Maxxx Hardcore/vs/Brack Conway/Finals

[Maxxx]

There is a time in every man's life where they must search within themselves and discover who they really are – past the facades, past the gimmicks.

Body racked and eyes heavy, he lays motionless in his hotel room bed.  The digital clock flashes the last digit and it's officially four in the morning.  Somewhere behind the blank stare, erratically shadowed from the chaotic lights from the television nearby, is a tired man, sore yet satisfied.  His body, now almost coming undone, is held in place with slings and splints, while prescription abuse gives his mind a moment of numbing peace and relaxation.

He stares into the flashing screen, watching the lights move, but, deep within his drug-induced haze and pure exhaustion, he's lost the attention and drive to understand.  “It's just people moving,” he thinks, “from one side of the television screen to the other, with no reason or logic.  Their tongues and chins move in frantic silence, fluttering like open screen doors in the wind.  What a waste...”

He analyzes the tiniest detail to borderline perversion, while missing the broader part of what would be an otherwise be an interesting news broadcast.  “-the main suspect being a Mr. Brack Conway.”

“Just people moving,” The Bastard mutters, closing his eyes.  “Stupid people...”

Suddenly, a look of horror presses against his face, and, within a blink of an eye, things change and refract.  He wrenches his pale mask across his bed sheet and buries it deep within the surrounding darkest of his pillow. Inside the dome of silence and shadow, he can see himself - a younger, less-tainted, version. He sits alone in the center of his bedroom rug, overhearing nearby bantering and slurred babble.

“That damn retarded kid of yours tried to hit me again,” a middle-aged man grunts through the gaps in his teeth. “One of these days I’m not going to be so nice and I’m going to hit that little prick back!”

The woman patronizes the angered man and stomps her way into the little boy’s room.  His head stays locked down, as his eyes dart back and forth across the dark brown carpet.  He focuses on nothing and everything else.  He is indeed a very strange child – young and impressionable.  He is a blank slate, a sponge, and a book untold.  Suddenly, the boy is hit from behind with a strong slap against the back of his head that nearly sends him off balance.

“Listen here, you little punk,” his mother shouts, pointing her thin, boney finger into his face.  “Ken is a great man. He doesn’t have to work to feed us, but he does. He doesn’t have to let us live here, but he does. You and me, we can’t afford sh!t.  So why don’t you show a little gratitude once and a while and not act like a little bastard?”

The little, emotionless boy, age nine to twelve, quietly responds with a steady tone, as if he methodically planned out his next words in advance.  “He was hurting me, again.”

“I don’t care what he was doing! He owns my ass and he owns yours!” she retorts, as her degrading venom becomes visible in the droplets of spit launching from her slacked jaw.  “So if he wants to punch a little chuck of sh!t like you, you best be grateful you are getting a damned meal in trade.  We could be on the streets, and, I'll tell you what, you would be punched a lot more often out there then in here!  Now I want you to go to Ken and apologize for trying to hit him.”

“No...”

Behind the boy leans a tired, wicked woman.  Pale, thin, and ravaged from the harsh consequences of constant and relentless drug abuse. She's fashioned in the coolest clothing cheap stores could provide. Strands of thin, bleached, fibers wire down from her skull.

“What the hell is going on in here?” the man shouts, marching into the room.  “Are you giving your mother more bullsh!t?”

There was no warning shot nor lines drawn in the sand, just the fire in the dark. A sudden vicious boot cracks against the temple of the boy, sending him reeling into the corner of his room. Crushed against a toy box and a rocking horse, the boy laid awkwardly in silence, still unable to come to any bearing with his surroundings.  This world, these people, almost felt unreal – like a nightmare.

“That’s for messing with me, you little puke,” the man justifies, standing back and finding little remorse in his beer-addled actions.  “You need to teach this boy of yours some god-damned manners, and to tell him to stop acting like such a damn b!tch!”

Sickeningly, the woman agrees and turns to the brutish lug in the stained white tank top, abandoning any motherly responsibilities.  The man grabs the witch and draws her into his yellow skin.  Her fake-tanned face puckers up and meets the haggard gray stubble of the man’s.  The two spend a second, blissfully high in violent adrenaline, kissing and rubbing each other, and proudly evaluate and diagnose their welfare check meal ticket.

“What’s his damned problem, anyway?” he asks, pretending to show a little bit of respect and consideration, if only to confuse and distract his own conscience.

The hag lady cackles and hisses a response through the wrinkles in her face.  “His stupid father made him color-blind and retarded.  I've given up on him.  He is just going to have to live with what the good lord game him.  His teacher said he can be looked at by a specialist, but I can’t afford that garbage!  Not for him! All that stuff is just a scam anyway!”

The young boy didn't move.  He remained in his twisted position, bent and shaped around the thing he was tossed on.  His body hurt, but when didn't it?  The former prostitute now selfish harpy looked down at her only son with the same disregard and carelessness as she would at trash on the side of the street.

“-Weight loss program,” zaps the television, momentarily shocking Maxxx out of his dream.

