ekedolphin

And then it descended ominously into the deep sub-basement.

In white letters on the wall appeared the words, “THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR NOT PAYING.”  Then:  “BREATHE NORMALLY.”

Darkness fell in the elevator, and I couldn’t see a thing.  I reached into my pockets to look for change, and found some, but I couldn’t find a place to put it.  I started panicking-- and then I woke up.

San Francisco, CA Monday, December 14, 2009 11:30 a.m. PDT

When “The Lion” John Grant had woken up this morning—just like he’d done every previous morning since making his tape—he’d immediately logged into his computer and checked his e-mail.  He’d created a new e-mail account for wrestling business only, kept separate from the e-mail address where friends keep in touch with him, professors send him assignments, and various corporations hawk the miracles of their penis-enlargement pills and easy ways to make $100,000 for working four hours a week.

The last few days, he’d received nothing, but he’d expected that.  He’d only approved the final cut of his introduction tape on Wednesday, after all; and video editor Harry Jaffee had done the rest—making seventeen copies of the master disc and overnighting them via FedEx to the organizations John had specified.  John certainly hadn’t anticipated that any of them would get back to him on the same day they received his video.

But today when he’d logged in, he’d gotten a reply from one of the administrators of the World Wrestling Alliance, saying not only that they’d received his video, but that they were offering him a pre-show tryout match on their January 22 edition of WWA: Underground, live from The Arena in Philadelphia, PA.  Taking a look at the WWA’s schedule, since he knew the company was relaunching on the 15th, he replied with an e-mail saying that not only would he be there in the best shape of his life, but with the company’s permission he’d be happy to sit backstage during the Hammerstein Ballroom show on the 15th as well, to meet some of his future co-workers, build relationships, and learn what he could from them.

Barring that, he didn’t mention in the e-mail, he’d simply buy a ticket to the inaugural event himself and sit in the crowd.  He didn’t even need to sit in the front row and announce his presence or anything.  He may be trying out for the company, and he may be the son of a wrestling legend, but he didn’t feel any desire to call undue attention to himself on a show in which he wasn’t even wrestling.  He wanted the crowd’s focus to be where it should be: on the performers inside the ring.

As for John, at this moment he was exercising on the ringside mat in the Inferno Wrestling Academy, jumping rope, dressed in white workout clothes.  The unusually cold weather San Francisco was experiencing had not let up from two days ago, but John had jogged two miles here from home just like he had every day for the past month.  And when it was time for class, he usually arrived there via public transit; he really only used his car for other, out-of-the-way activities like going out on dates, participating in wrestling events, and that sort of thing.

After spending half an hour jumping rope, John works on the treadmill for an hour, and then lifts weights, completing his workout by getting some time in with a kickboxing bag while trainer Joe Ernest holds it for him.  By the time he’d done that for twenty minutes, the Academy was bustling with activity, from camera crews setting up to record guys cutting promos, to guys working on the various exercise equipment, to other people merely standing around and chatting.

“Hey, John,” says a familiar voice from behind him, and John turns around with a start, having been so focused on what he was doing that he hadn’t even realized how many people were in here.  Let alone that his uncle, “The Tiger” Brian Grant, had arrived.

“Uncle Brian,” John says, clasping his hand and sharing a manly one-armed hug with him.  At 5’10”, Brian was a head shorter than his 6’3” nephew, who in turn was overshadowed (both physically and in terms of reputation) by his 6’9” father Steve, the “Blue Inferno”, who’d won more championships than John had ever [i]heard[/i] of.  But John didn’t have nearly the brute strength that his father had had during his wrestling career, which was one of many reasons that the 18-year-old had emulated his uncle Brian’s style far more than Steve’s.  Brian had practically no brute force whatsoever in his approach to wrestling; he was very much a high-flying light-heavyweight, through and through.

As John greets his uncle, he notices that Brian was accompanied by someone else.  And how could he [i]not[/i] notice it?  The man in question, standing easily seven feet tall and weighing, by a conservative estimate, 285 pounds, was a bald, black, wall of muscle, clearly a current or former bodybuilder.  And he’s looking at John with the cool, yet intense confidence of someone who believed in his ability to beat the living hell out of anyone he came across.  John wouldn’t doubt that in a moment.

“John,” Brian says by way of introduction, “this gentleman here is Jamal Richards.”

“Jamal,” John says in acknowledgement, extending his hand for a handshake.  After a brief moment, Jamal accepts the handshake.  Firm grip; no surprise there.

“He’s 32 years old, a former U.S. Navy SEAL, a four-year All-American linebacker at Florida State University and member of their 1999 National Championship team as a senior; and he played three years in the NFL as a member of the Dallas Cowboys.  He graduated from the Inferno Wrestling Academy in ‘05, and competes in the heavyweight division of the National Wrestling Organization of Japan, where he currently holds their Television Championship.  

“I brought him here today as your opponent.”

John looks at Jamal, his expression becoming more and more incredulous as Brian runs down the resumé of this impressive specimen.  Finally, John says, “You can’t be serious.”  And immediately he curses himself for saying that; he knew Brian would jump all over him for that.

If anything, John’s reaction made Jamal look even more smug than he already was.  And Brian did, indeed, take John to task for saying that.

“I’ve been accused of a number of things, John, but I’m pretty sure ‘being a comedian’ isn’t one of them.  You’ve sparred with myself, your father, Nick, Barry, and Antonio long enough.  You’re starting to get used to it.  But now you’ve been accepted by the World Wrestling Alliance; you’re gonna face all kinds of different opponents.  You think Steve didn’t face guys of all shapes and sizes on his way to five NEW World Heavyweight Championships?”

“Unless you want to prove that your graduating this Academy was a joke, and your father went easy on you,” Jamal adds.

[i]That[/i] did it.  “Hey, I’ll take on [i]any[/i]body, [i]any[/i]time,” John says, staring up at Jamal as his face begins to match the intensity of his much larger, far more accomplished opponent.

“Sounds good to me,” Brian says.  “As it so happens, I’m wearing my referee hat today, so Jamal, get stretched up, and let’s get this show on the road.”

“I’m ready right now,” Jamal replies, glaring down at John.  Brian simply shrugs, and John adjusts his wristbands, preparing himself for the fight of his life.

“Oh, and by the way—just so I can see what both of you are [i]really[/i] made of—this match will be a no-disqualifications match,” Brian adds.  “So this is no time to be lacking confidence, John.”

Gazing once more at the chiseled physique of his opponent, who seemed to be smiling even wider than when John had first expressed his doubts, the young man simply says, “You’ve got [i]that[/i] right.”

[b]Twenty minutes later…[/b]

If someone had spoken to John twenty-five minutes ago, he wouldn’t have believed that person when told that twenty-five minutes later, he’d actually be in a position to win this match.  In fact, the first seven minutes of the match had gone extremely badly for John, as he’d taken power move after power move from Jamal, everything from a three powerbombs to a spinebuster to a gorilla press sidewalk slam.

But when Jamal had made the mistake of going to the outside to grab a metal folding chair and lifting John to his feet with the intention of whipping him off the ropes and hitting a drop toe-hold onto the chair, John had flown back off the ropes with a flying forearm, taking Jamal down to his back.  Quickly grabbing the chair, John had waited until Jamal got to his feet, and then practically fused the chair into the former Navy SEAL’s skull, not even bothering to fold the chair back up before doing so.  The satisfying sound of metal striking bone had sent an “OOOOOH!” throughout all of those watching at the Academy.

The match had gone much better for John after that.  Focusing his attacks on the right knee of the larger man, beating him down with punches, kicks and chair shots, he’d been able to keep Jamal from putting too much weight on it for the rest of the contest.  Throw in a figure-four leglock, an STF, and even—thanks to a sudden burst of strength—a Fisherman suplex—and Jamal’s knee was pretty thoroughly savaged.

Just a moment ago, John had hit a Russian legsweep, bringing Jamal down again, in the center of the ring.  Now he stood perched up on the top turnbuckle, where—showing his respect to a legend of yore by flashing the “I Love You” sign—he jumps off and connects with a Superfly Splash.  He didn’t get quite the same elevation on it as he had in his recent match against Antonio Mason, but when Brian’s hand went down for the three-count, and Jamal wasn’t able to kick out, “The Lion” John Grant had won the contest.

A great cheer came up from the assembled wrestlers and technicians as Brian raises John’s hand in victory, and a chant of “JOHNNY!  JOHNNY!  JOHNNY!” started—which John noticed had actually been started by fellow ’09 Academy graduate Barry Andrews.  When they’d started out in the Academy together, the 25-year-old former hockey player had called John “Spoon Boy” after the alleged silver spoon John had been born with in his mouth, but just like with Violet, as they’d persevered together, they’d become close friends.

Well…

Barry wasn’t exactly as close a friend to John as Violet was.

Speaking of his girlfriend, John didn’t see her in the crowd today, much to his disappointment.  At least he knew that the match, just like the one with Antonio, had been thoroughly and professionally taped by the Academy’s camera crew.

As Jamal lifts himself to his feet, politely shrugging off John’s offer of assistance, he can see the grudging admiration in the eyes of his defeated opponent.  After a moment, Jamal offers his hand, and John cautiously takes it.

“Great match,” Jamal says, and John nods in agreement.  “Game for a rematch sometime?”

“You bet,” John replies, and the two of them share a manly hug.

[b]Ten minutes later…[/b]

John stood ringside with the Academy’s resident interviewer, Alex Yost, who’d been one of the many people in attendance during the impromptu match.  Actually, he’d shown up right as the contest was about to get underway, which had made John wonder if Alex had some kind of sixth sense for these sorts of things.  He wasn’t dressed in his usual suit, however—he wore a black T-shirt and blue jeans.

“John Grant, a word with you, please.  Going into this match fellow former Academy graduate Jamal Richards, you were most definitely the underdog.  Given no preparation time beforehand, how did you triumph today against the current Television Champion of the National Wrestling Organization of Japan?”

Shaking his head slightly in disbelief, John says, “Well, to be honest with you, Alex—early on, I thought I was pretty thoroughly screwed.  Richards clearly had me very well-scouted, and it seemed I couldn’t do anything right for the first seven, eight minutes of the match.  But he got a little cocky going for that chair; he couldn’t leave well enough alone, and that was pretty obviously the turning point of the match.”

“We just got word today that you have earned a tryout match in the World Wrestling Alliance for their second WWA: Underground show on January 22.  On the pre-show, you’ll take on Kid Cool and Willy Murdoch in a triangle match.  Do you have anything to say to your upcoming opponents?”

“Yeah, I do,” John says, giving a half-smile before continuing.  “This is my one and only try-out match for the WWA, and I intend to make the most out of it.  Kid Cool, Willy Murdoch, I’ve got 39 days until it’s time to step into a WWA ring, and start making a name for myself as one of the hottest up-and-coming young superstars in the business.  And if you think I’m going to spend those 39 days relaxing at the beach and playing video games, you obviously don’t know who you’re dealing with.

