Patrick Johns, now better known as the Celt with his introduction into the XWF, had received his signing bonus, stipends from interviews, a substantial reparation from the great state of Louisiana and even a little endorsement contract with, of all things, a local beauty parlor featuring his signature, platinum tresses with the catch phrase, “If Starlocks can keep my hair looking like this after all the punishment in the ring, think what the stylists can do for you. Starlocks. The only place to land after a leap off the turnbuckle.” The money, more than he’d ever seen at one time, was burning a hole in his pocket. And so, despite the day of his second match drawing nigh, he booked a flight to Scotland, not having seen his home in seven years.



“Stupid kid,” muttered Bobby Nine, a rather lowly underling of Smokin’ Bob Williams in the financial department of the XWF, “But what could I do , boss?”



“Told him no,” Bob replied, gnawing on a cigar butt like some hard bitten sergeant right out of a fifties World War II flick. “But it don’t matter. He’s too cocky by half. Maybe he gets his ass handed to him right off, maybe he’ll figure out this ain’t no game and the kid’ll come around. If he don’t, there’s always another hard body out there waiting to take his place.”



Bobby nodded grimly, the irony on his twisted grimace eluding Bob’s notice. “Oh yeah,” Bobby said to himself. “Always some worthier man ready to take down a cocky bastard that thinks he’s better than everybody else. You’re next, you prick, and I am the worthier man.”



“You look a little pale,” Bob said after a long moment of silence after his last comment. “No big deal about the Celt. He’ll be back for the match or he’ll be in breach of contract. I ain’t mad or nothing. Here. Have a cigar.” Bob opened the lapel of the finely tailored, Italian suit and fished out a gold case. From it, he removed an expensive, imported cigar and passed it to Bobby Nine.



The weaselly financier accepted the offer, realizing this bit of rolled tobacco likely represented his day’s salary, and tucked it in his own jacket pocket. “Thanks, boss. I promise to keep a better eye on the kid.”



“I’ll watch the talent, Bobby. You watch the benjamines,” Bob replied with a throaty chortle.



Inverness was more beautiful than even Patrick had remembered, radient in the golden sunlight of early summer. He visited his parents, still living in the same house he’d grown up in, though the stay was not entirely pleasant, his father again sarcastically extolling the virtues of the wicked America, and his mother tearfully lamenting his incarceration by a corrupt justice system.



“And now look at you,” his father said with a sigh, slowly shaking his head. “With your fine clothes and your expensive gifts. What happened to the young man that claimed himself a Scottish Stoic, with his creed of virtue, temperance, justice and valor?”



“Come on, Da,” Patrick softly replied. “I was but miming your words so that you would be proud of me. I knew nothing of the Stoics, truly, until quite recently. The world has changed. The lofty, unattainable aspirations of those men, and some few women, are still valuable lessons, but no one could possibly live a fulfilling life under those constrictures today.”



Oh aye, lad,” his father scoffed. “Seek virtue, the wisdom to delineate right from wrong in all circumstance and ever choose the moral path. Find balance in temperance, all things in moderation. Strive for justice, considering all men by their words and deeds rather than by arbitrary, mutable standards. Live valorously, accepting your boons humbly and your banes without complaint. The ancients could accomplish this only because the world was far simpler then, and now it is just too difficult to even consider? I think it not so much the world that has changed, but the hearts of those that dwell upon it.”



“Hush now, my husband,” Patrick’s mother chided his father. “Your son has long been his own man and he finds his way buttressed by the ideals and values you instilled in him as a child. Do you doubt your own marvelous work? Patrick is a fine, young man and you should be proud of him. It is time that you speak to him, not as a father to his son, a master to his apprentice, but as a man to a man. Have I made myself clear?”



Patrick’s father muttered and hissed, like a kettle too long on the boil, but eventually, he nodded. The discourse after his mother’s proclamation was much more enjoyable and informative throughout the Celt’s stay in his familial cottage, the two weeks passing quickly. On the day before his flight back to the States, he wandered into the city to see what he might find in the tidy shops and less tidy taverns, and he was not disappointed with his discoveries.



In the shop of a silversmith, Patrick bought a tiny, intricately carven celtic cross, though the lass behind the counter had to replace the chain, and even the largest in stock could drape the token only the width of a finger beneath the hollow of his throat.



“My, my, aren’t you a big one. Are you certain this will do?” she asked with a pretty, little giggle, setting the clasp behind his bull neck. “I can have a longer chain in a few days if it is too tight.”



“It is more than fine,” Patrick murmured. And indeed it was, the celtic cross, clasped by the bonnie, red haird lass in the silversmith’s shop never left his throat until it was obliterated by the shotgun blast awaiting Patrick in the weave of fate’s tapestry.