His eyes reluctantly crack open, as if he was in a better place.  If not a better place, they wish to just fade away.  “This world is really no better than it was back then,” he thinks, running his palms over his face.  He turns away from the flashing lights of the screen and watches the rain hit the park sidewalks through his window.

“Hey, buddy,” a business-looking man pleasantly says, bending down to his knees. “How's school going?”

The young, dark-haired, child stands in front of him, remaining silent, but shows a sincere understanding and listens.  A moment or two passes, as the child looks to shed his shyness and  looks to express himself, but before he does, he is interrupted.

“He doesn't do very well,” his mother says, approaching the rear of the child. She lays her heavy palm around his shoulder, that, at his side, rests along his neck.  A feeling of vulnerability and fear comes over him.  He didn't speak fast enough, and now he's lost his chance, or, at least, that's what he has learned to think.

“Why not? He looks like a smart kid.” the man replies, smiling at the child.  His smile triggers the young boy to smile back. For a second, their eyes meet.

“Well, for starters, his father ain't wit' 'em,” the woman barks in her most sassy, back-alley tone. “And I jus' ain't got the patience to deal wit' all his bullsh!t, anymore.”

“Trouble at school?” the man quickly asks, presenting the towards the child than it's mother.

“He behaves 'ight,” the woman shrieks, defending her negligence. “But he needs this and that, and his stupid teachers can't teach 'em 'cause he needs special sh!t I ain't got the money fo'.”

Her grip increases around the boy's shoulder and neck, as her true feelings of her son reveal themselves out of sight.  The boy does his job to hide the pain, as his eyes dart from side to side, frantically looking to match with the man's to silently convey his urgency.

“I ain't gonna' deal wit' him 'lone, Benjamin,” the woman continues. “He is your son. He does take your name. I shouldn't be the only one that has to take care of 'em.”

The man stands back on his feet, and retracts from the focal view of the young boy.

“You know I can't,” the man replies, as a portion of hostility enters his tone. “And I have paid you enough not to get into this, but it appears you are too much of a low-life scumbag to keep your word.”

The man scoffs and turns away, turning his back on the child and his mother. “I should have never agreed to meet you here. I should have known your ghetto dumb-ass would pull something like this.  You know the type of wealth I have, and whenever you are done snorting up the last bribe, you come crawling back with another guilt trip.  I don't have time for this.  I make one damned mistake with a dirty street tramp and it haunts me for the rest of my life!  I screw up once in my entire life and it leeches every penny I work hard to earn!”

“Don't you walk away from your own son, Benjamin!” the witch howls, turning her hand placed on the child into a shove against his shoulder. The child dives forward, attempting to remain upward and standing, but falls down to his knees and begins to cry.  Blood leaks into the pavement from the elbows and knees of the boy.  It runs like small veins in the cracks and crevices of the tar.

The man turns, faces the noise and sound of the child falling, and begins to look down.  He feels sympathetic, but some type of detachment allows him to remain composed and cold in front of the mother.

“Look, you made him cry!” the mother shouts, extending her hand and finger out, completely inebriated in the cascade of conviction, easily allowing herself to believe the lies she instantly accuses.

[Maxxx]

“That's ridiculous, you moron,” the man returns. “You better hope I don't call Human Services on your druggie ass.  You won't have a kid to pull anymore money out of me with then.  You will just have to find a way to live far away from me and my company.  You will have to go back to your old job and sell your body on the street or whatever pieces of white trash do to get their income-”

“-Take him or whatever happens will rest on your conscience!”

A fresh ray of morning light grazes his face through his hotel window.  His lashes flutter, fight against the constant brightness, and then slowly opens.  It's a brand new day in the same bullsh!t world.  Maxxx props himself out of bed, wondering why he can't have a single night of pleasant rest and relaxation.  A haunting past has surely created something within his walls he cannot reverse or fix.  He was made this way.  Subconsciously, his actions could be tied to deep-seeded troubles and wounds woven tightly within his torturous upbringing and childhood.  Perhaps, it's merely just a backdrop to the setting of his own choice.  A man usually finds justifications in his actions – maybe that's all it is.

“This is the last god-damned day this place is going to see me for a while,” Hardcore proclaims, starring into his own reflection in the large window, overlooking the cityscape.  “I came here with nothing to prove to anyone, yet I showed I am every bit the superstar I claimed to even the numbest naysayers.  I crushed your boy scouts and ruined your parties.  I mocked your games and laughed at your rules.  I came here as I am, and, you bet, I plan on leaving the same way.”

He stares down from his height at a mother and child walking across the street.  A sense of belonging comes over him, yet a distinguishable distance and evolution, as if he had grown out of such silly feelings. 

