Chris Shepherd was haggard but he was adapting. The schedule had been brutal, adding Ultratitle on top of all his other responsibilities. But it’d been his choice. He reminded himself of that fact every time his alarm went off way too early after being up way too late. Still, Chris persevered, in spite of his body screaming for sleep. The last time he remembered being so exhausted was in the fWo’s run. The Deacon had survived, even thrived in the fWo’s crazy culture. Chris had needed an extended sabbatical. But this wasn’t then. He’d learned more, pushed more. He could do it, just like the Deacon.
“You’re up, Chris,” Gene said as he poked his head in the waiting area. He was smiling, and though Chris’ exhaustion fought against it, the smile was contagious.
“Things going well then?” Chris asked as he stood and followed Gene to the cameras.
“Amazing,” Gene said. “Jason has been doing great. He started wrestling, the scholastic variety not what you guys do, and he’s really excelling. It’s the first thing he’s ever been good at.”
“Well, have him do a double leg on you for me, ok?”
“I’d rather not. We had a friend visiting, probably 300 pound man, and Jason worked until he took him down,” Gene said, “though John did say Jason hit like a girl.”
“Hey now,” Chris said, “girls can surprise you.”
“Depends on who you ask.”
Chris chuckled. It was good to see Gene in good spirits. After many intense conversations, it seemed things were finally turning the corner. Maybe all those prayers were finally taking hold.
“You know your spot,” Gene said, gesturing to the front of the Ultratitle banner.
Chris nodded and moved into position. He was tired, but he was making it. He felt weak in body, but seeing answered prayers on the face of the man behind the camera, it made this next part easy.
“You know, Mr. Waubash, this is a bit…,” Chris paused letting it linger to emphasize his next word. “Unique.” He paused again, albeit briefer than before. “In my time with Deacon, we have been across the ring from a myriad of men who represented the antithesis of the Deacon, a darker version of him, going beyond good guy versus bad guy to… well, let me just name a few - Apocalypse, Armageddon, and… I’m sure you can see the theme developing. Those battles grew a bit rote as I shared my view of hope found in setting your sights beyond yourself and they presented… another side.”
“When I learned Deacon would be facing Sagawa, I couldn’t help but see this matchup as something in a similar vein, what most bookers and Troy Windham would call, nigh destined.” Chris wondered if Troy would see this. He’d heard the dig, both at the tournament and at those remaining in it. Seemed to be Troy’s attempt to do what Troy always did – refocus the attention back on him. But politicking aside, this wasn’t about him. This was about Deacon and Sagawa.
“And oddly enough, in all the craziness that has been this tournament, this was a matchup no one picked, but in retrospect, it seems natural. First, you have me, the person who has presented Deacon’s message for most of his career, the mouthpiece of our little duo. And then we have you, clearly the speaker for the Kochi Cannibal. This match isn’t just two wrestler’s, but it is two speakers who will define the matchup before it ever hits the ring. And once again at the start of this round, it takes me back to when we started. Deacon’s rookie year was full of misconceptions of Deacon and my relationship. Some of the jokes were in line with your little bestiality bit, or at least the planned version of it. Of course, in my case, I was a priest to Deacon’s altar boy and you can fill in the gaps with the actions our opponents expected from us. Others loved to toss the southern Baptist or Pentecostal preacher at us, using Deacon as an illiterate, backwater redneck following my spewing of a long-dead, lifeless religion replacing his own ability to beget even a single thought. As you can tell, my twang isn’t quite so strong and if you were to hear Deacon speak, his twang is… certainly not southern, not as alien as your Mr. Sagawa, but nowhere near any Mason Dixon line. Those misconceptions led to a belief that I spoke MY message, using Deacon as little more than a prop. They believed Deacon didn’t understand what was being said by his opponents and I was the true force in pushing our … agenda.”
As frustrating as it was at the time, Chris enjoyed those early years. It was simpler, his message a stark white in a world of villains and antiheroes. He’d used it to tune the message like a piano.
“Mr. Waubash… They went into the ring expecting a simpleton, a… ,” again, Chris paused in preparation for adding his cousin Carla’s ‘hill-talk’ accent, “Jeeheezus freeek Deee-con.” Chris smiled, wondering if Carla would call him and cuss him out. “They thought the Deacon incapable of doing anything without me guiding him. Most beget a new thought of their own about half a second too late – while they were watching me for signals to guide the Mute Freak’s actions in the ring, Deacon’s boot had sent their consciousness to black.”
