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“It is inevitable. One day, death wins. Until he does, why grant victory to him by going about your living life like you are already DEAD? Make Death work hard to take you. Whilst you are alive, the days are for living, not dying. 

Your choice: Die ONCE or die EVERY DAY. 

Always Believe. 



Rob Riot's mansion. A place that should, by rights, be a living museum. A showcase of the accolades of the pro wrestling legend's career to date. Often the scene and setting for his boastful promos. 

This place used to gleam. It used to sparkle. It used to be the sort of place that would leap off the pages at you- a show home akin to the things you'd see in one of those bold, brash, glossy celebrity magazines. Some braindead, vacuous worship-vaunter like 'OK'! Or MTV Cribs would have sold their souls – or at least, the soul of one of their less valuable members of staff – to gain access to it. 

Now it festers and decays, reduced to a shell used for lodging and no other purpose. The trinkets and symbols of the vast wealth it contains – the paintings, the sculptures, the art and the rich carpets and dressings are still there, but they sink under a weight of dust. The paintings hang off the walls at jaunty angles. The bulbs in the chandeliers are either smashed or dead, and the only light in the scene bounces and fractures as it reflects from a huge, wall mounted television in the front room – a TV that is left on to provide the ghost of company, but the content of which is never paid any heed. The sound isn't even on. 

The range of luxury cars is still outside, but is covered in bird shit and the scars of incremental weather. Without going any further into the scale of the depression that lingers here, one could easily imagine that the fridge was bare and untended, and the kitchen unused. This house has many bedrooms, but its lone occupant has reduced himself to sleeping alone on the sofa in that front room, like a squatter in his own palace, dimly aware that luxury is on his lap but discarding it out of hand. To be honest, he didn't feel like he was worthy of it any longer. 

To be honest, the place needed the touch of a woman, but it was a long time since one had survived any level of head on impact with Riot's life. All those that had come had passed, either taking their scars with them or leaving scars on the the mind of the man himself. 

Without the availability of a woman, a butler might be night. Riot did, for a long time, have a butler for a best friend. But a few weeks removed from this, he'd seen fit to throw him down a concrete staircase, shattering his body and ending the relationship. At the time, he'd thought he was being kind. Evans had become a target for those wishing to do Riot harm, and a moment's physical trauma was, in Riot's mind, better than a lifetime of fear about who might be hiding around the corner. Rot had extracted enough information from the hospital to ensure Evans was going to make a full recovery. That knowledge provided him with some small quantum of solace, even though the certainty that he'd never speak to his friend again only served to compound the intensity of his self enforced isolation. 

He grunted, there on the sofa, under the blanket he'd been sleeping under for these past ten days. It could do with a wash. And frankly, so could he. And as he grunted, he shook his head. Because he wasn't isolated. Not really. There were still people he could call if he really wanted to. Hell, he'd just dived headlong into a new faction with Dom Jacobs and Billy Fowler. But there were practical reasons for that, and companionship was not one of them. 

Blinking, he glanced across the room at a camera, red light on and blinking, as it always tended to be. Just in case he ever felt like shooting a promo. And today, for the first time in a long time, he did. He had, as ever, seen the missives broadcast about him over the past few days. It was response time. 

Casting aside the blanket, he marched across the room and flung open the curtains, allowing a little light into the scene. He glanced into the mirror and smoothed down his slicked-back hair, smiled a little at how wild his beard was becoming, and turned to face the camera. 

Not yet. T-shirt and jeans was hardly his look. He dragged the t-shirt off over his head and stood there, bare chested, facing the camera, both tattoos proudly on display. The viewer of the promo would notice that, as with other times Riot's mind has been troubling him, the outline of the Broken Clock tattoo had been scrawled and drawn on the back walls of the house – sometimes alone, sometimes with the accompanying text “The Lost Hours Are Over” - but often, of late, with a question mark beside it. 

