Reunited And It Feels So Good

PROJECT

It had been a while since the ‘band’ performed on stage.  All the way back to 2016, to be exact.  Sure, I’d tagged a time or two with Debris since then, but we hadn’t really performed as a group.  So, yes, it had been awhile.  

Some might say it had been too long.

But, for me, it had been long enough.

It wasn’t easy capturing those Fight One championships.  Let alone capturing them while chasing down deadly, catastrophic storms.  We were due respite.  Shuteye. A good, old fashioned vacation.

Time served.

We were ready to begin again.  Or, well, I was.

The leader of the group, I called the shots.  I’d spent enough time resting upon the laurels of that highly successful year.  I was ready to add to the legacy of The Storm Chasers.  I was also out of money.

All I needed to do was round up the gang.  Get the band back together.  A project that had no definite timetable.

The last time I spoke with Debris was after a losing effort in a now-defunct federation.  We weren’t crestfallen over the defeat.  Losing was the goal.  We had accepted payment to put another team over.  Something unheard of within the realm of squared circle competition.  But, we didn’t see ourselves as pro wrestlers.  We hadn’t since the closure of Fight One.

We were storm chasers.  Through and through.  And, as dedicated storm chasers, we did what was necessary to fund our careers.

“How’s that neck?” I asked my partner as we pulled into a truck stop off the highway, two hours removed from exiting the arena parking lot.

He grunted.  “I don’t know why we let them drop us on our heads like that if we’re being paid to put them over.”

Debris had grown sour of late.  Like a twister plowing through a developed community, he was losing steam.  Splitting our focus into several areas left him discombobulated and exhausted.  He worked best under the guidance of tunnel vision.  Focused on a singular task until its completion.

“Relax,” I waved his annoyance to the side like a piece of loosely attached aluminum siding in the midst of swirling winds, “all a means to an end, my friend.  All a means to an end.”  By answering his somewhat rhetorical question without really answering it, I seemed to only escalate his growing frustration.

A hypothesis that would form into truth a few days later.

“Who was that?” Debris asked, rubbing his aching neck while doubled over a mattress inside a local motel.  Eyes closed, he took a few deep breaths, relaxing the tense, abused muscles in his neck.  His hands left the inflamed neck and worked their way to the mattress, feeling around a portmanteau, looking to fasten the contents within.

“It was a local promoter…”

His eyes shot open, full of fire.  “No.”

“Look, it’s just a few hundred bucks.  We put this new team over and then…”

“I said no.”

A hard roll of my eyes sent Debris into a fit.  He wasn’t prone to fits.  In fact, he was quite the opposite.  A very quiet, go-with-the-flow kinda guy.  However, when he did blow...lookout.  An explosion that would make the ghosts of the residents from Pompeii say, “Ya know what, we didn’t have it so bad.”

SLAM!

He was done.  I’d detail exactly what was said but, to be honest, I’ve blocked most of it out.  I try not to linger on painful memories.  In short, he unleashed a flurry of insults at me – mostly personal in nature, before slamming the motel door.

He then ordered an uber.  Probably wished he had ordered it sooner.  But, when in haste.  So, he stood in front of the motel for about fifteen minutes, arms folded, portmanteau at his side.  I remained inside the room, giving him space.  Also, watching the clock.  We were dangerously close to eleven in the morning.  I wasn’t sure another night in that place could fit within the budget.

No worries.  He was gone by 10:55 and I was out the door, just in time.  

That was nearly a year ago.  Our last interaction.  With no social media to speak of, I was forced to track him down the old fashioned way.  Using my senses.  

With no recent tornado activity to guide me, I turned to a different type of storm.  The type that had ravaged the gulf coast over the past few months.  I turned toward hurricanes.  After all, storm chasers chase storms.

Location - Gainesville, Florida

Eta was bearing down on the Florida coast. 2020 had produced a prolific hurricane season.  So prolific, in fact, that the names had not only reached the Greek Alphabet...but they’d reached something called Eta.

Beta.  Omega.  Alpha.  Theta.  Epsilon.  Zeta.  I was familiar with all of these.  But Eta?  That just seemed like an estimated time of arrival, to me.  Or the name belonging to a really, really old woman.

