“WHY DO YOU HATE LATINOS?”

I didn’t. So, that’s why I responded, “I don’t.”

Did they believe me? Nope.

“Oh, so we’re just supposed to believe you accidentally elbowed that latino man standing behind you, right?”

I mean, yea. That’s pretty much EXACTLY what happened. Yet, for some reason, the unnamed citizen berating me in the lobby of my local McDonald’s wasn’t buying it. Their mind was made up. I was a racist. I was a bigot. I was a xenophile. I was a bad, bad man.

“No, I mean, I just came in here and…” their stares poured down upon me with the fury of a thousand needles. I fidgeted. I squirmed. I probably looked guilty. Hell, I even FELT guilty despite knowing I was innocent. Guilt forced a somewhat embarrassing verbal ejaculation, “I love mexicans. I mean, Carlos Mencia, that guy…”

Whoops.

“You know how racist you sound right now, bro?”

I guess I should take a moment to describe the person most vehement accusing me of racial actions. Tall, skinny, pale, thick rimmed glasses, skinny jeans, and a t-shirt featuring an image of a unicorn jumping over a rainbow. In fact...as I performed a quick scan, I don’t think there was another latino present, aside from the guy I elbowed, who was holding what was a bloodied and appeared to be a broken jaw.

My head lowered, “I’m not...I’m not...I’ve never been…”

“Where do you work, bro?” This guy kept at it.

I dared not give an honest answer to that question. I’d seen, of late, how something like this could ruin an entire career. My mind hurdled, tumbled, and twirled. An answer continued to evade my mental pursuit. Something...I needed something.

His phone came out. “Yo! We need to get this guy on camera right here! C’mon, film this racist! The world needs to know that he hates latinos!” The feeling of being filmed against my will turned my stomach. “You need to check your privilege bro! You need to check your FUCKING privilege!”

You always hear about people giving false confessions. It makes you wonder how someone innocent could ever confess to a crime they didn’t commit. In that moment I learned how and why. I was on the precipice of apologizing for my racism toward latinos.

Until, a saving grace broke through the tension.

---

And so the moment has arrived. Opportunity.

Admittedly, it came sooner than expected.

Although, I guess one could argue War Games was my first opportunity. Which, yea, technically it was – although a lot of luck goes into winning an event the magnitude of War Games.

What’s facing me next Saturday at Savage requires very little luck. Almost none. This is a test requiring skill. The skill necessary to become a champion.

Companies aren’t flippant when it comes to choosing who should challenge for championships. These belts hold prestige. They hold honor. There’s histories behind each and every one of them filled with legendary names. There’s a certain amount of respect when it comes to a promotion’s straps and the only way you improve or maintain that prestige is by surrounding said straps with viable, worthy competitors.

When someone like The Wizard signs up to join a promotion, people are skeptical. It isn’t EXACTLY the type of name a promoter looks at and says, “Holy smokes! This dude sounds like a STAR!”

It’s more along the lines of, “Geez. Fuckin waste of time. Book him against somebody who needs a win and if he gets too goofy, just fire his ass.”

There’s THAT stigma to overcome.

Hurdle 1, cleared.

I am no longer the joke of XWF.

Focus turned toward Hurdle 2 – proving that I’m capable of their trust.

Horse racing is a sport I grew up around. Not my decision. These wizardly eyes have witnessed hundreds, maybe even thousands of horse races. There are several tropes when it comes to a horse race. One such trope is relevant in just about any sporting event.

The gates break. A horse jumps out to an early look. It looks impressive. It looks fast. It looks like a contender. And then...the steam exits the balloon bringing what looked like a massive threat into nothing more than a pile of wrinkles. The horse expends all of its energy, it burns out and finishes near the end of the pack.

I’m hot right now. Hansel hot, some might say. But do I have staying power? Am I merely exhausting all of my fumes for a hot start only to burn out and fade away like so many others?

This match will certainly test that.

The X-Treme Championship is no joke. No title in a competitive federation is. But, in the totem pole of championships within XWF, it IS a stepping stone. That’s no besmirchment toward the belt or its champion – it’s a fact.

A competent fed head, such as Theo Pryce, would never take a relative unknown and thrust him into the main event so quickly. Each competitor must pass a test before the powers that be deem them successful enough to headline a show. It’s a right of passage.

