Battle Creek, Michigan

”Last stop on my route! Everybody out for the official gym of Battle Creek Wrestling!”

…

”Also, the second-hand liquor store.”

A mass scuffle of chaotically tossed elbows! A stampede of semi-sober street surfers and slovenly semi-supped-spirits-slurpers, bowling over a slender kid near the bus’s exit doors, knocking him onto the sidewalk!

	”AGH!”

The mob of Michigan miscreants continues scrapping and swinging across the street to the second-hand liquor store (to be clear, it’s a liquor store that sells previously used and returned alcohol).

	”Jerks…”

The young man shoves himself off the ground, up to his knees, when a hand comes to rest on his shoulder!

”Whoa, Kent! You okay? Did you get the license plate of that drunk tank that ran you over?”

Kent’s tag-team partner grabs him by the hand and helps him to his feet!

	"It’s not funny, Tim! I almost got trampled!”

The bus pulls away! The brake releases, huffing! The rear tire kicks some water off the curb and onto the two wrestlers on the sidewalk! The two are drenched!

Kent grumbles, kicking the puddle back toward the bus.

	”I hate the bus!”

The bus is already ripping down the road, going 15 over the speed limit…

To be fair, the speed limit sign IS sideways, barely clinging to the dented, slanted post.

Slanted from when the bus hit it three months ago.

Many calls have been made to city hall to fix it.

Nothing’s been done about the speed limit post, but city hall did disconnect its phone line.

Meanwhile, Tim tsk-tsks, whipping off his t-shirt and twisting the water out of it, back onto the street.

”Cheer up, Kent! The bus is great! You know how many wrestling move ideas I've picked up riding public transportation?”

Marginally dryer, Tim pulls his t-shirt back over his head…

”Bus fighting is like combat jazz! It’s about the throats they DON’T punch!”

Tim swings his arm sideways, imitating the wrist-only strike!

”Plus, y’know… we don’t have a car…”

	"Well, forget public transportation, Tim! This tryout is our ticket outta this hellhole! You can say goodbye to that awful bus forever!”

”I would but the bus already left. I don’t think it could hear me from this far away.”

…

	”Never mind.”

Kent claps an arm around Tim’s shoulder.

	”All you need to care about is that tryout invite. As long as we have that, we’re on the road to the big time!”

”Haha! Totally! That invite is our golden ticket!”

…

	”So… where is it?”

”...Wait, I thought you had it?”

	”DUDE. How would I have it? My tights don’t have pockets.”

”...Riiiiiight. So... then, I have it. Duh.”

…

”...Just... Gotta find it.”

Immediately, Tim turns out his pockets! Wads of paper flop to the concrete! The scraps immediately start dancing in the wind, which somehow takes them in different directions!

	”Tim!”

”Oh snap!”

Kent and Tim dive on top of them, with the intensity of breaking up a match-ending pinfall! With incredible dexterity, they save the wads, pushing them into a pile…

	”Phew… Okay, gotta be one of these, right?”

”Def, dude!”

The pair start unfurling these balled-up wads of paper.

	”Dude, you gotta get an accordion folder or something.”

”That costs money, dude. The pockets came with the pants!”

…

”Aw yeah!”

	”Dude, You find it?”

Kent holds up a colorful card with holes in it!

”...No. But! I found my family’s frozen yogurt punch card! It’s been passed down to the first-born son for generations!”

	”...Generations?”

”Yeah, dude. It took the Jarvos family lifetimes to get eight out of the ten punches…”

	”...What? How could it take generations to get eight punches?”

”We didn't like to go, dude. We're all deathly allergic to frozen yogurt...”

…

Tim carefully slides the card back into his jeans, before resuming the search.

Kent uncrumples another creased bit of paper.

	”...Wait. This is MY receipt. Why was it in your pockets?”

”I save every scrap of paper we get. What if we need it later?”

Tim snatches the wad out of Kent’s hand.

”Why? What’s the receipt for?”

	”W-w-wait!”

Tim squints reading the receipt… His nose wrinkles in disgust!

”Aw jeez… You bought Mark Flynn’s book?!?”

	”It's been really insightful!”

”Man, come on. This self-help stuff is always a scam.”

”And Flynn is a MEGADOUCHE.”

Kent snatches the receipt back!

…Or tries to. Tim reflexively reels it back, juuuuuuust out of reach. Kent ends up grabbing at air.

…Kent exhales.

	”Dude, you gotta open your mind. Flynn might be… controversial.”

	”But! He got outta Battle Creek! He ended up Uni Champ! And he wants everyone to learn his secrets to success!”