Seated at a Sonic drive-thru, I instinctively ordered for two.  Slicing the request in half, I looked at the empty passenger’s seat.  Sadness darkened my soul.  Part because I missed Debris.  Part because, well, I hated driving.  Debris always manned the wheel.  And these Florida drivers were fairly unpredictable.

The food arrived.  A hot meal comprised of a bunch of things smothered in chili and cheese.  In the process of wolfing it down, I eyed a Holiday Inn on the horizon.  That’s where I figured Debris would be lodged.  He loved Holiday Inns.  The name made him feel like he was on holiday instead of working.

Holiday Inn Parking Lot

It didn’t take long for my suspicions to be confirmed.  A van that mirrored the one I was currently wheeling sat out front.  He’d apparently attempted to replicate the sturdy, trusty vehicle.  It also read ‘Storm Chasers Inc’ on the side.  

The hotel doors opened and there he was.  Leaning forward, I had trouble suppressing a smile.  It was great to see him again.  But...wait...what was that?  A NEW partner?

I became enraged.

Storming out of OUR old van, I headed toward his NEW van.  

“HEY!”

He froze.  Color ran from his face, “V...Vortex.  What are you doing here?”

“Who the fuck is that?” I pointed at a similarly short and scrawny middle-aged man.

Debris located his confidence, “This...THIS is my new partner.  His name is Wall Cloud.”

“The fuck kinda name is Wall Cloud?”

“He’s the most intimidating, forceful storm chaser I’ve ever met!”  He placed his arm around Wall Cloud’s narrow, thin shoulders.

“Fuck this.”  I kicked Wall Cloud in the gut and dropped him on the crown of his head atop the unforgiving pavement covering the Holiday Inn parking lot.  Debris gasped.

“Vortex!  You killed Wall Cloud!”

“He’s probably not dead,” I observed, wiping dirt from my freshly cleaned, early 2000s outfit, “just severely concussed.  But, hey, he had it coming.”

“HOW did he have it coming?”

With a friendly pat upon the narrow chest of Debris, an act to try and calm him down, I answered, “His name was stupid and he clearly had no idea what he was doing.  I just saved both your lives.”

It didn’t work.  Debris assaulted me with a flurry of lefts and rights, along with a few knife-edged chops mixed in.  Backed up against our old van, I did my best to fight him off, “Debris!  Ow!  Man, stop!  But...I have to say!  You seem to have the energy we’re going to need!”

He paused, “What energy?  What WE?!”

I soothed the sore spots around my head, neck, and face.  “We’re back!”

He doubled over.  The first sign of potential worry.  “What do you mean we’re back?”

“Dude, you’re really out of shape.”

His left arm raised, pointing at the Sonic.  I nodded, “Yea, that chili and cheese will get ya.”  He non-verbally agreed.

“Again, what do you mean we’re back?”

“Okay...hear me out before you get all angry again.”  His eyes looked my way.  They didn’t exactly broker a deal BUT it was a start.  So, I began to layout our opportunity within Project Honor.

On The Road Again

Old times.  That’s what this felt like, anyway.  Together again, in our old van, cruising down a midwestern interstate.  Only difference being I was behind the wheel while a slightly morose Debris stared, longingly out the passenger’s window.  An act that had been grating on my nerves for the past fifty miles.

“You gonna sulk all day?”

He shrugged.

“C’mon, man...we’re back on the open road.  We’re in the midwest.  A cyclone could drop from the sky at any moment!  It’s like old times!”

He sighed.  Fucker was acting like an annoyed spouse, without all the sexual benefits.  Whatever.  I cranked up the radio.  An exit caught my eye.  A memory emerged.

“Mattress Mary…”

Finally, a reaction that wasn’t melancholic from Debris.  Turning my way, words broke free from his pursed lips, “Oh no.”

Negative but, still, they were words.  A positive development.

“For old time’s sake, pal!  We haven’t seen ole Mattress Mary in years!”

“Yes, there’s a reason for that,” he clapped back.

