It has been awhile since I've been here.  Cyrus Braddock entered my life when I was still waging actual wars on actual battlefields.  He was a hired gun for my old chief of staff in those days named Dick Small.  When I first saw him, I thought he was an impressive specimen.  Standing 6 foot 8 and weighing probably near 300 pounds, I Stood back and watched as he defeated tough military men one by one in arm wrestling.

He didn't talk much, but I knew from our first interaction that he was someone I could count on.  I entered the fray, arm wrestling this mountain of a man… and I beat him.

Don't mistake me.  I'm not saying I was stronger than him, but I hit him where he wasn't looking.  He lost his focus and worried about his aching groin which allowed me to slam him down for the win.

He was infuriated, as most men in that position would be.  So much so, that he flipped the table on top of me and throttled me by the neck.  He only backed off when Dick told him who I was.

From that moment, I brought him into my inner circle.  He has served me faithfully, without question and without fail ever since.  That doesn't mean that every mission I've put him on is a success.  Far from it, actually.  But he fights hard to deliver the Lion's Justice and he'd sooner die for me than let me down.

That… is loyalty.  Everyone knows by now that loyalty, at least to me, is my most highly prized and sought after possession.  I ask absolutely nothing in return from those I love for my loyalty to them, than their loyalty to me.

The days of war, and not the wrestling hubris that falsely equates a wrestling fight with the term, but the real thing, are behind me now.  So, my calls to Cyrus Braddock are few and far between.  But when I do call, Cy never fails to answer.

”Cy?” I said to his non-verbal answer on the phone.

”Yes boss?” he replied in his customary polite stoicism.

”I got a job for you if you're interested “ I continued.  ”You gonna be at the farm tomorrow?”

”Of course,” he answered.

”I'll be by tomorrow then,” I informed him before he casually said ‘okay’ and promptly hung up.

There was something I just loved about him.  He wasn't particularly bright, but he was big, strong, quiet and extremely polite.  Cyrus Braddock was just a simple, tough as nails farm boy from Tennessee that loved his momma.  Now that she was gone, all he did was work his family cattle farm and answer my calls.  There wasn't much to him other than that.

The next day, certainly after dropping by Graceland, I slowed the big old Lincoln to a crawl as I entered the mile long dirt and pot hole lined driveway.  There was a fork ahead.  Bearing left took you to his house, turning right led to the hay barn.  After making the right, I could make him out just ahead as his large frame bundled bales of hay into the bed of his old farm truck.

When I stopped the old Lincoln, I killed the engine and stepped from the ‘Land Yacht’.  Cy noticed me and removed his gloves from his hands.  He wore nothing but a pair of jeans beneath the at time blistering Tennessee sun.  He smiled as he looked past me for Frankie.

”He didn’t come,” I said as I followed his eyes over my shoulder.

”Oh,” he said as the smile disappeared from his face.  ”Iced tea?” he asked.

”Sure,” I replied.  There were two things that you could guarantee in the south if you showed up at someone’s home.  One, was that charming southern hospitality.  The second, was an offer of iced tea.  Iced tea is a delicious, somewhat refreshing treat, but when it’s in the south, I don’t know, it just hits different.

After reaching inside the cab of his old Ford, he dispensed some of that golden brown comfort from an Igloo cooler into a red solo cup and handed it to me.

”Don’t be shy boss,” he said with a smile.  ”I have plenty.”

”Thanks,” I returned his smile.

”Where’s Frankie?” he asked.

”Moody and at home,” I answered as I leaned against the hood of the Lincoln, then immediately changed my mind.  Black paint and the summer Tennessee sun were not a good combination.  ”Can we go somewhere away from Satan’s breath to talk?”

He smiled, nodded, then led me inside the barn into the shade.

”I hoped he’d come along,” Cyrus said as he took a seat on a hay bale inside.  ”I love Mister Francis.”

”Yeah, everyone does,” I laughed.  ”Since Lauren left, he’s been caught between tryna blame me and being a rebellious teenager.  It’s not that fun right now.”

”I’m sorry,” he said.  ”About Mrs. Duke.”

”Me too,” I replied before quickly changing the subject.  ”So about this favor.”

”You don’t even need to ask,” Cyrus said quickly.  ”Of course I’ll do it.  Whoever it is, I’ll bust them up for you boss.  You know that.”

”Well, it’s not that kind of favor,” I smiled warmly at this human Rottweiler.  ”Not exactly anyway.”

