Sleepin' Giants

It's peak summer of 2004, right?

Annabelle and I have somehow managed to take our bag of tricks to the tippity top of Snake River Canyon in Idaho - five hundred feet above ground - just to do a little sight-seeing and possibly make some history along the way. 

I'm white knuckles, sweat drippin' down my back, heartbeart at about 160 - and it's because I'm about to conquer something that only one man before me has even dared to conquer. It's my own little David versus Goliath storyline painted right in front of me in all of its glory - and it all starts with a red, white, and blue ramp - made out of wooden shipping pallets, lots of duct tape, and prayers - which extends over a very angry gorge of water that couldn't give two shits about me. 

Its only purpose is fluid, forward, brutal motion.

If I decide to shoot this whole thing right in its foot and send myself for a dip in that pool, there ain't a single trick in this invisible bag of mine that gets me out of alive. Even worse, I've convinced myself that I could probably survive the impact. Of course, that just means I'll drown, and I don't know nobody that's ever drowned without the will to live giving a fair fight in the struggle. It'd be a painful, exhausting, unbelievably prolonged effort for an inevitable conclusion.

But... 

If Annabelle and I can somehow ramp off of this ledge right here, somehow soar like an American Bald Eagle across that daunting river of uncertainty below, and then nail the crest of the Sleepin' Giant with just enough precision to where we land on the flat dirt path - and not one of the hundreds of Joshua Trees - I'll be at the local watering hole before the evenin' settles in.

Even better? I had a German-manufactured rocket attached to the back of her.

You heard me right. 

A steam-powered rocket, just so we could get a little bit more fluff and glide at initial takeoff. While still hyper-focused on this overwhelming, borderline impossible feat in front of me, I fired up Annabelle's engines and took the deepest breath of my entire life. As her front wheel started moving closer to the lip of the lift-off ramp, I could remember a million different thoughts going through my head. 

Harley! What in the fuck are you doing! 

HARLEY! ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND? 

IS THIS REALLY WORTH IT?

WHAT REALLY HAPPENS IF THIS GOES WRONG? 

THEY'RE ALL GOING TO SAY YOU'RE JUST A WASHED-UP FAILURE!

WASHED UP FAILURE!

WASHED UP LOSER!

WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? 

WHAT WOULD DAD THINK? 

STOP.

Them thoughts?

They don't matter when you're staring through the barrel - when all the chips are in the air because your country ass committed to it. 

That's really all that matters, right? The God damn commitment. It's moments like this, son, when the obstacles truly outweigh the man that wants to jump over the entire world one day. But when you got an ambition like that, you don't teeter on the edge and let all of the emotions bleed over your perfectly pressed flight suit. You wink back at the world that's watching you, soak all that shit up like a sponge, and let that steam-powered engine take you to the next place. 

I may have been a sweaty, manic mess - but don't mistake that for fear. Fact is, the other side of that mountain could be a hundred feet higher than the side I'm on, and I'd figure out a way to challenge it like it wasn't any bigger than me and my Annabelle. 

This jump - regardless of success or failure - represented my journey. 

Even though these obstacles had me seein' double, the jump was already left in ink. I was willingly baring myself to the opportunity of seeing what it would be like to break every bone, even the small ones that I don't know the names of, for the sliver of a chance that we manage to make it over there with a heart that beats for at least one more day. 

And, cover the little one's ears - but this made me rock hard. 

I was ready - and with that, I took flight!

There I was - a God-damn Bald Eagle soaring across objective one with buttered ease. Annabelle didn't miss a beat with the temporary power addition, and it was that bit of extra motivation that left us in near distance of reaching the crest of Sleepin' Giant. 

And then, wouldn't you know it - the damn motor goes out. Annabelle doesn't know what to do with the sudden de-acceleration and starts to actin' erratic, in a panic I've never seen her go through. At this point, her and I had been through it all. The highs, the lows, the good times, and the really shitty ones too - and her age was startin' to poke its evil tentacles through them cracks. 

Shit, it took everything in my old ass to remember one thing that my Pa' told me before he went to be with the Lord. 

Keep your mind where your feet are.

