(This is the third part of the series. To read the first part, click here: Distracted
For the second part, click here: Point Of No Return)



------Wednesday, March 8, 2022. 2:00 AM------

It certainly wasn’t first class accommodations, but it got the job done.

Following his meeting with Greek intelligence officer Dimitrios Mougios, Centurion’s next step was to hitch a ride on a single engine plane and into the tiny town of Czolo, a village a few miles across the Polish border into Belarus, situated along the Narew River. Centurion was to then jump out of the plane and land safely in the Narew, while the plane flew back across the border, all while not being seen the Belarusian military, that is currently on high alert.

And that’s the easy part.

We open up inside the aforementioned airplane, flying low along the riverbank in rural Belarus. Centurion has on a wet suit and a waterproof backpack, and the side door of the plane is open, with the pilot yelling back at him.

“Alright!” The pilot yells over the sound of the engine and the wind. “You and your contact are going to have approximately 10 minutes before the military starts poking around! Get yourselves further into the country and find a place to lay low! And let him do all the talking!”

Centurion just nods as the plane flies further into the middle of the river, which is Centurion’s que to jump.

The Narew is deep but not wide, and only extends 35 miles into Belarus. It is surrounded almost entirely by the Białowieża Forest, with the only exception being the village of Czolo, which acts as the only inhabited space in this particular area of Belarus. Centurion emerges from the water, just fast enough to see the plane ascend above the trees and turn back towards Poland, thus leaving Centurion in one of the most militaristic and fascist countries in the world.

Centurion looks around a little bit to try and get situated, but the complete darkness of the forest is disorienting. After a few seconds, Centurion swims towards what he assumes is the west side of the river. He pulls himself out of the water, and quickly begins to take off his wet suit, all the while looking around for some indication of life. He steps out of his wet suit and opens up his backpack, pulling out his Colt 1851 Navy revolver, and checks the barrels just to make sure they didn’t get wet. As he does, the sound of a slow moving car down gravel can be heard. Centurion jumps and instantly cocks the hammer back, but uncocks it and lowers it when the sound is followed by the familiar beat of hard bass. As the car gets closer, the headlights turn on, and Centurion slowly shakes his head as the car stops and the driver steps out of the vehicle.

“GOOD FRIEND CENTURION!”

The “contact” just so happens to be former XWF wrestler Boris, a man not known for his seriousness. Indeed, Boris has not changed his style one bit – he is still rocking the yellow Adidas tracksuit, ushanka hat, and mask that completely covers his face – with the exception of his eyes, which are currently hidden by sunglasses. He holds his arms out for a hug, but instead of being met with a warm embrace, he is greeted with a wetsuit being pushes into his chest.

“What the hell are you doing?” Centurion angerly asks as he puts his gun back in his backpack and slings it over his shoulder. “Are you trying to get us killed?! We’re supposed to be sneaking around, and you’re here blaring music and screaming my name. We’re going to be sent to the Gulag before sunrise!”

“Relax, blin!” Boris says as he wrings out Centurion’s wetsuit. “We are deep in forest. Only thing that hear us is bison. Beside, if you are driving Lada down street anywhere in Eastern Europe and you NOT listening to hard bass, you look like Western spy.”

Centurion continues to scowl, but he sees Boris’ point, so he just shrugs and walks up to the car. He slides his backpack into the backseat, but before he closes, he does a double take and looks in the backseat again. “Uh…Boris?” Centurion asks, hesitantly. “Is that an AK-47 in your backseat?”

“Hmm?” Boris raises his head in a curious and innocent manner. “Oh, yes. Every Slav has Kalashnikov in backseat. You should open trunk.”

Centurion stares at Boris for a second, not sure if he wants to take him up on his offer, but eventually he does close the backseat door and walks to the back of the trunk. He opens the trunk, and inside sits a large sniper rifle with several boxes of ammo.

“Boris!” Centurion yells out. “What the fuck?!”

“Is Dragunov!” Boris responds, casually. “A Gopnik can never be too careful. One minute you are out picking tomato in Babushka’s front garden, and the next you hear tank driving down street. What do you do? You can not fight tank with tomato alone, cyka!”

“You have a lot to teach me about your culture.” Centurion says in a half joking, half serious tone.

“There is plenty of time to teach Good Friend Centurion about the way of the Gopnik.” Boris says as he tosses Centurion’s wetsuit casually into the backseat of the car before stepping back into the driver’s seat. “In meantime, we must go blin. We have several hundred kilometer to drive to get to Bepac.”

Centurion obliges and gets into the passenger seat of the car. Immediately, Boris cranks up the volume on the radio, and he quickly backs out the road, driving as if he were the protagonist in some action movie. Centurion turns the radio back down as the two get onto the “main road” – meaning the only road in the area that is actually paved.

“While it may not get us spotted” Centurion says as he gets the volume to a reasonable level. “I’d rather still have the ability to hear when this is all said and done.”

