Post by Spartan on Sept 10, 2019 22:13:11 GMT -5
Tristan John Cross walks into The Gym.
He carries a noticeable limp to his gait as he walks. His face is carrying deep blue bruising around his eyes. He looks tired, and the movement of breathing appears to be difficult for him. He won't tell you that he is pain. He considers these battle wounds as part and parcel of his profession. A price you have to pay to be successful. Three weeks ago he went to war with Dean Wolf over the APW Hardcore Title. He war he failed to win, a title defence he failed to make. He was disappointed in the outcome, but not ashamed. He had given it all and fallen short - that's OK. He was forced to take a week off by the medical team before he headed off to Japan to face Allen Anderson. As Spartan, he bested his opponent on this occasion, but he was still dirty on himself for falling into the "twitter war" that lead to the Castle of Horrors match. It was petty schoolyard bullshit that he felt he should hold himself above. But, sometimes, emotions got the better of him and sometime those emotions got him into trouble.
As he limps his battle weary body into the ring area of the Gym, he crosses paths with one Jerry Eisenhower; his trainer, his mentor. Jerry is leaving, dressed in his finest denim and flannel and carrying a duffel bag of his right shoulder. The two men stop in front of each other.
"Hey Jerry. Ready to start training. Where are you going?" asks Cross seemingly disappointed his mentor his leaving as he is arriving or that could quite simply be the pain of his injuries and his inability to mask it when he speaks.
"Mexico." Eisenhower replies sharply with a tone to indicate that he is only going to reveal as much information as he has to in this conversation.
The posture of the two as they engage in conversation doesn't really present as one of genuine friendship, but rather one of acquaintance. Like, high school alumni who have bumped into each other in the street many years after high school as passed.
"Why?" quizzes Cross.
Eisenhower raises an eyebrow, curls his lips upwards and cocks his head to the right. "Who are ya, son? The fuckin' feds?"
Cross looks at him, catches his breath and then retorts "We're supposed to train, that's all."
Jerry eyes Cross up and down. "Son, you ain't fit for trainin". Eisenhower goes to step past Cross but stops, "If ya must know, Alex has got a big title match down in Tijuana and asked me to come. I'm gonna go watch him."
Cross frowns remembering back to just before Alpha Showdown when he gave Jerry Eisenhower a free ticket to the event at the MGM Grand when he was wrestling in his first title match as Spartan. A match he won nonetheless. A match that Jerry refuses to attend.
"I thought you didn't do matches for students, Jerry."
Eisenhower takes two steps past Cross, seemingly ignoring the last statement and needing to be one his way. He stops and turns back to Cross. "Look, Son, hate to break it to ya. Didn't think ya were that think. Alex Brooks - he's a friend. You. Ya, just a student. A good one, but just a student, son."
Cross stares at Eisenhower like he has something to say, but he stays silent. Yet, his face fails to hide the negative emotions building inside of him - anger at Jerry for leaving. Disappointment at not being considered a friend by his mentor. Eisenhower can see all of this develop across the face of his pupil, and being an old Irishman he feels the need to continue speaking - to call it how he sees it. "Listen, son. I've watched Alex Brooks from when he was a wee pup just off'a his mother's tit lovin' this game, livin' this game, breathin' this game. Just like me. You, ya doin' this for'a job. And there ain't nothin' wrong with that, son. But, don't act like you an' me we gotta lot in common and don't go gettin' all upset when I'm sayin' we ain't pals. I don't fuckin' hate ya son. I like ya. But, I ain't gotta be a best mate, either. You ain't Alex Brooks and ya ain't ever gonna be - because ya came up different and ya got here different. Now, Son, I gotta plane ta check and LA traffic is fucked. So I'll be seein' ya when I'm back." Eisenhower turns and keeps walking.
"Jerry." Tristan Cross calls out.
Eisenhower stops and turns around and with an icy voice responds with one simple word. "What?"
"You're a goddamned Asshole." spits Cross balling his fists in rage. “A goddamned motherfucking asshole.”
"Thanks." says Eisenhower with too much of a smile, "I'll back ya back some cheap Tequila." He turns and keeps walking away from Tristan Cross. He whistles off-key as he walks.
