Six Weeks Ago:






The phone on the bedside nightstand begins to ring its annoying little ring only to be snatched from its receiver, yanking it out of view. Seconds later, while our attention is on what appears to be a disheveled motel room completely trashed; nicotine stains what once were white walls with a yellow discoloration, we hear a gruff male voice answer.

”Yeah.”

Disinterested is an understatement in which the tone of voice is delivered. The sound of papers rustling from the weight of something is heard mixed in with the unknown voice.

”Nice try, fuck off!”

Our attention is directed towards the dingy blueish curtains and a rotted-out interior side of a front door.

”No, no…”

The unseen voice quickly tries to save some face.

”This is Tristan. I just wasn’t expecting a recruitment call, especially from the Xtreme Wrestling Federation..”

The genuine sounds of shock within the tone of the voice overtakes the motel room.

”Yeah I’d be interested. Five weeks? I can make that happen. See you then.”

The cordless phone is tossed on the bed. The next thing we can hear off-camera…







Followed by a sigh of relief. I mean you can’t argue that morning piss isn’t the best way to kick start the day.







Heavy footsteps can be heard behind us which is followed by could be considered clothes rustling around while he speaks to himself.

”What the hell am I going to do? I can’t show up like this. I’ll be laughed out of the building. How could you let yourself go like this? Are you an idiot?”

Verbally beating himself up, and rightfully so. At one time he stood at the forefront of professional wrestling; sure it was many, many years ago, but what about the expectation of never knowing when your next booking could come from? Jesus, he had let himself go. He knew it.

”This could be my last shot.”

Once decorated as an XWF World Heavyweight Champion, Tag Champion, Xtreme Champion, WGWF World Champion, TV Champion, Tag Champion just to name a few. The potential to reach the top of the mountain, to conquer everything that stands in his way has already been established. The ability to attain success over failure is storied.

”I don’t even know where to begin.







”I’m embarrassed to be seen like this.”

He once looked like he was chiseled out of stone, a body of an adonis transformed into something far more hideous than something out of a Wes Craven film.

”Who can I call? Who would even consider trying?”

There was only one name that he could think of off the top of his head.

”Would he even answer my call? It’s been years. Fuck man, I got to try it’s the only option.”

For the second time, we see a hand reach into the frame taking the cordless phone from the mattress.







”Hey John?”

This might not end well.

”It’s Tristan, don’t hang up!”







When you first don’t succeed you try again.







”John I’m…”







I can’t blame him for his actions. It’s been seven years since we last spoke, and even then the words “good terms” weren’t attached. Yet he feels in his bones that this is the direction to go. Even if it ends with another black eye.

He deeply sighs once more.







”Yes good morning, I’m looking for a flight to Jacksonville, Florida. Earliest possible.”

If he won’t take my calls then I suppose I am going to just have to show up in the hopes that he will take one look at me; after he stops laughing will show some pity by seeing just how far from grace I’ve fallen.

All the money, gone.

The fame, gone.

The reputation soiled potentially beyond repair.

It doesn’t get any lower.

”How much is that?”

Uh…

I’m not flying to fucking Japan! You know what, never mind!”

The phone is thrown across the room as another deeper, more depressing sigh is heard.

”I have to get there, but how?”

Finally the camera pans around to reveal







Formally known as THE Tristan Slater.

”What the fuck am I getting myself into?”

---

Never in a million years did I expect that phone call to get back into the ring. It’s been over two years since THE Tristan Slater has stepped out onto a stage to compete in a professional wrestling ring. The last time I was here in the XWF I had a goddamn war with Centurion which lead to my dismal at the time. Fast forward to the present day...

Time hasn’t been good to me.

I’m fat and out of shape.

Nowhere near ready to step back in the ring.

… but I will be.

Now, I understand that there’s a large percentage of you that do not know who I am, or what I’ve done for the federation that you all seem to love more than life itself. Allow me to change that for you without taking up a lot of our time. Just about ten years ago I made my North American professional wrestling debut right here in the XWF. I embarked on what was arguably a trail of dominance the likes this place hadn’t seen since Steve Jason; and yes, the comparisons were made by multiple people in the mix at the time. Within my first six weeks, I captured the United States Championship, the highest-ranking title offered at the time. Four weeks later I become the first XWF World Heavyweight Champion of this particular era laying waste to anyone that crossed my path. Several weeks later the Xtreme Title was won making me the fastest Triple Crown winner in the XWF history.