I’m being given an opportunity. The greatest of my career so far. Winning is the ultimate goal. But, even more important than that is the fact that I show up. The fact that I look the XWF decision makers in the eye and let them know that, yes, The Wizard is a wrestler you can count on.

I aim to do, at least that, on Saturday.

---

“Whoa! Hey! Watch it! Out of my way! What’s going on here!” A cavalcade of outbursts, all in the very familiar cadence that belongs to Edward Mof. His image wasn’t far behind.

Never, in my life had I ever been happier to see someone. Finally, a solider. Finally, a friend. Finally, somebody in MY corner.

“Don’t touch me, bro!” the leader of my social prosecution yelled, eyeing Mof’s hand which had pressed itself into his concaved chest.

Mof backed away, arms in the air. “Easy there, tough guy. I’m just trying to find out what happened here.” His eyes glanced my way. While confused, they also conveyed confidence. I felt a brief sense of calm, believing Mof would find a way.

“This guy, RIGHT HERE!” the aggressor pointed down at me as I sat, leaning forward in a booth. “He displayed his white privilege by DECKING that latino man while in line for food.”

Preplexed, Mof measured his words, “So, this guy,” he motioned at me, “hit that guy,” he motioned toward the latino man with the wrecked jaw, “while in line for food?” To Mof, it sounded insane.

“Decked him, bro! I saw it first hand. Total FUCKING racist!” The man screamed, jumping toward me, cramming his phone right in front of my face. My hands reached, covering my image in the hopes I wouldn’t become social media’s next target.

Edward did his best to diffuse the irrationally angry dude. “Okay, okay, let’s all just calm down.”

“How the FUCK can I calm down when this RACIST is over here slugging minorities in the face, huh? People can’t even EAT around here without being assaulted!”

None of that was remotely true. But, how could I speak up? Everything I said had been turned against me. So, I sat there, taking it. Hoping that Mof would, somehow, turn this around.

Mof, acting as though he were dealing with a wild animal, moved slowly and cautiously around my tormentor, “You mind if I speak to the injured man? I just want to get the story straight.”

Hopping around, pumped full of adrenaline, the guy responded, “Yea man, let him tell his story. Shit man, I’m so fuckin AMPED. This shit gets me FIRED up. WHAT!?” He lunged at me. I flinched. “Yea, that’s what I thought, racist BITCH!”

Before heading toward the injured man, Mof leaned in and whispered, “Whatever you do, do not touch that guy. I’ll get this sorted out.”

I nodded. Mof went to work.

---

So we’re all good on what this opportunity means. Ground covered. No need in further waxing the proverbial poetry.

Which means…

It’s time to look into the literal beings that stand between myself and gold. Like dysentary along the Oregon Trail...two men emerge as an obstacle preventing what could have been a waltz to gold.

The first of which...Gage Gannon.

I guess it’s easy to say you’re the lesser of my two evils, Gage...considering you are beltless. Or titleless...or, ya know, championshipless. I’m sure you own plenty of belts. And you, no doubt, have a title...might only be something as simple as ‘Beta Gannon’ but it’s there.

But, yea...it’s easy to look at the contender and say “Yep, that dude right there is the bitch. The weak ass guy who thinks he looks really cool when flinging on a sports coat.” And, while I’m pretty sure this IS the case with you, Gage...I can’t assume.

Contenders are often more dangerous than champions because of the hunger. They aren’t satisfied. They desire what the champion has, making them sharper, focused, more determined. It’s easy for a champion to lay back in a hammock, resting on those laurels...but a contender? No way. A contender has to earn it.

Plus, guys aren’t just handed title shots after numbers shitty performances. You aren’t seeing the Glass Joes of the world receiving championship fights. Why? Because they suck. The ones receiving shots are typically hot...and in a total non-homo kinda way. They are impressing the people who make those decisions and the people who make those decisions have to rely on their decision making to turn a profit.

So, long story short, contenders are usually on a bit of a run.

Now, I’d be lying if I said I was aware of what kind of run you’ve been on lately. I’d never heard of you until I saw the card. You’re certainly no Mastermind.

It’s all good, though. What better way to acclimate yourself with someone than inside a ring.

Judging by your profile...yea, you’ve definitely got that coat trick down. Looking at your name, it’s apparent your mom is a fan of alliteration. And you’ve got a stupid looking earring.

Outside of that, you seem okay.

Appears we’ve been around XWF the same amount of time.

One of us will ascend beyond the other on Saturday night. A hot, fast rising newcomer will step over the other...will it be the guy with the flippy coat trick or THE WIZARD?

