Death, Taxes, and the Predator

The Funeral of Jack Savage.
Skull Valley Cemetery.

'For as much as it has pleased Almighty God to take out of this world the soul of Jack Savage we therefore commit his body to the ground'

A single saguaro stands towering at the center of the otherwise barren cemetery.  The fence surrounding the perimeter, which seems to be slowing losing the battle against rust, can be heard creaking as a small crowd presses against it to get a better look.  A small crowd of men and women in well dressed suits sit in a semi-circle in front of the casket as a middle aged clergyman continues to read from the bible.

'...earth to earth, ashes to ashes...'

The small graveyard sits adjacent to a single county highway which is currently lined with cars pulled off the side of the road.  A small boy, no older than 10 sits in the back, holding a few action figures in his hand.  He is still buckled in as he absently fiddles with the toys in his hand attempting to distract himself from the sound of his mother gently sobbing in the drivers seat.

'...dust to dust...'



Nobody.

His fist slams into the bag.  He shuffles around the bag, his head staying active as he moves and weaves in and out.  He is alone in the large warehouse style gym aside from a few people currently jogging on the treadmills facing towards televisions.  He wears his zip up hoodie over a shirt that says the words, “Evolutionary Arms Race” over a still of the Predator, standing over the opponent, foot pressed against the back of their skull in preparation for the Headshot.  The sound of the gloves connecting with the leather bag are muffled by the music which emanates from one of the nearby multi-purpose rooms.

The blows are organized at first. Jab, right cross, left hook. They dig deep enough to cause the bag to give but there is little sway as the combination continues.

Jab-jab-cross.

Weave.

Cross-uppercut.

Weave.

Nobody?

He stops for a moment to consider the bag, the weight, the world and how all of that becomes just a symbol, a reflection of a word, a thought, an intention. There is a calmness, a stillness and then peace intensifies; his eyes narrow and his left hand, covered from shoulder to elbow in tiger stripes sends a wide haymaker into the side of the bag and a snarl escapes his lips.

Nobody?

The combination simplifies. A cycle of jabs and crosses increase in intensity and speed until he explodes forward, wrapping his arms around the bag, driving each knee into it consecutively, his weight leaning down and into the bag as he shifts from leg to leg.

'Nobody?!' a yell bursts forth, as he pulls back on the bag, the binding keeping it attached struggles for a moment there is an audible, 'ping' of the joint of the chain holding the bag upright. The heavy weight of the chain clangs across his back, but it does little to stop his momentum.

His weight shifts, knee driving upward and into the bag as it journeys down, arms fully wrapped around until they collide with the ground and then the knee strikes begin to be replaced with elbows. Elbows rain down onto the bag and one connects with the chain which has landed lazily across the two combatants, splitting and causing a crimson spray to stain the the canvas corpse.

He drives one final elbow into the bag, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his face as his rabid eyes stare downwards at his imaginary foe.  His gaze rises just in time to catch that of a young woman in her twenties, one earbud held in limbo by her cheek.  He watches helplessly as she retreats towards the locker room, his forearm suddenly warm, and a single drop of blood lands on the mat beside him.


The South Street Diner.

'There’s an old saying, "It’s not what you know, it’s who you know."'

Fade in.

The menu closes to reveal the Voice who currently wearing a black suit and a with a thin black tie.  He hands the wire bound booklet to someone off-screen with a smile and a nod.

'The Meat Lovers and a coffee.''  He mouths thank you as his cold eyes turn to face the camera, leaning back into the lipstick red booth as he continues.

'It's not what you know, it's who you know,'' he ponders aloud, '...well...he has another saying, “It’s not who you know, it’s who you hurt'”''

His hands clasp in front of him and then slightly unfold, thumbs outstretched as he gestures.

'Kimberly and Colton. The King and Queen of Project: Honor. Current Project: Honor X-Factor champion.''

He bows his head ever so slightly, one hand providing a slight flourish.

'Allow me to make your acquaintance, champion,' he says sarcastically, 'I am the Voice of the Predator. Whether or not you've heard of me is irrelevant: I am just the messenger and mister Saint...'

The Voice points at the camera, an almost crocodilian grin spreading slowly across his face.

'You will be the message.  You see mister Saint, he does not respect you.  He's seen you.  I've seen you.  You're a big man, a strong man.  You see mister Saint, he doesn't need to prove to anyone his strength by pushing around people on the streets.  He doesn't need to bully backstage staff.  He doesn't need weapons, mister Saint because he is a weapon.  You?  You are a joke, a farce, a parody.  You know what they say the bigger you are, the harder you fall and you're a big, big man but at the end of the day, that's a bit cliché, don't you think?'

He holds up two palms in an attempt to help defuse the situation.

