It was July something of 2008, on an evening not unlike like any other sticky Cincinnati summer's night. I was making my rounds towards the newest neighborhood 'spot' which was the codeword for any place we degenerates' had commandeered for the purpose of doing degenerate stuff.

On my way over to this particular spot, which was no more than a block from my own crib, I made my usual unwarranted sexual passes towards the scantily dressed ladies who could be found out wandering about. I don't know why I ever did this, a part of the tough-guy facade I suppose, but even in the rare chance that my dopey: "Ayye girl!", with a reverse nod and a wink, did work- I wouldn't have had the time or the energy to legitimately pursue any strange tail. I needed a pick-me-up, which is precisely why I was headed to the spot.

Just as soon as I turned the corner of Dabney Street over to Brawner, I saw the little downtrodden, once white-now browning, duplex; where we'd been going steadily 'ape' for weeks on end. I made my way on up to the concrete porch, and just as I did, the door on the left swung open and following a large, stinky smoke cloud came a young man, about six feet tall wearing a Detroit Pistons Chauncey Billups jersey that was every bit of three feet long itself.

"Reggie! My nigga!"

Scooter McKeehan, the whitest mick fucker balding at a young age you'd ever seen shouted at me. He was loud as fuck leaning in with his hand to give me some dap and the predictable shoulder hug, bit of awkward and unintentional drool dangling from his lip. As irritated, and as growingly skeptical as I was with this man at the time, I went on with the gesture. Scooter was a dude from Tenessee who had recently moved into the neighborhood back during my senior year in '06.

Though he was a couple of years younger than me, I had kinda' taken him under my wing so to speak. During that time, a couple of my closest friends, Thomas Bosworth and Philip Sassp, had been either locked up or died respectively. In that neighborhood, and in that day in age, it was best to travel in numbers, especially being an only handful of white guys in a predominately black ghetto - even if it meant having to chill with someone who was constantly trying to be everything that you were.

"Ch-aye tho!"

Ch-aye. Yeah that was a 'thing' some of us had been doing. Adding a CH sound to the beginning of every and any kind of word without notice or reason. It was an adlib popularized by the rapper Yung Jeezy which to no real coincidence was blaring through the surround speakers in the duplex. I'm pretty sure we had been playing this same CD on repeat for weeks.

"S'at?"

I responded with my wiggery "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" to his rap adlib-y "Guess what?"

Scooter wraps an arm around my shoulder, turning his body and walking us through the door of the duplex, where sitting on the ashy, pot stem and seed covered coffee table in the front room was a case of my go-to brew. Natural Ice. To my eyes, there was a glowing aura surrounding the twenty-four-er. A shining, shimmering ambiance accompanied with a heavenly "Ahhhh" from the angels that only I could hear.

"Moms's social security check came in today my nig-eeee..."

The 'eee' part being in a high-pitched squeak,

"...so I took the liberty of repaying you on at last case you got."

him saying that was,

"Music to my ears, my dude"

I made my way into the dark living room, the rattling of Yung Jeezy through the speakers becoming more prevalent. My black Reebok classics seemingly peeling up from the sticky, scuffed up hardwood floors as I made my way to the sunken-in black futon that sat across from the coffee table and plopped a squat. The only other seating in the room was a pair of blue camping chairs and a plastic patio chair that was a bit broken and wobbled when you sat. On the inside wall directly across from me was the plywood entertainment center sporting a television that never turned on and the surround system, which was probably the nicest thing in this place.

Out of the little pocket on the breast of my green flannel, I pulled out a cigarette-pack cellophane holding a few 'Chewies' inside. Chewies are what we called the variation of the ten-milligram Xanax that came prescribed in the round, brown pop-out strips. Not to be confused with the 'Footballs' that was the same dosage of anti-depressant, but obviously shaped like a football. Many liked to claim the 'Chewies' to be more potent, I couldn't really tell, nor could I really give a fuck.

I took off my flannel, leaving me wearing only a white wife-beater tucked into my jeans, and used it to wipe of a reasonably clean spot on the coffee table before wrapping it around my waist and tying it into a knot just over my gaudy and obviously fake, carnival pot leaf belt buckle. Scooter ripped open the top of the cardboard case of beer, fetching us each one, and wouldn't you believe the doll that he was? He even cracked mine open and sat it next to me on the coffee table as I dumped the four Chewies out.

"Awwwww shit son."

He said in a way one of us would say something to let you know they're interested in what you have, without having to directly ask you for some,

I covered the pills with the cellophane and used my lighter to crush them up, making a nice little pile of light blue dust that I was ready to use to send my senses reeling into oblivion. I pretty up the pile using my driver's license, even breaking Scooter off a nice little bump then proceed to toot about three Xanax directly to the dome through a rolled-up dollar bill.

