We do, in fact, STILL need a wingman.

Portland is a weird-ass city, home to a few hundred thousand weird-ass people.

Not quite “politician who may or may not have fornicated with living room furniture” levels of weird, but still plenty weird in its own right.

And having grown up a mere few hours north of, Kerry Kuroyama can say he’s well-acquainted.

For close to twenty years, he watched the city slowly and painfully devolve into a strange, self-important mecca to a generation of equally weird pilgrims. Sophomoric millennials with ambitions of half-baked business ventures. Modern art scenesters looking for a crowd of like-minded self-fellating auteurs to buy their bullshit ideas. Shifty snake-oil salesmen trying to turn a quick buck by selling their quack sciences to the naive and impressionable. Wannabe eco-warriors that have probably killed more trees making protest signs than they could ever hope to save.

Maybe in a time long forgotten, it was a place of culture and growth. A shining jewel in the Pacific Northwest. But as far as Kerry is concerned, it’s the craft beer and crack addict capital of the world.

Just… fucking weird.

And now he finds himself at the very epicenter of that godforsaken weirdness: Jubitz Truck Stop. Sitting in a booth at the Cascade Grill, awaiting the arrival of his tag partner.

Dealing with a double dosage of Scott Hunter.

“But yeah, after the hemp product industry collapsed for the second time, I just said, ‘Dude, I’m donezo, man,’ and I packed my things and left. Nob Hill is just totally saturated in posers and colonizers these days. Vibe is way off. Pearl District is where it’s at.”

“Dude, I can totally relate! I absolutely HATE it when my knob gets saturated! Don’t you agree, Kerry?”

Kuroyama grumbles and nods in agreement to his wingman across the table.

Unbeknownst to Kerry until yesterday, Scott has a cousin who happens to live in Portland that he hadn’t seen since childhood. His name, inexplicably, is also Scott. And, barring a pencil-thin mustache and goatee, the two cousins look and speak nearly identical to one another.

Now he is the witness to their reunion, in what feels like something ripped from an episode of the Twilight Zone.

“So my new shop sells clothing made out of recycled Chinese newspapers,” continues Portland Scott. “Wayyy more practical. And, you know, it’s for a good cause. Plus, when it rains, it makes it looks like you have Mandarin lettering tattoos.”

“Dude, that is SO awesome!” exclaims Scott Scott. “I would love to have Chinese tattoos! Do you think they have headlines out there that would translate into something cool sounding in English?”

“That’s the idea, Scott,” says the other Scott, tapping a finger against his temple. “China is an autocratic oligarchy, so their media obviously has the best headlines. Great minds clearly think alike.”

They had been going back and forth nonstop since the doppleHunter picked them up from the airport earlier, and as they day dragged on, Kerry could feel himself slowly losing his mind.

Adjusting to life on the other side of his three months in London had not been easy. There was no denying that his time with Drakos had a lasting impact. Since he left, he persistently longed for the thrill of a fight, while also grappling with the frustrating droughts of action between his in-ring forays.

And while Portland had no shortage of pieces of shit who could benefit from a good ass-kicking, he was somehow still acutely aware of the necessity of personal restraint.

Save it for the Glue Boys, he says to himself internally.

Their waitress, a twenty-something hipster mutant with blue hair, thick-framed glasses, nose ring, and full sleeves of shitty tattoos, comes to the table with their bill. It finds its way before Scott (specifically, the one we know and love) before she sulks away. Kerry peeps digits written on the back, but when Hunter notices them, he balks.

“Whoa! There’s no way I can pay for this, guys!”

“It’s cool, man,” Portland Scott reassures his cousin. “I have enough crypto to cover it.”

Fucking… PORTLAND.

Salvation finally comes for Kerry at the sight of the black Ford F250 rolling into the station.

“He’s here,” he says, pushing himself up to his feet.

“How can you tell?” says Scott Scott, squinting to make out anything beyond the truck’s tinted windows. “Oh… because it's big and black. Duh.”

Kuroyama throws a twenty on the table to cover the shitty Oregon coffee and gluten-free toast and quickly steps out into the parking lot with the Scotts playing catch-up, just as the truck rumbles its way into an open spot. The door comes open, and the chassis rises a few inches the moment a pair of dust-lined boots touch the asphalt.

Clay Byrd briefly scans the urban sprawl around him, sniffing the air.

“...smells like hippies.”

Portland Scott instinctively lifts an arm and takes a whiff himself.

“How was the drive?” asks Kerry in an effort to break the ice.

