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James Ravens Private Gym
I sit hunched in the corner turnbuckle, my ribs tightening as I heave in agony over a silver bucket. I'm on all fours, my face dripping sweat and staining what was once a pristine canvas. I can't breathe. I'm seeing stars. "It's OK, buddy. Let it out." Jeremy rubs his hand on my back; soothing for a moment, but it soon brings another wave from deep in my gut. "Don't do th-HUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGHHHHHHHHH!!!" It feels like battery acid runs across my tongue, base to tip. Fire expels itself from my throat, singing my lips and leaving smoke in my lungs. It splatters into the bucket and sprays a sour mist back into my face. I still can't breathe. I drop to my side, and roll slowly onto my back gasping desperately. My heart jackhammers in my chest, my ribcage straining to contain it's attempt at jailbreak. "Breathe, James. Breathe." he continues gently, "In through the nose, out through the mouth. Control it." I do what he says. It's like sucking wind through a straw at first, but eventually it starts to help. I use the lower ring rope for leverage and work my way back into the turnbuckle, this time seated. At least I have my dignity back. I survey the rest of the ring; my three training partners aren't in any better shape than I am. Jeremy Adonis, the former XWF Xtreme and Tag Team Champion, is nearly passed out in the center of the mat directly on top of the "HILITE GYM" logo. The behemoth, Christopher Cain, lays on the floor outside of the ring heaving into his own silver bucket. Nathan Lucas, the best of the bunch, is limping over to my office to get the first aid kit for the gash on his elbow that's currently squirting a trail of blood all over my mats behind him. This is some bullshit. "This isn't going to work, Jeremy." I managed to spit out between breaths. "What isn't working, bud?" Jeremy asks me, his tone upbeat, "You've been going 3-on-1 all afternoon, and you're smoking bitches. The Kings won't have a shot when you have partners, and can-" "Stop. This isn't enough, and you know it." I roll underneath the bottom rope and out of the ring, pausing for a deep breath then lumbering towards the office to change out of my gear. Jeremy quickly lunges through the ropes and catches up to me, his tie swinging wildly in the wind behind him. His eyes are suddenly intense and focused. "James, baby, look at me. I have NO idea what you think I 'know', OK? Fill me in? We've been here for hours and you're doing great, trust me... GREAT... but all of the sudden you're throwing a temper t-" "Fuck you!" I scream at him, causing him to recoil slightly, "This isn't a temper tantrum. I look great because you've got me in a cardio mill against a bunch of cans!" "Hey man, go suck a dick," Nathan says as he emerges from my office, his face twisted in anger and his wounded elbow heavily bandaged, "We're here to help you out. We weren't cans when you were sitting home retired, promoting and training us, collecting commission off of us. We weren't cans then were we?" "Fine. I'm sorry. It was a poor choice of words. You're not cans, but you're not The Kings either. I can't just keep breaking myself down beating you guys all week and hope to get any better. For fucks sake, look at Adonis. He's supposed to emulate John Samuels? I get it, they both have that MMA style, but Samuels has a good 3 1/2 inches and 35 pounds on him. If I start thinking I can eat those shots when Adonis throws them, Samuels is going to starch me." "Hey man," Adonis pipes in from the ring, now sitting up on his elbows in the middle of the canvas, "I can sleep you. You know it." "Not without a Cosby-cocktail, bitch. Lay down. You don't have a quarter of the experience that Frankenstein monster has in the ring, and you can't pull off half the moves that he's going to swarm me with. That's not to mention Chris Cain over there." "Look," Chris grunts from the floor, "If you're not going to mention me, don't mention me. My ego can't take another beating." "I know we don't know much about John Madison, but we know he doesn't move like Cain does. He doesn't wrestle like Cain does, or have the frame. This isn't going to help me get ready to beat anyone other than these three guys, and no offense, but I can do that after a five year layoff, blindfolded, with both arms duct taped to my sides and a horse tranquilizer in my ass." Nobody says anything. Maybe it's harsh, but that doesn't mean it's not true. They know it. I turn and storm the rest of the way to my office, slamming the door behind me and kicking over a wooden chair in the process. I hear the gentle murmur outside of Jeremy telling the other three that I didn't mean any of it, and that I'm just stressed about the high stakes at High Stakes. They all chuckle. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. I meant every word. The Kings are Universal champions, Legends in this new era of the XWF. That crew out there can't lace their boots without assistance. I can't afford not to take this seriously, just to protect their feelings. TAP! TAP! TAP! A gentle rapping at my chamber door and it begins to slowly swing open, Jeremy poking his head through the crack to see what sort of mood I'm in before he enters. "Get out," I hiss sharply at him, "I'm changing. Unless you're here to catch an eyeful of cock and feel shamed when you go home to your wife, turn back now." He smiles and steps the rest of the way into the office, closing the door behind him. He may think this whole thing is hilarious, but I don't. I retired for a reason, I'm not in a position to be putting my body and life on the line like this anymore. If I'm going to do it, I want to be a well oiled machine, a samurai sword folded to it's sharpest blade... not a broken down has been, training with his prospects in a glorified garage. "So what do you want to do?" he asks me, "This is your team. You found them, you trained them, you built this gym to fit your needs. If you're saying they aren't good enough to get you ready for Theo Pryce and the rest of his queens, what do you want to do?" I towel off the sweat from my upper body quietly and toss the terrycloth to the nearby couch, picking up a tee shirt and pulling it on carefully. "I want to ride my motorcyce. I want to clear my head. I want you to do your fucking job. You aren't a trainer, Jeremy. You're an agent. A manager, and you've managed me into one hell of a corner. Figure something out. When I get back I'm going to be ready to train, and I need people in here that are going to be ready too." "Like who?" I can't do this anymore. I snap. "LIKE FIGURE IT THE FUCK OUT! Are you listening to a word I say, or are you just waiting for me to hold your hand and do it for you like some pussy-whipped bitch? Grow a set, earn your 10%, do your fucking job!" For the first time in this entire incident, I feel like I may have gone too far. I turn around to apologize but Jeremy is already making his way through the office door. He slams it shut behind him. I hear him shouting at the rest of the crew to gather their things and clear out. I know the right thing to do; I should go out there and stop them all, I should apologize for my outburst and tell them we need to get back to work because this is about their growth too. That's what a good team leader would do. It's not what I do. I stand completely motionless until I hear the chatter stop, and the gym door slam shut behind them. I collapse in a heap on the floor. I'm a piece of shit.
"Now here we go for the hundredth time..."
To anyone that's ever listened to my entrance music, it's never felt so appropriate as it does now. I've been here before. I've prepared in these locker rooms, and walked these halls. I stood behind this black curtain at guerilla, and walked this ramp as a sold out crowd screamed my name until the world feels like it's collapsing around me. Yeah, I've been here before. I've climbed this mountain.
Here we go again.
In a strange way, though, it feels like this is my very first time. The logo's the same, but the faces in the hall are different. I can see people looking up my accomplishments on their phones down the corridor before speaking to me. I don't blame them, I've been gone a long time. It wasn't totally my choice, though. I would have been back sooner, but egos clashed and things beyond my control wouldn't allow for it... but then the stars aligned.
Someone needed my help, and would let me back into the cool kids club if I delivered. Beyond that, they would give me back something that had been taken from me and the rest of my generation when Carver took over, and fill a void that's lingered in me the better part of a decade.
All I have to do is beat The Kings.
I'll get this out of the way; I respect The Kings. If circumstances were different I would have BEEN a King. I like nice suits, I like power and control, and I like knowing that when I enlist help from people they have the capability to meet my expectations. Just imagine Theo Pryce diving to a corner and tagging me in, then watching as John Samuels and I storm across the ring and shit-stomp Michael Graves and Jim Caedus into oblivion.