Tristan John Cross stands there, fists balled tightly. His face seething red with rage. He knows he shouldn't get mad. He gauged that Jerry Eisenhower was an asshole from the moment that he met him in that broken down old wrestling ring tucked away in the corner of The Gym, but this latest interaction it pissed him off. It made his blood boil and his breath steam. He started to calm his breathing, as he accepted Jerry Eisenhower was just a crotchety old Irishman who spent too much time dwelling on the never weres and the what could've beens. He was, however, a trainer who could get the best out of Tristan Cross. He was the man who could make Spartan king. Cross knew he wasn't in the shape to do any real training today, but he could feel the canvas and touch the ropes.
Tristan John Cross walks to The Ring.
Spartan is dressed in grey sweatpants and a black “Alpha Pro Wrestling” branded t-shirt. His face bears the bruises and scars of two brutal wars in recent weeks. He sits on a wooden bench with a black curtain hanging behind him display the APW logo prominently. He looks down on the floor in front of him and at his feet clad in a pair of branded kicks - comfortable shoes.
I know I could choose anywhere but the studio is easier than picking out fancy locations or having people follow me around like I am some form of celebrity. Guess it’s showtime.
Spartan looks up.
“Family, right?”
“That’s what you’re all about aren’t you Dread? That’s a respectable way to play the game - honour thy loved ones and all that. Even if that means satanic rituals and the slaying of virgins. You’re holding true to faith of the family. The unit that made you.”
“The Bloody Benders. The Sawney Bean Clan. The Briley Brothers and even Inessa Tarverdiyeva and family. All messed up beyond imagination. But they all did it for their family.”
“So, if you’re all about your family and protecting your sisters and honouring your mother.”
“Then tell me this.”
“Why did you join the Masuda Corporation?”
“Actually, I don’t want you to tell me. Your answer will probably be full of bullshit and hyperbole - so let me theorise - just for a moment.”
Let’s see where this goes
“The way I see it, Leon. Is that you no matter what you spin about being about the family Dread and protecting the name, and protecting your sister’s from themselves and the forces of evil, or is that good? I dunno, that’s another argument. But, as I was saying - you’re not about the family, your not about protecting the den. You’re all about yourself. All about taking that name Leon Dread and making yourself into a star - and you’ve gone and done following the same principles as Allen Anderson.”
“Are you sure that’s the road you want to take?”
“I don’t see Anderson’s name in neon. The only lights Anderson tends to be seeing are the lights he is staring at - after he has been beaten - again. Are you sure that’s the path you want to take - Another version of Allen Anderson?”
“Could be worse I guess.”
“You could be Fucking A.”
That was cheap. Oh well.
“But my point still remains. The words you talk, they don’t match your actions. You talk family, but you act for self. And truthfully, there ain’t no crime in looking out for number one. But own it. Own the fact, that you as Leon Dread want to be King. Own the fact that you would lay out your own Dread Mother to be World Champion. Own the fact that glory is more important than honour.”
“Just fucking own what you want.”
“And then you might get it.”
“But like Anderson, while you stand behind Masuda - yes I said behind, because we know he doesn’t see you as his equal - you are just in the shadow of the King. He isn’t going to let you take his bleeding crown. He will send you straight into pits of Hell if he sees you as a threat. Right now, you are just there so he can keep his manicured fingernails clean. If you fail to see his manipulations - shame on you. It’s not my problem to fix. My only problem is you, Leon. As you are one of three opponents I have on Monday Night Metal. And you are one of three opponents I intend to beat on Monday Night Metal.”
I will beat him.
“And in wrapping up my little session of philosophising on you, Leon Dread - let me sling a thought in your direction, because you consider yourself Hell’s Soldier - Cool. But like most soldier’s you are puppets of the men in the neatly pressed suits, that sit in the back, never getting dirty. Taking orders, doing what you’re told, never thinking for yourself, running into machine gun fire like a lamb to the slaughter.”
“Just doing what someone else tells you to do.”
“Sounds like a puppet to me, Leon Dread.”
“Who’s pulling your strings?”
Spartan smiles.
Ended better than I thought.
“From a man who is the opposite of what he claims to a man who is exactly what he claims to be.”
“Or is he?”
“Steven Osbourne.”
“Maybe about a month, Steve-y, I would of said you were exactly what you say you are. Then you found the church of the unknown saint. Now… Now I don’t know exactly what you are. See you could be a man faking enlightenment to get into the pants of those church-going, god-fearing women.”
“I know that is not past you. They would need to be something special though, because you are playing the long game. And the longer game the better the payoff needs to be to be worth the heartache that comes before it.”