Byrd answers only with a grunt while reaching into the back cab, pulling out a canvas bag of his belongings.

“If you’re down for a workout, I know of a gym around here,” Kerry continues. “Guy who owns it knew my dad back when the Pacific Northwest scene was--”

“Fuck all that,” Clay cuts him off. “Anyplace ‘round here where I can grab a drink? Preferably someplace without all that craft beer horse piss. Don’t need ta find no free roamin’ Scottywood.”

Kerry feels pang in his chest. While he had resolutely stuck to his self-imposed sobriety, it was proving to be a double-edged sword. Being clear-minded only further intensified the itching need for a fight.

Two months ago, he managed to turn down the only drink Ionna Drakos offered him. But if Clay slid him a glass of bourbon, will he have the constitution to do it again?

“If you’re thirsty, my large friend, then I got what you need,” says Portland Scott, procuring a canteen. “Wholly natural agua. Pure, organic, and recycled right from the source.”

Byrd looks quizzically from the proffered canteen, to alternate dimension Hunter, then back to Kerry. Kuroyama nods morosely.

“It’s exactly what you think it is…” says Kerry.

Nose wrinkling and lips curling back in disgust, Clay shoves the rubbery waterbottle back into its owner’s chest.

“Scott…”

“Yeah?” the cousins say simultaneously.

Byrd makes a face, pointing to evil alternate dimension Scott.

“Get this rat turd outta my sight…”

Hunter’s hand shoots up into a salute of compliance.

“On it, Clay!” he proudly states while grabbing his cousin by the shirt and leading him away. “Come on, Scott, we gotta get back to your place and get some cleaning equipment! You have no idea how hard it is to get rat turds out of asphalt.”

“Oh dude, no problem. There was this girl I knew from the commune I lived in a few years ago -- crazy story, she gave me chlamydia -- but she also gave me like a whole stash of homemade soap and cleaning products. Ironically, it’s made out of cat feces.”

Then, as the two Scotts depart for doppleHunter’s shitty Toyota Corolla with a modified engine that ran on hash oil and clam chowder, the weight of Clay’s hand comes down hard on Kerry’s shoulder.

“Get in the truck, Ker,” commands the Cowboy Colossus, an unsettling smile forming on his face. “We’re goin’ for a ride.”

“Mick Watson can go to hell.”

I’ve probably lost count on how many times I heard you say those words, Dad.

Forget the Sonics and Blazers. They say the true beginning of the Seattle-Portland rivalry began with the blood feud between ‘Slick’ Mick Watson and ‘The Ronin’ Zack Kuroyama over the claim of the Pacific Northwest.

The stories told by the veterans of the scene back then are the stuff of legend. Twice, he screwed you out of the PNWC Heavyweight Title -- once over in Yakima, and again down in Eugene. But, so the story goes, you repaid the favor by chucking his ass off a scaffold at the Tempest In Tacoma event back in ‘97.

They say it all began from an incident that took place back before I was even born. Some old wrestler from Texas came up this way for a few events, and Watson -- by then, a young talent who had earned a rep for savagery between the ropes -- was out there one night doing a number on him.

They say while the slaughter was happening in the ring, that wrestler’s kid was watching in the back, screaming bloody murder. They say it took almost half a dozen security guards to keep him from storming the ring, because even at ten years, he was built like a fucking beast.

Then they say that right then, you made a choice, and then you went out there to put a stop to it. From that day on, a rivalry was born. Maybe being witness to that sort of thing changed something in you. Maybe there was a dreadful feeling that one day you could end up like that old man in the ring. And that the son  you had on the way might try and do something as crazy as that pissed off ten year old monster trying to charge the ring to the ring all those years ago.

Whatever the case, you made a decision.

And I’m happy you made it, Dad. Because all these years later, I have a chance to continue that legacy you began, against a wholly new pair of young savages.

Farthington and FLAMBERGE. Glue Boys. Bringers of ruin, wherever they go.

Except Portland.

Because thanks to you, in this city, the name Kuroyama reigns supreme.

“I swear, I'll never understand this goddamn obsession with pancakes.”

The wafting smell of grease and sweet, sweet maple syrup are pervasive in the Emerald Apex’s flaring nostrils. Heaping dueling mounds of pancakes, one side slathered in butter and syrup, the other, much more delicately handled sit in the middle of the table.

“IHOP?” says an incredulous Kerry Kuroyama. “Before a match?”

“You want me shittin’ my brains out in there? Only pancakes not made with gluten-free, gmo-free, pure-bred,100% pure-strain bran fer a hundred fuckin’ miles. Do ya got any idea how much fiber has ta be in that?”

