"in all my dreams i drown."

Every night for the past couple of weeks, I've been having the same dream.

I've been on my motorcycle, Payton James' arms wrapped around my waist. Before the accident, Payton was my girl. It wasn't perfect, and I think she came in with the baggage from having some feelings for another guy, but we were going places. The last real night we spent together, we were driving down a very empty highway, going ridiculously fast along the road on my bike. I told her it was all about finding a spark. If she was ever going to start a revolution, she had to find a fire inside of her. I remember every word like it was yesterday. When I kissed her, I told her I was going to ignite the match and let her burn.

That's when I turn around and realize Payton is in flames, holding me as we veer off the road and down the rocky slope the rail protected us from.

And every night, I wake up in the same cold sweat, feeling like I lost her.

Maybe, in some way, I already have.

She's laid up in the hospital, and since that night I've been in Japan, got arrested, got involved with that lunatic Jonathan Collins and his pack of Turks, and now been put under constant watch from David Zinkus. I'm not even in Japan anymore, I'm back in San Diego because Jon wanted me to not be out of his sight. I watched him panic as we streamed KWI's Afternoon Aggregation, his student Cassidy Carter succeeding. She was going to fly out to meet us, and then we got an ominous tweet. Some emo looking twat named Jaina Frost (I googled) was tweeting Jon with Cassidy's account, fucking with Jon's head.

He doesn't know where she is. I suggested going to Knoxville with a gun and finishing this, and yet somehow I'm in the wrong.

My method is pretty effective. When I get people, they don't get back up. They stay down, because I don't believe in giving someone a second shot to hurt me.

I don't belong here, really. Professional wrestling was never my dream, it was Payton's. She was the one who wanted to see the world this way, and I'm the one who's gone places for it. I'm not worthy to have that, honestly. I'm a kid from the wrong side of the tracks that got what he deserved. I always knew I was gonna end up in jail eventually, so the fact he bailed me out stuns me.

I'll never tell him I'm in debt to him.

I suppose that's enough of this...exposition and flowery prose to set the scene. We're at this warehouse that seemingly doubles as a wrestling school here in Anaheim, and I'm surrounded by a handful of people that I've come to be vaguely familiar with in EXODUS Pro. Zinkus, Jon, a masked guy that only answers to WEAPON, a couple of those Turk dudes, and White Phoenix. The back room of this place looks like a conference room fucked one of those battle stations of a submarine. Televisions everywhere streaming pro wrestling, names on a board, a table with all sorts of things.

"What the fuck? Are you stalking everyone in this industry?" I ask Jon.

"Close. If I'm going to run EXODUS properly, I need to keep tabs on the business. I know how well our rivals are doing in the ratings, who has expiring contracts, who is up and coming, and various little things like that. I intend on being a step ahead of the game at all times," he replies to me and I nod, looking around.

"So what does any of this have to do with blondie?" I ask, in reference to the seemingly abducted Cassidy Carter.

"I want to know how much man power we have and if any Sinistry members are working on verbal agreements. Considering how legal and proper Cleon likes to keep things, I doubt he'll let any of them just turn up without signing on the dotted line for EXODUS," he responds.

"Isn't that your end? You're supposed to be meeting that Olivia broad," I ask.

"He's right, sir. You had a meeting planned with her about her 'Campaign,'" David reminds him and I just roll his eyes.

"I think he's got bigger fish to fry than another broad who just wants to spit some bullshit," I tell David. "Hasn't some sort of crime been committed here? If I can't shoot someone, get the cops involved."

"Rachel's too smart to make it look like a crime...and you really don't know Rachel Foxx. She's clever. I've met few people that are my match mentally, and she's right up there," he responds as he flips through books.

"So why am I here then? I'm not here to help you get blondie back. I'm here to crack that fucking Deacon's skull open," he said as he turns back and looks at me. I don't think I've ever seen this form of anger and rage in him.