The last shop Patrick visited was the old bookstore, a place he’d only occasionally entered as a child and only at his mother’s insistence. Books were a bother, he thought then, not nearly as enthralling as the visual and auditory assault delivered by a movie screen, high definition television or the newest video game platform. Unfortunately, his father’s salary as a philosophy professor at the University of the Highlands precluded Patrick’s immersion into the digital revolution. He rather resented having to read the adventures he might hear and see if only his family was richer. The few years following his childhood had brought his understanding of the world full circle, the Celt on hundreds of thousands of screens and Patrick more than content reading a book in a quiet room.



A frail and tattered voice from behind his left shoulder slightly startled him as he was scanning the shelves in the history section of the Dusty Page, enticing Patrick to turn round on his heel and face the speaker. “I know you,” the voice intoned. “Though it has been nigh some two decades since I last beheld the skinny, young lad clinging to his mother’s hand, never could I forget the ara.”



“I beg your pardon?” Patrick asked, studying the old man’s pale gray eyed visage with its bald pate and silver stubbled chin.



“Oh aye, lad. I remember you and was certain you would one day return to my shop. Ever since your mother bought you the copy of Hurly Burly and the Knights and I saw the delight in your eyes, I began to reserve a special collection for you,” the man enigmatically replied.



“My apologies, friend. I believe you have me confused with another,” Patrick automatically replied, but then he paused. “What was this book of which you spoke?”



“It was an adaptation of an old Italian myth, a picture bookwith the illustrations done in a way reminiscent of stained glass windows.”



A strange thrill crept up the Celt’s spine, suddenly and vividly remembering the book he toted around for nigh three years until the pages fell out of the battered cover. Though he was enthralled with the artwork, he also recalled the tale between the images. The story told of a princess who was kidnapped by an evil sorcerer and she was rescued by a company of valorous knights aided by a wizard and his magical, blue bird.



“I had that book when I was six,” Patrick mumbled, “But I don’t remember how it came into my possession. And who, exactly, are you?”



The old man’s thin lips were graced by a slight smile as he said, “Then it is as I thought. Me? I am Delria Mackintosh and I have owned the Dusty Page for nigh sixty years.”



“Delria?A curious name, that, and not one to be bestowed upon a favored son.”



The old man chuckled softly. “I was the last of twelve siblings, all nobly named. I expect Ma and Da had simply run dry of good ones by the time I came along.”



“My apologies, Delria. I meant no offense by my hasty, brutish question. A man brings nobility to his name, not the other way round, and to manage a shop whose wares are knowledge and inspiration for so long is a regal endeavor.”



“Most kind of you, good sir. Your words are wise, but likely misdirected at me. In any event, will you wait a moment while I gather the chest in which I have stored your reserved collection?”



“Right,” Patrick replied dubiously. Still, he had to give the salesman credit. Obviously, he had seen some image from the internet of the Celt as a child dragging around a cherished book and recognized the cover art. It was no secret the newest American wrestling star had returned home for a visit and might just broach his threshold. How better to offload stale inventory than to present it as a unique collection for a targeted customer at thrice the price he might demand of any other patron?



A few moments later, Delria reappeared carrying an ornate, cherrywood locker with brass fittings and set it atop a table, pushing a key into its faceplate. He opened the chest’s lid and beckoned Patrick forward. “Please, good sir, peruse your reserved collection. If any of the items are not to your liking, I will set them aside.”



Despite himself, Patrick strode to the table and peered down into the large locker. Not only were there books within, but also a number of oddments that widened his blue eyes, the first of which he lifted out of the chest almost reverently. It was a Scottish dirk, likely ancient by the patina, its pommel a celtic knot. One by one, Patrick removed the items, bewildered. There were tomes of Greek, Roman and Scottish histories, most out of print for centuries, volumes of Druidic mythology, rituals, lore and spellcraft, a medieval bestiary, various celtic tokens and sigils, and a gladiatorial cestus. Either Delria had not slept for a month procuring items he thought might interest the Celt after an apparently exhaustive internet dive, or the man was a bloody wizard.



Patrick turned to the old man, his countenance rather pale and tremulously said, “Half these things belong in a museum and the other half have no right to exist at all. Surely they are replicas and reproductions.”



“Your collection is original, unaltered and authentic,” Delria replied without hesitation or apparent dissembly.



“Every piece is magnificent and I can afford none of them,” Patrick said with a sigh. “I do greatly appreciate your presentation so I could behold such marvels and your time required to do so. I will tarry you no longer, master Mackintosh, and again my thanks.”



Before Patrick could turn to leave, Delria said, “Usually my patrons at least allow me to quote them a price before they refuse it.”



Patrick studied the man for a moment, considering. “As you will, then. What do you ask for this collection?”



