dozerman turned to Meredith, the look on his face did all the talking. Just say the fucking word.

Meredith's smile didn't leave her face as she shook her head - no.


Transcript of a phone call between Felix Braddock and James Overly:

OVERLY: H-hello?

BRADDOCK: Still stuttering? Thought you'd be over that by now.

OVERLY: Look who it is. (WEAK LAUGHTER) You don't write, you don't call; thought you forgot about us!

BRADDOCK: Could never forget you, Jimmy. Your BO haunts my worst nightmares.

(MUTUAL LAUGHTER)

BRADDOCK: Hey, uhm... how've you been man? Y'know, since I last seen ya 'n all?

OVERLY: What's up with your voice? Sounds like ya got a stick up your ass.

BRADDOCK: In the process of removing it.

OVERLY: I've been fine. Not really. Catherine and I, we uh...

BRADDOCK: We should get a drink, catch up 'n shit. Actually uh, I need a favor from you.

OVERLY: (SIGH) Oh. What is it?

BRADDOCK: Sure ya heard-

OVERLY: About the fight-fixing shit? Yeah.

BRADDOCK: I, uh... they're bringing charges against me. Like, criminal charges. I don't know a whole lot about law, but I uh... I think I might need some kind of character witness. To, to say that I'm not that type of person.

OVERLY: ...And you want me?

BRADDOCK: Yeah. You were there the night I met Meredith - you'd be perfect.

OVERLY: I um, yeah. Sure. I'd be honored.

BRADDOCK: You're a life-saver, man. And don't worry - we'll definitely get that drink some time.

OVERLY: Al, uh... alright.


Text message conversation between Felix Braddock and Meredith Braddock:

MEREDITH: Steve Sayors is not to be trusted.

FELIX: why not???

MEREDITH: Little creep followed me after my interview. He's convinced there's more to me than meets the eye. Might have given him a little bit of validation on that front.

FELIX: why???

MEREDITH: You know me: I love a challenge.

FELIX: Sayors was 1 of the few ppl in the company willing to report on The Union without bias.

MEREDITH: For one article. Only to save his job since he thought the #BoycottXWF movement was a legitimate threat. Once that little Batman-wannabe leaked its less-than-legitimate origin, that ship sailed. He has it in for The Union anyway. Just like everyone else.

FELIX: right. what did u do?

MEREDITH: What?

FELIX: to him I mean. What did u do to him?

MEREDITH: I didn't do anything. He flung himself from the window of his hotel. Some drunk couple knocked on his door early in the morning and spooked him.

FELIX: right.

MEREDITH: You know how paranoid he is.

FELIX: everyone does.

MEREDITH: Exactly. He'll claim I had something to do with it, I'm sure. No one will believe him. He's a snake.

FELIX: a rat more like. just waiting to get eaten.

MEREDITH: True. Be sure to let the rest of the guys know that Sayors is not to be trusted. I gave him an inch and he's sure to take a mile if he can. Deny him the opportunity.

FELIX: was provoking him a good idea?

MEREDITH: You know me. Love a challenge. If he wants to make me his passion project, so be it. He can lose like everyone else.

FELIX: right

FELIX: hey have u talked to Jimmy lately?

MEREDITH: Overly?

FELIX: yeah. we were supposed to grab drinks a while back.

MEREDITH: He's dead. Hung himself a couple months ago.

MEREDITH: You okay?

MEREDITH: I'll be home in the morning. Love you.




AUTHORS NOTE: The title of this article is taken directly from a lyric in The National's "Don't Swallow the Cap". Definitely give it a listen.

Life is precious.

Three words that I feel any good-hearted person can agree with.

I won't beat around the bush - it is with a heavy heart that I write this article. Just recently, I learned that a very good friend of mine - who admittedly I hadn't seen as much as I should have in the past few years - committed suicide. Months ago. It's... interesting to think about. A man, one of the men who helped me along in so many ways (that I shan't describe here - I worry that my previous article was too much about me and if I were to go in depth about the impact this man had in my life, I'd be here all day) not only died, but died a long time before I even heard anything about it.