In an instant, the boy snapped back into his room where his body laid crumbled in a mess from the assault earlier afternoon.  His eyes darted around their sockets like blind hands looking to feel.  He saw or felt nothing, in the calm of the night, his ears tuned in to the sounds of things rooms away.  Through the walls and down the halls, he assembled together the sounds of what he felt was something of interest.  As the boy rose, the sounds grew in strength, confirming what he thought before.  Ken, laid across a tattered and torn sofa behind a glass table, is passed-out or asleep to the sound of late night television.  Possessed, or just past the point of recognizable pain, the boy crept along across the living room carpet, past the sleeping man.  As he reached the kitchen, he remembered what the adults would use to ignite heaps of trash for week-end and holiday disputes. Feet away, the television drowned out his child-like rustle.

“-It is so strong it can even cut through steel!”

The young boy shuffled through the block of kitchen knives.  He pushed and lifted bottles of various chemical cleaners and the like, then his eyes opened to a flammable warning label.  It laid against a black flower pot - a small, yellow, plastic bottle that read Ronsonol.  His lips bent up, revealing the only positive trigger in his mind, and spoke through his now gnashing teeth.  “Hi.  Ready to play?”

The little child proceeds to empty the entire contains of the bottle over everything he sees, including a particular sleeping man.  The boy gags, walking above volatile grounds and poisonous fumes.  He covers his mouth and approaches the kitchen stove.  He clicks the gas burner on and a sudden rush of red and orange bursts up like a giant breath of rapturous air.  It dashes out of the kitchen and follows the very steps of which the boy moved, painting everything in a bright color of death.

The man wakes up to the first sound of crackling pig fat.  He shoots from his now fiery throne and attempts to emit a scream of horror.  He frantically moves about, trying to extinguish himself, while everything around him is also a blazing inferno.  In the distance, behind the flames, he sees something almost foreign – a smile.

The man tries to move towards the boy, but, under the immense amount of pain, he leans and falls into the glass table beside the burning couch. He lays there motionless and defeated, as the flame takes over his body and begins to cover the gruesome details in a thick layer of black smoke.

The boy turns and starts to leave, but quickly pivots back for a moment as he hears his mother’s screams.  For moment, he feels regret and remorse.  For a second, he wants to rush in and pull out his mother from the hellfire.  Maybe she'd learn.  Maybe he could be happy then.

With a hellish smirk, the boy abandons the womb-like towering inferno, in the same fashion his mother has done to him.  Outside, long, black, tails of smoke billow from the burnt holes in the trailer, as the young boy takes the first breath of his new life.  He leaves the scene of the crime.

“I have one last challenger left before being crowned tournament champion,” Maxxx proclaims, drawing his attention away from the people walking below.  “But, at the same time, I feel I have already won.  My opponent is Brack Conway, one tough son of a b!tch, but unfortunately it looks like he's going to be taking the fall for me and Catch-22.  Somebody has to, and am I the type of guy who only has loyalty to one person – me.”

He lifts his latest letter and enclosed post-dated check.

“But I have also been told to forfeit my match in the finals for a half of a million bucks,” he smiles, double-checking the text once more before tossing it aside.  “And I have to say, I have done a lot more for a lot less.  If I was to forfeit, this tournament would go belly up, but on my name.  On the legacy of Maxxx Hardcore would this all look bad.  Am I that poor-off to discredit myself as a professional?”

His memory wanders off, remembering the miserable lives his his mother and her boyfriend, as they spent most of it before their murders coveting as much money and junk as one trailer could fit.  He recalls the nights he'd go to bed hungry and dirty because the money his parents had, had better uses than their only child.  He recalls the neglect, the abuse, the torment, but doesn't blame them.  There must be a lesson learned here.

“What type of man am I?” he asks his reflection.  “Am I that greedy?”

In the dark recesses of his mind lies another male figure.  A businessman too wealthy and important to risk his reputation on a whore's child.  His smiles brought salvation, while his separation brought about the apocalypse to the world of one kid.  Every day he misses is another day that could have healed the wounded, dying, life.  Instead, within his welcoming and pleasant smiles, was isolation.

“Would I really sink down to the levels of of others and allow a big payoff to corrupt me like others?” Hardcore continues.  “I would be no better than any of them, if I did.”

He looks over to the check lying on the carpet and smiles.  He knows what he wants to do.

“I am Maxxx 'The Bastard' Hardcore and I will never be anything else.  My loyalties are to me and me alone.  Well, that and the people that write my checks...”

He hocks back and spits on the mirror, distorting his own reflection in spatter.  He bends down, lifts the check to his lips and applies a big kiss.  “That's right, Vegas, I am leaving you high and dry.  Call up Conway, because he wins this retarded thing.  I'm forfeiting!”

“I am owed this,” the devil laughs.  “From the moment I was given life, I was owed this.  My father, my mother, and Ken, they all knew I should not gain this status and wealth.  Sure, they were repugnant, insipid, creatures, but they also knew not to feed the gremlin after midnight.  But, despite their efforts, and despite the expectations of idiots around the globe, I am finally getting what I am owed.  Like I said, I have nothing to prove to anyone, but if I can't hoist my name to the top of this flagpole, I would love nothing more than to be accredited for it's demise.”

Maxxx steps back, drunk off his own hysteria, and begins rubbing himself.