Imagine me, special referee, ensuring Doc wins the Universal title and then hoisting him on my shoulders with help from John Madison and parading him around the ring.
Like I said, if circumstances were different...
For now, if I can't trade stock tips and corporate management technique with Theo, I'll settle for trading blows and knocking a tooth or two from the rich boys skull. Thank you for your service, by the way. I'm Canadian, but forget about that. If I can't swap head trauma stories with Samuels over brandy and cigars, I'll swap chair shots to the dome until one of us drops and adds another brain injury to their list. As for John Madison-
OK, who the fuck is John Madison?
I've tried to be nice and include him in everything because he's your friend, but who the fuck is he? I hear he's been lurking almost every day since I came back, but outside of that guest referee slot a few weeks back the human meat wallet hasn't even popped his head out to say 'hello'. I've exchanged pleasantries with your comrades, John, kindly remove your tongue from the anus of whatever Elk you're currently invading and join the fucking party.
I don't take kindly to people that try to screw me over and then spend the next fortnight hiding behind the public statements of their friends. Don't get worked up, I'm not trying to sound threatening. I'm just saying you look like a bitch.
I hear you're amazing, Madison.
I hear you're a strange fucking dude.
I hear that my balls should be very, very afraid of you.
I'm tired of hearing about it, I want a first hand account. I want to see the Shit King, Fairy King, King Kong, King James, Martin Luther King... whatever the fuck you're going by this week, I'm ready. Don't disappoint me, and don't disappoint your team. They're only as good as their weakest link.
Speaking of John Samuels.
Nothing personal Samuels, I hear the XWF named your promo the best of last month simply because Graves told them to, but I also hear that if the team HAS to have a "worst member" (and it does) it's unquestionably you. I like the whole "white man in a black mans body in a white mans city" thing you've got going on, though. You're the walking embodiment of the next Jordan Peele movie. I'm going to take a special kind of pride in choking your enormous ass unconscious.
So if Madison is the wild card, and Samuels is the weakest link, I guess that makes Theo the team captain?
Best for last, Theo.
We'll chat soon. The Town of Kawartha Lakes
A good ride always calms me down. The wind whips through my hair as I drop low to the ground on a sharp right turn, the pavement hisses away from me as I veer the opposite direction. It clears my mind. It forces me to think about absolutely nothing other than the road. The engine rumbles louder underneath me as I crank the throttle and drift into the left lane, passing a startled housewife in her Honda Accord. She leans on her horn. I keep rolling. I savor these moments. These moments where I don't constantly question whether my body can withstand the beating the Kings will put it through. Where I don't second guess the word of Shane Carver (the man that once erased me from history) to give me what he's promised me, or the athletic ability of Jon Brown (the man I've barely ever seen throw a punch) to keep me alive when the shrapnel starts to fly. Where I don't debate whether or not I'm a terrible leader. I feel a buzzing in my pocket; my cell phone. I slow the bike down dramatically and check my mirrors for cars. Nobody around. Safety first kids. I pull the phone from my pocket and look at the call display. JEREMY SILVER I sigh, and let the phone ring it's way to voicemail, pulling my bike to the side of the road and turning it off after a moment. I pull the helmet off my head, and unstrap my gloves. Again, safety first kids. "This should be interesting," I mutter to myself, logging into my mail box and lifting the phone to my ear. "You have ONE new message" the robotic yet feminine voice tells me. BEEP! "James, it's Jeremy. We're going to have to talk about stuff. You're right, this isn't working, but it's not right to tell you this over the phone. Not after everything we've been through together. Head back to the gym when you get the chance. I'll wait here for you." "End of message. To replay, press one. To save, press-" I disconnect the call and slide the phone back into my pocket before the charming robot lady ever finishes her instructions. I sigh deeply, and crank my neck from side to side, feeling the satisfying cracks ripple up and down my spine. That didn't sound good. That didn't sound like the follow up conversation was going to be anything other than 'it's been real, good luck with your new agent'. I fucked up. Jeremy's been with me for a long time. He was with me when I was the Universal Champion, when I became the owner of the XWF, when I went into the Hall of Legends and was named to the original Top 50. He was with me in the WGWF, or when I opened the HILITE federation and the gym. Are the Kings really the final straw on the camels back? Are they the ones that pushed me over the line, and cost me my friend? I didn't think what I said was that harsh, but I've been on edge a lot lately. Maybe I've lashed out more than I realized. I pull my gloves back on, and shove the helmet down over my head before firing up the engine and turning my bike back towards Toronto. I need to talk to him. I need to make this right. Theo, how are you?
