Post by y2lamanaki on Oct 18, 2019 12:50:29 GMT -5
I had a lot on my mind this evening, but the one thing that came unexpectedly was dealing with the surprisingly chilly air.
“Isn’t it supposed to be warm in Georgia?” I asked rhetorically while lightly shaking my legs to keep warm. “It’s two degrees cooler here than it is currently in New York.”
“How about you stay focused on your target?” replied Buster, better known to the wrestling world as the infamous manager, Maximilian Von Abercron. He was right. We had a far more important task on our hand than small talk about the comparison between the current climates of the northeastern and southeastern United States.
The two of us were doing some last-minute recon. We were both hidden as best as possible outside of a trashy local night club in a seedier section of Atlanta. The club was named The Rooftop on Aberdeen, but colloquially it had become known as ‘The Roofietop.’ I won’t speak for the locals’ creativity, but it truly was as apt a description for the place as you can get. Many women had reported being drugged at the club and taken advantage of by men they couldn’t quite remember. Every now and then, one would have a vague memory of one of the guys she had met the previous evening. The problem was that the descriptions for these men never matched, and at times were wildly different. This led to the conclusion that it was a bunch of different men drugging these women rather than one consistent asshole.
The police were useless. Occasionally they’d show up and interview a few of the workers, but none ever seemed to see anything or have any information to share. And then the police would call it a wrap and leave it to a simple, ‘well that’s Atlanta for you.’
They weren’t exactly the best problem solvers. But luckily for Atlanta, it had something of a new sheriff in town.
Buster and I had spent our first month researching different problems occurring in Atlanta’s rough neighborhoods. A lot of reading reports in various news outlets and rummaging through rumors on various social media platforms had created a handy list of problems the police hadn’t solved, and for which we were up to the task. This was not the first one on our list, nor was it the one we wanted to solve the most. But it was the most fitting for this particular week.
How so?
Well, to answer that, we need to first return to the night of GCW’s Onslaught 02, featuring the debut of me, Dalton Hunter. It was a successful night for me. I had tagged with a longtime grizzled veteran, Rock Stone, but I felt great about showing off a bit throughout the night and ultimately taking the win for the team. The fans responded wonderfully to my first ever match in a major wrestling federation. I have to admit to reveling a bit in the cheers I received. But as Buster and I had discussed, it was better for them to jeer the guy under the mask of The Beacon, lest they ever grow suspicious. So, I did something my masked alter ego would never do.
Rather than honor a beaten competitor, I gave the guy with the dinosaur mask an extra swift kick after the match as he climbed to his feet. That turned the crowd in a hurry. I was now firmly established as a villain.
And as Christ as my witness, I hated every minute of it.
Have you ever worked a shitty job? One where every little thing that happened during a day just grated your nerves? Things like minor mistakes by coworkers, otherwise innocuous comments by customers…stuff like that? A job where every waking minute feels like an endless epoch, because all you are doing is counting down the hours until you get to leave? And then you go home and just rant about all of the bullshit that didn’t matter in the day, knowing full well you were going to wake up tomorrow and do the same exact things all over again?
That’s how it feels being booed by people whom I desperately want to adore me. People who I want to see me as the hero I truly am. It’s great that The Beacon gained some notoriety in New York. It’s great that it will happen again in Atlanta. But Dalton Hunter – the guy under the mask – is pretty damn great himself.
I understand why I have to do it, though. Why I have to wear a mask. Why I have to disguise my true self when in the ring in front of thousands. I guess it’s a good thing I know how to keep a secret.
So like the poor schmuck stuck working a meaningless sales job with a local media company, I toil through the rough days and do my job because it is what I have to do to make a living.
Being a heel in a major professional wrestling company – it’s a rough life I lead, isn’t it?
Buster and I regrouped in our locker room after my match at Onslaught 02. Leading up to the show, I had this strange nightmare that had appeared prophetic in an ominous way. Instead, it appeared only to predict that Buster as Maximilian Von Abercron would miss the card. There had been some confusion with his employment paperwork and he wasn’t allowed to accompany me to ringside. No matter…I convinced some officials to allow him backstage and went out to the ring and handled business on my own. Buster watched on a monitor backstage.
When I got to the locker room after my match, Buster stood to greet me.
“Good job, kid,” Buster said in a congratulatory tone. “One victory down, many to go.”
“Buster, it feels great,” I proclaimed excitedly. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. Thousands of fans were cheering me all at once. It was amazing.” I paused, before continuing in disappointment. “For a little while, anyway.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve gotta know how to play the game. Masked heroes don’t get to openly bask in their glory. Neither do their alter egos. Look at Bruce Wayne.”
“Bruce Wayne is a billionaire playboy who gets to live in a giant mansion and gets to hang out with a cool butler. I get to hang around with a fake billionaire dandy and live in a one-bedroom condo.”
“Well, too bad you don’t have a couple of dead rich parents then, or maybe we coulda turned this around.”
Too bad indeed. Some people in this world are born lucky. They are the sons and daughters of wealthy business savants who teach them about all the finer things in life. I’m not one of them. I had an alcoholic electrician for a father and a seamstress with a Vicodin addictddion for a mother. My mother taught me to avoid opioids, and the only thing of value my father ever taught me was how to dodge a right hook. That last one has come in handy at least.
“I get it,” I lied to Buster unconvincingly. “I can’t be the obvious hero type. I’ll get booed out of every building I’m ever in and that is for the best.”
“Yeah, you get it all right. It was a great match, but how about we regroup tomorrow and go over your next opponent?”
With that, Buster left the locker room. I’m hoping this feeling will pass eventually. I was able to handle the boos in the smaller venues, and even maybe relished being the bad guy a little. Getting booed loudly at The View by thousands of fans was a much different story. It triggered some pretty intense feelings of disgust. Ultimately, I’m glad Buster chose to leave, because there were probably going to be no positive experiences coming out of that locker room. I guess I hadn’t quite learned how to be proud of seemingly hollow accomplishments.
Buster visited me two days later at my condo. By this point, I had learned that I was to face another relative newcomer to GCW, Andrew Morgan, and I had wanted to learn what I could through film study. Together, we watched Onslaught 02 on demand. He was certainly an impressive physical specimen. The GCW roster page listed him at 6’10” and 327 lbs, which meant he was going to have an obvious size advantage. But the manner in which he had appeared on this episode of Onslaught caught my attention the most. For the second straight show, the lights had ‘failed’ (or perhaps more appropriately, were intentionally shut off), and Andrew Morgan was faced with the prospects of another vicious attack in blackness. At Onslaught 01, he had emerged from the darkness with a chair wrapped around his head. This time, the ‘wraith’ had left a trail of broken bodies in its wake, perhaps most notably that of Aaron Chandler. Chandler was supposed to be Morgan’s opponent on the evening, but was left in a puddle of his own blood backstage.
That attack hadn’t happened on camera, but ‘vicious’ was probably a good word to describe it. That’s my guess based on the fact that Andrew Morgan’s match was canceled, Chandler wasn’t booked on the Onslaught 03 card, and he was unceremoniously moved to the alumni section of the roster page.
“This is something unlike you’ve ever dealt with before,” Buster warned. “Joey LaDude might be an annoying prick to listen to on the announce team, but sometimes wrestlers around these parts are a little sick in the head. Not only do you have an opponent the likes of one you’ve never faced, but you’ll have to watch your back all evening as well. If those lights go out with you in the ring, you get the hell out of there. Lest you end up laid out like poor Aaron Chandler.”