“Or you could have genuinely found something to believe in other than your dick.”
“Or you could have been truly brainwashed by fanatics as the rumours say.”
“It’s a fucking conundrum.”
Ha.
“That wasn’t an intentional pun, there Steve-y, but I will take it for laughs. The truth of what I care about though, Steve-y is this.”
“I don’t care about your shenanigans.”
“You can fuck who you want.”
“You can trade STI’s with whoever you want, whenever you want, however you want.”
“You can pray to whoever you want.”
“The Unknown Saint. Dread Mother. I don’t care.”
“It’s all fair play as far as I am concerned, but when you and I step between those ropes and onto that canvas. That’s when I start to care about you. I care about parrying your attacks, and deflecting your blows and counter-attacking to ensure that I am the one who comes out on top.”
“It is what it is when a warrior meets a lover in the ring. One of us has to go down…”
Poor choice of words
“Actually, Osbourne, let me backtrack a bit here. I started talking about who you are and what you do and then about beating you in the middle of the ring; One. Two. Three. I was all over the place without any direction, so I’m going to backtrack to where I started.”
“The Super Sexy Boogeyman Slayer.”
“This was a man who made the ladies swoon and the men jealous. A true visionary of the missionary - not a woman you couldn’t get into bed. Probably fucked my ex-wife for all I know. She fucked everything else.”
“But this isn’t about her, this is about you. And who you were - a lover, not a fighter, someone everyone knew and only fathers with daughters feared. It wasn’t getting you anywhere. Then by design or by chance you found yourself saved and you earned yourself a title. But, as I know, championships come and championships go. Now we find ourselves battling as former champions against two other men.”
“And you still don’t know if you are the slayer or the saved.”
Rambling. Fucking Hell.
“The point is Steven, it doesn’t matter what you are, but you have to find who you are. The Slayer or The Saint. If you don’t find that out, there is only one outcome for you Steven.”
Spartan nods.
“On your back, staring into the lights.”
Yeh, not the best finish. But I think it’s funny.
“And a man who has lost his father.”
“Johnny Blaze.”
“Son a legend.”
“Johnny, you’ve got a hell of a name to live up to as you make your way in this industry. It’s a burden that I don’t have to bear. Just like I don’t have to bear the burden of having lost my father in strange circumstances.”
That would suck.
“And now you are standing in this match. Staring at me. And I am staring at you. At some point we are going to throw down. It’s the natural course of things, but until that time let me talk about you and what I see.”
“I see a man who has tried desperately to emulate his father. To become the name that is Night Rider. But that same man has battled to escape the shadow cast by his father. It’s the natural juxtaposition of the father-son dynamic. It’s not a bad thing. Hell, I left the country to escape my father’s shadow - failed of course, now I am back in my hometown, but not at home. But, this isn’t the time to be talking about me. It’s about you, Johnny. And you’re desire to become your father and escape your father at the same time.”
“It’s a vicious circle.”
“But we are who we are. The product of our kin. Johnny, the discovery of the father’s demise it seems to have galvanised you. Given you direction. Shit, you’re now the number one contender to a title I once held because you the strength you have found.”
“But.”
“Your strength. Your inner resolve. Your desire for justice. Come Monday Night Metal - it’s not going to be enough to get you over the line. It might get you close. But it's not going to be enough - not when I am in that ring.”
“Not because I am better than you.”
“Not because I want it more than you.”
“But simply because I will not quit. It’s not what I do. I will fight until I can fight no more, no matter where I am. I’ve broken ribs, I split my skull open, I’ve dislocated small joints, I’ve lost teeth, I’ve been electrocuted in the course of the battle. And that’s in the last month alone.”
“So your desire to be someone that is passed, it’s admirable, but it’s not enough. Your desire to be your own man, it’s admirable, but it’s not enough.”
“You’ve victory in the Pinata Scramble at Jubeilation, it’s admirable, but it’s not enough.”
“Everything you’ve done, it’s admirable. But it’s not enough.”
“It’s not enough to beat me.”
“Just like you will alway be compared to your father not matter what you do. Every achievement, every accolade, every championship - you’ll always be your father’s son.”
“Just the way it is.”
Spartan rolls his neck and stands up.
“Four men will be in the ring on Monday. Four men with very different family values. Four men with very different agendas. Four men with very different goals.”
“Four Men”
“One winner.”