This was a man who had been questioning his very purpose. And now he was clearing his throat, and staring down the lens. 

Two weeks since I last spoke. Two weeks since I was rolled up and embarrassed by Johnathan Mills. Two weeks since Billy Fowler was victimised and destroyed by a back of wolverines, just as I was two weeks prior to that. And all of these issues will be addressed. But there is one who, as he always does, demands to jump the queue. An idle man, who's time at the top has been and gone, yet still seeks to move in the shadows and snatch at the vagaries of my attention. And that man is, yet again, you. It's you, Rip Bash. These past few months, it's always been you. 

Riot pauses to retrieve some items from elsewhere in the room – items that should really be given more pride and attention than they are – wall mounted, for example, or kept in a glass case. But these were on the floor close to where Riot has been sleeping. In fact, they're just about where a child might keep its favourite teddy bear, and for much the same reason. Two wrestling championship belts.  He throws them, one over each shoulder and crossing in the middle, and smiles proudly for the camera. 

One of them is, of course, familiar to us all. The shining gold of the Mr. nGw World Heavyweight Championship. The most desired and sought after property in the whole of the nGw. The other, less familiar to the casual viewer, is no less prestigious. Wrestling fans with a taste beyond their own favourite federation would have recognised it straight away. It's another World Heavyweight Championship: specifically that of the Pinnacle Wrestling Association. 

Well, Bash, you have my attention, and doubtless I once again have yours. For another week, you break down the fourth wall for your own purposes and then attempt to hold me up for the world's contempt for doing the same. But I know why you do it, and it gets keener and more evident every week. Jealousy. Envy. The green monster eating away at that gunslinger's soul of yours. A man who's had it his own way every week of his life until he met me – you and I never were going to get along, were we? But you know, and I know, why you hate me so much. Why the obsession runs so deep. So let's open that wall again and tell the boys and girls at home what's going on, shall we? This, on my right shoulder, is my possession. You borrowed it for a while, and I came and took it back. And you've been throwing a tantrum ever since. Like a baby being weaned away from its mother's tit, all you want to do is come back and bite and suck. But it's beyond your means. Losing to me has opened a crack in your armour – a crack that Dom Jacobs took full advantage of at Happy Hour. The scales have fallen from our collective eyes, Rip. You're not invincible. You're human. And you're not even an impressive one. You're a man on the edge, a man in decline, a desperate and dangerous animal. That alone would make you resent me – a man in my prime. But then you add this into the equation...

Riot nods at the Pinnacle Championship on his other shoulder.

...and it all becomes too much to bear, doesn't it? I, Rip Bash, am not only a greater champion than you ever were. I am not only the man who defended, and will continue to defend the nGw championship more than any other man in the history of the company – I am now the definitive and most dominant World Champion in the history of the sport. The man who simultaneously holds and controls the world championships of the two most respected promotions in the sport. I am not just the PWA Champion. I am not just the nGw Champion. I am the undisputed Wrestling Champion of the World. And that is something that neither you, nor anybody else, could ever even approach a pedestal to claim as your own. The stars are going out in your sky, Bash. The G-Fed network you once loved is dead. You're merely a relic, an echo of the days when that name meant something. This is the FedWars era. This is the modern age. This is what historians will come to refer to as the Reign of Riot. And you've been reduced to a footnote in my own personal history. But take solace in it, cowboy. Some people won't even achieve that. 

Riot smiles, a deliberately insincere shit-eating grin, and holds the pose for a moment. 