An incredible twenty-one-match winning streak intact with nothing to stop me from cementing myself as THE guy in this federation.

… until it, all ended with the cash-in of a briefcase.

Hey Marko, I see you!

Naturally, I made that cash-in mean dick by taking that World TItle right back a mere nine days later at the earliest date available, but you had your run. It was cute though. I held that strap until I saw the cancerous nature the power that be had began to show. Long story short, I bounced. I went onto bigger and better federations while continuing to collect belts along the way. There’s a reason for me catching most of you up because you don’t know me, you don’t know my accomplishments, and I’m pretty damn positive when that card for Wednesday Night Warfare went up most of you sat there scratching your heads assuming that your “icon” that everyone “raves” so much about is getting served up another Olaf on primetime television.

Keep thinking that.

Two years IS a lot of time to not be in the ring, I’ll give you that.

Two years IS a lot of time to fall out of shape as I have.

Depression isn’t easy to defeat, which is the position I found me in when I was forced to leave at the hands of Centurion. I went on a downward spiral until that phone call from management. It’s given me a renewed sense of purpose, it’s given me something to strive for because I know that this ONE opportunity could put my name back on the radar of the profession even if it’s not here within the Xtreme Wrestling Federation. I’m not going to pretend that I don’t have an uphill battle to fight. I’m not going to downplay the credentials my opponent brings to the table for they are extensive. Doctor Louis D’Ville is a name that strikes fear into the hearts of many and the souls of most while leaving a trail of bodies within his wake.

I get it.

And while I’ve been sitting looking like a fat version of Z.Z. Top I can’t lie and say that I haven’t been watching from the luxury of a USA Eco Lodge motel room because I have, and what I’ve seen lately is a man that seems to crack when it gets a little too hot in his kitchen. Something about heat or flames seems to melt the mystic of Doctor D’ville. One thing that I’ve prided myself on when it came to wrestling is using the one muscle that most seem to look past. My brain. You tend to learn a lot if you sit back and observe much as I’ve done with the case of Mr. D’ville.

Let me go on record by saying that I don’t hate Doc.

I don’t know the guy to hate him.

What Doc needs to understand right here off jump street is that with me this match is more important than any World Title I’ve won, more important than any professional match I’ve ever had to contend with because again, this could be my break to get back into the business. I am going to have to bring you everything thing I got regardless if it leads to victory or defeat. It’s going to be able the performance I can deliver. The fact that he is the man that I’m put up against after the interaction that’s aired only makes it that much sweeter for me to punch this cuck in the face. I said I didn’t hate the guy, still don’t after being disrespected while backstage at Warfare last week; more on that a little later on within our little sparring of words over the next several weeks. I tease you with it now because it bears mentioning that Doc prides himself on being neutral, on not playing favorites… and yet he spits on my shoe?

Dope actions from a so-called Legend so a guy that’s not on anyone's radar.

In my world, you reap what you sow.

Doc, the last thing you are is unbiased. You sell yourself on being something you’re not. Need proof?

High Stakes 2020 ring any bells for you? Wait, let me dumb it down a little more for the casual viewer who might not see where I’m going with this. Go back and watch the High Stakes Battle Royale. Fast forward to the closing moments and your eyes will be feasted upon our beloved Doc being personally responsible for Thaddeus Duke leaving with the Universal Championship when he reached under those ropes and grabbed him by both legs as a horde of others steamrolled over that top rope and out to the floor. Unbiased? Neutral? Is that what we’re calling it now because what I see is someone breaking his code. This is just an obvious example of the hypocrisy you display more often than not.

Or was that a moment of weakness?

I’d think carefully on which one of those swords you want to fall on, Mr. Legend.

---

Less than an hour later.


