Jet lag is a sonuvabitch, with the bitch-uv-it-all being international traveling. I had forgotten from my previous stints in the XWF just how much I loathed this aspect of the job. It’s not really the traveling per se that bugs me, I love getting the opportunity to see the world and watching my peers bumbling into trite shenanigans in every other European city like a series of unimaginative Sex Comedy movies. It's a really niche form of satisfying cringe.

It’s the coming back home part that’s the worst.

It’s ironic because I was nothing but excited to take a detour from the European roadshow and get back state-side to my family, I missed Marie and the kids dearly. But after spending nearly two days chock full of layovers from Naples to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Atlanta, and Atlanta finally back to Louisville I was spent, and with only a little under eight days to prepare for my Hart Championship match in Green Bay, I was remembering why this line of work isn’t for everyone.

As the Uber driver pulled up in front of the house, the two-storied, orange-trimmed, grey stucco on the corner of Major and Brawner that I spent ages twelve through eighteen growing up in, I felt a little pinch in my nerves remembering that there was another, deeper, lament in coming back here. You see, “Coming back home” for me wasn’t really like “coming back home” at all.

“Home sweet home.”

The friendly, but kind of intrusive driver proclaimed as he popped the vehicle into park,

There was a bit of a whelp on my bottom lip compliments from one of Claude Savage’s horse-strong haymakers. Anxiously, I nestled it a bit between the narrow gap in my front teeth and gave it a nervous chew.

“Hey, man-”

I said, giving the back of the driver’s seat a tap while my eyes kept studying the lit house,

“-think you could give me a minute?”

I asked with a soft, yet direct plea. I would do this sometimes with my own vehicle. I’d pull in the driveway after a day at work and just sit there, lighting another cigarette and waiting for the next song in my Youtube mix to load up on my phone. With the driveway being right next to our bedroom window, Marie would know when I would get to the house. She’d prance outside all giddy usually, hop in the van and smoke with me, and being fully aware of the degradation of my feelings towards the situation at “home” she’d always act as my elixir to get me going again.

“What’s the matter? Wait!”

The driver starts in,

“You’re not like a homewrecker or something are you?”

“What?! Nah, man-”

I said twisting my face like it should be oh-so apparent to a stranger why I’m acting weird about getting out of his vehicle,

“Waiting on little Johnny to get tucked-in before you go and ruin his life?”

“Fuck it. Never mind.”

I thrash my way out of the back seat and grab my bags out of the already popped trunk and shut it back promptly,

“What you’re doing is wrong man! It’s bigger than you! Think about the kids!”

The driver shouted out of his window as he pulled away, prompting a huff from my nostrils as I made my way up the driveway and into the side door of the house that acted more as the main entrance leading into the kitchen.

“Dad-da!”

“DAD-DA!”

“DAAAAD!!!”

As I entered the kitchen I was instantly met with a chorus of admiration and leg-hugs from my three biggest kiddos, and an ear-piercing, yet simultaneously lovely shriek of excitement from my youngest daughter, Elly, who I reached down and lifted into my arms. We shared some chipper laughs as I mashed my face into her chunky little cheek and lifted her to blow some raspberries on her belly.

The kids were all vying for some much-needed attention from their Dad as I dizzily tried to keep up with their barrage of questions, comments, and concerns, nodding my head with a warm smile at their blending cadences.

“Uh-hem!”,

I looked up, and standing in the doorway to the dining room, with a sexy and suggestive pose, like the tall, long raven-haired glass of Dixie water that she was, was my Marie. With little Elly still firmly tucked into my arm (there was no way I could sit her down without there being one hellacious fit to follow), Marie and I met about mid-way across the floor and embraced. We didn’t share many words, we didn’t need to, we had this way of reading one another’s eyes that always sufficed.

Quickly though, Marie’s attitude turned concerning as she studied the stitches across my forehead by placing her hands on either side and pulling me close, just before pushing me back a bit,

“See! This is what I was worried about, baby!”

She said stamping her foot into the floor,

“Honey, it’s really nothing-”

“Nothing’s ass!”

She cut me off, before continuing,

“I don’t like this, oh and your match next weekend? A shatter-designed glass cage? Y’all’ve got me bent-”

I can see the skin just below Marie’s neck turning blotchy and red with frustration as she begins giving me the third-degree,

“-who do these people think they are?”

“Honey…”

“Don’t you know that you could die?”

“Baby……”

“What if a piece of glass pierces a fucking artery?”

“MARIE!”

She finally stops,

“You know we need this, honey-”

I said taking ahold of one of her hands,

“-we’ve gotta get out of here. If I can win this match at Snow Job it changes everything for us… we can finally press play on our lives again.”

Understanding what I meant she just rolled her eyes a bit and looked down at the floor as she nodded,

“Where’s Fannie and them at by the way?”

Marie let out an exasperated sigh and motioned her head towards the upstairs of the house, where my ears start picking up the plaguing sounds of muffled sobbing that we had all become way too accustomed to recently,

And therein lies the problem with “coming home”.

