CALAMITY III // BELIEF

By: Dickie Watson

Date: 6th Aug 2021

Who am I?

The ancient civilizations asked this as they came out of the isthmus of the world. In the beginning, they had nothing. They had nothing to clamber onto, no faith to believe in, but some person decided that there was something ethical in the world that they needed to create and become something. Be something. What was their purpose in life, how were they going to fulfill it? They put their backs into it, twerked it out and became the breakers of others, the bearers of the crowns, the lords of empires.†

Successes that eventually would crumble because they lost sight of who they were, of course. But they believed in themselves and what they could do. Perhaps thatís the most important part. The part that some people get to while the rest of us crash and burn into a flaming dumpster fire.†

Humid mist coated the mirror, leaving drops of precipitation upon the smooth surface. The white, sterile walls of the bathroom were coated in the same fashion, and the air around the room carried visible smog from the heat of the shower, cut only seconds before. A hand, the arm it was attached to tattooed in black and white graphics, reached out and pressed against the glass itself, swiping to the left and down. His hair curled in the humidity, the very tips dripping with water, as he allowed his deadened eyes to gaze into the void looking right back at him in the mirror.

Physically, he was fine. Emotionally? Stunted, but that was obvious right now. After everything that had happened, everything theyíd gone through not only together, but separately…well, he thought the world would have had better plans for him than it did. No matter how many steps forward he took, it was like there was three billion waiting in the wings to pull him back into the depths of the underworld so he couldnít look back.

He was the champion. He was one-one in FIGHT!, he was still the champion, he still held all the cards, and yetÖ

He glanced at his phone. Silence, save for the usual slew of memes that Aiden sent him on a regular basis.

She hadnít called. Nearly three weeks, and she hadnít said one word to him. Not even today. Not even his fuckiní birthday. But why wasnít he surprised? It seemed like everyone heíd ever given a shit about was willing to leave his ass in the dirt — why would the woman whoíd sworn she would love him forever be any different? She was already willing to hop into the trenches with just about anyone, it seemed like. Even accepted the worst of the worst in her direction. Sheíd changed her name, sheíd become someone else already. And yet, he was the problem, right? Thatís what would be said.

Whatever.

He grabbed his phone and wandered out of the bathroom into the large apartment. Itíd been weird, he thought, staying with Finn. Though he considered the man his brother, they were only connected by a singular person, and now that person was completely out of the equation. But he knew the man well enough that he wasnít about to get into anyone elseís problems and try to fix anything. Finn Whelan, known to his friends and family, as Callien, would never overstep his bounds.†

But he did tell him to go the fuck home.

So he did. It was quiet. The pitter-pattering sound of their dog was absent, and so was the sound of her humming about, positive and happy about the world itself. He looked at the bed — her things, the Kindle on the nightstand, the dozens of ponytail holders she left scattered on it, her flipflops she crossed the house in, they were gone. The clutter sheíd created, so annoying sometimes to him even though he ignored it, gone. She was just gone, vanished into thin air and never returning. At least, thatís what he had to think. Thatís what he had to believe.

Anything other than that would lead him down a road that he wasnít going to be able to handle.†

Who am I?

A failed champion?

A failed husband?

A failed tag team partner?

It was hard for him not to tear himself apart almost on a daily basis. That was the dichotomy of Dickie Watson. Worked like a fuckiní horse for the world to bear down on him at a secondís notice, and he was expected to turn around and be something. Happy. Stoked. Not morose, not like he had things ripping him from end to end inside. Beaten, bruised, bloodied, all throughout his life while he was expected to just take it.

Heíd broken once.†

It wasnít going to happen again.

He thought about the night of Blood Money. The night heíd trudged down the streets of New York City, all the way down to his home away from home, the gym that had taken him in when his previous home turned their backs on him. He knew even then that he would face the most salacious of comments, that he wouldn’t be able to handle things, that he would merely just complain and try to erase the history that he had. He knew it then. He knew it now. People would never hold him in the same perception that he held himself. But he also knew then as he knew now that he was better† than the sum of his errors, the multiplication of the faults.†

Even injured, he was elated when he raised his championship to his teammates. Even bruised, he was proud of himself. If there was one thing heíd ever learned, it was that he needed to be happy merely for himself, not anyone else. But he couldnít help but deny that he had faith in himself simply because of the faith that people had in him. Aiden had reached out, clapped him on the shoulder, and believed in him. Kallie, Aidenís girlfriend, had too. Finn. The people he said he didnít need, but realized that their presence made everything seem brighter and more defined. Sharper, clearer.†

He was entering a war at FIGHT now, and he would need to put everything into that in order to come out of it alive and well. Strong. Continue being the champion. Yeah. He was definitely distracted, but not again. He couldnít allow his personal bullshit to deflect him from his purpose. But right now, he couldnít help but feel like his world had turned upside down. A fight turned into a loss, all because there was too much pride to talk to one another. Hannah hated him now. And still he wasnít surprised.