“Buster, please,” I casually brushed him off. “You think that concerns me in any way? I spend my entire nights shrouded in the cover of darkness. I’d welcome a blackout and an attack from the mysterious ‘wraith.’ I’m the one best equipped to knock the guy out and we can solve the mystery of ‘who’s the guy taking out all the GCW talent.’ It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Kid, you can be way too cocky,” Buster warned. “You are supposed to play a character known as ‘The Answer’ not be the living embodiment of the guy in real life.”
I sighed in frustration. To some extent I knew he was right. I mean, I’d prefer to have a straight match with Andrew Morgan. I don’t feel GCW wanted to ruin my debut, so they placed me in a tag match with a far less serious opponent. But truthfully, I welcomed the challenge of facing much tougher opponents. Iron sharpens iron, as they say (and…I suppose as is actually the case in blacksmithing).
The next day, Buster and I went to train at a local wrestling gym he knew. And because Buster knew it, that meant it was pretty incredible. It was the home of a local pro wrestling school, and the ring was among the greatest I had ever stepped in. Everything was top notch and designed to train the best of the best. The men and women that went through this school weren’t going to spend years toiling on the indies. They were built to go to the big leagues in a hurry.
This also meant that it was expensive as shit and that Buster showed up fully in-character as Maximilian Von Abercron. To him, image was everything. That meant overpaying for the luxury of training in a gym with a professional ring. I would have chosen somewhere cheaper, but I can’t complain too much. The place was top notch.
For the most part, training was always done on my terms. I was the guy with the undefeated amateur wrestling background, and the guy who rarely lost as a professional on top of that. Buster understood I knew what I was doing, so mostly he put on the act of running the show.
That was mostly the case for today as well, but after a 30-minute sparring session with a local MMA fighter, Buster threw me a giant curveball.
“Very good, Mr. Hunter,” Buster shouted in the priggish manner of Maximilian Von Abercron. “You shall make a fine prizefighter someday, I’m certain of it. However, preparing yourself by matching against this prancing milksop will do you no good in your bout with Andrew Morgan. You must prepare against someone more formidable.”
I frustratingly wiped sweat off my forehead, then walked up to the ropes to address my manager. My sparring partner left the ring.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Buster rolled his eyes and then climbed the stairs to the ring apron so we could speak in private.
“Kid, you’ll never be prepared to face someone like Andrew Morgan by training with a guy that size. He’s smaller than you. And in the professional wrestling world, you’re kind of a shrimp.”
“Buster, I’m not going from one 30-minute sparring session into another. Are you out of your mind? I’ve got a 20-minute cardio session left in me from here and then I’m done for the day.”
Buster began to grow angry. I hadn’t seen that before.
“I know you think you’re Mr. Big Shot now,” Buster began to lecture, “but the truth is your going to have your ass handed to you if you don’t prepare for a bigger opponent in the right way.”
“And I know that you’re concerned that I’m not taking this GCW opportunity seriously,” I tried to reason, “but it’s the exact opposite in reality. I’m training the way I’ve always trained. The way that caused me to go undefeated as an amateur wrestler. I could have been on the Olympic team if I wanted to go that route, don’t forget that. And I still train like an Olympian would. I don’t see any reason to change that up now.”
“And every one of those opponents was in the same weight class as you. The guys you faced in the PWF and Valor were a bunch of spot monkeys the same size as you. You have never faced a disadvantage like Andrew Morgan’s sheer size and power advantage will cause, let alone while also worrying about a psychopath laying out high quality talents week after week.”
“Well, you know what they say – ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall.’”
“I’d be more concerned with what I say – ‘The dumber they are, the more of their own teeth they end up swallowing when they get knocked down their throat.’ And with that pretty boy smile you’ve so pridefully constructed for yourself, I don’t think you have the skin thick enough to come out of this televised wrestling match looking like a grizzled hockey veteran from the 1980s.”
Do men go through menopause at age 70? Yeah, my teeth look good. I take care of them. It’s called basic oral hygiene. I wore braces as a kid because my dad said my teeth made me look like one of the Beverly Hillbillies. Since then, I brush twice a day with fluoride toothpaste, floss once, and use mouthwash on a daily basis. I go to the dentist twice a year for checkups. I know I’m employed in the professional wrestling industry where standards might be a bit lower, but certainly this isn’t a major problem, right? Buster was being extra ornery lately and it made no sense to me whatsoever.
“Buster, we’re good here,” I told him defiantly. “I’m gonna get on a bike for 20 minutes to cool down and I’ll see you at my place tonight.”
And that was that. I knew he wasn’t happy about my decision, but sometimes, an athlete knows his body best. Maybe if Buster had decided to switch my sparring partner before I went through 30 grueling minutes, I’d be more open to considering his suggestions. I’m not overextending myself.
And yet…I knew Buster was a huge reason that I had even made it to GCW. Without him, I might still be entertaining 90 people in a high school gymnasium in Poughkeepsie.
That afternoon, I took a long nap in preparation for my evening’s work to clear my mind. When I awoke, I expected to immediately turn to researching targets for The Beacon. Instead, I couldn’t get Andrew Morgan and Buster’s words of wisdom out of my mind. Buster was right in one sense – I’ve never faced anyone one on one with that big of a size differential.
Luckily, I was sent a lightning bolt of clarity. As I sifted through our research, I came across the mysterious case of drugged women at The Rooftop on Aberdeen. Since the victim’s attacker always seemed to be described in different manners, we had determined it wasn’t the same creep doing the drugging. So why are all these attacks happening at the same place? Certainly, there wasn’t a local committee of rapists gathering together on a regular basis to choose the main venue where they would execute their dastardly deeds. That led to our working theory that someone who worked at The Rooftop was allowing, or perhaps even encouraging this to happen.
When we first got to Atlanta and heard about the troublesome nightclub, we hid in the shadows and made some observations. Before long, we had a prime suspect – Mitchell Trimble, the night club’s bouncer.
Trimble worked out front and “maintained” the front door. His job was to make sure the club was never too full and that nobody under 21 was able to enter. We quickly came to the conclusion that he was willfully terrible at his job.
Have you gotten to this point in the story and wondered why women would keep attending this night club where so many of them were attacked on a regular basis, and their attackers were never brought to justice? We wondered the same thing. After watching, Trimble do his job, we no longer had to wonder. Women didn’t seem to be held to the same carding criteria as the men. There were some girls that walked up who I would have carded if they tried to get into a rated R movie without an adult. But here – they evidently appeared over 30 to Trimble.
Evidently, it was common knowledge that if you were under 21, the place to go to be served alcohol was The Rooftop on Aberdeen. The only risk you faced was leaving your drink unattended.
It would be one thing if Trimble was just a terrible bouncer who had a soft spot for women who wanted to enjoy the nightlife before turning 21. But that wasn’t his only nightly routine. The far more suspicious one was when he would reject certain men and turn them away the door. We watched this routine happen a few nights in a row – he’d reject the guy at the door, and then immediately be relieved by another bouncer before he went on break. The rejected man never seemed displeased. He simply turned the corner down an alleyway adjacent to the building and left without much of a fuss. This happened four or five times per night on three separate occasions. Something was up at The Rooftop, and we had a good feeling Trimble knew what it was.
