Formerly: Pawfully Cute. The nightclub was set inside an old warehouse. One that specialized in the distribution and exportation of cat food and other kitty requirements or whimsical wants. Meaning they more than likely actually produced and shipped out, hats for fuckin' cats. Bringing a whole new degree of stupid to the naming process, when it came time to call this place something else. Completely gutted and redesigned, the only memory from it ever being a factory. Came from its ominous, towering structure, extremely tall ceilings and a back loading dock area that was now used for deliveries for the bar and a constant flow of products, consisting of a far less honest or exemplary sort of traffic. If you catch my drift. The sorta shit that went way beyond the scandalous and sordid nature of drugs and leaned more towards the "humans for sale" variety. Revoltingly enough. That was still on the lighter side of the spectrum too, begging the question... what the fuck else were the scumbag owners, shipping and receiving? Trust me on this one. It's probably best if ya don't know. I've seen some raunchy, disgusting, filth in my day but even I have my limits. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. When you have that luxury, that is... unfortunately, that has never been my case.


Upon entry, one would never suspect that this joint had a dark, nefarious, underbelly of activity. Usually, these are the places that always do though. Take Disney Land for example. That's one of the spots that exclusively cater to the sales and manufacturing of cocaine, heroin, firearms and a whole slew of other heavy artillery. They also import and sell babies. That's right folks. The age of innocence is nothing more than a facade. A story that we tell ourselves, to make it easier to sleep at night. A beautiful lie, fabricated, constructed and accepted by those that need to believe that there's a good and pure side to life. Perhaps, in some cases, that sort of thing does exist but I've seen the cold, cruel, harsh truth of reality. Behind the mask and beyond the curtain. I know what dwells past all that and it is ugly, inhumane and vicious. For I have dined with demons and done the devil's work. Therefor, I can no longer turn a blind eye or convince myself, that monsters aren't real. To do such a thing, would be to deny my own existence.


Yet, here I am, working on the side of the angels now, so perhaps there is a chance for something sinless and decent to exist. Maybe there is a possibility for something more. Something better. Surpassing my cynical mind and corrupted perception. There is the essence of genuine kindness and acts from the heart. A place for redemption. The only problem is that I can't see it and it is doubtful, I ever will. Especially, not tonight, in this club built on lies, depravity and unadulterated sin. When a mechanic becomes a hunter, tracking down a target. Something tells me, despite my intentions being in the right place, this night is still going to end with blood on my hands and a few more chits on the toll, regarding my already long list of lives that I've taken. Lets just hope Mr. Luck, stays lucky and he doesn't wind up a casualty on that body count.


Making my way through, El Gato en el Sombrero... I find myself surrounded by your typical, run of the mill douchebags. Scantly clad women, with more cleavage and ass showing than brains. The kinda females you fuck in the alley, next to a dumpster. Counting your blessings when the drunk ass bitch, doesn't throw up on your shoes... and you don't wind up with an std later. Then there's the sea of creepers, lurkers, stalkers, techno freaks, steroid fueled jocks and the poor schlubs, that are just praying that someone touches their penis before they go home. All drinking, chatting and dancing, completely oblivious to what thrives below them. Set against flashing lights, bright colors and a smoky atmosphere. With a loud, thumping, bass fueled soundtrack, supplied by a DJ that's way more into his tunes and the endless stream of cocaine that flows up through his nostrils, than the pack of drunken, horny women that hover around him like bees to honey. He'll still end up getting laid but when he wakes up in the morning, it'll be next to one of the muscle bound bouncers, that guard the doors. Not any of his lady followers and fans.


Anyone who has even a remote lick of sense in their head or an inkling of what I am into or about, knows this isn't my scene and it never will be. However, this is where my journey has brought me, so this is where I have to be and as such; with this being the case, that requires blendin' into my surroundings. In other words, act like an unaware, mindless, drunken dumbfuck. Order drinks, stagger about, bump into folks, gawk and stare a little too long at that girl dressed in legitimate lingerie, instead of clothes. The works. This is not my first rodeo and scoping out a joint, incognito like, isn't a horse I haven't ridden. I know this routine quite well, regardless of the role that I need to play at the time, I'm always convincing. Admittedly, this current part is the absolute easiest to take on, mostly because the great majority of the people around me are fucked up. So it's not like people are pulling out the fine tooth comb of judgement.


