Every man is his own world, and he watches it burn. Sometimes quickly. Sometimes slowly. The ash becomes the material of his heart, amending the soil of his soul.

It’s why he fights.

The fire.

The chaos.

The suffering.

Every man is his own hero, fighting in a world worth saving.


We slashed through the freezing clouds on a methodic trek to redemption, Excellence purring in confident silence. Betsy and I were safe inside of the impossible flying phone booth, but still, I was floating somewhere else. Out and above. Wide-eyed and alone, soaring with my fists forward. The rush of the atmosphere left me breathless and dizzy, my eyelids flickering with tears like I was riding a rollercoaster. I took a deep breath and peeked below the clouds. Everything was luminous and simultaneously faint like I was suffering from fever dreams. But this was all real. My bruises, still annoying. My scars, still unclothed. My heart, still burning to ash.

What would I be without them?

Marie.

The children.

They’re my salvation. They’re what I must protect.

I closed my eyes. Everything pulled from a dark beginning into that same fleshy pink, white splotched blur from when I met Sarah Tonin, the mother of my subconscious. The world, my world as it were, had become a story nearing an epic conclusion, the pages burning one by one behind my closed eyelids. I was at war on multiple fronts, my rondo with destiny looming in the final stanza. I would save her. She, to whom I owe all, the raison d'etre of my hero.

The reason I fight for the universe.

Marie.

I lost her once...

“Mister Edgar?”

...she came back for me

The End Of Origins

Fifteen years ago I was sitting on the stubby concrete post that ran from a wall along my yard into the corner of Brawner and Major Street. Right next to our orange-trimmed, gray stucco house in Nazareth where we had been living for the last five years. My father sobered up through a program of recovery after he lost custody of me and my sister Fannie. He worked tirelessly to build us a foundation of stability, and love, fighting back from the depths of a stale bottle to reclaim and protect his heart forevermore. My world had finally been blanketed with comfort and an assurance of safety. I hadn’t gone a night without eating or donned filthy clothing in many moons. But something was still missing. The origin of my hope. Marie.

I sat on that corner as I did every morning, wandering away in my mind behind a cigarette, waiting for the school bus to arrive. I was daydreaming of her. What had become of Marie? My inspiration, the one who brought the fighter out of my soul. The one who showed me that there is a love worth fighting for in this world. She’d been gone for so many years. Taken by Social Services after her sordid home life was brought to light. I saved her that day on the bus… but truly, we saved one another. Our bond of hope seeing us through as we forewent our bus stops on the ride home. But in the end, liberating Marie from her burning world only meant that I had to lose her from mine.

The bus rounded the corner down the street, and I stood, tossing down my cigarette, stamping it out with my foot into some crumbling Fall leaves. I was wearing my Panthers orange and blue football jersey. It was Friday, game night at Sower Field, our high school football stadium that was right in the middle of my neighborhood. When I got on the bus that day, it was a far cry from all those years ago. From dirty, scrawny, shoeless R.L. Edgar, to a strong, clean-cut hero. We who wore those varsity jerseys on game day were treated like gods. There was a soundless applause and clamoring as I took my seat near the back.

I laid my head against the window, mostly ignoring my buddy Zo who’d turned to talk to me from the seat ahead about something or another. I gave some silent nods, some eyebrow raises, a few chuckles. But I couldn’t shake her. The feeling of Marie, or better yet, the lack thereof, was intense that day. I was looking ahead at the very seat she and I sat in together. It happened on this same bus. Bus number 7. The same bus I rode every day. The constant reminder of what I’d lost.

The route always took me right by that trailer where she lived. I watched it morph over the years. From locked up to boarded up to condemned to demolished. I went there once, not long after she was taken away, and sat on her porch. Looking into the empty rooms through the windows brought on a gloomy feeling. Out in the yard were a little Mighty Max and Polly Pocket figure. I took them home and cleaned them, and carried them with me in my pocket ever since.

The bus pulled up to the next stop, Wilson Street, a few blocks from my home. It didn’t usually stop there, I remembered thinking that a new kid must’ve moved into the neighborhood. That was the case. It was Marie.


Her foster family had moved to Nazareth.

Though I barely recognized her, I knew right away. My heart jumped from my chest. She was no longer that neglected, scrawny little girl with braces. She caught the eye of every student on her way down the aisle. She was beautiful. The most beautiful thing I ever laid my eyes on. A confident, brilliant glow surrounding her. I choked. My eyes widened. My back sank into my seat. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Like me, Marie had transformed. She had harnessed the strength and hope that we gave one another and risen from the ashes of her burnt world.

Marie spotted me and froze. She too barely recognized me, but knew exactly who she was looking at. Her eyes rose up, and she brushed her hair behind her ear. I stood and smiled at her, the whole bus watched us, like a movie was playing out. Marie smiled back and walked to my seat, where I had the Mighty Max and Polly Pocket figures held out in my hand. Her face fell and her lips pulled away from one another in awe.