The dingy and dark side of south Miami has never been a place for the weak. The streets themselves can be your worst enemy if you aren’t paying attention. This is where we find THE Tristan Slater; he’s dressed in a long, dirty bathrobe over a pair of grey sweatpants with a white 4xl t-shirt on tucked in with his massive gut hanging over the waistline of the sweats, black cheap sunglasses cover his eyes with his long bushy, unkempt beard on full display.







The afternoon sun cuts between the skylines as he lowers his shades down to the brim of his nose upon hearing the “dixie” style car horn. He jumps as a massive backfire is heard followed by sputtering of the engine.

Pulling up to the curbside is a rusted-out 1987 El Camino that backfires thick clouds of white, stinky smoke out from the tailpipes. The driver of the El Camino throws it in the park before having to throw some weight behind his left shoulder to attempt to open the door.

… which falls off mind you because, why wouldn’t it?

A short, older Hispanic male, dark bowl-cut hair, a thin frail facial structure with a pencil-thin mustache steps out of the car with a smile on his face as he throws both his arms out in the air as he speaks out towards Tristan with the utmost sincerity.

”Eh, whatchu think esa?”

The figure comes around the front of the car as Tristan raises the brim of the shades up to his nose.

”Juan, what the fuck is this?”

”Your ride holms.”

Far from what Tristan was expecting even with a shoestring budget to get from Miami to Jacksonville.

”Will this thing even make it to Jacksonville?

”How far is it?”

Tristan starts to walk around the now front doorless El Camino. Calling it a piece of shit is giving it entirely too much credit as is.

”Five hours.”

Juan shrugs.

”Eh, si. You want the ride or not?”

Like there’s a choice in the matter. This is the affordable means of transportation as Tristan reaches into the left front pocket of his bathrobe where he pulls out a one hundred dollar bill while reaching the sidewalk. He hands Juan the bill.

”That’s sixty dollars too much.”

Without any sort of hesitation Juan responds to Tristan.

”Next time give me more than forty minutes, esa.”

”I’m very disappointed in you.”

He turns his back on Jose before walking back around the front of the El Camino. He steps over the driverside door that lays in the street. He enters the El Camino where he cranks it up to the instant sounds of backfiring clouds of thick white smoke out into the Miami air. He jumps as in the driver’s seat as the delay from the radio kicks on blaring some sort of Hispanic music that he can’t understand nearly pops a turtle head out of his butt-hole.

He reaches towards the tape deck pressing a silver button that changes the radio station.







There’s a smirk from Tristan as he lays on the horn.







Tristan pulls out into the non-busy street where his adventure begins.

---

Do you know what else I’ve seen?

I’ve sat back and witnessed so many goddamn metamorphoses of Doc D’Ville over the last nine months I’ve had a hard time keeping them all straight. Doc, King Doc, Dawk, and now back to Doc; or Doctor D’ville, as referred. Why all the sudden changes to a man that is looked at by most as almost a GOD when your name is mentioned in passing? I mean, have you been smacked around too many times to remember who you are? I mean I know that’s truly the answer because each time you have this sudden “development” it’s been right after Alias has handed you your ass!

Speaking of Alias, how does it feel to have been spanked… twice?

How does it feel to know that all those pieces of talent behind that curtain who worship the ground you walk on YOU let down? Fuck man, are you even the same man that deserves to have the respect that’s put on your name? Rhetorical, dumb ass. Of course, whenever you get broken you fix yourself.

But uh, can I let you in on something?

You’re beatable under any guise you choose to mask your insecurities behind. You can change fifty times but at your core, YOU are the same broken-down man that spent the last two months of last year and the first four of this year playing crutch in Continuum, the same man that failed to break back through to the other side opposite Alias, twice, and the same man that is going to walk into Warfare and assume that this outcome is a foregone conclusion. You will downplay me… it’s going to cost you. What I fear is what other form can you transform into when THE Tristan Slater shows you exactly why I ascended to the top this place is short order once… A win over you damn near ensures that I can do it again.

