All the things I've learned...

Time was precious, Scott thought to himself. It was, after all, the only thing we ever really owned, what we do with the time we’ve been given. He never gave much thought to these things before, until it started to crush him like a weight. I had been extremely tough, traveling to another county to work while his father lay at home in bed. Scott had nearly lost himself on the road, desperate and terrified that his father would be gone before he could say goodbye. “We don’t know how much time he has left.” That’s what both the doctor and Emma had said. But being back in the states, he found just enough of a gap in shows to make a side trip. He squinted as the Miami sun, a relentless weight, pressed down on the dusty road leading to the Hunter homestead. Scott’s rented sedan kicked up a plume of cay red dirt, a stark contrast to the bright green cropland bordering the property. The farmhouse, a weathered testament to decades of sun and storm, sagged slightly on its foundation. It looked the way Scott felt, like it could give way at any moment. Its wraparound porch, once a vibrant gathering place, now showed peeling paint and a scattering of falling leaves. A rusted tractor sat sentinel near the barn, its once-bright red faded to a muted rust. The shade trees, ancient oaks with gnarled limbs, offered scant relief from the oppressive heat, their leaves shimmering like polished brass. He killed the engine. The silence that followed felt vast, broken only by the distant hum of cicadas. He climbed out, the air thick and humid, tasting of dry earth and impending rain. The screen door creaked a greeting as he pushed it open. Emma stood in the kitchen, her back to him, a faint scene of chamomile tea and something baking filling the air. Her shoulders, usually held with a fierce, protective tension, seemed to slump. He saw the faint tremor in her hand as she poured water into a mug. The last time he saw her, several months ago, she had been a whirlwind of frantic energy, a shield against the inevitable. Now, a quiet weariness clung to her. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice rougher than he intended. She spun, a startle flashing in her eyes before recognition softened them. A strained smile touched her lips, but her face, dark and deep like their father’s, held a profound sadness. She set the mug down with a soft clink. “Scott. You’re here.” He pulled her into a tight hug. Her embrace was quick, almost desperate, then she pulled back, her hands gripping his forearms. Her eyes scanned his face, searching, assessing. “How’s dad?” he asked, his throat tight. She looked away, towards the closed bedroom door. “Sleeping. He’s been like that most of the day.” Her voice was a low murmur, a whisper against the heavy air. “The doctor was here this morning. Said he’s still improving, but… It’s hospice now. Home hospice.” Scott’s jaw tightened. He already knew, had known for weeks, but hearing it again, here, in their childhood home, made it a fresh wound. He glanced at the door, a wave of helplessness washing over him. Their father, a man forged from granite and stubborn will, now spent his days in a quiet surrender. “He refused more treatment, didn’t he?” Emma nodded, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. She brushed it away with a quick, impatient gesture. “He wants to be here, Scott. He wants to see the sunrise from his window and hear the crickets at night. He said he’s tired of fighting a battle he can’t win.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken grief. Scott moved to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair. The wood, worn smooth from countless meals and conversations, felt familiar beneath his palm. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner.” The words felt hollow, inadequate. She waved a dismissing hand. “You have your life, Scott. He understands. We both do.” She sat opposite him, her gaze meeting his, a flicker of that old protectiveness returning. “You look tired. Hard travel?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, a bit. Flew into Miami, got the car. Been thinking about this match all the way down.” “The one against your… ‘partners’?” A faint incredulity laced her tone. “The very same. Ivan, Chandler, and Bobby Neptune. Main event of ReViVal 86.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.”It’s gonna be a mess, Emma. A beautiful, chaotic mess.” She raised an eyebrow, a slight curve to her lips. “Sounds like your kind of mess.” “You know it.