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Thomas Nixon · (05-06-2017)

“I like to think I’m a composed guy.”

Thomas Nixon is standing on the roof of an apartment building in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He’s dressed in a gray V-neck and dark blue jeans. He casually leans forward, his forearms resting on the metal railing. Off in the distance, about a mile from where Nixon resides, skyscrapers outline the sky as the sun begins to set leaving an orangey tint in the sky.

“But my oh my, Danny Imperial has a way of getting on my nerves.”

Thomas Nixon angles his head back and lets out a slight chuckle accompanied by a sly smirk. His voice has an almost sarcastic bite to it, as he continues.

“You see, I can’t tell if he’s a moron or if he’s that drugged up on painkillers, so for this moment, I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt. You see, he talks the talk like a twenty year old college frat boy that’s trying to impress some dumb, drunk slut. In that situation, you can act real cocky, and a drunk girl might not be able to see through your bullshit.”

His voice speeds up and slows down with a remarkable cadence. A hint of laughter floats into his analogy.

“But I’m not a five foot tall, hundred pound girl that is absolutely hammered after two shots of vodka. That’s why when this idiot runs his mouth like, I’m not sure if I should laugh in his face or drop him on his head.

Danny is walking a really fine line, the line between arrogance and ignorance.

On one side, he has a cocky swagger that is downright douchey but not necessarily unfounded. Danny has a few solid wins to his name, and in some close contests he found a way to win. That’s the part where I give you some credit because you’ve shown that you’re at least somewhat formidable. But Danny, don’t pretend that you steamrolled Tidbits. You marginalize his reign like you clowned him! Buddy, you won with one second left in the match from a roll up! A win is a win, but don’t flaunt your stuff like you’re the king of the world!

You can say that you’re the most dominant wrestler in the XWF, but that doesn’t change the facts. Pulling a win out at the end looks the same in your win loss column, but that doesn’t mean you dominated!

On the other hand, Imperial doesn’t have any idea what he’s in for on Saturday night. You seem to be totally ignorant of my experience and what Jack Cain may very well bring to the ring. You crowd out any realistic expectation with self-congratulating comments! You’re deluding yourself in the run up to your first title defense!

It’s hard to strike a perfect balance between your cocky demeanor and your distaste for truth. You can’t walk that line when you’re drugged out of your fucking mind, and if I’m seeing things right, Danny’s jabbering gets more and more ignorant by the minute.

I’m sure the folks at home see the same thing that I’m seeing. A beat up, drugged up young man proclaiming that he can put away a former champion and a giant in approximately five minutes. Now, that’s borderline delusional and if the XWF wasn’t about entertainment, then management would be sending him to a ward to protect him from himself. If Danny thinks he’s going to walk out with the championship without any hassle, he’s simply living in a fantasy.

Ignoring the third man, Jack Cain, he should take a quick moment to look over my credentials. Even on the rare occasion that I’ve lost, it’s taken more than five minutes of my opponent’s life to put me away. Even when Jim Caedus beat me, it took him nearly 15, and he’s far more talented than this cocky piece of shit will ever be. And that’s when you’re looking at the matches where I lost.

The fans in the XWF know me for more than my losses, which make up a small amount of my matches here. Let’s look at the last time I was in the damn ring. Danny, I beat Michael McBride, by knockout for that matter, and he’s far more accomplished than you are. Never mind the fact that we beat the shit out of each other, and any fan in that arena would attest to my resilience. I put on that performance, while your claim to fame is a roll up when in the knick of time?

And you’re the one shrugging me off?”

Nixon stands up straight and turns towards the camera, giving it his undivided attention.

“But I’m not angry with you. I’m not going to take this as a slap to the face. Because your disrespectful attitude is a gift to me. You’re throwing me a nice underhand pitch that I can rip out of the park. I’ll pull it straight to left field for an easy batting practice homerun.

Your fatal error is so simple! You think everyone else here is a joke. All you do is criticize other people and make smug remarks. Better yet, you don’t even acknowledge your competition! You spent half of your promo talking about Robert Main! Buddy, you have to get through two men before you can even walk into that match. And with this attitude, you’re going to be empty handed when you show up at Warfare for your Hart title match.