Long story short, Mattress Mary is...or maybe was a wonderful woman who welcomed all male suitors into her double-wide, bedroom, and between her legs.  She was a beacon of release for all who sought such after a long, tiresome ordeal with the bitch known as life.

We visited her several times.  Until Debris began to feel a burn when he urinated.  Sad but true, he acquired ‘the clam’ from ole Mattress Mary.  She must have had it strong, too.  We weren’t exactly ‘unprotected’ when diving between those worn thighs.  Although, the prophylactics used were, well, of the cheaper variety.

“You got it cured, no biggie.”

He shuddered, “I’d rather not think about the time I harbored a condition known as the ‘gooey stuff’...please, keep on driving.”

And I kept on driving.  Straight to Mary’s.  I had an inkling something of use would be found upon our visit.  

Outside Mattress Mary's Double-Wide

“You coming?”

“No,” Debris declined, “I’m going to stay in here to avoid catching whatever number of diseases are floating around in there.”

“Suit yourself.”  I headed toward the double-wide.  It hadn’t changed one bit.  Right hand in my pocket, I felt around, locating my version of a lucky...a lone condom I always carried, just in case.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

“Coming!”  Ah, a soothing sound from the golden vocal cords that resided somewhere within that deep, deep throat of Mary.  She was still alive.

“VORTEX?!”  Her head tilted back, eyes wide with shock.  “Why I haven’t seen you since the pigs ate my brother,” she chuckled, reaching out and punching me in the chest, “how the hell are ya?”

I took the liberty of entering.  Mary had never been shy about allowing strangers into her abode.  “Oh, I’m good.”

“Why heavens to betsy...is that Debris out in your van?”

I nodded.

“Well tell him to get his scrawny ass in here!”

“He’s, not really up for it.  Still kinda scarred from last time.”

“What, cause I gave him the goo?  Pssh, that’s nothing.  He got it all cured.  Merely character building, that’s all!”

Had to admit, I forgot how much I dug her enthusiasm, “That’s what I tried to say but...ya know.  He’s in one of his moods.”

She frowned, shutting the door.  Entering the kitchen, she snared a bottle of Gatorade.  I snuck a peek and noticed a whole army of orange Gatorade inside her fridge.  “I’m afraid I’m a little tuckered out right now.  But ya give me ten or fifteen and I should be right as rain.”

I was inclined to accept her request until I heard...a familiar voice.

“Ya comin?  I can feel my legs seizin up!  I need hydration!”

Was that...Bulletproof Bob back there?

Mary’s plump ass shook to and fro as she hustled down the lone hallway of her double-wide, delivering the electrolyte heavy beverage to the voice of a man in desperate need of said ingredients.  I took it upon myself to head that way.  The room of ecstasy was upon my eyes.  They watered up a bit, thrilled to see such a sight ripe with erotic familiarity.  

But, the room wasn’t the only ‘sight for sore eyes’.  Laying atop Mary’s mattress was a very naked, very tired Bulletproof Bob.

“Bob?”  I don’t know why I phrased it in the form of a question.  Guess it was just natural instinct.

He eyed me, downing half his Gatorade.  “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.  If it ain’t ole Debris.”

Mary laughed, “That’s Vortex, silly.”

Bob’s furrowed brow said more than words possibly could.

“That blonde hair.  Takes me back.  He can work wonders with his tongue.”

I’d never felt so much pride.  “Why thank ya, Mary.”

My ebullience was short-lived.  I took stock of the complete lack of rubber protection.  “Bob!”  He finished off his Gatorade, handing it over to Mary who promptly evacuated the room to toss the trash away.  She kept a surprisingly tidy establishment.  “Are you going in raw?  You know she’s got like a hundred diseases!”

Bob stood, exposing everything he had to anyone within eyesight.  Scratching his saggy, hairy balls, he brushed past me, “Haha.  Ain’t that the truth.  But you know me, nothin can take this ole tiger down.”

True.  He hadn’t earned the name ‘bulletproof’ for nothing.  The man simply could not be harmed.  Which is what made him such a viable component to our storm chasing team.

“By the way,” I began the pitch for bringing him back into the fold.

