The Miles

They say nothing in this business is real except the money and the miles. Everything else — the belts, the crowds, the fights — it’s smoke, theatre, illusion. But the miles… the miles hit you back. They dig into your spine, rake across your knees, tear at your hands. They cling to you in every city, every hotel, every ring. You never escape them. The distance is permanent. The bruises are permanent. The fatigue… permanent. And no one notices, no one remembers, no one cares.

Danny sat in the departures lounge, passport and boarding pass clutched like they were the last lifeline between himself and disappearance. Feet shuffled past him, dragging the soft scrape of wheels and the whisper of hurried conversation. Luggage rattled sharply against tiles, hollow thunks echoing through the hall. Screens flashed gate numbers, flickering with an impersonal rhythm: Raleigh. Another city. Another arena. Another lions’ den where he would bleed and sweat, and still, the world would move on as if nothing had happened.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t react. Motion without purpose. Autopilot. Another country, another town, another violent sandbox where he would throw fists and sweat and maybe remember what it was supposed to feel like. Every muscle in his body already ached from the last fight, and the thought of the next one sent a flare of anxious energy from his gut to his jaw. He could feel every bruise, every jolt of exhaustion, every nerve ending reminding him that the miles never quit.

He could still feel the sting from ReVival 76 — his PRIME debut. Lights blasting, crowd roaring, smoke curling up from pyrotechnics. The chants, the applause, the adulation of the fans — it should have felt like the start of something untouchable. Oh, Mr. Diamond, you sound so hypnotic. Sing me that merry little song again. And yet… he’d shat the bed in his mind the second he stepped through the curtain. That surge of heroism was already a memory of failure. He’d learned early that you could taste glory, but it evaporates before your next breath. And that knowledge clung to him tighter than any bruised muscle.

Flashback — Singapore:

The chant still rang in his ears — Kau Sak Li! Kau Sak Li! The strangers didn’t know him, didn’t care, yet for a few hours, they recognized the steel in his fists. The arena was an open mat, sand covering the floor, humid air thick with sweat, iron, and anticipation. There were no ropes. No cage. Just a gong to start the bout and raw humanity unleashed.

Danny stepped forward, ready. The gong slammed into silence, then chaos. Opponents lunged with desperation. Danny moved like a storm contained, precise, methodical. Fist after fist, flurries landing, dodges executed with the kind of speed and instinct that made every strike count. Every cut, every bruise, every spurt of blood was proof he was alive. Proof that he belonged here.

The gong came. Too fast, too short. Knuckles raw, chest heaving, gloves soaked. The scoreboard flashed his record, breaking it in real-time — just like Frank Dux. The crowd, strangers just hours before, chanted his anointed name, rose petals thrown at his feet like fleeting honour. But twelve hours later, he’d be flying toward the next city, the next fight, the next ReVival. Those petals, soft and perfumed, stuck between his toes, carried shame as much as respect. The memory wasn’t warmth. It was fuel. Sparks for the next battle. Sparks to ignite the next plane ride. Sparks to propel him toward ReVival 78.

“Last call for Flight 243 to Raleigh… final boarding.”

The announcement cut through the haze like a slap. Danny blinked, realizing half the lounge had emptied. He grabbed his bag, stood, joints popping in protest. Lost in thought again. He shuffled toward the gate, the fatigue dragging at his bones. Another plane. Another seat. Another few thousand miles of pretending it all made sense.

We’re all taught early that life is a game of winners and losers. That it matters. That triumph is everything. And yet, for Danny Christie, winning had become something else entirely. At first, victory was sacred. It was everything. It validated you. It told you who you were. But there comes a point where winning becomes the thing you almost hate. The medals, the applause, the spotlight — they start to feel like chains around your wrists. Is that even possible? For Danny, yes. Because this isn’t just boxing. This isn’t bareknuckle, or a fight in a heat-scorched barn in Bangkok. This is PRIME. And in PRIME, everyone gets a royal spanking from time to time. The lights, the cameras, the numbers, the rankings — they’re shoved in your face as though they mean the world. And yet, they’re bullshit.

Danny shat the bed on his PRIME debut. But that moment didn’t crush him. It festered. It twisted into something worse: obsession. Not to avoid humiliation, but to seek it out. There comes a point where a man says, “Fuck it.” Where he stops counting wins, stops fearing the numbers, stops measuring himself against whatever imaginary scale they’ve placed in front of him. And he just drives. He just throws himself into the grind. Miles of airports. Miles of fights. Miles of failure and pain. He picks fights with men who are never supposed to be in his lane. He begs to be flattened inside ten seconds. Because he loves the pain, too. The burn, the crack of impact, the shame — it keeps him alive, keeps him sharp.