Jerking my head up from the table, breathing heavily and using my pinky finger to make sure I hadn't any blue boulders stuck in my nostril, I peep around the room to notice it suspiciously vacant.

"The fuck is everyone?"

I asked Scooter, who was just pulling his head up from taking his line.

"They be back"

He said with a little hack and an extra snort up his nose, tilting his head back.

"Who's they?"

It was a valid question, he could have been talking about any combination of a dozen different people who peddled about here,

"Uh, Travis..."

He was thinking,

"...Travis, Sam, Shelby..."

Ah, not bad, not bad so long as SHE isn't coming too, it should make for a great evening,

"...oh and Sarah."

Fuck!

Sarah Crutchwind. My girlfriend at the time. This bitch was the water to my flame, the shovel to my sunflower, the utter bane of my being.

See Sarah was almost five years my junior, and seeing as I had just celebrated my nineteenth birthday, and she wouldn't turn fifteen until that September - it made our relationship pretty risqué, to say the least. Not mentioning that my dumbass screwed over my previous girlfriend -who was an absolute dime- in the process of getting with this smothering cunt. Sarah was supposed to just be a piece of strange one night while drunk and desperate that past winter. But now she had turned into my shadow- a shadow that I thought I had shaken for the night.

To be continued...



What would I do if I could look into the future?

Well...

I guess I would spend the subsequent years of my younger adulthood knowing that things were going to be okay, eventually.

I can't even properly explain to you how much of my younger years were wasted away trying to fill myself with enjoyment while running from an impending doom that obviously was never coming.

I would be able to see that one day, in spite of all of my failure, in spite of my numerous times flaking out on this company and losing multiple matches against something called Chasm - in spite of it all I could one day be opening an XWF pay-per-view with a man who is supposed to be a legend in this sport. The two of us setting the pace for what will likely be one of the best cards in this company's history.

What a god damn honor for such a flake, huh?

See I take in stride. I will happily admit that this is where R.L. Edgar belongs. You on the other hand Azrael? Do you really have to come up with some time-traveling excuse to feed your ego? Pretty lame if you ask me. Oh! So since you're opening the show with a "nobody" like me, you can't possibly be the Azrael Erebus who accomplished great feats.

Since you didn't get pitted in what you would consider a meaningful match, you've got to pretend to jump back in time so that if you DO up and get your ass handed to you by lowly-ol'-me it won't stain your subsequent legacy?

To be honest, that's got to be one of the lamest freaking attempts at ducking from your responsibilities that I've ever seen, and trust me- I'm someone who knows ALL about ducking responsibilities.

See, if you were so smart, if you were this billion-year-old time traveling whatever in the fuck you are, maybe, just maybe, you could have looked into the future to see that having your Blackwater boys run amuck in the XWF for the last few months was a big mistake.

See, I don't think you're getting dropped down to a non-impactful match against R.L. Edgar because you are now conveniently the pre-Universal Title reign Azrael Ere-BUST. I think it's because your boys have been running around watering down your story for so long that everyone is kind of over it, dude.

I mean I really hate to sound like an asshole, but I don't find any snippet of what you shared, or a word of what little you said as entertaining to me, let alone the fans. Everything is about you, and honestly, being a former spectator of the XWF myself, the story has just run dry. Like seriously, if you haven't kept up with every single episodic addition of the Azrael Erebus fable over the years, then it's really hard to follow what in the fuck is even happening.

Truth is my dude, in spite of you and your kids desperately doing everything they can to keep you relevant, you just aren't anymore. Me? I know I'm irrelevant, and hell I'm not even a wash-up like yourself. I've never even REALLY gotten my feet wet and am still to this point a bust. No need for me to french it up.

I mean how much better would our matchup be if you would just be what you actually are? A former champion- fallen from grace who is trying to battle his way back into the spotlight against a hungry newcomer who has maybe gotten his shit together for once. It would be SO much more intriguing than the lies you want to spin to save your ego.

I'm R.L. Edgar. A fuck up. An overweight, chemical dependent, shitty father who has failed in every single thing I've ever tried- including my previous failed attempts at the XWF.

You're Azrael Erebus, a badass XWF legend who was the first ever Universal Champion out to reclaim his or her spot at the top of the company Azrael Ere-BUST, a bullshitting spaceman Jedi something-or-another with a damaged reputation.

You know, it's a damn shame we're having to scratch out the former. Because maybe all of that experience would give you an edge against a shit rookie like myself. But now here you are, at the bottom of the card with me, a guy who has nothing to lose, and a now very beatable opponent for March Madness.

Edgar, out.

Former:
1x Hart Champion
1x Federweight Champion
April 2021 RP Of The Month Still Waters Run Deep