#stevegrant

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."