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Ivan Stanislav, he’s such a snake in the grass. All smiles and camaraderie at the retreat, but he’s always looking for the angle. He and his lackey, Alexei, think they’ve got me figured out. Think I’m some country bumpkin they can mold to their will.” A humorless chuckle escaped him. “They’re pushing the usual ‘Red Army’ agenda, trying to co-opt me into it. They believe I’m stupid, that I don’t see through their grand pronouncements. But I do. Every word is calculated, every gesture a performance. I watch them, Emma. I hear what they don’t say.” Emma listened, her expression unreadable. She always had a way of absorbing his words, processing them without judgment. “And Chandler Tsonda?” she prompted. “Chandler… he’s a different beast entirely. Talented, no doubt. He moves like liquid, hits like a freight train. But he’s got a single-minded focus. A plan. If things deviate, if the match doesn’t unfold exactly as he’s envisioned, he gets rattled. It throws him off his game. He’s a perfectionist, and the ring is rarely perfect.” Scott tapped a finger on the table. “He’ll be trying to impose his will, control the chaos, while trying to project a casual demeanor and elegant nonchalance. That’s where he’s vulnerable.” One of her eyebrows went up. “Elegant nonchalance?” “Ivan had a lot of books at his place. I actually read some of them.” A look of surprise crossed her face, and Scott caught it. He shrugged. “It was the only way to get him to stop talking.” “And the space traveler?” A hint of amusement, rare these days, touched Emma’s voice. Scott grinned, a genuine one this time. “Bobby Neptune. Now there’s a puzzle. He claims he’s from a distant galaxy or something, I don’t know. He talks about nebulae and wormholes like they’re local landmarks. I don’t know if he’s genuinely insane, or if he’s just committed to the story so deeply that he believes it himself. Or,” Scott mused, leaning back in his chair, “maybe he really is a space traveler. The universe is a big place. Who am I to say?” He pictured Bobby Neptune, his iridescent gear shimmering under arena lights, his eyes holding a bizarre, detached wonder. He spoke of hyperspace jumps and crystalline entities with the same casualness Scott discussed a suplex, which was pretty casual. It was unsettling, but captivating. “So, you’re in a match with a manipulator, a control freak, and a possible alien,” Emma summarized, a dry wit in her tone. “Sounds like a typical Tuesday.” “Technically, I don’t think Bobby is an alien. I think he’s human and was abducted by aliens, then dropped back off or something. But as far as the other two, yeah, pretty much,” Scott agreed. “The thing is, Ivan and Alexei, they’ll use this match to further their agenda like they always do. They’ll try to make a statement, consolidate power. They’ll expect me to blindly fall in line like some kind of idiot, to unwittingly be a pawn in their game.” He shook his head. “But Chandler, he’ll resist that. He’ll want to win on his terms and won’t let them get away with it if he has a say in things. And Bobby… Bobby might just do whatever a space traveler does. Float around, hit people with cosmic energy, who knows?” “This just complicates things.” He sighed, the melancholic weight returning. “I’ve got the tag team championships with Clay. We’ve built something solid. But this main event is a different kind of spotlight. A different kind of pressure. What if Ivan still has designs on making all of us some sort of weird team again? What if Chandler’s ego gets in the way of a clean fight? What if Bobby just decides to ascend to another dimension, or gets hungry for Reese’s peanut butter cups and needs to phone home, but he can’t because the reception in Providence is terrible this time of year??” He paused, staring at the chipped paint on the kitchen table. “It’s all about what’s next, isn’t it? For Dad, for me. For everyone.” Emma reached across the table, her hand covering his. Her touch was warm, grounding. “It always is. But you’ll figure it out. You always do.” He looked at her, really looked at her. Her eyes, though still holding traces of sorrow, also held an unwavering strength. She had been here, holding the fort, caring for their father while he chased his dreams across the country and then some. The depth of her sacrifice, her quiet resilience, hit him with fresh force. “And you, Em?” His voice softened. How are you doing through all of this?” She pulled her hand back, tracing the rim of her teacup. “I’m here. That’s all that matters right now.” Her eyes drifted back to the bedroom door. “He had a good day yesterday. He was lucid, asked about your matches. Said he saw you on TV. He even smiled.” A faint wistful smile touched her lips. “Said you hit that dropkick just right.” A lump formed in Scott’s throat. His father, watching him, even now. The thought was a strange mixture of pain and pride. “He’s stubborn, that old man,” Scott managed, a watery chuckle escaping him. “Like father, like son,” Emma countered, a genuine laugh bubbling up, light and fragile. The sound, so rare these days, was like a balm. He savored it. “So, the championships,” Emma prompted, steering the conversation back to him, her way of offering him an escape, however brief, from the heavy reality of their father’s illness. “Who are the next challengers?” Scott leaned back, shifting his weight. “That’s the million-dollar question. We’ve cleared out a few teams. I don’t think Daytona and Rob will be facing us anytime soon, but who knows? We took care of New World Trash… I’m sure there are