"Because you need to shut your mouth for once and understand that all of this has a lot more than just you at stake!" he says as he approaches me. "Carey, some day you're gonna find that some things in this life are bigger than you. Someday you're gonna find a reason to fight!" he says to me as I push him.

"THEN PUT ME IN THE RING WITH THAT FUCKING DEACON! THAT'S MY REASON!" I say, punching a wall. "Payton didn't do shit to him, but now she's in a hospital and I can't talk to her! I can't hear her voice! I CAN'T BE THERE! Meanwhile, you got all of us running around like soldiers to fight battles you don't have the fucking plums to fight yourself! You sit back and you wait for the fight to come to you! You sit around and you wait for that fight to be on your doorstep! Go out, strike first, and strike hard enough that they don't get back up!" I say as I look at him. "This is your great hero?" I ask, looking around at everyone in the room. "This is your great leader? Anyone can tell someone to stand down. Sack up, take the fight to this Furor guy, take the fight to this Daisuke guy, and then go take the fight to the Addams family!" I say, looking at him. "Fuck this, I didn't sign up for this noise. I'm outta here."

I think he's going to go after me, but he doesn't. Zinkus goes up to go after me, but Jon stops him and I start making my way out of the building. Payton never really told me a lot about this place, but I can see why it meant a lot to her. There's a lot of love that seems to be along these walls. Pictures of students getting along with teachers and murals painted by students, Jon, his daughter, and the two guys that work for EXODUS that are his lifelong friends. This place doesn't just have a generic feel to it. People who are here know that they're part of something.

A feeling that I've never been familiar with.

I've never had a place to call my own. My mom wasn't really around after I finished first grade, dad was a bit of a drunken Marine. San Diego gets a lot of those types, really. There's the Marine base here, and they're full of guys who impulsively marry their high school girlfriend and come here. Then shit doesn't work out because they're deployed and the wives get lonely. My mom started getting involved with a guy that wasn't military, and there's my childhood in a nutshell. I started learning to throw fists pretty quickly, the old man's quick when he's drunk.

And he's a fucking Marine.

I'm two steps from the door when I hear a door behind me swing open. He let me get farther than I thought he would.

"What is it you really want, Mr. Caldwell?" he asks me. It's unusual to hear that. When I get that called out to me, I always feel like I'm in trouble, but Jonathan Collins seems to use that as a way to address people. It's a little disarming that he talks to me like I'm worth something.

"I want to get revenge for what happened to Payton James," I say, almost soft.

"I don't think that's all you want, Carey. I noticed how you reacted when you saw Cassidy and I talk. I noticed it when you saw me interact with Shinji," he tells me, and I'm not sure what he's getting at. "You're looking for something to belong to. You're looking to find some sort of meaning," he says, and it's a little frustrating because he's not wrong. Spend enough time running and you forget what it's like to slow down and enjoy the view. I've made a point of telling people to live a little faster that I don't even remember what it's like to stop and slow down.

"You don't know me," I say, and it's true. He doesn't know me.

"But I want to. And I'd like you to stick around. Listen," he starts, coming closer. "Guys like you and I have an incredible bullshit detector. People need to shoot straight with us or we can sniff it out. I think you got a real shot here at being something special, because you remind me a lot of who I was when I was your age. I don't know what that means to you, but it means to me that you got time to get real good at this. You just have to manage to keep that temper in line," he says to me.

"And what then?" I ask.

"Then I think you're going to be real hard to beat. After all...you're the son of disaster," he says to me with a sly little grin on his face.

It's hard not to smirk back, really.

"Listen, Carey. I'm not promising you millions of dollars and ridiculous fame. And this industry is going to be more trouble than it's worth sometimes. Sometimes, you just have to figure out if the risk and pain is worth all the rewards," he tells me, and I look at him. He's taken a few steps closer and I meet him half way.

"So is this thing your little cloak and dagger army to save pro wrestling?" I ask.