“I’m gonna train hard, I’m gonna study videotape, and I’m gonna battle the best that the Academy can throw at me.  I will continue developing my style, learning what works and improving upon—or discarding—what doesn’t work.  And when the time comes for me to step through that curtain, you’d better understand that I’ve got nothing to lose by going all-out and bringing the fight right to you.  It may be a match on the pre-show, but I’m gonna treat it like a pay-per-view main event, and I’ll be out there to put on one hell of a show for the fans, and to come away with a resounding victory that’ll make the WWA establishment come tripping over themselves to sign me.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Alex, I’ve got more work to do.  The match’ll be here before you know it.”

San Francisco, CA December 9, 2009 8:34 a.m. PDT

“Once there was a way to get back homeward… Once there was a way to get back home… Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry… And I will sing a lullaby…”

Listening to the remastered Abbey Road album by The Beatles on his iPod as he jogs down a sidewalk in the middle of San Francisco, California, John Grant—who, in the ring, called himself “The Lion”, as in a hungry young lion eager to prove his supremacy to the pack—lightly sings the words along with Paul McCartney about midway through the fifteen-minute-long medley that ends the last album The Beatles ever put together.  John unfortunately inherited his mother’s sense of pitch, and so he’s slightly off-key, but he’s focused enough on his jogging that he doesn’t notice.  Besides, in this part of town (and in this kind of cold) there aren’t really a lot of people out to care.

Wearing a light, black jacket with the letters “DV” in flaming blue letters on the back of it, along with black jogging pants, mittens, and Converse running shoes, John is protected, somewhat, from the near-40-degree weather.  He could see his breath in front of him, but it didn’t bother him—he’s learned that battling the elements, whether they were the sub-zero temperatures of his father’s native Juneau, Alaska, or the ninety- and hundred-degree days of the California summers—is the best way to truly tell how someone will hold up against real physical pressure.

Not to mention that singing while jogging was a good way to practice breath control.

In this instance, John wasn’t just jogging for his health; he was jogging to the Inferno Wrestling Academy, the place where his uncle had spent six months from April to October torturing him and fifteen other kids in an effort to churn out the wrestling superstars of tomorrow.  At least, it had started out as fifteen other kids.  John remembered speaking with one of the Academy’s most notable graduates, Antonio Mason, who had gone on to a quite successful career in Japan and Mexico, and having Tony tell him that the Academy was one of the hardest physical regimens he’d ever been through.  Antonio had been a three-time All-State linebacker in high school, so John had known what he’d been getting into when he applied…

…or, at least, he thought he had.

Any illusion that the five-time World Champion was going to take it easy on John just because he was his son was shattered in the first five minutes the younger Grant had spent on the mat.  Steve had forgotten more wrestling moves than most people will ever know, and damn if he hadn’t applied more than a handful of them on John.

As usual, the Academy had a high washout rate for 2009:  Steve Grant demanded nothing but excellence and the deepest commitment from his students, and many people weren’t prepared for that.  But in the end, three students prevailed and graduated from the Academy:  Barry Andrews, a guy who’d started out hating John’s guts (and nicknamed him “Spoon Boy” after the silver spoon John allegedly was born with in his mouth) but had ultimately come to respect him; Violet Waters, the first female graduate in the Academy’s four-year history; and John.

It’s Violet who greets John by raising up on her toes and shyly kissing his lips when she sees him just outside the Academy’s door.  True to her name, Violet was wearing purple; purple, yellow and white were all she seemed to wear, in fact, from the Lakers warm-up jacket to her purple sweatpants and white tennis shoes (with purple highlights).  The 5’7”, bespectacled, cream-colored African-American looks much more like a chemistry major at the University of San Francisco than a future professional wrestler.  But she was, in fact, both.  The shy kiss she greeted John with was an acknowledgement that they were still in the early stages of a romantic relationship.  They’d actually met at the university, ironically; John had just finished some homework at the library and was killing time with a Sudoku puzzle book when Violet saw him and commented that she loved Sudoku.  Their friendship had started quite easily after that.

Though she’d been friends with John for a month or two before they separately came to the Inferno Wrestling Academy, Violet had been stunned to learn that John was the son of “Blue Inferno” Steve Grant, whom Violet had grown up watching and admiring.  John, in turn, had been amazed that the admittedly-nerdy Violet had any interest whatsover in professional wrestling.

Going through the fire together tends to leave the survivors much closer, and that was certainly true with John and Violet, who’d started dating two weeks before graduating the Academy.  They’d agreed to let things progress at their own pace, and thus they were still a little shy, a little tentative around each other.  Violet had had no serious boyfriends in high school; just a couple of disastrous first dates, but she liked John and wanted to make sure this relationship went right.

“You’re up early this morning,” John comments as he gave his girlfriend a light hug, and upon breaking the hug he slips a hand into his jacket to turn off his iPod and then removes the earphones.

“Yeah well, Harry told me you’d be showing up to view your first promo video in its completed form.”  For her part, Violet had already completed a promo video and sent it to ten wrestling federations across the country, but had yet to hear back from any of them.  If she was disheartened by it, she’d never shown it around John; besides, the chemistry degree she was working towards would ensure her a job in any number of fields when all was said and done.  At the moment she was holding down employment with a start-up paint company.

“If nothing else, that 25-minute classic I had with Antonio on Halloween night should be more than enough to impress the scouts,” John says, feeling a burst of confidence as he remembered the night that he and Antonio Mason had put on a masterpiece of high-flying, brawling and technical wrestling at Shane’s Pub in Alameda.  The shows that his father put on weren’t designed to replicate the big-time feel of the major pro wrestling federations of yore, but more the cult feel of the old ECW and small-time bingo-hall operations.  But he stressed more than anything the ability to wrestle and the ability to entertain; he would have nothing to do with “garbage wrestling”.

“Hell, the highlights alone would convince me,” Violet says with a smile.  “The Flying Space Tiger Drop that missed and wiped out the referee and the guy at the concession stand… the reversal of the Death Valley Driver that ended in a Tiger Suplex… and you got so much elevation on the Superfly Splash at the end I thought you’d never come down.”

John kisses Violet again, and says, “I’m glad to see my girlfriend, anyway, isn’t lacking in confidence.  What about the actual interview?  What’d you think of that?”

Violet, perhaps sensing that John wanted an honest critique of his interviewing skills, takes a moment or two to think before replying.  “It reminded me a lot of your father in the latter days of his career,” she decides.  “If you had butterflies up there, it certainly didn’t show.  You displayed a level of confidence in your abilities that’s remarkable for someone who’s only had a handful of actual professional matches.”  Violet takes a slight stutter-breath here, and John already knows her well enough to know that the constructive criticism was about to come.

“You may have shown a little bit too much bravado, in fact,” she adds.  “You put a lot of pressure on yourself to succeed in the business—and, really, in everything you do.  Almost like you’re afraid that if you don’t work hard every moment of every day, someone’s going to come and snatch everything away from you.”

John purses his lips, nodding slowly.  Violet’s honesty was one of the things he’d come to admire about her, and that honesty was always couched in tact.  “You might be right about that:  I do put a lot of pressure on myself.  I do want, very much, to succeed in the wrestling business.”

“Because of your father?” Violet asks, her tone making it pretty obvious that she already knows the answer.

Again, John nods.  “And Uncle Brian.  And even Uncle Adam.  The three of them combined won just about every championship in every division—heavyweight, light-heavyweight, tag-team—that they set their minds to getting.”  Indeed, it was the style of John’s uncle, “The Tiger” Brian Grant—far moreso than his father’s—that John had emulated in developing his own wrestling abilities.  A lot of that had to do with the phyiscal differences between Steve and John:  John was 6’3”, 227 pounds—tall by normal standards but about average among his wrestling peers.  Steve, on the other hand, was 6’9”, 295 pounds in his wrestling days (though he was about 305 pounds in retirement).  Steve Grant had been able to do insanely high-flying moves that were nearly unprecedented for a man of his size, and it was because of his martial-arts training and tremendous flexibility and conditioning.

John had no martial-arts training to speak of, and he also lacked Steve’s sheer power and size.  Therefore, he had to rely on his technical mastery, speed, and high-flying ability.

“My father and Uncle Adam were so driven and determined to reach the absolute heights of the business,” John continues.  “Even though they were best friends most of their careers, and later family, it didn’t matter to them if they were fighting alongside one another or against each other.”

“‘In this business, you can make friends or you can make money,’” Violet quotes, repeating the words that Chief Jay Strongbow once said to Scott Hall and Kevin Nash.

“Right,” John says, nodding in agreement.  He’d always wondered, though, whether Uncle Brian agreed with that philosophy.  Based on his more modest list of career accomplishments compared to Steve, he doubted it was so.

“Well, let’s get in there,” Violet says, “and see the video that Harry and the gang have put together for you.”

Smiling, John takes Violet’s hand and walks into the Inferno Wrestling Academy with her, his calm demeanor belying the anxiety he felt at this moment.  This video could either kick-start a career for him, or, in twenty years’ time, lie covered with dust at the bottom of a moving box somewhere.

~*~*~

A few minutes later…

Having removed his jacket to reveal a Sgt. Pepper album cover T-shirt underneath it, John sits with Violet in the darkened film room of the Academy, watching the video that he’d put together.  Highlights of his match with Antonio Mason at Shane’s Pub start the video off, showing, of course, the offensive and defensive moves that were in John’s favor.  In real life, the match had been far more back-and-forth than one might assume by watching the highlight video.  But highlight videos weren’t meant to emulate real life; they were meant to spotlight one individual in particular.

John knows that the complete video of the match will also be sent to the wrestling promotions that he’s applying for, and so he doesn’t feel bad that the highlight video shows Tony (whom he had tremendous respect for) getting his ass kicked.  And anyone who really knew wrestling would know that Tony’s ability to take those bumps was just as impressive as John’s ability to perform the moves in the first place.

So John watched, seeing these highlights for the first time.  He’d consulted Harry Jaffee, the video editor—as well as Steve and Brian Grant—as to what moves he would like to have spotlighted, but he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to see himself wrestle on video.  They’d certainly spared no expense, either:  The video was a dual-layer DVD/Blu-Ray combo, presented in 1080p, and displayed on a large flat-screen television.  The film footage had been shot in anamorphic widescreen format.  “Blue Inferno” Steve Grant was a multi-millionaire several times over, and he wasn’t afraid to use that money to provide the best for his students.