Me.
“Spartan.”
“And that’s my story.”
He carries a noticeable limp to his gait as he walks. His face is carrying deep blue bruising around his eyes. He looks tired, and the movement of breathing appears to be difficult for him. He won't tell you that he is pain. He considers these battle wounds as part and parcel of his profession. A price you have to pay to be successful. Three weeks ago he went to war with Dean Wolf over the APW Hardcore Title. He war he failed to win, a title defence he failed to make. He was disappointed in the outcome, but not ashamed. He had given it all and fallen short - that's OK. He was forced to take a week off by the medical team before he headed off to Japan to face Allen Anderson. As Spartan, he bested his opponent on this occasion, but he was still dirty on himself for falling into the "twitter war" that lead to the Castle of Horrors match. It was petty schoolyard bullshit that he felt he should hold himself above. But, sometimes, emotions got the better of him and sometime those emotions got him into trouble.
As he limps his battle weary body into the ring area of the Gym, he crosses paths with one Jerry Eisenhower; his trainer, his mentor. Jerry is leaving, dressed in his finest denim and flannel and carrying a duffel bag of his right shoulder. The two men stop in front of each other.
"Hey Jerry. Ready to start training. Where are you going?" asks Cross seemingly disappointed his mentor his leaving as he is arriving or that could quite simply be the pain of his injuries and his inability to mask it when he speaks.
"Mexico." Eisenhower replies sharply with a tone to indicate that he is only going to reveal as much information as he has to in this conversation.
The posture of the two as they engage in conversation doesn't really present as one of genuine friendship, but rather one of acquaintance. Like, high school alumni who have bumped into each other in the street many years after high school as passed.
"Why?" quizzes Cross.
Eisenhower raises an eyebrow, curls his lips upwards and cocks his head to the right. "Who are ya, son? The fuckin' feds?"
Cross looks at him, catches his breath and then retorts "We're supposed to train, that's all."
Jerry eyes Cross up and down. "Son, you ain't fit for trainin". Eisenhower goes to step past Cross but stops, "If ya must know, Alex has got a big title match down in Tijuana and asked me to come. I'm gonna go watch him."
Cross frowns remembering back to just before Alpha Showdown when he gave Jerry Eisenhower a free ticket to the event at the MGM Grand when he was wrestling in his first title match as Spartan. A match he won nonetheless. A match that Jerry refuses to attend.
"I thought you didn't do matches for students, Jerry."
Eisenhower takes two steps past Cross, seemingly ignoring the last statement and needing to be one his way. He stops and turns back to Cross. "Look, Son, hate to break it to ya. Didn't think ya were that think. Alex Brooks - he's a friend. You. Ya, just a student. A good one, but just a student, son."
Cross stares at Eisenhower like he has something to say, but he stays silent. Yet, his face fails to hide the negative emotions building inside of him - anger at Jerry for leaving. Disappointment at not being considered a friend by his mentor. Eisenhower can see all of this develop across the face of his pupil, and being an old Irishman he feels the need to continue speaking - to call it how he sees it. "Listen, son. I've watched Alex Brooks from when he was a wee pup just off'a his mother's tit lovin' this game, livin' this game, breathin' this game. Just like me. You, ya doin' this for'a job. And there ain't nothin' wrong with that, son. But, don't act like you an' me we gotta lot in common and don't go gettin' all upset when I'm sayin' we ain't pals. I don't fuckin' hate ya son. I like ya. But, I ain't gotta be a best mate, either. You ain't Alex Brooks and ya ain't ever gonna be - because ya came up different and ya got here different. Now, Son, I gotta plane ta check and LA traffic is fucked. So I'll be seein' ya when I'm back." Eisenhower turns and keeps walking.
"Jerry." Tristan Cross calls out.
Eisenhower stops and turns around and with an icy voice responds with one simple word. "What?"
"You're a goddamned Asshole." spits Cross balling his fists in rage. “A goddamned motherfucking asshole.”
"Thanks." says Eisenhower with too much of a smile, "I'll back ya back some cheap Tequila." He turns and keeps walking away from Tristan Cross. He whistles off-key as he walks.