"No...it's a group of people who have decided that sometimes, someone needs to take the initiative to do the right thing. We're not good people. We're cripplers, egomaniacs, and a couple of us may have killed people. We just know that sometimes, all it takes is a spark to set a fire," he replies. He didn't know it, how could he? Those words said enough to me, really.

"Tell old man Phoenix I'll be ready. I'm in," I say, and all he does is smile.

I really don't know what's going to happen. To be honest, I don't know what's going to stop that dream I have of myself and Payton. To be honest, I don't know if I'm going to make any friends in this business. I'm not really the kind of person that screams a good friend. I have my people, and that's never been anything more than good enough for me. I think everyone expects me to look out only for me, and I would under most circumstances. Some things in life are bigger than us. When you care about someone, your selfishness and pride go out the window. It's the reason I went after Jeremiah Robinson. Now maybe this is a chance to prove to the world I'm more than just some kid going nowhere.

Maybe it's time to put a little purpose in what I do.

I feel real fuckin' sorry for you, Candace Rockerfeller.

See, I don't wanna wrestle anyone but Jeremiah Robinson. I'm not exactly itching to get in the ring against anyone except him, and maybe that house pet, Aries Reed. This ain't my rodeo, it's my dame's.

The problem is, I'm here. The problem is you ain't Jeremiah Robinson.

The problem is that when that bell rings, I'm gonna look across that ring and see that fat fuckin' Deacon, and I'm going to bash your skull in so bad, you ain't gonna be plastic pretty no more. They're gonna need dental records to figure out who the fuck you are when I'm done with you.

I'm gonna lay it out real simple for you, Candace. I'm not a trained professional wrestler...mostly. I'm not someone who wants to get the pin or tap someone out. I'm an alcohol fueled, bike riding, pipe hitting motherfucker that fights. I don't leap to the air and do flippy floppy shit, I throw fists. I throw fists with the best people in the game, and when I connect, people fucking stay down. When you're fighting from day one, you get real fucking good at it. Fighting is just in the bones, lady.

You haven't been real successful since you got here. I get it, you're hungry and beating the shit out of a tough guy's gonna help you get back on track and make people see you're legit. The problem is that I don't let people make a name at my expense, that's not how I do things. When the nancies and babies of this place see me turn your skull into an elaborate jigsaw puzzle, they're gonna stand up and take notice. Jeremiah Robinson's gonna stand up and take notice, because he's gonna see what I can do when he sees me coming and I don't have a pipe in my hand.

So maybe this is a statement of intent to all of (R)Evolution Wrestling. This is a point blank shotgun blast to the collective roster. The Son of Disaster's gonna come in and wreck shit until I get what I want. I don't want a title, I want that fat fucking Deacon in the ring. Until then, what happens is on the hands of Stearns and whoever else is okaying these matches.

And that brings me to you, Aries.

Aries Reed, you talk a lot man. You make a whole lotta noise about wanting to be noticed, well what better way to get noticed than to take out the wrecking ball before he does any damage? See, you think that would be a real good fucking idea except you don't even realize that I've already done the job. I called you out for being a fucking ass pussy, and you kept right on flapping those gigantic gums of yours. We're gonna wind up stepping into the ring together real soon, Aries. The problem with that is that you get to find out what happens when I'm actually motivated to fight someone.

You want it? Name the time and place, fucker. I'll throw fists and make sure that when you go down, you stay down. And if you don't, then I'll see you in the fucking parking lot.

Careful what you wish for, fucker, because you might just get it.

It's real fucking funny. I'm a man of few words, and here I am rambling about all this stupid shit like I actually give a damn about talking about pro wrestling. The truth is, I still don't. They told me to talk, and I talked. Candace, good luck being a face pizza after the next show. Aries? I'd start walking to your car with your rich boyfriend just so the fight's fair for you. If I see you, you're already fucking done.

Because I'm the goddamned Son of Disaster...and you're in my way.