John watched as he springboard-vaulted off the top rope, and was caught by Antonio.  Tony had prepared to hit a fallaway slam, but John had grabbed the back of his knee and pulled him down to his back.  There was another highlight of the Death Valley Driver reversal into a Running Tiger Bomb; the Flying Space Tiger Drop that took out the referee and the concession stand guy, sending popcorn and soda flying everywhere (but missing Antonio completely); the STF, figure-four leglock and Sharpshooter he’d applied at various points during the match; and, finally, a high-elevating Superfly Splash that ended John’s first professional match with a win.  John lets out a whistle as he realizes for the first time how close he’d coming to slamming his head against the ceiling.

Then came the promo part of the video, during which announcer Alex Yost interviewed John following his match, while “Hells Bells” by AC/DC played lightly in the background to compliment it.  John knew that this last bit showed some technical mastery from Harry and the gang:  When the interview had been taking place, “Hells Bells” was blaring from the sound system.  John had had to strain to be able to hear Alex’s questions over the din.

Alex Yost was dressed nattily in a brown sports coat, blue-and-silver tie and pants, and was about fifty years old.  His neat appearance contrasted considerably with John, who looked like he’d just come through hell—but at least he’d come out triumphant.

“Thanks Quinn, and I’m standing here now with the winner of tonight’s epic main event, ‘The Lion’ John Grant.”  Turning to angle towards John now, Alex continues to speak.  “John, you were born and raised in this business.  You’re the son of the great, former world heavyweight champion ‘Blue Inferno’ Steve Grant, and a graduate of the Inferno Wrestling Academy in San Francisco.  What does it feel like to win your first professional match?”

When John spoke, his breath was still quite elevated from the hard work he’d put in, but he wasn’t out of breath.  “Well, Quinn, it’s the culmination of months of hard work training to become one of the bright young stars of the business.  The Inferno Wrestling Academy churns out only the most capable, most determined individuals, with the strongest, most disciplined minds.  As you can probably tell by the way Tony and I brought down the house tonight, I didn’t breeze through the Academy just because my father was teaching me.”

“And I know you’re not satisfied with simply one great match,” Alex replied, stating the obvious.  But then, it was supposed to be a leading question.

“Absolutely not; the Grant family of wrestlers has always been a family that strives to be the unqualified best at what we do.”  John spoke with a steady intensity, and while he’d organized his thoughts in advance of the interview, he was, generally speaking, improvising what he was saying.  “At the peak of his career, there was no wrestler, in any federation, whom my father couldn’t beat.  I know I’ve only had one match, but I’m hungry for more.  I want to prove myself against the greatest competition in the world, and establish my name as a champion just like my father, my uncle, and my uncle-in-law.  Hell—I want to one day surpass all of them.  

“So to every professional wrestling promoter in the world—if you’re looking for someone who will push himself every day to put on the highest-caliber, most entertaining matches, someone who’ll come in early and stay late, and do whatever it takes to make himself—and the company—successful, you’re looking at him.  And for every one of the guys in the back, you’d better start worrying about protecting your spots, because this hungry young Lion is coming, and he’s not playing with kid gloves.”

Both Johns—the one on-screen talking to Alex, and the one in real-life sitting next to Violet—chuckle softly at his use of a mixed metaphor there.

With that, the screen fades to black, and “Hells Bells” by AC/DC continues to play, a little louder than before, before it, too, fades.  Then the lights come up in the film room.

“Looks good, Harry,” John says to the very talented, albeit a little skittish, technical manager before the latter could utter a word.

“I agree,” Violet opines, giving John’s hand a light squeeze.  “I know you’re gonna be sending it to, like, fifteen different places, but where do you hope to end up?”

“Well, the World Wrestling Alliance is gonna be starting up again in mid-January,” John tells her.  “They’re gonna start off slowly, kind of having more of an independent feel to it, so it’ll be ripe for opportunities for a young wrestler to prove himself and move up the ranks.”

“Looks like you’ve already got this all mapped out,” Violet tells him, and a sheepish grin and shrug from John confirms that without words.  “Well, wherever you end up, I know you’ll put on a show, and make your family—and me—proud.”

"One day more... Another day, another destiny On this never-ending road to Calvary..."

--Jean Valjean, "Les Misérables"

----

The sun was setting in the city of Little Rock, Arkansas on February 17, 2005.  The end of another day.  He watched the magnificent yellow and orange orb descend dispassionately, knowing that he was another day older, another day wiser (so he hoped), and another day closer to the end of his wrestling career.

He sat on a park bench, listening to the birds, and feeling the wind blow through his short blonde hair.  Closing his eyes for a moment, he allowed himself to feel pleasure from the gentle sensations of nature-- truly, they were a gift from God.  It'd been a long time since he'd given himself over to a simple longing like this, the longing to be closer to nature that had been imbedded in the heart of man since time was time.

Of course, man had historically misinterpreted that desire as a desire to take over nature, and perhaps that was how the human race had gotten into its current predicament.  How can human beings live what they consider to be the "ideal" life without destroying the environment or allowing themselves to become complacent?  There really wasn't a good answer to that question.  Or perhaps the answer to the question was, "They can't," as illustrated in concepts like The Matrix trilogy-- mankind became too dependent upon machines, and were conquered by their own creations.

He grunted at that thought, and unzipped his leather jacket a little bit, pulling out a Wint-O-Green Life Saver and sliding it into his mouth.  He resisted the temptation to immediately chomp down on it as he recalled that night in his youth, long ago, in which all the kids at church camp had been given a Wint-O-Green Life Saver and chomped down on it simultaneously.  The flashes of light had surprised and delighted him, and the small, thumb-sized candies had been his favorite sugary treat ever since.

This time he decided to hold it in his mouth, allowing its minty freshness to permeate through him.  It, like the wind, felt quite nice.  It was always delightful to be able to enjoy such simple sensations when one is in an introspective state of mind-- such as he was.  Ever since he'd accepted Jade's invitation for one last night, one last highlight and-- hopefully-- one last reign as World Heavyweight Champion, his mind had wandered, thinking about the things that had happened to get him to this point.

As the old church bells rang six times, he listened to each one as they marked the times of his life.  He was nearing the end of his story-- at least, the end of the wrestling chapter of his story, and the beginning of a long-awaited new chapter.  But every story...

...Every story... had a beginning.

-----

One sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home today Than I ever have been before.

--Phoebe Cary

----

The thing that first struck him as he stepped out of his family's brand-new 1982 Ford Escort was the August heat.  He'd never experienced anything quite like the sweltering heat just outside Arena Lucha in Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico.  This month-long family trip-- from Juneau, Alaska to Guadalajara and back-- had taken them through the Yukon Territory, British Columbia, Alberta, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, Chihuahua, Durango and Zacatecas.

Steve Grant was a precocious young nine-year-old, but a trip like this was far beyond anything he'd ever experienced-- or thought he would ever experience-- in his entire life.  The first thing that had come out of his mouth when his father, David, had announced this trip six months ago had been, "Why can't we simply fly to Mexico?"  Certainly, it was well within the family's means.  David Grant was a world-renowned neurosurgeon, making in excess of $1 million annually, with offices in Juneau and Los Angeles.  The five-member Grant family-- parents David and Melinda and children Steve, Rachel and Brian-- could easily have afforded to go first-class to whatever city they wanted to, and wouldn't have missed the money.

His father's reply to his question had been hard to argue with.  "Nobody ever learned anything flying in an airplane all over the place."  Steve had opened his mouth to protest, but his mother's warning look had informed him that his parents had already made up their collective minds about this, and that any further argument would meet with severe consequences.  The youngster had learned long ago that he might be able to turn one of his parents to his point of view if they weren't on the same page with one another, but if they presented a united front, he could forget about it.

So he'd had the task of telling his siblings-- six-year-old Rachel and three-year-old Brian-- of the planned trip.  Much to Steve's chagrin, Rachel had immediately exclaimed, "Oooh, family trip!" and her enthusiasm had quickly rubbed off on Brian, who'd started bouncing on his bed exuberantly.  Steve had muttered something like, "Thanks a lot for [i]your[/i] help," and had walked out of the room.

Looking back on their trip so far, Steve had to grudgingly admit that his parents and siblings had been right-- although he'd be damned if he would admit that to them out loud.  So many things they'd seen, so many of the world's wonders.  Yellowstone National Park.  The Alamo.  The Canadian Rockies.  British Columbia's Mount Revelstoke National Park, which contained part of the world's only temperate inland rainforest.  Colorado's Black Canyon, with walls so deep and narrow that very little sunlight shone through them, making them appear black.

Before the trip had begun, Steve had never been out of his home state of Alaska.  He'd been born in Juneau on February 23, 1972.  Certainly he'd gone to other cities in Alaska, sometimes even on school field trips.  But now Steve could say that he'd been to Canada, Mexico and the contiguous United States.  He'd never really gotten a sense for, well... how big it all was, until they'd packed up the gold Escort and taken off.

Certainly, it was a trip that Steve would never forget as long as he lived.  But unknownst to him, on this day when he and his family walked into Arena Lucha, he'd remember the exact date-- for this was a day that would change his life forever.

August 8, 1981.

****

"Wow, look at how [i]big[/i] this place is!" Steve exclaimed, leading his family into the Arena Lucha's main colosseum area.  His mother smiled.  "Yes, Steve.  Careful, let that man through."  Steve had been told by his parents to walk in front of them, "where we can see you," and Steve's reaction had been to simply nod in understanding.  Steve had seen sporting events on TV in which the crowd had become an angry mob, and knew that that tendency typically increased when there was alcohol involved-- as there was here.  His parents were keeping a close eye on him for his own protection, which re-assured Steve that they loved him and were going to make sure he was well taken care of.

His father was giving Brian a piggyback ride, and his mother held Rachel's hand, glaring at anyone who came near Rachel in the way that mothers do.  So even surrounded by 40,000 wrestling fans, most of whom didn't speak English, Steve felt completely safe.

The Grants' seats were one section back from the ring, which had prompted an immediate protest from Steve when he'd heard the news.  "Aww, why can't we sit in the front row?  We could afford it, right?"  His father, ever the wise parent, had replied, "By sitting one section back, we're afforded a better view of the action.  Sit in the front row and you won't be able to see most of what goes on."

Steve took his seat and realized that Dad had been right.  His view of the ringside area and entrance ramp was perfect, obstructed only by the ring itself-- and even then, he'd be able to see a fight if it broke out on the opposite side of the ring.  Maybe not in perfect detail, but he'd get the gist of what was happening.

If Steve were more mature at this age, he'd reflect that everything his father had told him so far had proven to be wise.  He wasn't quite at the age, though, where he'd accept that he wasn't the smartest person in his universe.