Tristan John Cross stands there, fists balled tightly. His face seething red with rage. He knows he shouldn't get mad. He gauged that Jerry Eisenhower was an asshole from the moment that he met him in that broken down old wrestling ring tucked away in the corner of The Gym, but this latest interaction it pissed him off. It made his blood boil and his breath steam. He started to calm his breathing, as he accepted Jerry Eisenhower was just a crotchety old Irishman who spent too much time dwelling on the never weres and the what could've beens. He was, however, a trainer who could get the best out of Tristan Cross. He was the man who could make Spartan king. Cross knew he wasn't in the shape to do any real training today, but he could feel the canvas and touch the ropes.
Tristan John Cross walks to The Ring.
Spartan is dressed in grey sweatpants and a black “Alpha Pro Wrestling” branded t-shirt. His face bears the bruises and scars of two brutal wars in recent weeks. He sits on a wooden bench with a black curtain hanging behind him display the APW logo prominently. He looks down on the floor in front of him and at his feet clad in a pair of branded kicks - comfortable shoes.
I know I could choose anywhere but the studio is easier than picking out fancy locations or having people follow me around like I am some form of celebrity. Guess it’s showtime.
Spartan looks up.
“Family, right?”
“That’s what you’re all about aren’t you Dread? That’s a respectable way to play the game - honour thy loved ones and all that. Even if that means satanic rituals and the slaying of virgins. You’re holding true to faith of the family. The unit that made you.”
“The Bloody Benders. The Sawney Bean Clan. The Briley Brothers and even Inessa Tarverdiyeva and family. All messed up beyond imagination. But they all did it for their family.”
“So, if you’re all about your family and protecting your sisters and honouring your mother.”
“Then tell me this.”
“Why did you join the Masuda Corporation?”
“Actually, I don’t want you to tell me. Your answer will probably be full of bullshit and hyperbole - so let me theorise - just for a moment.”
Let’s see where this goes
“The way I see it, Leon. Is that you no matter what you spin about being about the family Dread and protecting the name, and protecting your sister’s from themselves and the forces of evil, or is that good? I dunno, that’s another argument. But, as I was saying - you’re not about the family, your not about protecting the den. You’re all about yourself. All about taking that name Leon Dread and making yourself into a star - and you’ve gone and done following the same principles as Allen Anderson.”
“Are you sure that’s the road you want to take?”
“I don’t see Anderson’s name in neon. The only lights Anderson tends to be seeing are the lights he is staring at - after he has been beaten - again. Are you sure that’s the path you want to take - Another version of Allen Anderson?”
“Could be worse I guess.”
“You could be Fucking A.”
That was cheap. Oh well.
“But my point still remains. The words you talk, they don’t match your actions. You talk family, but you act for self. And truthfully, there ain’t no crime in looking out for number one. But own it. Own the fact, that you as Leon Dread want to be King. Own the fact that you would lay out your own Dread Mother to be World Champion. Own the fact that glory is more important than honour.”
“Just fucking own what you want.”
“And then you might get it.”
“But like Anderson, while you stand behind Masuda - yes I said behind, because we know he doesn’t see you as his equal - you are just in the shadow of the King. He isn’t going to let you take his bleeding crown. He will send you straight into pits of Hell if he sees you as a threat. Right now, you are just there so he can keep his manicured fingernails clean. If you fail to see his manipulations - shame on you. It’s not my problem to fix. My only problem is you, Leon. As you are one of three opponents I have on Monday Night Metal. And you are one of three opponents I intend to beat on Monday Night Metal.”
I will beat him.
“And in wrapping up my little session of philosophising on you, Leon Dread - let me sling a thought in your direction, because you consider yourself Hell’s Soldier - Cool. But like most soldier’s you are puppets of the men in the neatly pressed suits, that sit in the back, never getting dirty. Taking orders, doing what you’re told, never thinking for yourself, running into machine gun fire like a lamb to the slaughter.”
“Just doing what someone else tells you to do.”
“Sounds like a puppet to me, Leon Dread.”
“Who’s pulling your strings?”
Spartan smiles.
Ended better than I thought.
“From a man who is the opposite of what he claims to a man who is exactly what he claims to be.”
“Or is he?”
“Steven Osbourne.”
“Maybe about a month, Steve-y, I would of said you were exactly what you say you are. Then you found the church of the unknown saint. Now… Now I don’t know exactly what you are. See you could be a man faking enlightenment to get into the pants of those church-going, god-fearing women.”
“I know that is not past you. They would need to be something special though, because you are playing the long game. And the longer game the better the payoff needs to be to be worth the heartache that comes before it.”