“Two hundred thirty six thousand, three hundred sixty nine pounds, including the chest.”



Patrick blinked. “Three hundred thousand dollars for a lot you could sell at auction for half a million Or more?”



“Oh, I will make a neat and tidy profit from this sale, but you must remember, I have been collecting these things for you for fifty years. As an example, the dirk you so greatly admire I found in a junk shop in Glasgow for fifty pounds. I invested another hundred pounds for its authentication and registry, and aye, I could have likely sold it for thirty thousand pounds before the signatures had dried on the documents. If we cannot agree upon a price for it today, I will sell it tomorrow for seventy five thousand without much of a fuss.”



Patrick shook his head slowly. “I will need to have them appraised and authenticated myself before I make such an investment.”



“A wise and reasonable precaution,” Delria said, beginning to replace the books and relics in the brass bound locker. “Insure the chest with your carrier for a million pounds on the flight tomorrow, securing my investment.”



“You release its possession outright, trusting me not to simply abscond with the whole lot before payment?” The Celt asked, incredulous.



“If you find it to be a box of rubbish by your authentication, neither of us suffers. If it is as I say and you choose to attempt to steal it, I will pursue legal action, a case you could not win, claim damages to the actual value of the artifacts against you and end your budding career as you are mired in courts and the scandal that would arise. None of that, of course, would ever occur, for we are both honorable men and our word is our bond. I will accept no payment until you have verified the contents of this locker and you will not attempt to steal said contents or refuse my asking price by that same verification.”



Patrick grinned wryly and replied, “Well, Sir Mackintosh, I’ll grant you this. You’re one of a dying breed, and perhaps unique, in this world. It’s a deal.”



Profile; MegaRing Magazine, July 6, 2022



“Hello there, all you XWF fanatics,” purrs the woman dressed in a black tux jacket over a white bandeau, exposing an interesting swath of sun bronzed skin. She tosses her head, flipping the long, raven tresses from her ice blue eyes and says, “Welcome to MegaRing Magazine and Podcast, the only publication dedicated to bringing you everything XWF, from the headlines to the dirt, both inside and out of the ring. Tonight, I’ll profile the rising star, Patrick Johns, better known as the Celt after his inaugural triple threat match. That bout ended in a no decision on his record against Johnny Blacksnake and the Casino Kid, and we will touch on his upcoming match. Greetings, Patrick. I’m Cherry Vixen.”



“Of course you are,” Patrick murmurs into the remote microphone, internet cameras before and beside him in his suite after his return from Scotland, talking to the reporter a thousand miles away in the MegaRing podcast studio.



Cherry’s full lips fold into a seductive, little smirk, but she ignores the aside and asks, “So what do you have to say about the results of your first bout, where the Casino Kid, who’d called you everything except a wrestler, was declared the winner by pinning Johnny Blacksnake?”



“I said all I needed to say in the ring, a square of canvas I dominated throughout the match. I took on their double team. I put Blacksnake over the rope and endured the meager blows of York until I retaliated and he scurried off the mat like a cockroach caught in a kitchen light. Blacksnake valorously climbed back in to actually wrestle me and I left him lying on the canvas. But like a carrion crow feasting on a dead snake squashed into the asphalt in the road after being run over by a mack truck, York pinned the foe I had defeated. The Casino Kid has no honor, refusing to wrestle me when Blacksnake was laying there nearly unconcious, a lesson not to expect a test of strength and prowess against him and his ilk. These battles are unlike those of ages past, where true knights won honors and kingdoms in single combat, as I well remember. It seems now I must face blackguards and bounders in the ring, though I yet hope there are noble warriors in the ranks of the XWf. Henceforth, until I find such worthy foes,I shall be much more wary of deceit and treachery.”



“If it was strength you wished to display, you certainly did that, tossing your opponents about the ring like ragdolls,” Cherry replies, an admiring little tremble in her voice. “And what of your upcoming match, another triple threat in Portland against Knightley and Vaughn? ”



“Oh, its bloody brilliant, is it not?” he mutters sardonically. “Having endured the farce of my first match, watching my victory stolen away by the ridiculous travesty of the rules governing three way bouts, the suits see fit to put me in another, in the vile abyss that is the Portland arena, no less. But I don’t write the rules or card the matches, so there’s no help for it. I’ve not begun my film study as yet, but Vaughn seems to be the more formidable of the two. Undoubtedly, these little girls in their red riding cloaks will see me as the big, bad wolf and team up, but I’ve seen that gambit now and will prepare and train to handle it.”



“Well, there you have it, XWF fanatics, a thumbnail sketch of a wrestler you should expect to hear more from in the near future, right here on MegaRing Magazine. He’s Patrick Johns, the Celt, and I am Cherry Vixen. Until next time, may you keep all your troubles pinned until the count of three.”