A fanfare broke out, and the crowd rose to its feet, even as his mother was ordering popcorn, Pepsis and soft pretzels for the Grant clan.  A well-dressed Mexican ring announcer slipped underneath the ropes and made some pronouncements in Spanish, which he'd then translated into English for the benefit of the visitors from the United States.  "Please don't throw anything into the ring, please don't touch the wrestlers," et cetera.  Steve imagined that every show had these same rules of conduct, and most of the time they were followed-- but when they weren't followed, chaos and panic ensued.

Finally, the ring announcer called out the names of a four-man tag-team as the four individuals entered the arena to a funky Latin beat.  The crowd stood and cheered in appreciation, and the masked luchadores took the praise, reveled in it and played to the crowd, which brought a smile to Steve's face.

After the técnicos had entered the ring, the rudos were introduced, and Steve realized that they were much bigger as a group, much more dangerous-looking, and two of them were even unmasked.  The crowd booed and hissed at the bad guys, and when they entered the ring, all hell broke loose.

The referee regained control of the situation after a short time, and the match reverted to eight-man tag-team rules-- but with a twist.  In addition to having standard tags, if someone was ejected from the ring the next person on his team to enter the ring became the legal man.  The high-flying maneuvers were fast-paced, exciting and seemingly never-ending.

Steve sat in awed silence, gazing at the contest with large blue eyes, as the high-risk maneuvers just got more and more crazy...

****

It was a bombshell his parents had never seen coming.  Several days after watching the Arena Lucha show, the Grants were on the road again, headed back north on the long trip that would take them back home, when Steve said, completely out of the blue, "I want to be a wrestler when I grow up."

Normally, any parent would say something like, "That's nice, dear," and promptly forget about it-- after all, how could a nine-year-old possibly know what he wants to be when he grows up?  And how many times in his life would a nine-year-old have said, "I want to be a fireman," or "I want to be a vet," or "I want to be a marine biologist," while having absolutely no idea what that entailed, and pursuing no study to achieve that goal?

But with Steve, his parents had no reply for a moment.  Because this was the first time Steve had ever said he wanted to be anything when he grew up.  He'd made no bones about the fact that he was undecided-- there were so many wonderful things he could be, and so much time in which to make that choice, so what was the hurry?

Furthermore, several days had passed since the wrestling show, so David and Melinda Grant knew that Steve didn't say this in a sudden burst of youthful enthusiasm.  He said it with a completely serious voice, as if to say, "That's what I'm going to do, dammit, and you can't tell me that I won't be one."  His face matched the seriousness of his voice, and his parents realized that they had an interesting task ahead of them.

They hadn't commented on it at the time, but after the children went to sleep that night in a Best Western in New Mexico, David and Melinda stood outside the porch, talking about Steve's revelation.  It was just past midnight, and clearly they weren't of the same mind about this one.  Melinda thought that the idea of her son becoming a wrestler was horrifying, while David's argument was, "If that's what the child wants to do, let him follow his own path."

In the pale moonlight, Steve and Rachel realized that their parents were no longer in the room, and had crept, barefoot and in their pajamas, over to the window.  They crouched down in front of it and were able to make out some-- but not all-- of the conversation.

Rachel giggled girlishly as she realized that her parents were debating about her older brother.  "You're really in for it now, Steve," she said, curling and uncurling her toes in relief that she wasn't the one in trouble.

Steve rolled his eyes.  "You're no help, Raych," he replied.  But he was a little concerned.  If Mom had her way, he'd grow up to be a doctor-- but it was something he had no interest in, or aptitude for.  He much preferred his father's reasoning-- that you couldn't force that decision on a child.  Steve had the suspicion that even Dad secretly hoped he'd "grow out of it," but when he'd watched those luchadores, Steve had had a moment of clarity that he'd never had before in his life.  He knew, instinctively, that he wanted to be a wrestler-- not only that, but he knew he had the drive to be a [i]successful[/i] one.

"You think Mom's gonna turn Dad against your wrestling dream?"  Even though she liked to tease him, Rachel had also seen in Steve's eyes that he was 100% serious about being a wrestler, and she knew that once big brother set his mind on something, he gave it everything he had.  It was part of the reason she looked up to him so much.

"I hope not," Steve sighed.  "Because I'm not sure I can do this without the support of my family."

Just then, Mom and Dad walked back towards the hotel room, and the two young Grant children dove into the bed, quickly covering each other up with the blankets.  The door opened, and Steve jammed his eyes shut, resisting the temptation to make an "honest to God, I'm sleeping" snore, because he knew it'd sound fake.  But before long, he'd drifted off to sleep for real, despite the feeling of his brother and sister's cold bare feet against his.

****

The following day at breakfast, Steve was in the middle of chewing one of his scrambled eggs when Mom said, "Steve, your father and I have something to say about your revelation last night.  The wrestling thing."

Steve steeled himself for disappointment.  Of course Mom and Dad wouldn't understand, or would think that he was better than being one of those crazy athletes who put their bodies on the line for the enjoyment of fans.  Mom was an eighth-grade social studies teacher, after all, and Dad was a neurosurgeon.

Mom looked to Dad expectantly, and he took a sip of orange juice before speaking.  "We've decided that if you want to be a wrestler, we're going to do whatever we can to help you achieve that goal."

Steve couldn't believe his good fortune.  He stared at his parents in stunned silence for a moment before letting out an exultant "Whoo-hoo!" and hugging Rachel, Brian and finally his parents.

David Grant let his oldest son celebrate for a few more moments, but then held up a warning finger.  "I should tell you, Steve, that nothing worthwhile was ever achieved in this world without effort.  Saying you want to become a wrestler and becoming a wrestler are two different things.  And you have to keep in mind that very few wrestlers make enough money to support their own family, let alone ride around in fancy limousines like that Ric Flair character you're such a fan of."

"WHOO!" Steve immediately replied.  He couldn't help himself.  Beside him, Rachel laughed, having seen that one coming a mile away.

His mother gave him the look.  "But if you're willing to put forth the effort, we're willing to help you however we can.  We'll sign you up for wrestling and martial-arts classes, and we'll work with some doctors and personal trainers to help you put together a fitness regimen.  No more cheeseburgers for you, Steve, except under very special circumstances.  You're going to have to eat right and exercise regularly from now on."

"In addition," his father said, "you're going to keep those grades up, or so help me, we'll pull you right back out of the wrestling and martial-arts training.  Don't assume you're going to make money doing what those wrestlers do.  If something happens, you're gonna have to use your brains to make a living for yourself.  We won't be supporting you 'til you're 47."

His parents looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for Steve to reply.  Steve turned all these things over in his head, and finally said the words that would set him on his life's new journey--

"Bring it on."

----

"And in the end, it's not the years in your life that count.  It's the life in your years."

--Abraham Lincoln

----

It was September of 1997, a full sixteen years after Steve had set himself on this path, and he still couldn't believe it had actually happened.  Oh, he already had some ring experience, to be sure.  He'd trained in the WCW Power Plant for the last two years, learning valuable things about not only the way to have good matches, but the nature of the business itself.  Sgt. Buddy Lee Parker had admired his commitment, and a year ago had recommended he be called up to WCW.

World Championship Wrestling hadn't done so, though.  Indeed, for three months they hadn't given any answer at all, and when they had, they'd insisted Steve was "not ready for prime-time".  His phone conversation with the World Wrestling Federation's Jim Ross had gone much the same way, and Steve hadn't even considered Extreme Championship Wrestling, discarding it as being "garbage wrestling".

Steve stuck in there for six more months, learning absolutely everything he could from Sarge, but had become disheartened by WCW's lack of confidence in him and his abilities.  "How can they stick their nose up at me," Steve had commented, "when they've got a 90-year-old champion who can't wrestle his way out of a brown paper bag?"  Steve was referring, of course, to "Hollywood" Hulk Hogan.

Three weeks later, WCW had released Steve from his contract, and left with nowhere to go, he went to Japan.  He wrestled in New Japan for two months, primarily as a jobber to Japanese luminaries like Jushin "Thunder" Liger, Super Delfin and Mitsuharu Misawa.  Along the way, he befriended fellow American wrestler "The Warrior" Nick Wolf, a native of Arizona who'd allegedly been raised by wolves in the wilderness (Steve hadn't quite yet worked up the courage to ask Nick if that were true or not).

Unbeknownst to them, scouts from Internet Championship Wrestling (ICW) had been watching in the crowd when Steve and Nick put on a 20-minute technical wrestling clinic against each other that had resulted in Steve tapping out to Nick's Pretzel Lock submission hold.  The scouts introduced themselves backstage later, handed them both plane tickets back to the States, and said "Maybe you should come see us."

Steve and Nick had waited until the scouts left, looked at each other for a moment, and simultaneously exclaimed "Boo-yeah!" while high-fiving one another.

Now, a week later, they were backstage, three hours before they'd both debut on ICW's Monday Night Metal show.  Steve would go up against a guy with the unlikely name of Jumping Terror, while Nick battled a man named Joey Richards.  They entered the locker room together, and were immediately agog at the number of wrestling legends they were sharing the room with.

"Holy shit, man," Nick exclaimed as he changed into a white wifebeater and a pair of ripped blue jean shorts.  The 5'10", ripped African-American was clearly star-struck.  "Everywhere you look, there's someone you've seen on TV."

"I know," Steve replied.  "Silencer Chris Fry, Stunnin' Steve, Jason Bagwell, Destructo, even 'Bad Ass Brian Marcotte!  And they're all right here, in this federation!  We could learn a lot from these guys."

Nick nodded his head in agreement.  "Damn straight.  So, have you talked to this Jumping Terror guy yet?"

"We're supposed to meet in about an hour to discuss our spots," Steve replied.  "This is his 'real' debut-- I mean, he didn't wrestle in Japan or anything.  He's completely fresh."

"Oh, boy," Nick said, rolling his eyes ironically.  "God save the world from rookies, eh?"

Both of them laughed-- the joke, of course, was that both of them still were rookies [i]themselves,[/i] despite their experiences in Japan.  And they were both in a joking, jovial mood, because tonight was the night that they'd finally wrestle in front of a live crowd in their home country.  God bless the U.S.A.

"Come be a part of the best thing going today," a voice called out.  "Death Valley, soon to be the greatest stable this sport's ever seen!  Sick of not having anyone to watch your back?  Become part of Death Valley today!"

Steve's ears perked up, and looking next to him, he saw that Nick's had, too.  "A stable?" Nick asked, in wonderment.  "This could be a big thing for us, Steve.  There will be plenty of guys waiting to stab a knife in our backs, especially if we achieve the kind of success we're looking to achieve.  And that guy distributing fliers is a big, big guy-- rather have him on our side than against us."

"That's certainly true," Steve said, but there was more to it than that.  As he looked at the big guy handing out fliers to disinterested-looking wrestlers, something clicked inside Steve's mind.  Suddenly, he knew without a doubt that this was something he had to do, something that would change the course of his whole life.  To be part of a team, be part of something larger than oneself, was extremely important to him.  Just like that day in 1981 when he'd realized he wanted to be a wrestler, now he knew that he had to be a DV member.