I've already said that I respect the Kings, but there's a big part of me that outright likes you. You're the only one running around backstage and firing your mouth off with the rest of the roster. You speak your mind, you make articulate points, and your entire life story is out there for me to find, unlike your partners who seem to think a shroud of secrecy around their personal information will help them once that bell rings.
I think you're a talent in the ring.
I think you're a handsome devil with a nice wardrobe.
I agree that you've done a solid job at the helm of the company, and shown few clear signs of corruption or misguided action.
Due to this respect, I'm going to be as honest with you as possible.
None of that means a god damned thing.
I'm back in the XWF because I was paid to do a job. Period. That job is to beat you. Point blank. I wasn't offered money, I wasn't offered a job, I don't need either. I was offered the one thing that I've wanted for years and Carver was never willing to give me; the keys to my past. The keys to XWF Classic were mine as long as I helped Loverboy solve his monarchy problem, and brought along a friend who can keep a secret.
Jon Brown is back in the house that he built because I invited him, not because Vinny decided to bypass the rest of his roster for a 55 year old man. He's here because in a match for control of the company, with so much at stake for the old generation, there's no partner that's more fitting for me.
I'm pulling the strings on this team, Theo. I'm sure you can relate.
Theo, you seem to have it in your head that Jon and I have been sitting at home watching your product and longing for the days of Vinny Lane, wondering what we could do to help him regain power. You talk about us like we're a bumbling trio with a unified vision and no foresight on how to get there.
We're not here because of the Kings, we're here despite you.
You could have been AX3, The Black Order, or the United States Army... if Vinny made this deal with Jon and I to fuck your world, Vaseline free, then your world is going to get raw dogged, bitch.
Jon buried the XWF in his video because he hated Vinny Lane's incarnation as well as every other person in the captains seat since Shane Carver took over, and I felt the need to bury Peter Gilmour to prove a point. You can wipe our names from the history books, and tell everyone this new generation is iconic in ways we never were... but there are those out there that remember the truth.
You said it yourself. EVERYONE knew I was going to destroy Peter Gilmour, before I even took off the 'Nathan Lucas' mask and revealed myself. Why? Because your modern day legends are bull shit. Because the foundation of this company is cracked, and the pillars you all use to hold yourself up are quaking. I've sat back long enough and watched people like Pest come in here and make a mockery of me. I've let Barney Green and Peter Gilmour tell you all how much I feared them, and how I ran the company into the ground when I literally saved it and kept food on their tables.
I called them liars, and gave them the opportunity to prove me wrong.
Peter Gilmour was the beginning, not the end.
I'm on a new-school ass-kicking tour, homie, and the list of stops is growing by the minute. Barney Green wants a piece? Fuck him, he can see what 0-7 tastes like. Michael Graves and Chasm feel nostalgic for the old days? Two servings of 2008/2009 Star of the Year, coming right up. Jim Caedus, Trax, Thaddeus Young and any of the other top dogs want to see how they stack up with the greatest to ever do the damn thing? Get in line, and sign your medical waivers in advance.
But it starts with you, Theo, and the two John's you've brought along at the urging of your pimp... errrr... Doc.