The Behemoth mumbles his way through the bites of food in his maw. Kerry’s silence speaks volumes.

“Just bein’ honest wit ya,” says Clay, the words broken up between bits of furious chewing.

Kerry shakes his head, and Byrd smirks, wiping bits of pancake out of his beard.

“Plus, I think it’s the breakfast of champions.

“That’s Wheaties…” says Kerry with a smirk.

“I know, ki -- Kerry. Sorry, wasn’t tryin’ ta call ya that,” Clay trips and stumbles over his words and his apology, the words feel weird as they leave his lips.

“It’s fine…”

Kuroyama notices the red in the big man’s cheeks, it might be the first time he’d seen Byrd genuinely embarrassed.

“Yea, yer the man ‘round here. Got the belt, the fan club, I’m over here eatin’ with Mr. Bigtime!”

Clay’s demeanor changes as he half shouts and pivots slightly to the side while pointing down to Kerry. His half shout falls on mostly deaf ears and he turns back towards the table with a small smirk but a nod of approval.

“Yeah, yeah… fuck you too,” says Kerry in a voice that dripped with sarcasm.

“But since ya got me bein’ serious and sober at an IHOP on a Wednesday afternoon in fuckin’ Portland…”

The Emerald Apex waits as The Behemoth crumples a fourteenth napkin in his massive paw.

“Them Glue Boys start their bullshit, I got ya in there, I ain’t fuckin’ ‘round with none of it,”

The Monster from Plainview pauses between bites.

“Yeah, FLAMBERGE and Farthington… those two are pretty legit.”

Kuroyama is cut off as he goes for a quick stab at a piece of pancake with his fork.

“I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the wrasslin’, Kerry.”

The Monster’s nostril twitches and he points down to a scar on the outside of his left elbow. He gives his bicep and forearm a reactive flex, and wiggles his fingers.

“Talkin’ ‘bout this shit. Breakin’ yer fuckin’ arm shit…”

The Behemoth’s face reddens for a different reason. With his ire raised, he shoots off another little quip.

“Those two great wrasslers, those two are lil fuckin’ monsters, Ker…”

The Alias Champion lets the conversation dwindle down for a moment before putting another question in there. “What’s the deal with you and Cecilworth anyway?”

“Broke my arm, six weeks before a World Heavyweight Championship match so he could have a wrestling match with his bestestest friend in the whole world…”

The sarcasm is thick in the big Texan’s tone. The world's largest eye roll follows as Clay begins to polish off a pancake from Kerry’s stack.

“Oh, so you two have some things to work out,” says Kerry with a smile. “My dad dealt with something like that back in the day…”

As the nostalgia wave breaks and crashes over the Emerald Apex, Clay rips the conversation back.

“Big things ta work out.”

There's a long pause in the conversation. The Behemoth finishes eating. Kuroyama scrolls something on his phone. Two men stuck in an IHOP waiting for the check. Guilty of stuffing their faces full of ‘carb cakes’, as The Behemoth had called them at some point earlier.

“Anyway, since we’re sober in an IHOP…” says the big Texan, choosing to break the silence.

Kuroyama is kind of wishing he hadn’t. But another response to that particular statement doesn’t really exist. The only word that escapes Kuroyama’s lips is an invitation to continue. “Yeah.”

The Cowboy Colossus once again fumbles over his words through his Texas drawl. “I ain’t never said this to ya, but yer old man was a hell of a guy, Ker. He saved my Pop’s ass once up this way back after Desert Storm.”

Kerry’s eyebrows raise ever so slightly. That nostalgic wave is backwashing over him once more. A short pause for a moment as he equates a war that happened as he was being born, and his father’s career timeline.

“I remember him telling me about that. Were you the big giant ten year old trying to kill ‘Slick’ Mick Watson?”

Kerry looks knowingly towards Clay, with that story of the giant ten year old story starting to be a lot more believable.

“Sure was.”

A genuine real smile cracks Clay’s face for the first time since the start of the conversation.

“Real good guy though Ker, I owe him one. So when I say I got yer six, I mean it.”

“I appreciate that, Clay, thanks,” said Kerry after a thoughtful pause. “You can depend on me to have your back as well.”

“Would you like to pay with cash, card, or crypto?”

When else could a waitress finally wander her way back to a table on a slow afternoon at a Portland IHOP? That’s why IHOP isn’t the place for a conversation like this, but nobody said Clay and Kerry weren’t two alphas having a bit of a broment.