'You can rest assured, mister Saint. We don't want to be cliché.  Allow me to explain myself:  he does want you to fall, mister Saint but he wants you to keep right on standing up.  In fact, he's rooting for you to rise time and time again, because mister Saint, it's really not about the destination, it's about the journey.'

He turns to look over his shoulder and the camera pans to follow his view.  Above the service station, the television changes suddenly from the news station to a repeating clip of the Predator, driving his knee repeatedly into an opponents bloodied face.  One of the waiters takes notice and frantically begins to adjust the televisions back to their regularly scheduled programming.  The Voice turns now slowly back to face the camera, the vile smirk now plastered across his face.

'You see, the tougher they are, the more fun they are to break.  Now mister Saint: I know you’re the champ. You’ve been here before, you’ll be fine.  After all, you’re the top dog, the big bad man from Texas; the star from the Lone Star state.  The man who almost made it a whole ten minutes with the great Dickie Watson.  The Beautiful Mastermind:  well....you let me know how far that big ol' brain of yours takes you come Friday.  You want confrontation? Here it is: the bullet meets the bone.'

The voice taps his chin for a moment then stops, withdrawing his hands from the table momentarily.  A hand from off-screen places a coffee cup in front of him and the steam simmering away.  His head turns, nods and smiles briefly to the off-screen entity and with a quick hand indicating no, he turns his attention back to the camera.

'You say nobody else is serious anymore, mister Saint? Well let's be serious here for a second: even a mountain is just a stepping stone to a giant.  We know this title means oh-so-much to you.  The big tournament win, the possibility; two successful defenses after all and you’ll get your shot; the great redemption, as if were...a certainty' he stops speaking for a moment as he holds back a small laugh.

'Between you and me though,' he offers, 'I think that maybe it's better that your title is not on the line.  After all, how would you keep your losing streak going and still remain the champ, right?'  

He raises the cup to his lips, blowing on it slightly before taking a sip.  He pulls back slightly from the heat but then returns to take a deeper sip before he sets the mug down, continuing.

'Of course, there is always a punchers chance in any fight so mister Saint and so he means this sincerely: make sure you bring what you need to bring to the ring next Friday,' his fingers rise slightly as he beckons towards him, any sort of emotion be it fear or excitement, devoid in his eyes, 'Bring the belt, bring the brain. bring the bimbo, hell, bring another golden spike if you need to, he does not care.'

His voice becomes slow and deliberate, as his eyes lower and he looks firmly into the camera.

'The only thing that you do not need to bring are any of those excuses that you like to make for why you lost.  No complaining about being outsmarted by Dickey, nor being outshined by the Shining Star.  It's you and him: a ring, a bell, and a bullfight.'

The corner of his lip rises slightly into a slight smirk.

'Ole.'

A plate is lowered in front of the Voice and he pauses, placing his hands down on the booth beside him.  The waitress, a young blond woman in her mid-20's wearing a black uniform leans momentarily into the view of the camera as she sets a bottle of tabasco down to accompany the steaming plate of eggs.  Once again he smiles and politely thanks her, extending a hand towards her with a few bills folded neatly in half.  He waves his thanks and she walks away as he turns back to the camera.

'You see, there is something you need to understand, mister Saint and I think you and others would do well to pay heed.  He is not here for your titles. He is not here for the glory nor the glamour.

No.

He is here to harm
He is here to hurt.
He is here to hunt.

You may be a star, but he is the black hole. Nothing escapes, not sound, not even light. It all becomes cosmic decay. Ah mister Saint..., ' he espouses an elegant tone for a moment: 'Put out the light...then put out the light: So sweet was ne’er so fatal.'

He casually unrolls the utensils from their holster, gently placing the napkin on his lap he then calmly cuts a piece of the omelet, blowing on it slightly before taking a bite.  He nods his head for a moments as he chews and lowers the utensils for a moment.

'You see, mister Saint, you are the last of a dying breed: a dinosaur who has failed to evolve.  The last living outlaw right?  Funny thing about being the last of anything is that once your gone then your species is extinct.'

He takes another bite, 'You wanna be serious?'

'Let’s be serious', he gingerly places the fork and knife along the edge of the plate, 'Kids gloves off.'

'You think you're what?  Some sort of natural born killer?'  his eyes roll into the back of his head, 'Hardly.  You hoped to be a homage but ended up a parody; you're a Netflix remake, lifeless and uninspire and what's more mister Saint, you are turning down a dead end road, my friend. You see, there are three things in life that are constant: death, taxes, and the Predator.  Are you seeking more constant in your life, mister Saint?  If you continue on this path, then I can assure you, there will be much more constant in your life: constant pain and constant suffering.'

His face turns into a large welcoming smile as he holds his arms open.