On a roster full of talent, full of competition; Corey Smith, Thaddeus Duke, Lycana, Betsy Granger… can’t say Alias because we know how that stories ended, twice, Jim Caedus, Robert Main, Thunder Knuckles, Bobby Bourbon, you spat on the shoe of a guy that was backstage after a meeting to land a possible job opportunity? Oh wait, not only do you spit on BOTH of my shoes while completely showing BIASEDNESS towards me in the form of your pompous nature while also pointing out that while even being the bigger person by trying to walk away YOU; the LEGEND, the ICON, the man who everyone holds in such high regard jumped me from behind like a chump!

This is ALL you, my man!

You have taken it upon yourself to pick a fight with the unknown under the pretense that I might be beneath you; which you do as your actions indicate since becoming a bitch, yet you’re going to be in for a very rude awakening my man. I’ve spent the last five weeks transforming myself from an out-of-shape, fat slob into a man chiseled out of goddamn granite waiting for this opportunity. I just didn’t expect that one of the men responsible for the XWF being a thing ten years ago would be squaring off against a man that is responsible for it being a thing now.

But no, no… We couldn’t end it there, could we? You just HAD to play your spooky little games with dimming lights and disappearing acts. Bravo for theatrics; if you’re not anything your phenomenal in that department. Kinda a shame that it doesn’t do you any favors when the bell rings.

Respect is a huge thing when it comes to me.

I don’t have yours… for now.

I’m not seeking it either. I’m just going to use what’s left of that crumbling credibility of yours to catapult myself back into the limelight after a lengthy layoff. You’re nothing to me but a means to an end. It only helps me that SOME people still think that name of yours has some shine on it puts more attention on me. I can tell you now that you aren’t getting the better of me without knowing that you’ve dealt with THE Tristan Slater.

---

7 hours later


What was supposed to take five hours took seven but Tristan finally pulled up outside a massive office building in the heart of downtown Jacksonville, Florida. The El Camino starts backfiring again getting a lot of unnecessary attention as he turns off the ignition. With a deep breath, Tristan exits the doorless car as he looks up at a huge sign on the building that reads “NEW BREED FOUNDATION”.

”Here goes nothing.”

He walks up on the sidewalk and through a large set of double glass doors entering the lobby of the building that he’s more than familiar with as his hands find themselves in the front pockets of his bathrobe. He starts to walk across the tiled floor towards the receptions desk when he’s met by several members of security.

”I’m here to see John.”

Assuming he’s a vagrant two of the large buff security guards snatch Tristan by each arm on each side.

”What the fuck! Get your hands off me!”

He tries to fight his way free but it’s of no real use. He starts to scream out at the top of his lungs.

”JOHN! JOHN CABLE!”

His voice echoes loudly throughout the bottom floor of the New Breed Foundation garnering attention from various floors and employees that are occupying the building on this fine afternoon.

”JOHN CABLE!”

Just as building security is reaching the front doors of the New Breed Foundation we hear a voice bark out from one of the elevators that are behind the receptionist table.

”HEY!”

Security halts at the sound of the voice as his head draws up knowing his mission was accomplished. You can hear a pin drop with just how quiet the entire building gets. The entire energy has shifted.







The sounds of his footsteps walking across the floor echo with the pace getting closer and closer. John’s always had a big heart, but we’re about to find out if the saying time cures all wounds is bullshit.

”Release that man.”

Which they do upon request without asking or batting an eyelash. The echoing steps come to a stop.

”Turn around.”

He doesn’t move until being nudged by both of the large security guys in the black suits.

”Oh shit…”

He laughs as he turns and gets his first look at one of the security guards while he says.

”Thought he was talking to you.”

He finally turns completely around to where he stands face to face with the monstrous near the seven-foot frame, bald John Cable.

”Who are you?”

John asks as he looks up in down the very plump guy standing in front of him.

”John, it’s me… Tristan.”

John chuckles under his breath.

”Not even he would be that stupid. Nice try.”

John glances towards one of the security guards.

”Get him outta here.”

”Wait, wait!”







”I need your help.”

John rears back punching Tristan in the face sending him dropping to the floor. He looks up at John clutching his jaw.

”Okay, I probably deserved that.”

Only John wasn’t finished. He finished with a kick to the face knocking him unconscious.


To be continued.

- XWF World Heavyweight Champion x2
- XWF United States Champion x1
- XWF Xtreme Champion x1