continued from: Family Reunion. (Part 1)



After a fifteen-minute haul from one side of Franklin County to the other, trekking over the river, and through the woods to the ‘Grandmother’s House’ of our collective townships, 'I pulled into Nazareth and was feeling about half-past-dead’.

Now I can’t quite put my finger on why, but every time I come around that little bend by Chester Schnelling’s bar and turn onto Providence Ave; which is a six-mile-long, shotgun-like stretch of two-lane road that serves as Nazareth’s Main Street, I become overwhelmed by this tethering sensation of dread, like I’m entering a frozen, moon-lit cemetery where the past never dies and is instead hidden in plain sight.

It’s been that way all of my life. Maybe the devil was in the name: Nazareth. It oozed of dust and antiquity, much like the decaying “Southern Suburbia” sprawl that aligned either side of Providence Ave. I remember once my father telling me about the moment he knew that he’d spend the rest of his life here. He was from a very flat, very desolate part of Indiana, so you could imagine his wonder as he first rode into town, taking the snaking trail that ripped between the valley filled with lush vegetation and glowing creek shores called Devil’s Hollow.

“It was the most ridiculous name I’d ever heard, and still the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on.”

I remember him saying,

My father was happy that he wasn’t “in Kansas anymore”, and unlike Dorothy, he was going to make Oz, or in this case, Nazareth, his new home.

“This place is parody, son. It is color. It is a living, breathing story. It’s everything that folks like you and me only stumble on out of weird happenstance.”

For a moment I could almost see my father sitting there in the van next to me, motioning his hand out with a confident little flick of his wrist before pulling down on the end of his scraggly beard, the two of us looked nearly identical. But with a deep breath and a double-take, his image faded.

Choking back some tears out of habit, I carried on down the road, headed for whatever this little shindig was that my father had planned for us to attend. I gazed at the piece of paper that Fannie gave me again, studying my father’s handwriting. The address was familiar, but I didn’t really want to go where my subconscious was pointing me towards, it would be, given everything recently, too weird of a happenstance.

But following-suit there it was, 1300 Spring St.

The American Legion.

My heart sank. This was where it all began for me. Where my father brought me to my first wrestling match. Where a little mustard seed of a dream was planted. He was bringing me there again.

Now Nazareth was absolutely devoid of anything even resembling, what at one time, was considered its antique charm. The town itself was just frozen in a frame, like a horrible picture that you never have to look at, but one that stays hung on your wall all the same. There was hardly any traffic, and I pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of the Legion with ease.

I sat there for a moment in a diffident pause before I could even look up at the building. It wasn’t that bustling, smoke-filled warp into intrigue and excitement that I knew as a child. It was cold, no, it was freezing out, and like every other inch of that town, the building itself even looked like it was freezing, like a broken and a shivering man standing out on the sidewalk begging for a dollar.

After awhile of painstaking the situation, I drug myself out of the van. I had no clue what this “event” was, I mean a family reunion? In January? In Nazareth? My father’s family wasn’t even from Kentucky. Of course, he could have misspoken when explaining the details to my sister Fannie, or more likely, she misunderstood. But I guess I half just assumed it was maybe some of Dad’s old drinking buddies. It wouldn’t have been such a bad thing to see some of those guys again, and a drink didn’t sound half bad either.

As I entered the building I noticed a sign reading: ‘Private Event’, tapped on the dark tinted glass of the door. I pulled the door open to find there was about as much liveliness inside as there was outside, there wasn’t even anyone tending the bar. Just to my right as I walked inside was this little table set up with an empty guest book like a damn funeral.

After peeking into the ballroom where I watched my first live wrestling match all those years ago and finding it to be empty as well, I went ahead and took a seat at the bar just ahead.

“Hello?”

I hollered back behind the bar and into the kitchen. After a moment of no one answering, I sighed in a bit of relief, realizing that this must have been a mixup. I pulled my phone out and dialed Marie, but just it began to ring the door behind me swung open,

“Got’damn!”

What appears to be some drunk in a suit bumbles his way through the door. He studies the guest book for a moment like really studies it, before jotting something down on its pages. I turn back away from him as the phone continues to ring,

“Hey, son? Where the hell's the party?”

He hollers at me with a gravely southern draw,

Turning back as the call goes to voicemail I notice the man as he staggers toward me, he actually looked fairly familiar, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on…



"I'm Muddy. Muddy Waters."