Keep your mind where your feet are.

Keep your mind where your feet are.

Keep your mind where your feet are.

Keep your mind where your feet are.

BREATHE. 

By the time I closed my eyes, I was on... the other side.

I couldn't believe it at first - and then... I did. 

Did Anabelle and I crash into three separate Joshua Trees and possibly murder a family of ground squirrels?

I mean, maybe?

But the most important thing is that we stared down the unconquerable - a horrifying two-headed rock serpent in the middle of Nowhere, Idaho, and did one thing. 

We made it happen.

Against some of the most formidable terrain the big guy has to offer too, respectfully.

Now, that may have been 2004, miles away from where we are now, but that don't mean that I've lost my sense of humor towards fear, son. It also don't mean that I toss my towel in the ring when I've got a collegiate football star trying to brickwall my way to the other side  -

Most especially doesn't mean that I'm gonna back down when I've got another one shovin' a camera in my face in order to suck a few likes out of me and get ahead of the great algorithm race. Fact of the matter is, I was at the top of that invisible algorithmic peak by putting in actual work - you know riskin' my life - and I didn't need the charts to take the world by storm and get everyone's attention. 

As far as you're concerned, Slade? I was rolling the dice on this little thing called existence before your father rolled the dice with your momma - and leaped across voids that you've only ever seen in your nightmares - respectfully. I walked into ReVival 44 with a purpose - to stare another Sleepin' Giant in the eye and put on a show. 

And this week? It's business as usual - against another pair of giants. And you can bet your sweet country ass that I'll have my own pair of giants in tow as well. 

Respectfully.

ReVival 44 Approximately thiry minutes after Harley's opening match. 

If you know Harley, this would be the midway celebration point of the evening. He would've already popped a few icy ones and turned on his favorite Yacht rock. He'd likely be attempting terrible dance moves in the shower, with a bottle in one of his hands, and the room would have likely been occupied with at least two females just for the sake of company.

After all, this was mere minutes after a historic moment in Harley Walker's life.

Lightning Boy's life, even.

It was his first PRIME victory - scratch that.

It was his first victory in life in quite some time. This was one of those moments where you should stop to really give yourself the chance to believe that this is even happening - to even imagine having come as far as a guy like Harley Walker has come - to be here, in this moment.

And Harley wanted to do that. So badly, in fact.

Instead, he was motionless - nearly as stiff as a board - on the couch inside of his locker room.

The only light in the room is what seeped from the hallways through the cracks of his locked door. This isolation is an effort to avoid one very important fact - Harley's in bad shape. Aches, intermittent bouts of numbness across his body that would come and go like lightning strikes, and a headache that felt like a locomotive was attempting to excavate a tunnel through the back of his head.

He wanted to cry - but not because of the pain.

He wanted to cry because there was a time in his life where the party was already started.

But Harley didn't want to party.

Harley is too pooped to even build up enough energy to poop - and he actually did need to poop. For someone that didn't fear a whole lot, Harley began to recognize that there was one thing that he did fear.

Himself.

Especially if himself is no longer the man that himself is supposed to be.

"Well, you done did it, didn't ya', you old sack of---" Harley's words trail off, drifting in and out of his fatigue coma. He's present, and seemingly in a battle with - well - himself.

"Yeah, but ya'know what? That old sack of whatever went out there and sized up to a young magoo. Ain't nobody out there expectin' something like that to happen, and then..." Harley let out another chuckle, before rolling to his side, groaning in the process. "It happens. And here I am, sittin' like a dead bug on a dead log in the dead of night like I ain't got nothin' better to do." 

Harley's eyes then open. You can tell that he's suddenly trapped in thought.

"Wait. Is there anything better to do? I don't know what's going to happen when I get up, ya'know?" 

Of course, Harley did not achieve a response, but he didn't need one.

"I can just see my entire body just falling apart, like puzzle pieces, and then when our head is the floor, staring at the rest of us scattered about, we'll have wished that we never left this couch. I mean, fuck it, right? Let the damn janitors scoop me before they turn the rest of the lights off." 

And then, the sound of a set of teeth - crunching down on something.