Steve and Nick walked up to the big guy, and realized that the tank-top-wearing man wasn't that much bigger than the 6'9" Steve.  Of course he dwarfed Nick, but then so did most guys in the locker room.

The man had a frustrated look on his face, as he'd so far gotten a grand total of zero takers for his stable formation idea, but he put on his best customer-service face as he handed a flier to both Steve and Nick.  "Come, be part of something great," he said.  "Join Death Valley, the alliance that will turn the wrestling world on its head."

Steve and Nick, much to the man's surprise, replied in unison, "All right."

----

"I too shall lie in the dust when I am dead, but now let me win noble renown."

--The Iliad by Homer

----

It was over.  The crowd knew it, the announcers knew it, and without a doubt, TANK Thomas knew it.  Oh, the kid had certainly fought hard to get to this point, and had earned the World Champion's respect.  Definitely the kid would be able to get here again, and maybe sometime down the line, he'd be World Heavyweight Champion.

But not tonight, he decided, grinning in anticipation of his victory.  He lifted the tall blonde onto his shoulders, prepared to deal him the devastating powerbomb that had won him so many matches in the past...

****

It's not over.  Screw what the crowd thinks, the announcers think, and what TANK Thomas thinks.  Steve Grant knew he was in a lot of trouble-- he'd taken quite a pounding the last few minutes after a battle that had see-sawed back and forth-- but he didn't allow himself for a moment to think his fight was over.

Nor did he accept the possibility of failure.  Failure was something he never allowed himself to experience as long as there was fight left in him; to give up simply wasn't the way he was taught.  Two weeks earlier, he'd gone through three men in the same night to win the inaugural Lord of the Rings tournament, and he knew that no matter what happened in the future, he'd always be able to say, "I was the first man to win the Lord of the Rings tournament."

But never did it occur to him to simply settle for that distinction.  The LotR victory had transformed him from a tag-team star (indeed, a former four-time World Tag Team Champion) into a singles star overnight.  It had propelled him from being one of DV's junior members into the unquestioned leader of Death Valley-- certainly, something he never expected would happen so soon.

Yet he knew that this World Title shot, guaranteed him by winning the tournament, was something he had to take full advantage of.  LotR winner or no, he didn't know how long he'd be able to maintain his spot in the upper echelon of New Extreme Wrestling, and had absolutely no idea how many opportunities he'd have like this.  An opportunity not only to win the World Heavyweight Championship, but to do so against a man that, up until a month ago when he suffered back-to-back losses to Grant's DV teammate Doomsday (including the second loss which cost Thomas the U.S. Heavyweight Title), had put together a tremendous undefeated streak.

But right now, Steve was in tremendous pain.  His head, neck and back were agonized by the continuous assault of the World Champion.  He'd just about been knocked unconscious by some of those blows, and was grateful he hadn't been, because he knew Thomas would have immediately capitalized and pinned him to retain the title.  As Steve was lifted onto Thomas' shoulders, the crowd let out a collective gasp, as if not believing that Steve's first title shot would end like this.  But they'd seen this scenario on many occasions, and probably weren't particularly surprised by it.  Oh, well, somewhere down the line TANK had to lose to someone, right?

They couldn't possibly have any idea that they were about to witness the coronation of a blossoming legend.

****

"TANK Thomas lifts Steve Grant up for the powerbomb!  This is gonna be the end of it, folks...!"

"Wait... what is Steve Grant doing?"

"He's punching away at the champion's head as hard as he can!  There is still life left in the Blue Inferno after all!  Come on Steve, you can do it, kid!"

"Steve Grant has managed to climb off the stunned TANK Thomas' shoulders!  He's lifting him up onto his own shoulders... Death Valley Driver! Steve Grant has hit the Death Valley Driver on TANK Thomas!"

"That's the move he used to defeat EGANRAC two weeks ago in the Lord of the Rings tournament finals!"

"Steve Grant's trying to shake off the abuse he suffered only a few minutes ago...  he's crawling over to make the cover... do it, kid! Take your place in history!"

"He's slumped down on top of TANK Thomas, and he's got his leg hooked!"

"One...

"Two...

"THREE!  Steve Grant has done it!  Steve Grant has done it!"

"I don't believe it!"

"Ladies and gentlemen, your winner... and new World Heavyweight Champion, 'Blue Inferno' Steve Grant!"

****

It didn't seem real, but there it was.  Referee Mark Pence handed Steve the World Heavyweight Championship belt and raised his hand to signify his victory.  Steve stared at the title belt in disbelief for a moment before slumping down onto his knees and weeping tears of joy.

Finally, he'd done what he'd set out to do.  Finally, the world knew him as its Heavyweight Champion.  He'd proven wrong everyone who'd ever doubted him, and he'd earned the admiration and respect of wrestling fans all over the globe.

Nick Wolf was the first to slide into the ring, and he embraced his friend, his partner, his brother.  He, too, was shedding happy tears, as happy for Steve as he would've been if it had been Nick who'd won the championship.  More friends and loved ones entered the ring... Hawk Manson, Steve's girlfriend Jessica Riley, "Warhammer" Kano Kumira, "TombStone" Adam Holiday.  All of them embraced him not only as their friend, but as their champion.

Later that night, Steve knew, he'd propose to Jessica as he'd planned to do.  He had the ring in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, which he'd left in the locker rom.  Tonight he'd ask her to marry him, and they'd be very happy together, because Jessica was the woman he wanted to be with for the rest of his life.

He knew that the anxiety wouldn't set in until the adrenaline from his victory fully wore off, so he allowed himself to bask in the glow of his successful challenge, knowing that a far more difficult challenge-- marriage-- could possibly be awaiting him in the very near future.

----

"Aren't you beginning to feel time gaining on you?  It's like a predator, it's stalking you."

--Tolian Soran, Star Trek: Generations

----

March 28, 2000 was a date that would be forever embedded into his mind.  It was perhaps the most memorable day of his life-- more memorable than his first World Title victory, his first day of school, or even the day he got married to his wife.

Memorable, yes-- but not all memories are good memories.

****

Steve was frantic in those moments that he stood helplessly, waiting for the paramedics to arrive and carry away the woman he loved.  Who would have thought that things would come to this?  Who would have thought that, by winning a #1 contender's match against Sport Jones only nine days ago to earn a title shot against the World Champion, Trent Raven, harm would come to his family?  And not just his family-- his wife!

Steve knew how important the World Heavyweight Championship was, having held it on two previous occasions.  To someone in this business, the World Title was everything.  It was the culmination of everything that you'd worked towards in your life, the one thing you could point do and say, "See this?  This means I'm the best."  While Steve had held it, he'd referred to it in promos as "his life", a comment that had been slightly tongue-in-cheek.  In reality, sure, the belt was important to him, but he was always mindful of the fact that there were other things that were of far more worth-- to him, if not necessarily to anyone else.

At the absolute top of the importance totem pole was the woman who right now lay bleeding in his locker room.  Four days earlier, while Steve had been out shopping, Trent Raven's posse, "Trent's Rave", had kidnapped Jessica from her home.  Steve had immediately summoned the police, but when they'd caught up with The Rave, Jessica was no longer among them.  With no evidence to make a case against them, the police had been forced to let them go.

No evidence.  Steve rolled his eyes angrily at that notion.  As if the fact that Trent had left his signature flannel sweater "calling card" at his home wasn't evidence enough.  Steve knew, without a doubt in his mind, that The Rave had been responsible for the kidnapping, and whatever they'd done to her between then and now, she was clearly in need of immediate medical attention.  She was bleeding profusely from the stomach and groin area, and underneath her torn clothing he could see that her once-beautiful skin had lines of blood drawn down it.

The paramedics arrived within thirty seconds of Steve's summons, although from Steve's perspective the time seemed to stretch on forever.  Steve had seen some strange things in his life, and been part of some brutal matches-- including the inaugural "Mall Madness" match against Damien Simons and Chaos twenty-four days earlier in which he'd Inferno Kicked Simons off the mall balcony into a fountain.

But this...

Steve's mind simply wasn't coping with this, and he had no strength to resist or even acknowledge as he was gently led into the ambulance.

****

When they reached the hospital, Steve was gently ushered into a waiting room.  It was then that his resistance began to return, as he cried out, swore, and tried desperately to stay by Jessica's side.  Somehow-- Steve couldn't remember exactly how it had happened-- they'd talked him down from the verge of violence, and managed to get him to sit in relative peace and quiet, waiting for word.

Although Steve's exterior demeanor was rather calm considering the circumstances, his emotions were rolling over top of one another, some of them conflicting and many not making sense.  He should have been there, he should have... gotten to the locker room sooner... should have paid to have the groceries delivered instead of leaving Jess alone in the house... should have allowed Sport Jones to beat him for a change... hell, he shouldn't have gotten into the wrestling business in the first place.

There it was.  Although obviously Steve hadn't done this to Jessica himself, and had, obviously, gone insane with worry as he'd done everything in his power to find her, the fact remained that if not for the decision he'd made on that hot summer day in 1981, Jessica wouldn't have been kidnapped, and wouldn't at this moment be fighting for her life in the emergency room of St. Joseph's Hospital in St. Louis.  The fact that if not for his wrestling career, he and Jess would likely never have [i]met[/i] didn't cross the anguished man's mind.  All he could think was, It's my fault... it's my fault... oh, my God, Jess is going to die because I wasn't strong enough... wasn't good enough...

Steve would later look back on this waiting process with curiousity.  Earlier, it had taken the paramedics less than a minute to get to Jessica while she'd been bleeding in the locker room-- even though it had seemed like hours to Steve.  But as he waited four hours for word of his wife, the only person that, in the final analysis, meant anything to him at all-- when the news came, it felt like only minutes had gone by.  He'd been lost in deep meditation, praying to God to intervene, to please let Jessica live... Jessica, who'd never stepped on an anthill in her entire life, let alone Death Valley Drivered the living daylights out of the people she worked with.  Please, make me die, Steve had thought on more than one occasion, but not her.  Please, there aren't nearly enough gentle spirits like her on earth... and there are far too many savages like me.

His conversation with God had alternately taken the forms of pleading, bribing, begging, demanding and finally, when he'd had no alternative, trusting.  Trusting that whatever was planned for her was the way it was going to be, and Steve had to try and prepare himself for life without her.  Even though life without her seemed absolutely inconceivable.

Steve looked up into the kindly eyes of an old, gray-haired male doctor, wearing wide glasses, aquamarine hospital scrubs and a nametag on his right breast that read "K. Thompson".  Belatedly, he realized that the gentleman had been trying to get his attention for the past minute or so.