Economy. Yeah, that’s right. Flying in economy. Wow. Aren’t you a PRIME wrestler on the ACE NETWORK? Shouldn’t you be gliding through the skies in business class, sipping champagne, polishing your ego while someone fawns over your stats? Frankly… it’s none of your business. It’s no one’s business. The day Danny Christie flies business is the day he sucks the life out of Cecilworth Farthington’s second-hand jacuzzi water. A privilege to some, isn’t it, Lacy-boy? Who’s the scum now, huh? Who’s crammed into a seat designed for twelve-year-olds, knees pressed into the seat in front, elbows brushing strangers, while the so-called stars float miles above, safe in their private little kingdoms?

Danny couldn’t give a fuck. He’d rather slum it out in reality — shoulder to shoulder with the world that doesn’t care he exists. You fly however you want, polish your ego at thirty thousand feet, chase validation for a meaningless number on a stats page. Danny Christie? He carries his miles, his bruises, his losses, his shame.

His seat is cramped, his knees jammed against plastic, the recycled air heavy with cheap cologne and exhaustion. To his left, an elderly Middle Eastern woman leans against him, mouth open, snoring softly like a tired banshee that’s seen too much of the world. Behind him, a feral kid boots the back of his seat in rhythmic bursts of chaos. And to top it off, a man spilling out of his own shirt — Belly Man — has decided Danny’s shoulder is a fine place to rest... his belly.

This is his kingdom. This is his ring. No velvet ropes, no champagne, no separation from the noise or the sweat. Just humanity in all its inconvenient glory. That’s life. That’s PRIME. That’s real.

He could feel the grind in every inch of himself. Every vibration through the plane, every nudge, every shuffle — it was proof that he was alive, proof that he had miles to burn, fists to throw, fights to win or lose. The miles weren’t polite. They didn’t hand out perks. They didn’t recognize talent or lineage. They were democracy in pain. And Danny? He was perfectly at home in the trenches.

The name alone made him want to fight a grandma. Charles’ grandma, ideally. De Lacy. The self-anointed nobleman of professional wrestling. Draped in suits and arrogance. Vintage Scotch in hand. A man who lectured about honor and lineage while missing the one lesson the ring always taught: it doesn’t care who you are. Only what you leave when the bell rings. Just another bare arse in the shower. Nobody truly gives a fuck. You’re great, Charles? Sure. In your own right, safe in your little circle. But how big is that circle, really? Bigger than Singapore? Laughable.

De Lacy had been born into privilege, swaddled in the comfort of a family name that still opened doors where names mattered. Back straight, chin high, voice dipped in polished arrogance. But beneath the velvet and the old-money charm was a man who had bled, humbled by time, humbled by losses, humbled by reality. Today’s golden goose becomes tomorrow’s choked chicken.

De Lacy could wear his fine suits, sip his Scotch, talk about noble blood — but the ring doesn’t care where you come from. It strips you bare. Leaves you the same as everyone else. Just skin, bone, and willpower. And there you are, Mr. de Lacy… naked like the day you were born. Not invited to a Cecilworth Farthington Spacuzzi extravaganza — yeah, you’d love that, wouldn’t you, bitch? Even you have a master. Even your wealth hits a ceiling. The dinners you dream of attending, the waters you dream to fart in — money can’t buy those. The top table? A Dinner for Schmucks. You and a man like Danny Christie? Bred differently.

Danny had pride. He’d had it all once — the huge introduction at ReVival 76, the hero’s welcome from the PRIME faithful. The lights, the chants, the roar of the crowd… he’d earned it all. And yet, that glory meant nothing here. The thought of living like a king — plush, pampered, in Singapore or wherever he’d legitimately fought his way to victory — without handouts or a leg up… that was easy. He could do that tomorrow. No problem. He didn’t have to put on the spandex. He didn’t have to be the performing monkey, singing to anyone’s tune. And that tune? Anything other than fight music was meaningless.

Danny exhaled, tight, angry. The plane hummed, indifferent. The passengers moved around him like ants. He didn’t care. He didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need lights, cheers, or belts right now. He needed one thing: a fight that mattered. A fight that made his blood burn, that made him want to tape his hands with the same feral intensity he’d felt in the beginning. When everything was real. Not just the money… not just the miles. Let him bang, bro.

Danny’s world doesn’t run on polite nods, rankings, or industry chatter. It runs on impact. It runs on sweat, on bruises, on the raw assertion of presence. And if that means he has to make a spectacle of everything, to twist petty grievances into a rationale to lose his mind, to throw down, then so be it. He’ll manufacture drama like a surgeon, precise and deliberate — a fuse he lights himself, knowing full well the explosion is coming.

