Stuff I've Tried To Write But Didn't Finish

Hello readers!  Some years back I started a couple of creative writing projects that I never finished.  Maybe one day I will, but until then, I thought I would go ahead and 'publish' what I did finish.  Mind you, I am actually working a theological book entitled "The Laws of the Kingdom," but that is as of yet still in the research stage.  So I submit these two pieces as an ode to those of us who start a lot of things but seldom finish.

The first is a Christian Science Fiction book that I began over eleven years ago - it was, at that time an allegory loosely based on my life with the obvious spiritual and sci fi overtones.  It was meant as somewhat of a tongue in cheek project.  I actually did write an outline for five full books, but only, as you will see, finished the first 2 chapters.  It is entitled "Defenders of the Kingdom."

The second is another inspirational fiction piece built around the world of professional wrestling.  Without spoiling the ending that I will likely never get around to writing, the main character eventually finds God and leaves the wrestling business to be a preacher.  It is entitled "Wrestling With God," and homage of course to our friend Jacob, who wrestled with the Angel of the Lord until the breaking of the day.  Hope you enjoy these!

``Introduction…

Happening II

At this moment in time, the Archean Galaxy is living in an extended period of peace, seventeen years to be exact.  Since the Shadow Master Octikane’s hostile takeover of the Capital Planet Archeo, and ultimately his defeat at the hands of Way Nardo, there had been no battles whatsoever, only blissful peace.

The Kingdom of Archeo desired to make Way Nardo their next king.  He took the offer, but immediately reorganized the loosely connected Archean Kingdom into the galaxy’s first Democratic Theocracy, and as such named himself Grand General Superintendent. 

The only stronghold left in the Kingdom of Shadows is its center of operations, the dark capital planet of Hadessa.  Unbeknownst to Way Nardo or the Democratic Theocracy of Archeo, Octikane’s successor, Trinitus, is biding his time, rebuilding a magnificent military of his own and laying the groundwork for another attempt at conquering the capital planet Archeo, and thus the entire galaxy.

In the Galactic Research Department a shocking discovery is made.  On the outskirts of the galaxy lay an uncharted, possibly uninhabited planet, quickly named Legenoa.  Wishing to spread good and peace, Way Nardo and the Executive Council rule to send spies to the planet, and in the event of a favorable witness to colonize in the name of God.

Chapter 1: Discovery

            Onus Gofu was once a mighty soldier in the Grand Archean Army.  A fairly decorated one, at that.  Nearly twenty years had passed since he fought valiantly in the Battle of Archeo.  Now older, he was quite appreciative of his “desk job,” as he so often called it.  As the director of the Galactic Research Department, Gofu’s job was neither dangerous or glamorous as it had been before, but he rather preferred it that way.  As was the custom of most veterans of the terrific battle, he would happily share an old story or two to anyone willing to listen.  Tonight, sitting in his swivel chair aside a panel of computer screens and instruments he had a listener.

            “Tell me again, Sir Onus, about the magnificent battle for Archeo,” asked a young boy sitting cross legged at the elder’s feet.

            “It was a spectacular battle, son.  The movie they made about it didn’t do it justice,” he continued on to the young research apprentice of his.  He stroked his grayed beard intently as he talked.  As if feeling once again that very same passion that he had felt before, he pulled away from the instrument panel and looked toward a starry night sky and continued.  “There were thousands of ships and fighter pods.  Explosions everywhere.  We lost a lot of good young men that day.  I personally shot down sixteen Hadessian Fighterpods.  I shall be bereft of any more accolades than that, I am afraid.”

            “I was not even born yet, sir.” His apprentice started.  “How did we win that battle if indeed we were so unprepared and outnumbered?”

            “Well, you have to understand at this point that the Hadessian ruler Octikane had literally physically taken control of the Capital Building.”

            “And that’s when…”

            “That is when our Grand General Superintendent, Way Nardo himself defeated Octikane.  It was a spectacular duel.  Instead of fighting with guns or bombs, they fought with swords.  God was with Way Nardo, that day son, and helped him to overcome the evil Shadow Master.”

            “What’s a…” the boy started.

            “A Shadow Master, you ask?”  Onus completed the thought for the young man.  “He is a man who has mastered and in fact become all things darkness.  He has given himself completely to the ways contrary to God and his Holy Words.  God is light, you see.  Anything that excludes God, any way of life that does not acknowledge Him leaves itself in darkness.  That is exactly what Octikane did.”

            “I don’t mean to ask so many questions Sir Onus, but if this Shadow fellow did not acknowledge God, nor live for God, as you say, how did he become so powerful?”

            “Remember this son, for this is knowledge that you will no doubt be in need of one day.”  Onus was now gesturing slightly with his index finger.  “For everything in God’s Kingdom, the devil has a counterfeit, including the power of faith.  You see, faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen.  Without it, it is impossible to please God, but with it, you can move mountains if they stand between you and God’s will and purpose.  Having said that, do you believe that faith is a powerful thing son?”

            “Yes I do, sir,” replied the boy.

            “A Shadow Master has faith, alright, powerful faith indeed, but a Shadow Master’s faith is not in God, it is in himself,” Onus explained.  “Sometimes, it is in his idols, which are connected with a supernatural connection to demons and such.”

            “The same way our faith is connected to angels, sir?”

            Onus chuckled at the boy’s wisdom.  “You are very wise, my son, to know so much.  You know the answer to this then: how does faith work?”

            “By love, sir,” responded the boy.

            “Precisely.  A Shadow Master’s faith is not fueled by love, but by hatred.  So you have then the polar opposite of a God fearing man full of faith and love.  You have someone who has wholly given themselves over to idolatry, faith in themselves, and hatred.  You, unfortunately, have a force to reckoned with on your hands.  You couple that with his charismatic followers that he had, and he had in fact amassed quite an army, conquered many planets, and was a formidable threat to our way of life, until that fateful day.”

            “The day of the battle, Sir?”

            “Indeed.”

            Just then there was a high pitched single beep emitted from the control panel.  Onus popped out of his reminiscing and turned his head toward the information screen on the control panel.  “That’s a bit unusual,” he said.

            “What is it, sir?” asked the boy.

            Onus began punching a few buttons on the control panel.  He quickly arose from his chair and walking to the front of the magnificent telescope.  Heart pounding, he placed his eyes in the binocular viewing chamber.  “Oh my, this…this cannot be.  Amazing.”

            “What is the matter, sir?  May I be of some assistance in some way?”

            “I am afraid not, my son.”  Onus pulled his head away from the viewer and looked at the boy.  “In fact, you had better run along now, I have much business to attend to.  Give your parents my best and please tell them I assuredly appreciate your company.”  He returned to the viewer. 

            “Thank you, sir,” said the boy, running out the door of the observatory.

            “It cannot be, but it is.  I shall have much news to bring to Way Nardo.  He shall be very pleased.”  Onus hopped over to a an old wooden desk tucked away in the corner of the room and began to scribble on a sheet of paper.  “Unbelievable.”

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            Although the sun had not yet appeared, its light was beginning to show in the metropolitan capital district of the magnificent planet, Archeo.  A cool, hazy blue filled the air.  Flypods were hustling about on every lane, land and air, no doubt commuting to and from the places of business and government.  It was busy, yes, yet at the same time peaceful. 

            Way Nardo landed in his parking space, located directly next to his study office door at Worship Stadium.  Although the capital building itself was outfitted with a temple to pray and meditate, Way Nardo preferred the solitude of his own private pastoral office, rather than that of his much larger and much more hectic executive office within the capital building. 

            The stadium was one of the jewels of the galaxy, and by far the largest center of worship.  It’s sheer size alone was something hard for any imagination to comprehend.  Having a seating capacity of over 300,000, it was the certainly the preferred place of worship for most Archeans.  The sun was beginning to light upon the brilliant and massive stained glass windows on the eastern side of the arena. 

            The door to his LX 575 Flypod opened vertically as the wings and the tail folded into the main body of the vehicle.  Long and sleek, black with gold trim, the LX model fly pods were known for their luxury and performance. 

            Way Nardo began toward the door a few feet away but then noticed a familiar vehicle two parking spots over, with a familiar face asleep upon the steering wheel.  Curious, he walked toward the windshield of the much more compact JJS 414 flypod and gave it a tap.  “Onus? Onus, wake up.”

            The sleeping man came alive at once with a start.  Staring up through the windshield he realized who had awoken him and smiled.  Onus popped open his door and began to walk toward the Grand General Superintendent, but before he totally forgot his manners he got down on one knee and bowed his head to his far superior.  “Greetings in the name of God, sir, I hope you are blessed, most assuredly blessed this day.”

            “I am.  Onus, have you been sleeping in your pod all night?  What’s the matter?”

            “I assure you sir, if you will give me a few moments of your time, there is a reasonable explanation for my irrational behavior,” Onus said, arising from his previous kneeling position. 

            “OK, lets go inside though, I need some coffee.”  Although Onus was well acquainted with the superintendent,   it was a rare day to be able sit down to a cup of coffee with the man.  Way Nardo pressed his thumb to the small circular plate next to the door. 

            “Greetings, pastor,” came an electronic voice from the door as it slid open. 

            “Yeah, you too, you crazy talking door,” said Way Nardo. 

            After a short walk down a fairly plain hallway the two gentlemen took  a left turn down a shorter hallway, where one more door awaited them, and one more thumb plate.  “Greetings, oh king and master of the freaking universe,” came another electronic voice. 

            “Sorry,” said a sheepish Way Nardo.  “I meant to change that, some kids where in my office playing around with that thing.”  The door slid open to reveal a plush and colorfully decorated office.    A large and dark wooden desk stood elegantly in the middle.  Two couches made of rare animal furs layed in front of the desk atop throw rugs, woven by the rarest of tapestry experts on Monte Nova.  Two large bookshelves on the south wall stretched all the way to ceiling, filled with hundreds of books.  The wall itself was like a museum of sorts, displaying many rare artifacts from around the galaxy.  The desk itself was kept fairly neat and clean.  It did feature a cup full of pens and a small stack of papers in the middle.  Behind the desk on the back wall was a large flat screen phone monitor.  “Have a seat my friend,” he offered to Onus.

            “As sure as God is shut up in my bones, sir, I cannot sit at this moment.  You must see this for yourself, my liege.  I have made a discovery, sir,”  said an excited Onus.

            “Well, its about time.  We’ve had you jammed up in that observatory for fifteen years.  I was beginning to wonder if it was worth the money,” said Way Nardo in his usual sarcasm.  “Just a second,” Way Nardo reached for the intercom button on his desk.  “Miss Mansa, can you bring me and a friend two cups of coffee, please.”

            “Right away, sir.”

            “Now Onus, tell me more about this discovery that you made.”

            “I really don’t know how to tell you other than to show you, sir.”  With that, Onus pulled out a small circular disc.  “Do you have a projector by any chance, my liege?” 