Still, my act is flawless and as I play the role, I am able to observe everything. Things that wouldn't stand out to the untrained eye and definitely wouldn't be visible to anyone that didn't perceive things like I do. When I enter any sort of area my mind instantly goes into overdrive, I observe and take into account things that others either take for granted or casually can't see. The things that one's eyes pass over normally, without a second thought. Whereas just a few moments in a room, will supply me with all the information that I need. It's my gift and my curse, it's also why I smoke as much reefer as I do because I literally, can't turn that part of my brain off. Everywhere I go and whatever I do, I am constantly aware of everything. At all times. Never will I ever be trapped or lost in a situation, I always know my way out and how to navigate my way around. Coupled with perfect recall and a constant inventory of my surroundings, I'll always be prepared for shit when it hits the fan. This is why you should never judge a book by its cover... unless, that book is written by Peter Gilmour.

(Yeesh... nuff said)


Sitting at the bar, I have it all mapped out and planned to perfection. Unfortunately, there's one thing that I didn't take into consideration.


"You do not look like you belong here."


The bartender. With her black mohawk, spiked bracelets, Social Distortion t-shirt, tight jeans and straight laced, 10 hole Grinders, she is just about as misplaced as I am. Her words catch me by surprise but I play it off with a laugh and fire up a cigarette.


"Oh yeah? Why's that?"


"I dunno. Just something about you... doesn't really scream a guy that drinks at a place like this."


"I could say the same about you and yet, you work here."


"Really? I don't look like a guy that would grab a drink at a place like this? You're quite the observant one, aren't you?"


As I roll my eyes, I take a drag from my cigarette.


"It is 2019 and no joke, there are legit times when you can't rightly tell, who's genuinely a dude or a lady. Not these days anyway. Far be it for me to judge."


My sarcasm pulls a chuckle from her as she quickly mixes a drink and hands it to the shiny, gold mini skirt, next to me that's chatting up a man bun.


"A job's a job. The owner took one long look at my ass and I was hired."


An exhaled cloud of smoke and a swallow from my beer.


"Can't argue with that logic."


"Which part."


"Either one. Take your pick."


She takes this as a pass at her but really, it was an honest deduction. A job sometimes is just that... a job and a guy that wants his bar to make money, will hire workers based on their appearance. In the same vein, that doesn't mean he wasn't also a perv that enjoyed ogling her ass. I leave my statement as it is though, allowing her to take it as she wishes, this throws her off my scent and shields my true intentions. That's the plan anyway.


"So what is a guy like you doing in a place like this?"


"What makes you think I'm not already doing it?"


"You mean drinking a beer and chatting up the bartender?"


"Sure. Why not?"


"Well, for one... even though, I know I'm fucking cute, I approached you. I spoke to you first. Not the other way around. There have been numerous, women wearing next to nothing that have made their presence known around you and even though you seemed to notice them, you didn't engage them like a guy that's lookin' to pick up a chick. Yeah. You could be on the prowl for another dude but you don't seem interested in them either. Plus, if you were, there's a club that's down the street that fits that criteria, far better than here. It can't be the beer cause the drinks are way over priced and the selection is shite. Besides you seem like the type that enjoys domestic beer. Out of a can. I'm guessing PBR. Still, I'd wager that you prefer a blunt, over a beer, any day. So what's up, mystery man? Why are you really here?"


She's observant. Likes punk rock. Has a brain and can put actual thought into her words. If this were any other day... the night would come to a very different close. Then again, on any other given day, I wouldn't be here and she'd be talking to some random jackass. Oh well... thems the breaks. Tonight, I have a mission and fucking the hot bartender, isn't part of it. This is made even more abundantly apparent, when I notice a man in a blue, shark skin suit, approach the two bouncers in the back. He says something to them, keeping his face close to their ears as he looks back and eyes the bustling club with apprehension. Utter weary. A little bewilderment. Then one of the bouncers accompany him when he walks away. They continue along the wall in the back and disappear past a door, with no knob, that's painted the same color as the wall. In my gut, I know this is a bad sign or rather, the cue for me to make my move. There's no time to worry about the bartender or her innate ability of detection. I have to make my move. Now. So I keep my words simple. Direct. And short.


"I need to hit the head. I'll be back."


No, I won't. I think she somehow knows that too and as I walk off, I can almost feel, her confusion and slight mixture of disappointment, straight up radiating off of her. Can't worry about that though. There are more important things at stake, than her feelings.

