The heavyset man sighs as the truck sputters to a stop. His face was mostly covered by a peppered beard, but the tiredness could not be hidden: He was exhausted. Not just of a truck on it's last legs. Not just of the relentless heat of Texas. But of life.

Of existence.

He groans as his boots hit the dirt road, his knees creaking and bending enough for the bottom of his trench coat to dust the ground. He closes the door of the truck, harder than he intended, and grimaces as the frame shakes with the impact. He places a dirty hand on the faded silver color of the Tundra and gives it an affectionate pat before turning away. Blue-grey eyes look in the far distance where a farm stands, busy with a multitude of facets, and they close in sadness over the distance still yet to go, now on foot. Those eyes open and turn to the sign posted at the edge of the road, a sign with far more color and pomp than accustomed in a town more used to browns and blacks:

Super Totes Amaze Ranch

His boots crunch on the dirt road, one after another.



~~



Ya know what really glazes my short ribs? All this harping about heroes and villains and such. Hogwash, is what it is. Why, I’d dare even call it balderdash! Because there’s only been a need for ONE hero in this wide world of sport, and that’s the ORIGINAL heroic villain.

Me.

It was February of ‘28. Baird had created transatlantic television so that people could watch my matches all across the world, the Olympic Committee separated Winter so that some athletes who WEREN’T me could get some media coverage, and my ol’ buddy Jenkins got that first television patent so that he could exclusively broadcast my matches. And in one of those first transatlantic television matches, there was this little kid in the front row wearing a Generic T-Shirt and waving a Generic Foam Finger. His momma was pretty hot, but that’s another story. After the kid watched me invent both the Scorpion Lock AND the Swedish Cravat in that match, he asked me for an autograph. I asked him his name and he said Andy. I gave him the autograph, “tipped” that MILF next to him, and sent him on his way. He was so inspired by me that he grew up to become a wrestler, himself. Called himself Centurion, or some such. Not sure if he ever became anything, but hey, at least I inspired the kid.

I bet that’s why Dolly’s a wrestler, too. Probably saw me run through that Waters Gauntlet Match in…oh…was it ‘97? Maybe ‘98? Hard to remember. I ran through so many gauntlet matches that they all blend together! But I’m sure she saw me lay waste to them and thought “Boy, I wish I could be like Generic Heel someday!” She’s a cute kid, and all, don’t get me wrong, but needs to get some curves on her if she wants to be a big girl. Not as bony as my tag partner this week, of course. Seeing this Ruby chick’s posterior while she runs is like reliving the meatless hinges of a T-800 chasing down Connor! At least the kid’s got that going for her. So this week, I’ll make sure to give her an autograph, maybe sign some My Little Pony doll for her, and send her on her way. Maybe she’ll grow up to be a wrestler, or something.

Hmmmm….Waters….wonder if she’s my kid? Listen, there’s a LOT of Generic Kids out there, because I banged a LOT of rats over the years. I know there’s a Waters or two in there. Maybe even three! My Generic Bull business was really busy for a time, so they all kinda blend in together. I’m retired from that business, mind you. I keep telling Cashey that, but he won’t listen. He keeps DMing me…probably drunk and stoned…asking me to cuck him and give Josslynn the time of her life. Listen, I like the guy, really I do, we’ve been up and down the road together. But I’m done filling up random sluts! And believe you me, Jossy is as generic, plain, and 1-dimensional as they come! So I try to help him with some brotherly advice, tell him how to be a man for a change. How to get it up. How to not be a massive loser. He doesn’t take it, of course. Just cries and talks about how being around me is always the greatest moment of his life and how he wishes he could fulfill his waste of space woman like I can. How he wants to record me bangin' his useless side piece for inspiration. But I’m retired from the Bull game, Cashey! I can’t always be the man you need. Stand up for yourself, pal!

Hey, that reminds me of the time that Centurion guy asked me to step in to help him have kids. It was…oh, I’d say 2001 or so, and-


~~



Gnarled fingers knock on the wooden door. Blue-grey eyes turn away, taking in the odd landscape of the ranch. It was even more busy up close than it looked in the distance. Bee hives. Crops. A distillery. A shockingly diverse array of animals, from farm animals to housecats to a number of white pigeons gathered at a surprisingly ornate coop.

"Can I help you?"

The man turns at the sound of the door creaking and the voice ringing out. He sees a tall blonde woman, taller than him, with bright blue eyes set to a weathered face. Those eyes go wide with recognition and surprise at seeing him.

"...Tragik?!"

The man smiles at the name.

"Hey, Mary."

His throat hurt.

"Got a couch I could sleep on for a spell?"

A sense of relief washed over him as she ushered him inside.