"Oh shit!"

I knew he looked familiar,

"I knew you looked familiar, man. You're Dolly Waters' dad! From the XWF right?"

"Guilty as charged."

I excitedly shift into a refocused eye contact with him adding a little smile so he could get a better look at me,

"R.L. Edgar"

I said pointing at myself,

"Never heard of her."

"Nah."

I reposition myself, standing away from my seat now,

"Nah man, I'm R.L. Edgar. I... I wrestle in the XWF too."

"TINKER!" He hollered to the back of the bar, indicating that he's familiar with the bartender. "Is Tinker back there?" He asked while turning toward me and totally ignoring what I said to him before nearly climbing over the bar top as he hollered again: "TINKER! MUDDY DONE GOT ALL DOLLED UP AND AIN'T NARE A TATER OUT HERE!"

Suddenly there's a flick of a cigarette lighter at the end of the bar, prompting both Muddy and me to turn towards it,

"I'm glad you boys are finally getting to meet one another."

Said a woman with a sassy southern twang,



"MOMMA!"

"Momma?"

I retort with an incredulous twist on my face. This redheaded woman wearing denim was attractive and looked barely older than either of us, there was no way this was Muddy's mom.

Muddy begins to uncomfortable and fidgeting around as she almost struts her way over toward us,

"Wow"

She said looking me over,

"You sure look an awful lot like yer' daddy."

"Don't look her in the eyes, Edgar. She sucks the souls outta' men. That's how she looks so young."

"Oh shut up, Muddy. Imagine what I'd look like if I didn't have to raise yer' sorry ass."

"Wait. How do you know me?"

"You're Brady Edgar's son.

"Yeah, so?"

"I'm Misty Waters. I'm your Momma, R.L.."

"Damn!"

Muddy said slapping my arm as my face lost all of its colors,

"Now that's a quinky-dink!"

-to be continued-
(OOC: Credit Atara for the awesome photoshop)

"What does it mean to be a champion?

That's the type of often-barked garbage of a rhetorical question that Ned Kaye would have you ponder. But coming from him, what difference does it make? He already knows the answer.

He knows that a great champion is someone who wasn't even happy to win their championship.

He knows that a great champion is someone who keeps unsolicited excuses for his mistakes on speed dial.

He knows that a great champion is someone who isn't "incredibly different" from a laughing stock wearing a cheap Walmart costume.

He knows that great champion finds himself silenced for a week and does little-to-nothing to promote his championship match.

Ned Kaye knows that he's in a championship match at Snow Job, and Ned Kaye knows that he's going to lose.

The fact that Ned Kaye, a person who built himself as this inspiration of a Hart Champion, this underdog taking on all comers, the fact that he's remained silent, and not had a word for this match since last week shows his lack of heart. I guess he's getting "worn out" because he had "obligations" outside of repping the strap for Warfare in a meaningful way.

Simply put, Ned Kaye knows he doesn't have what it takes to beat me, he knew it the second he saw the card. That's why he's kept his mouth shut. Because more than anything Ned knows all about the position he's about to be in at Snow Job. He knows all about losing. He knows what a person who's going to beat him looks like.

He knows it's not some dollar store gangster or a bum-knee-having joke of a superhero. Oh, that's right, Shawn Wylde said he doesn't have bad knee.

Do you know what else Ned Kaye probably knows? He probably knows that it would take the most oblivious human being walking the earth to list under "weaknesses" on their XWF.COM roster profile, and I quote:

"Shawn has a bad left knee that can take him off of his aerial game."

and then to claim the contrary.

Now Shawn, why you and your manager got mixed up on who has what injury, I haven't the slightest clue. I mean it does seem like Tommy could easily get mixed up given all of the angles he keeps desperately trying to execute. Maybe this is just some more of your overall incoherence on display again. Saying that the bullshit you do is entertaining?

Okay, yeah, maybe watching a grown man dressed in cosplay having his ass handed to him weekly by the same two people is entertaining to some, but other than that, you're just a poorly ran comedy routine. I don't take a single thing you say seriously, and it's because I know you can't back it up.

That little mustard seed of a dream I planted nearly twenty years ago? Well, it's about to bloom from under the snow in Green Bay. I'm going to be the new Hart Champion. Because neither of you can hang with my shit.

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