            “Yeah, here you go.”  Way Nardo pulled out a small, semicircular object with a lens at the top and placed it on the desk.  “Lights low, please,” he said.  The lights obeyed without question and the room went dark as Onus Gofu placed the disc in the drive of the projector.  In a moments time the room was filled with thousands of what appeared to be simple white dots.

            “Do you recognize any of this, sir?  It should look somewhat familiar.” 

            “Onus, I’m a bit rusty on my geography, but I’d say you have a fairly accurate three dimensional hologram of the northwestern corner of our galaxy.  Some of the formations look familiar, yes.’

            “You are correct sir, it is the northwestern section of our galaxy.”

            “Well, I hate to tell you this, Onus, but we discovered the northwest corner of the galaxy years ago.  I mean, I’m glad you found it and all, but that’s not really news.”

            Breaking the humor of the moment, Onus stood to his feet and walked a few feet toward the door.  Facing the superintendent he raised his voice slightly.  “Do you notice anything different about this particular area, my liege?” 

            “To be honest, I see dots, and stars.  I’m not sure what you are trying to show me, Onus.”

            “Of course you don’t, we are not looking close enough.  Move to the next slide, please, sir.”  For a moment the room went totally dark, and then the image reappeared, this time with a much closer view of the section in which Onus was referring to.  “Now what do you see.”

            “I see a cluster of stars, most of them white or yellow in color.  And then…”

            “And then you see this!”  Onus pointed directly at a bluish colored ball tucked behind two larger stars. 

            “A blue star?  Wow.  We found a blue star in the middle of a whole bunch of white and yellow ones.  We shall have the maps updated immediately.”  Way Nardo feigned enthusiam for the purpose of humoring Onus, raising his index finger sharply, as if to indicate his determination to do just that.

            “No my liege.  Move to the next slide, please.”  The room went dark and now the only image visible directly above the desk was the blue ball.  Now clearly visible were oceans, and land, and clouds.

            The humor left Way Nardo’s face.  He swallowed abruptly.  “Wow.  Is that what I think it is?”

            “My liege, it is a planet. It has been tucked away behind those two large stars.  Our equipment has just picked up on it, thanks to some lucky orbital timing.  A planet, your honor.  It is not in any of the records.  We don’t know what’s on it, or if it is populated.  We don’t know anything but what we see here.”

            “So there could be life there?  People?” asked the still incredulous Grand General Superintendent.

            “Theoretically my liege, the planet is large enough to accommodate a few billion comfortably.  It certainly appears to be set as far as its water content; the clouds appear to be of normal precipitory formations, so it does not appear to be full of poisonous gas or anything.  There are not too many planets like that that don’t have life, but not that far out into the section.  What shall we do, sir?”

            Way Nardo tapped a button on the projector.  The room went dark.  “Lights up, please,” he commanded the lights, and they obeyed.  He handed the projector to Onus.  “Take this, guard it with your life, and meet me in the Executive Council’s Chambers over at the capital building tomorrow at nine in the morning.  We have many decisions that must be made.”  He then reached down to the intercom button once more.  “Mansy, cancel my appointments today, please.  Some urgent business has come up.”

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            The Knights of Faith Temple was a glorious structure indeed.  Mere blocks from the great Capital Building, which held the executive offices, and a stone’s throw from the Assembly of Representatives (name of building), the temple served as a perfect compliment to the governmental buildings.  The temple covered nearly 25 acres of land, but was only 10 stories high, and that of its domed cathedral style roof.  Within its confines was a school for Knights to be, classrooms, chapels, and two Holosword gymnasiums.  Knights were educated in all points; mathematics, science, history, but mainly in the ways of a Knight: God’s laws and expectations of them, Holosword skills, preaching, and various forms of ministry.       

            Most would agree the true crown jewel of the temple was its three acre courtyard.  Its beauty was not known to be matched in any nook or cranny in the galaxy.  Trees that produced foliage of all the colors of the rainbow were present, plants and flowers lined the stone pathways that weaved peacefully in and around the complex.  Statues of angels and heroes, gold, silver, and bronze, surrounded by the massive stained glass windows of the adjacent rooms caused the place to be of no equal to anything currently or formerly known among the Archean Society.  It was a privileged few who were ever allowed to roam the stone paths of the courtyard.

            At its center was a pool, and at its center a fountain, twelve feet high, with four individual rounded baths from top to bottom.  The water, crystal clear, was always flowing from the top of the fountain into the pool below.  The marble that made the fountain was said to have included every perceptible color in the spectrum, but interweaved with both gold and silver.  The stone pathway circled around the pool nicely.  Several stone benches were placed at even intervals on the outer side of the path surrounding the pool.  Many a knight would come and sit, meditate, or pray.  It was appropriately named the Fountain of Refreshing.

            Knight of Faith Master Finleo Davidian sat at the northernmost bench by the fount, under the shade of a rare Promand Tree.  This time of year, the tree yielded florescent pink and yellow leaves, and a wonderful amount of shade.  Sitting next to him was his armor bearer, Edmond Danjess.  The cool touch of morning still remained in the shade of the tree, even though the sun began to caress the waters of the Fountain.

            The young armor bearer sat silently, but wrestled with questions in his mind.  Hating to break the serenity of the moment, he dared but whisper the question to his master.

            “Shall it always be like this, master?” asked the young apprentice, his short wispy black hair somewhat aloft in the breeze.

            “I hope so.  Its really peaceful out here.  Especially peaceful,” replied the Knight, dressed in his usual tan shoulder guards with the over tunic, and his black tights. 

            “I don’t mean the weather sir.  With all due respect, I feel no peace.  I feel an unrest in my spirit,” said Edmond, now speaking at a regular tone.  His brow furrowed and he gestured inwardly with his hand upon the comment.

            Finleo turned to his friend with a concerned look.  “Are you alright, my friend.  What is it that troubles you?” he asked earnestly.

            Edmond turned toward the fountain and gazed at it as he formed the questions in his mind.  Not taking his eyes off the fountain he spoke.  “I just lack understanding, I suppose.  If the Knights of Faith are such an important part of the fabric of our society, then why did the government make the changes it did seventeen years ago.  Why did they disband the Elders Council and the Inner Circle?”

            “You are not the first to ask that question, Edmond.  Way Nardo decided after the end of the last war and the defeat of Octikane that it wasn’t necessary anymore for the knights to play the role they once did, even though he himself was a knight of the Inner Circle.  After Octikane died, there was great political pressure to disband the Elders Council, and it was the prophets’ idea to disband the Inner Circle,” explained Finleo.

            Edmond placed his head in his hands, and then looked up with a semi frustrated grin.  “Speak simply to me, master.  Your words confuse me.”

            “Way Nardo, although a great Knight, wanted to adjust the system once he was elected.  He disbanded the Elders Council, and the Inner Circle-”

            “Yes, but why?  I just want to know why?”

            “He felt that in times of peace the Knights of Faith did not need the same amount of power and influence that they had in times of war.  He felt that in a time of peace, the knights could locally govern themselves and did not need an Elders council, at least not in any official capacity.”

            “I ask my first question again to you my master, shall it always be that way?”

            “It is hard to say.  Be not of a discouraged spirit my young friend.  Way Nardo’s government has allowed us to have a peaceful and prosperous society galaxy wide.  He laid down his sword and took up the mantle of a leader and the pastor of a great church.  His intentions were for the best.  The Hadessian army has not been heard from in seventeen years.  If they were going to retry to take the galaxy, surely they would have done it by now.”

            “I once heard a rumor that Octikane had a successor under him.  Is that true, master?” asked Edmond.

            “Yes it is.  A tall, dark, sinsister fellow known only as Trinitus.  He and his planet are hidden beyond the south asteroid belt.  There is know way to know of his status, but most agree that he has not the capabilities of producing the threat his master did.  Octikane was a conqueror of conquerors.  And a persuader of persuaders.  He managed to control thousands of rogue planets before his ultimate defeat.  Way Nardo used his diplomatic and economic sway to bring most planets back into the control of the Archean Government.  As far as we know, Trinitus has slipped into the shadows of history.”

            “Master, with all due repect, that is an arrogant and foolhardy assumption, is it not?”

            “Be at peace, my son, for God is on his throne.  He knows and sees all.  If Trinitus becomes a threat, and our way of life is threatened, surely God will show the prophets, and the prophets will surely speak a word to the nations.”  The confident tone of faith in his master voice did much to calm the young apprentice.

            “You are wise, master.  I should not be so worrisome about things, for I am not even a knight yet, myself.  It is immature of me to think that God will forsake his people.  I will not concern myself with such things, and I will focus on simply becoming the best Knight that I can.” 

            “You will one day be a far greater knight than me or anyone that you know, Edmond.  God and time will work that out for you.”  Finleo spoke very highly of his young apprentice.  “I sense a great desire in you.  I want you to know that.  Desire will take you a long way.

            “I do have a great desire.  I want to be a great and fearless knight, but I fear to say I am nothing more than a timid learner, at best.  And add to that I grow impatient very easy.  I am glad that you are my master, for you are a great Knight, sir.”

            “Oh, don’t start with all that, now, I am merely a servant of my God and my Superintendent,” replied Finleo.

            “Not only are you legendary with your holosword, your sermons are of great renown.  You are highly respected and loved by your peers.  I am blessed to be training under you,” the admiration for his master was very evident in his tone and expression.  Finleo was clearly very moved.

           

              

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            Way Nardo stood at the end of the long, black and white marble table.  Adorned in the newer suit style garb of most politicians, he began to speak to the group before him.  There were six men on each side of the table, for the most part dressed as Way Nardo, formal slacks, white shirts, but still with the Archean vestage of a tunic to top things off.  The Archean Executive Council sat intently waiting the news of the Superintendent.

            “Gentlemen, I would first like to start by thanking all of you for being here on such short notice.  This kind of news, however, is very urgent and requires our immediate attention.  I know you are all very busy with things in your own districts, so I will make this as short and sweet as possible.  Lights please.”

            The lights in the executive board room lowered and Way Nardo flipped on the small holographic projector and the room was filled with the three dimensional view of the northwest end of the galaxy.  “Any astronomers in the house want to tell me what’s wrong with this picture?”

            “It appears to be the northwest section of our galaxy, sir.  What are we looking for, exactly?” asked Southwest District Executive Presbyter, Marrell Stardust.

            “I have probably seen that map a thousand times,” stated Lari Skybook, the very tall and very rotund Northwest Presbyter.  “I am afraid I do not notice anything different.”

            “It, uh, it, uh, it look like map,” interjected Elviz Wi, the Northeastern Presbyter.  “Definitely a map, yes.”

            “Thank you, Sir Elviz.  You’re skills of deduction are amazing,” he said, then turning to the whole of the group, he continued, “from this vantage point, you can’t see anything different or out of the ordinary.  Let’s look at slide number two.”  Way Nardo clicked a button on the projector and the board then saw the same second image shown to Way Nardo by Onus the day previous.  The group stared and looked.