This wasn’t “our home”.

Sure, I pretty much grew up in this house, but I had long since been removed. See the children, Marie and I moved into this house with my big sister, Fannie, and her family back in August. I believe I somewhat detailed this before. Anyway, we weren’t immune to the world melting down in twenty-twenty, and so here we were, humbled and trying to live in a multi-family home, but there was more to it than the run-of-the-mill financial hardships that the majority of people had been feeling.

Right in the midst of the pandemic, while being seen by a specialist to rule out anything more horrific than the multiple-sclerosis the doctors were certain that he was suffering from, mine and Fannie’s father became diagnosed with a very rare, very aggressive cancer in late June. About two weeks later, after spending every waking moment by my father’s bedside, I awoke next to him, about an hour after administering another dose of morphine, to find him dead the morning of Independence Day. It was as if he slipped right out the back door while everyone was sleeping.

After Dad died there was some much needed coalescing and sentimental binding with Fannie and Me that saw us bring our families together, and again, it also made good sense financially, she and her husband had lost Dad’s portion of the bills, while Marie and I were struggling to make ends meet on our own. So here we were, living in my Father’s old bedroom, sleeping alongside the shadows of his ghost, and my sister’s unwavering and swelling mania.

I made my way up the stairs to Fannie’s bedroom, the wailing of her sobs intensifying. Making it to the door I fidgeted around with the rigged-up and thrice-over broken doorknob, but I struggled, as always, to get the damn thing to turn.

From behind the door, I can hear the sobs blend with a snarling pitless-like growl followed by a: “GODDAMNIT!”, and some stomps across the floor just before the door swung open. Fannie stood there, her brow tight, face smashed, and looking more unhealthier than usual, “What?”, she growled before turning back into her room as I followed.

“What’s wrong, Fan?”

I asked, knowing damn-well what was wrong. But before she can even answer I give a quick smile and wave to my little nephew, Ben, my sister’s three-year-old who’s steady mashing away on some tablet game on Fannie’s bed.

“I miss my Dad”

She cried out after wrapping herself back in her comforter and beginning to rock back and forth like an insane asylum patient, and I responded with a resounding sigh before correcting her: “Our Dad, Fannie”, I hated when she did that. I’ve got to admit, there was a bit of resentment towards my sister that was beginning to boil over. Even having first-hand knowledge of what a mother-fucker grief could be, I felt like her whole handling of Dad’s death had been extremely selfish, as if she was the only person struggling.

It had been only a month since the haunting images of looking upon my father’s lifeless face had begun to ebb from my mind. I could even still feel the muggy breeze that swept my bangs as I covered his face with the ceremonial-sheath that he wore while being cremated. While Fannie had spent the last six months retreating to her tears and making the exclusivity of her mourning our father a burdensome and daily dance around egg-shells, I on the other hand had been forced to stuff the majority of it down.

But even still, as watched her growing more gaunt and heartsick I couldn’t help but push those feelings of resentment to the side, she’s my sister after all, and he was…

“Our Dad. I know. I’m sorry, Reggie.”

She apologizes between trembling whimpers,

For as much as all of this… this living in the bedroom where my father died, this watching three of my children sharing a sectional couch for a bed, this never turning on the thermostat in a poorly insulated house, this listening to a grown woman threatening suicide in front of her children at least weekly… for as much as all of this wore on me, I could at least appreciate how I had the uncanny means to talk Fannie down from her mountain, usually by just changing the subject.

“Did you hear that I’m fighting for the Hart Championship on pay-per-view next weekend?”

She dried back some tears with her palms and seemed to drift in and out of a thought,

“Next Sunday?”

She asked,

“Yeah, the thirty-first… it’s in Green Bay, Wisconsin.”
She gasped and scrambled up to her feet and headed for her vanity and proceeded to fling it’s already cluttered surface into further disarrangement,

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, right? The twenty-fourth?”

She again inquired while continuing to look for something,

“Yeah, why?”

I asked,

“There’s this. This… This thing. This thing Dad wanted to do with you.”

As she finished the sentence she handed me a small piece of paper with an address and a date, written in Dad’s handwriting,

“What is it?”

I asked while reading it over,

“It’s some sort of family get-together. Distant relatives or something.”

Breaking my focus from reading the address, I gaze back up at Fannie, and ask:

“Who has a family reunion in the middle of January?”

“It’s in Nazareth, so your guess is a good as mine. But I know that Dad said it was really important that the two of you go."

Now she tells me, a day before the event, and a week before the most important event of my life.

-to be continued-

Look y'all, let me apologize right-quick.

I know it's been a few days since you've heard anything from me, but I've been inquiring with doctors, dope dealers, pharmacy techs, Justin Beiber, even the good heavens above to try and find enough Adderall to suffer my way through Shawn Wylde's promo. Could I find it?