Maybe heíd realized even then that she was slipping away from him, but he refused to believe it. The absences at shows, the fact that she happily clapped in person but never mentioned his abilities again. Even in her line of questioning for her little show, he could remember inwardly wondering if she was angry about something. Little did he know that sheíd been steadily and increasingly deluding herself with whatever everyone else said, believing them when the last thing that sheíd ever said was that she trusted him empirically.

Hannah was gone. This he knew. He didnít need divorce papers to know that she wouldnít return. He didnít need to watch shows, he didnít need to do anything but look at the facts that laid before him. He had been an absent husband, so much that sheíd fallen into the waiting, open arms of the next person to take far more advantage of her than he ever had or could. He would be the person in her memory that hurt her because he hadnít been more thorough, but at the same time, heíd given all of himself to her. His trust. His hope. His faith.

His belief.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe if he buried each and every tie, he would be able to finally heal. To raise himself up from the dredges of the dirt in which he felt he lived. He was the champion, the person that everyone looked to in order to destroy. He just needed to act like it.

He wasnít like others, this was true. Dimitri Watson and Dickie Watson, though they lived in the same body, they were not the same person. Dimitri was the kid who had grown up fighting for his life. Dickie was the one who became something, who was something despite the trials and tribulations that crossed his path. Someone said something negative? He beat sense into them. Someone said he whined? He made sure they heard that their opinion was moot and useless.†

But that was the crux of the situation.

He needed to figure out who he was.

Who am I?

Aiden showed up a couple of hours later. Using the key heíd been given, he slipped into Dimitriís apartment unnoticed. Carrying a double six pack, the Australian set the alcohol on the bar and looked around at the empty apartment. It was devoid of the things that made it seem more like it was lived in, but at minimum, at least it hadnít been trashed. He knew how avoidant Dickie could get, almost to the point where he just stopped giving a shit about anything. He looked around, having expected to find his tag partner chilling in the living room, but didnít find him there. Like John Travolta, he glanced around the apartment, lifting an eyebrow in confusion.

Oi!” After a few seconds longer, he raised his voice, and it echoed across the apartment.†

In Ďere.” Down the hallway, Dickieís Cockney accent replied almost derisively. He frowned as he came out of one of the rooms, in his arms a box of items that Aiden surmised were not his own. “She forgot Ďem.” He explained, setting the box down and then looking at the packs of alcohol.

Mate.” The Australian lifted an eyebrow, and glanced at him, before looking at the box. “Itís your fuckiní birthday and youíre deciding to clean out your ex-wifeís shit?

Sheís not my ex. Not yet.” Dickie replied, quite firmly.†

Aiden rolled his eyes, pulling out one of the barstools and settling down into it. “MateÖ

The tone was obvious, and it was clear. That was the thing about Aiden and Dickie — brothers, just like Dickie and Finn, but not by blood. Aiden had been there for Dickie for in the past, Aiden had been the one to shoulder the brunt of Dickieís failures and anger, Aiden had been the one that kept the kid up even when he was falling into the pit of despair that heíd somehow dug himself into. Dickie was a depressed little shit with a penchant for greatness, and if there wasnít checks and balances, the kid could drop into the depths with nary a word but fuck off.†

What?” Dimitri asked, placing his hands on the counter and bracing himself upwards. He stuck his tongue into his cheek and inhaled as Aiden looked him over.

Look, itís pretty clear here to me that this is done. The succubus has left the building–

Oi!

–and she isnít cominí back, aye? Sheís probably letting the other dripdip cunts pass her around like Puff the Magic Dragon on Saturday night. She made her statement. She showed up there, she fucked around with fuckiní Peter the Limp-Dicked Pole Smoking Fashion Victim, and she didnít even bother to say two words to you on your last night. Itís done, mate.