            “I see it,” said Hunty Waning.  The tall man in his mid fifties stood to his feet.  His hair, slicked back as it usually was appeared to be dotted with the closer holographic view.  “It’s right there.  That blue dot.  What is that, a star? A blue star in the middle of a bunch of white ones?”

            David Bernhardt spoke up.  “If it were a star, then why the cause for alarm?”  A silence filled the dark room. 

            “It’s not a star, gentlemen,” said Way Nardo.  Pausing for somewhat of unneeded dramatic effect, he moved to the next slide.  The planet hovered aboved the massive table and the politicians with about a five foot diameter.  The blue oceans, and white wispy clouds were evident.  It began to dawn on the members of the Executive Council exactly what they were looking at.  Way Nardo waited for someone to stand and proclaim the revelation, no doubt the biggest discovery in short history of the DTA.

            “I don’t want to run the risk of assuming too much here, but -” started Bo Cloud, quickly interrupted by Elviz Wi.

            “Oh, Great God in Heaven, it look like planet!  Spherical shape and planet like attributes indicate it, uh, look like planet!” stated the excited presbyter.  Bo Cloud looked over at the man with a look indicative of feigned offense on the part of his being interrupted.  With a hint of complimentary righteous indignation, he turned back to Way Nardo and continued.

            “As I was saying, I wouldn’t want to take a chance on being overly presumptuous concerning the identification and the ramifications of the presently hovering holographic orb, however -”

            “It look like planet,” said Wi, interrupting, but precisely finishing his colleague’s thought.

            “Right., my uh, sentiments precisely,” said Cloud.

            “Gentlemen, it is a planet.  Somehow, someway, it has gone undiscovered.  Astronomically speaking, its been hiding between two much larger stars that orbit one another, Finn Porteo 7888778, and Finn Frieno 5685855.  From the early readouts we got, it looks like has the ability to support life, now we don’t know if there is life, but we are fairly sure that it can.  It’s a small planet, roughly one fourth the diameter of Archeo,” said Way Nardo.  The room was now abuzz with a high level of excitement. 

            With a crazed look in his eye, Sir Bladon Evay, the District Superintendent of the Northern District stood to his feet unable to control himself.  “WE MUST EVANGELIZE THIS LOST WORLD IMMEDIATELY!” he shouted.  Way Nardo motioned with his hands for him to calm down.

            “I appreciate the enthusiasm and the sense of urgency, and certainly if it looks like there are civilizations on the planet that need to know the truth, we will make sure they know it, but right now we cannot just jump to the conclusion that there is anything out there at all.  It would be a hasty mistake to send an entire crew out there, only to have them lost, or worse yet, massacred or something.”

            The man directly to his left spoke up.  The rather short but very debonair Alistair Henon always had a good logical point to add to any discussion.  “Perhaps it would be safe in the short run to send a few spies there, just to see what kind of planet it is and what we are dealing with,” he said.

            “I like idea.  Spies good.  Send knights to spy, a good idea,” interjected Wi.  The room nodded in agreement.

            “I shall send two of the finest knights on Archeo.  Soon, we’ll have some answers,” concluded Way Nardo.  The room nodded in agreement.

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            Finleo walked with his armor bearer, Edmond down the main hallway of the Knights of Faith Temple.  There were other knights out and about this time of day as well.  Although the Elders Council and the Inner Circle had been disbanded, the Knights of Faith still served some function in society, even though there was no central leadership.

            “I have many things to teach you Edmond, but as I said earlier, you will become a great Knight of Faith, I have no doubt about that,” said Finleo, as they walked briskly toward the holosword gym.

            “I appreciate your faith in me, master.  Is it true that there are only a few thousand knights of faith left in the galaxy?” asked Edmond.       

            “It’s sad, but its true.  After the central leadership was disbanded, and the war ended, a lot of knights retired, and we simply have not had a lot of new knights join, comparatively.  At one time there were close to five thousand Knights of Faith, now there are actually less than one thousand.  Knights are not volunteers, Edmond.  They are chosen by prophets as well as other knights, and then trained.  The requirements are simple, but hard for many to attain.  If a man is to be a knight, he must be full of Faith, full of the Spirit, and full of love for his fellow man.  Without these three things, Edmond, a knight will surely meet a quick end at the first trials that come along.”

            “And you have seen these things in me, sir?” asked Edmond.

            “Yes, I have, and in time you will see these things in yourself as well,” said Finleo.

            “And today you will teach me the way of the holosword, master?” asked Edmond.

            “Indeed.  This is a day I have looked forward to for quite sometime.” 

            The men continued to walk past the tall marble columns toward the gym.  Normally a quiet and peaceful place, the temple came alive upon entering the glorious holosword gym.  Silence quickly turned to the sharp clangs and chings of sword smashing against sword, some grunting and man noises, as well as the shuffling of feet across the floor.  The sights took Edmond’s breath away.

            Finleo had reserved the corner section of the gym for him and his armor bearer, and it was to there to they walked.  In the center circle of the reserved section they stood face to face.  Finleo pulled what appeared to be the handles of two swords from a small sheath in his belt.  “This is a holosword, Edmond.  A practice edition.  You won’t be able to kill a Noctgurior flea with it.  It is for learning purposes.  When you have demonstrated that you are able to handle it, I will present you with your own sword.  Here,” he said, handing the seventeen year old the grayish metallic handle.  “Now stand back and push that button at the top of your handle, Edmond.”

            “Yes, master.”  Edmond took a step back and obediently hit the button.  In a moments time, a holographic projection of a long and metal blade appeared on the end of the handle.  After some electro static let off, the blade quickly hardened.  Edmond held his first sword, and his heart lept within him.  “I have always dreamed of holding a holosword in my hand, master.”

            Finleo ignited his blade as well.  “Now, what do you think the first rule of sword fighting is, Edmond?” 

            Edmond smiled and said, “I am not sure, sir.  Try not to get hit in the face I suppose.”      

            “There are many rules and principles I must teach you, and that you will learn in time.  However, the first basic principle is this: if you can’t be hit, you can’t be beat.”

            “If I can’t be hit, I can’t be beat.  That’s easy enough.”

            “Easier said than done, Edmond.  The second principle is like the first.  If you cannot strike, you cannot win.”

            “I see.  I am to first make sure that I cannot be struck, and all at once find a way to strike,”  Edmond pondered the principles a moment longer.

            “It will require many things to learn these basic principle Edmond.  Speed, strength, endurance, balance, technique, and most of all heart.  Heart cannot be taught, Edmond, you must simply have it already, which I have seen that you do.  There is a difference between a good swordfighter and a Knight of Faith.  A knight truly has the tools of good swordfighter, but has love and faith as well.  Love and faith cannot be taught, Edmond.”

            “You are to teach me all of these things?”

            “Indeed.”

            “And when are we to we begin this no doubt arduous process?” asked the learner.

            “Here,” said Finleo taking a battle ready stance, sword held with hands, pointed up, at shoulder level.  “Do your best to strike me anywhere besides my sword.”

            Edmond took a jab at the master.  The holosword was met with the defiant clang of its defender.  “Good try,  try some other things.”  Edmond took an overhead swing, a swing toward the ribs, a couple at the legs, each one met with the same defiant defense.  “Good.  A little bit faster.”  Edmond began to swing the holosword with vehemence.  Much to his chagrin, Finleo, seemingly effortlessly, block every blow, as if he knew where the sword would strike before Edmond even begin to swing.

            “Master,” began an exasperated Edmond, “I’m not sure what we are accomplishing with this exhibition of my lack of skill, sir.”

            “Much, my faithful knight to be.”

            Edmond disengaged the blade of his sword and caught his breath.  “I don’t mean to give up so easy, but I don’t think I can hit you, sir.”

            “Now we can learn something, Edmond.  How are you swinging the sword?”

            “Well, with as much speed and strength as I can muster.  I try to think ahead of time where you are going to block and aim away from that area.  It doesn’t seem to be working.”

            “Edmond, something that you must learn about being a Knight of Faith, is that we don’t swing the sword of our own ability.  The sword represents the very word of God, does it not?  What does the scripture say?  The ‘sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.’ Edmond, you are to become God’s knight.  Your sword represents his word.  You cannot swing it of your own volition and expect to win a battle.  You must fight as God’s Spirit leads you, just as you would do if you were to be speaking his word.”

            “The sword represents God’s word,” said Edmond, attempting to clarify his master’s statement.

            “Yes Edmond.  Know what the word of the Lord says: ‘the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any twoedged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.’  If you will allow yourself to be led of the Spirit, then so shall the sword be in your hand.”

            “I am afraid there is more to sword fighting than I presumed, master.  I feel altogether unworthy and inadequate.”

            “Edmond, in due time, you will understand completely.”

            “Can you teach me to be led of the Spirit, master?”

            “I will teach you Edmond.  Both the ways of the sword and how to be led of the Spirit.”

            “Master, am I to presume that being led of the Spirit cannot be taught in a loud and busy gymnasium?”

            “You are very wise Edmond.”  Finleo was truly proud of his apprentice, and had long awaited the day that he would get to train him in the art of the holosword.  He was also proud of the fact that very quickly Edmond seemed to have a mental grasp a key principle of being a Knight of Faith, that being that a knight is not to live of himself, but for God and his people, nor to fight of himself, but for God, and his people.  Finleo was sure that the basic mechanics of swordplay would surely follow.  “Why don’t we go over the basics tomorrow Edmond.  Tonight you should allow yourself some solitude, and some alone time with God.  Listen to his voice.  Meditate.  Then tomorrow we will pick up our swords once more.”

(want to extend this slightly, maybe go in to some more basics.)

           

             Chapter 2: (working title) an old prophecy

Book of the Ancient Prophets (Chapter 100, Verse 1)

“The reign of one evil will end, and there shall be a time of peace.  At the end of the peace, the man of three shall arise to make a great war with God and his kingdom.  There shall be twelve stones, and then twelve stones again, and out of the twelve, the Amethyst.  Two shall fall, one by the sword of his master, and the betrayer by his own hand.”

            (ed note: later maybe add more detail here as far as how Edmond was discovered, plus a more descriptive explanation of Edmond’s room, the complex, and the life of a knight, but not if I can work it in elsewhere…)

            Edmond knelt at the side of his bed and prayed.  He felt as though he was in way over his head.  It had been two years since he was discovered by Finleo on an out of the way trip to the small planet Grandin.  He had gone from a mere servant in a small local assembly there, now to a Knight To-Be, and now he was overwhelmed with a host of mixed emotions.

            “Holy Spirit, come and visit me.  I need you desperately, Lord.  I am not at peace, I am anxious in my very soul Lord.  I do not understand why you have allowed your servant Finleo to see something in me that does not exist, that is perhaps an illusion of his own imagination.  How can I become a knight of faith, having the shortcomings that I do?”  Tears soaked the bedside as Edmond called out to God.  “Finleo wants me to learn the ways of the sword.  He said in order to do that I must learn to be led of the Spirit.  Show me, Lord, that I might become a knight that pleases you.”

