Silent John

He’d not been home for months. Somewhere in the closing stretch of 2025.

But why?

Well, considering he had a PRIME record of two wins and two losses prior to ReVival 82, it was hardly the epic rise of the next pro-wrestling prodigy he was desperate to fulfil.

The boxing formula was deep in Danny Christie’s DNA. Results are everything in that bruising sport. Sure, the talk of being undeterred by losses can be mentally soothing—creating solid visualisation and unwavering motivation. However, it only acted as armour for what his true belief actually was.

Losses are perceived as weakness.

And had this been twelve rounds of Queensberry Rules or a bare-knuckle fight in a hay-bale barn, you’re only ever one loss away from permanent retirement—or so it’s considered.

There’s no money in bum fights. The punters won’t dig into their wallets for someone who’s gonna stink the joint out at every opportunity. Or better yet, show zero baby-face fire (terminology for all of you marks out there).

“The Bareknuckle King” came to win. And with that came sacrifice.

***

Danny Christie’s transit van rolls up onto the pebbled driveway. The headlights encroach onto the static caravan, examined from the windscreen. The lights grow larger on the front of the caravan the closer the motor gets. It’s dark, but not late. And of course… cold. It always was in the Welsh valleys this time of year.

The engine is turned off after the van parks directly in front of the caravan. With a door slam, heavy footsteps crunch the pebbles beneath tired boots. With a methodical thud up the wooden steps leading to the caravan door, there’s a slight hesitation—but without a knock. Danny Christie pulls on the door handle and steps inside.

He’s met by… Rudolf? I mean, not just him—but all of them. All of Santa’s greyhounds (with antlers). All in the form of ornaments on a cabinet before him. This is puzzling—after so long away, what has truly transpired? A time warp in elf town?

A further look, and on a clock elevated on the wall—there’s tinsel. It’s wrapped around for festive decorative pleasure and nothing else.

The confusing thing for Danny wasn’t the cabinet, the clock, or the other furnishings. He was used to it—it was very much his home as well. However, the Christmas theme was largely outdated. He was ready to punch Santa, mate. No joke.

He marches past the kitchen area of the caravan and straight into the living-room space. Perhaps attracted by the lights—it’s lit up like Dyker Heights, for crying out loud.

There are two powerful bits of imagery that immediately flood the senses.

One: Big John Christie, fast asleep on the couch, mouth open. Visible cuts scar his face from the freak driving accident caused by his son, Danny Christie.

And the other… a Christmas tree.

It’s certainly seen its best days. Miniature in stature and bent from years upon years of festivities. Reshaped by John’s drunken breakfalls onto it—a story told on many Christmases.

Ho-ho-ho. Enjoy the turkey, ’cos it’s still left to defrost in the sink.

Yeah. That was Christmas around the Christies. Nothing seemingly changed, as the half-drank Jack Daniel’s bottle sits on the coffee table in front of John.

But in case you didn’t realise… it’s February. February 21st, to be exact. What’s with the Christmas stuff? It didn’t make sense. Granted, Big John was probably on the wrong side of whacky to begin with, but even this was a stretch by his standards.

But then suddenly, it dawned on Danny.

As he examined the room further and more Christmas décor infiltrated his eyeballs, it wasn’t just that… it was the memories.

A fucking nostalgia hit, brother. Right in the feels. Absolute goosebumps. I hope when you’re reading this, you can feel the exact same thing too.

Even YOU, Big John Pepper.

Now all this scene needed was music. But not from your jukebox, partner. Not likely. It needed something fitting—something like Silent Night, but with choir boys singing. Not boys… just one. Just one boy.

Danny just looks around, absorbing it all.

He gets it.

This is how his father wanted it. He kept up the tradition of this highly overinflated commercial event because of the memories. Because of family.

He spent it alone, celebrating before heading into hospital—and this is how it remained. He just didn’t have the bollocks to take it down. Because taking it down would mean moving on. Taking it down would mean Danny wouldn’t be coming.

And he didn’t come.

He was busy being a superstar.

He’s seen enough. He picks up his bag and storms out of the caravan. Back down the wooden steps, across the pebbles, and back inside his van. Emphatically.

The car doesn’t move, however.

Rather… Danny just sits idly. Recollecting, maybe. With the caravan in full view.

RING

RING

No cute ringtone on his phone. That’s how he rolled. Straight to the point. But it absolutely snapped “The Bareknuckle King” out of his trance.

The caller ID remained private.

Normally, this sort of behaviour wouldn’t be entertained by him. However, for some reason, on this particular night, he did entertain it—and answered.

“Aye…”

Danny instantly becomes wooden in his mannerisms. His back straightens immediately, and his facial expression shows complete horror.

It couldn’t be a hospital update, could it? No, it couldn’t. Big John is alive and well at home in his caravan. Just a drunken fool like every other year, threatening everyone that moved. Especially a snide Christmas elf.

Danny gulps.

Before uttering the name:

“……………………………… Hughie”

Christmas…

Christmas is definitely over children.