I plop down on my hotel bed, a bed that feels more like a marble slab than anything else. But…something feels weird…feels very slippery on my butt cheek. I get up, and feel the pockets of my coat only to find small change and a one dollar bill in one pocket, my keys…wallet…and the room card. I throw the change on to the bed; all I hear is the clanging of the change on the bed, which…of course…sounds like throwing money on to a hardened block of concrete at full force. But, yet, that wasn’t that feeling I was getting when I sat down. I feel around in my front of my pockets…yet, there is nothing there. Is it in the back pocket? I mean, I never put anything in my back pocket, so why would there be anything there? I sit back down on the bed and…yes; there was still that filmy slick feeling on my ass. I get up and take out this…thing out of my back left pocket. It’s the picture. The picture Bruce showed me on the plane. Why is it with me? I never felt anything go into my back pocket and, to be honest, I am pretty sure I would have felt something. I look at the back of the picture…there is an arrow pointing to Randy’s portion of the picture (which was torn off by Bruce when he showed me). However, if I remember correctly…there were two pieces of tape holding Randy to the back of the picture…now there is only one. I noticed a slight marking passed the sideways head of Randy. I slowly open the flap up, not knowing what I am about to find underneath there. There’s a message.

“Call this number if you are ‘looking for a good time’. Brucey.”

I look very confusingly at the message…I pick up my phone and begin dialing. I get to the last number…and I pause before pushing it. I look at the message again, and then back at the phone. I slowly press the last number in the phone number and wait until I hear the ring. “Umbrella” by Rhianna? What the hell is Bruce up to? This is getting weirder and weirder. I sit there, looking at my reflection in the blank television screen (not that I don’t want to turn the television on, but I think that the people who was in here last time stole the remote). I almost had to listen to the entire ringback of “Unbrella” until I hear a phone click.

Mr. Rizza, is this you?

Bruce, what’s going on? Why did you want me to call you? Why weren’t you at the bar? I would of loved to catch up with you.

I can’t give anything away, Zachary, but I should have told you about my life as of right now. I am no longer a personal trainer. In fact, I believe that you and Randy were the last two clients that I had. In fact, you were my only two clients. Things have gone horrible when you decided to retire and Randy was out of the picture. That’s why…I can’t say anything more. But…that’s why the picture was torn out…because I blame Randy…I blame Randy for putting me in this position. I blame Randy for everything…but I can’t really explain anything here…please, if you want to know more…meet me at Giovanni’s Bar on the south side in one hour. There, we can discuss in full detail about my…God damn situation.

Before I could say anything…he hangs up. I look at the picture…and look at Randy, who was torn out and taped to the back of the picture. I close my eyes…what have you done, now, Randy? What have you done?

---===We Will Be Right Back===--- Ladies and gentlemen, I…”Big Tyme” Zach Rizza…am a banana. I am always a banana…everything about me SCREAMS banana…I mean, I know I hear all the critics who state “But Zach, you don’t look like a banana” or “But Zach, you don’t have banana-like traits” or “What makes you think, out of all the things that you can be in this crazy mixed up world of ours…what makes you believe that you, in fact, are an actual banana?” My response, I’m a mother fucking banana. Their rebuttal: But you don’t have a peel away skin, your skin is not fully yellow, your skin…when you were younger…didn’t have a green tint to it and turned yellow over time. My response: God damn it, I am a mother fucking banana! If you can’t believe that I am a banana then you can’t believe that Jordan Penn, a man who sits there and claims that he is a “legend” of the X-Treme Wrestling Federation. Someone who sits there and thinks that he is, all of a sudden, ten times better than me, ten times better than THE X-TREME MOTHER FUCKING ICON? That he, not me, should be the one who is vying for the legend-hood? The man who was thiiiiiiis close in ruining another tag match that I was in and then got pissed off when I, a much better person at finishing someone off, tagged myself in and won the match for our team? He thinks that he is so high and mighty that he should put his hand on GREATNESS like me and you are sitting here claiming that I am not a God damn banana? Me being a banana is a lot more believable than some nobody jerker of the curtain claiming that he is all holier than holy. Me being a banana is a lot more believable than Jordan Penn thinking that he deserves to be in the ranks of Lee Stone and Jem Williams, Steve Jason and Kitten, Jon Brown and Extreme Warrior. Son, you haven’t proved a damn thing to me or to any God damned legends in the XWF and, to be honest, I would like to predict something right now….Jordan, no matter what the outcome of this match is…I would like to put money on the fact that you, yes you, will not get anywhere NEAR legend status again. That this match, between myself and a legend in his own mind and the minds of a few others, hence why he is in the Hall of Legends, will be the biggest match of your God damned life and the closest thing you will get to a legend. I saved you a whole hell of a lot of trouble tagging myself into that match, saving you from the humiliation of getting beat by someone like Kevin Jewart and putting yourself down into one of the biggest holes of your life and, to be honest, if you lost that match…you wouldn’t be STANDING right now, let alone facing me and Daniel Malcolm in a damn match. Hell, me talking about you is a waste of my time and I am going to save my breath for someone more interesting… …That someone is you, Daniel Malcolm. You are a legend. There is no doubt about that. You are a man who’s name will live in the Hall of Legends for all of eternity. Your name will be as big as big as can be in the hallowed halls next to those few names that have done everything in their power to make the X-Treme Wrestling Federation one of the top companies over the past eleven years. However, your name is being tarnished Daniel. Your name is being pissed on and shat on time and time again. Every time you step in that ring…you go deeper and deeper in a hole that you and your legend status, cannot dig out of. Every time that you step foot in that ring, people start to doubt how legendary you, actually, are. I mean, yes, you did win numerous World and Universal titles, as well as start some powerful…yet short lived…stables in your day. But, now, you’re falling apart, everything about you just keeps falling…apart and moving further and further away from where you were once was. Daniel, you and me go way back. We have had matches before…we have had brutal, brutal moments in that very ring and this Thursday won’t be any different. This Thursday is going to be dangerous once you and I get inside that ring and, God damn it, we are going to tear the walls down. However, there is a difference between the times that we fought each other then and the time we are fighting this week. You are on a downward spiral. You are spinning faster and faster in anonymity and, soon, you will hit the ground and you will be nothing. You should have quit while you were ahead, Daniel. Things have changed since you left the X-Treme Wrestling Federation, and that includes your talent level. This triple threat match, I will contest, will be the last time Daniel Malcolm becomes relevant and, if that’s the case, go join the ranks of Centurion in the old folks home and just plain old retire.

Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you today…yet again, claiming to be one of the best wrestlers on this roster not to be on the list of the Hall of Legends, a place where many of people have come to me and told me time and time again that I deserve to be there, that I need to be there, and…as you saw the past two times I was teamed up with someone…I will stop at nothing to prove myself worthy to be among the top athletes that ever stepped foot in that ring and, at this rate, I will surpass you, Daniel Malcolm, as better than you are. At this rate, Daniel Malcolm, your stock will drop faster than a hooker’s panties and, ONCE…not IF…I get into the XWF Hall of Legends I WILL be a better legend than you are, just like it should be.

I’m “Big Tyme” Zach Rizza and I approve this God damned message because I plan giving you two your “Welcome to the Big Tyme” moment! Where’s my banana? I’m hungry for some reason.

---===Welcome BACK to the Big Tyme===--- ---===No Smoking, please.===--- I look at the name on the marquee “Giovanni’s Bar.” It looks just like any Guido bar… “BAR” is in really big giant red light up letters and I only know that it’s Giovanni’s is that it’s in cursive and in very small print…with the only lighting that lights up his name is the illumination of the B in BAR. I walk up to the door…what am I doing here? I mean, what the hell man? Why is Bruce…asking me to meet him here? Am I going to get whacked? I mean, I look inside the stained glass window…there sitting at the tables…are those men wearing suits? Not even the shirt and tie kind…but more along the lines of sport coats?!

I open the door slowly…I feel so underdressed…however, I step inside the building…and, to make things even worse…everyone in here just turned and looked at me. They’re staring at the newcomer…or the next piece of meat that will be in the meat grinder…that’s right, I’m talking Soprano’s style. I sigh and go towards the bar. I sit down and order a beer. The bartender nods and starts fixing me a drink .

So, what are ya doin’ here, boss? You don’t look like ya belong here.

Man, he has a thick Jersian accent it’s undeniably funny. I look at him and he looks back at me with a strange look…maybe it is because I am smiling at his funny way of talking.

Eh, I am meeting a friend over here…he told me to meet me here. I am not sure as to why the hell he wants with me. Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for someone named Bruce D’Amico?

Bruce da Bull?

Bull? What the hell? Did Brucie get made? Man, I have been watching too many gangster movies and television shows it isn’t that funny as it seems. I sit there and I nod. The bartender gives me a smirk, a smirk that doesn’t really fit in this conversation. I look at him and then…

Rizz, I presume? Man, it’s been a while since we actually spoke face to face, ya know?

Bruce? You’re working as a bartender? Why the hell did you try to keep this a secret? And where did your beard go?

First…It’s makeup, my good friend and secondly well, I don’t want anyone knowing that I am working for…these guys…

I knew it! You’re working with the mah…!

Before I can get a word out, I noticed everyone just staring at me…hell; I think I heard someone cock their gun. I whip around really fast and pretend I was a girl working for beads in Marde Gras to show that I am, in fact, not wearing a wire. As soon as I did that, everyone continued on with their conversation.

I’m not really working for the mob, however…I am under strict orders by…the boss…not to say anything about their hideout over, you know, publicly.

But why are you blaming Randy about this? I mean, if I were in the same situation I would be…

Happy? You would be happy knowing that any minute someone can bust through that door right now and kill some of us and arrest most of us? You think THAT’S MAKING ME HAPPY? With you, Rizz, I was safe…I had job security…I didn’t have to worry about having the cops on my ass…I didn’t have to use a different phone each and every God damned week because I know that the cops are tapping our phones, once they’ve got a hold of the right number. Hell, I could say one thing to you and, if you don’t agree, we discus. With these guys, a discussion is your mouth over a barrel of a gun. So, yes, I am extremely happy…note the sarcasm.

Please, Rizz…You have to know what I am going through to know that I am in danger twenty four seven, and it’s not good.

If you want, you can join me…It would be like old times, man. You, me, and the awesome times we had.

I…I can’t. You see, the pact that I made with the boss is…to the damn death. I mean, I would just jump to join you guys if I knew that they wouldn’t come after me. So, please, it would be not in my good interest to go with you. I am sorry, Rizz. Please forgive me.

You’re forgiven.

All of a sudden, Bruce gets on the table and starts stomping on the table.

I would like to tell you all that this man, right here, is clean and would like to come in here to get drinks! Please, do not worry!

I few cheers and “salut” from the pure Italians in the crowd…I feel more safe than I did before…I begin to talk mostly about nothing to Randy as the night goes on.