contenders lurking. You hear whispers, but I don’t know what to believe. Or maybe even some new blood, some hungry team looking to make a name for themselves.” He thought of Clay, his partner. Clay, with his powerful, methodical strikes. They had a rhythm, a synergy slowly built up over time, starting way back when Clay could barely stand him, all the way to now. Somehow, they figured out how to understand each other without words. The thought of defending those belts, of the next challenge, pulled him back to the familiar territory of the ring, a place where the rules, however brutal, were at least defined. “It’s a different kind of fight, tag team wrestling,” Scott continued. “It’s about trust, about knowing your partner’s every move. This main event, though, is every man for himself. A free-for-all. No partners, no trust, just survival.” He looked back at the bedroom door, the silence behind it profound. Survival. That was the word that echoed in his mind, both for himself in the ring and for his family here, in this quiet house under the relentless Miami sun. He had to be sharp, focused. For his father. For Emma. For Vae Victis. For himself. “It’s time I made a statement, Emma,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Show them I’m not just an up-and-comer anymore, and definitely not anyone’s stepping stone. I need to show them that I’m the one they have to go through.” Emma nodded. “You will.” She pushed herself up from the table. “I’ll make you some tea. Or coffee? You look like you could use it.” “Coffee, please,” Scott murmured, watching her move. He remained at the table, the old wood cool beneath his hands. The scents of the kitchen mingled with the faint, metallic tang of dust and the ever-present, cloying sweetness of decay that subtly permeated the house. He closed his eyes, picturing the faces of his opponents. Ivan’s calculating smirk, Chandler’s intense focus, Bobby Neptune’s otherworldly wonder. He had to navigate their agendas, their strengths, and their weaknesses. He had to prove he was more than they perceived him to be. He had to win. But first, he had to sit here, in the quiet heart of his family home, and simply exist, a son home from the road, waiting for his father to wake. The world of bright lights and roaring crowds felt a million miles away, a distant echo compared to the silent him of the old refrigerator and the fragrant coffee dripping into an old coffee pot. That fight could wait for now. This is the fight that mattered most.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A weak, diluted gold beam of sunlight spilled across Westminster Street, painting the brick facades of Providence with a tired warmth. Scott, his duffel bag slung over a shoulder, navigated the unfamiliar sidewalks, the scent of brine and exhaust mingling in the air. He found Ogie’s Trailer Park tucked between a stoic brownstone and a storefront promising artisanal pickles. A neon sign, flickering with a cheerful, faded pink, announced its presence. He pushed through a door adorned with a vintage pin-up decal, stepping into a world suspended in a bygone era. A cacophony of classic rock and clicking glasses washed over him. The interior, a masterclass in kitsch, mimicked a perpetually late-evening trailer park. Chrome dinettes gleamed under Sputnik chandeliers, their starburst arms casting geometric shadows. Booths, upholstered in cracked vinyl the color of faded denim and avocado green, lined walls decorated with simulated aluminum siding and fake windows peering into painted desert landscapes. The air, thick with the aroma of fried food and stale beer, clung to his clothes. Scott scanned the room, his gaze snagging on a familiar silhouette tucked away in a corner booth, partially obscured by a towering plastic flamingo. Kerry Kuroyama, usually a coiled spring of focused energy, slumped against the table, a half-empty glass of amber liquid cradled in his hand. His dark hair, which was typically perfectly in place, hung in disarray, a few strands falling over his brow. The sharp lines of his jaw seemed more pronounced, his eyes, usually alight with a competitive fire, held a distant, weary glaze. A weight seemed to press down on him, visible in the slump of his shoulders, the tension etched around his mouth. Scott approached, a slight smile touching his lips. Kerry looked up, a flicker of recognition, then a genuine, though fleeting, smile softened his features. A rare sight for him this week. “Took you long enough, pal.” His voice, usually a low rumble, sounded rough, gravelly. He gestured to the opposite seat. Scott slid into the booth, the worn vinyl sighing under his weight. “Traffic was a nightmare. Providence, who knew?” He dropped his bag to the floor, leaning forward. “You been here long?” Kerry took a slow sip. “Long enough. Just needed a minute.” He didn’t elaborate, his gaze drifting over Scott’s shoulder to a mural depicting a poodle on roller skates. A waitress, her beehive hairdo defying gravity, appeared at their table. “What can I get for ya, honey?” Her voice held the syrupy drawl of the South, or the attempted syrupy drawl of the South spoken by someone who had never left New England. It was charming in a ‘not working at all’ sort of way. “Just a water for now, please,” Scott offered, then turned back to Kerry. “You look like you could use a vacation.” He chose his words carefully, trying to gauge the mood. Kerry snorted, a humorless sound. “Vacation? That’s a good one.