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There's a sound that will echo throughout any arena, draw the attention of any audience, and make even the toughest of fans wince. That, is the slap of a picture- perfect dropkick, hitting directly onto the chin.

That sound echoes throughout the Highline Ballroom as the two competitors who are facing off slap against the ground. Immediately, however, the competitor who threw the dropkick at his opponent got himself up, taking a deep breath and surveying the scene. As soon as he saw his opponent wouldn't be getting up anytime soon, he threw his arms to his sides and began taunting at the crowd, who immediately began booing. Soon enough, a chant grew throughout the crowd-

SHIT- BOY! SHIT- BOY! SHIT- BOY!

Deciding to block out the crowd thanks to their chants, the man apparently named "Shitboy" picked up his opponent, but his opponent begins fighting back! Gut shots repeatedly drill the sternum of Shitboy, enough to make him back off. The other competitor then takes this chance to bounce off the ropes, however Shitboy saw this coming and throws him up into the air in a Flapjack- esque maneuver before BLASTING him with a superkick!

Shitboy then covers his opponent as the ref slides in for the count...

1...





2...





3!

Shitboy then proudly raises his hands in triumph as he bounces off of his opponent, leaving the announcer to speak.

"Your winner, by pinfall... MAVERICK!"

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"Oi! Mate!" The heavy British accent called out as Maverick snapped back to his senses.

"Yes?" He asked.

"Bloody good match, mate. Thanks for helpin' me put on a show out there." The man extends his sweaty, greasy palm, waiting for a reaction. Knowing how hard it was to construct a proper match, and seeing as how the crowd was the only problem in that match (which loud, opinionated crowds were a major problem at independent shows to begin with), Mav knew it was one of the more smoother matches he participated in.

Smiling and shaking the man's sweaty palm with his own oily hand, Mav responded, "My pleasure. Smooth match too, I'm surprised."

Nodding, the man replied, "Yeah, I'll say. Anyway mate, see ya." And with that, Maverick's opponent disappeared, most likely to go be with his friends.

This allowed Maverick some peace and quiet time, which he took to get ready to leave. During this time, his mind returned to the memory of the match...

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A large smile engraved itself on Maverick's face as Symphony of Destruction played. He hopped onto the turnbuckle, raising his arms in victory, relishing the boos as they rained upon them. At least they weren't chanting "Shitboy." But then, all of a sudden, a new chant broke out amongst the crowd--

ONE MORE MATCH! ONE MORE MATCH! ONE MORE MATCH!

Wait, were they requesting for him to return to the XWF? Was this the same crowd as the one who was chanting Shitboy at him just a few minutes ago?

But he disregarded their pleas with a simple wave of his hand as he hopped off the turnbuckle. The XWF was now behind him. All he was called back for was to hold the Hart Championship, and after he was screwed by GM Tyrone Jackson busting him up with shovels before his match, there was no point for Maverick to stay. Fix his pride? Sure, that was something he could have brushed up upon, but he was still a massively respected wrestling figure, regardless of any screwjob that happened to him, his natural talent ensured all the wrestling companies would come crawling to him, begging him to sign.

Wait, was he trying to justify why he left? Could he, perhaps, be thinking about rejoining the XWF?

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The brisk, cool New York air hit Maverick like a freight train as he walked out of the venue. He calmly strolled out, wearing a black coat and jeans. He was trying to keep his features as an indifferent mask, not letting his emotions show.

He tried focusing his mind on other things- for one, the show was a success. The main event which featured Maverick was easily voted match of the night by the paying people. Maverick and the promoter parted amicably after the show. They knew it was only a one- time deal, but given the positive reaction, it is possible that Maverick could always make a re-appearance.

But you don't want that, do you?

Maverick sighed; the portion of his mind that took the role of his deceased father, Robert, never ceased to be a nuisance, however on the bright side, this meant that this part of his mind had the tips and tricks of his actual father too. Being three steps ahead of his opponents, knowing what to do and how to do specific moves, simple advice for in and out of the ring- Maverick thrived on it. Though he would prefer his mind-father to be more quiet at times.

What do you mean? Maverick thought back as he reached his car. He pulled out his keys, unlocked it, and headed inside.

Revving up the engine, Mind-Robert thought back, You want to go back to XWF, don't you? You want to be in an XWF ring again, and make up for how you went out?

Maverick pulled out his phone and checked for anything he missed during the event. While that was happening, Maverick thought, That's bullshit and you know it. Why would I want to go back, and get called things for events that weren't even my cause? Title Shitter? Shitboy? I never shat on a title in my life, yet everybody seems to believe that's the case.