And why did this seem like perfect timing? We’re only estimating, but given that Trimble towered over anyone near him, we guessed he had to be at least 6’6”. More importantly, he was built like a tank.
I might have just found a more sizable sparring partner.
When Buster arrived that evening, he was still clearly agitated by what had taken place earlier. “You’re lucky I even bothered to show up tonight,” Buster scolded. “That was some real bullshit that took place earlier today. Nobody does that to Maximilian Von Abercron, you understand?”
“Buster, I’m sorry,” I apologized sincerely. “I’ve had time to think about it and I wish I thought about it differently. I’m a creature of habit, so I stick steadfast to my routines. I think you’re right that I should have trained against a bigger opponent. I should have listened to you.”
“Maybe you’re not such a stupid kid after all.”
“I’m not. And I know how we can get some training in tonight.” I held up the picture of The Rooftop’s bouncer. “Mitchell Trimble. He’s perfect. We estimate him to be at least 6’6” and 300 lbs. We’ve put in the research and know he’s up to no good. I say we put an end to The Roofietop this evening. And Trimble makes some fine preparation for Andrew Morgan. What do you think?”
“I think you’re off your meds again,” Buster replied bluntly. “I’d rather you fight Andrew Morgan to prepare for Mitchell Trimble.”
I stared at him dumbfounded.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I retorted; “this is exactly what you wanted.”
“No it isn’t, I wanted you to spar with someone of a larger size, not get killed by someone of a larger size,” Buster explained. “Think about it this way: in a wrestling match, Andrew Morgan is looking to incapacitate you so he can pin your shoulders to the canvas for a count of three, or put you in a hold that hurts enough to make you quit and live to fight another day. Those are his only objectives.”
Said Buster, casually explaining a professional wrestling match conceptually to me. I tried hard not to roll my eyes.
“Now imagine that we’re right on Mitchell Trimble, and I think we are. It’s someone who knows he is doing something highly illegal, and he would be in some serious trouble if he were ever caught. You show up in black spandex and inform him that you know what he’s been up to. Now, Trimble is probably not going to respond by saying, ‘you’re right, I’m a bad person, why don’t you call the police and I’ll wait with you while they arrive.’ He’s going to lash out and fight for his freedom. His objective isn’t going to be to incapacitate you for a count of three, or twist your body in a way that makes you cry ‘uncle.’ His objective is going to be to make sure that you don’t jeopardize his freedom now or in the future by disposing you for good. Do you see the difference here?”
Wow. Buster was absolutely right, and put this in a perspective I hadn’t considered. This wasn’t exactly going to be an analogous comparison to the upcoming match between Andrew Morgan and me. But there was one thing that was comparable – my attitude.
“I see the difference,” I began with extreme confidence. “When I put an end to ‘The Roofietop’ by bringing Trimble to justice, you’ll no longer have to tell me how to train for my upcoming opponents.”
“Christ, kid, are you braindead?” Buster asked with serious concern.
“Buster, what do you propose? Should we just let Trimble continue doing what he’s doing? Leave it up to the police to figure out, despite their lack of enthusiasm to put any sort of attention into this place? What he is doing is wrong and we can’t let it go. Remember, I’m the hero here. I need to put an end to this monster before more women get hurt. Now are you with or me or not?”
Buster paused and shook his head slightly in defeat.
“I’m with you. Someone should really be there to try and keep you from getting yourself killed,” Buster began. “But I have to make one last thing perfectly clear. If you ever take one word of wisdom from me, I pray you’ll make it this one.”
Buster paused, possibly for dramatic effect.
“Nobody who has ever called themselves the hero, turns out to BE the hero.”
There. Now you’re caught up.
Buster parked himself in a car down the block from the nightclub. It was inconspicuous enough. Nobody really paid attention to him in any of the previous nights while we observed. I hid in the shadows behind the back of The Rooftop. I had scoped the place out once before. I followed the path that the men rejected from entry into the club seemed to casually take, so we came to the conclusion this was likely their destination.
“We’ve got one,” Buster said through my earpiece, indicating that someone had just been denied entry and Trimble was about to take a routine break. “He’s wearing a dark jacket. Has a backwards ballcap on. Be on the lookout. And stay low.”
I crouched a little lower beside the dumpster behind the club. Unless someone got ultra-suspicious that someone was spying on them, there’d be no reason anyone would ever find me there. My all black outfit helped to fully keep me concealed. Within a moment or two, I spotted the man with the baseball cap. Sure enough – he was headed around back. And a moment or two later, Trimble stepped out of a back door. I was careful to keep concealed, so I couldn’t fully tell if he was suspicious enough to be looking around for witnesses. But I was definitely close enough to hear their conversation.
“You got the money?” asked one of the two, presumably Trimble.
“Yeah, I got it,” there was a pause. “Just drop one or two in or what?”
“You need one. That’s it. No more questions. Go up the back stairs here and hang a left. You’ll come through a door near the restrooms. You do it. You get out. Understood?”
“Yeah. I get it.”
“Good. Leave the cap. Leave the jacket.”
“What for? I love this jacket.”
“So it doesn’t look suspicious to anyone out front that the guy we just booted somehow showed up inside. It’s bad enough they might recognize your face. Leave the fucking cap and jacket.”
“Fuck. Fine.”
Followed by the opening of a door, and then slightly later, the closing of the door. Now was an opportunity. I peaked around the side, but Trimble was already gone. He probably stepped back inside. There was also no cap or jacket on the ground that I could see. I carefully and methodically stepped forward silently to peer around the dumpster. There was nothing. A completely empty lot.
“Buster, he’s our guy,” I whispered softly into my mouthpiece, still being cautious not to be observed. “I saw the man with the cap and saw Trimble come out. I didn’t observe the exchange directly, but I did overhear the conversation about it. Looks like they both went back inside already.”
“Well kid, what are you thinking?” Buster asked. “Do you want to wait for Trimble to finish his shift, or wait for an opportunity to come later tonight or another night altogether?”
“We’re doing this tonight,” I replied confidently.
And so, we waited. Waited for two or three hours, carefully hidden in our respective inconspicuous locations. After a while, Buster told me there were no longer any potential patrons out front, and Trimble had left his post at the door. Not long after, I heard the back door behind the club open. Trimble stepped through carrying a duffel bag. He was now wearing a hoodie, so I’m guessing it’s what he was using to carry a change of clothes.
“Buster, Trimble’s out in the open,” I whispered. “Now’s the time.”
I stealthily slid out from my hiding spot behind the dumpster, careful not to alert Trimble to my presence just yet. He had already made it to the trunk of his car as I began quietly closing the distance between us.
“Just be careful now. Make sure not to alert him to your presence,” Buster warned.
He was right to warn me.
“Stop right there, Trimble!” I growled in my best Batman impression.
“Or just do whatever the hell you want,” Buster sighed in in exasperation. “What the fuck do I know?”
Mitchell Trimble spun around with a baseball bat in one hand, which he had quickly been able to find and remove from his trunk, and slammed his trunk shut with the other. After spinning around, he actually lowered his guard and dropped the arm holding the bat outright to his side.”
“What the hell is this?” Trimble questioned, with an obvious bemused look on his face. “You’re about two weeks early for Halloween. And who you are supposed to be? Black Panther? You look like shit.”