Kent lifts his right hand… Tim reels back the receipt in anticipation… But Kent goes southpaw, nabbing the receipt with his left!

	”Flynn’s exactly who WE should be trying to emulate!”

…Tim looks down at his empty hand, surprised.

…Then, he huffs dismissively.

”Nah, dude. I would LITERALLY rather have my neck broken than learn one thing from that egomaniac.”

Tim returns to unrolling paper balls. Kent looks on for a moment…. Before joining him.

	”Oh! Dude! I found it!”

Kent lifts the invite up to Tim’s face.

Quote:What would you give... for IMMORTALITY?

To whom it may concern!

Congratulations!

Our talent scouts have indicated that you (Yes, YOU!) are among the most talented wrestlers in the great city of Battle Creek!

We’re flying an important company executive to your city for a try-out!

You’ll find a date and time enclosed in your invitation! This is a ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY! Be on time or spend the rest of your life wallowing in mediocrity, wondering what could have been.

Looking forward to evaluating your brand,
A Fan

Tim scratches his chin.

”Bro, I get that this is a cool deal. But, this invitation gives me bad vibes.”

He further wrinkles his nose skeptically.

”It doesn’t even specify the company we're trying out for…”

	”Dude! They have to be vague! Wrestling is very hush-hush and competitive! If word got out one company was scouting for talent, the other 200 would spring up to scoop the guys!”

Kent taps the invitation with his index finger.

	“Everybody knows once you get your first big league offer, the competition can’t wait to call you, offering even more money! That’s why Peter Vaughn works for, like, seventeen wrestling companies!”

Kent lifts a finger in the air.

	“But! The first call always gets the best deal so they don’t want to announce interest until the ink is dry on the contract, dude!”

…Kent scratches his scalp, still a little skeptical.

”I dunno about all that. But they did get one thing, right!”

Tim slaps Kent on the back.

”They picked the best tag-team in Battle Creek for their little tryout!”

“Oh? Is that so?”

A metallic clinking! Followed by billowing smoke!

	”Wh-What the Hell!?!”

”Kent! Quick! Back-to-back!”

At once, Kent and Tim stand back-to-back, fists up! The smoke billows… before slowly clearing…

“You two may remain unbeaten by the other lackluster fledglings in Battle Creek… But prepare for your greatest challenge yet!”

Standing before the tag-team…

“The mysterious and dangerous... Pasaya de la Muerta!”

Pasaya smiles sinisterly as Kent and Tim gawk perplexedly… Lifting a sphere...

“And her tag-team partner...”

She hurls it to the ground! Smoke and fog shoots into the air again…

“HahahahahahaHAHAHA”

The smoke remains in the air!

“HAHAHAHA... hahaha..."

…The smoke evaporates...

“Hahaha... haaaaaaa..."

…completely.

…

Pasaya takes three steps back… She slams her fist down on the hood of a parked, faded-red 1997 Nissan Stanza.

“DENNIS. THAT WAS YOUR CUE."

…You can hear the faint sound of a handle rattling…

“No, hit the… Hit the unlock button.”

…

The passenger-side window slowly descends…

“NOT THE WINDOW CRANK.”

…The passenger-side window lifts back up.

“WHY WOULD THE LOCK BE A CRANK, DENNIS? PULL UP THE PUSHY BIT.”

…

Click.

The door slips open.

And in a 1995 Chicago Bulls jersey…

(That doesn’t quite fit him anymore…)

“Sup.”

“Dennis… RODMAAAAAAAAAAN.”

Pasaya gestures up and down at The Worm, accompanying it with oohs and aahs to imitate a cheering capacity crowd.

Kent squints.

	“…Wait, is that the real Dennis Rodman? How’d you get him?”

“Ha! Our goals and creeds align perfectly! We both wish to ascend to the peak of wrestling itself!“

“She needed a tag partner for the tryout, so she paid me $75 and a pastrami sandwich.”

“HUSH, Dennis!”

…Pasaya smirks confidently.

“Confounded by our differing stories? Perplexed?!? Exactly the state that Payasa de la Muerta wants you in!”

Pasaya reaches into her jacket pocket… And retrieves…

An identical invitation!

“With this invite… and the recent partnership I made to XWF Legend* (Hall of Legends nomination pending) Dennis Rodman!”

Payasa points dramatically!

“My ascent to the highest level of professional wrestling is assured!”

“AND I will honor my father's wrestling legacy! For I am... the illegitimate daughter of one of the longest-reigning XWF X-Treme champions of all-time… Psico Pasayo! !”

…

	“Dude. That’s pretty much Latina Submission Machina’s whole gimmick you lifted. You just subbed Psico for Charlie Nickles.”