“Cash, fuckin’ money,” the Behemoth responds to the rude interruption. “Holy shit!”

Clay holds his arm out to stop Kerry from reaching into his front pocket. The big man reaches back into his hip pocket and produces a wad of cash.

“Keep the change. Let’s get the hell outta here, Ker…”

Clay reaches down and helps Kerry up out of the booth.

“We gotta go find that lil worm Hunter. If the dick puncher guy tries to get involved I want Scott to punch him right in the dick.”

The two walk towards the door. As Kuroyama considers the idea, he begins absolutely beaming.

“So what you’re saying is…  we need a wingman?”

The big man lets the door go and fall back on Kerry.

“Fuck you, Ker. I’ll leave ya back there with the crypto Musk babies.”

I was ten years old, and I was watching ‘Slick’ fucking Mick do a number on my Pops. It was unprovoked, after the bell, just total horse shit. He was some kid out there trying to make his name off of some old timer. Taking advantage of the situation, everyone in the back knew it was coming. You don’t wrestle through the 70’s and 80’s and just keep on ticking at 48 like Ivan Stanislav. Time comes for everyone, and I was watching it come for my father.

Time is a motherfucker.

I was ten.

My hero was out there getting murdered in the ring. Some physically small, shit brained manager named Big Paul had his arms wrapped around my waist and was trying to fight me off. I was a big kid for a ten year old, and I was flailing. I was also a pretty good amateur at that point, so he and I start tussling. Mick’s smacked my Dad in the head with a chair, and I’m just yelling and screaming. I’m begging Paul to let me go, and I didn’t know it, but that’s what Mick probably wanted.

How many people could he piss off if he did something like that? Beat up an old single father in front of his son. Try to end his career, try to eliminate him from the playing field for something so miniscule as clout.

It’s fickle, it’s like sand in your palm.

The smallest twitch, a fidget, it vanishes. And God forbid someone wants to force your hand open. It just falls away, just to add a little more to another man’s hand. Mick found that out that night.

How fickle clout could be.

Mr. Kuroyama. He zipped through security in a flash. A house on fire, rights, lefts, uppercuts, a suplex, and Mick was running scared. He swore vengeance on Kuroyama that night, they’d fight for the next five years. I’d read about it in the magazines my father would leave in the bathroom on the hamper. The security ran down the ramp and left me to my own devices. It was the first time I ever appeared. My Dad told me some guy wrote about it in a newsletter. My first public appearance. I think the guy said I was big for my age, that was weird.

But the sand flows.

My Dad walked out of that arena, and once I was sure he was okay I went and found Mr. Kuroyama. I didn’t say anything to him, I just walked up and hugged him. I wrapped my arms around his waist and just said thank you. That’s all I could do, and he hugged me back and told me my Dad was going to be okay and he was going to take care of ‘Slick’ Mick. He threw him off a scaffold in ‘97. Zack Kuroyama was one of my favorite wrestlers. It’s funny, that night I almost lost my desire for what we do.

I don’t think Kerry has any idea how much his father meant to me, and I don’t think I could just tell him. Too many tears for a conversation between Ker and I. But I’d do anything for Kerry. Even without the potential literal life debt, Kerry’s a hell of a wrestler. He loves the sport, he cares about what we do. In that ring, if it comes to it, I’ll do whatever I have to do for Kerry.

Especially when you start your bullshit.

You know who you are.

I see through the bullshit, the populist causes. The Glue boys are alright, they're just a little weird. But they don’t hurt nobody. No, I know what you are. I know what the lizard boy is, I know what the dick puncher is, I know what The Event Horizon is.

You all chase it, clout, titles, belts, sand, it’s so fickle. The greed too, it’s always more, and more. And sometimes, when there’s enough at stake you’ll do anything to grab it. You proved it that night after I almost died on an island in San Francisco, I had earned it. I had chased it and I had won it, and you came, and you tried to take it away from me.

You. FLAMBERGE. Hayes. Joe. Glue.

One day it will all collapse in on itself, one will have too much, the other will need it. You’ll cannibalize it, because it drives you, it’s what you thirst after. It’s inevitable. Groups united like this, we’ve all been around, we’ve all seen them. We see how it starts, a harmonious utopia. Like pure communism, but greed, it perverts it. So keep spreading the populist agenda, we all know how it always ends.

It’s always about you. 

The Financier.

Fits like a glove. A greedy collector.

Try to take what Kerry’s earned from him. Or what I’ve earned from me again.

We fucking dare you.