Seems I touched a nerve there. But trust me, I do believe going back to XWF is for the best. You could do much better than these independent scrubs.

Maverick began turning on the heat to warm up the car, while he responded, Yeah, that's a laugh. Kinda like how the XWF crowd would laugh me out of the building if they saw me again. I underestimated Lane and paid the price for it at Back in Black, and then Jackson jumped me from behind, beat me down with shovels, and the head trauma caused me to act like Lane after he's downed fifteen glasses of wine at once against Gilmour.

Finally, Mav puts the gear into reverse and begins driving. Almost as soon as he does, however, he hears his phone going off. This conversation isn't over, Mind-Robert said before returning to silence.

Maverick picks up his phone and notices the caller ID. It was Gerald, Maverick's faithful servant through thick and thin. Hopefully there was some sort of good news he was calling for him at about 12 AM. "Hello?" he said.

"Master Solomon, good to hear you again," says Gerald. "How did the show go?"

"Went well, all things considered. Managed to squeeze out a good match with my opponent. All in all, not so bad."

"Excellent to hear that, sir," Gerald pipes from the other side of the line.

"What's going on at the mansion, though? What's the reason you called?" I questioned.

"I was about to get to that, sir," Gerald says, "The thing is, however, we have an unexpected guest."

"Who?" I asked.

"He claims to be a part of XWF Management. Thomas Girard, I believed he said his name was."

"Girard? He one of the new guys on the management team?"

"Precisely, sir. He said he wanted to speak with you urgently, however I informed him of the situation right now. How should we proceed?"

I sighed, "Thanks for informing me of the situation. Treat him as if he's any normal guest. It's twelve o'clock over there, so I'd bet he's most likely tired by now. Have him stay in the guest room, and I'll talk with him when I get back from New York."

"Very well, Master Solomon. Good talking with you." And with that, Gerald hung up the phone.

Wonder what that was all about, I thought.

Come now, it's entirely evident. It's time to rejoin XWF, and face your fears. Mind-Robert thought.

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THUD.

The door slammed shut as Maverick stepped inside the four walls he called home. "Hello?" Mav called out. Almost immediately as he said that, the disgusting scent of cigarette smoke wafted into his nose. Maverick figured this must have been the work of Girard; the only people he allowed to smoke inside my house were guests.

"Ici."

Was that French? Mav followed the smell of cigarettes to it's source, finding a smoking Girard sitting at a table.

"So, you wanted to talk?" I asked.

His eyes darted over and locked with Mav's own. "Indeed I did. How would you feel about returning to the XWF?"

Called it. Mind- Robert chimed in.

"Well, that was blunt," Mav plopped down into his chair. "Alright, I've been in this situation before. What's the details? Where am I showing up?"

"Let's be honest here," says Girard. "There are a lot of fans clamoring for your return. They want to see a rightful battle between you and Lane, not like that puny abattage that was shown at Back in Black. They were expecting something like what was shown at Snow Job between Lane and Trax. So, we in management discussed matters. Madison has a new Shove-It coming up, and the matches are done Survivor Series style. We had you entered in as a mystery entrant in case these negotiations went south with you. You'll be facing Lane-"

"Good. I can finally avenge my performance at Back in Black."

"As well as Robbie Bourbon-"

"This keeps getting better and better. I wanted to face that fucker before I left."

"You'll also be facing Rebel Star, a newcomer here." continues Girard. Mav nods his head, gesturing for him to continue. "There's also LeStrange-" All of a sudden, Mav cracks up, unable to control himself thinking about LeStrange managing to make it into a Main Event. Then, he motions for Girard to continue. "There is the matter about your team though. You will be teaming up with Austin Fernando, Luca Arzegotti and Game Girl." Suddenly, Mav's brighter emotion turns into a sour face. Austin Fernando? Luca Arzegotti? Game Girl he had no qualms with, but Austin and his butt buddy posed a massive thorn in his side.

"I realize the history you and Austin have shared, however I'm requesting you look at the positives, rather than the negatives," Girard sighs. "One-time deal or not, you'll be guaranteed a small fortune for this, as well as the chance to get your hands on Lane and Bourbon. So, avons-nous un accord?" Girard put his hand forward, waiting for me to shake.

Maverick's palms became sweaty. His muscles tensed. His breathing rate became elevated. Mav knew that whatever choice he was making here, he had to stick with it. But which choice was the right choice?

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