Outside Mary’s

Debris furiously rolled his window down, “Is that Bob?!”

Bob, clothed and ready for the outside world once again, gave Debris a nod.  “Yep, it’d be the one and only.”

The first smile in days flashed across Debris’ face.  He was beginning to feel nostalgic.  That bit of whimsy acting as a necessary elixir propelling an old duo into action.

“Bye ya’ll!  If you get weary, just head on my ways!” Mary yelled, bidding us adieu from her front porch.

Seated inside the van, I fired up the engine.  “Alright, since we got Bob back...how about we find Gil?”

Gil Puxton.  THE Bill Paxton look alike.  We met him in Missouri years ago, chasing an enormous Twister.  Legend of Bill Paxton’s greatest look-alike spread like wild fire.  We just had to meet him.

And meet him we did.  As it turned out, his career as a true doppelganger had fallen on hard times.  With Paxton’s decreasing popularity, Puxton was basically useless.  With no other traits, he was forced to watch his empire slowly erode.  Until he met us.

Paxton’s greatest hit outside Club Dread – Twister.  Puxton found out we were storm chasers and decided to tag along, hoping it would resurrect his career.  And, while it may not have done exactly that, it did keep a broke man from being homeless.

So, where was Puxton these days?’

“Damn,” I held back the tears.  Debris sniffled to my left.  Bulletproof Bob dropped to one knee, caressing a tombstone newer than most.  It read ‘Gil Puxton’.

“One thing you can say about Gil...the man was completely dedicated to his craft.”  We’d come to learn he ended his life upon finding out that Bill Paxton had passed.

“I’ll miss his stories during long road trips in the middle of nowhere...even if they got pretty repetitive.  He told them with such vivacity,” Debris added.  And, he wasn’t wrong.

Unable to fully understand the idea of death due to his unkillable nature, Bob merely added, “Think we should put a tiny twister on this headstone?”

Not a bad idea.  Upon garnering an estimate and putting some money together, we officially requested and were granted permission to have a professional carve a twister into Gil’s headstone.

The band back together, minus one.  Seated inside a Waffle House, per tradition.  I’d laid it all out.  Informed them of our immediate plan.  Debris was growing warmer toward the idea of returning to the ring.  Bob, meanwhile, was just happy to be on the road again.

“We are gonna win those tag titles, regain acclaim within the industry, and parlay all of that success into finally earning the respect we deserve as storm chasers!”

Debris smiled, “I’ll admit.  Hurricanes were plentiful and I was making some headway, but nothing compares to the rush of chasing God’s wrath.”

Bulletproof Bob finished off a stack of pancakes by drinking the syrup which remained inside the metal container.  An unkillable human can pretty much ingest whatever it likes.  A thick, sticky belch preceded, “Sounds good to me, boys.  So long as we don’t become strangers as far as Mattress Mary is concerned.”

“You should make an honest woman out of her, Bob,” I commented.

Silence followed for a few minutes before the three of us burst into uncontrollable laughter.

HONOR

Most people, if asked, would cite conditioning or physical awareness, in regards to which trait attains the most rust during a sabbatical from the squared circle.  I’m not most people.  To me, if you’re physically good at something, you should be able to get back on that proverbial bicycle seat and speed quickly and efficiently toward your destination.

Nope.  I’m definitely not most people.  If you ask me, the majority of rust resides within the realm of promo.  The art to systematically dissect your opponent, leaving them speechless, disarmed, and utterly lacking in confidence.  It’s an art that can only be nurtured and sharpened through the course of time spent under the dome of competition.

Prolonging the inevitable only increases its level of difficulty.  So, here I am – prolonging no more.  It’s time to get down to business.  It’s time to address the elephant in the room.  It’s time to convince the world why The Storm Chasers have a shot against a team as accomplished as Paranoia.

You see, typically, while doing this sort of thing the ‘trash talker’ has experience inside the very federation they are promoting.  Which, lessens the burden.  After all, it’s easier to talk shit about a friend or family member than a complete stranger.