“Boris forget.” Boris says in a sympathetic tone. “Good Friend Centurion has soft, American ears. Is ok. Boris can just talk. Is been a long time since we spoke, no?”

“It’s been a few months.” Centurion says as he thinks about when he saw Boris last. “Come to think of it, I think the last time I saw you was in Mongolia for the Retro Anarchy show.”

“Oppa!” Boris exclaims. “Boris drove big truck! That was fun, blin. So when did Good Friend Centurion become spy?”

“What?” The question catches Centurion off guard. “No, I’m not a spy. I’m here on a revenge mission. See, there’s this guy who lives here, and several years ago, he killed my wife in what was essentially a political assassination, and that guy has since gone on to become a cop, and every time I hear about the war in Ukraine, I think about how he never got justice, so I decided to come here and shoot him.”

Boris stares straight ahead through the windshield, trying to process everything that Centurion said. Instead of avoiding the awkward conversations, however, he decides to just change the subject. “So Good Friend Centurion still wrestle blin?”

“Of course.” Centurion responds, almost questioningly. “Have you not been watching for the past few months?”

“Boris has been…busy.” Boris says with a hesitation in his voice. “Is best to not ask question, pezdik.”

“Well, that’s…refreshing.” Centurion says as he tries to get what Boris said out of his head. “But that’s why I told you I have to be out of here by Saturday. I have match I’m scheduled for, and no one knows I’m over here. At least, no one stateside.”

“You sure, blin?” Boris asks. “Is seem like everything Good Friend Centurion does end up on television.”

Centurion slowly turns his head toward the passenger side window and looks out, almost as if he is looking directly into a camera. Of course, that would be silly. Centurion quickly turns back and continues his conversation with Boris.

“I also have a big match with Peter Vaughn next week, followed by a match on Anarchy, and a title match over in Fight, so I have to get this done now or I may lose my opportunity.”

“Who this?” Boris questions, barely listening to the last part of Centurion’s sentence. “Peter Van?”

“Vaughn.” Centurion corrects Boris. “He’s new…well, relatively new. He’s new to you. But he’s the current Universal Champion. Hell of a wrestler.”

“New fighter wins Title of Universe?!” Boris says in amazement. “Cyka blyat!!”

“Well, I mean…” Centurion tries to think about what he said and reword it. “He’s new to the XWF, but he’s not new to wrestling. He’s actually been around for a long time. At least I think it’s been a long time? I don’t know his full backstory, but he’s no rookie.”

“Sound like Good Friend Centurion need is not ready blin.” Boris says in a smug tone.

“Hey!” Centurion snaps back. “I’m plenty ready! I just have more research to do. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a little busy at the moment.”

“Is nothing!” Boris says in a dismissive tone. “Kill a man on Monday, fight a match on Tuesday. Is the Gopnik way!”

Centurion glares at Boris, wondering what exactly he’s gotten himself into. “You’re a strange and mysterious man, Boris.”

------The Janitor’s Closet------

The camera turns back on, but there is nothing but darkness. That all changes after a few seconds, when Centurion pulls a string and a single light bulb shines. We see Centurion standing in the middle of a janitor’s closet, surrounded by cleaning and maintenance equipment. Centurion looks around at the stuff inside the closet before turning back and facing the camera.

“I know what you’re thinking. ‘Seriously, Centurion? You’re going for the low hanging fruit?’ Well, before you judge me before I start talking, allow me to explain why I’m inside this janitor’s closet, and why I am so much different than everyone else in this industry.

Look around at this room. There’s various chemicals and tools. There’s a lot of stuff in here that could kill a person if they were sloppy with it. And yet, this is the everyday equipment of a janitor. They see things and hear things that would make most people vomit. They are the foundation for making things work correctly – without janitors doing their work, the CEOs who make millions of dollars would never be able to do what they do.

And yet, it’s a profession that gets shit on constantly.

What’s something that we hear about janitors? They’re dumb? Unskilled? We would never want our kids to grow up to be janitors, right? No, we want our kids to become lawyers, the blood sucking leeches of society, rather than janitors, the foundations of society. They have to put up with horrible shit day after day, and they get paid almost nothing to do it, and if they ask for a raise, they’re told they are “replaceable”, and that somehow giving them a living wage would absolutely crumble our economy. Basically, what I’m saying is…

…janitors are bad asses.”

Centurion opens the door in front of him and steps out into the hallway of some sort of executive office building.

“Which is why I never understood the original insults towards Peter Vaughn. A lot of people put him down because of his background as a janitor. The people who did that obviously knew absolutely nothing about what folks in the service industry have to endure. And hey, I am not innocent of that, either. I said some pretty ignorant shit about Thebe Nwadke when we faced each other, but what I should have realized going into that match is that being a pizza guy prepares you a hell of a lot more for battle than being a 40 something former casino owner. All these bad asses who made their jokes – they all thought spending hours in the gym punching a bag and guzzling Stacker 2 was the only way to become a champion in this industry. I don’t see any of them holding the biggest title in the industry.