            Suddenly, an whisper came to the troubled apprentice’s soul, a still small voice within: “I will meet you in the chapel, there I will show you how to be led of my Spirit…”  The soul of Edmond leapt to action.  He quickly dressed, leaving his sleeping quarters at the Knights Complex and briskly walked down to the Complex Chapel.  It was two in the morning, and there was not a soul about.  The quietness was a nice change of pace to the noise of the gymnasium the day before.

            Two large wooden doors stood at the entrance of the ancient chapel.  Edmond gingerly pushed the left one open, slowly, the door let out a slight and low pitched squeak.  The sanctuary was gorgeous, but one could sparsely tell with no lights on.  Edmond could make out the shadowy figures of wooden pews, and massive wood columns lined down the middle of the room, as he poked his through the entry way.  His gaze fell upon the front of the small chapel, an old altar, stained with the tears of many knights over many centuries.  It was a relatively small place, seating maybe one fifty in the pews.  All the furniture was very antique, made of wood. 

            Edmond walked to the front and sat cross legged in front of the pulpit.  “Show me thy ways, my Lord.  If I am wasting yours and my master‘s time, then please tell me and I will return to Grandin at once.”  Even though the room was already dark, Edmond closed his eyes and waited in silence for the whisper to come once again to his soul.  A great peace beyond understanding fill the air. Then, after what seemed like a long stretch of minutes, God spoke to his soul.  “I do not call the qualified, I qualify the called.”  Edmond wept.  He had felt so inadequate, but now have heard the very voice of the Spirit within his soul, he felt reassured that maybe God and Finleo saw not what he was, but what he would become. 

            Edmond’s soul was full of God’s Spirit, and all he could utter were languages which had never been taught to him, nor that he himself could even understand.  This he did for a while, and then fell into a deep sleep.

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            The sun was not yet up.  The Archean metropolis was well lit artificially on the outside, abuzz with the headlights of a few bustling fly pods, some windows still aglow amidst the spires, streetlamps, that sort of thing.  Inside the Hall of Prophets however, it was as dark as could be. 

                The Hall of Prophets was not really a hall, but a another magnificent temple complex.  It was just a stone’s throw from the Knights of Faith Temple, though was not quite as large.  Though there were many prophets of God spread about the galaxy, the ones that lived on Archeo were thought to be the most influential.  Among the few hundred that lived within the halls, a select group of twelve men were known simply as the Council of the Prophets.  Their sway with both the Executive Council and in the past the Knights of Faith was great. 

                Of the Council of Prophets, Jefo Docor was considered, unofficially of course, to be the leader among the twelve.  Though not the oldest, a man only in his early fifties, he was said to be the most mature, and of the highest understanding concerning the Word of God, and the Book of the Ancient Prophets.  All of these accolades were true.  He also happened to be highly spiritually dedicated to God.  He was unmarried, except to his work in the Lord. 

            Jefo was stirring restlessly in his sleeping chambers when he felt a warmth in his bedroom that was a bit more than the usual.  He sat up in bed and scanned the room.  Dark, nothing seemingly out of ordinary, though in his spirit he felt a presence in his room.  He spoke.  “I know you are  here, my Lord.  Your servant is ready to hear what you say.”

            With that, there was a brilliant flash of light.  Now standing in the midst of the room was an angel, tall, arrayed in white robes, shining so bright that room was lit like the day.  His face was handsome, calm and friendly.  The angel stretched his hand out to the shaking prophet and spoke very gently.      “Come with me to the Ancient Library, and I will show you what the Lord would speak to his people.  Arise, and take my hand.” 

            Jefo, who had been bowing face down upon the floor of his room, still shaking, began to stand.  Breathless, he gazed upon the magnificent heavenly being.  Though he had felt the presence of angels before, and heard their voices, he had never been visited by one.  He thought for sure that he was dreaming. 

            The angel spoke once more, in calm, soothing voice.  “Come with me prophet.  I must show you the words written that must come to pass.  We must go hastily.”  Still unable to speak, Jefo put his hand in the hand of the angel, and all at once in a flash they were gone.  In an instant of time they reappeared in the middle of the Ancient Library.  The room was of a good size, designed with an old world carved wooden architecture that fit its purpose well.  There were shelves from wall to wall, and from ceiling to floor filled ancient books of all sorts.  History, records, a little fiction, commentaries on the scriptures, and the scriptures themselves.   In the middle of the room, on a small table lay open two large books.  One, the oldest known copy of the Holy Writ, and on the right, the Book of the Ancient Prophets.  It was before this table that the Angel and the Prophet stood.

            The Angel waved a hand over the large, yellowed book.  A wind, from somewhere one could not discern began to flip the pages of the Book of the Ancient Prophets, too and fro the page flapped violently in the air.  The book began to glow a holy white.  The Angel closed his hand save one finger pointing to the book.  The pages stopped flat.  The Angel touched the book, specifically a passage from the one hundredth chapter, the first verse.  All but that passage went dark.  The verse continued to glow.  The angel spoke softly, yet urgently: “what readest thou, o prophet of God?”

            Jefo steadied his voice as much as could be expected.  Still not sure if this was really happening, or if he was having a bit of a dream, he began to speak. 

            “

            “The reign of one evil will end, and there shall be a time of peace.  At the end of the peace, the man of three shall arise to make a great war with God and his kingdom.  There shall be twelve stones, and then twelve stones again, and out of the twelve, the Amethyst.  Two shall fall, one by the sword of his master, and the betrayer by his own hand.”

           

           

           

 -THIS IS THE END OF THE FIRST PIECE-(Terrible that it ends as soon as it was starting to get good right?)

-THIS IS THE SECOND PIECE-

Chapter 1 - The Boston Brawler

            The stench of sweat filled the dingy locker room.  It was two smells really.  It was the odor of the wrestlers themselves, either returning or getting ready for their matches, combined with something that had already been there for years and had become totally ingrained in the tiles of the room itself.

            “Man, that crowd is poppin’ out there tonight,” said an exhausted, but happy mountain of a man called Kinyo. 

            “That right?” responded an older gentleman sitting on the old wooden bench next to a wall of small lockers in desperate need of a paintjob.  “Maybe they’ll feel like giving a little love to an old friend.”

            “Snake Eyes, you know they love you in Daytona, baby!”  Responded Kinyo as he walked up to the grizzled ring veteran and gave him a clasping and enthusiastic hand shake.  Kinyo was about six foot six, and well over the three hundred pound mark, but was quite a gentle giant outside of the ring, and well liked by his fellow wrestlers.  The sweat from having wrestled moments before was still seeping profusely from his pores.

            “You’re going places, kid.  I wish I was your age again so I could enjoy the brightness of my future,” said the gentleman sitting, referred to only as Snake Eyes by Kinyo.

            “That means the world to me, man.  You’re a living legend in this-”

            Snake Eyes stopped him: “stop with this legend stuff, already, I don’t want to hear it,” he said, beginning to lace up his patented snakeskin wrestling boots.

            “Well, it’s true isn’t it?” retorted the giant Samoan.

            “Kinny, I’m just an old bag of wounds and soreness trying to hang on to a decent paycheck to pay my child support,” Kinyo looked a little disillusioned with that quip, so Snake Eyes added: “don’t worry kid.  One day all this glamour will wear off.  You’ll wake up forty years old, grey-headed, balding, with deep creases singed into your forehead by miles and miles of endless highway, cheering crowds, and the loneliness of it all as you drink yourself to sleep night after night, wondering if you’ll ever get to see your family again.”

            Kinyo started to say something, but all that came out was a puzzled look.

            “What?” Snake Eyes griped at the look, finishing his boots and standing to his full six foot two frame.

            “Man, you don’t how to take a compliment,” responded Kinyo. 

            “Sorry,” said Snake Eyes.  “It’s just that…” he paused, “you know, I don’t  know what my problem is.  Thanks for the compliment,” he said, doing one last check over in the mirror on his ring gear.  At six foot two, two hundred and sixty-five pounds, Snake Eyes was seemingly a bit out of shape .  The mirror showed him this well.  Salt and pepper shoulder length curls topped the wrinkles upon his forehead, the hairline not quite as far forward as it once was.  A thick neck and ample torso followed, hairy, but not too hairy.  His wrists were taped in white tape, highlighting well the ruggedness of his battle weary hands, thick and scarred from years of ring action. 

            Tonight he was wearing long black tights with simple lettering on the backside that read “SNAKE EYES,” just above the embroidered, custom made logo of a pair of dice showing ones.  Kneepads protruded from underneath the black tights.  The boots were his newer pair, a grayish green colored snakeskin that came up past the midway point of his calf. 

            “Looking sharp, old-timer,” a gruff voice said from behind, coated with a thick New England accent.  Snake Eyes recognized the voice and the face in the mirror and turned to greet his opponent.

            “How’s it going, Brawler?  You ready to do this thing,” asked Snake Eyes.

            “Oh yeah, wouldn’t miss it for all the chowder in Boston.”  The Boston Brawler was one of those wrestlers whose gimmick was simply an extension of himself.  He really was from Boston, and he really did eat a lot of chowder.  “Same thing as Ft. Lauderdale, or you wanna try something different, Snakes,” he asked.

            “Dave,” he started, interrupted by the thick index finger of the Brawler.

            “Please, call me Brawler.”

            “I’m gonna call you a loser in about twenty minutes,” said Snake Eyes with a little gruff chuckle.  “We’ve had this match how many times,” he asked, a little more seriously.

            “Gee, I don’t know, about-”

            “About a hundred times, right?”

            “Give or take,” replied the Brawler.

            “Let’s just go out there, feel it out, and do our thing.  Ten minutes, we’ll wrap it up with ‘hittin’ Snake Eyes.’” “Hittin’ Snake Eyes” was the moniker that Snake Eyes had given his brain buster finishing move.

            “They’ll eat it up,” said the big Bostonian with a sinister, semi-toothless smile. 

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            The dimly lit arena was abuzz, anxiously awaiting the next match up.  It was one thing for fans to watch professional wrestling on television, but it was an altogether different experience to attend a live event.  Emotions tended to run a little higher when seeing their heroes in person. Five thousand plus had packed out the Ocean Center in Daytona, Florida this night for American Wrestling Federation Live. 

            All one could really see standing at any given point was a small sea of fans in a state of calm with an undercurrent of frenzy waiting to be let out at the appropriate time.  The only thing breaking the sameness of the view was the ring itself, brightly lit by the overhead stage lights, awaiting its next performers.

            As John “Snake Eyes” Allan stood behind the curtain and the entrance to the arena, he felt the vibrations of the crowd in the concrete floor beneath him.  “Kinyo was right about the crowd,” he said silently to himself, awaiting for the ring announcer to call his name.