“...No. It's different! Cuz...”

...

“Shuddup!”

	“And Bruh, we went to wrestling school together. Your name is GRETCHEN. We’ve met your parents at shows, they’re both whiter than snow.”

	“Great people. They mailed me a chicken soup once after I coughed during a match.”

“The soup's even better fresh.”

“SILENCE.”

…Gretch Pasaya de la Muerta lifts her finger in the air aggressively.

“The point is! WE will shine brightest at this try-out! Not you!”

Tim scoffs, as Kent scoops off the ground… what appears to be a pierced ping-pong ball wrapped in tin-foil…

	“…What's the deal with the whole ninja smokescreen?”

Pasaya glimmers, revealing another four or five in her belt.

“I looked up a WikiHow on how to make DIY smoke bombs!”

	“...Okay. Why, though?”

“Everyone knows wrestling is, like, 90 percent, the entrance! The wrestler with the better entrance gets in the other’s head! It’s like, all, mental!”

“Same for basketball, too.”

	“...What about Alias? He didn’t even have an entrance.”

“...well… He’s the exception that makes the rule!”

	“...That's the dumbest idiom I can think of. Why would an exception to a rule... ESTABLISH a rule?”

“Shuddup! My point is, if you want to succeed... You've gotta NAIL your entra-”

LIGHTNING STRIKES THE TOP OF THE GYM!

All four spin toward the entrance…

…A shadowy figure looms in the front door.

He extends a hand… And curls his finger inward, beckoning them closer.

“What WOULD you give… for immortality?”

...

“Now, THAT'S an entrance!”

***

Ah, Gravy.

Here we are.

On the precipice of your first XWF Pay-Per-View main event in AT LEAST 15 years.

Almost two decades of struggle…

Of hardship…

Twice fired and banished from the XWF.

FOUR times a Universal Title challenging failure.

There’s ZERO DOUBT you’ve had one of the hardest roads anyone has ever traveled in XWF history…

And it all finally culminates in the opportunity that every wrestler on the roster…

In the industry…

On the MOTHERFUCKING PLANET.

Would BEG for.

These three kids we just met… (and even Dennis Rodman)…

They’d DIE for a Universal Title Match.

But, they don’t get one.

You do.

You have that unique chance, Gravy.

This.

Is.

Your

Shot.

…

So, WHY…

THE FUCK…

Does this feel like ‘just another week’ for Michael Graves?

Why am I whipping around the racetrack, drifting and hustling, like my life depends on finishing first… While Gravy is cruising around in second gear?

Why the fuck is competing-for-the-Uni-Title Micheal Graves THE EXACT SAME DOGSHIT GRAVES HE IS WHEN HE’S COMPETING IN A GENERIC HEEL LOCAL TALENT BATTLE ROYAL?!?

During which Sarah Lacklan got so bored, she starts recording a podcast halfway through and ignoring eliminations.

…

I didn’t understand Gravy. My mind couldn’t wrap around what I was seeing. The numbers did not FUCKING compute.

See, The Optimal Path doesn’t lie.

Adversity leads to strength.

Strength overcomes adversity.

Then, we encounter a new, greater adversity.

And we draw greater strength from THAT adversity.

Repeat as you grow stronger and stronger AND STRONGER AND STRONGER…

Until the ceiling of ADVERSITY PARTS LIKE THE FUCKING OCEANS BEFORE A MAN BLESSED BY FATE ITSELF…

Like a FUCKING ROCKET SHIP TO MARS… breaking through gravity’s hold on terrestrial bodies… To soar among the heavens and the stars themselves…

…

I mean, we KNOW that this system works.

It did wonders for me.

…

So, why the fuck…

After YEARS of hardship…

Is lil’ Mieky Graves so THOROUGHLY mediocre?

Why ISN’T the Optimal Path elevating him… Like it did me?

Would even the Optimal Path itself… Fail Micheal Graves?

…

And then, it hit me.

Eureka. Like a lightning strike.

The answer was staring me right in the fucking face from the beginning.

It’s not a lack of tools.

As we’ve both pointed out, I won this title while I was stuck piloting a virtual copy of your body.

I OVERCAME THE BIGGEST CHALLENGES IN WRESTLING. With your two clumsy, oafish hands.

But. Adversity is only half the equation.

HUNGER, Gravy.

That’s what you lack.

The fucking appetite.

The HUNTER’S NEED TO FEED.

Some men find themselves at the base of a mountain… And they feel a profound desire to climb.

To STRUGGLE.

To CONQUER.

TO DEFY DEATH, if it means TRULY LIVING.