They say you were unbeatable, before. Vinny Lane says he came the closest to stopping you and that title belts were literally retired because they couldn't find you a challenge.
What do you think they'll say after High Stakes?
Do you think Carver will be able to keep me out of the Top 50 when the three of you are gasping for air on the mat, and the XWF is back where he wants it? Do you think the fans will look at any of the Universal Champions you've produced over the past 5 years the same way, knowing nobody like me was here to make them truly earn it?
I already know what they'll say.
Once I beat The Kings, when I win the High Stakes match and earn a Universal title shot, when Jon Brown and I ride off into the sunset with our lifes work returned to us... they'll say that Theo, along with the rest of his running mates, and everybody else in the history of the XWF....
... Fears the Raven...
... Forevermore. James Ravens Private Gym
The neighbourhood is asleep when I arrive, the low rumble of my Harley rattling nearby windows as I roll into the parking lot of the HILITE Fighting Club. My tires squeal to a halt on the asphalt, and I push down on the kickstand as I turn the key in the ignition. I had hoped I would return under the radar, but Jeremy is sitting on a metal bench near the main entrance when I arrive. He holds a cigar gingerly in one hand, one end chewed and mangled as a thick and beautiful smoke pours from the other. We nod at each other in acknowledgement, and he stands and makes his way over to me as I pull off my helmet and the rest of my gear. "You doing alright?" he asks me cautiously, "You didn't get yourself wound up and do something stupid, did you?" "What's that supposed to mean?" "Oh, I don't know," he mutters, lifting the chewed end of his cigar back to his mouth, "Not like you've ever been known to hit a stranger in a bar, right? Broken knuckles, misdemeanours, the works..." I grin, and shift my weight uncomfortably on the bike. He's got me there. After a minute, though, the grin fades. I know there's more pressing business to deal with. "Look, I was pissed when I left here. I admit it." "You had every right to be. You were, for the most part, right." "Irrelevant. I shouldn't have gone off on you guys like I did, especially when you're the only people here putting in the work with me. I don't want you to think I'm not grateful, I am." "We know you are." "It's just... it's..." my voice trails off, my stomach wavering as I try to steel myself long enough to saw the words, "It's the Kings. They're in my head, and they haven't even tried." "Well there's a simple solution; don't let them be," he says without hesitation, as if that was so easy, "You're James fucking Raven. You were a stronger Universal Champion than any of those three circle-jerking fuck sticks." "Exactly. I was. Now, I'm just a guy that hasn't run the ropes in half a decade, a guy with a 50+ year old Jon Brown watching my back against three goddamn savages." "Don't forget about Vinny Lane," says Jeremy, doing his best to reassure me and knowing the entire time that he's failing miserably. "Oh God, lucky me. The guy so desperate that he found me to come and save him in the first place; he's my guardian angel? The guy is chain smoking and drowning himself in whiskey, pretending that and a few chin ups count as a workout. You see my concerns, right? I might have to do this alone, I might have to take on the Kings virtually single handed." He nods in agreement. "I get it, that's why you need the best training you can get." I sigh, and nod my head. There it is, the oh so subtle Jeremy Silver nudge. "Right. Where are the guys? I need to apologize to them, and we can get back to work. I need all the help that they can give me." "They're gone." "Right, it's late. Well I'll talk to them in the morning when they get back, before training." "No, James," Jeremy says softly, "They're gone. They went to the airport, and flew home. That's why I needed to talk to you." I feel the bottom drop out of my stomache, the wind knocked from my lungs as if Anderson Silva had just kicked me in the solar plexus. I hang my head, and shake it sadly from side to side. I can't believe after ten years I finally drove them away. Jeremy puts a hand on my shoulder, and I brace myself for the bomb I'm sure is coming next. I brace myself to hear that Jeremy is moving on from me as well. "I 'did my fucking job', and I found you someone better." Confused, I look back up at him, but he simply rubs his hands together in excitement and grins back at me. After a moment, he points to the main entrance of the HILITE Fighting Club as the door swings open and a shadowy figure emerges. It takes a moment before I can recognize them, but once I do my heart skips a beat. I'd know that shaggy bitch anywhere.