I had invested far too much in this attire to not be a bit scathed by his remarks.
“You can call me The Beacon,” I growled, starting my heroic introduction.
“Kid, you sound like a real asshole right now,” Buster bemused, albeit with a hint of disappointment in his voice.
“And your days of helping garbage men take advantage of women in this club are over,” I finished, proudly standing my ground.
Trimble picked the bat back up into an attack position and tapped it playfully in his hands.
“Ok,” Trimble began, a fire lighting in his eyes, “so you are an asshole…”
“I concur,” remarked Buster.
“…and I’ve been itching to tear apart an asshole all evening.”
With that Trimble swung wildly with the bat, which I was deftly able to duck under. I quickly backed up a few steps to put some extra distance between myself and him. My adrenaline had already kicked in, and I felt extremely confident of my chances. But I knew step one had to be to disarm him – well, that and not to have my skull double for a baseball.
As I continued to carefully back into the open lot, Trimble stalked me with a pretty sick smile on his face. It was clear he was itching to connect. He took another wild swing, and almost connected with my ribs. I had luckily left just enough distance, but it caught me off guard. I thought I was more than far enough away. This was the type of thing Buster wanted me to realize with a larger opponent.
I changed tactics. When Trimble swung a third time, I again ducked under the swing, and followed with as stiff of a leg kick as I can throw. It landed hard on Trimble’s planted foot, which means he took the brunt of the kick hard in his lower shin. I watched him grimace slightly from the blow, and his smile quickly turned into a terrifying look of rage. I had angered the beast.
Trimble let out a guttural roar and charged in ready to swing angrily at my body. This was too quick. I was about to take a mighty hit. I instinctively raised my arms to protect my head, but it left my ribs exposed.
I saw it coming and could do little about it.
For a moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion. I was protecting my head, but saw the bat wasn’t coming for that. In an effort to protect my ribs as best as possible, I twisted slightly into the swing, exposing my lower chest to the brunt of the blow. I tried to drop my arms, but the bat went under it and caught me good.
“FUCK!!!!” I screamed in agony, dropping the disguise of my true voice entirely. Luckily, I had enough semblance of coordination to keep the bat pinned under my arm. As he stepped forward, about to try and yank it out and finish me off, I did the one thing I knew instinctively to do:
I stepped forward, and threw a swift knee directly into his groin. Hey, there are no DQs in a street fight.
Instinctively, Trimble let go of his grip on the bat to clutch at his aching testicles. I fell backward with the bat tucked under my arm, effectively wrestling the weapon away from him and keeping it for myself. I landed hard on my injured side which sent a bolt of pain coursing through my body, the bat pinned beneath me. I had no choice but to ignore it and scramble to my feet with the bat in hand.
“You’re going to pay for that one,” Trimble threatened as he regained his composure. The bat I now held as a weapon seemed to phase him none.
I wanted to go on the attack to incapacitate him, but I had just fully demonstrated how to wrestle the weapon away from the attacker. While I take great pride in my physical abilities and my body’s ability to withstand pain, I had to imagine Trimble was equally equipped to take a similar shot. So, I feigned a swing to gauge his reaction, but quickly held back – just like a ballplayer avoiding swinging at a ball outside the strike zone. Trimble threw up his arms much like I expected. He told me exactly what I needed to know.
I made a second attempt at a swing, and this time really sold like it was coming. As Trimble once again made an attempt to block, I stepped forward, ducking underneath his outstretched arms. As I came back up, I held the bat with both hands, and jabbed the handle directly into his jaw. As his right hand reached up to his jaw, I quickly threw a quick leg kick into his lower right leg, and followed it up with a stiff uppercut that caught him right under the chin. It was a combination of strikes I could be proud of, and it caused Trimble to stagger backward, stunned but not defeated. If I wasn’t holding the bat, my fighting posture could have been better and delivered a knockout blow, I was sure of it.
“All right, enough of this shit,” Trimble defiantly pronounced.
I stood with the bat in a defensive position as he took a menacing step forward. But then he did something unexpected. He fell to his knees, and then flat to his face. Standing behind him was Buster with the walking stick he used as part of his Maximilian Von Abercron gimmick. Trimble’s large body had obscured him completely, and not even I knew he was there.
“You’re welcome,” Buster stated bluntly.
“I was handling him,” I replied.
“Yeah, you were handling him all right,” Buster said with a hint of an eye roll in his tone, though he quickly sounded more sincere when he added, “all right, to be fair, from what I saw you did all right. For facing a much larger opponent, anyway.”
“I took one hell of a shot in the ribs, though,” I said, grimacing in pain that I was now starting to recognize.
“Well, let’s tie this one up while he’s out and get the authorities here quickly.”
This was the part we had become really adept at. Using wire rope to tie up our criminal so they couldn’t escape before the proper authorities got to the scene. It was easy to carry on my utility belt for quick and easy access. Once Trimble was tied up, I was able to locate his car keys on his person. I popped open his trunk and located his duffel bag. Inside were a wide variety of pill bottles, the exact sort of jackpot evidence I needed to make this an easy for the police to wrap up quickly.
Buster placed an anonymous tip to the police. I dropped the duffel bag at Trimble’s side while he still laid there unconscious, and Buster and I immediately left the premises.
We didn’t chat much on the drive home or before I laid down for the evening. I was too busy clutching my chest and ribs, which were throbbing in pain. Buster gave me some high-strength Tylenol, and I tried to sleep it off.
When I awoke, I was surprised to find Buster sleeping in a chair nearby. I sat up as I normally would and got a quick reminder of the blow I took the previous night with Trimble’s baseball bat. My immediate grimace caused Buster to awaken. He yawned but then sat forward.
“Let’s get a look at that chest of yours,” he ordered in a doctorly fashion.
I removed my shirt, and we got a good look at the damage. The entire left side of my chest had begun turning a shade of purple.
“Yeah, I expected this,” Buster announced, shaking his head. “You’ve probably got a cracked rib or two, and even if you’re lucky that’s one serious bruise.”
“But we stopped a bad man from doing more bad things,” I retorted. Buster smiled.
“We did, kid,” Buster admitted. “That we did. But you just put one hell of a target on your body in your match with Andrew Morgan.”
“Yeah, well…” I began, carefully standing to my feet, “…at least he won’t have a baseball bat at his disposal.”
Buster blinked at me in disbelief.
“Seriously, kid? Have you never watched a wrestling show in your entire life? They’ve got all kinds of bats and crazy shit around ringside. Never understood why, but it’s all there.”
I nodded in agreement.
“True,” I said with a smile, “…but at least I’ve got Maximilian Von Abercron and one hell of a sturdy walking stick in my corner.”
That night of the fight with Trimble, I had another odd dream. It had been very similar to the one I had before my first Onslaught match. I was again backstage, suiting up for my match with Andrew Morgan, and Maximilian Von Abercron was once again absent. Once again, I had a feeling of dread in this regard…it was like he had passed on to the other side.
Similar to the previous dream, the apparition of the well-built man in his 30s with long black hair appeared to me once again. I tried to speak to him, but something in his presence kept me forcefully quiet, as if he needed me to know he was there as an oracle, and I was to listen only and not speak.