Harley snaps out of it, pushes through the burning aches to sit up, and then sees a familiar man sitting, cross-legged, in one of his lockeroom chairs with a bag of Fritos in his lap.

It's Myles Lang.

He's dressed to the nines in Armani - a flashy silverish gray suit, with a matching tie, and polished black Oxfords on his feet. A bluetooth earpod dangles awkwardly out of his left ear, and the grease that slicks back his charcoal-black hair is still evident even with as little light as there was. For as angry as Harley wanted to feel in the moment, he was far more surprised.

If there was anyone that he couldn't ever expect seeing again - it was Myles Lang.

There was dead silence for a moment, before Harley's former agent smiled with a nod and kept chewing.

"Myles?"

Myles holds up one of his hands to stop Harley.

"I know. Surprise, right?! You know..." Myles folds up the bag of Fritos, carelessly dropping it on the floor in front of him, and then starts to rub the grease on his fingers against his overpriced pants. "You are quite the unpredictable guy, Harley. I'll give you that, alright? Who couldn't? It's actually quite impressive, if you really think about it. Just decides to leave Dodge, rid himself of all of his obligations, his commitments, all of his promises, to become - a wrestler?" 

Still at a loss, Harley opts to once again rest his back against the arm of the chair and just take it in.

Physically, there was really no other choice right now.

Myles rests his hands on his lap and tilts his head. "Did you find what you were looking for throughout this... what is this... some sort of crisis? That's the question... did you find anything of value out of this?" 

"You know what?" Harley chooses to ignore the pain and gets to his feet. This, of course, comes off incredibly threatening to Myles, who immediately feels obligated to bring the temperature down. Harley can't entirely ignore the discomfort that charges through his body, and a groan ultimately replaces any further words from coming out of his mouth.

"Before you lose your head and do things that you'll regret, may I warn you that I have an entire security detail outside who is well aware of your manic habits and spontaneous decisions to jump off the deep end, and they're prepared to handle that, and you, Harley, at any costs if I feel like you're putting me in a corner." 

Harley stoically looks back at Myles but doesn't move a muscle. "If I wanted to pose a threat..." Harley is forced to let out another groan, pressing one of his hands against his ribcage. "You'd already be on the ground. And so would those flimsies that you got out there. You and I both know..." Harley moves closer toward Myles, who now decides to get to his feet himself and take a few steps back out of precaution. "It'd be game over before they even knew what the fuck was happenin' in here." 

After a pregnant pause, Harley lifts his arm up and points towards the door.

"See yourself out now, son." 

Myles opts not to move. He flares his perfect set of teeth at Harley. "Not a problem, pal. I'll just leave this right here then." Myles pulls out a manila envelope from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and tosses it on the floor, right beside the bag of Fritos. Myles starts to move but is held back by a stiff shoulder from Harley.

"And what's that?" Harley inquires sternly.

"It's just your commitments. In ink. With your signature to boot. You know, just some of that legal fluff and glide that we took care of because paperwork gives you migraines, remember? Now, if you'll just excuse me here..." 

Myles opts to go under Harley's arm in order to move towards the door. While whistling obnoxiously, he opens it up and waves at the security detail that are standing like statues directly outside of the room, and then makes one final statement.

"I'd highly recommend you take a quick looksey at those deets, my long lost friend. I think you'll find that a few facts remain."

Harley turns toward Myles, placing his hands on his waist. "Yeah? What are those, Myles?" 

"I own you, Harley." Myles starts to walk through the door. "And you owe me. And you will live up to the terms that you agreed upon - or you will die wishing that you did. So long, Lightning Boy." And then slams the door, bringing darkness back in the room. Harley looks down at the manila folder and let's his mind manifest the available options.

"I guess I could look at it." Harley pauses for a moment, and then his eyebrows raise. "I could take a piss on it also though." Harley takes a quick glance at the door to make sure that it's closed, not that he truly cares anyway, and then proceeds to pull his pants down. Thankfully, it's too dark to see anything - but the sounds are more than enough.

The unzipping. 

The unbuckling. 

The trickling, then puddling sound of Harley relieving himself on Myles' valuable documents.