In my back pocket, I pulled out a photo and handed it to him.  He took a good long look at the picture.

”Jason Cashe,” I began to explain.  ”He’s got a lot of shit to say.  About me, normally.  Some of it’s valid, some of it not so much.”

”Why’s he hate you?”

”I don’t know that he does,” I answered.  ”Guys like Jason Cashe always need someone to blame, someone to point their finger at.  Everything is always some vast conspiracy by the rich.

“In a way, he’s right,” I paused.  ”It was a vast conspiracy that saw him crowned as the Television champion, but it wasn’t my plan.  That was Frankie’s.  That plan included Jason Cashe but merely as a beneficiary.”

”Then what’s his problem?” Cyrus asked.

I shrugged.

”Optics, I guess,” I answered.  ”Whatever his reasons, I look it at it like I’m best friends with Sebastian Bryce and both he and Cashe have had their eyes on the same woman.  Close proximity to Seb and Sloane means I’m catching strays.

“But I’m not offended,” I paused again.  ”Cashe is who he is.  He feels how he feels and I’m not really interested in tryna make peace.  If he wants to judge me for my proximity or the zeroes in my bank account, that’s his prerogative.  I’ve never once judged him, in fact I’ve only ever attempted to be his friend, but that’s neither here nor there.  Like I said, some of his complaints are valid.

“He won the Television title back in April and the booking for that title since has been… soft… ever since.”

”I’m not soft,” Cyrus retorted.

”No, you surely are not,” I replied before continuing on.  ”He has it in his mind that I’m trying to unseat him as champion by using people that are connected to me.  Like Dolly Waters, for example.  My estranged wife gave him an assist in beating her recently.”

”Boss,” he stood and paced as I leaned against a wooden pillar in the barn.  ”Your idea of fixing the optics, like you said, is to put someone else close to you across from him?”

I didn’t say he was stupid.  I only said he was a simple man.  And he is.

”Just this once,” I replied.  ”He’s right about a few things and that being the haphazard way in which the Television title has been booked the last several months.  I can’t do anything about what my predecessors have done, but I can take a longer look at the division.  Jason Cashe wants better, stronger competition and I agree with him.

“He’s been a great champion and the assist from Lauren notwithstanding, he deserved to win against Dolly Waters a few weeks ago.  But something’s gotta give.  The constant stream of challengers that don’t really deserve to be challengers has gotta end sometime and there’s no better time in my estimation, than in Rome at Leap of Faith.”

”I’ll beat him for you, boss,” Cyrus said.

”I don’t need you to beat him,” I informed the big man.  ”This isn’t a Lion’s Justice scenario, brother.  At least not right now.  I just need you to be a different kind of challenge that he’s not used to.  Cashe as defending champion deserves it.  That championship he holds deserves it.”

”You don’t want me to win?  I’m confused,” Braddock states.

”If you can beat him then beat him,” I replied.  ”But it’s not pivotal to the plan at large.  What’s important is that this whole mystery opponent aspect of his Leap of Faith challenger has already put eyes on that title.

“And that’s my goal,” I paused.  ”I want to rebuild the stature of the Television championship.  I want it to mean something again and I know Jason Cashe feels the same way.

“Jason Cashe is good at what he does,” I reminded Cy.  ”He’s very capable of beating you, so if you’re gonna do this, you gotta watch some tape and study his tendencies.  He’s also sorta mastered the ability to milk that clock and grind it down.  He’s got a ball control offense, Cy.”

”I hate ball control offense,” Cy stated.  ”3 yards, 4 yards, 7 yards, 15 yard throw, 3 more yards.  Death by a thousand paper cuts.”

”He’s also pretty resilient,” I continued on.  ”He can definitely take a beating.”

”He’ll have to,” Cy said as he began walking toward the outside world.  ”Because a beating is what I’m gonna give him.”

I couldn’t help but smile.  There is no vast conspiracy going on here.  The television title needs a new approach and this is only step one.  Cashe may be off base on a lot of things he says about me, but that’s between him and whatever is between his ears.  At Leap of Faith, it’s the first step of a new age for that championship.  He holds it in high regard.  And he should.  With a little luck and some better booking, perhaps he can make it mean something again.  Maybe he can salvage it so that it’s not considered bottom of the barrel kind of booking.  That’s no fault of his.  My predecessors have done that belt no favors and I myself need to do a better job moving forward.