“Congratulations, Brack, I hope prison life is swell for a tournament champion.  Do you suppose that immediately makes you a top or a bottom?  I personally don't know, and I am pretty sure I won't be wondering about it much more either, counting all my money.  Don't worry, the Bastard will be going back to where he came from, leaving everyone to wonder why I left them with a story with no ending.  There was no climax, no resolution, just an empty epilogue.  Boo hoo.  I am no fairytale villain or hero.  I am just a bastard son, just doing what he can to make his mother and father proud.”

[LaSombra]

Epilogue Pt.1 – Sunday Night…

Beneath the pile of broken glass and wood shards that were his hotel room’s coffee table, the Canadian’s exhausted body rustles to life. With his massive paws planted firmly beside him, Brack peels his chubby, aged, and wrecked frame from the floor. The whimpering wheezes of sound that escape from his mouth can barely be considered a breath, more than a frantic gasp for air as he sits up; face buried in his bruised and bloodied hands.

He spreads his fingers, peering through the tiny spaces between them at the carnage around his hotel room.

Somehow – through sheer brilliance or unadulterated idiocy – Brack Conway had plowed his way through four other superstars to become one of the finalists in a tournament many had pegged him to lose in the first round. While his reasons for joining were just as hopelessly damned as the rest of the contenders, he hadn’t come for fame or money. Though on reflection if he’d come for money, he’d probably have left a healthier man and in a lot less trouble than he had found himself in on this night.

He clambers to his hands and knees, revealing a scar-riddled face. Sporting a swollen eye, fat lip, and a cut below his cheek he pulls himself toward his door. The pieces of broken mirror, glass, and wood piercing his palms and legs barely register alongside the pain already coursing through his body as he hazily crawls through the wreckage.

He’d only joined the tournament out of a half-witted scheme to find his friend Julio; missing for over two years. He never thought that putting on La Sombra’s mask and pretending to be his long lost superstar would have caused so much trouble for him. He didn’t care about recognition or reputation, he wasn’t in it for money or majesty, and he didn’t care about Catch-22 or any other organization that had their gritty claws sunk into the outcome of the tournament.

But, he should have. Had he been willing to widen his crosshairs – even if just an inch – he would have seen just how quickly and catastrophically things would get out of control.

He pulls himself to the door, groggily resting himself against a wall as he takes in all the oxygen his body will allow, letting it out in a forced sigh of fatigue. Brack retrieves his cell from the floor beside him and grits his teeth as he struggles to pull a business card from his pant pocket.

He’d never thought it would come to this. The old man might have been a nobody, but he’d never asked for help; especially not for a matter he’d unknowingly gotten himself in and he definitely wasn’t keen on asking someone he didn’t trust. He might not have wanted Alexander Pross in his affairs – particularly, when lawyer had shown up unannounced after the third round of the Invitational - but desperation was an ugly animal that had sunk its blood-tainted fangs into him. The old man was at the end of his rope.

He spits up blood as he dials and wipes his face as he pulls the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Pross… is that you?” the Canadian manages to stammer out in between giant heaves of breath.

“Conway? You are just the man I wanted to talk to. I have good news for you-”

“-Pross… ah’m in trouble…” Brack brings a palm to his face as he adds, “Ah’… Ah’ need yer’ help!”

“My god, Conway. What have you done?” Pross’ voice hints a tone of annoyance before defaulting to genuine concern. “Calm down and tell me what happened.”

“It all happened so fast...” The Ontario native takes a moment to collect himself. His eyes trail a path through the butchery of his room. “Ah’… ah’ was just tryin’ tah’ defend mahself’!”

“Where are you?” Pross’ frantic words course through the receiver. “Brack, are you ok?”

“Better than the other guy. Ah’ dropped him… hard!” Brack half-snorts and gags on the mix of blood and saliva on his tongue, “But, ah’ think ah’ve got a real problem ‘ere.”

“Are you in your hotel room? Don’t move, I’m on my way there now!”

“This guy…” The Canadian ignores Alex’s frenzied pleas. His gaze fixates on the motionless body slumped over his tipped couch. “Ah’ think he’s a cop…”

~~~

Promises Pt. 5
What Lies Beneath: The Good, The Bad, The Brack

“Hope requires a contender
Who sees no virtue in surrender.
From the cradle to the bier,
The heart must persevere.”
-The Book of Counted Sorrows by Dean Koontz

Recording: Location and Time Unknown

“Ah don’t cut Promos. Ah’ don’t record interviews.” A mask-adorned Brack Conway sits on a bench in his locker room. Still in La Sombra’s wrestling attire – complete with arm-wraps and Luchador tights stretched beyond what should be scientifically possible – his body hangs wearily hunched over his gym bag; A bottle of water firmly clutched in hands. “Eventually you’ll realize ah’m no good speakin’ in front of a camera.”

“In mah’ time we did our talking in the ring… With our fists!” Brack holds up his hands in emphasis of his point. “We fought, we entertained, an’ we got paid. Then, we went on aboot’ our lives.”

“But, wrestling… it ain’t what it used tah’ be, eh? Heck, life ain’t what it used tah’ be.” Brack’s eye narrow into a glare. “Every young punk is lookin’ for their time in the spotlight. Ah’m not really sure where the sport is goin’ or if there’s even a place for me in it anymore.”

“Ah’ ain’t even sure whose gunna’ see this recording.” The old man huffs a sigh of disregard as his eyes loom over the floor. “Or if the people watchin’ this are gunna’ believe what ah’ have tah’ say.”

“Only one thing ah’ am sure of…” The old man shakes his head. “In a couple of days the world is gunna know mah’ name… one way or another!”

“That’s why ah’m not gunna’ waste time introducin’ myself.” The Canadian’s baby blues look to the camera. “But this is a story that needs tah’ be told.”