“You should have heeded my warning,” the apparition beckoned. “Now there is no turning back. The devil will see you soon….”
And with that, the apparition vanished.
“Isn’t it supposed to be warm in Georgia?” I asked rhetorically while lightly shaking my legs to keep warm. “It’s two degrees cooler here than it is currently in New York.”
“How about you stay focused on your target?” replied Buster, better known to the wrestling world as the infamous manager, Maximilian Von Abercron. He was right. We had a far more important task on our hand than small talk about the comparison between the current climates of the northeastern and southeastern United States.
The two of us were doing some last-minute recon. We were both hidden as best as possible outside of a trashy local night club in a seedier section of Atlanta. The club was named The Rooftop on Aberdeen, but colloquially it had become known as ‘The Roofietop.’ I won’t speak for the locals’ creativity, but it truly was as apt a description for the place as you can get. Many women had reported being drugged at the club and taken advantage of by men they couldn’t quite remember. Every now and then, one would have a vague memory of one of the guys she had met the previous evening. The problem was that the descriptions for these men never matched, and at times were wildly different. This led to the conclusion that it was a bunch of different men drugging these women rather than one consistent asshole.
The police were useless. Occasionally they’d show up and interview a few of the workers, but none ever seemed to see anything or have any information to share. And then the police would call it a wrap and leave it to a simple, ‘well that’s Atlanta for you.’
They weren’t exactly the best problem solvers. But luckily for Atlanta, it had something of a new sheriff in town.
Buster and I had spent our first month researching different problems occurring in Atlanta’s rough neighborhoods. A lot of reading reports in various news outlets and rummaging through rumors on various social media platforms had created a handy list of problems the police hadn’t solved, and for which we were up to the task. This was not the first one on our list, nor was it the one we wanted to solve the most. But it was the most fitting for this particular week.
How so?
Well, to answer that, we need to first return to the night of GCW’s Onslaught 02, featuring the debut of me, Dalton Hunter. It was a successful night for me. I had tagged with a longtime grizzled veteran, Rock Stone, but I felt great about showing off a bit throughout the night and ultimately taking the win for the team. The fans responded wonderfully to my first ever match in a major wrestling federation. I have to admit to reveling a bit in the cheers I received. But as Buster and I had discussed, it was better for them to jeer the guy under the mask of The Beacon, lest they ever grow suspicious. So, I did something my masked alter ego would never do.
Rather than honor a beaten competitor, I gave the guy with the dinosaur mask an extra swift kick after the match as he climbed to his feet. That turned the crowd in a hurry. I was now firmly established as a villain.
And as Christ as my witness, I hated every minute of it.
Have you ever worked a shitty job? One where every little thing that happened during a day just grated your nerves? Things like minor mistakes by coworkers, otherwise innocuous comments by customers…stuff like that? A job where every waking minute feels like an endless epoch, because all you are doing is counting down the hours until you get to leave? And then you go home and just rant about all of the bullshit that didn’t matter in the day, knowing full well you were going to wake up tomorrow and do the same exact things all over again?
That’s how it feels being booed by people whom I desperately want to adore me. People who I want to see me as the hero I truly am. It’s great that The Beacon gained some notoriety in New York. It’s great that it will happen again in Atlanta. But Dalton Hunter – the guy under the mask – is pretty damn great himself.
I understand why I have to do it, though. Why I have to wear a mask. Why I have to disguise my true self when in the ring in front of thousands. I guess it’s a good thing I know how to keep a secret.
So like the poor schmuck stuck working a meaningless sales job with a local media company, I toil through the rough days and do my job because it is what I have to do to make a living.
Being a heel in a major professional wrestling company – it’s a rough life I lead, isn’t it?
Buster and I regrouped in our locker room after my match at Onslaught 02. Leading up to the show, I had this strange nightmare that had appeared prophetic in an ominous way. Instead, it appeared only to predict that Buster as Maximilian Von Abercron would miss the card. There had been some confusion with his employment paperwork and he wasn’t allowed to accompany me to ringside. No matter…I convinced some officials to allow him backstage and went out to the ring and handled business on my own. Buster watched on a monitor backstage.
When I got to the locker room after my match, Buster stood to greet me.
“Good job, kid,” Buster said in a congratulatory tone. “One victory down, many to go.”
“Buster, it feels great,” I proclaimed excitedly. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. Thousands of fans were cheering me all at once. It was amazing.” I paused, before continuing in disappointment. “For a little while, anyway.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve gotta know how to play the game. Masked heroes don’t get to openly bask in their glory. Neither do their alter egos. Look at Bruce Wayne.”
“Bruce Wayne is a billionaire playboy who gets to live in a giant mansion and gets to hang out with a cool butler. I get to hang around with a fake billionaire dandy and live in a one-bedroom condo.”
“Well, too bad you don’t have a couple of dead rich parents then, or maybe we coulda turned this around.”
Too bad indeed. Some people in this world are born lucky. They are the sons and daughters of wealthy business savants who teach them about all the finer things in life. I’m not one of them. I had an alcoholic electrician for a father and a seamstress with a Vicodin addictddion for a mother. My mother taught me to avoid opioids, and the only thing of value my father ever taught me was how to dodge a right hook. That last one has come in handy at least.
“I get it,” I lied to Buster unconvincingly. “I can’t be the obvious hero type. I’ll get booed out of every building I’m ever in and that is for the best.”
“Yeah, you get it all right. It was a great match, but how about we regroup tomorrow and go over your next opponent?”
With that, Buster left the locker room. I’m hoping this feeling will pass eventually. I was able to handle the boos in the smaller venues, and even maybe relished being the bad guy a little. Getting booed loudly at The View by thousands of fans was a much different story. It triggered some pretty intense feelings of disgust. Ultimately, I’m glad Buster chose to leave, because there were probably going to be no positive experiences coming out of that locker room. I guess I hadn’t quite learned how to be proud of seemingly hollow accomplishments.
Buster visited me two days later at my condo. By this point, I had learned that I was to face another relative newcomer to GCW, Andrew Morgan, and I had wanted to learn what I could through film study. Together, we watched Onslaught 02 on demand. He was certainly an impressive physical specimen. The GCW roster page listed him at 6’10” and 327 lbs, which meant he was going to have an obvious size advantage. But the manner in which he had appeared on this episode of Onslaught caught my attention the most. For the second straight show, the lights had ‘failed’ (or perhaps more appropriately, were intentionally shut off), and Andrew Morgan was faced with the prospects of another vicious attack in blackness. At Onslaught 01, he had emerged from the darkness with a chair wrapped around his head. This time, the ‘wraith’ had left a trail of broken bodies in its wake, perhaps most notably that of Aaron Chandler. Chandler was supposed to be Morgan’s opponent on the evening, but was left in a puddle of his own blood backstage.
That attack hadn’t happened on camera, but ‘vicious’ was probably a good word to describe it. That’s my guess based on the fact that Andrew Morgan’s match was canceled, Chandler wasn’t booked on the Onslaught 03 card, and he was unceremoniously moved to the alumni section of the roster page.
“This is something unlike you’ve ever dealt with before,” Buster warned. “Joey LaDude might be an annoying prick to listen to on the announce team, but sometimes wrestlers around these parts are a little sick in the head. Not only do you have an opponent the likes of one you’ve never faced, but you’ll have to watch your back all evening as well. If those lights go out with you in the ring, you get the hell out of there. Lest you end up laid out like poor Aaron Chandler.”