Dickie turned his head, rolling his hazel eyes and groaning slightly. Stubborn, and slightly peeved now, he turned his head back to look at his friend. “Maybe she just…had signals crossed. I mean, sheís schizophrenic.

Sheís batshit?” Aiden blinked, staring at him.

Maybe sheís just developed this other personality because she thought I left her. I mean, she believes that stuffed lion of hers talks to her. I just never said shit because we were managing it, and she was doing okay. Maybe she just stopped taking her medications or–

–she tripped, fell, landed on his dick, just like the great words of Eminem and Dr. Dre?

Aiden.

Aiden held up his hands in surrender and used his legs to propel him from side to side on the barstool. “Iím just sayiní mate. Hell, I donít want to be sayiní it at all. But Hannah hated my guts simply because I existed in your life and you spent time training with me to become a tag team wrestler and dropped Flo like a bad deal from Progressive Auto Insurance. Sheís resented me since I can remember, and I didnít say shit simply because she was your wife.

Dickie pursed his lips and shook his head once more.†

Youíve got more important shit to think about anyway, mate. The whole Dane Preston loss, you werenít in the right place, and now youíve gotta figure out how to make sure youíre known. Between that and being caught up in this war with Montuori over the Empire Championship, plus the addition of Warstein, worrying about whether Hannah Montana turned into Miley Cyrus or not really shouldnít be where your brain is.

Look, Aiden…I appreciate what youíre doing here.” He started, slowly, looking down at the granite countertop. “I do. Youíre trying to get me in the right headspace for this match Iíve got up ahead with Tommy, and I can tell you right now, Iím there. My mind is fully on this match, trying to regain my standing in the company. I fucked up, I know I fucked up, but I have my career on my mind. And I donít need this.

MateÖ

If this is what weíre going to go through, then you might as well leave me alone here, dude.

Aiden crossed his arms over his chest, his expression becoming weary as he surveyed his friend. He knew the signs of Dickieís depression, the slumped over stance, the deadened eyes. Hell, heíd been here the last time heíd seen all the signs. March. When he wasnít able to fuckiní deal with anything in his entire world and just wanted to end it. A miscalculation, Dickie had said, about what heíd done. But he remembered the mirror in shatters on the floor, the shard embedded in his skin, the fucking bottles laying everywhere.

Without Hannah there, who was going to make sure he didnít drop off the deep end again?

I donít think I can.

Dickieís expression went darker. “Why.” It was a question, but it wasnít.

Well, frankly– the last time I saw you have,” he pointed upwards with his finger, but didnít raise it from his crossed position, “that expression, you ended up wanting to end your life.

His face went blank, impassive. The Russian-British national merely stared at his friend, whoís concern radiated off him without much else needing to be said. But Dickie wasnít in the same place, and he knew he wasnít in the same place. He wasnít lost like that. Not anymore. But Aiden also knew that the fact that Dickie wasnít snapping back at him, wasnít getting pissed physically, meant he was actually fuming underneath the surface.

I appreciate the concern, Aiden. I do.” Dickie stated, firmly again, and without remorse, he leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “But fuck off.

Mate.

Iíll see you tomorrow.

The lack of emotion in his tone told Aiden that this time, heíd certainly crossed a line. However, instead of argue it with him, the Australian Wolf stood up from the chair and pushed it back in, watching his tag partner closely. “Fine.” He agreed, finally. “But if you need anything, you call me. Me or Kallie.

Iíll be fine.

Right.” Aiden nodded, heading for the doorway. “I know.

 

????????

Who am I?

I question myself that every day. Who the hell am I, who is the person that Iím supposed to be, who do people expect me to be? And most of the time, I come up with some bullshit answer that I canít really use to explain or figure out shit in the end. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see the kid I was. The idiot, the fuckiní moron who thought that the world would be kisses and hugs and we could all get along and I could be a supportive person rather than a vindictive asshole. But I find, at the end of this all, that I canít.†

When I started wrestling, I wanted to be this beacon of hope and light, the person who would stand behind anyone that needed them. Hell, I still semi feel that way. After all, the fact that I came down to support the shit out of Shawn Warstein at the last Venom after all the hoopla of the night, I think shows that Iím willing to become a team player. A man who is willing to push themselves, to help the people around me that I think need it, and create an unstoppable force. At Venom 2, I may have lost to Dane Preston, but that doesnít count me out.