“Reggie…” she pulled her eyes back into mine. I nodded. Marie took the figures from my hand, threw them to the floor, and replaced them with her own palm. She left the ashes of her past where they belonged. Behind us. Our origin wasn’t clay we could mold into something new to fit our liking. It was the soil of our soul. Without that struggle, we never would have arrived there, at the moment sitting next to one another again. Both stronger and tearing away the pages of our wreckage as time flips the book from chapter to chapter.

That night I missed the football game. The last one of my high school career. We lost to our inner-city rivals by a pair of scores, and it was okay. Instead, after school, Marie and I rode the bus together, past our houses again and into a new world worth fighting for. When the town settled down for the evening, we climbed the fence to Sower Field. Clanking our beers together and lying out underneath the stars.

“Reggie” she caressed, “Don't ever let them take me again." I gripped her hand, "I won't. I promise."

The War Of Now

“Mister Edgar?”

I startle-to, Excellence has come to a thunderous halt. I rub at my temple, there’s a residual throb from the toxic microchip that Misty Waters implanted into my brain. With a click of a button, Misty used the chip to release a chemical, rendering me incapacitated. Twice. She could use it to kill me at a moment's notice. That’s what she’s threatening to do, along with killing Marie and our children unless I do her bidding.

I look over to Betsy, there’s a feverish sweat slipping from my pores. “Is this it?”, she curled her lip and nodded, “We’re here...” I looked down by my feet, and there it was… Misty’s wishes. A duffel bag full of armed C4 that I retrieved from Chester Schelling. An old drinking buddy of my father. The two of them served in Vietnam together where Chester was an explosives expert.

“If it’s one thing to know…”

Chester said in a mucus-filled draw, taking pauses between words to pull an oxygen mask up to his mouth,

“...Don’t screw Misty Waters over, kid. It’s a lesson I learned a long time ago.”

Betsy and I stepped out of Excellence to hear the roars of a million people surrounding Coreytopia, Florida for MayDay.

“Whoa...” she said, her eyes growing wide and bright looking at the absolute spectacle that had grown onto the commune grounds. I struggle with the bag of C4, before getting it lifted over my shoulder and looking out at the sea of bodies with her, “Fuck…” I gulp, terrified of what was to come. Betsy’s repurposed telephone booth had landed us smack dab in the middle of the talent entrance, a large, gated runway that sliced between thousands of fans and led up to the front doors of Corey Smith’s mansion.

“Don’t worry, Mister Edgar.” Betsy buoyed me as I felt myself drowning in the depths of what I must do, “I know you’re going to make the right choice.” Right choice? I’m not sure what choice she thinks I have. I’ve been ordered to detonate these bombs, killing Dolly Waters, Thaddeus Duke, and Corey Smith so that Misty Waters can, as she said “Reclaim that compound for its rightful owner.” Whatever in the fuck that meant. If I don’t go through with the deed, I’m dead, along with Marie and our children. I have no choice, the origin of my soul has been captured and threatened to be erased forever.

Marie is everything to me, I can’t go back on my word to her - I must save her. I must end Continuum.

I wished Betsy a nervous "good luck" in her matchup. She nods and smiles. Stunningly she still seems unphased by what she knows I just drug into Corey’s mansion. “This is the war for your world, Mister Edgar…” I look into her glowing eyes, as she puts a hand on my shoulder “...just remember, a hero can only be born when all hope is lost. It’s time to prove that you’re that hero.”

Betsy and I went our separate ways. I took the straight shot through the front foyer of the mansion, looking out to the french doors that lead to the back courtyard. They had been transformed into a backstage area for the show. I was greeted with hellos, and nods from the commune residents who were scurrying about with wireless headsets and clipboards. Beyond the glass of the doors, I could see Dolly, Thad, and Corey. Young and full of life, laughing with one another about Corey’s referee ensemble. Dolly leaned back in a cackle that I couldn’t hear and caught me looking at her. She leaned her head and smiled my way, sending me a friendly wave of the hand.

“I can’t do this…” I said aloud, ready to fall to my knees in defeat. I had fallen woe to the power of Misty’s monarch. The type of power I most despise.

Then let me help.

I felt a hand lifting the duffel bag from my shoulder. I turned around to see King Doc standing behind me, his hair flowing and white, his caped chest plate matching the majesty of gold on his brilliant gauntlet.

“Your Majesty.”

Suffering, and losing this war, I fall to my knees promptly, kneeling my head before the King. The fever and the pain in my head are still persistent, painting dark circles beneath my eyes on the canvass of my sickly pale face.

Rise before me, Edgar.

I did so, wobbly as I were,

His Majesty, the KING, is a fair king, and he cares for ALL of his Kingdom. Let his one request be that I cure what’s ailing the ol’ boy.

Speechless and dizzy I nod as King Doc’s gauntlet begins to burn with a white-hot glow. Only the colored gems across his knuckles bleeding through. The gauntlet covers my face and I’m blinded and warmed. I feel a strong, but relaxing pressure clamping down on my skull. The gauntlet sounds like a closing vacuum and I feel a rush pulling my skin forward. I can feel the microchip being sucked away with the poison affecting my body. I am totally rejuvenated.

A pop.

The glow shatters away and I see her, Marie. She’s bound to a chair and blindfolded. In that instant, I know exactly where she and our children are being held. I see the entire compound like a map in a video game. It’s back in Nazareth. I know how to get there. I know how to save them.