           

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            AWF ring announcer Harold Harrison stepped intently between the ropes of the ring, cordless microphone held in hand, and what appeared to be an index card in the other.  Upon taking his position in the center of the ring, he cracked the hush of the crowd with his booming baritone voice.

            “Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall.  Currently in the ring to my left, he hails from Boston, Massachusetts and weighs in tonight at two hundred fifty-seven pounds, here is,” his voice became epic with the announcement of his name, “The Boston Brawler!”

            The Brawler lifted his hands and pumped his fists in premature celebration.  His outfit was at best unspectacular, a simple pair of old blue jeans, tattered and torn, and a white t-shirt that appeared as though it had never been washed, with a particularly large gaping hole on the left side of the neck.  The fans booed, as they normally did the Brawler, except when they were actually in Boston, which was once a year or so.

            Harrison waited a moment for the coarse booing to stop, and lifted the microphone to his lips once again.

            “And now, ladies and gentlemen, his opponent…” at this music began to fill the arena.  The theme had a southern rock feel to it, composed under the inspiration of an old Georgia Satellites song.  At this, the fans in the arena let out their voices and applause in a thunderous cheer, as they knew well who would be entering the stage next.  “Hailing from Las Vegas, Nevada, and weighing in at two hundred sixty-five pounds; the legendary Snake Eyes Allan!”  Harrison held out the last name for a almost ten seconds for an incredible effect.

            As the last letters rolled off Harrison’s tongue, Snake Eyes Allan walked through the curtain and began to walk down the long aisle way toward the squared circle.  Fans with seats on the aisle reached over the steel barricade in the hopes of getting a high five from the ring great.

            Cameras flashed as Snake Eyes strode confidently toward the ring.  His black warm up jacket with the trademark Snake Eyes logo was soaked with water and sweat from his hair, and only added to the “bad guy” character he was portraying.  Underneath his dark sunglasses he peered intently toward The Brawler, who was anxiously awaiting his opponents’ arrival.

            Snake Eyes made it to the ring and grabbed the middle rope, pulling himself to the apron, and then quickly entering through the middle rope and raising his right fist for all to see.  The fans were still greeting him warmly, but were now ready for the match to begin.  Snake Eyes methodically removed his jacket and sunglasses, handing them to the referee, never taking his eyes off The Brawler.

            As his anthem faded out the ring lights came up fully, as they had been dimmed for his entrance.  After taking a brief moment to check each wrestlers’ boots and pads for foreign objects, referee Joel Packard returned to the middle of the ring and with an enthusiastic throw of his hand signaled for the bell to ring and the match to begin.

            Upon the ringing of the bell a single time, the match began and the crowd clapped uproariously.

            As if on instinct both men started toward the middle of ring and quickly locked up into an intense collar and elbow tie up.  After a few seconds of struggling, they shoved off and returned to a vertical base, and circled each other for a brief moment before going back to another, even more intense collar and elbow.  Another struggle, and this time Allan gripped the wrist of The Brawler and quickly stepped behind and applied a vicious hammerlock.  The Brawler yelped in pain, but quickly reversed the hammerlock into a hammerlock of his own, and Allan now showed a grimace of pain on his face.

            The Brawler held the Hammerlock on for a few seconds, gritting his teeth as he applied more and more pressure to the move.  He now had Allen half way bent over.  Allan peered back at the Brawler, and with a quick nod threw his elbow into the nose his opponent and quickly executed a go behind, and then with a grunt took the Brawler down with a waist lock take over. 

            Snake Eyes Allan popped to his feet and readied himself for his opponent to return to his feet.  The Brawler was up quickly and angrily as he had been out wrestled on the first set of holds.  Allan with a motion of the hand invited the Brawler for more.  Obliged, the Brawler now headed back to his opponent with a fury and on his last step threw a big overhand right, only to be blocked by a waiting Snake Eyes, who quickly threw a right hand of his own.  Bam. It connected solidly and The Brawler staggered back, as referee Packard in vain warned about usage of the fists.

            Allan moved in with a left, and then another right, knocking the Brawler against the ropes.  He grabbed the Brawler by the wrist and whipped him harshly to the other side of the ring.  The Brawler bounced off the ropes and met a big clothesline from the man in the black tights.  The Brawler bumped hard on the mat.  Being the technical wrestler he was, Allan lifted up the head of The Brawler by the hair and applied a chin lock.  Driving his knee into the neck of The Brawler, he simultaneously pulled back on the chin of his opponent.

            “C’mon Brawler, is that all you got?!”  He yelled, loud enough for the fans to hear, taunting his opponent. “C’mon,” he yelled again, this time more in the direction of his opponent as he gave the chin a quick tug.  Allan held the move for a minute or so, and then they moved in to the next spot. 

            The Brawler reached up behind him and grabbed the hair of Allan.  This caused Allan to loosen his grip just enough to allow The Brawler to struggle to his feet, still holding Allan’s grey locks, and Allan still with a loose grip on his chin.  The Brawler then had an opening and threw an elbow into the midsection of Snake Eyes.  This loosened the chin lock completely, and now the classic heel wrestler from Boston had his opportunity to take advantage of the match.

            With Allan still staggering back from the elbow, The Brawler raked his eyes ferociously.  Snake Eyes stumbled in accordance with the effect of the move.  His back now turned The Brawler threw a huge overhead forearm to the ample back of Snake Eyes.  Allan fell back into the corner with the blow.  With a long angry grunt The Brawler moved in and began to throw some ugly punches at the legend.  He unloaded several slow moving, but powerful shots to the jaw and midsection.  The referee moved into the corner and tried to pull the Brawler out.

            The ref’s intervention succeeded for a moment only as The Brawler moved back in on his opponent and proceeded once again to dump heavy blows against him.  With another loud grunt The Brawler pulled Allan out of the corner and whipped him into the opposite turnbuckle.  Allan stopped with a thud and faint metallic clink.  Arrogantly, The Brawler moved in again with more lumbering lefts and rights, infuriating the referee Packard. 

            Obliging Packard’s instruction to come out of the corner, he grabbed the salt and pepper curls of the ring legend and led him back to the middle of the ring and proceeded to give him a textbook body slam.  Moving slowly the Brawler backed against the ropes and rebounded, giving Snake Eyes a teeth-rattling elbow drop.  Covering his opponent for a pin fall attempt, Packard slid quickly to the mat and counted down Allan for a two count, Allan slipping his shoulder up vehemently.

            Upset, the Brawler stood to his feet and began putting the boots to Snake Eyes, or in this case, the ratty old sneakers.  Allan jerked with each kick.  Thinking it would be enough, The Brawler covered his opponent again, and yet gained only a two count.  The Brawler stood to his feet, even more upset and began to argue with Packard about the lack of speed in his counting. 

            While arguing, Snake Eyes Allan was attempting to return to his feet, and had made it only to his hands and knees when The Brawler turned and gave a swift kicked to his ribs, doubling him over.  Allan sucked in air as best he could, while The Brawler once again bounce off the ropes, this time driving his fist down hard into the hairline of Snake Eyes.    

            “Now count right, ref,” he yelled as he covered Allan for another pin attempt.  Allan kicked out at two again, prompting The Brawler to grab the collar of the referee.  “I said count right, count faster, dad-gummit.”

            “You hit me, it’s a DQ, Brawler.” 

            The Brawler took his hands off Packard and returned to his opponent.  By this time Allan had returned to his feet and although dazed, was ready to continue the battle.  Feeling very real pain in his ribs from the previous kick, he clasped his side.  The Brawler grabbed the hair and the wrist of Allan and whipped hard again into the corner.  “Here I come, baby,” he shouted, and then ran full force toward the dazed and cornered Allan.  The Brawler was about to flatten him with an avalanche but Allan ducked away to the side, and The Brawler hit the corner with a mighty thud.

            Gaining his second wind, Snake Eyes began to unload on the now cornered and stunned Brawler.  Allan fired chops and quick rights and lefts at his opponent, and then whipped him from the corner to the opposite ropes.  Off his own rebound Snake Eyes hit a big back elbow.  Sensing victory he went for the pin, but got only a two.  Snake Eyes pulled his man up by the hair and whipped into the ropes once again.  Ducking his shoulder he sent the Brawler flying with a high back body drop, upon which the Brawler met the mat with a slam that echoed throughout the arena.

            His man down in the center of the ring, Allan came off the ropes with a knee drop.  Upon landing, Snake Eyes grunted in very real pain as his knee popped.  Gathering himself together, he said quietly, “God, I’m not as young as I once was.”

            Still holding his sore knee on the chest of a downed Brawler, Snake Eyes grimaced.  “I think I tore something,” he painfully whispered to the Brawler.  “Let’s go home.”

            Standing to his feet, Snake Eyes Allan pulled his opponent to his feet and locked him in to the front chancre, the set up hold for the Hittin’ Snake Eyes brain buster.  The fans came to their feet, ready to see one  of wrestling’s most famous finishing holds.  Allan placed The Brawler’s arm above his head and gripped the tattered blue jeans.  A mighty tug and snarl and The Brawler was airborne, held in a vertical position upside down for several seconds.  Then violently, yet with surgical carefulness, brought himself and his opponent crashing to the mat.  The fans in one accord shouted “Boom!” upon the landing, and then counted aloud in unison as Joel Packard made the three counted on a defeated Boston Brawler.

            Limping to his feet, Packard raised up Snake Eyes Allan’s arm in victory as the ring announcer made the announcement.  “Ladies and gentlemen, the time of the fall, four minutes, thirty-seven seconds, your winner: Snake Eyes Allan!”

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            John “Snake Eyes” Allan had always resented that uninformed peopled thought that professional wrestling was fake. Though it was true that outcomes of matches were pre-determined, and much of the in ring action was choreographed, no one could ever , convince him that wrestling was “fake.”  Especially tonight.

            “Hey, you’re early.  Did you win?”  asked Kinyo, just returning from his shower, wrapped only in a towel.

            “Yeah, I guess I won.  I think my knee lost.”  Snake Eyes sat on the locker room bench rubbing some cheap muscle rub into his throbbing, and possibly injured knee.

            Just then The Brawler came through the door of the locker room.  “Hey, you alright, brother?  How’s the wheel,” he asked.

            “How’s your chest, you bum?  That’s what I broke it over,” he replied.  They shared a laugh at Allan’s quick witted reply.  “Man, I need to get a desk job, or something.  My body don’t work like it used to.”

            “Man, I’m going to keep wrestling until I drop dead.  I wouldn’t trade my job for anything,” said the Brawler.  “Not for all the chowder in Boston.  Unless I was like, really hungry, but I don’t think-”

            Allan interrupted.  “Go hungry? You?  Not a chance.”

            Seemingly unaffected by the insult, The Brawler continued, “Well, I’m gonna hit the showers boys.”

            “Take that nasty shirt in there with you, Dave.  That thing will take the hair out of your nostrils,” quipped Allan, still in a cynical and insulting mood.  “It used to be white didn’t it?”