“Buster, please,” I casually brushed him off. “You think that concerns me in any way? I spend my entire nights shrouded in the cover of darkness. I’d welcome a blackout and an attack from the mysterious ‘wraith.’ I’m the one best equipped to knock the guy out and we can solve the mystery of ‘who’s the guy taking out all the GCW talent.’ It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Kid, you can be way too cocky,” Buster warned. “You are supposed to play a character known as ‘The Answer’ not be the living embodiment of the guy in real life.”
I sighed in frustration. To some extent I knew he was right. I mean, I’d prefer to have a straight match with Andrew Morgan. I don’t feel GCW wanted to ruin my debut, so they placed me in a tag match with a far less serious opponent. But truthfully, I welcomed the challenge of facing much tougher opponents. Iron sharpens iron, as they say (and…I suppose as is actually the case in blacksmithing).
The next day, Buster and I went to train at a local wrestling gym he knew. And because Buster knew it, that meant it was pretty incredible. It was the home of a local pro wrestling school, and the ring was among the greatest I had ever stepped in. Everything was top notch and designed to train the best of the best. The men and women that went through this school weren’t going to spend years toiling on the indies. They were built to go to the big leagues in a hurry.
This also meant that it was expensive as shit and that Buster showed up fully in-character as Maximilian Von Abercron. To him, image was everything. That meant overpaying for the luxury of training in a gym with a professional ring. I would have chosen somewhere cheaper, but I can’t complain too much. The place was top notch.
For the most part, training was always done on my terms. I was the guy with the undefeated amateur wrestling background, and the guy who rarely lost as a professional on top of that. Buster understood I knew what I was doing, so mostly he put on the act of running the show.
That was mostly the case for today as well, but after a 30-minute sparring session with a local MMA fighter, Buster threw me a giant curveball.
“Very good, Mr. Hunter,” Buster shouted in the priggish manner of Maximilian Von Abercron. “You shall make a fine prizefighter someday, I’m certain of it. However, preparing yourself by matching against this prancing milksop will do you no good in your bout with Andrew Morgan. You must prepare against someone more formidable.”
I frustratingly wiped sweat off my forehead, then walked up to the ropes to address my manager. My sparring partner left the ring.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Buster rolled his eyes and then climbed the stairs to the ring apron so we could speak in private.
“Kid, you’ll never be prepared to face someone like Andrew Morgan by training with a guy that size. He’s smaller than you. And in the professional wrestling world, you’re kind of a shrimp.”
“Buster, I’m not going from one 30-minute sparring session into another. Are you out of your mind? I’ve got a 20-minute cardio session left in me from here and then I’m done for the day.”
Buster began to grow angry. I hadn’t seen that before.
“I know you think you’re Mr. Big Shot now,” Buster began to lecture, “but the truth is your going to have your ass handed to you if you don’t prepare for a bigger opponent in the right way.”
“And I know that you’re concerned that I’m not taking this GCW opportunity seriously,” I tried to reason, “but it’s the exact opposite in reality. I’m training the way I’ve always trained. The way that caused me to go undefeated as an amateur wrestler. I could have been on the Olympic team if I wanted to go that route, don’t forget that. And I still train like an Olympian would. I don’t see any reason to change that up now.”
“And every one of those opponents was in the same weight class as you. The guys you faced in the PWF and Valor were a bunch of spot monkeys the same size as you. You have never faced a disadvantage like Andrew Morgan’s sheer size and power advantage will cause, let alone while also worrying about a psychopath laying out high quality talents week after week.”
“Well, you know what they say – ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall.’”
“I’d be more concerned with what I say – ‘The dumber they are, the more of their own teeth they end up swallowing when they get knocked down their throat.’ And with that pretty boy smile you’ve so pridefully constructed for yourself, I don’t think you have the skin thick enough to come out of this televised wrestling match looking like a grizzled hockey veteran from the 1980s.”
Do men go through menopause at age 70? Yeah, my teeth look good. I take care of them. It’s called basic oral hygiene. I wore braces as a kid because my dad said my teeth made me look like one of the Beverly Hillbillies. Since then, I brush twice a day with fluoride toothpaste, floss once, and use mouthwash on a daily basis. I go to the dentist twice a year for checkups. I know I’m employed in the professional wrestling industry where standards might be a bit lower, but certainly this isn’t a major problem, right? Buster was being extra ornery lately and it made no sense to me whatsoever.
“Buster, we’re good here,” I told him defiantly. “I’m gonna get on a bike for 20 minutes to cool down and I’ll see you at my place tonight.”
And that was that. I knew he wasn’t happy about my decision, but sometimes, an athlete knows his body best. Maybe if Buster had decided to switch my sparring partner before I went through 30 grueling minutes, I’d be more open to considering his suggestions. I’m not overextending myself.
And yet…I knew Buster was a huge reason that I had even made it to GCW. Without him, I might still be entertaining 90 people in a high school gymnasium in Poughkeepsie.
That afternoon, I took a long nap in preparation for my evening’s work to clear my mind. When I awoke, I expected to immediately turn to researching targets for The Beacon. Instead, I couldn’t get Andrew Morgan and Buster’s words of wisdom out of my mind. Buster was right in one sense – I’ve never faced anyone one on one with that big of a size differential.
Luckily, I was sent a lightning bolt of clarity. As I sifted through our research, I came across the mysterious case of drugged women at The Rooftop on Aberdeen. Since the victim’s attacker always seemed to be described in different manners, we had determined it wasn’t the same creep doing the drugging. So why are all these attacks happening at the same place? Certainly, there wasn’t a local committee of rapists gathering together on a regular basis to choose the main venue where they would execute their dastardly deeds. That led to our working theory that someone who worked at The Rooftop was allowing, or perhaps even encouraging this to happen.
When we first got to Atlanta and heard about the troublesome nightclub, we hid in the shadows and made some observations. Before long, we had a prime suspect – Mitchell Trimble, the night club’s bouncer.
Trimble worked out front and “maintained” the front door. His job was to make sure the club was never too full and that nobody under 21 was able to enter. We quickly came to the conclusion that he was willfully terrible at his job.
Have you gotten to this point in the story and wondered why women would keep attending this night club where so many of them were attacked on a regular basis, and their attackers were never brought to justice? We wondered the same thing. After watching, Trimble do his job, we no longer had to wonder. Women didn’t seem to be held to the same carding criteria as the men. There were some girls that walked up who I would have carded if they tried to get into a rated R movie without an adult. But here – they evidently appeared over 30 to Trimble.
Evidently, it was common knowledge that if you were under 21, the place to go to be served alcohol was The Rooftop on Aberdeen. The only risk you faced was leaving your drink unattended.
It would be one thing if Trimble was just a terrible bouncer who had a soft spot for women who wanted to enjoy the nightlife before turning 21. But that wasn’t his only nightly routine. The far more suspicious one was when he would reject certain men and turn them away the door. We watched this routine happen a few nights in a row – he’d reject the guy at the door, and then immediately be relieved by another bouncer before he went on break. The rejected man never seemed displeased. He simply turned the corner down an alleyway adjacent to the building and left without much of a fuss. This happened four or five times per night on three separate occasions. Something was up at The Rooftop, and we had a good feeling Trimble knew what it was.