~~~

Saturday Night

Brack shoots from the bathroom to his bed. A white hotel towel desperately clings to his waist as bare feet scuttle along the carpet. He slides open a drawer, snatches the first pair of slacks and button-up his fingers touch, and bee-lines for the bathroom just as fast as his stubby legs can take him. Out of idiocy or a stunning sense of arrogance he stops as his head snaps to a glance of his reflection in a wall mirror, flexes his beer-bellied glory, and then kicks the bathroom door shut.

It was only 20 or so minutes ago since the Canadian was paid a visit by two of Las Vegas’ finest. He wasn’t worried so much about the outlandish charges being brought against him, or the fact that they had barred him from competing in the final round of the Roughkut Invitational. But, just a week ago as Brack stood battered and bruised in a hospital room, he had come mere inches from being taken out of the game by someone he’d mistakenly thought was his friend.

They wanted me to sedate you… so you wouldn’t make it to the next round… But I can’t do it!

Melissa’s sorrowful words trudge a path of frantic agitation in the old man’s memories as he blasts through the bathroom door; dressed in a speed that would put Superman’s famed Telephone booth transformation to shame. He reaches under his bed, snatches a suitcase, and flips it onto his cabinet in one fluid motion. Pulling a dresser drawer from its hinges he dumps the contents into his luggage and tosses it aside.

They’re going to come after you, Brack. You can’t go back to your hotel room or stay here; they’ll hunt you down!

The whisper of Melissa’s faded warning stuck with the old man. There was no doubt that Catch-22 was behind the idiotic allegations he was facing. It was evident they weren’t happy with Melissa’s failure and his progression to the final round. But, he also knew this wouldn’t be the only obstacle they would hurl at him. It was clear that they wanted him out of the tournament. Now, it was just a question of what lengths they were willing to go. He’d already made the mistake of lingering around his room long enough for the police to inform his of his charges and he wasn’t going to be making the same mistake twice

Brack closes his case, stacks his gym bag atop it, and unzips it speedily trying to reassure himself of its contents.

“La Sombra’s mask… Check! Tights… Check! Arm wraps an’ brass knuckles… Double check!” he recites as a free hand sifts through the gym-bag. “Boots… Check! Package for the authorities… Check! Syringe… Che- wait what?”

Brack eyes the sheathed needle as he holds it up to the light.

Take it, use it, I don’t care…

When Melissa had failed to find the strength to use the needle on Brack, she’d tossed it with his belongings and practically shoved him out of the hospital room. He couldn’t think of a use for it other than it serving as an ever-clear reminder of what he was up against and what had almost done him in.

The old man shrugs, pockets the needle, and zips his bag. He was packed, stacked, and ready to kick rocks. Extending the handle on his luggage and slinging his gym-bag over his shoulder, he heads for the door. He takes one last look over his room.

[LaSombra]

A tiny part of the Canadian was going to miss the lavish accommodations provided by the Roughkut Tournament. But, he didn’t have time to reminisce on the extravagant surroundings; they were just a lucid reminder that something sinister lurked beneath its outward intentions.

He tucks chin, opens the door, and rushes for the hall… running face-first into the chest of one of the biggest men he’s ever seen.

Brack topples backward onto his fanny and stares up at his visitor.

“Brack… Brack Conway?” The towering man identifies more than inquires.

“…The heck did you come from?” Brack shakes out the cobwebs as he speaks.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.” The giant reaches into his sport coat pocket.

“My name’s Juan Solez...” He pulls out a police badge and flashes it in the Canadian’s direction further explaining, “…Detective, Juan Solez!”

~~~

Recording...

“They never accused me of bein’ the intellectual type.” the old man grumbles. “Fact of the matter is ah’m more brawn than brains.”

“…An’ ah’m not even that much brawn.” He shakes his head. “But ah ain’t stupid, eh?”

“Day one of this thin’ ah’ got a letter offerin’ me a heap of money just tah’ make this thing look as unlike a wrestling match as possible!” Brack snorts out his words in disbelief. “Ah’m 45 years old, competin’ with guys half mah’ age, and ah’ve got natural aches an’ pains in body parts these kids didn’t even know they had. Ah’ didn’t need someone tah’ tell me tah’ make the match look unentertainin’. Took all ah’ had just to keep mah’ head above water.”

“Ah’ refused an’ tore up the check. The next week they offer more an’ get the same answer.” Brack reaches into his bag and pulls out two envelopes. “But, ah’ kept the letters. Figured people like this don’t make an’ offer like that without coverin’ their back. So ah’ might as well try an’ cover mine, eh?”

“Ah’ guess ah’ shoulda’ figured that sooner or later, there would be consequences knockin’ at mah’ door”

~~~

Saturday Night...