            Kinyo, now dressed in his khakis and sage green, long-sleeve buttoned shirt, zipped his navy blue sports bag with his ring gear inside.  “That shirt really smells, huh?”  He asked.

            “You have no idea,” replied Allan, who was now standing back in front of the mirror making a few final adjustments before heading out.  In contrast to the niceness of Kinyo’s casual wear, Allan preferred an old black Harley Davidson t-shirt and leather jacket combo, with a comfortable pair of old blue jeans.  “I remember that shirt when he bought it.”

            “Oh yeah, when was that?” Asked Kinyo, travel bag hanging lightly from his shoulder.

            “About ten years ago.  He bought a three pack but lost the other two.  I can’t convince him to get a new one.  Oh well, it works good for his gimmick,” replied Allan. Now satisfied with his look, he stroked his fully gray fu Manchu a few seconds before tying his long gray curls into a pony tail.  “Just call me Snake Eyes, baby,” he said silently to himself through gritted teeth. 

            “Hey Snakes, some of the guys are going out to eat tonight after the show.  I’d love to hear some old stories, man,” suggested Kinyo.

            “I appreciate the offer, but J.P. wants to meet with me tomorrow.  I’ve got to be at the office by ten,” responded Allan.  “He probably finally realized how old I am and wants to plug me like any respectable race horse.”  A note of cynicism was evident in his comment.

            Kinyo shook his head slightly as he responded.  “Aw, come on, Snakes.  You were this company’s backbone for an entire decade.  If J.P. Stanley lets you go, he’s an idiot.  You’re a role model for us greens.”

            “If you say so, brother,” said Allan, a bit unsure of his fate.  “Really, though, my legs can’t take much more.  I’m not half as fast as I used to be, I’m out of shape.  I wrestled for about five minutes tonight and I walked back here breathing heavy.  I used to be able to go an hour and not even think about it.  You see this,” he asked, motioning to few extra pounds around his waist.  “This wasn’t here ten years ago, and I don’t how to get it to go away.”

            “You’ve done it all though.  You’ve been to the top, four time…”

            “Yeah, four times World Tag Team Champion, two time United States Champion.  Exactly.  There’s nothing left for me to do.  Why keep me around?”

            “Because you’re a legend.”

            Allan sighed as he started toward the exit door of the locker room.  “There you guys go with that legend stuff again.” 

            As if waiting for his que, the big, and now clean Bostonian stepped from behind the shower stall.  “Did somebody say legend?” he asked rhetorically, referring to himself.  “Right here in the flesh, baby.”

            Sleep and an ice pack calling him, Snake Eyes Allan reached for the door handle.  “I’ll see you guys in Atlanta.  Hopefully.” 

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            John Allan laid on his back and stared at the non-descript ceiling of the cold, cheap motel room.  Kinyo’s words continued to echo in haunting fashion in the forefront of his thoughts.  “Legend.”  At that the video screen of his mind played back the last fifteen years of his life in just a split second. 

            The thoughts were jumbled as sleep began to encase him, jumping around between his wrestling career that was once bright, but now fading, and a home back in Gainesville, Florida that he helped wreck with the many mistakes he made along the road. 

            An ice pack slowly melted over his injured knee. 

            Beyond the tough exterior of John “Snake Eyes” Allan lied a bruised heart, tender and longing for his lost youth and his lost family.  More thoughts came and went, now fading into haunting dreams.  He dreamed briefly of his tag team partner, the late Deuce “High Roller” Reigns.  Five years had passed since the car accident that took his life and their final reign as World Tag Team Champions.  From there his dreams jumped to his estranged wife Carla and his eight year old girl, Jenna.  Three years of separation and several attempts at reconciliation had at this point been fruitless, mostly due to his stubbornness about staying on the road and not quitting drinking.

            He saw in his mind haunting visions of a little girl growing up way too fast, and him simply not being there, missing the beautiful little details of life.  All at once his thoughts jumped to unsigned divorce papers sitting on his kitchen table back at his apartment in Palatka.  He heard a door slam, and the pain-filled cry of a woman scorned, “get out, and don’t come back!”

            All at once he awoke with a stir, aware of a single tear on his cheek.  He turned to see the alarm clock sitting on the night stand next to a half finished bottle of Jim Beam.  Upon being fully awake he felt a sharp pain shoot through his knee, and another one through is heart.  In a quick jolt he rolled out of the bed, grabbing the open bottle of liquor.  Staring at it in utter hatred, he let out a guttural cry and hurled it against the clock that read 2:24am.  “If only stopping time was that simple,” he thought.   

Chapter 2 - JP Stanley

            American Wrestling Federation CEO J.P. Stanley leaned back in his black leather chair behind the large oak desk in his plush office.  The dark wood was cluttered with papers, various office supplies, and the expensively shoed feet of the mogul.  Behind him a large glass window showed the Jacksonville skyline well from the twenty-fourth floor.  Sunlight flooded the room with brightness through the transparent panes.  The walls of the large office displayed a wide variety of wrestling memorabilia, ranging from antique black and white framed photographs of the stars of yesteryear, to retired championship belts.     

            The magnificence of such an office could not be understated.  It had an old world charm coupled with all the modern amenities any CEO could want.  The amber colored cedar walls gave somewhat of a cozy feel.  The mini fridge on the east wall nearest the desk gave Mr. Stanley a cold drink any time he wanted one.  It was jet black and full of bottled water and off brand cola.  No one had as of yet figured out why J.P. Stanley preferred generic cola over the name brands, but no one had as of yet bothered to ask either, for fear of a scathing executive rebuke.

            “Yeah, that’s right, baby, the Georgia Dome.  Yeah, it’s going to be a sellout, forty thousand plus.”  J.P. Stanley held his personal cell phone to his ear as he spoke to an old friend.  “The main event?  You’re going to love this.  Adonis and Powers.  Title on the line.  Isn’t that wild?  This could be the biggest non pay per view match ever…I have no idea, no, the numbers are going to be out of this world phenomenal…Hey, I’ll call you later, we’ll do lunch.  I’ve got an appointment…alright, bye.”

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            It was 10:25.  John Allan hated being late for anything, but especially a meeting with the boss.  He had overslept slightly due to the fragile alarm clock’s non performance that morning.  Add to that the parking situation in downtown Jacksonville, and one would have quite the rush on his hands.  Wearing last nights clothes, he walked through the front door of the twenty-four story office building, used exclusively by the American Wrestling Federation.

            The lobby was extravagant.  Black marble tile covered the oft cleaned floor, reflecting well the morning’s sunshine.  Though it was cool outside in the January air, the sunlight seemed to warm things on contact.  Several receptionists were clearly visible and hard at work, taking phone calls and assisting visitors and clientele.  There were two sections of the waiting area, furnished with high dollar black leather chairs and various indoor decorative plants.  Many non descript people sat waiting for their name to be called.

            Allan waltzed passed the waiting area to the nearest available receptionist.  As it so happened, he found Beth, whom he knew well.  Beth was an older lady, in her early sixties, black and feisty.  A purple silken dress covered her fairly large frame well, and the matching pearl earrings were a nice touch, highlighting the softness in her eyes. 

            “Well, well.  Johnny “Snake Eyes” Allan.  What have you been up to darling? Ain’t seen you in long time.”

            “Been on the road Miss Beth.  Trying to keep up with these young bucks.  It sure isn’t easy.”

            “Oh yeah, I know.  Half of the these girls in here can type faster than me, but you know I don’t let it bother me too much.

            “Well Beth, you‘re still JP‘s favorite, so I don‘t think you‘d ever have anything to worry about.”

            “You are too kind Snakes.  What can I do you for, honey?”

            “I’ve got an appointment with J.P., but I’m late.  Is he still here?”

            “Hold on a second, sugar, I’ll find out,” she replied.  Pressing her thumb on what appeared to be a high tech intercom, she bent her head over slightly and started.  “Mr. Stanley, Snake Eyes is here for his ten o’clock.  He’s not too late is he?”

            A few seconds passed before the reply came from the little box on the desk.  “He’s late.  Why is he late?”

            “Well, he-”

            “Never mind.  I’m not that busy.  I’m just the CEO.  I don’t have other things to take care of.  Sheez.”  Mr. Stanley found the situation an opportunity to be sarcastic, for he was not really upset at all, nor was he extremely busy at the moment.  “Send him in.”

            “Yes, sir, right away.”  Miss Beth turned back to her client.  “You can go on up, Mr. Allan.  The boss is waiting for you.”

            “Thank you, Beth.”  She always did bring the politeness out of Allan through his tough exterior.  He then turned to his right and headed toward the elevators. Not too many people were ever invited to the twenty fourth floor.  That privilege was reserved for board members, honored guests, and wrestlers.  That in mind, Allan thought to himself “must be my lucky day.”

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            John Allan stepped off the elevator and into the hallway of the famous twenty-fourth floor.  The hallway itself was as magnificent as he remembered.  Black carpet with gold-trimmed designs covered the floor.  Hanging on the walls of the hallway, along with the token decorative plants were several large paintings of famous wrestlers.  It was an art gallery, if nothing less.  To his right was the offices of the members of the executive board, and further down the boardroom itself. 

            Straight ahead was the “Viewing Room.”  This was one of J.P. Stanley’s brainstorms come to fruition.  It was a large suite like room, with a gigantic seventy-five inch flat screen television against the wall, and about twenty black leather seats in front of it.  Every Tuesday night and once a month on Sunday Mr. Stanley would throw a viewing party for the A.W.F.’s Tuesday Night Turbo telecast, and pay per views respectively.  Usually he would invite his closest personnel, the board members, the writers, family and old friends if they happened to be in the area.  The black and gold carpet continued its coverage in this room.

            Down the long, lush hallway to the left was the office of the man himself.  Two ten foot heavy wooden doors barred entrance to any would be passer by.  A name plate as wide as the doors stood ominously, yet royally just above the doors.  It simply read S-T-A-N-L-E-Y, in large gold plated letters. 

            Taking his steps toward the left, John Allan walked toward the office.  Step by step he admired the life size painted portraits of such ring greats as “Nature Boy” Buddy Rodgers, Hulk Hogan, Ric Flair, and several others.  The latest one was at the very end of the hallway just outside the CEO’s office.  The AWF’s current World Heavyweight Champion Adam “The Athlete” Adonis stood in all his glory, holding high his championship belt.  Adonis, just twenty-seven, had captured the adoration of fans and wrestlers alike. 

            John Allan stopped at Adonis’ portrait and admired it with a bit of envy.  Not for the title or the popularity, but for his youth.  Short blonde waves topped the chiseled face and massive muscles of the champ.  In his icy blue eyes Allan could see what the young champion was looking at: a bright future full of endless possibilities.  Turning away from the portrait, he cursed silently to himself.

            Aware of business at hand, he turned to an electronic entrance buzzer on the wall and pressed the button, giving a off an irritating buzz.