And why did this seem like perfect timing? We’re only estimating, but given that Trimble towered over anyone near him, we guessed he had to be at least 6’6”. More importantly, he was built like a tank.
I might have just found a more sizable sparring partner.
When Buster arrived that evening, he was still clearly agitated by what had taken place earlier. “You’re lucky I even bothered to show up tonight,” Buster scolded. “That was some real bullshit that took place earlier today. Nobody does that to Maximilian Von Abercron, you understand?”
“Buster, I’m sorry,” I apologized sincerely. “I’ve had time to think about it and I wish I thought about it differently. I’m a creature of habit, so I stick steadfast to my routines. I think you’re right that I should have trained against a bigger opponent. I should have listened to you.”
“Maybe you’re not such a stupid kid after all.”
“I’m not. And I know how we can get some training in tonight.” I held up the picture of The Rooftop’s bouncer. “Mitchell Trimble. He’s perfect. We estimate him to be at least 6’6” and 300 lbs. We’ve put in the research and know he’s up to no good. I say we put an end to The Roofietop this evening. And Trimble makes some fine preparation for Andrew Morgan. What do you think?”
“I think you’re off your meds again,” Buster replied bluntly. “I’d rather you fight Andrew Morgan to prepare for Mitchell Trimble.”
I stared at him dumbfounded.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I retorted; “this is exactly what you wanted.”
“No it isn’t, I wanted you to spar with someone of a larger size, not get killed by someone of a larger size,” Buster explained. “Think about it this way: in a wrestling match, Andrew Morgan is looking to incapacitate you so he can pin your shoulders to the canvas for a count of three, or put you in a hold that hurts enough to make you quit and live to fight another day. Those are his only objectives.”
Said Buster, casually explaining a professional wrestling match conceptually to me. I tried hard not to roll my eyes.
“Now imagine that we’re right on Mitchell Trimble, and I think we are. It’s someone who knows he is doing something highly illegal, and he would be in some serious trouble if he were ever caught. You show up in black spandex and inform him that you know what he’s been up to. Now, Trimble is probably not going to respond by saying, ‘you’re right, I’m a bad person, why don’t you call the police and I’ll wait with you while they arrive.’ He’s going to lash out and fight for his freedom. His objective isn’t going to be to incapacitate you for a count of three, or twist your body in a way that makes you cry ‘uncle.’ His objective is going to be to make sure that you don’t jeopardize his freedom now or in the future by disposing you for good. Do you see the difference here?”
Wow. Buster was absolutely right, and put this in a perspective I hadn’t considered. This wasn’t exactly going to be an analogous comparison to the upcoming match between Andrew Morgan and me. But there was one thing that was comparable – my attitude.
“I see the difference,” I began with extreme confidence. “When I put an end to ‘The Roofietop’ by bringing Trimble to justice, you’ll no longer have to tell me how to train for my upcoming opponents.”
“Christ, kid, are you braindead?” Buster asked with serious concern.
“Buster, what do you propose? Should we just let Trimble continue doing what he’s doing? Leave it up to the police to figure out, despite their lack of enthusiasm to put any sort of attention into this place? What he is doing is wrong and we can’t let it go. Remember, I’m the hero here. I need to put an end to this monster before more women get hurt. Now are you with or me or not?”
Buster paused and shook his head slightly in defeat.
“I’m with you. Someone should really be there to try and keep you from getting yourself killed,” Buster began. “But I have to make one last thing perfectly clear. If you ever take one word of wisdom from me, I pray you’ll make it this one.”
Buster paused, possibly for dramatic effect.
“Nobody who has ever called themselves the hero, turns out to BE the hero.”
There. Now you’re caught up.
Buster parked himself in a car down the block from the nightclub. It was inconspicuous enough. Nobody really paid attention to him in any of the previous nights while we observed. I hid in the shadows behind the back of The Rooftop. I had scoped the place out once before. I followed the path that the men rejected from entry into the club seemed to casually take, so we came to the conclusion this was likely their destination.
“We’ve got one,” Buster said through my earpiece, indicating that someone had just been denied entry and Trimble was about to take a routine break. “He’s wearing a dark jacket. Has a backwards ballcap on. Be on the lookout. And stay low.”
I crouched a little lower beside the dumpster behind the club. Unless someone got ultra-suspicious that someone was spying on them, there’d be no reason anyone would ever find me there. My all black outfit helped to fully keep me concealed. Within a moment or two, I spotted the man with the baseball cap. Sure enough – he was headed around back. And a moment or two later, Trimble stepped out of a back door. I was careful to keep concealed, so I couldn’t fully tell if he was suspicious enough to be looking around for witnesses. But I was definitely close enough to hear their conversation.
“You got the money?” asked one of the two, presumably Trimble.
“Yeah, I got it,” there was a pause. “Just drop one or two in or what?”
“You need one. That’s it. No more questions. Go up the back stairs here and hang a left. You’ll come through a door near the restrooms. You do it. You get out. Understood?”
“Yeah. I get it.”
“Good. Leave the cap. Leave the jacket.”
“What for? I love this jacket.”
“So it doesn’t look suspicious to anyone out front that the guy we just booted somehow showed up inside. It’s bad enough they might recognize your face. Leave the fucking cap and jacket.”
“Fuck. Fine.”
Followed by the opening of a door, and then slightly later, the closing of the door. Now was an opportunity. I peaked around the side, but Trimble was already gone. He probably stepped back inside. There was also no cap or jacket on the ground that I could see. I carefully and methodically stepped forward silently to peer around the dumpster. There was nothing. A completely empty lot.
“Buster, he’s our guy,” I whispered softly into my mouthpiece, still being cautious not to be observed. “I saw the man with the cap and saw Trimble come out. I didn’t observe the exchange directly, but I did overhear the conversation about it. Looks like they both went back inside already.”
“Well kid, what are you thinking?” Buster asked. “Do you want to wait for Trimble to finish his shift, or wait for an opportunity to come later tonight or another night altogether?”
“We’re doing this tonight,” I replied confidently.
And so, we waited. Waited for two or three hours, carefully hidden in our respective inconspicuous locations. After a while, Buster told me there were no longer any potential patrons out front, and Trimble had left his post at the door. Not long after, I heard the back door behind the club open. Trimble stepped through carrying a duffel bag. He was now wearing a hoodie, so I’m guessing it’s what he was using to carry a change of clothes.
“Buster, Trimble’s out in the open,” I whispered. “Now’s the time.”
I stealthily slid out from my hiding spot behind the dumpster, careful not to alert Trimble to my presence just yet. He had already made it to the trunk of his car as I began quietly closing the distance between us.
“Just be careful now. Make sure not to alert him to your presence,” Buster warned.
He was right to warn me.
“Stop right there, Trimble!” I growled in my best Batman impression.
“Or just do whatever the hell you want,” Buster sighed in in exasperation. “What the fuck do I know?”
Mitchell Trimble spun around with a baseball bat in one hand, which he had quickly been able to find and remove from his trunk, and slammed his trunk shut with the other. After spinning around, he actually lowered his guard and dropped the arm holding the bat outright to his side.”
“What the hell is this?” Trimble questioned, with an obvious bemused look on his face. “You’re about two weeks early for Halloween. And who you are supposed to be? Black Panther? You look like shit.”
