X-treme Wrestling Federation

They seem too caught up in their affairs to even notice that I've returned to standing right where I was before the enormous weight of this shocking mystery collapsed on me. Maybe that's for the best right now, as I try to regain my wits and think through the best possible way to explain the whole thing without sounding like a total nut. It's okay, Kara's met Uncle David, she'll understand. She'll understand that we have to go and-- Oh my God what's going on? My hands shake, but that feels like nothing compared to the way my entire body vibrates in sheer terror. I'm petrified. Deep breaths, those will help. Each inhale I take however, my throat seems to close up, only allowing so much air to enter my body and it's never enough to actually succeed in calming me down all the way. Each breath I take causes my heart to pound harder and faster and I start to develop this sinking, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.


I press the palm of my hand against my mouth as I feel a wave of bile come up the back of my throat. Choking it back down, I lower my hand back down to my side, glad that I managed to stop myself from spewing the little dinner I had all over the floor at least for now. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead, washing over the regular sweat that previously drenched the same spot. I wipe it away with the back of my hand and walk over to the lip locking pair. Approaching the two, I grab onto Kara's arm, only for her to throw her hand back and hit me in the nose. Still, that doesn't make me let go, and after a few seconds of her flailing, she finally pulls away from Tommy.

"What?" she asks, obviously agitated at my interruption.

"We have to go," I say in response. No point in mincing words. She pouts, before attempting to turn her head back to Tommy in an attempt to continue on with what they were previously doing. I however, pull on her arm before that happens.

"I mean it."

"What the fuck's your problem?"

"Nothing, nothing at all. I just, gotta go. I'll leave you two to your devices."

And like that, I'm gone. Not literally, I still have to walk all the way to the parking lot, get in my car, drive all the way to my hotel, grab my stuff, run over a squirrel or three, go to the airport, realize there isn't a flight leaving for St. Louis from Portland tonight, cry and sit in the airport lobby until tomorrow, when the flight both Kara and I are supposed to be on actually arrives. First however, I have to accomplish the first item on that checklist before everything else can fall into place. I turn around, away from the two, and storm off with my left hand balled so tightly into a fist that if the phone were still in my hand, it'd be crushed like a grape.

I turn the corner I ducked behind to answer the call and stop. Looking at the cement wall, I feel a wave of surging anger well up inside of me, begging to be released. So, I do what I do every time that happens, and throw as hard of a punch as I can muster right at the wall.


"Ah! Sonuva fuckin' bitch!"


I shake my hand, hoping that the action might in some way soothe the pain but when it doesn't, I'm not too surprised.


With my good hand, I reach across myself and pull my phone out again, answering without checking the number for the second time because I'm brilliant. Cue telemarketer trying to sell me a floral printed dildo in three, two, one...

"Have you heard from your uncle?"

"Not to be rude or anything, but who am I speaking to?"


"Right, we've only talked a few times. Deacon James, your Uncle's Lawyer."


"Oh, Deacon! How positively daft I've been! You must think me a complete and utter bedlamite right now." Score one for obsolete word usage right there. However, I seem to have kicked off an awkward silence that now engulfs this previously promising conversation until finally, almost on cue and aware that I realized the awkwardness of the preceding silence, he decides to respond.

"You are nothing like Rockwell."

"Oh, really? What gave you that impression?"

"Don't get snippy with me, this is serious business."

"What is?"

"Have you talked to your uncle? He said he was going to get in con-"

"Barely. He said a bunch of concerning things without elaborating on any of it and hung up."

"Of course he did. So you know things are bad, and not a lick of why?"

"Precisely."

"How quickly can you get out here?"

"Tomorrow at the latest, I'm in Portland right now."

"What, are you and that roommate of yours shacked up there or somethin'?"


"There are so many things wrong with that sentence I don't know where to begin. Short answer: no. Long answer: go fuck yourself, this conversation is ov-"

"Calm it! I was just making a joke! Look, we need you here ASAP."

"Can one of you please tell me why my presence is so goddamned necessary?"

"He'll want to do it himself. Personally."

"Un-fucking-believable."


I don't even bother sliding my phone back into my pocket. I just keep on walking the rest of the way. For reasons totally unbeknownst to me, my racist psycho of an uncle needs me and for some insane reason, I'm not only okay with this; I'm actually going to help him.



"You're alone, right?" Uncle David asks as one of his goons whose name I didn't care to ask ushers me into the (for lack of a better term) compound. Smoke fills the air around me as said unnamed mook puffs on the half finished cigarette hanging from his mouth. I wave my hand in front of my face to dissipate it away. Finally, I nod yes in response to the question that greeted me.

"Good," he says, emerging from the far end of the room. The room in question being the main room of the clubhouse/compound, where his boots echoed with each step on the carpet less, hardwood floor. A billiards table in the right hand corner of the room provides the most noise, relative to anything else, as the clangs and clicks of the cue sticks against the balls travel much further than their contained area. One of the men playing, a tall, lanky man with a worn face, ragged facial hair, and a Manson-esque Swastika tattooed on his temple nods at me smiles, revealing rotten, yellow teeth and an unfilled cavity that looks to be infected with Scurvy.

Finally making it all the way across the massive room to the entrance way where I found myself still standing, David puts his hand on my shoulder and brings me in for a hug that apprehension and anxiety (my two best friends as of late) are less than willing to allow me to return.

"Can you tell me now?" I ask, voice croaking due to the dryness of my throat. The smoker gives a puzzled look to David, seeming to have overheard my question. I can't see what he does in response, but after a second or two, the smoker goes back glaring blankly at the door, half expecting something to bust through it at any second.

Granted, given my own lack of knowledge regarding my Uncle's Organization, that could very well be the case.

"Follow me."

With that, and that alone, he pulls away from me, turns around, and leads us through the main room, past the large couch that several of his men were seated on, watching some rerun of Gangland or another equally as ironic program. Through one door we walk, which leads us down a flight of stairs and into the building's basement.

Once we finally get past the nefarious stairs of doom, I find a plastic table, with two chairs on either side in the middle of the large, albeit mostly empty chamber. Drab gray bricks made up the wall, and the only real decoration that adorned the walls was a giant SS tapestry that just so happened to hang from the wall right in front of the table.

I take a seat at one end of the table, while David does the same at the opposite end.