"Little slick shit don't own jack, and he especially don't own me."

Harley kicks Myles' bag of Fritos across the room, slings his military-green duffel bag over his shoulder, and then starts lighting a cigarette while walking towards the door. Over time and age and excessive periods of wild ignorance, he's come to learn when the boiling point is reached and what he has to do in order to bring things back to a realistic level.

It starts with the cigarette - and from there, he just has to remind himself to keep his mind where his feet are. He also has to avoid the shadow in the corner of his mind that keeps repeating the same thing over and over and over again - "You should worry about those papers" - and that's probably because Harley believes it.

He just can't deal with it right now.

And with that, Harley lightly limps his way out of the lockerroom and begins to make his way down the corridor that leads to the garage, where Annabelle is parked. It was time to rest his weary head, back at his lovely suite at Whirling Winds Bed and Breakfast, before Annabelle's wheels take on the road to ReVival once again.

As he made it to the end of the hall, he starts to mentally recall something positive for once.

He won tonight.

He had every right to stop and find a little bit of peace in that.

As he takes the turn that brings him to the entrance of the garage, Harley spots Annabelle and smiles. He didn't have the details yet, but he knew that he was in for an even bigger challenge next week than the one that nearly broke him tonight. He knew, however, that in order to conquer this Sleepin' Giant, the only thing he could do is continue to climb and leave the questions for later.

That's all he could do.

Harley puts his cigarette between his lips and saddles onto Annabelle, revving her up a bit in celebration of the evening, but is interrupted by the honk of a horn. A horn that's connected to a silver BMW. Thing is, Harley hasn't finished having his moment and is immediately convinced that its Myles behind the wheel.

"You know what, you mother---" Harleys says with rage, gritting his teeth so hard that they break his cigarette in half. He starts to move towards the car, with bits of tobacco falling like Autumn leaves from the now-obliterated Marlboro Red, until the person gets out of the car with his hands raised.

It isn't Myles.

It's -

"Whoa! Hey buddy?! We talked? On the phone?!

Harley stops in his tracks, his balled-up fists dangling like wilted anchors, their once fierce resolve now weighed down by exhaustion - and, of course, the realization that this is Sylvestor Mango. A young, talented agent and investor - clean shaven, with a webby fro' of almond-brown hair and furry eyebrows; short, skinny as a wisp of smoke, and absolutely in fear of his life right now.

Sylvestor keeps his hands up. "Look... I am not the bad guy here. That's the guy who stalked you all the way from New York City to your dressing room here in Providence. That's Myles Lang... okay?" 

Harley slowly loosens up his hands. "I thought we were supposed to meet at the damn hotel - not creep up on me. That's a dumb way to have to die."  

Sylvestor also slowly brings his defense guard down. "You trashed the owner's suite... and slept with his daughter. I went there to meet you... for.." 

"Breakfast?" Harley assists.

"Breakfast, yes... and when I got there and asked for you, the owner told me that if he ever saw your face near his hotel, or anywhere around his city, he would shove his 12-gauger so far up your ass that you'd be able to taste it." 

Pregnant pause.

"For the record..." Harley begins. "I didn't know that was his daughter. Secondly, he ain't the mayor. I can be in his town as much as I fuckin' want." 

Sly wastes no time.

"He is, in fact, the mayor. He also said that he was setting up a community watch to find you, and your bike." 

"Annabelle?" 

"Look..." Sly resumes. "Come jump in my car. I've already got us a couple of rooms booked at The Godfrey in Boston. We'll ride together and I will explain everything to you."

Harley slowly shakes his head. "I don't go nowhere without Annabelle."

"Oh, we're not going anywhere without her. I've already set up to have her shipped straight to The Godfrey. She will be there before even we get there." 

Harley shrugs his shoulders, clearly confused about all of this.

"Why are you even here, Sly?" 

"I'm a fan, alright?" 

Harley takes a second to think things over, then takes once more glances at Annabelle, before slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder again and walking over to the passenger side of Sly's vehicle. He opens the door and tosses his bag inside. "Don't make me regret this, son." 

Sly reassures - "You won't."