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the dark strands back, only for them to fall forward again. “Things have been… intense.” Scott nodded, remembering the sparse, clipped messages Kerry had sent over the past few weeks, a stark contrast to their usual easy banter. He ordered a burger with fries when the waitress returned, then focused entirely on his friend. “I heard things have been rough, man,” Scott began, his voice dropping. “About the situation at your dojo… someone got hurt, right? Is he okay?” The rumors had been vague, whispers in the locker room about an incident, but no real details other than what was in the official news release. Kerry’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He stared into his glass, the amber liquid reflecting the muted light. “He’s… still out.” His voice, though quiet, held a raw edge that sent a shiver down Scott’s spine. “Doctors don’t know much…” His voice trailed off, and he didn’t elaborate on the who or the how, but the pain and anger were clear in his eyes. A heavy silence descended, broken only by the distant jukebox and the murmur of other patrons. Scott watched Kerry, the familiar strength in his friend’s posture now laced with something dancing on a fence between vulnerability and rage. “Where was Zack in all of this?” Scott asked, his voice gentle. “He gone missing or somethin’?” Kerry finally met his eyes, a flash of something akin to fury now. “Don’t even get me started on Zack.” He clenched his fist on the table, his knuckles white. “The guy in the hospital, he’s practically family. More than just a trainer at the dojo. More than a business partner. He is family.” His voice cracked on the last word. “And now this. Someone hurt him. And it’s… complicated.” Scott reached across the table, placing a hand on Kerry’s forearm. “Complicated how?” Kerry shook his head, a dark, bitter laugh escaping his lips. “It’s not that simple, Scott. Some things are better left unsaid, for now. “He pulled his arm back, rubbing his temples. “It’s a mess, Scott. A not-so-beautiful fucked up mess.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort. “I’m supposed to fight Brandon Youngblood. Mr. Legend. Mr. never backs down from a challenge or whatever the fuck. And all I’m thinking about is the man lying in that hospital bed. It’s a lot.” He turned to Scott again, and this time, his eyes held a dangerous intensity. “But you know what else I’m thinking about?” he continued, his voice a low growl. “I’m thinking about how much I want to tear Youngblood apart. Piece by piece. I want to unleash every ounce of this rage, this frustration, this fear, on him. He’s just a stand-in, a proxy. But he’s gonna feel every single strike. Every kick.” Scott listened, processing the raw emotion, the sheer burden Kerry was carrying. Kerry-ing? This is no time for jokes, Scott, not even in the narration. Scott knew Kerry wasn’t ready to share the full story, but the intensity of his feelings spoke volumes. “Kerry,” Scott began, his voice gentle but firm. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone, you know. I’m still your Wingman. Whatever you need, whatever I can do, just say the word.” Kerry blinked, his expression softening slightly, a flicker of something akin to gratitude passing across his face. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “I just… haven’t been myself. Haven’t been a good friend.” He lifted his head, a wry, self-deprecating smile twisting his lips. “You and Clay… you’ve been doing great. Kicking ass. I’ve been… a ghost.” Scott leaned back as the waitress brought his burger, a greasy, inviting aroma filling the air. “Cheat day?” Kerry asked as Scott pushed a basket of fries his way. “Eat something,” Scott replied, ignoring the actual question. “You look like you haven’t slept in a month.” Kerry sighed, then picked up a fry, chewing it slowly. “I appreciate it, Scott. Really.” He took another fry, then another, the small act grounding him slightly. Scott nodded, his expression serious. “I know you’ll give Youngblood hell. You’re one of the best, man. Don’t forget that. Channel your emotions. Use them, but don’t let them consume you. Remember what you’re fighting for. And if you need anything, after the match, before, anything at all, you call me. Seriously.” “Thanks, Scott.” Kerry smiled a small, genuine smile. “That actually helps. It’s good to see you, man. Really good.” “You too, buddy,” Scott affirmed, his own smile widening. “Now, about this burger…” He took a large bite, the grease and flavor a welcome distraction. Then Scott thought a think he had never thought before. Maybe he should take his own advice.