(Part One is heret)

KnightMask stared down at the stained porcelain of the bathroom sink. What a mess. Here he was a, condemned man. And he had nobody but himself to blame.

Yes, his former dojo had come to him desperate for his help. And yes, the idea of the same gym that once banished him now begging to be delivered by him, yeah it appealed to him. But wasn't there at least some piece of altruism involved as well? At least a little?

He glanced at the soap dispenser, which promised, White Angel Soap: Never Feel Dirty Again!. He pumped a handful onto a calloused palm and rubbed his hands together beneath a stream of hot water. He doubted it could assuage his guilt, but maybe it could at least get rid of the dead rat small.

Of course, it was the dojo's own fault that they were in trouble. For one thing, the old guy had only shown up after they'd started filming raids on other dojos. And for another, people at the Mongoose Den had been taking the old man up on his crazy challenge. A lot of people. Not a one of them was able to faze the ancient, shriveled stranger as he calmly allowed them to place in their most devastating holds. Each one of them had too afraid to live up to their end of the bargain, to let the old man place them in the same hold the next day.

And so numbers had been dropping off at the Mongoose Den. The gym was about empty when KnightMask had finally stopped in.

How many times had he washed and re-washed them? Of course, those hands had earlier held a long dead, oddly well-preserved sewer rat within them. But was that really what he was trying to wash away?

Or was it guilt?

Guilt over the fact that, just yesterday, he'd taken up the insane offer of a man who was 90 if he was a day and tried, with all his strength and all his technique, to break the man's leg in a knee-bar? It wasn't really like a compulsion that had won out against his better judgment. There was no inner fight. It was more like, he simply did it and only later was able to realize and reflect on his actions. Only after he'd done it was he able ask himself, Did I really just try to break the leg of a guy who--ethnicity aside--could easily be my great, great grandfather?

Not that he'd even been able to bring a grimace out of the old man, let alone break his leg. When he'd finally given up trying, his muscles were wracked with exhaustion.

And tonight, as per their strange deal, he was supposed to find the old man at his dojo and let him return the favor. He was supposed to willingly offer up his leg for the old man to knee-bar, all the while offering up no resistance.

What a way to bring about the ending of your career. Having your already gimpy knee destroyed by a senior citizen, all because of some bizarre bargain. Beyond everything else, he couldn't reconcile himself to the fact that he'd actually tried to knee-bar an old man.

KnightMask looked up at his reflection, peering at the black mask and gold-framed ruby quartz visor. Maybe it was good hat he wore his mask nearly all the time. It spared him from having to look himself in the eye. Behind him, the door to the bathroom swing shut behind him.

Professional wrestlers were in many ways like gunslingers. A reputation might get you respect and even adoration from fans. And amongst the men and women who shared your line of work, a reputation meant constant challenges from wrestler eager to make a name off of yours. Eventually, most professional wrestlers--the ones with reputations, anyway--developed a sort of sixth sense about challenges. A look, a seemingly innocuous word, a man's footsteps or even...the way someone sat down next to you at a tavern...all could signal in clear and stark terms the laying down of a gauntlet.

Even the simple opening and closing of a door. Really.

So KnightMask didn't have to look behind him to know that whatever the clocks read, as far as his company was concerned, it was High Noon.

But KnightMask had not come to the arena to wrestle. Not tonight.

He'd just come there to do one thing. Corner Ratboy. Going up against the Frost Giants--a team whose name described them perfectly--with nothing but a dead rat named Bob for a tag partner was a dangerous proposition. Especially given that Ratboy actually expected Bob to help him in the match. KnightMask's major goal was to simply make sure his friend exited the ring with the same number of physical and mental handicaps he entered it with.

More or less, that was what happened, give or take a spiked piledriver and a double-clothesline with 800-pounds of loin-clothed, chainmailed Norwegian behind it. KnightMask had managed to yank Ratboy's semi-conscious body out of the ring before the giants had a chance to make up their mind whether or not they wanted to continue pulverizing him after the bell. He was halfway to the ramp when he realized what he'd missed. He shot down to the ring , sliding into the ropes and snatching up Bob in his hands. He'd almost made it back out before the Frost Giants decided they wanted to do some post-match damage after all and dragged him back in by his ankles.

With Bob tucked between his arms like a dead, furry, rat-shaped football, KnightMask darted between the Frost Giants' ponderous, clubbing blows. Silently, he thanked God that the blue-skinned Norwegian's did not belong to the Steve Davids/Sebastian Duke class of wrestlers with speed belied that their bulk.

Seeing a brief opening, KnightMask dived towards the ropes. A colossal figure barred his way. His enormous fist fell like a boulder. The canvas shuddered beneath the blow as KnightMask cartwheeled aside. The giant roared his frustration. Dropping beneath the arch of a massive blue fist, KnightMask tripped up the armored monstrosity with a drop toe-hold. Miraculously, he tumbled helmet-first into his brother, which stunned both of them long enough for security to flood into the ring, allowing KnightMask to make his escape and return Bob to what were, by then, the semi-conscious hands of Ratboy.

As he helped Ratboy back to the dressing room, a curvy, olive-skinned female security guard caught his eyes. Thick, black hair sat upon her shoulders, drifting down slightly to the middle of her back. She'd come running to him, moving almost in slow motion to KnightMask's eyes, graceful and gazelle-like. She grasped him around his broad shoulders, her eyes looking deep into his visor, oozing passionate desperation.

"Ratboy! Will he be alright?", she'd demanded to know. Without waiting for an answer, she explained to the masked XWF rookie how Ratboy was a valiant warrior who just needed someone to tend to him and understand him. Before he could say anything, she'd taken Ratboy into her arms and off KnightMask's hands for the night.

Which had left him with nothing left but to wash the stink of dead rat off his hands and then go find the old man and get his knee broken and his career ended. Until the Frost Giants decided to join him in the bathroom and demand that, how did they put it? That he drag his "puny carcass back to the ring so they could smash him to pieces and sacrifice him to Ymir."

"Not tonight, guys. Maybe another time."

"What are you," bellowed one of the giants, "A coward? "

KnightMask turned off the faucet and left the bathroom. The colossal Norwegians burst through the door after him. The hallway was full of Indy wrestlers and journalists. In other words, there were plenty of witnesses to attest that KnightMask kept walking as aptly labeled tag-team known as the Frost Giants called after him, challenging, taunting and threatening him.

As he walked down the hall, he passed Liz Weinberg, who merely gave him a smug grin. He noticed she had a notepad out and a camera crew with her. All the better to record KnightMask's act of cowardice, he supposed. Hard to walk past were the faces of fans, faces that didn't jeer, but simply looked away, disappointed.