“Ah’ don’t have time for anymore questions from the police.” Brack insists as he brings himself to a knew from the floor.

“Oh, I think you have plenty of time, Mr. Conway.” Not waiting for an invite, Juan hunches through the door and steps past the Canadian into the room. He narrows his gaze to Brack’s luggage. “You weren’t planning on trying to leaving were you?”

“Ah’…er… ah’ was jus’ plannin’ on hitting the slots downstairs.” The old man lies as he makes his way to his feet.

“Do you regularly bring your suitcases with you to gamble, Mr. Conway” The detective narrows a suspicious glare to Brack’s luggage.

The Canadian looked to the door.

He should have run. Should have grabbed his gym bag and bolted for the elevator just as fast as his stumpy little legs could have taken him. But, he didn’t. He wasn’t courageous, he wasn’t a hero, but he figured now was as good a time as any to see what he was up against; head on.

“Never can be too careful with hotel employees” Brack shuts the door and makes his way to his couch. “Besides ah’ already told the cops that ah’ got proof that Catch-22 is behind this. Ah’ was about tah’ deliver it tah’ the authorities”

“What kind of proof?” Juan replaces his badge into his pocket letting his eyes meet Conway’s. “If you have any information it’s your obligation to turn it over to me to aid us in out investigation.”

“Ah’ made a video an’ kept the letters they sent me tryin’ tah’ buy me off. Yah’ didn’t think ah’ made it this far on mah’ looks alone did ya, eh?” Brack snorts, pulling a glass and then a few baby vodka bottles from his mini fridge. “But let’s be honest ‘ere. You aren’t ‘ere tah ask me questions are yah’? You’re ‘ere tah’ protect Catch-22’s interests.”

“Was it that obvious?” Juan’s eyes turn steely as a baleful smirk creeps onto his features.

“Ah’d been told yah’ were coming fer’ me.” The old man empties the bottles into his glass and studies the contents for a moment. “But, yah’ don’t have tah’ do this. It’s just a tournament. Life goes on.”

“Mr. Conway, when I was a boy my father tasked me with getting rid of a mouse that my sister had befriended on a piece of farm he’d bought on the outskirts of this pitiful little town. It was a small frail little thing no bigger than the mini-bar bottles that you’re holding right now.” Mr. Solez pulls a pair of black leather gloves from his pocket. He carefully unfolds them as he continues. “But, my sister loved the thing and I didn’t see the harm in keeping such an insignificant thing around the house.”

Brack takes a sip from his glass wincing as the soured taint of alcohol slides down his gullet. It’s a little stronger than he’d liked to drink. But, he was counting on it.

“That mouse started off chewing through small boxes and newspapers but soon moved on to the wiring in the house. In a matter of weeks we couldn’t turn on a fan without shorting the circuit breaker. More than that, the mouse had left droppings in every inch of the house that he visited. It wasn’t long before we were crawling with snakes.” The towering man slides his hands into his gloves, peering down at Brack as he adds, “One such creature being a rattlesnake, that bit my sister and killed her in her sleep. My father was a devastated man. He didn’t blame me, though. But, he didn’t have to.”

“Mr. Conway, like many before you, you’d like to think that logic and morals will prevail in a confrontation like this…” Mr. Solez cracks his knuckles and balls his fists. “But all I hear are the pitiful squeaks of a tiny little mouse; too insignificant and unaware to realize the path of carnage it will leave in its wake.”

“S’that so?” Brack mouths the remainder of his drink and looks to the monster of a man standing before him.