But instead of emphasizing the importance of your match for “teevee” you’re calling out Ax3 and starting fights against a group of men that have proven a lot more than you have. That isn’t the sign of a smart man, starting fights left and right that you clearly can’t win.

As much as you’re preparing and training, your head isn’t in the game. Because you may think of yourself as a grand strategist, but plans fail if they’re built off false premises. And you decided that your opponents are incompetent. Things don’t work out too hot when your whole gameplan is founded on lies. And trust me, ask all the people I’ve beaten. Ask all of the people that underestimated me. Nobody takes Thomas Nixon lightly and walks away with an easy win.”

Nixon takes a deep breath, regaining the composure that he insists he has.

“And speaking of gameplans, let’s talk about Jack Cain. He had some interesting thoughts the last I heard from him. He made a statement that would make sense to a passive listener. If you aren’t thinking critically, you would buy every word Cain was selling. He said that he’s nothing that I can prepare for because he’s only had one match here. Therefore, my strategy is inherently flawed.”

Nixon puts his back to the rail, leaning on it casually. He brings his left hand to his temple, and lets out a sigh.

“That’s a crock of shit.

Jack Cain is a giant motherfucker. Look at how he wrestles in his one match here. He simply competes exactly like any big man does. Sure, he has his own unique traits and that changes his small mannerisms, but his strengths are exactly what you would expect! If he clocks you in the head, you’re done! No shit!

It’s that simple, and for some reason, Jack feels the need to draw all these historical comparisons. I love a good dramatic monologue as much as the next guy, but Jack wasn’t speaking the truth. He’s overstating the case. He isn’t going to fling himself from the top rope and hit a shooting star press, that’s for damn sure. I’ll believe him when he says that he’s a force to be reckoned with, but I can come up with a competent plan because he isn’t completely unpredictable.”

Nixon voice settles, his words slow down, and he takes a calmer almost abstract approach as he continues on.

“Oddly enough, the more I look into him, the more I see similarities between myself and Jack.

It’s really kind of interesting. We both have a dark past. I’ve been a part of schemes and plans that I regret to some extent, whether it’s from my time in Dealey Plaza to my encounters with the late Robert McNamara, I’ve had to do things that most human beings wouldn’t dream of. That’s the reality of the situation, and I have to live with myself because of it.

Cain also bears a heavy burden. One that clearly has changed his personality. The things he’s seen have killed every emotional cell in his body. He gets up every morning numb to the world around him. That’s the small distinction that separates us.

You see, me and Cain are both fighting for justice, but we have different takes on it. It’s almost as if Cain is wandering around, seeing only pain in the world, and ending the lives and careers of people he deems unfit. That’s an interesting outlook. He’s killed sick people, pedophiles even, but I’m also inclined to believe that he is willing to do the same for annoyances. People that rub him the wrong way, like the little story he told the XWF fans.

I believe in justice, but that’s why I’m fighting for a specific cause. I’m working towards a goal that I believe is tangible and within reach. That structure displays the distinct difference between Jack and I. I have a specific goal on the horizon, while he operates through a world view partaking in vague acts of justice that fit his frame of mind.

I’m controlled, I have a constructive way to harness my anger. He’s just shelling out punishment because he drew a bad hand.

But in the end, it all comes to the same point. That I go out of the ring showing the insignia of my clan. I gesture at the beautiful lizard emblem with pride. I want to create a better world and a better place for others, and that empathy drives me. Because if I fail, I’m failing every single person that has put their hopes and faith into me.

But if Jack Cain falls short, what has he got to lose? He failed nobody. He doesn’t stand for anything except for his own view of how the world should work. And your own principles aren’t going to drive you to success if you’re gassed out thirteen minutes into a sprint of a match. Cain has no end game. There is no light at the end of his tunnel that he can reach out to. And that’s the x factor that will bring me to my second Television Championship.”

The scene fades to black, as Nixon turns back to Philadelphia’s skyline, the last bit of natural light fading in the distance, as center city glows with night life.

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