"'Sup, queer?" he asks through a toothy grin as he makes his way over to us, "You miss me?" "You bet your sweet ass I did." We embrace as he reaches us. It's been a long time since I've had Shank in my corner, December of 2011 to be exact, but if I could pick one person from my entire career to come back and help me get ready he would be it. The former Universal Champion, the former XWF General Manager and owner, my rival in two different feud of the years and my partner in "The Suicide Kings", the most dominant tag team of the XWF Reboot era. He's the single most talented wrestler I ever encountered between the ropes. "I hear you could use some help." "You have no idea. How the hell did Jeremy get you up here? I thought you were retired, and off the grid? I didn't think there was a shot in hell you'd come up here just to help me get ready." "There wasn't," Shank replies, laughing loudly as he does so, "Jeremy told me you needed some help getting ready for The Kings and I hung up on him. It was the second call that sold me." "Second call?" "Yeah, when he told me who else was going to be here. It was too rare an opportunity to get the old band back together." I have no idea what he's talking about, but it doesn't take long for Jeremy to scramble up to the front of the building and pull four more shadowy figures out through the door and into the parking lot. They make their way towards Shank and I, but Shank doesn't give me any sort of heads up. As the shadows grow closer I recognize the first two.
"HOLY SHIT! Is that Blizzard? And Centurion?" "You're damn skippy." Centurion reaches me first and extends his hand, which I gladly shake. Blizzard reaches me next. "You look like you've put on some weight," Blizzard says, "You ready to put some work in, or do you want to just keep beating up on Barney Green and Peter Gilmour, and hoping that does the trick?" Centurion rolls his eyes. "This coming from Aidan, mind you," he says "Who also came back recently, and beat up on Peter Gilmour to shake off the rust. At the end of the day, we figured The Kings were a different ballgame. Only Legends wrestle like Legends, and only a true Universal Champion knows how to beat another." "That probably explains why you've never beaten me, or Aidan, or James, right Cent?" "Shut the fuck up, Shank. I'm still a multiple time World champion. I'm still in the Hall of Legends, and I'm still rich. You can't rain on my parade." "Give us a day or two. We'll find a way." I don't say anything, I can't. I can't wipe the ear the ear smile off my face seeing my three biggest allies of all time in the same place again and interacting like the old days. It almost makes the past five years of exile worth it. Almost. Big Shank, my brother from another mother. Blizzard, the first Legend to take an interest in me and pluck me from the developmental territories and teach me the game. Centurion, my co-founder of The Prophecy, one of the greatest stables in XWF history. I missed these fuckers. "So what does that make us?" "Yeah, chopped liver?" I was so stunned by the arrival of Blizzard and Centurion that I forgot there were two more shadows walking up behind them. I turn around to face them, and can't believe my eyes.
The mother fucking Unkillables. "Holy... fucking... shit..." "Yeah, we thought you'd be surprised to see us," says Steve Jason the man, myth, and legend. "I wasn't really interested in getting back in the ring, but I figured the look on your face would make it all worthwhile," adds Jem, "I was right." I'm honestly stunned. Jem Williams, and Steve fucking Jason. I can't fucking believe it. Two of the greatest in XWF history, and in Steves case possibly THE greatest. I haven't seen them in action for years, and yet here they are together... for me. All of these guys; here for me. Jeremy approaches, and claps a hand on my shoulder. "This is good enough to get you ready for the Kings, right?" "It's perfect." "I did good?" "Amazing. Thank you." We stand quietly in the parking lot, looking each other up and down. We've teamed together, we've gone to war against each other. We've seen each other at our best and worst. We are the Legends. We are the lifeblood of the XWF. These new kids don't have shit on us. "Alright, boys. Let's get to work."
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