I had invested far too much in this attire to not be a bit scathed by his remarks.
“You can call me The Beacon,” I growled, starting my heroic introduction.
“Kid, you sound like a real asshole right now,” Buster bemused, albeit with a hint of disappointment in his voice.
“And your days of helping garbage men take advantage of women in this club are over,” I finished, proudly standing my ground.
Trimble picked the bat back up into an attack position and tapped it playfully in his hands.
“Ok,” Trimble began, a fire lighting in his eyes, “so you are an asshole…”
“I concur,” remarked Buster.
“…and I’ve been itching to tear apart an asshole all evening.”
With that Trimble swung wildly with the bat, which I was deftly able to duck under. I quickly backed up a few steps to put some extra distance between myself and him. My adrenaline had already kicked in, and I felt extremely confident of my chances. But I knew step one had to be to disarm him – well, that and not to have my skull double for a baseball.
As I continued to carefully back into the open lot, Trimble stalked me with a pretty sick smile on his face. It was clear he was itching to connect. He took another wild swing, and almost connected with my ribs. I had luckily left just enough distance, but it caught me off guard. I thought I was more than far enough away. This was the type of thing Buster wanted me to realize with a larger opponent.
I changed tactics. When Trimble swung a third time, I again ducked under the swing, and followed with as stiff of a leg kick as I can throw. It landed hard on Trimble’s planted foot, which means he took the brunt of the kick hard in his lower shin. I watched him grimace slightly from the blow, and his smile quickly turned into a terrifying look of rage. I had angered the beast.
Trimble let out a guttural roar and charged in ready to swing angrily at my body. This was too quick. I was about to take a mighty hit. I instinctively raised my arms to protect my head, but it left my ribs exposed.
I saw it coming and could do little about it.
For a moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion. I was protecting my head, but saw the bat wasn’t coming for that. In an effort to protect my ribs as best as possible, I twisted slightly into the swing, exposing my lower chest to the brunt of the blow. I tried to drop my arms, but the bat went under it and caught me good.
“FUCK!!!!” I screamed in agony, dropping the disguise of my true voice entirely. Luckily, I had enough semblance of coordination to keep the bat pinned under my arm. As he stepped forward, about to try and yank it out and finish me off, I did the one thing I knew instinctively to do:
I stepped forward, and threw a swift knee directly into his groin. Hey, there are no DQs in a street fight.
Instinctively, Trimble let go of his grip on the bat to clutch at his aching testicles. I fell backward with the bat tucked under my arm, effectively wrestling the weapon away from him and keeping it for myself. I landed hard on my injured side which sent a bolt of pain coursing through my body, the bat pinned beneath me. I had no choice but to ignore it and scramble to my feet with the bat in hand.
“You’re going to pay for that one,” Trimble threatened as he regained his composure. The bat I now held as a weapon seemed to phase him none.
I wanted to go on the attack to incapacitate him, but I had just fully demonstrated how to wrestle the weapon away from the attacker. While I take great pride in my physical abilities and my body’s ability to withstand pain, I had to imagine Trimble was equally equipped to take a similar shot. So, I feigned a swing to gauge his reaction, but quickly held back – just like a ballplayer avoiding swinging at a ball outside the strike zone. Trimble threw up his arms much like I expected. He told me exactly what I needed to know.
I made a second attempt at a swing, and this time really sold like it was coming. As Trimble once again made an attempt to block, I stepped forward, ducking underneath his outstretched arms. As I came back up, I held the bat with both hands, and jabbed the handle directly into his jaw. As his right hand reached up to his jaw, I quickly threw a quick leg kick into his lower right leg, and followed it up with a stiff uppercut that caught him right under the chin. It was a combination of strikes I could be proud of, and it caused Trimble to stagger backward, stunned but not defeated. If I wasn’t holding the bat, my fighting posture could have been better and delivered a knockout blow, I was sure of it.
“All right, enough of this shit,” Trimble defiantly pronounced.
I stood with the bat in a defensive position as he took a menacing step forward. But then he did something unexpected. He fell to his knees, and then flat to his face. Standing behind him was Buster with the walking stick he used as part of his Maximilian Von Abercron gimmick. Trimble’s large body had obscured him completely, and not even I knew he was there.
“You’re welcome,” Buster stated bluntly.
“I was handling him,” I replied.
“Yeah, you were handling him all right,” Buster said with a hint of an eye roll in his tone, though he quickly sounded more sincere when he added, “all right, to be fair, from what I saw you did all right. For facing a much larger opponent, anyway.”
“I took one hell of a shot in the ribs, though,” I said, grimacing in pain that I was now starting to recognize.
“Well, let’s tie this one up while he’s out and get the authorities here quickly.”
This was the part we had become really adept at. Using wire rope to tie up our criminal so they couldn’t escape before the proper authorities got to the scene. It was easy to carry on my utility belt for quick and easy access. Once Trimble was tied up, I was able to locate his car keys on his person. I popped open his trunk and located his duffel bag. Inside were a wide variety of pill bottles, the exact sort of jackpot evidence I needed to make this an easy for the police to wrap up quickly.
Buster placed an anonymous tip to the police. I dropped the duffel bag at Trimble’s side while he still laid there unconscious, and Buster and I immediately left the premises.
We didn’t chat much on the drive home or before I laid down for the evening. I was too busy clutching my chest and ribs, which were throbbing in pain. Buster gave me some high-strength Tylenol, and I tried to sleep it off.
When I awoke, I was surprised to find Buster sleeping in a chair nearby. I sat up as I normally would and got a quick reminder of the blow I took the previous night with Trimble’s baseball bat. My immediate grimace caused Buster to awaken. He yawned but then sat forward.
“Let’s get a look at that chest of yours,” he ordered in a doctorly fashion.
I removed my shirt, and we got a good look at the damage. The entire left side of my chest had begun turning a shade of purple.
“Yeah, I expected this,” Buster announced, shaking his head. “You’ve probably got a cracked rib or two, and even if you’re lucky that’s one serious bruise.”
“But we stopped a bad man from doing more bad things,” I retorted. Buster smiled.
“We did, kid,” Buster admitted. “That we did. But you just put one hell of a target on your body in your match with Andrew Morgan.”
“Yeah, well…” I began, carefully standing to my feet, “…at least he won’t have a baseball bat at his disposal.”
Buster blinked at me in disbelief.
“Seriously, kid? Have you never watched a wrestling show in your entire life? They’ve got all kinds of bats and crazy shit around ringside. Never understood why, but it’s all there.”
I nodded in agreement.
“True,” I said with a smile, “…but at least I’ve got Maximilian Von Abercron and one hell of a sturdy walking stick in my corner.”
***D/H***
That night of the fight with Trimble, I had another odd dream. It had been very similar to the one I had before my first Onslaught match. I was again backstage, suiting up for my match with Andrew Morgan, and Maximilian Von Abercron was once again absent. Once again, I had a feeling of dread in this regard…it was like he had passed on to the other side.
Similar to the previous dream, the apparition of the well-built man in his 30s with long black hair appeared to me once again. I tried to speak to him, but something in his presence kept me forcefully quiet, as if he needed me to know he was there as an oracle, and I was to listen only and not speak.
“You should have heeded my warning,” the apparition beckoned. “Now there is no turning back. The devil will see you soon….”
And with that, the apparition vanished.