He rose to his full height of 6'9", towering over the doctor by over a foot-- yet Steve had never felt quite so small.

"Mr. Grant," Dr. Thompson began, formally and with sympathy in his voice.  He spoke in technical terms for a few moments, but all of them rolled off his mind when he said, "I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do for her."

****

Steve slowly crept into Jessica's hospital room, still far too much in shock to shed tears.  This was impossible, this couldn't be happening, he'd wake up any minute now and Jess would be sleeping right beside him, with that same beautiful smile that she'd reserved only for him even in her slumber.  He'd go downstairs, make her breakfast in bed, make slow, passionate love to her and tell her that he'd never let her go, not ever.

But as he saw her lying there, being pumped full of IV fluids and continuing to lose so much blood despite the doctors' best efforts, his personal mantra was shattered.  This was real, Jessica was dying, and if he happened to die and go to hell, his personal torment would be reliving this moment for the rest of eternity.

He sat to her right, and gently took her hand in his.  Her skin felt so cold and clammy to the touch-- nothing at all like the warm, sensuous Jessica he'd been married to for the past 17 months.  Only seventeen months of marriage, dammit!  She was only 24 years old... she could have had sixty, seventy more years of life left in her!  And they hadn't even made time to have a family yet!  Why did it have to be like this...?

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she looked at Steve with momentary confusion, as if trying to remember who he was.  Steve's heart sank for that instant-- but melted again when she gave him that smile.  Somehow, though she was dying, that smile still had a lot of life left in it.  What she had was a gift, a gift for making people happy, for taking care of people.  That gift was why she'd become a med student in the first place.  What sane person could ever want to harm her?

"Steve," she said simply.  She clearly had to strain even to say that one syllable.  Her eyes seemed to be glazing over slightly.

"I'm here, baby," Steve said, choking back his tears.  "I'm here now, and everything's gonna be all right... we're gonna go home soon, and I'll sing you into a beautiful new world..."  He didn't even know half the things he was saying right now, overwhelmed with the sense of loss and grief he was experiencing.

Jessica laughed, though the laughing sounded like croaking in her throat, and looked at Steve in the same way she did when she knew he wasn't being serious.  "Silly boy," she gurgled.  "You... you don't have to lie to me... I know we don't have much time left..."

The tears were flowing freely down Steve's face now, and he struggled to control the anguish in his voice as he said, "We'll... always have time, Jessica... our world is only you and me, baby..."  He kissed her then, for the last time, as he remembered the first time he'd kissed her three years ago on that beautiful Sunday evening.  Where had the time gone, and why had it been taken away from them so early?

When he broke off the kiss, it didn't take him long to realize that Jess had died while they'd been kissing.  Much later, when he was in a more reflecting, more stable state of mind, he'd decide that he was happy her final moments were pleasant moments.

But that time was a long ways off...

****

What happened in the next few hours was a blur to Steve, even looking back on it in the present-day.  All he knew for sure was that he'd gone back to his hotel room, almost completely destroyed the place, and gone outside and burned his Blue Inferno tights in the hotel parking lot.  With a pair of scissors, he cut all of his hair from the base of his neck to the base of his skull.  He found an old pair of black jeans, black tank-top and boots, and walked out of his hotel room, got into his car and zoomed off into the distance.

He swore that the Blue Inferno was dead.  In his place was The Dark Warrior, a man on a mission of vengeance.  He'd no longer sit idly by while people suffered-- he would inflict judgment on those who had wronged him.  The first person on that list would be the man who was chiefly responsible for kidnapping his beloved wife-- Trent Raven.  Their World Title match was eleven days from now.  If Trent had kidnapped Jessica thinking he'd hold some kind of power over whether or not he kept his title, he was going to find out that he'd made a horrible mistake.

****

"Grant!  Grant!  I killed Jessica, you stupid son of a bitch!"

Those words startled Steve out of his reverie.  Less than a minute earlier, he'd easily defeated Trent Raven to win his third NEW World Heavyweight Championship, and was now in the process of beating the living hell out of him with a metal folding chair.  Throughout the course of the evening, Steve had surreptitiously eliminated the members of Trent's Rave-- attacking various members in the locker room, parking lot, backstage "gorilla position", everywhere and anywhere he could find them.  He'd done that for only one purpose-- to prevent their interference in both the title match and the aftermath he'd planned.  Oh, yes, it was shaping up to be a very long night for Trent, indeed.

But the words spoken by TYRANT on the massive ExtremeTron above the arena brought Steve up short.  The surprised look on his face quickly twisted into an expression of rage, and for an instant he walked towards the entrance ramp, prepared to head backstage and beat the living fuck out of him.  But the camera zoomed out, and he could see clearly that TYRANT wasn't in the arena-- indeed, he was probably nowhere close to the arena.

He was sitting on a crate in an old, apparently abandoned warehouse, accompanied by his vile henchman, Demonic.  Both of them looked smug at seeing the look of furor on the face of The Dark Warrior.

Steve stared at a ring attendant as if to say, "If I don't have a mic in my hands right now, I'm gonna beat the hell out of you."  The ring attendant got the idea and quickly tossed him a microphone.

"TYRANT, you're a dead man!  A dead man.  At our next pay-per-view, it's going to be you and me... for this," he said, gesturing to the belt.  "And whether or not you leave that match alive is gonna be entirely up to me."

----

"For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night."

--Psalms 90:4

----

The time had come for Steve's World Heavyweight Title defense against TYRANT.  It was taking place in none other than the "World's Most Famous Arena", Madison Square Garden in New York City.  And as Steve walked down the entrance ramp to the thunderous roar of "Hells Bells" by AC/DC, an equally thunderous roar rose from the crowd as they realized that instead of walking out in the black-and-white colors of The Dark Warrior, Steve had returned to his roots as The Blue Inferno.

He'd intentionally avoided his family and friends since he'd begun his campaign of vengeance, but Brian had tracked him down earlier that night in the boiler room.  "You've got to stop this," Brian had pleaded.  "If nothing else, so you can defeat TYRANT.  Only good can conquer evil.  TYRANT may have taken Jess from us, but he did something even worse to you-- he twisted the goodness inside of you.  Don't allow him to have the satisfaction of destroying a good man."

What Brian had said made a lot of sense to Steve-- as it almost always did.  Steve and Rachel had used to joke that it was a good thing their younger brother was so good at talking his way out of danger, because he certainly didn't have a size advantage on most people.  Though Steve was 6'9" and Rachel was 5'11", tall for a woman, Brian was only 5'9".  He could still wrestle with the best of them, but his greatest attribute was his mind-- which had convinced Steve to throw away the Dark Warrior colors once and for all.

And though Steve had only been able to find a blue pair of adidas track pants with the characteristic three white lines going down the sides, the symbolism was very clear to everyone in attendance.  The Blue was back, and he'd use the power of his goodness to destroy the power of evil.

But as Steve looked TYRANT in the eyes, his message was clear-- Dark Warrior or no Dark Warrior, he'd still inflict the most heinous example of DV ass-whipping that the world had ever seen.

****

Twenty minutes later, after the most hellacious battle of his life, Steve Grant held his NEW World Heavyweight Title belt unsteadily above his head after his successful defense.  He'd vanquished TYRANT with not one, not two, but three Death Valley Drivers-- which was far less than the son of a bitch deserved, but when he saw the concerned look on the face of Brian sitting ringside-- the look that said, "Don't do anything they'll lock you up for"-- he'd finally pinned him and ended the suffering-- for now.

But suddenly the lights in the arena went out, and when they came back on, Steve jumped back in shock as he was face to face with the menacing visage of Ragnarok.  Ragnarok was TYRANT's soulless minion, an intimidating figure that wore a characteristic black mask and apparently felt no pain.  Men had hit him with everything in their arsenal and he'd popped right back up.  And when Ragnarok hit you, it hurt like hell-- like slamming into a brick wall.

Steve looked into Ragnarok's evil eyes and knew that he was in no condition to fight off an attack by him-- nor would he likely have been in any condition before the contest.

But Ragnarok wasn't looking at him-- he was looking at the fallen form of his master, TYRANT.  Steve stepped to one side, and Ragnarok walked over to TYRANT, helping him to his feet-- and then he lifted him up for a piledriver!

The crowd went apeshit, and Steve watched in stunned silence.  Ragnarok tore off the mask, and it was none other than Ben Genesis-- a wrestler who'd recently disappeared with no apparent explanation.  There was the answer.

"That one was for my mother!  This one's for my father!" Genesis said, and hit a second piledriver.  "This one's for my brother!"  WHAM!  "This one's for my sister!"  WHAM!  "And this one's for me!"

He connected with yet a fifth piledriver, and when TYRANT slumped to the mat, his neck was bent at an odd angle.  Steve had no doubt that the evil man's neck was broken.

Two days later, in his first promo since the title match, TYRANT would take a gun to his head and (apparently) shoot his own brains out.  Looking back on Genesis' stunning annihilation of TYRANT later, Steve would realize that he could have saved TYRANT if he'd chosen to-- but he'd deliberately stood there and watched as Genesis effectively ended his life.

And what's more... he didn't feel the least bit bad about it.

----

"As if you could kill time without injuring infinity."

--Henry David Thoreau

----

It was a proud day for Steve Grant.  Two years ago, he'd opened the Inferno U. wrestling school with the intention of giving back to the industry that had given him such a wonderful life.  He'd put his days of wrestling in the past, and focused on teaching the next generation what he'd learned, so that perhaps they could achieve the same kind of success that he had.

Steve had not allowed any of the potential applicants to become complacent.  319 wannabe professional wrestlers had showed up the first day he'd opened this gym in San Francisco, California.  Many of them had clearly been in it just to be on camera, or had reasoned that "wrestling is fake" and therefore anybody could do it.  Steve had been more than happy to disavow them of that notion, although he'd been careful not to cause serious pain to any one of them-- after all, many of them had been kids with delusions of grandeur.

He'd invited forty-seven back the following day.  24 of the 47 students made it to the third day, and that number was cut in half the fourth day.  The "Original Twelve" had all been serious about becoming wrestlers and making it in the business, they'd all been in tremendous physical condition, and each of them had a solid work ethic-- the exact characteristics that Steve had been looking for.

He put those twelve students through hell for one week, seeing if any of them could distinguish themselves.  Immediately, three names had jumped to the forefront-- Antonio Mason, Lee Conway and Mark Alizandro.  Steve even coined nicknames for two of them-- "The Wild Child" for Mason, due to his intensity in the ring, and "Lee Charisma" for Lee Conway, for the way he really got the audience involved in his promos and ring work.

Following the "Week of Hell," as some of the students later referred to it as, Steve had released five individuals-- and told the remaining seven that they were Inferno U.'s Class of 2004.  He'd taken them to DV Headquarters in Expedition, Alaska, shown them all of DV's accomplishments, and then said, "You see all this stuff?  To hell with it."