“Mr. Conway, I merely doing what needs to be done; as I should have done 23 years ago. Nothing personal… it’s just business!”

~~~

Recording…

“I know ah’m not the only person who’s been offered money, either.” The old man let’s out a sigh. “The fact that Maxxx didn’t mention it in his press conference last week tells me he’s in on it, too.”

“None of that really matters anymore, though. Yah’ don’t get this far in a tournament by worryin’ about details like that. That fact that he’s made it to this point is more intimidatin’ than how or who’s been helpin’ him.” Brack pulls the mask from his face. “But, ah’ve been doing this little dance far longer than anyone in this thin’. Ah’ve forgotten moves that most kids ‘ere never knew existed.”

“Ah’ think the biggest problem people’ve had with me, is a fear of bein’ embarrassed. Though, no one want’s tah’ step into the ring with someone old enough tah’ be their grandpa. Especially when most end up leavin’ with a loss.” The Canadian takes a sip of his water as he shrugs. “Ah’ bite, ah’ scratch, ah’ pull hair, an’ ah’d untie yer’ boot-laces if it would give me a leg up. They seem more like the tactics of a broad fendin’ off an attacker in an alley than a professional wrestler, but ah’d blow a rape whistle if ah’ thought it would distract em’ enough for me to get the win.”

“Point is ah’ know everytime ah’ step into that ring that it’s goin’ tah’ take everythin’ ah’ have tah’ come out on top; Especially against a guy like Maxxx. Underhanded or not, no one wants tah’ lose like that.” The Canadian smiles; the tiniest bit of hope twinkling in his eyes. “Ah’ wouldn’t blame Mr. Hardcore if he didn’t show up at all. Not too many people want tah’ spend their life trainin’ and run the risk of goin’ home with a loss tah’ someone twice their age.”

“Ah’ve been doin’ this long enough tah’ know that you can’t can’t prepare fer’ a match like this by watchin’ old tape. No one comes out the other end of somethin’ like this the same person that they went in.” Brack stands; water in one hand, mask in the other, and his wrestling tights struggling with every fiber of its cloth to contain his massive midsection. “Ah’ guess what ah’m tryin’ tah’ say is if Maxxx Hardcore shows up, he’d better see more than an’ old man on the other side of the ring. He’d better see a man so far past his prime that he’s got nothing to lose. He’d better see a man lookin’ tah’ accomplish somethin’ in that ring. He’d better see man who treats every fight like it’s his last and treats every man who stands in his way like their holdin’ the prize.”

~~~

Saturday Night...

Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffttttt

Brack spews the rest of his drink in his attacker’s face and rams his cup into Jaun’s forehead; sending pieces of broken glass cascading to the floor. The 6 foot 8 detective desperately tries to wipe the alcohol and shards from his eyes as he staggers back.

[LaSombra]

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE!” the belligerent old man sounds the famed battle cry as he charges; arms flailing and eyes wild with utter disregard.

He crashes into his adversary’s leg and Juan lets out a holler as he grabs the fat man by his arm and neck; flinging him across the hotel room with boorish strength. All 218 pounds of Brack are sent smashing into a mirror as if he’d weighted no more than an eighth grade cheerleader.

The finalist had hoped that Juan wasn’t trying to raise alarm by using a gun. But, hadn’t counted on him having the strength of a gorilla.

Conway falls to the flood; the blood beginning to tip from the cuts on his face as the stars begin to swirl around him. Juan advances but falls to a knee.

Something didn’t feel right but he was a professional.

He shakes out the cobwebs and hastily mounts the old man reigning down an onslaught of punches from every direction. Blitzkriegs of fists impact the surface of the old man’s frail face as he struggles to cover up. After tenderizing the face the detective wraps his hands around his victims throat and begins to squeeze.

Instinctively Brack muffs his assailant - using his hand to cover Juan’s nose and mouth – suffocating him. Mr. Solez releases his grasp and reels back as Conway issues a punch to his eye further drawing his aggressor back. Grabbing the nearest object, the Canadian swings a loose dresser drawer. It shatters against Juan’s head in a fantastic display of wood and splinters and the large man falls back.

The detective tries to regain his composer, but finds his responses sluggish as the former manager leaps onto his back; wrapping an arm around his foe’s neck and a hand behind his head.

It’s a mere modified sleeper hold that Brack had once nicknamed the Conway Clutch. It had been his goto move when trying to finish off opponent’s in the ring in his younger days. But, this tango wasn’t a wrestling match and the old man was definitely not in a ring.

Brack lets out a pain filled howl as Juan flings himself back first into a wall before the two tip over a couch and crash into an end table. Conway takes the brunt of the blow and frees his adversary of his hold.

He’s done. But, a smile creeps onto Brack’s face as Mr. Solez picks him up by his throat.

“An admirable… attempt. But, this fight… is over” Juan says in between heaves of breath; somehow barely able to summon the strength to pull the Canadian from his feet to meet him face to face.

He was physically more exhausted and dizzy than he had counted on from a fight with an old man

“It is…” A barely conscious Brack Conway meets his opponent’s glare and smiles: revealing a sheath for a needle between his blood soaked teeth. He struggles to raise a hand revealing an empty syringe that had been meant to sedate the Canadian over a week ago and lets it fall the to the floor before adding. “More than you know!”

Curiosity turns to panic as Juan lets go of his victim; sending him through the coffee table.

“Son… of… a…” He tries to run but his legs fail him and the towering man falls over the couch. The room is spinning and the stars begin to swirl around his head. It’s a struggle for him to even keep his eyes from closing.

