The early morning dew cascades down the stems of trees, dripping off the top of green leaves into stillwater puddles. The ripple echoes out in a radius, growing and expanding until the next singlet droplet lands. It disturbs the ripples of the recent past and creates its own echo to overtake the previous drop. And the cycle continues, the only thing different?
The water never becomes still again.
A foot stomps into the puddle, as Jack Harmen enters frame. He’s wearing sweats, a hoodie, wrist bands and a tight ski cap covering his head. There are no flowing locks underneath it. His ears are covered by top of the line headphones.
Flyer continues running down the streets, passing in and out of alleyways, staying as far away from people to maintain maximum speed. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. Safer. They can’t hurt you.
“But can’t do that forever. You still made the pay per view. Gotta get your mind back in the tag game. It’s a completely different bag of tricks, something that requires chemistry, foresight, dependance. Might be a tall order for someone with scars so fresh, but it seems that we’ll be tied at the hip if we wanna stay safe. Tied to MJF, the kin of a former ally, a former enemy in Eli Flair. “
Every few steps, three times a block, Harmen throws a punch, or a leaping kick, or a back fist. Some sort of attack, just on the air. Cutting through the thick almost wintery cold.
“It’s wrestling. Today’s friend is tomorrow’s enemy if there’s money to be made.
But while Ryan and Troy made their decision, MJF stayed true. All Mariella ever did to Harmen was tell him the truth. He DID lose her the LSD championship. But he didn’t tell her to take a sabbatical. He didn’t tell her to come back with a chip on her shoulder. Didn’t cause her to fall down the spiral of losing. I mean, the costing her her belt and the beating her certainly didn’t help the mental state…”
Harmen turns down an alley and sees a trash can and a metal fence. Although not as spry as he might have done when he was 24, Harmen springs off the dumpster’s lid and skimmies over the metal fence, continuing on his way.
Our cameraman, of course, can not follow, as Flyer rushes off into the distance.
High Flyer stands in front of a large HOW flag. He wears a wrestling singlet, accentuated with the red colors of Mariella’s usual attire. His usual trademark multi-colored vibrant almost mood ring of a hair has been shaved clean, leaving only a bald head to reflect the faintest bit of light back at the camera.
High Flyer: Trash talk is for closers.
Flyer stands there, looking out. His gaze seems to go beyond the camera. His demeanor stoic. Flyer sniffs once, gritting his teeth. He turns away from the camera and walks away.
March 24th, 2020
Journal to the Center of a Lunatic
Told I should do this. Get thoughts down on paper. Figure it all out. Might look better spelled out in front of ya.
I dun’ f’d up.
Hell, Mariella may have said the same thing about herself, but… I should have expected it. No use to dwell on dead friends. Time to move forward to a new beginning, a new horizon. It’s time to earn my keep here in HOW. Time to go do what I do best, steal the show. May not be for the titles, that’s fine. Less cooks in the kitchen the better. But it’ll give MJ and I a bit of time to test if this cordial partnership’s got any sea legs. She had my back, I got hers. I’ve said it before and little’s changed.
MJF’s the most talented one of the Industry. IN this industry.
But it doesn’t take JUST talent. Not if you want to last, have that legacy. In any industry, you shine too bright? You risk burning yourself out.
I felt it. I thought my career was over in 1999, fell down a rabbit hole of losses into Wonderland. Wasn’t the only time I’ve wondered if I’m good enough. I wondered if I’m making the right decision or not. Second guessing myself. Then, before I knew it, I was this close to the cutting block. Ready for the unemployment line. Surprised I didn’t get the ax yet but realizing my days were numbered, as they ALWAYS are, I figured, why not take some risks? I started to be me. I started to do a bit of weirdness, not for the sake of oddity, but because it amused me. And it amused others. I found myself through that losing streak.
Every time we get knocked down, we learn a little more about ourselves, about what makes us tick. What keeps us going. What makes us fight.
I expect Mariella to have found that reason, that purpose. I expect her to come to March to Glory a changed person. Maybe she’ll figure out why she’s in this business. I hope…
I hope she’s like me.
Cause for people like US? The fight is what makes us fight. Plain and simple. Point me at the ring, any time, any place, against anyone. I don’t care that every billing sheet for a wrestling show has “Card Subject to Change” on it. I won’t say no to a good fight.
So that’s what you’ll always get from me. A fight you’ll remember.
I know some of what I’ll expect of Rick and Matt. They are talented, but most of all, our opponents like to joke. Have a laugh. Entertain with humor. And listen, I like a good joke as much as the next man. I mean, look at my career.
HAHA. That’s not what I meant.
(Muttering under breath)… kinda true lately…
Matt? Rick? I’ll be happy to laugh with you at a future Refueled. But at March to Glory? When that bell rings?
That’s when the laughter dies.
rick dickUlous man
locomotive to the matt