Or maybe it does. You all revolve around each other and know each other so well that when it comes down to it, I could have tripped up in the end and thatís what it is.

But Iím not the type to just let a loss affect me so badly. Am I still the Empire Champion? Am I still the person who holds the most coveted title in the company? Yeah. Yeah, I am, and Iím for damn sure not going to let you forget it. People in my past would say that I would complain about my losses, that I wouldnít work and figure out how to change it, how to change that perspective, but I want to make sure this is clear to everyone, front and backÖ

…I really donít give a shit.

Call it a bad attitude, but if thereís anything Iíve learned in my reflection of myself and my values, itís that Iíve allowed too many people to be the deciding factor of how I feel and how I react. Iíve always given my power away because I get frustrated with something, or that I allow people into my head because theyíve said something heinous.†

Paul Mont-whatever the fuck thinks heís done that, and you know what? I wouldnít honestly waste my breath except heís made a bee-line for my title. The one you know…I beat him, and every single person on this roster for?

We all made choices that night. We all make choices every night. We see the pathlines of what is to come, what is the future. And we all see that Amari Kent, the Brooklyn Champion, made the right choice in trusting someone else. You see, I may have a lot of shit going on in my personal life, but I can tell you right now that what Iím moving towards? What am I becoming? Itís better than anything youíve ever seen. With the shit going on, it leaves me in a world that I can better myself in and leave it all behind.

Iím not about to make the same mistakes again.

So I guess the fact that I found Tommy Kain as my opponent this Venom to be slightly amusing, to say the least. Heís clearly aligned with who he thinks can protect him, because thatís what bottomfeeders do. They find the next strongest thing, feed it until the ego rises, and then they bury themselves in a bucket full of dirt.

FIGHT honestly deserves better than this, but you know what? Iím going to do the same thing that I did the first show. And despite my loss, Iím still going to do what I always do, and that is rise above. Rise above your bullshit, your ignorant remarks, your inability to insult without tagging something about appearances, and your inability to fuckiní talk about anyone without insulting something pedantic and annoying. Itís like weíve never graduated high school, Tommy. But thereís not enough about you that I need to know particularly except that somehow Iím supposed to respect you for being a bonafide fighter.

There ainít one iota of information on you that I would care to know about, or need it to capitalize on you. Youíre yesterdayís news, just like those of you in the past that have lived this world for so long that we now see the rise of newcomers. Kasey Winterborn, Shawn Warstein…Amari Kent…these arenít names that came to FIGHT just to get recognized. We had our recognition. We had our start, and we were able to succeed everywhere else weíve put our skills and time into. And it only gets better from here, you know? As we find our footing, as we keep pushing on how to succeed, we become viable threats to a roster that doesnít know who we are.

And that, my friends, is exactly what I am.

A threat.

Itís the answer to the question that Iíve asked myself over and over again. The true one. The one that I have to find myself believing in. I am well and truly a threat. For the longest time, Iíve tried to figure out how in the hell Iíd come to have been put down so far on the roster when I rose so high, and itís because the fuckiní top of the world found me to be a threat to their precious sanity and their home. Manipulated into leaving a company I loved, I sat there and realized that my time was no longer needed to be spent there. I needed to be at FIGHT. I needed to be in a place that recognized my talent and was going to allow me to flourish.

And flourish I have, if I do say so myself.

Iím not here to prove that I have a bigger dick than anyone else on the roster. Iím not here to prove that I am capable of wielding a sword that everyone else thinks is far above me. Iíve already done that by process of elimination. But what I am here for is to tear apart my competition.

And Kain…well, you arenít that. Not tonight. Not ever again. Because when Iím done with you, dude? Youíre gonna be wishing that you signed release papers. I will make sure that you, in your support of the opposite side, will not be able to make it down to the ring. Not on my watch. But youíre also lucky, man.

Iíll make you fuckiní famous.

So when it comes down to it, when I enter the FIGHT arena at the top of that tower…you best know that when push comes to shove, I will be shoving you down a fucking flight of stairs to show you, and everyone else, that Iím not willing to just lay down for the masses. Retribution for my loss is coming up, and you best be prepared.

Good luck, Tommy Kain.

Your era ends tomorrow night.