Edgar smirks his lips together and shakes his head at the camera,

Nah. Looks like I'm out of luck. A dose that high would likely trigger an aneurysm, and while suicide may be a more preferable option rather than white-knuckling my way through that shit-show again, I've got some things I need to take care of first.

I've made no bones about it, folks. I'm winning the Hart Championship at Snow Job, and after seeing how my opponents decided to present themselves, or in Felix Jones' case, not present themselves, it's become even more obvious.

Didn't I tell y'all that this meant more to me? Didn't I tell y'all that my effort and my heart were the differences in this matchup against these "seasoned veterans", and isn't it crystal-fucking-clear now who has their head in the game, and who doesn't?

We've got Shawn Wylde...

While tapping his foot against the ground, R.L. takes his index finger and thumb and pinches the bridge of his nose just between his brow while taking heavy, frustrated breaths through his nostrils,

Fuck. I can't even...

He snaps out of it and focuses on the camera again,

Shawn Wylde was talking shit about me "falling around the ring" moments after (like literal moments after) he botched an attempt to run up a wall and as a result, he took a bump that made him think he was dying. He's telling ME to be safe. This run up the wall was supposed to signify what he was going to be able to do in the Glass Cage match if the Left Hand comes after him again?

Edgar slaps his hand against his forehead and sighs heavily,

Do y'all see where this guy's head is?!

He says throwing his hand back out in a pleading manner towards the camera,

He's not serious about this match.

Since he's only operating now as the Left Hand's tampon, I'd suggest he cleans Lycana's period stains out of his mask so he can see what in the fuck is going on around him. Like bro, why were you so hung up on wearing some stupid looking armor in your promo? What did that have to do with anything? Are you going to wear it to the ring? Do you need extra protection? It's to guard you against the Left Hand again, isn't it?

I mean what in the actual fuck? Am I missing something?

Is this guy actually mentally handicapped? If so, I'd really appreciate someone telling me so that I can apologize and then beat up his drifty fucking manager for putting him out there like this. It's really cruel. I'm sorry Shawn, but you don't go from getting dog-walked by a stable -who gets dog-walked by the regular XWF roster on like every show- to suddenly expecting someone like me to be worried about fighting you. I'm not. Like not in the least.

You were lobbying for Felix and me to join forces with you to take Ned out first! What's that tell you?! I guess you're scared of him or something?

Go figure.

But honestly, I'd be shocked if you're not the first person pulling glass out of your costume.

There's something about the irony of a guy dressing up as a superhero and being scared shitless of people like the Left Hand and Ned Kaye, all the while dismissing the person who's actually going to win this match that really leaves a burr on my ass.

It's because you're not paying attention and because you don't give a shit, and that's why you're going to lose.

Now, as for Ned Kaye, it's not hard to figure out where to start with you; because all you did was prove every point that I made in my opening promo. Unless you're fighting people like Jones and Wylde every other week, you're not fit to be Hart Champion.

Flat out.

You're a nice generic wrestler guy or whatever, but you're not a Hart Champion.

You jumped in front of that camera and in one of the weirdest promos ever you were trying to say that great champions can "accept" tarnishing their championship when they go on the "C program" and lose?

No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

That's bullshit!

Great Champions don't, and never will do that.

It would be like Ali going and getting beaten up by a collegiate boxer and claiming he was better for it.

You cut that entire promo based on the idea of the excuses you had already made for losing to Boris on the work-half-as-hard show, and guess what? No one even brought it up. It was eating YOU alive, no one else gave a shit, dude. Hell, I'm sure people are used to seeing you shit the bed by now. It's a part of your "notorious" staple. But do you know what might have been the worst thing you said? The thing that really showed me that you weren't interested in paying attention, or putting up the effort it takes to win this match, let alone elevate that Hart Championship?

You even said that you and Shawn Wylde weren't incredibly different.

Edgar goes silent for a moment and blinks slowly at the camera,

Wow. I mean, fuck. DING! DING! DING! The dumbass is dead. Fucking Wizard of Oz character, bro. A lion with no heart. If you're not one-hundred-and-fifty-fucking-million percent different from Shawn Wylde then you need some serious revaluation, and maybe the shrink isn't such a dopey idea after all.

Listen, Ned, just like I told you last time, this match and that Championship means more to me, and if you consider this me bringing my "fangs out", whatever the fuck that meant, then so be it. Here are my fangs, and they're sinking into that soft spot in your chest.

I'm taking the Hart Championship at Snow Job and giving it, and the whole Warfare brand a champion they deserve. A champion who doesn't flirt around with Anarchy and tarnish the belt. A champion with a desire, and willingness to elevate that belt again. A champion who won't let some run-of-the-mill scary stable overshadow the strap, and overshadow the brand that the strap owns.

You asked what makes a great champion...

Don't worry.

I'll show you at Snow Job.

Former:
1x Hart Champion
1x Federweight Champion
April 2021 RP Of The Month Still Waters Run Deep