Finally his head falls and the room fills with a deathly silence.

~~~

Epilogue Pt.2: Sunday Morning...

“Ah’… ah’ have tah’ get out of ‘ere!” The barely conscious Canadian holds the cell to his ear and sifts through the glass beneath him before finding the handle to his gym bag. “Ah’ve… come too far… dontcha’ know? They ain’t… gunna stop me!”

“Brack, listen to me. I’m almost there. Don’t move a muscle,” the anxious voice of Mr. Pross pleas over the cell. “You don’t have to do anything. It’s over!”

“Sorry Pross…” the old man drops his cell phone and pries himself from the wall. “Ah’ gotta finish this thin’!”

Brack hazily opens the door and limps out of the room with gym bag in hand letting the door shut behind him.

“Brack, are you there. Listen to me I’ve got Julio with me. You did it. We found him. You brought him home. You don’t need to go out there. Brack… Are you there… Hello?!?”

It wasn’t that Brack had ever considered himself a hero. He’d stood on the blurred line of good and bad for so long that even he couldn’t tell you where his morals lay.

It was about more than merely finding Julio; it was about assuring himself that could keep his promise of taking care of him. It was about more than just winning a match; it was about proving that his old body still had fight left in it. It was about more than doing the right or wrong thing; it was about people being able to look at him and say: That’s a man that sticks to his word, that’s a man who would do anything for a friend, that’s a man who keeps his promises.

It didn’t matter if he was going to jail, embarrassed, attacked, or killed. Just as long as he’d made a difference to just one person, then Brack had already won.

[Wild]

WOW... JUST WOW. This was one epic contest I will tell you that. Each or your RPs was great, phenomenal and amazing.

Maxxx- Your RP really, really, had me hooked in the very beginning. I was vexed. Strong material, kinda reminded me of the character I play with the back story and all. It was a great read from start to finish but I feel you lacked-there-of in the hyping of your contest. Your CD was amazing.

Brack- I feel the same way about your RP as far as the CD goes, yours was amazing and you keyed it in with the match. I loved it. This was clash of the efed titans and you made that a point of emphasis. May not have said it in the RP but I felt it as I read your RP.

Brack gets the nod.

[T-Bone]

Maxxx - The background felt...no...it WAS too long. CD is great sure, but not when it takes away the heart and soul of the RP. This RP should have been the sum of everything the tournament worked for. And it wasn't. And then in the RP, Maxxx Hardcore forfeits. How is the reader supposed to believe Maxxx Hardcore is gonna win when he himself says it's over? The final scenario was put to get you to switch things up a bit. While I didn't expect you to actually go and forfeit to the bitter end, you did. It was shocking, but not in a good way.

Sombra - Lots of jumping around with the RP. Things I was hoping to see, weren't there. I was hoping to see the side of Brack I was hoping you'd pull out when I gave the final scenario, and I didn't. I didn't see Brack coming to the conclusion that he'd have to do something unthinkable. I wanted to believe that Brack had everything to lose, and I didn't. You did however make me believe in Brack as a character. The straight up old guy who is the underdog in it. In that way, you made me a believer in Brack.

And it's with that belief, that the WINNER of the RoughKut Invitational Part 6, is Brack Conway

[Maxxx]

Congrats, Brack!  You are one hell of a role-player, and you deserve the win!

Thanks for having me, everyone, it was great fun and I look forward to the next party!  Meanwhile, if you're looking for a place to role-play, consider my home federation, Pryde Wrestling www.prydereborn.com.  It's gotta' be a great place if a Bastard can call it a home!

Much love, ya'll, to everyone!  From everyone who judged my rps, my opponents, to people who just kept up the show.  Finally, one last congrats to the champ!  Good game!!

[LaSombra]

You did a stellar job, man.

Your last two pieces were phenomenal

I'm a little waned as it seemed like we were being graded more on the direction we were "supposed" to take with the scenarios while critiquing the actual make up of the character... rather than just judging on the skill of the writing and the portrayal of the character through the scenarios.

It's my belief that the reactions of the characters are not up to the scenarios or the host... that's not something you can delegate to someone else's creation especially since WE know better than anyone how our character will behave in a given situation. It's up to the writer to make a given scenario their own, make it believable, and make it entertaining to the reader. It shouldn't feel like we are trying to portray a character through someone else's interpretation, nor should we sacrifice our character's birthed traits to fit what someone else thinks they "should" do.

You can put someone in a situation, but their reactions are completely up to the creator of said character in my eyes

After reading your work I think I got a very good handle on the character and was hoping that you wouldn't turn to some type of face turn just to satisfy the scenario as I wasn't will to bend my character to someone else's whim especially when I'd worked so hard to establish the type of man he was... I don't think I could have imagined Maxxx reacting any differently and I'm glad to see you stuck with your guns.

I think you played one hell of a perfect heel.

I don't write Promo style (I'm partial to Novel Style) very often, but I thought your second to last RP was one of the best I'd seen in the tournament. It showed a dimension that was awe-inspiring. The point wasn't wasted on me.

Thanks for you kind words about my work and take care.

Special thanks to the people responsible for putting this together and judging. I know that reading is subjective but just felt like sharing my opinion on the matter.

[TheMorningStar]

Well done, both of you; absolutely insane roleplays Big congratulations Sombra... see both you guys next year

[Doug E Fresh]

I agree! Fantastic finals matchup. Congrats to winner and runnerup!