            “C’mon in Snakes.  Been waiting for you,” came the reply from the box.  “Oh, stand back,” came the warning.  Just then the massive doors began to swing open slowly on their own.  The doors peeled back with a deep toned creaking and revealed the splendor of a king on his throne.  J.P. Stanley sat at his large desk, dwarfed by the sheer size of the office.  John “Snake Eyes” Allan walked through the threshold toward the wrestling emperor.              Enthusiastically, J.P. Stanley hopped from his chair and greeted the journeyman.  They met just in front of his desk.  J.P. Stanley may have been in a light hearted mood, but he was certainly dressed for business.  Allan noticed right away the brand new Italian cut black suit with the trademark pinstripes, capped off with a brand new pair of Versace black dress shoes. 

            Altogether, J.P. Stanley was an impressive sight.  Besides the suit and shoes, crisp white collared shirt and matching tie, the man himself was quite the striking figure.  His cut jaw line and ruggedly handsome facial features made him a favorite with the women.  His hair was jet black, and parted to the side.  Although it looked soft and manageable, it stayed in perfect place at all times.  He was a tall figure, about six foot three, and in great shape.  Some lines and wrinkles had begun to appear in recent years, only highlighting his deep masculinity.

            “Have a seat John.  Hurt your knee last night?”  Stanley noticed right away the slight limp in the wrestler’s walk.  That coupled with the phoned in report of the house show manager gave away Allan’s condition.

            “You could say that.  It seems a little better this morning.  I put some ice on it last night.”  Allan looked a little scruffy.  Rushing out of the motel that morning, he didn’t have time to shave.  A small amount of stubble complimented his snow white fu Manchu.

            J.P. sat back down behind his desk as Allan took the black leather chair on the left in front of the desk.  Stanley’s name plate was placed perfectly in the middle of the front of the desk.  “Well, Jason told me overall the show was great.  It was another sellout.  We sold a truckload of souvenirs.”

            “That right?  Yeah, I was really impressed with the crowd.  They were really into it.  I still love wrestling in front of crowds like that.”

            J.P. Stanley at that comment looked up at Allan with a semi-guilty look.  “About that…” he started.

            “About what, Mr. Stanley?”

            “We need to talk about the direction of your career.”  Allan shifted in his chair nervously and stared at a distant point past the wrestling mogul. 

            “Look, Mr. Stanley, I know I’m not the draw that I used to be, but I think I’ve got a few good years left.  Maybe we can come up with an angle-”

            “John.  Relax.”  Stanley sat up in his chair, placed his elbow on his desk, and rested his chin on his hand.  “How long have you been with this company, John?  Fourteen years, almost, right?  Have I ever done you wrong?” 

            “Well, no.  You’ve given me a heck of a ride, actually,” replied Allan with a thankful tone.

            “What makes you think I would do you wrong now?”

            “Well, it’s just that I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.  I know business is business.  If you have to cut me,  I uh,” he started to choke up.

            “Cut you?”  J.P. Stanley laughed aloud for a few moments.  “Fire you?”  More gaunt laughter flowed rhythmically from the belly of the wrestling titan.  Reaching to his left, he opened the mini fridge and pulled out a couple of Clover Valley colas.  “Bottoms up, Snakes.”  He tossed him the red can of soda.  Obliged, Allan popped the top and took a sip.  By now they were both laughing.  Allan not quite as hard as Stanley.  “Do you honestly think I would just fire you, throw you out on the streets after you put your butt on the line for this company for fourteen years?  I really hope my reputation among the wrestlers is not that bad, Mr. Allan.”

            “Well, what direction are you talking about?”  Snake Eyes was a little relieved at this point, knowing at least he would still be collecting a paycheck.

            “Look, Snakes, I know you’re not as young as you used to be.  None of us are.  And I know that you’re not quite the draw you used to be.  And you’re right, business is business.  But I also know that its hard to find experience and ring wisdom like yours.”

            “Uh huh.”

            “The young guys look up to you Snakes.”

            “Uh huh.”

            “As far as I’m concerned, you can have a job with this company as long as you want one.  You are a model employee.  But we’re going to have think about changing your role within the company.”

            Allan looked like a kid on Christmas morning who just opened a box of underwear.  “You mean I’m not going to wrestle anymore?”

            “No, but I think its time maybe to tone it down to part time in the ring.  I need your wisdom and insight more than I need your performance in the ring, Snakes.”

            “You want me on the writing team?”

            J.P. Stanley jumped from his chair.  Methodically he walked over toward the east wall and pulled down a black and white photograph of a young Ric Flair.  “This is what I want, John.”

            “More framed pictures of Ric Flair?  You have like a thousand of them,” Allan allowed his wit to intrude on the seriousness of the moment.

            Stanley, appreciating the humor simply glared at the autographed picture.  Walking around to the front of the desk he handed Snake Eyes the picture.  “Talent, John.  I want talent.” Stanley walked back around, this time past his desk and stood in front of the window and peered out over the crisp January morning in Jacksonville.  Lost in thought for a moment he turned back to the sitting ring veteran.  “Talent, Mr. Allan, is what makes or breaks a professional wrestling organization.  And we simply don’t have enough talent.  The ACW is breathing down our necks in the ratings.  They’ve taken a lot of our younger guys, and they are making them stars.”

            Snake Eyes stood up from his chair and started toward the window.  “Boss, what are you talking about?  Adam Adonis is the finest wrestler to ever step foot inside of a ring.  There isn’t a single man out there that can compete with him.”

            “Exactly.  Exactly, John.  He has no one to compete with.  In three years he’s proven clearly that he is the best wrestler of his generation.  Time may in fact tell us that he is simply the best ever.  But no one wants to watch a match, John, if they already know who’s going to win.”  Snake Eyes looked down at the carpet.  “We do have some young guys that are showing some promise, Chad Powers and such.  And we have some older veteran wrestlers that have great reputations, but can’t do it in the ring like they used to.”  Stanley turned his gaze onto the grizzled ring veteran.  “Do you know why the ACW can compete with us in the ratings, John?  It’s because all they have is talent.  No one knows from one week to the other who’s going to win in their matches.  No one is any better than any one else, but they are all talented…”

            “And anybody could win at any given time.”

            “Exactly.  It makes for great television.  You see John, we can have all the writers in the world with the best angles and stories, but none of that means anything if the guys in the ring don’t have the talent to make it interesting.”  A wild eyed look came over the CEO.  He began to almost whisper.  “I know he’s out there, John.”

            Feeling a little unnerved by his boss’s behavior, he took a few steps back.  “Who, Mr. Stanley?  Who’s out there?”

            The CEO turned back to the veteran, seemingly back to his senses.  “Every ring great had what, John?”  he asked, his arms now folded to his chest.

            “A lot of things go in to making a legend, boss.”

            As if it did not really matter what he said, Stanley answered his own question.  “A rival.  Every legend had somebody in that ring that made them great.  You know why Sting is great?  Because of Ric Flair.  Buddy Rodgers had his Bruno Sammartino, Hogan had his Andre, all the way to even Eddie Guerrero having his Dean Malenkos and Rey Mysterios.  They all had somebody.”

            “But Adonis has no equal,” said Allan, starting to see where the boss was going.

            “Exactly.  He has no one in this company who can realistically and believably compete with him.  That’s what I want, John.”  The room went into a hush as Stanley turned and walked back to his chair, resuming his previous position.  Allan followed suit.  He picked up and finished his soda, and looked back at his boss, whom, for some reason, he felt pity on.

            Coming back to the point of the meeting, John asked, “So what does that have to do with me?”

            “You are the man that’s going to find him, John.  I’ve been watching you for a long time take some these young guys aside and try to pour you wisdom into them.  You have a keen eye for talent.”  Stanley looked his wrestler right in the eye.  “I want you to be my special agent talent scout.  I want you to find me more talent.”

            “So you’re not firing me?”  They laughed aloud together.

            “No, I’m not firing you, Snakes.  Not in a million years.  But this new role for you has to start right away.”

            “Well, do you still want me in Atlanta on Tuesday for Turbo, boss?”

            “Yes, but I do have an assignment for you first.  The Putnam County fair is holding a show Monday night.  The Florida Wrestling Alliance.  My good friend Jackson Lossman is the promoter down there.  He’s been feeding us talent for years.  I want you there, then report back to me in Atlanta.  I will be in the house for that show.”

            Allan hadn’t been home in weeks, and in fact was waiting for his opportunity to get back.  Though with this meeting he had indeed realized that he was getting older, he thought optimistically about his “new role.”  At the same time he couldn’t figure out why the boss was so insistent on the FWA in Putnam County.  Though it was true the small independent promotion had produced a few stars over the years, he thought it altogether unlikely that he would find someone rivaling the abilities of The Athlete.

            “Why the FWA?  Why tonight?”

            “Call it a feeling, Snakes.  Call it a feeling.”  The glazed over, semi-psychotic look came over his face once again.  “I know he’s out there.”

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            They called it “the vault.”  No one from the general public was allowed access, and only employees that had permission from the boss himself could go and simply peruse the library.  It was a dark room.  For some reason they thought lighting it well was unnecessary.  It contained several thousand volumes of AWF wrestling footage.  Video tapes, DVD’s and even a few 18mm reels.  There were five complete racks, set up like aisles in a store.  Each was eight feet high and about sixteen feet long, with five metal shelves on each.  The footage was arranged in chronological order, beginning with some very rare footage from the early 1950’s.

            Snake Eyes loved to peruse the library, but had not been in a while.  It was located in the basement of the building, along with the production offices.  A bigger bunch of nerds and A/V geeks there never was, was always the thought process of the King of Cool, Snake Eyes Allan.  Nevertheless, he loved those guys, and in some ways feared them.

            Snake Eyes stepped off the elevator fresh from his meeting with JP Stanley.  The news of his “new role” had jolted him into a fresh realization of how young he no longer was.  He was not resentful of his role, and in fact was thankful that he could continue to work in the business that he loved.  He was however still deeply struggling with the fact that he was getting older.  Not just as a wrestler, but as a person.  His inner feelings lead him to the cellar of the building and the production offices door.

            The basement had a far different feeling than that of the plush and extravagant twenty-fourth floor.  Mr. Stanley had spared no expense in making the executive area a palace by most standards.  Here, it seems as though some corporate funding could be used for carpet, any carpet, and ceiling tiles, which were both conspicuously absent. 

            The grey steel door had one small rectangular window of which could be peered through.  Allan opened the door to about see about twelve nerds sitting at twelve cubicles, typing furiously away at there computers, no doubt working on the latest AWF home video release.

            “Greetings, Lord Snake Eyes,” came a familiar voice.  Directly to his left Snake Eyes Allan turned to see a friendly face get up from his computer and desk to greet an old friend.

            “Darius!  What’s going on, my brother?”

