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Thomas Nixon · (02-28-2017)

The sweet, vibrant sounds of a saxophone flow through the club. The seductive tone falls on the patrons’ ears, as they are swept up in nostalgia. The music creates an atmosphere that defies logic; an atmosphere that manages to be simultaneously personal and impersonal. On one hand, the sounds manage to transport listeners of all kinds into a haze, an alternate reality of sorts. There they are overwhelmed by all senses, vivid colors, but you don’t see them, you feel them. It brings the listeners out of the harsh world we live in. Then, the sounds send you through a time warp. All of your fondest memories cascade in a dramatic, emotional fashion. They have a sense of drama and intensity, some of them are soothing while others fly by without complete comprehension. They shake the core of an individual in a way that is unique.

That’s where Thomas Nixon finds his escape.

The sounds of a saxophone turn into the slow, rhythmic chime of a piano. The small, exclusive club turns into a bar. A drink, scotch, sits on the wood surface in front of Nixon. To his surprise, Nixon reflexively takes a puff from a cigarette in his right hand, even though he hasn’t tasted nicotine since the late eighties.

“This is a song I recently came up with, and it’s going to be on my upcoming album ‘Cold Spring Harbor’…”

The man’s voice trails off and is replaced by the rapid fire ringing of the piano. The notes echo through the building providing the soundtrack to the lives of many.

On Nixon’s right, two men in their twenties are casually turned away from the bar. With a cold draft beer in hand, they gesture towards a group of college girls. While deciding their tactics and preference, they try to catch one of the girl’s eye, looking for a not so subtle excuse to walk over and make conversation. The fast paced melody gives this scene a cinematic quality, a larger than life feeling. The music enhances the feeling of youth and the energy in the scene, subconsciously heightening the importance of the flirtation. They want to make a memory.

To Nixon’s left, a World War II veteran is lost in his drink, mesmerizing him with visions from the past. Making sad moments of his past into something different. Acts of violence and combat were acts of heroism. In reflection, he feels proud of himself, not sorry for himself. The music provides a different angle, a different dynamic that shifts the meaning of his past. He looks past the war and violence and pain; he remembers the feeling of seeing his lover when he returned to the homeland.

Nixon takes a long drag from his cigarette, savoring the bitter taste. He stares at the beautiful, toxic killer in his hand. The chimes of the piano become increasingly frantic, even erratic, as Nixon loses himself in the red glow of the death stick. The pianoman’s voice gets louder and sharper. The intensity and energy of the song’s bridge flow into the mind and soul of the XWF superstar. The world fades around him, leaving pure blackness other than the illumination in the cigarette. He draws it closer and closer.

And the stinging sensation returns to his body; the fiery ash jamming into his unprotected retina. He squeals and squirms, now on all fours, slamming the canvas. A hand on his back, but Thomas doesn’t want to look up. He doesn’t care if it’s Batman or McBride, the excruciating pain lingers. The intense irritation of such a sensitive part of the body. But instead of looking outwards, he looks inwards, following the music of the saxophone.

Nixon floats back into his seat in the exclusive club. Falling from the ceiling back into his body. His hand is settled on the velvet eye patch. The sweet taste of escapism turned sour.

* * *

I tried. I wanted to clear my head, something I didn’t attempt before my last match. I wanted to let it go for a week, put my pain and my emotions on hold. I drowned myself in a vice; I drank and let my mind wander at a local jazz club. I wanted to relax, and the next morning I could set my attention on my foes, Mr. Tidbits and Killjoy.

But that won’t happen. That’s simply impossible. I couldn’t get lost in nostalgia and reflection because everything circles back to Michael McBride.

This isn’t a bad thing. This doesn’t have to hurt my showing on Warfare. I’m not going to ignore him, I’m going to keep him right at the forefront of my mind. What’s better motivation? I won’t set personal records on the treadmill because of Killjoy or Mr. Tidbits, but when I imagine my hands around that Irish twat’s throat, that’s one hell of a motivation. A blessing dressed as a curse. And after I dismantle Killjoy and Tidbits, I’m looking at you McBride. They’re just my warm up, wait for what I have in store for you.

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