…Every perceived slight becomes fuel. Every flash of arrogance, every whisper of superiority, every manipulative glance — all of it, a tinderbox ready to ignite. Danny doesn’t wait for permission, doesn’t wait for reason, doesn’t wait for approval. He crafts it. He conjures it. He seizes it. Because when he hits the mat, nothing else matters. Just fists. Just fury. Just the reclamation of everything that’s ever tried to contain him.

Going into business for himself seemed very viable right now. Seemed definitely real. And that’s because Danny Christie doesn’t do puppetry. Doesn’t bow. Doesn’t bend. That’s against his blood, his culture, his very DNA. His father would disown him if he ever saw him performing for anyone else’s whim. Humiliation inside the squared circle isn’t bad enough — but what about having to eat shit sandwiches everyday of your life? How much do you like those apples.. covered in shit?

Most people work 9-to-5. They punch a clock, count days, fight for money, fight to survive. Danny doesn’t fight for that. He fights for his bred. For pride. For every inch of sweat and bone and bruised muscle that belongs to him alone. Every strike is a declaration. Every mile a testament.

He’s already seen it all. Flashy gear, high expectations, the keys to the city of Loserville handed on debut day. And then he crashed and burned spectacularly. Everyone watching, judging, measuring. Now? He gives no fucks. He’s been to rock bottom and dug deeper. That’s unacceptable. Which is why he’s here. Planning on sticking around. Planning on lamping a few people, setting the record straight in his own terms, with every ounce of rage, skill, and feral focus. And yes, "Sweet Caroline" playing at every birthday, Hall Of Fame and every bastard ReVival commercial. Don't like it.. what? Do something about it.

Danny Christie sees through the polite nods, the rankings, the chatter, the whispers. The glances from De Lacy, the superiority from Cecil, the manipulative stares from Kael — he doesn’t flinch. He observes, he calculates, he spins petty grievances into reason to explode. He compares, he contrasts, he mocks, he provokes. Every perceived slight becomes fuel. Every whispered superiority, every casual glance, every artificial smile — all of it is tinder. And he lights it himself. Every beat, every bell, every mile travelled, every humiliation endured… it’s ammunition. And he’s fully loaded.

He imagined himself — clown facepaint, viral shaming, Two Girls One Cup-level humiliation — playing the part of the embarrassment itself. The kangaroo getting punched in the face by a man protecting his dog, viral and absurd, made flesh. He could embody that chaos. Absurdity, ridicule, shame — he could turn it into performance, into energy, into unrelenting drive. Nobody else could do this. Not like him.

And then there’s Big John Christie. John was usually the architect for this shambolic behaviour, the blueprint for chaos and the original agent of mayhem. But hey, chip off the old block, eh? Maybe the air to the throne — Danny — can achieve so much more. Bigger, messier, more absurd. Shame? You’ve seen nothing yet. Every cringeworthy moment, every viral headline, every stumble and fall… Danny could take it further, push it harder, and twist it into something almost majestic in its ridiculousness. Because there's no business like showbusiness.

The intercom crackled. “This is your captain speaking…”

Danny’s pulse spiked. He hoped, prayed even, that it was Max Kael at the helm. Maybe Blaze Claymore was floating down the aisle in sexy uniform, serving peanuts and menace with equal measure. If not… if the latter didn’t appear… then fine. Let it be only Max Kael. Let him take control of this airborne chaos. Let that sick, manipulative son of a bitch seize this plane and push it into a nosedive. Because that’s where we are now. Not begging. Not negotiating. Just stating the reality of the ride.

Danny was part of it, too. A passenger, yes, but also a participant in the madness. Every flinch, every shove, every turbulence became a brushstroke in this volatile painting. This was no ordinary flight. This was war at thirty thousand feet, a lesson in volatility, a testament to living inside a storm without flinching.

And the choices? Optional at best. “Do you want chicken or beef with your airline meal?” — the polite veneer of order, a mockery of control. The reality? The movie always ran violence. Always chaos. Always Danny Christie, hands clenched, eyes open, heart thrumming to the rhythm of impending disaster. It was better that way. Cleaner. Purer. Poetic, almost, in its perverse symmetry. Every mile, every shudder, every second stretched into a long, unbroken chord of adrenaline. Miles and fucking miles of it.

Danny didn’t duck. He didn’t plead. He simply rode it, part of the storm, part of the absurdity, fully aware that the only thing real was the ride — and the chaos he could claim as his own.