Morning. More specifically, 9am and my time to hide among all the "normal" people. Ordinary 9-5 folks, who put on their false smiles, just like they're putting on their clothes and shoes for the day. The "Hello.", "How was your night/weekend?" and "Did you manage to catch the game?" type, these are the questions that they will ask on a regular basis. Even though deep down, they really don't give a fuck. They have to say and ask these things. It's the law. A requirement. Standards of politeness that were brainwashed into them since childhood. Drones giving birth to more drones and repeat. If you step out of line and refuse to play along, that's it. You're fucked. From that instant, they know something is different about you, that you don't "fit in" with what's expected of society.

From the minute that happens it's only a matter of time before you've been branded an outsider. Troubled. Depressed. Mad at society. An outcast, forever in the silently observed spotlight of the world. You've been judged and deemed this description and it won't wash away or be forgotten. You will be noticed as this perpetually and that's something I cannot afford. I can't have the eyes of my peers, gazing upon me as they regularly take note of what I do. Those curious stares and wondering minds. It's bad for business. For this reason and only this, I play along and do the dance. Walk the walk and answer those god damn mundane questions with a smile. Some days I really feel like the cheapest hooker on the street and it makes me want to vomit. I make myself sick during the day and the only solace I can take is the fact that it's not really me. No, it's my disguise, my superhero costume, if you will. Ha! I am Bullshit Man. You're welcome for that by the way.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Griffin MacAlister, dressed in dark blue jeans, a black Hillbilly Hellcats t-shirt, black boots and a black leather, motorcycle style jacket, walks casually into Dave's Auto. An auto body shop that customized in repairs for motorcycles and classic cars, it still also dealt with the "Everyday Joe" kind of cars as well. Griffin was actually liked here. Here he shared cigarettes with the other mechanics and made coffee when the pot went empty. Asked about people's lives and shared stories of his own. Rehearsed stories spoken with the precision and finesse of an expert con man. Told with a witty remark, sarcastic comment and even sometimes a smirk or a smile. He was quite the juxtapose in the daylight and everyone bought it with complete and total sincerity. This is why it took him a whole seven minutes to get from the front door, to the spot where he could throw his jacket down in the back. Inside it made him feel like he was wearing a wool sweater, two sizes, too small but on the outside, he was charismatic and funny, the kind of guy you wanted to invite to your next poker game or out for beers at the bar on a friday night. Perception vs reality is a funny and frightening game that way.

Near the back of the shop, Griffin tossed down his jacket and punched his time card. Yes, at Dave's Auto they did things the old fashioned way, with an actual punch clock and time cards. The time clock used to be white at one point, now it was a nice shade of urine yellow and the red button at the top of it, that was pressed in order to stamp the cards, used to work perfectly at some point... or so it was told, has to be literally pounded down with your fist to function. That's how ol' Dave liked it though. Old, reliable, trade and true things that probably didn't date past the 1980's. Griffin didn't give a shit. Ol' Dave paid him in cash, didn't ask questions or get too chatty, so ol' Dave could have things his way and Griffin wouldn't bitch like some of the other mechanics did. Just point him in the direction of something to fix and he'd handle it. No problem, boss. Right away, man. I'm on it. Griffin didn't stir the waters, require favors or inquire about anything. He was given a task and it would be done. He was good like that. Real good. The best actually and that's why it became common knowledge, that if Griffin couldn't fix it, then it couldn't be fucking fixed.

On this particular day, Griffin knew exactly what had to be done. He already had in his mind's eye, the steps to take in order to finish certain jobs and that was what he was going to do. Easy Peasy shit. Having the keen, observant eye that he had, through the seven minute quest to the back, he had noticed there was nothing new to work on, so he could simply start working and that would be that. Until someone came through but he wagered that he'd be done with at least half of the crap on his proverbial plate before that happened. So he was good. He was set and walking towards the first car that he had planned to work on, within his mental checklist. When someone threw a monkey wrench in the gears of his well devised agenda.

"Griffin!"

The words were yelled from Dave's office. Which provoked a quick head jerk and an eyebrow raise from Griffin as he looked at Dave, standing in the doorway to his tiny, cramped office in the back, left corner of the auto shop.

"You have a phone call!"

Dave yelled. He always yelled. You could be twenty feet away or right in front of him. If he was talking at all to you, he was yelling. He was also very red, balding with only some grey hairs on the sides of his pudgy head and sweaty. Always sweaty. Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall, the man was constantly damp. Which was made considerably noticeable, by his love of wearing pastels.

"Who's callin' me here?"

Griffin was confused. He didn't really have a set list of friends he spoke to, didn't talk to the small amount of family that he had, didn't take girlfriends, only had one night stands... who the fuck would be calling him? And at work no less? The least common number that could be used for him... if any.

"How the fuck should I know?!?! I'm not yer damn secretary! Just get yer ass over here and take this call! And consider this yer first warning! No! Yer only warning! No more personal calls!"

Griffin didn't like this. This was the kind of attention that made the internal Griffin, grit his teeth and ball his fists. Walking towards the office, he tried to think of anyone that might call him. Brother = Jail. Father = Dead. Mother = Who the fuck knows or cares. Olive Pendershore = Maybe? That would be really weird though since he left her without telling her anything. Packed a bag and split and that was it. The woman probably thought him dead. That was the list. So who the fuck was calling Griffin??? Shaking his head he entered Dave's office, picked up the rotary phone's receiver and spoke in a calm and patient tone. Despite wanting... nay, needing to do otherwise.

"This is Griffin. How may I help you?"

"Griffin! It's been ages! How are you? I've missed you so!"

Hearing the voice on the other end actually made Griffin swallow hard as his vision blurred a little and his heart picked up its pace. It was... Shane . Shane actually found him after all these years. How? Why? What could possibly be the reason? They weren't friends or even casual acquaintances. And then the reason came forth. Contractual debt to the XWF to be finally paid for in ring time or cash when he's taken to court. This wasn't good. He couldn't go to court and be put in the system. He didn't have a bank account, pay taxes, vote, go to the hospital or doctor; not actual certified ones anyway, have any real credentials of any sort and all his jobs paid him in cash. Including the legit one at the auto shop. He was a fucking ghost to the world! And that's how he needed it to stay.

He knew that if he went back, it would be for the same terms as before. Yes, he was in the public's attention but it was the XWF. That meant you were but not really. Contracts for folks that needed the sort of privacy that Griffin did, were given a special version. You gave your real information but a fake contract was submitted to the records department. If the contract was breached though and they brought it out in order to sue you, there were people that could make it possible to change the contract's information to your legit real info and have it be legally binding. If that happened, you were fucked and in more ways than paying fines because then, you were in the system.

So Griffin did the only thing that he could do. He agreed to return and upon agreement, heard the details of said return. Wednesday Night Warfare. Vinnie Lane worked it. Good. That meant zero dealings with . Vinnie Lane was always a straight guy too. They weren't friends but at least they had an understanding. Simple, direct and to the point, that was it. A head nod in the parking lot kind of thing. So this could work. Okay... so on Warfare he would have to face Finn Kuhn. Whoever that was, Griffin didn't care, he'd take the match and see the dude in the ring. Hanging up the phone, Griffin sighed, turned, walked out of the office and started heading for his jacket.

"Hey! Griffin! Where are you going?!?!"

"To my jacket. Oh... and I quit."

He couldn't have that life he once held in the XWF bleed into this one and since he couldn't sever one head of this two headed monster, he'd sever the other. It was better this way. Less... complications.