We were supposed to get drinks a few months ago. I had completely forgotten in the whirlwind of responsibilities I had regarding my trial and career in the XWF. And that's the part that's been eating at me the most in the past few days. I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, if I had remembered to get drinks with him - if I looked past my own issues for a moment - that maybe he'd still be here. I know that's a horribly self-centered way to look at the situation, but it's true. I don't know if I could've helped.

That's the part that scares me. Thinking that maybe, even if I was a better friend the past few years, even if I did all I could to help him, that it wouldn't be enough.

Forgive me if this article comes off as a bit scatterbrained: I have a lot to get off my chest.

The news made me think of (((Ghost Tank))). I don't quite know why - maybe I've hardwired every negative emotion to remind me of him. Probably.

But there is a bit of important news on the (((Ghost Tank))) front. Two important things, actually. One: he is capable of reading & managed to find yesterday's article. Two: he responded to it.

Yes, you read that right, true believers: (((Ghost Tank))), the big bad monster machine thing, is now trying to debate me. Like a fucking highschooler. Isn't that just the most precious thing in the entire world? How, in spite of apparently looking through my entire dissertation - maybe his tranny wife read it to him - he managed to prove me one hundred percent, absolutely right.

Ghost Tank has no personality. No real personality, that is. Sure, he has a constantly rotating collection of disguises: the spooky Ghost Tank, the 'I'm an Athiest, debate me' Ghost Tank, the television watching Ghost Tank, the murderer Ghost Tank, and so on and so forth. But underneath whatever bullshit mask he's wearing, there's nothing at all.

The man goes from calling himself God, and talking about how he can end my career with just one botched move (because, you know, the only way he can break anyone is by fucking up), to tearfully recounting his tranny wife's life story on some kind of bizarre mission to 'prove me wrong'.

It's adorable, really. He just goes on and on and on, literally debating every single point I made because he's convinced that this is how it works. All he has to do is just point at everything I say and scream "nuh uh you're wrong" like a petulant fucking child and that'll solve it. That'll make it so. That'll make it so he can break me in half or whatever stupid shit he's claiming he'll do to me now.

The mental gymnastics are astounding. Hell, he can't even get his own counterarguments straight. If I were a (((Ghost Tank))), I'd spend a billion years going over some of these, but I'm not. I will however, point some of these out and let you think on them. Try and make sense of this shit.

He claims that (((Zeke the Freak))) is there to target stupidity. He then makes the claim that (((Zeke))) goes after people like me, but worse, in the process questioning if it's possible for people to be stupider than me. To top it off, he follows this by saying that it'll take some intelligence to dissect the points I brought up in my article.

Yes. This happened.

Then he calls me a nobody despite droning on and on about what I have to say when logic would dictate if I was as much of a nobody as he claims, he wouldn't feel the need to respond at all. There are many upset snowflakes who bombard me on Twitter. Never responded to any of them.

But that isn't the (((Ghost Tank))) method. No, see, despite his physical power - (((Ghost Tank))) is the weakest person I have ever seen in my entire life. He can't even commit to being a full blown SJW. Despite his claims about him and Frodo not being friends any more, if the dwarf called him up and said he wanted to be 'bffs' again, (((Ghost Tank))) would change his tune immediately. (((Ghost Tank))) is the type of 'monster' to debate me and miss the forest for the trees.

This is you, (((Ghost Tank))).

So desperate for validation, you have to posture and bend over backwards to prove little old me wrong.

I don't give a shit about your charities.

I don't give a shit about the homeless people you help.

But, I have to admit: I am kind of sad that I have to face off with you, exchange wits with you. I'd much rather be matched against your tranny wife. (S)he's actually interesting. A true struggle right there - the exception that proves the rule of the American Dream being dead. After all, she isn't the one in the public eye.

You are.

You and all of your half-cocked, no conviction, pussyfooting bullshit. You and all your cowardice masquerading as 'high standards'. We both know that if your shiny belt was on the line against Scully, you'd tuck your tail in between your legs and run home. But since it isn't and you only stand to benefit from the match, you're right there. Right in on it. Just like Unknown Soldier, right? Imagine, if you will, if (((Ghost Tank))) had to defend his belt in the match with Soldier?

He would've noped the fuck out of there in a heartbeat.

And yet, this is the half of the (((Ghost Tank))) marriage that's in the spotlight. RIP The American Dream.