            Darius Stein was the head the AWF audio/visual production team.  Six years of technical school landed him hear about ten years ago.  Amazingly, he still looked like college student techie prep.  Allan immediately noticed the Hawaiian shirt and realized that it was casual Friday for the production team.  To make sure he glanced about the rest of the room, and sure enough he saw a sea of Hawaiian shirts.  Thick glasses and a pocket protector completed the ensemble, complimenting his barely noticeable comb over.

            How the two opposites became such good acquaintances was an age old question.  The fact was that the techies feared and admired the wrestlers for their “coolness,” whereas the wrestlers feared and admired the techies for their knowledge of computers and math.  It was like cows and cowbirds.

            “To what do we techies owe the privilege of such a visit, Oh King of Cool?”  Darius reached out for a the classic American handshake, and it was met with the newer, more modern clasping handshake of the former wrestling champion.

            “I need to get in the vault.”

            The somewhat skinny fellow placed a bony hand on the shoulder of his friend.  “I think I can arrange that for you, buddy, haw haw.”  His laugh was nothing short of comical.  It sounded two toots on a small car horn. “Follow me.”  Together they walked past the several cubicles of working class techies to a door in the back of the room.  They stood at the door for a moment, Darius’ hand paused on the handle.  Seemingly annoyed he turned around to the wrestler standing behind him and gave him a stare.

            “What?” asked Snake Eyes.

            “Turn around please, while I enter the door code.”  Snake Eyes gave a sigh that conveyed little respect to the importance of the code and the security of “the vault.”  Allan humored the techie and turned around while he entered a series of numbers on the key pad.  A few beeps and then a buzzer sounded, then a clack of the door unlocking.  “Take all the time you need.”  With a pull that appeared as though it took some effort, Darius pulled open the door.  Hands in his jacket pockets, Allan stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.

            Allan knew fairly well what section of the vault he wanted to peruse, but once in he couldn’t help himself.  For several minutes he looked at some of the older reels and tapes nearest the door.  It was amazing, he thought, that so many moments could be captured but time could never be stopped.  In an instant his mind jumped back to the mess he left in the motel room and the broken alarm clock. 

            After sifting through the volumes of yesteryear he came to the fourth aisle, and the third shelf, labeled on the side as 1997.  After a poking through a few volumes he found what he was looking for.  AWF Clash of The Superstars 1997 - Master Copy.  Just the mere mention of the title of the event began to bring back memories, feelings, sights and sounds from that night.  He braced himself for the bittersweet nostalgia of playing the tape.  Holding the black plastic case with the with label he headed for the door. 

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            Snake Eyes thought it nice of Darius to let him check out the Master Copy.  “I’m going to make me a copy.  I’ll bring back the master the next time I’m in Jax.”  It was standard procedure to not allow anything to leave the vault unless for production purposes. 

            “If you lose that thing, it’ll be my head, Snakes.  Please be careful with it,” he warned.

            Snake Eyes shut the door of his one bedroom apartment behind him.  The efficiency was furnished, but could certainly use a woman’s touch in decorating.  Nothing matched.  Interior decorating certainly wasn’t the greatest talent of the ring veteran.  That fact coupled with being on the road two hundred plus days a year restricted his desire to improve the place.  It had been pretty much the same since he separated from Carla three years ago.  He had reasoned in his mind that any attempt to improve the place would damage his reputation as a wrestling “tough guy,” eat in to his drinking and road money, and force him to admit that separation from his wife was more than just a “temporary circumstance.”   An old tan and green couch, and an easy chair that had seen its better days completed the living room ensemble.  In a state of dustiness, two small framed pictures stood proudly, but crookedly above the couch; one of him and Carla on their wedding day, and another of him and his late tag team partner and best friend Deuce Reigns posing with their belts right after their first title win.

            The dining room was no less unspectacular.  A single wooden table, about four feet by six feet took up most of the area, separated from the “living room” by only the dividing of carpet and tile.  Laying on the table where he had left them two weeks ago were the unsigned divorce papers mailed to him by Carla’s attorney.  He laid his travel bag down on the couch and walked toward the ominous little manila folder.  Stopping at the table he reached down and picked it up.

            “Still can’t believe it,” he whispered to himself.  He held so much regret and despair in such a small sentence.  Still, no one around, he continued, “Not going to sign them, woman.  I told you I’m going to make this work.”

            Unfortunately for Snake Eyes Allan, his will to “make it work” was matched only by his will to keep chasing his fading youth on the long highways of the pro wrestling circuit, and by his will to drink himself into a coma every night.  In spite of the fact that he was well aware of his stubbornness and flaws, in his heart of hearts he loved her.  And besides her, he loved Jenna. 

            The passing of Deuce Reigns seemed to have been the catalyst that started his downward spiral, professionally and personally.  The event caused an undirected anger to creep into his soul.  Though it was no one’s fault, just the product of a dark, wet road, he still felt a deep need to place blame.  Since there was no one really at fault, he simply submitted to the inner urge by blaming those around him.  He had at one time or another blamed God, Carla, Deuce, and at most himself.  The day they laid him in the ground was the day that alcohol became more than a rare social occasion.  Not wanting Carla and Jenna to see him that way, he spent more and more time away.  Carla simply missed the rough cut gem of a man she married. The lonely, worry filled nights were simply too much for her. 

            And so there were the papers.  And the pen.  And a stubborn, problem filled man still in love with everything he was losing in life.  His wife, his daughter, and his youth, and at times, it seemed, his sanity all seemed to be slipping further away night after night. 

            The only way to get things back the way they used to be, he supposed, was via the magic of video tape.  After a shower and a TV dinner, he was ready.  Sitting down on the edge of the couch he removed the video from the black plastic case and slid it into the machine.  His nineteen inch Zenith monitor came alive with the sights and sounds of AWF Clash of the Superstars ‘97.

            An hour passed.  Allan laid on the couch watching with fondness the matches of that night.  Finally, the tape rolled to where he wanted it.

            “Ladies and gentleman, the following match is set for one fall, and it is for the AWF United States Championship.”  Allan remembered the chill bumps of that moment well.  He heard his music start.  “Making his way toward the ring is the challenger, from Las Vegas, Nevada, weighing two hundred forty-eight pounds, Johnny “Snake Eyes” Allan.”  The video panned the crowd and then zoomed in on a much younger and fitter Snake Eyes strutting his way toward the ring in his trademark black tights and sunglasses. 

            “Man, I was in shape,” Allan said.  And he was.  At six foot two, two forty-eight, he was a thickly muscled man.

            “His opponent, from New York City, weighing two hundred sixty-nine pounds, here is the reigning AWF United States Champion, Tully “The Skyscraper” Skiles.”  Allan remembered well the crowd in the Fleet Center in Boston that night.  Fixated, he watched the match all the way through.  In envy of his younger self, he watched in amazement the quickness and crispness of his moves.  Everything was there.  Timing, execution.  He was in that video who he wished he was now: a guy with his whole life ahead of him, with a bright future full of endless possibilities. 

            Experts called it one of the best matches of the year.  It held a special place in Allan’s heart being his first major championship win.  He closed his eyes and listened to the announcement of his victory.  “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match, and new AWF United States Champion, Johnny “Snake Eyes” Allan.” 

            The audio shifted to the commentators.  “I don’t believe this ladies and gentlemen.  We have witnessed history in the making here in Boston.  What a match up!  What a fight!  Johnny Allan, the young man from Vegas has taken the wrestling world, and the US Title by storm.  What a future he has in this business…”  Allan reached out and hit the stop button.  He was altogether proud of himself, and yet at the same time held himself in utter disdain.  His success in wrestling was altogether hollow when compared with his failure as a person.  Exhausted, defeated, he fell asleep.

           

           

           

           Chapter 3 - Phenomenon

              A shower, some breakfast, and a change of clothes did Snake Eyes some good.  That combined with the several hours sleep and he was fresh as a daisy.  A daisy with a fu Manchu. 

            Palatka, Florida wasn’t known for too much.  Although it was the county seat for Putnam County, it was a rather small town with a population slightly above twenty thousand.  Sitting on the St. John’s River was a quaint quirk of the town.  Babe Ruth once played baseball there, or so the legend goes.  For Snake Eyes, it wasn’t much, but it was home.         

            Driving his 1998 Ford Thunderbird, metallic blue with silver trim, he pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot. There were so many myths about Snake Eyes that he always thought humorous.  One myth, cultivated by his wrestling gimmick, was that he was from Las Vegas, and an excellent gambler.  Neither of which were true at all.  And although he wore a fu Manchu, and a leather jacket, and wore Harley Davidson t-shirts, he hadn’t been on a motorcycle in years.  His tough guy exterior, while although true in a physical sense, hid well the emotions of a man dealing with getting older and getting divorced.

            The January air was unmistakable.  Crisp.  Cool.  The sky was bright and blue.  It was a great, he thought, for independent wrestling at the fairgrounds.  For Snake Eyes Allan, any day was a good day for wrestling.

            “Hey, aren’t you Snake Eyes Allan?” asked the sole proprietor of the Putnam County Fair ticket booth.  The young man was very clearly a wrestling fan.  The AWF cap and latest Adam Adonis t-shirt gave him away. If that weren’t enough, the starstruck enthusiasm in his voice was a clear indicator of his sporting allegiances.

            “Yeah, that’s me,” said the new AWF talent scout. 

            “Oh, oh my God, this is so awesome, I uh…I love you, man, you’re like the all-time greatest.”

            “Well,” Snake Eyes almost blushed right through the fu Manchu, “I appreciate that.  You made my day…how ‘bout those tickets.”

            “Oh, yeah, sorry, sorry.  It’s not every day I get to see a wrestling legend.  Especially not in this godforsaken town.”  The booth operator handed Snake Eyes his master ticket which allowed him entrance to all the events going on at the Putnam County Winterfest.  “Can I have your autograph?”  He thrust a small piece of scrap paper and a pen out at the ring legend.  

            “Sure kid.  Coming to the show tonight?”

            “Oh yeah, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.  Are you, uh, are you going to be on the show?”

            “We’ll see, kid.  We’ll see.” 

            The carnival atmosphere was a far cry from the large arenas that Allan had grown used to, but for the time being it was actually a nice change of pace.  It was after six thirty, the sun had set.  It was getting darker and cooler.  The January air was crisp, mingled with the interesting blend of popcorn and hotdogs that only a county fair could produce.  The atmosphere was alive with much happiness.  Passing the ticket booth, Allan noticed the ferris wheel near to the back of the ground, the small booths and rides.  His attention quickly turned to all the young teenage couples in love.  Kissing, petting, gazing.  It seemed to be around every corner.  Though his exterior remained unphased and tough behind his sunglasses, the interior heart of Snake Eyes Allan grew a little less young with each passing moment. 

           

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         _Well there you have it!  Hope you enjoyed these "from the vault" creative pieces.  Who knows, if I had finished them maybe I could have been famous - LOL - as we see in these text crazy days.  I'll have new stuff the next blog....Love y'all!