“Or you could have genuinely found something to believe in other than your dick.”
“Or you could have been truly brainwashed by fanatics as the rumours say.”
“It’s a fucking conundrum.”
Ha.
“That wasn’t an intentional pun, there Steve-y, but I will take it for laughs. The truth of what I care about though, Steve-y is this.”
“I don’t care about your shenanigans.”
“You can fuck who you want.”
“You can trade STI’s with whoever you want, whenever you want, however you want.”
“You can pray to whoever you want.”
“The Unknown Saint. Dread Mother. I don’t care.”
“It’s all fair play as far as I am concerned, but when you and I step between those ropes and onto that canvas. That’s when I start to care about you. I care about parrying your attacks, and deflecting your blows and counter-attacking to ensure that I am the one who comes out on top.”
“It is what it is when a warrior meets a lover in the ring. One of us has to go down…”
Poor choice of words
“Actually, Osbourne, let me backtrack a bit here. I started talking about who you are and what you do and then about beating you in the middle of the ring; One. Two. Three. I was all over the place without any direction, so I’m going to backtrack to where I started.”
“The Super Sexy Boogeyman Slayer.”
“This was a man who made the ladies swoon and the men jealous. A true visionary of the missionary - not a woman you couldn’t get into bed. Probably fucked my ex-wife for all I know. She fucked everything else.”
“But this isn’t about her, this is about you. And who you were - a lover, not a fighter, someone everyone knew and only fathers with daughters feared. It wasn’t getting you anywhere. Then by design or by chance you found yourself saved and you earned yourself a title. But, as I know, championships come and championships go. Now we find ourselves battling as former champions against two other men.”
“And you still don’t know if you are the slayer or the saved.”
Rambling. Fucking Hell.
“The point is Steven, it doesn’t matter what you are, but you have to find who you are. The Slayer or The Saint. If you don’t find that out, there is only one outcome for you Steven.”
Spartan nods.
“On your back, staring into the lights.”
Yeh, not the best finish. But I think it’s funny.
“And a man who has lost his father.”
“Johnny Blaze.”
“Son a legend.”
“Johnny, you’ve got a hell of a name to live up to as you make your way in this industry. It’s a burden that I don’t have to bear. Just like I don’t have to bear the burden of having lost my father in strange circumstances.”
That would suck.
“And now you are standing in this match. Staring at me. And I am staring at you. At some point we are going to throw down. It’s the natural course of things, but until that time let me talk about you and what I see.”
“I see a man who has tried desperately to emulate his father. To become the name that is Night Rider. But that same man has battled to escape the shadow cast by his father. It’s the natural juxtaposition of the father-son dynamic. It’s not a bad thing. Hell, I left the country to escape my father’s shadow - failed of course, now I am back in my hometown, but not at home. But, this isn’t the time to be talking about me. It’s about you, Johnny. And you’re desire to become your father and escape your father at the same time.”
“It’s a vicious circle.”
“But we are who we are. The product of our kin. Johnny, the discovery of the father’s demise it seems to have galvanised you. Given you direction. Shit, you’re now the number one contender to a title I once held because you the strength you have found.”
“But.”
“Your strength. Your inner resolve. Your desire for justice. Come Monday Night Metal - it’s not going to be enough to get you over the line. It might get you close. But it's not going to be enough - not when I am in that ring.”
“Not because I am better than you.”
“Not because I want it more than you.”
“But simply because I will not quit. It’s not what I do. I will fight until I can fight no more, no matter where I am. I’ve broken ribs, I split my skull open, I’ve dislocated small joints, I’ve lost teeth, I’ve been electrocuted in the course of the battle. And that’s in the last month alone.”
“So your desire to be someone that is passed, it’s admirable, but it’s not enough. Your desire to be your own man, it’s admirable, but it’s not enough.”
“You’ve victory in the Pinata Scramble at Jubeilation, it’s admirable, but it’s not enough.”
“Everything you’ve done, it’s admirable. But it’s not enough.”
“It’s not enough to beat me.”
“Just like you will alway be compared to your father not matter what you do. Every achievement, every accolade, every championship - you’ll always be your father’s son.”
“Just the way it is.”
Spartan rolls his neck and stands up.
“Four men will be in the ring on Monday. Four men with very different family values. Four men with very different agendas. Four men with very different goals.”
“Four Men”
“One winner.”
Me.
“Spartan.”
“And that’s my story.”