Spoiler alert – It’s the Wizard.

---

“Okay,” Mof returned, “sounds like this might be a misunderstanding. According -”

“WHAT!” the dude yelled, ready to get more WOKE. “YOU SPEAKING FOR HIM NOW, BRO? HUH? YOU SPEAKING FOR HIM? CHECK YOUR PRIVILEGE, BRO!”

This was Mof’s first time dealing with a Woke individual. Most of them are too scared to talk to women to enlist his services. And, the ones that do, would never degrade the female species by hiring a dating coach. No matter how much their privilege might try convincing them otherwise.

The look on his face said it all. It was that classic ‘what the fuck is going on’ expression. The Woke Guy continued to bow up, flex, hop around – yelling, screaming, shouting...all in an effort to win the day.

“Okay!” Mof shouted back. Same word as before but with a very different tone.

Chest heaving, breath panting, the Woke Bro titled his head, eyeing Ed. A rare moment when a Woke individual stands down, allowing a person they are at odds against a chance to speak. Shocking. I know.

“I think…” he looked around, trying to find the words. It was clear, to me, Eddie was coming up with this on the spot. “I think maybe we can contribute to the latino community. Give something back.”

“Oh you, think that’s it? You THINK THAT’S IT, BRO? YOU’RE JUST GONNA CONTRIBUTE?’

“I...I don’t really know what else we could do.”

Woke Guy’s eyes bulged. He did not like hearing that.

---

And then there’s the champion.

Harani

Harvati

Harambe

Henari

Hilari

He…

The dominican guy.

Carnes, you’re the target. You’re the fat cat seated in the throne both Gage and myself are looking to acquire. You are the one we must beat.

I can whip Gage’s ass all I want...but you...you’re the dude I need to topple if I want to taste gold for the first time in my wrestling career.

We crossed paths at War Games. You managed to outlast me, reaching the coveted main event. Nice. I don’t really know how you did it...but, you did. There’s nothing all that special about you, from what I can tell.

Your name is kinda weird to remember. It shouldn’t be. But it is. I guess that’s my Wizard privilege showing. I’m more into names like Grunfield or Wickershaw or...yea, I don’t know. I’m getting a little off tangent here.

SORRY

Your record, however, is astonishing.

I mean, I’m glad you’ve kept up with it. I probably would have lost my patience after the tenth or fifteen or, hell, even the eighteenth loss...but you’re still ticking. Congrats. It must feel good to lose so much.

And that win percentage. It’s fucking epic, bro.

Alot of guys try and flex a super lopsided record. Ya know, something lame like 14-2 or 18-1...but not you, bro. You’re confident in your five hundredness.

You’re average and you want people to know that.

I like your style. The world needs more proudly average patrons. Keep doing you.

How you earned this title...well, I guess it’s like how you advanced past me at War Games. No idea. I’m going to guess the previous champion was so in awe of your five hundred record that they didn’t show up, forfeiting the belt. Nobody likes a coin flip. It’s too unpredictable. And that’s exactly what you are, Hitari...you’re a coin flip. Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose.

Most people...you know what you’re in for...either a tough, excruciating battle or a walk in the park.

But not you, Hibachi. Nope. It’s either shit or success. Kinda like an inconsistent restaurant.

Those places are FEARED.

And you are FEARED.

Again, I like your style.

Keep it up, bro.

---

After several minutes of apologizing and soothing the Woke Guy, it was agreed upon that I...The Wizard, would attend a seminar for Latino Sensitivity training.

I don’t know WHY I had to do this. I’d never even considered the latino race anything other than white people. But, it was what I had to do to prevent this crazy guy from cancelling me on Twitter.

He does that...people find out who I am. And then...it’s all over.

Everything.

Following Eddie, we absconded from the scene, heading back to my apartment.

“Okay, this shouldn’t be so bad. Just say some nice things...be sensitive and we’ll be good.”

“Uh, yea, about that…”

Mof perked up, anxious.

I showed him my match.

“Title match! Heck yea, man!”

“Uh, not that…” I scrolled and pointed at my opponent...the champion. “THAT.”

The wind evacuated Mof’s lungs. “Shit.”

---

Gage, Habari...I look forward to facing you both.

One, the challenger. A hungry man.

The other, a champion...and a mediocre one at that.

And then, there’s me. The Wizard.

Bask in my aura.