We live in a world where a whiny, edgy-teenager trapped in a giant's body, who came from money and can't decide what he wants to be in the public eye while his tranny wife, who worked her ass off to get where she is, who actually pulled herself up by her bootstraps and went to work, is on the sideline.

Let me make it perfectly clear, (((Ghost Tank))): I respect your tranny wife.

I don't respect you.

How could I?

You're a complete blank of a human being. There is nothing to you that isn't fabricated. You can't even keep your convictions together long enough to take a stand on something because you can't risk being too partisan on anything. You're everyone's favorite giant killing machine, except for when you're the everyone's favorite domesticated sit-com dad.

You're the type to move the goalposts so they favor you. After all, you have no shame in passing off your sham of a victory over Chris Macbeth as a legitimate triumph. Because in (((Ghost Tank))) land, throwing someone over the top rope and knocking them to the mat for an accelerated 'ten count' is the same as pinning someone in the center of the ring.

Remember: Chris pinned you that night.

You are everything that's wrong with this country: a weak-willed, spineless little too preoccupied with being 'right' to realize just how wrong you are. You and all of the mealy-mouthed fucking enablers who let you get as far as you have. Weak fucking moral relativists who can't or won't take a fucking stand.

"Oh, it's okay that (((Ghost Tank))) murdered three hundred, thirty-three people that one time. He loves his tranny wife and daughter" - someone out there, surely.

Maybe you should just have (((Zeke the Freak))) speak for you always. It might be scummy - actually, would it be?

After all, he's smarter than you.

AUTHORS NOTE: Rest in power, James Andrew Overly. Gone, but never forgotten.


"You're good, kid. Damn good."

Overly's words echoed in Felix's head as his bare fists connected with the canvas heavy bag in front of him. Left, right, left. Left, right, right. Left, left, right. It didn't take long for him to give up focus on technique and just wail on the bag, each blow stinging his hands, scraping his knuckles. He gritted his teeth and continued pounding on the bag,

"Hey - listen to me."

One of his wild punches stained the white bag with a spot of red. He paused for a moment and inspected the bag, then his bruised hands. His bleeding knuckles. He inhaled, eyeing the bag once more. Then he continued his onslaught. With each consecutive blow, he became sloppier. Soon enough, he was hitting the heavy bag like a child punching the air wildly during a tantrum.

"There's a guy comin' in - you'll want to impress him."

His face contorted into a twisted expression - the reflection of the rage that consumed him as he continued pounding on the bag. Nostrils flared. Eyes wide. Tears welled up, trapped in his tear ducts. His heart beat rapidly, furiously against the walls of his ribcage. Each breath was more labored than the last - there was a stinging pain in his lungs, and with every inhale and exhale he had to work twice as hard to suppress the tears in his eyes.

"Felix?"

He froze. She couldn't be back so soon, it had only been--

"Are you, you alright?"

Her voice was flat and hardly expressive - more curious than concerned. A fact that only added to the billowing anger inside of him, though he didn't quite understand why. This was Meredith: the love of his life. This was how she expression emotion - she didn't.

"Catherine and I, we uh..."

He turned around and forced himself to smile. There she was, in the flesh. Just as stunning as the day they met. Yet, here he was. As he studied her reaction, he realized just what a mess he was. He hadn't slept - too busy drowning his sorrows in some sort of half-exercise, half-punishment. He was on the verge of tears. He was on the verge of lashing out.

He was a leech. A fucking gutless coward. He took everything he could from James Overly, and skated out the second he could. He turned his back on the man who gave him everything.

He was a cancer.

He didn't even realize that Meredith was hugging him until she muttered some kind of consolation - a rarity if ever there was one.

"You were a good friend. This wasn't your fault."


That was it. The straw that broke the camel's back. One promise that went unfulfilled - that would always be unfulfilled. Nothing could ever change that.

His own words - the last thing he ever said to Jimmy Overly - echoed in his mind as he finally broke down and sobbed.

He sobbed because it was a release - something kind of primal response.

He sobbed because he didn't deserve not to - he wasn't a man. A man would've been there.

But most importantly, he sobbed because he missed his friend - and he knew that feeling would plague him for the rest of his life.