'So yes!  We think it’s just fine that you hang onto that belt. You see mister Saint: it's not who you know, it's who you hurt.  So what happens when you beat the unbeatable?  What happens when you break the unbreakable?  He certainly will not learn any of that from you, but I think it's a lesson worth considering.  Consider it a gift.  A goal.  A challenge for you for the future.  It is fitting therefore that you keep that little trinket because you see, I don’t know what you’ve got set aside, but you may want to leave the widow a little something and she seems quite fond of that belt already. Now, you can call it a revolution, call it an uprising, or call it what it really is: a regicide.  All it takes is that one Boom...

'Headshot, and it’s off with their head.  Don’t forget to wear your pink dress, Kimberly.'

He pauses to consider that thought.

'And Kimberly,' nods his head as he considers, 'Kimberly, Kimberly, Kimberly: You’re the wild card; the unpredictable.  What a combination that: the unbreakable and the unpredictable.  Beautiful.  Deadly.  Separate, sure, you're unstoppable, but together a sinner and a Saint?  You're a Texas twister. Brains, brawn, and beauty.  I must admit, the two of you, you got one on him.  I don't think anyone would go so far as to say the Predator is beautiful, but he is most certainly deadly and that in itself...well...He is quite the thing of beauty when it comes to deadly.  A great fighter once said that he did not fear the man that practiced a thousand different kicks but rather the man who practiced the same kick a thousand times.  I know him.  I've seen him.  He has mastered and perfected deadly.  Colton Saint...well...sometimes though, a one-trick pony is still a one-trick pony no matter how Dark it is so I gotta tell it to you you straight, hun: there’s no need to worry about wild cards when you got pocket aces.'

'And the Predator?' he offers, 'He’s all in.'

He picks up the utensils once more with his hands raising slightly beside his side as he continues with the fire of preacher on Easter Sunday, 'Ladies and Gentleman, Kings and Queens alike, Welcome to the Evolutionary Arms Race! And mister Saint, let me be the first person to say, 'Long Live the Queen'.  Try as you may to rise above your stations, one thing you will do well to remember is HE is the Predator...'

He cuts off another piece of the omelet, a carnivorous smile cutting across his face as he pauses before taking a bite.

'And you are the Prey.'

The camera cuts to black and the Voice can be heard repeating, 'Pray.'


@APWrestling Today we honor Jack Savage, master of the Flying Elbow!  April 22, 1947- October 8, 2005.


The Diary of Jon Belfort

It’s a relief to know it was all real.

I woke up, unsure. The ride, the meeting, the man...all a blur. I woke up the next morning.  It wasn’t until I saw him show up on Proving: Grounds that I knew it was all real:  The monster’s loose. I did not expect it but when I heard that single word, 'Fight', I knew it was real.  His opponents tried their hardest, but they could not overcome and now they are no more.

I got in my car that Saturday and traced it back to where I met the cab driver. To say the area was rough was an understatement; I never understood the term underbelly until then. We circled the neighborhood where the cab let me off but nothing seemed familiar.  I don't know why I thought anything would stand out, the reality is we could have gone miles from that train stop.

We passed a side street that was lined off with police tape.  There is no honor amongst thieves.  The people on the streets pass by with barely a look, either dazed or blind to the violence around them.  Sometimes that's all you can do, turn a blind eye to the violence of others.  We like to think that this is a new thing.  We treat it like a living breathing entity: violence is on the rise.  In Project: Honor, I fear that is true.

One thing I know is this:  I cannot stop.  I won't stop.  Who is he and where does he come from?  What drives him?  Why all the secrecy?

I have a million questions and every answer I've ever found creates more.

For now, all I can do is watch and wait.


Epilogue.

Rebel's eyes gaze out across the small graveyard.  For a time, this site had a revival.  A celebrity had come to rest here and with that came the people.  The single saguaro still stands solemnly guarding this hallowed land.  The visitors had all left, the new fences began to follow the footsteps of their ancestors as they creeks and groan at his weight as has he leans forward on them, surveying the field.

The traffic in this area had led to a decay in its history.  Once barely legible gravestones had been trampled down and were now just another rock in the rubble, giving way to the his glory.

'Just like in real life...', he mutters.

He turns to slowly walk around the perimeter of the fence towards the gate which hangs on by a single hinge.  Gently as he can, he pushes it aside and proceeds towards the last resting place of the late, great Jack Savage.  It was a simple epitaph, 'A father, a husband, a son; loved by all'.  His hand brushes across the words, pausing on the word, 'father' before he dunks his hand into his pocket, fishing something out.

His hand drops down to the top of the grave once more as he sets down a thin diamond ring.

Despite himself, he can't help but thing of the sound of his mother crying as his hands fall back into his pocket and he turns and makes his way towards the egress.

'It's not who you know...'