He'd paused, and taken a sip of water.  "All that you've worked towards right now, it represents only an opportunity I'm trying to help you build.  An opportunity to prove to yourselves, and to everyone else, that you can make it into this business.  But even if you do graduate from Inferno U. in two years-- which, I assure you, is not a foregone conclusion with anyone-- I'm not promising that anything will come of it.  You have to be willing to make the effort, but just as importantly, you have to be willing to make the right decisions.  Because anybody can put a lot of effort into doing the wrong thing."

Some of his students had taken that lesson to heart, and some hadn't.  In the following two years, Inferno U. students had gone through an intense training regimen that had made NFL training camps look like kindergarten.  Each of them had suffered an injury at different points throughout their "education".  Many of them hadn't been able to make it-- in fact, five students washed out of the program before graduation.  Steve hadn't cut any of them-- they'd simply decided one day not to show up, or walked out in frustration after taking one too many bumps.  Even Mark Alizandro, whom Steve thought had good potential, had one day called the university and said he wouldn't be returning.

There had been many days that Steve wondered if he should be upset with the five who couldn't cut it.  But not long ago he'd come to the conclusion that he shouldn't be frustrated with the students-- or himself-- if 99.3% of the people who'd walked into Inferno U. on that first day hadn't made it long enough to see today.  If he could say without a doubt that he'd trained two students that had a very good shot at making it to the top of the wrestling business, then the past two years had absolutely been worth it.  And what was more, "The Wild Child" Antonio Mason and Lee Charisma could smile when they looked back on this day, knowing that it had only come through intense work and sacrifice.

So on this day, November 17, 2004, Steve watched proudly as Mason and Charisma put on a thirty-minute wrestling clinic, mixing fast pacing with exciting comebacks and brilliant technique.  The planned ending came off perfectly-- Charisma went for a Frog Splash, only to find that Mason was no longer where he'd been only a second before.  Charisma rolled over onto his back, clutching at his stomach, and that was all Mason needed to climb the opposite turnbuckle and hit a spectacular Phoenix Splash.  Nick Wolf, the referee, counted the pinfall.

As it ended, Steve and his brother Brian rose from their seats, applauding in appreciation as Nick held up Antonio's hand.  As the Grant Brothers showed their respect for the talents of the two young men, they were joined in a standing ovation by the night's special guests-- the Conway and Mason families, gathered here together on this very special day.

Antonio reacted to their admiration with his typical small half-smile, and helped Lee to his feet, embracing him warmly.  Mason and Charisma had become good friends as they'd spent the last two years bleeding, suffering and learning together.  And they both knew the match they'd just put on was the best they'd wrestled in their lives thus far, so they were more than entitled to this moment.

Brian muttered to Steve, "Great kids you've got here, bro."  Steve didn't disagree.  They'd done everything he'd asked of them and more, far more.  He knew there was nothing else he could teach them that wouldn't be superfluous.  Soon, it would be up to them to make the right decisions in the industry and in life.

"Lee, Tony, if you'd be so kind as to exit the ring and come here.  Oh, Jay, did you get all this on video?"  The cameraman, Jay Wilder, gave the thumbs-up signal.  Steve would give several copies of the match to both Tony and Lee, so that they could send them out to whatever federations they were interested in trying out for.  The last time Steve had asked, Lee told him that he was looking into probably going to Japan for awhile.  Tony had been less forthcoming about his plans, but Steve respected his privacy enough to leave it alone.

Lee Charisma and Antonio Mason stood in front of Steve and Brian, trying very hard not to be too obvious about basking in the glow of their great match.  Steve chuckled at their failed attempt to repress that emotion as Nick tossed a bottle of water to each of them.  Lee took a large gulp of it, while Tony sipped it gingerly.

"Gentlemen," Steve said, "you've done well to make it as far as you have.  You've defied expectations, extended the boundaries of what you once were, and hopefully learned something about yourselves along the way."  He reached down into his gym bag, which was underneath his chair, and pulled out two plaques.  "And so on this day, November 17, 2004, I recognize you, Lee Charisma, as a graduate of Inferno U."

The tall blonde received a round of applause as Steve presented him the plaque and shook his hand, and then Steve said, "On this day, I recognize you, Antonio Mason, as a graduate of Inferno U."  Steve handed Tony his plaque, shaking his hand as well.

And for the next four hours, Inferno U. had its first party, as the families of the school's first two graduates congratulated their sons, their brothers, on completing one of the most difficult tasks of their life.  But Steve knew that he'd only shown them the door to opportunity, and where they went from there would be entirely up to them.

Steve smiled as he saw Lee, and even Tony, grinning from ear to ear.  Lee had always had that quick smile from the first time he'd walked into the school, but it didn't come quite so naturally to Tony.  In a way, it looked almost... bizarre on him.

He chuckled.  If doing this was his life now, he had no complaints.  He'd left the in-ring portion of his wrestling career behind him, and he'd been more than happy to do so.

So he thought.

----

"Time is the coin of your life.  It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent.  Be careful lest someone else spend it for you."

--Carl Sandburg

----

When six minutes had elapsed since the sunset, he listened to the distant bells of the old church some miles in the distance.  Church bells told a strange tale, they told of completion... finality... the knowledge that God had given us all a limited time to be here, and when it was over, there was no turning back.

The Wint-O-Green Life Saver dissolved fully in his mouth, as he'd known it would do.  There was something about the inevitability of that that comforted him.  It had dissolved into the nothingness from which it had come, as all things eventually did.  Nothing on this sphere was eternal; not even the sphere itself was eternal.  Seasons would pass, this year would fade into the next, and the next, and the people he'd known would grow old and die, as would he.  He prayed that the generations that would follow would take better care of themselves than this generation had.  What was that old saying?  "Each generation grows weaker and wiser"?

The number of quotations he'd recalled recently about time might even be enough to drive his Zen-like younger brother Brian insane.  It wasn't as if Steve was particularly old, although he'd gotten ribbing from the boys about his age.  He was only 32, dammit, but on days like this, he felt time gaining on him.

"Feeling introspective today, Steve?"  Steve looked up to see who had spoken, and smiled.  It was his former student, "The Wild Child" Antonio Mason.

"Just been one of those days, Tony," Steve replied.  "Please, sit down."  Tony complied, and the two men sat in silence for a few moments.  It was Steve who broke the silence.  "I heard you signed with PWK.  Congratulations, they're a good federation... they treat their people right."

"So I've heard," Tony replied.  "I heard you've decided to come back one last time yourself, for the final show in the history of New Era Wrestling."

Steve nodded.  "That's what I've been sitting here contemplating... thinking about what's past, and wondering what's to come."  The look on Tony's face told Steve that he knew all about the career of The Blue Inferno-- and had even thought of some of those moments from his own perspective, as a fan watching those images on television week after week.

"This is a great time to be a wrestler, Tony," Steve said.  "You're young, you haven't even begun your career yet-- you're talented, but you've still got a lot to learn.  I hope that you learn from the decisions I made... some of them good, others terribly unfortunate.  I wish better things for you than I received myself."

Tony smiled, but it was clear his perspective was different.  "If I could come remotely close to accomplishing everything you've accomplished, I'd consider myself to be a man of achievement," he said.  "It meant a lot to me to graduate from Inferno U., but that's just the beginning for me."

"I know.  I think you knew from the moment you walked in the door that you'd be sitting next to me now, the beginning of your wrestling career inching closer and closer.  You earned everything you got, and so did Lee, and that makes me feel good.  No political bullshit like NEW and especially NEGWA loved to pull.  Just two guys, working their asses off because they believe in the business, and believe they have a future in it."  Steve grinned.  "Now if I can only find a class that's anywhere near as talented as my first one, I'll be a happy man."

"That's kind of you," Tony replied in a tone that indicated that he was trying to be polite, but was beginning to get a little tired of all the praise.  "But you've got a mission to accomplish first.  The NEW World Heavyweight Championship... a belt that I know means more to you than any material thing in this world.  You're gonna go out there nine days from now, defeat everyone in that battle royale, and then introduce yourself to Will Storm by shaking his hand and then kicking his ass and taking his title.

"And you're going to do it because you're Steve Grant, dammit, an NEW Hall of Famer, and it's your destiny to become NEW World Champion for the rest of your life.  And all the rest of it is bullshit."

Steve chuckled.  "Long week ahead of me," he said.  "I'll probably spend most of it lost in memories of years past.  But the 26th may end up being the most memorable night of my career-- the very last night, before I turn the wrestling over to the young-uns like yourself."

Steve rose, and Tony walked side-by-side with him as they left the park.  Every man faced a day when he had to ride into the sunset, and if Steve was doing so, he'd be damn sure he was carrying fifteen pounds of gold along with him.

----

"The only limit to our realization of tomorrow will be our doubts of today."

February 15, 2005

The soothing but mournful sounds of Gabriel Faure's "Sicilienne" from Pelléas et Mélisande played, and the tall blonde figure listened, letting himself get swept away with the music. He could hear a lot of himself in the piece-- regal, accomplished, yet at the same time tragic. He could remember each triumph he'd achieved in life, and there had been many. He'd become successful in his chosen field, adored by millions of people around the world. He'd created a successful record company, which was a difficult thing to do in the modern industry. He'd opened a successful wrestling school with two graduates that he was as proud of as if they were his own children.

He remembered his wedding days, to both his first and his second wife, and he remembered the birth of each of his four children with perfect clarity.  Carrie and Alex were two and a half now, hard to believe-- and already they'd taken on the look of their mother, thank God. Patrick would have his first birthday in April, and unfortunately for him, the man thought self-deprecatingly, it looked like he would get his father's side of the family.

But they were happy-- happier than he'd ever realized they could be, happier than certainly he ever imagined was possible. He was still very much in love with Amy, and she with him, and the thought of yet a fourth child was a distinct possibility. He wondered when Amy would finally say, "Enough's enough," but not once did he consider the possibility of saying those words himself. He loved his three children more than he loved life itself, so what was another six or seven? It certainly wasn't as if they couldn't afford to have children.

His family had four homes in various parts of the United States-- San Francisco, Indianapolis, Virginia Beach and Expedition, Alaska. They traveled from place to place on his private jet and wanted for nothing.

Yet he could still remember the look on the face of his beloved Jessica as she died from wounds suffered when she'd been assaulted and raped by two of his greatest enemies. He could remember the way his enemy had laughed as he'd happily admitted his guilt to the entire watching world. He could remember the friends he'd betrayed, the friends that had betrayed him, the injuries he'd suffered and the pain he'd inflicted.