Oh, and as for me coasting? Never for a day. Never for an hour. Never for a moment in my life. As a man who loves the sound of his own voice, you perceive my comparative lack of verbosity for a lack of effort. But know this, now and forever. Whether I speak one word or ten thousand. Whether I hush these gums and never speak again – and that day will come, as it will for us all – wrestling is, was and always has been my life. Look at the scene around you. Not just you, Bash, but all of you at home watching. This is my balance. This is my place of refuge. I had it built because that's what I thought the monied souls did. I wrestled, they paid me, and I spent the money on property and luxury because I didn't know what else to do with it. And I sat here alone, the Lonely God, watching it fester because I simply did not care. I did not, and never have, cared for the trappings of wealth, or power. All I live for, all that makes sense to me, all I ever wanted to do was walk through those ropes and become the King of Combat. And for the past several years, even taking into account the Decade of Despair and the Days that Never Came for me and those I loved, I have lived that dream. And now I dream of nothing. I dream of grey, and black, and the day it all stops. I wake up there, on that sofa, in a cold sweat and renew my determination to delay that day for as long as I possibly can. Because I know, Rip, one day I'll be you. I know one day my star will fade and the moment will be over. And someone younger, someone better, will come to strike me down. I'll be staring across the ring at a younger me, a man with the hunger that I had in my youth, and know my days are up. And I will try to learn from your mistakes – I will face my end with dignity. I'll take what comes to me. And then, the world will never see me again. If I'm not a wrestler, I have nothing to contribute. I will never be seen to fade – I will simply walk away, like an animal heading out into the wild to die with its nose pressed to the dirt. And that brings me to my next point...

Riot pauses for long enough to replace the title belts to the floor by the sofa, now addressing the camera with his hands clasped together, almost in prayer. 

You have seen, by now, the video online that Billy Fowler put out. You have heard what Dom Jacobs has to say. So allow me to confirm it. The three of us are a unit. We are a faction. That is not a fraternity and nor is it a friendship – but I have seen in them what they see in me, and what I have spoken of already. The emptiness of human desire. The abandonment of materialism. An almost neurotic lack of understanding of how the world really works. All that makes sense to them, just as it does to me, is to fight. To wrestle. To be in that ring, and to feel that energy, and to ride that wave for as long and as hard as your body will allow it to ride. And yet we find ourselves frustrated. Our passage has been impeded. The rules of the game have been distorted and bent, manipulated by those too weak to carve a path on their own. And for the longest time, I tried to resist and stay true to my guns and continue to walk alone. But the weak ones have made it impossible. The Order and the Dominion, those banded together in some metaphorical attempt at a land grab, have made even the strongest of us vulnerable. So I have allied with two other men who would seek to restore order from the chaos. We are the Defiance of Men. We are the Sons of Anarchy. We are human vessels empty of carnal desires, which can be filled only by the hedonism of success. Cast your dreams and desires onto us and we will gladly receive and carry them for you. We are the means by which order can be restored. We are the Bringers of the Light into the dark that weaker men have created. Men. I say men all the time. But there is another who should heed this address. 

Riot shuffles a little closer to the camera, smiling in an almost encouraging way. 

Nora Grace Waltz. You pretty, clever, deceptive little thing. Storming through this company looking like a glamour magazine model, and then surprising everyone the moment you step into the ring with them. But not me. I know the Light when I see it. There is a candour to you that I know only too well. It's the facade that you struggle to maintain in normal human company. The illusion of normality. You fight, so hard, to convince the normals that you're one of them. But there is so much more to you. Your eyes betray you sometimes. Your words, too, in those half seconds that you lose focus. There is something of the Wolf in you, so afraid of the Light but at the same time helpless in your desire for it. The ache of something greater drives you – you're looking for something beyond what carnal desires can give. But not, I think, wrestling. Something else drives you. The rift of horror that delivered you wasn't born on a mat or in a ring. So go, child, and find it. Go and seek what it is that you need to do – because that Light, that inner Wolf, will drive you to do it. But stay clear of my own dreams, my own needs. Because if two children of the Light are drawn into combat – then the gates of Elysium may truly open. And who knows what that will bring. Perhaps you and I shall find out together. Perhaps that is where the end will come. 

Walking forward, Riot reaches out to end the recording.

As it one day shall for us all. 

The scene fades to black.