---

"Alright. First things first. Robert. Buddy, ya gotta calm the fuck down. Seriously. Take a fuckin' breath and relax. I get it, you're power walking after some dude, you need to get to the bank before he does, so you gotta put some hustle in them steps but you really need to chill the fuck out. With all that screaming, shoutin' and exclaiming, you're going to give yourself a heart attack, man. For fuck's sake dude. When I watched your promo, I almost had a heart attack my damn self. Or a legitimate panic attack. And it wasn't because you scared me. You're just an intense sorta guy. Veins poppin' outta your neck and spit flying from your mouth. It was like you were having roid rage. I'm not sure how you didn't stroke out, right there on the road."


"God damn. You're only talking into a camera. You don't have to whoop and holler, like you're losing your mind. Christ on a cracker. Are you trying to beat me up with your words? Cause I can't feel the vibrations of what your screaming at me, through the camera. If that was possible, yeah I guess you'd totally knock me over and blow me away like I was a human shaped tumble weed but I can't feel that shit through my tv screen man, so just quit that shit before folks see you raving on the street like a maniac. Someone is liable to call the cops on your ass, report your antics and then them boys in blue, will come along and throw a net over you. Throw a net over you, hit you with a taser and drag you the fuck away. On the real. You and I won't even see the inside of the ring, come Wednesday because you'll be locked up. Most likely inside of a padded cell. Vinnie Lane, will have to put down the straw, stop snortin' his weight in coke and get on the blower with the team of lawyers the XWF has in a stock pile, specifically for these types of situations and save your ass. It's just not worth it dude. It really isn't."


"Second. I didn't exactly choose this fight. I just told the powers that be that I'd be interested in participating in a match. Didn't matter what it was, I merely said I'm down to throw a boot party and let them pick. Dealer's choice. They ran with that and now, here we are. Since, I never back down from a challenge and I don't ever plan on changin' that policy, when they informed me that we'd be facing off, I rolled right with that plan. Consider me a go with the flow kinda guy like that. To take that as a sign of disrespect, that's kinda nutty. Then again, you are the dude roaring in the street like the fucking god of thunder, while you stare wild eyed into a camera, so I suppose that makes sense. This isn't viking times man. You don't need to bellow out like you're Thor, hailing down from Asgard. Damn and I thought Gilmour was a raving lunatic. Haha! You're an even bigger trip than the king of chicken parm. That is not something that you want folks to be saying about you. You just don't."


"Finally, this isn't my first fight or my last. Stompin' the shit outta folks, it's kinda my thing. I enjoy it. That's pretty much common knowledge 'round these parts. Granted, we haven't tangled before but unless you plan on killing me in that ring, our match isn't going to end my career. I've seen a lot of shit in my day. Gone toe to toe, with straight up beasts. Hardcore fuckin' legends. Teamed with them too. Won my fair share of matches, lost a few too but one thing, always remains the same. Everyone remembers what I did, at least the folks that matter do. Which is why I can wrestle part time, fight when I want and when I ask to be booked, I'm put in matches that aren't complete and total yawn fests. Last time I wrassled... I was in the Main Event at the pay-per-view. That was a good several months ago. Now, here I am, once again facing off in the Main Event and you know why? Because I don't disappoint. I kick ass and throw down and I am damn, fuckin' good at it. So don't talk to me about breaking people like I don't know what I'm doing, cause this sure as shit, ain't my first rodeo."


"Know somethin' else? I'm not in this fight for the title. Sure, it's a nice added perk. Sprinkles on a sundae kinda shit. I've held titles before. But that's not what fuels my fire. What drives me forward and gives my shotgun that extra pump. You see, busting skulls isn't something I have to do to get a paycheck, it's a way of life. I stomp the shit outta motherfuckers cause I enjoy it. It's why I return and why I am still around. So you'd do best to remember that, Robert. Regardless of what happens. Win or lose. I'm going to leave a lasting reminder with you. Our fight. Will come with an added bonus. After it's all over and done with. The thing that wakes you up at night, will most assuredly be that injury, that just didn't heal quite right. You'll toss and turn but in the end, you'll give in and accept that you can't fall back to sleep without some help. Then you'll pull yourself out of bed and amble over to your bathroom, swallow down some pain killers and tell yourself whatever you need to in order to accept that agony, that still lingers. To make the brunt of the gift that I bestowed upon you that much more easier to take. Meanwhile, I'll still be doing what I do best, fighting, fucking and smoking blunts, like a motherfuckin' champ. Ha! Title not required for the latter."