So much joy, so much pain. He couldn't decide if either overrode the other one. On some days he'd say, "Yes, I've had a better life than I ever dreamed, and I'm happier than I've ever been." On other days, days like this one, he'd carefully examine himself and admit to himself that he was unhappy. Somewhere, deep inside his complex soul, there was a lingering unease-- as if there was something wrong with the way his life had turned out.

He couldn't, for the life of him, figure out what was causing these feelings. For that matter, he had no way of knowing if these feelings were legitimate or the result of an undiagnosed case of clinical depression. Maybe all the risks he'd taken, all the punishment he'd received, all the shots to the head, had rattled something loose inside his brain.

His wife would be the first one to say, jokingly, "Well, it's not exactly as if you were all that normal to begin with." But he hadn't shared these emotions with his wife, despite the fact that they shared practically everything else. He was afraid of what she might say-- "You need to get help." Or maybe she'd absorb the information and act as a comforting voice, while all the while feeling anxious and thinking that he might do something to hurt himself. There was a saying in the house that was more true than it had been with his mother when he'd been growing up. "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." If Amy worried too much about his mental health, the twins would be able to sense something was wrong, and a dark shroud would envelop the household and add fear and loneliness to the equation.

He didn't wish to upset his family, so he kept his thoughts to himself. But this unease didn't just go away like he'd thought it would, it had grown-- grown so much that he couldn't concentrate on everyday tasks. He was zoning in and out of awareness at random, overcome with this-- this dark emotion that he couldn't even properly classify, let alone discover the root cause of.

Whatever it was, he needed to find something to make everything better, or risk serious harm done to his psyche-- or worse, the physical health of his family. Over the years, he'd protected his family from paparazzi, from the "boys" in the business, from everyone who'd ever meant less than kindness towards them. But how would he be able to protect them from himself?

So one night, he'd sat out on his porch, gazing up at the stars and looking for answers. He must have spent three hours out there, doing nothing but staring up at them-- while keeping his "father's ear" attached to Patrick, just in case. Then Amy and the twins had come home-- Amy from work and the twins from nursery school-- and he'd cooked them a dinner of pork chops, macaroni and cheese, and creamed corn, with orange sherbet for dessert.

He'd sent the twins to bed a couple of hours later, sent John to bed at nine, and was about to turn in himself when out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the red indicator light on his cordless phone was flashing. He checked the messages, fully expecting it to be yet another magazine wanting an interview, or another old friend wanting a favor (it was usually money).

His eyes widened in surprise when he recognized the voice-- which was rare, because few things surprised him nowadays.

"Long time, no speak. Last I heard, you were still sort of upset with Trey and I, but this isn't about that. I am sorry for it, and in retrospect, can see what a dick I was being. I hope you accept my apology for the way I acted in your last days in the NEW. But like I said, this isn't about that.

"Reaves abandoned the fed back in the summer, and it's been dead ever since, so Ben, Trey and I were talking about getting together a final memorial show for NEW. We want to get as many former names involved as possible, and one match we were thinking of doing is a Best of the Best type thing where former NEW champions face off, with the winner receiving one final shot at the NEW title, currently held by Will Storm, the final champ. I'm in the midst of doing a search for former members, and found your new phone number. The show'll take place on February 26 at the Alltell Arena in Little Rock, Arkansas, and it'll be hosted by Pro Wrestling KING, the fed where most of us are hanging out these days. If you'd like to be involved, please give me a call. It's the same number as always, but in case you've forgotten--" and Jade Diamond, one of his biggest rivals, had given him his phone number.

He'd been thunderstruck by the news. He told Amy about it, but for twelve days he'd sat on the decision, unsure whether to follow his first instinct-- to tell Jade to go straight to hell (which had been his second instinct as well, for that matter)-- or satisfy his desire for... some kind of challenge in his life. Everything he'd done since retiring had just come so goddamned easily for him. The sense of adventure he'd felt when his career had begun, when he entered the locker room for the first time and encountered a room full of strangers-- the jjubilation he'd felt when he and Nick had joined DV-- that feeling was like a distant memory now.

During the last few years of his career, winning had come to bring him less and less joy. The joy of the underdog had turned into the boredom of the heavy favorite. When he won, it was because winning had been a foregone conclusion, and when he lost, he was devastated by it. Where had the joy gone?

Perhaps that, he belatedly realized, had been part of the reason he'd retired two years ago. The thrill had gone, replaced by a tedious boredom, and he'd known it was time to move on. Time to teach the younger generation, time to concentrate on his music company, and more importantly, time to be with family.

But now...

He realized that the pallor that had hung over him recently had lifted. The process had started when he got the phone call from Jade, and had taken place very gradually, so gradually that he hadn't noticed it while it was happening. But all of the bad feelings had disappeared, replaced by a single determination-- this was something he had to do.

So he picked up the phone, called Jade's number, and his first reaction had been, "Holy fuck, it's you!" Then they'd gotten down to talking business, and he'd agreed that he would make a return-- one night only, mind you-- to take part in the battle royal and then, hopefully, earn the opportunity to once more wrestle for the NEW World Heavyweight Championship.

He wasn't all that concerned about ring rust, because he'd hardly been sitting on the couch for two years eating potato chips. He'd kept himself in the tremendous physical condition he'd always been in, and had trained his students with all the wrestling knowledge he had to give them. One of them in particular, Antonio Mason, had all the tools, he felt, to really succeed in this business. Of course, he'd been quick to point out to Tony that having the tools was only part of success-- that he had to make the right decisions, too.

When he was done, he'd return to what he'd been doing. A new class would join Inferno U., there'd always be new artists waiting to be discovered by Inferno Music Productions. The only challenges he'd have left would be in the areas of business and family.

So now, "Blue Inferno" Steve Grant sat in a darkened room, as he had during his brief, "one-night-only" return to NEW in 2002, and talked to the camera-- even though it could make out nothing more than his voice and perhaps the faintest outlines of his face.

------

"Survival of the Fittest. Perhaps that's the ideal name for the final production of New Era Wrestling, because after all, NEW survived for seven years in one of the harshest, most cut-throat industries in the world. It overcame initial lack of funding, the retirement of all their old stars, corporate greed, but ultimately couldn't overcome the abandonment of their owner. Well, it was his federation, he took it to heights that no one had ever dreamed, so he had every right to say, 'Enough's enough, it's time to move on.'

"Survival of the Fittest." He chuckled. "It really is the ideal name for this night, because someone will get a shot-- the final shot-- at the NEW World Heavyweight Championship. And he'll have to go through at least twenty, maybe more, guys, to get it. I don't mean twenty jobbers, I mean the best of the best. DRH, Ru, RipTide, Hardcore Jay, "The Franchise", "The Draw", Trey Reed, even that motherfucker TYRANT-- whose ass belongs to me, and only me.

"You hear me, motherfucker?! I broke your neck once, I can do it again! In the event that I don't win that battle royal, rest assured, I'm making sure to take you with me! You killed my wife, and you've yet to pay the full penalty!"

He took a few deep breaths. And when he spoke again, his voice was eerily calm-- as if he hadn't just threatened vengeance against the murderer of his first wife.

"And then, then, after surviving that battle royal-- and surviving's the only way to phrase it, because even the winner's gonna be banged up as hell-- whomever comes out of that battle royal with his hand raised is going to have to go up against a fresh Will Storm, the NEW World Heavyweight Champion. Thought by many as being the greatest World Champion in NEW history, and hey, he's certainly got a good case for himself.

"Of course, you all know my opinion as to who the actual greatest World Champion in NEW history is, so I'm not going to bore you by telling you what you already know. Just suffice to say, I'm more excited by the prospect of this card than I've been in a long time... a very, very long time. Hell, it wasn't too long ago that I thought my days about getting excited about wrestling events at all were long past-- with the exception of watching Chris Benoit win the title at WrestleMania XX, that is. That was such a great moment.

"In any event, I digress. This will be the single most important match for me ever since my match with EGANRAC that won me the first Lord of the Rings tournament back in '98. Sure, the eventual title match with Tank Thomas was big, too, but after winning LotR I, winning the World Title seemed, to me, to be a foregone conclusion. But that LotR win-- that said to people, 'Hey, Grant's a great tag-team wrestler, but I had no idea he was such a great singles wrestler, too.'

"If I have my way, people will be saying after Survival of the Fittest, 'Hey, Grant's so great that he came back after being retired for two years, immediately won a battle royal against NEW's cream of the crop, and then dethroned Will Storm to win his unprecedented fifth NEW World Heavyweight Championship.' What a nice way that would be to end my career, and finally, finally leave the rest of the fighting to the younger generation. To be known, for the rest of my life, not only as a five-time NEW World Champion but as the reigning NEW World Champion-- for the rest of my life-- God, what a rush that would be. I'd walk into a restaurant one day, forty years from now, still as the NEW World Champion. And the title wouldn't truly be laid to rest until the day I'm laid to rest. Which could be tomorrow, or could be seventy years from now, so I figure I'd better make the best of the moments I have.

"My ultimate battle awaits me-- and I mean that in more than one sense of the word. 'Ultimate' as in 'greatest', but also 'ultimate' as in final. My final, greatest test of my wrestling ability lies ahead. February 26, 2005-- three days after my thirty-third birthday. I last held the NEW World Title in the fall of 2001, a little over three years ago. If all these threes keep showing up, I'm gonna start wondering if it's some kind of a conspiracy.

"Any man who can survive the battle-royal of NEW all-stars is more than worthy of fighting for the World Heavyweight Championship-- but whomever that man is will have a distinct disadvantage against a well-rested Will Storm. He's hard enough to beat as it is without coming in beaten up. But if I can do it-- if I can survive all those other superstars, and defeat Storm, becoming the first-ever five-time NEW World Champion-- and the very last World Champion..."

Steve paused, and took a sip from a bottle that was hard to see, but looked suspiciously like Dr. Pepper. He knew he'd take some good-natured ribbing from the boys about that, but he didn't give a damn-- he could give back the ribbing just as well as he could take it. He set the bottle back down on the floor with a soft thump, "aah"ed quietly, and spoke again.

"...I'll have proven to everyone in the wrestling world that, with all due respect to Ares, there's only one "Franchise" of NEW, and that's me. Did you think I'd miss an opportunity like this one? An opportunity for one... last... chance... to be recognized as the greatest in the world? Moments like this don't come to everybody. They've certainly come to me more than a few times, but I'm more than aware that this is the last opportunity I'll ever have.

"Oh, yes, no matter what happens, I will never again step into the ring as an active competitor. The future is now. The moment is all that matters. Before I leave the wrestling to The Wild Child, I've got one last dance to perform, one final masterpiece to create. The NEW World Heavyweight Championship-- the only title that's really ever meant anything to me-- is going to be defended one last time. And I'll do whatever's necessary to get that shot-- and then to make sure that the title goes back around my waist, where it should rightfully always be."