Yet, here I sit.  Faced with the task of defeating two complete strangers within a federation I barely know.  As if rust weren’t challenging enough, I’m provoked with probing and dissecting a foreign body.  A carcass of which there is no previous comparison.  No past case for reference in an effort to move ahead with sharpened efficiency.

But, that’s okay.  I’m a storm chaser after all and you can’t survive as long as I have chasing storms without the ability to improvise.  So, without further ado...let’s get into it.

Paranoia.  A name which, on the outside, sounds cool but, when you really begin to peer behind the aesthetic you start to realize it makes little-to-no sense.  I mean who’s getting paranoid?  Does it indicate that you two are creating paranoia within your opponents?  How?  By diving and crawling over and around each other during your entrance?  Because one of you has a Japanese name?  I don’t get it.  You look like a couple of ordinary wrestlers, to me.

Or, is it the opposite.  Does the name indicate that the two members under its questionable banner are victims of paranoia?  Kira and Jordan, are the two of you paranoid?  If so, why?  Paranoid of each other?  Fearful that one partner will have had their fill and turn on the other with higher goals in mind?  Fearful that you aren’t good enough and will eventually be exposed at the hands of a superior team (like the Storm Chasers!)?

It may be the former.  Then again, it might be the latter.  And, then again...it could just be a moniker you two thought sounded cool and slapped it across all your gear and merchandise without ever stopping to ask the simple, yet all-important question of ‘why’?

“Oh for fuck’s sake, man, it’s just a name!”  I hear that all the time.  It’s just a name.  But a name tells so much about a tandem.  Take The Storm Chasers.  We chase storms.  We don’t run from a fight.  We go after the very biggest, the very meanest, and the most violent with optimism.  Challenges that fear most instill us with the hope of attaining a transcendent victory.

Legacy, another example.  The Raven and the Warstein.  Their name portends ideals of a higher order.  To establish something that will last longer than a couple of months.  They seek to establish the type of success that doesn’t leave someone like me wondering, aloud “who the fuck are these two?”

Which is the very question I find myself asking about you guys over and over.  

For all the accolades and championships listed under your bio, not a one of them sounds familiar or speaks with any sort of volume.  They mean about as much as the food images adorning a Denny’s menu.  Fabricated and fluffed in an attempt to deceive.

Paranoia.  Give me a break.  Your name is about as lame as your act.  It’s as thin as the aforementioned Denny’s menu.  You two are nothing more than a couple of wannabes.  Wicked exteriors with an interior incapable of lasting a sneeze let alone the gale force winds you’re set to bear when you step foot in the ring with my partner and me.

But you guys are only half the battle.  Sorry to say.  If that bruises your ego or increases your PARANOIA, apologies.  Far from my intention.  It’s merely to state that the other half of a victorious equation rests on our shoulders.  Our ability to bounce back from a four-year hiatus.  

It’s been a long time.  We’ve scattered, broken apart.  Once a strong unit, time, and its hardships forced us into alternative directions.  Yet, we persevered.  We survived.  And now, fate has brought us back together.  

Pro wrestling was never the ultimate goal.  It was always a means to an end.  Once that end was reached, we assumed our careers as legitimate competitors were over.  We were wrong.  Project: Honor has reforged the duo and pointed us in the direction of a new quest.  A quest to take an infantile tag division and build it into something extraordinary.

Opportunities like this don’t come along all that often.  Hence why we are here.  Why I went through the trouble of rounding up the necessary pieces to the storm chasing puzzle.  This is our opportunity to emerge from obscurity and claim what was our goal from the very start – respect.

Respect within the pro wrestling industry as well as within the storm chasing community.  Age only increases, it never trends in a favorable direction.  That window of opportunity shrinks with each passing breath.  Our window is lower than most.  This may be our final chance to make a lasting mark in one or both of our desired occupations.

So we’ve dropped straight out of the sky.  An E-F1.  Barely nibbling away at the ground, hoping to gain strength as it commences on its path of destruction.  

We are here.  We are building.  We’re gaining momentum.  And, if the conditions are right, we will manifest into a raging storm destroying everything in our path.

It starts with you, Paranoia.

It ends with tag team gold.