I say all that to say this – I respect the hell out of Peter Vaughn. In fact, I always have.”

Centurion slowly starts walking down the hallway of the building, and the camera follows alongside.

“Sure, he’s a bit “rough around the edges”, and it turns a lot of people off. I understand that. I certainly don’t condone most of his actions, but you have to admit they’ve been incredibly successful up to now, and while some wrestlers might try to shrug it off, the last time I checked, the only thing that really mattered in this industry is wins. Wins, and making money – something Peter Vaughn has done a lot of lately. Now, I’m not blinded by the fact that not all of this was done solely by Vaughn himself. Sure, he has the talent, and he was the one that had to go into the ring and actually win the matches, but that isn’t what made him a marketable talent. That isn’t what got him rolling in money and turned him into a “must book” wrestler in this industry. No, he had a lot of help on that front.”

Centurion stops, faces the camera, and waves.

“Hi, Chris Page.”

Centurion continues walking down the hallway.

“Now now, take a deep breath. I’m not here to completely tear down your accomplishments, Peter, nor am I here to tell you to drop Chris Page from your management. In fact, I’m here to tell you that hiring Chris Page as your manager may have been the smartest thing you could have done.

Yes, I hear the gasps from here.

Chris Page is a snake, but he’s also brilliant at being able to generate buzz and get eyeballs on a product. Peter, you could have been a Universal Champion without Page. No doubt. But you never would have become the marketable superstar you are now without him, and I’m sure you know that. I also know that Page loves gold and money, and he’s going to squeeze every drop out of you that he can. As long as you keep picking up wins and bringing in cash, Page will be your biggest advocate in the world. He’ll take a bullet for you if he could get an extra couple grand from it.

I ALSO know that Page demands to be respected, and he would do nothing that would tarnish his position or his legacy in any way. So he’s going to let you go it alone tomorrow night. I highly doubt he comes to the ring for your match. As the general manager of the show, he’s going to want to be seen as the guy who cares about quality. He wants the big sponsors, and the big-name wrestlers to show up on his show. Besides, he’s sitting in his office, cocky as hell. He thinks there’s NO CHANCE I beat you tomorrow night. Hell, he’s probably telling you that as we speak.

The problem is, Peter, you know there’s a chance. Even if you’re confident in your abilities, even if you think I don’t belong near the Universal Title, even if you think your reign at the top is unshakable, there’s also a lingering doubt in your mind that tells you anything is possible. That’s the main difference between you and your manager. Page never thought he could lose – not until he saw it with his own eyes. His cockiness may have cost him several matches in his career, but he also approached everything without any hesitation. If you were stepping in the ring with him, he was sure he was going to kill you.

But you’re sitting there, Peter, and wondering about the worst-case scenario. We’re only two weeks away from March Madness, and your sure-to-be show stealing match with Alias. Universal Title on the line. Everything you two can throw at each other physically and mentally will be thrown, and any ounce of weakness can be used to capitalize by a vicious opponent. And right now, there’s a tiny voice in your head thinking…

‘Well, fuck. What if Cent beats me?’

And your little voice brings up a decent point. The main event of the pay per view is set to be one of the best in history given what feels like two invincible opponents staring across from each other…but that loses its luster if you come limping in after just losing a match to me. Not only will you have to deal with the grumbles from folks backstage wondering if your reign was a fluke before the show even begins, but you will also have to deal with the constant two week taunting from Alias going ‘HA HA! You lost to Centurion!’ Trust me, I know how annoying that is, and I AM Centurion.”

Centurion reaches the front door of whatever building they are in, and he steps outside. The sun is shining as springtime slowly starts to come to reality, and Centurion takes a second to reach into his pocket and pull out of pair of sunglasses. He puts them on and faces the camera as if he were some politician finishing a political ad.

“I would promise you that Alias won’t get involved in our match tomorrow, Peter…but I can’t. I can’t promise that any more than you can promise Charlie Nickels won’t run down and screw me over. It’s the business. You know it, I know it – everyone in that locker room with half a brain knows it. There is a distinct possibility that this match ends in a complete clusterfuck – that we have wrestlers from all over running in, attacking both of us, and making it impossible for the referee to keep any sort of order. I’m prepared for that. In fact, if we go out there, tear the house down, and this match ends in a draw, I’ll take that. Problem is, I know you wouldn’t.

Not only do you have higher expectations due to the gold around your waist, but you’ve also had to listen to Chris Page for the past several months, and while we may have a truce at the moment, he spend the better part of a decade trying to discredit me and my talent. In fact, most of the folks in your organization see me as some washed up geriatric who never accomplished anything of note in this business. You’re not supposed to beat me – you’re supposed to SLAUGHTER me, and that’s a position you can’t win from.

I’m not going to bullshit you, Peter. You’re one of the great ones, and you’re going to be one of the great ones for a while. But I’m also one of the great ones, no matter what folks around you might say. You’ve experienced a lot of things – victories, relationships, and now – the opportunity to meet your…

FINAL FANTASY!!!