“That’s what I’d like to call learning the lesson the hard way… no relation to Kevin. Which brings me to Sagawa and his opponents and detractors. In these first 3 rounds, I’ve been a bit focused on Deacon’s own journey, but I’ve heard the rumblings, just like you – of how Sagawa is a mindless drone bent on savage brutality and you don’t speak for him, or his message, or whatever… in fact, you are doing nothing more than using him for your own arrogant ego. While they focused on you, your cannibal has, quite literally, tore through the competition to the Sweet 16.”
“Maybe you’ve dazzled them with your plays on words or wild stories. Maybe you’ve caused them to flinch by showing Sagawa’s barbarism. Or maybe, just maybe, Sagawa was simply better than them.”
“Come a few short days, it will not matter.”
“Maybe you speak for Sagawa. Maybe you don’t. Maybe Sagawa cares. Maybe he doesn’t.”
“Come that same span of time, any of those maybes won’t matter either.”
“What will matter is what I’m about to share, and if you’d be so kind to translate it into whatever tongue your Cannibal speaks… or eats or whatever, Deacon would be grateful.” Chris didn’t pause as much as change his cadence, driving his point home like a well-rehearsed minister. “Mr Waubash, in only a little while, it won’t matter if your Mr. Sagawa enters that ring illiterate, irresponsible, irreverent, or irritating; Deacon’s entering that Ultratitle ring to do only one thing –“
“make him irrelevant.”
Chris held the camera with his gaze for a moment longer, letting that last line sink in for the viewer, and for Mr. Waubash.
“To answer why…that is two-fold. First is the most obvious – it’s the nature of a tournament. Someone has to go and Deacon would rather Mr. Sagawa be in the midst of the 120 and Deacon with the 8. And the 2nd is personal, we don’t think our time in this forum is over. Signing up for this was my doing. I was caught up in the excitement and pushed Deacon to make the leap. I started the journey and then realized how I’d manipulated him. I apologized and found the Deacon forgiving, seeing my errors for what they were – a failure of who I am and not a representative of Whom I serve. Because in the end, that One who is over all has carried Deacon throughout his career, and though we’ve failed this God, this God has never failed us. Though we’ve stumbled, this God has raised us up, lifted us like the cross that, strange as it sounds for a torture device, draws men unto it, a cross that we’ve never even seen except through the eyes of faith.”
Chris stopped for a moment, letting that last word stick. More than anything else, faith had defined the Deacon’s journey, not just for him, but for most who had followed his career.
“And Mr. Waubash, that’s all the evidence we’ve ever needed to do what needs to be done.”
And Chris knew his closer. The other half of what some called a catchphrase, but what he called a motto.
“That’s all the evidence upon which Deacon will ever rely.”
A moment later, the camera light turned off. Chris took a deep breath, hoping that the take was enough, and when Gene stepped around the camera, the look on his face told Chris it was.
“I’m no expert,” Gene said, “but looked good.”
“Awesome, cause I don’t think I have another one in me.”
“Grind getting to you?” Gene asked.
Chris nodded but then added a shrug. “Not complaining. It’s been one amazing ride.”
“It has,” Gene said before his cell phone rang. He looked at the number and his face went ashen before turning around and answering the phone.
Something was going wrong, Chris knew. It was all over Gene’s face before he’d even accepted the call. Chris prayed, but he didn’t know what for, and so he threw a clichéd ‘help him, Lord.’
Gene pulled the phone from his ear and disconnected, turning back to Chris. The grave look had been replaced with a sparkle in his eye, probably not all that different from when the apostle Peter first learned that Jesus was alive.
“That was Rachel,” Gene said. “She was just asking if I’d pick up a gallon of milk on the way home.” Gene’s smile said what Chris was feeling. They’d both anticipated the worst; it’d been pounded into Gene for the last 6 or 7 years. They’d been met with a challenge, however small, and they’d flinched. Expecting the worst accomplished nothing but adding to life’s stress. He’d not do that again. He’d learned better, would push to trust more. He would do it, just like Deacon.