The gauntlet pulls away from my face and I look at King Doc he’s smiling and looking through the doors.

You must always protect your HEART.



It's just about over, folks. Chris Page's reign as The Universal Champion is about to come crashing and burning at my feet. I have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's not mentally, or physically prepared to face R.L. Edgar. He believes he's "ran circles" around me with words, while the whole time he's done nothing but trip and gag, desperately howling about things he can't prove between breaths of swallowing his own feces.

The only thing Chris Page has proven with his words over the last few days is how inept he is at battling. I have verbally sawed the man in half, folks. What does he expect is going to happen once he enters that ring with me? I know his type, I know his kind, I've been battling and conquering them all my life. They're liars, manipulators, cheats, villains. People who shit themselves when they see the power of truth and justice barrelling at them like an unhinged freight train.

Chris Page is a deer in headlights about to be obliterated. He knows that he fucked up. He knows that RL Edgar showed the world what a pretender he is, that's why he won't dare combat the argument further. I caught him up pretending to wield something that he doesn’t. Now, why else do you have to pretend to do something unless you’re shaken? Chris "The Shot Caller" Page got his bluff raised and fucking FOLDED his hand. What more could you expect? A man as pussy-bred and hollow as this douchebag backtracking and hiding from the bombs I've lobbed at him?

He said I backtracked on Lycana? That’s really all you had, Page? All I showed is how your exact words were that I “warranted” an opportunity to battle for the Universe by beating the likes of Lycana. That means that a loss to someone of that caliber must be nothing to shake a stick at, huh? He fucking knows it. It’s why he completely evaded the points I brought up about Ned Kaye, the man I beat for the, ehem, excuse me, HART Championship-

-which by the way, leave it to a promo hack, like Page who confuses screenshots for video footage to be reading subtitles. I’m not sure how one mispronounces two words that are spoken the same. Reading subtitles is the only way he can keep up because I’ve had him sweating and flustered since the outset-

Back to the shit, you avoided. Ned. The man who put down those that Page considers “Elite”. The man I defeated. The man who had to cheat to beat me, and took out his lackeys clean as a whistle. Page knew I vaporized his ass when I brought it up. He knows that it means his entire argument is garbage. That’s why he’s ducking it, but again...

What more could you expect from a coward who was afraid to get “baited” into talking about losses to Gilmour. He knows I’ve got him right where I want him. Unclothed, and shitting himself, having to face up to the truth of his own mistakes. I fucking EARNED my shot to defeat you, punk. How goddamn dare you try and take credit and pretend to challenge me? Like the pretend-tough guy that you are. That’s why you’ve got nothing to say about your lies, you tried to spin. I smacked that shit down like Shaq blocking a baby. Call Theo up, have him remind you who you’re facing this Wednesday. Ask him again why I’M getting the opportunity to pry that championship away from the biggest piece of shit in history.

He's got nothing for me, folks. He’s knocked out. Dumb, bloated, and flatlining. I called it from the beginning, and Chris Page has come full circle into my fist. He knew all along that he had a fight on his hands, but he ducked and hid away in his promo booth, sucking his thumb, obsessed with the past. Doing nothing in the here-and-now besides getting dropped on his fucking head at an event he was mad was stealing his shine. What an insecure, bitch. His being there was predictable as fuck, just like everything I called out that he would do and say. I’ve gotten my hands on you now, Page. I know just how easy you are to pick apart. You won't try picking me apart because you know you can’t. My shit is foolproof and you’re possibly the dumbest person I’ve ever faced. You’ve been too concerned with everything else around you and forgot about the man you pretended to challenge to a match in the first place. You’re fucked, buddy.

It’s why you’ve stayed scrambling and desperate trying to scream about what’s going on “backstage”, all that does is show how weak you are. The fact that you get away with it on other people is truly stunning. But I ain’t the one. Because I know that’s the well people drink from the second they realize that they don’t have an original fucking thought to offer, but from the king of origins? I guess I expected a little more. Got “screenshots” of me asking for “material”? What about proof that I’m low-key best friends with Corey and Duke? It’s nothing you can produce or hit me on, and it’s ALL YOU GOT!

HAHA!

IT’S ALL YOU TALK ABOUT!

You’re truly terrible at this, Chris! Like full-stop, no fucking joking BAD at getting over in an argument. I’ve smacked your stupid face around this entire time, doing half of the work while you continued to dig holes for yourself. I don’t waste half of my time addressing anyone other than you, Page. My promos don’t need filler to appear substantive. You sat around screaming about things that had nothing to do with Page v. Edgar, as I destroyed what little you did say about me. Your constant concern on any and everything besides our match is going to come back and bite you. Just like you letting an “embarrassment'' execute YOUR own move against you while you were worried about a championship match with Main that’ll never happen now. You’re right. I AM the fucking spoiler to your shit show.

I’ve got you dead in my sights.

I’m going to drop you on your head again.

You don’t think I’m confident? I’ve never been more certain of anything. Who wouldn't be after seeing what you've got to offer?

You’re going down, Page.

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