…

And some men turn around and go home. Vultures that would rather peck at the bones of those who attempt to achieve greatness and fail… Then ever attempt the climb themselves.

…

I am the former, Gravy.

I grew stronger and stronger with each hurdle the universe conspired to throw in my path.

With every challenge faced, EVERY IMPOSSIBLE FEAT ACCOMPLISHED… like THE FUCKING HERCULES OF LEGEND…

I became more worthy of my great destiny.

Finally, on the grandest stage of them all… The stars aligned. And I won the Universal Title.

…

And you, Gravy?

You are the latter.

You have HALF of the equation for success.

You have faced hardship after hardship. PERHAPS… you had the opportunity to be the strongest of us all.

But, you lack the FORTITUDE.

THE GRIT.

The NEED to SURVIVE.

…Like a trash animal. Like a raccoon or a mangy junkyard dog.

You subsist on scrap victories against aging, over-the-hill losers, fantasizing about retirement checks.

And the green-as-gooseshit rookies.

Graves, you toil and slave, devouring garbage and maggots…

…You’ve SURVIVED your difficult road.

But you did NOTHING to draw strength from it.

You stew in your abject, middling failure of a life.

You do not seek more.

You refuse to push yourself past your limits. To be the best you that you can be.

If you can’t make the Optimal Path Success System™ work for you, Gravy, my boy?

The System isn’t shit.

YOU are shit.

You are the SINGLE WORST THING a wrestler can be, Gravy.

You.

Are.

Comfortable.

…

The Optimal Path is not a “feeling sorry for yourself, pity party”, Mieky.

It’s not a ‘Poverty Olympics’, ‘Oh, woe is me, daddy couldn’t pay for 100% of my wrestling school tuition’ BULLSHIT’.

‘ARE YOU WILLING TO CLIMB OUT OF THE DEEPEST PIT I CAN PUSH YOU DOWN… And keep climbing once you’re out of it’? Climb all the way to the FUCKING MOUNTAINTOP.’

BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT THE OPTIMAL PATH IS, Gravy.

…

YOU… and these three CHILDREN.

Seem to think that just because you’ve dedicated your lives to wrestling… You’ve EARNED success.

You DESERVE something…

…

You.

FUCKING.

ENTITLED.

GEN Z-SLASH-MILLENNIAL-SLASH-HOMELESS.

LEECHES.

You think because you slept in a tent in a Groundhog Day… because you got fired a couple times…

You deserve success more than I do?

NEWS FLASH.

I OWN SUCCESS™.

I AM A SUCCESS STORY™.

AND I DID IT WHEN I PULLED UP MYSELF UP BY MY OWN FUCKING BOOTSTRAPS.

I THREW MY GODDAMNED TAG-TEAM PARTNER THROUGH AN ELECTRICAL BOX.

I SHATTERED A BONE IN MY HAND AND STILL FOUND THE WILL TO SQUEEZE KIDO’S SHOULDER AGAINST HIS BACK.

…

And you think just because you ‘put in the time’?

Because you gave up other things for this life?

Because maybe you worked a part-time to pay for gas money to get you from high school gym to high school gym, working the road?

That you deserve what I have?

What it took me TEN YEARS to attain?

That it’s time I move over and give someone else a turn?

…

No dice, kiddies.

No chance, Gravy.

SUCCESS™ is a ZERO-SUM GAME.

That’s what I’ve learned as the top of the food-chain.

When I defend my title and win? Everyone else in the industry should mark a loss on their record.

Sure, there are eight or ten matches on the card.

But there’s only one REAL winner, Gravy?

Bourbon can wear his plastic, ten-dollar crown. But there’s only one KING around the XWF.

And there’s no space for second-place on my fucking podium.

I don’t leave morsels on my plate.

I don’t let the RATS and the VULTURES peck at the corners of my mouth for crumbs.

I just SNATCH them by the throat…

And I STUFF the parasites down the gullet.

…Because that’s how you STAY at the top.

You leave the serfs and the wastrels to FESTER and STARVE in the undercard.

And I’m not losing my throne to someone who doesn’t have the fucking WILL to even try and take it from me.

Not.

You.

Gravy.

…

So. Go ahead, Miek.

Step onto the mountain.

Climb.

Reach for the big shiny belt… With your terrible.

Fucking.

Hands.

…

I’ll beat you to the top.

Belt already draped on my magnificent shoulder.

And I’ll take my two hands.

And shove you off the side of the mountain.

A forty-foot drop back to Earth.

Back to your PAINFUL and AGONIZING NOTHINGNESS.

…

This time, though, Gravy?

When I break you?

Stay dead.