The Way of the Transgressor “What’s your goddamn name?” I stared at the huge man who wore the preacher’s collar. Odd but this preacher is tattooed, and will built, as if in another life he was a wrestler of sorts. He’d been crippled by paid-for violence (Same as wrestling) dragged downstairs, and tossed onto the marble floor. His arrogant face and body bruised by the brass knuckles that were at my side. (I never claimed to be a ‘fair’ fighter) He was a big man, much bigger than I. He was almost as big as John Coffey, from that movie the Green Mile, just white and donning a $3,000 suit and a pair of gators. “Who are you? Why are you doing this? What’s your goddamn name?” I yawned, exhausted from traveling. “I don’t have a name.” He didn’t need to know my name, as far as he was concern I was a task at hand. A task that stood in the way of him being called a sultan. A task that stood in his way of living another day “What do you mean, you don’t have a name?” I had rented a hotel room near by. I had on a serious coat, one big enough to shelter my weapons of choice. From the hotel, I had traveled a few miles away, was creating terror at midnight in a little subdivision. A sweet $2 million home. Fucker had money that was clear. Place had everything. A four bedroom layout. Three full baths. A half bath on the main floor. We were in the basement. A finished basement that was laid to the bone. Marble. Golden fixtures. Games room. Full gym. Bar. Bathroom. Jacuzzi. Kid’s playroom. Wine room. Place looked like something you saw from MTV Cribs. Like I said living it up like a Wrestling Superstar I had disabled his alarm system in less than ten seconds. People bought million-dollar homes and never had the phone company move the D-Mark box inside their cribs. If they didn’t have backup power, all it took was a pair of dime-store wire cutters to slice the phone lines and shut down the alarm system. I already knew what kind of system had been installed before I crept around back and cut a single wire. I had information on the floor plans for the house, had studied its layout before I compromised his mansion. I had sat in the dark, just another shadow, waiting for the reverend built wrestler to come home. Church had run longer than I had expected. “What political Stable are you representing?” “It’s freezing down here. I hate the cold.” “In god’s name who are you?” “Is this marble floor heated? Has to be. Marble gets damn cold.” “Who.Are.You?” His voice echoed, but no one could hear him scream. Not they anyone would care. Pictures of the rev and his family were on the walls. Photos of people who could be his parents and in laws, political figures and church members, were in every nook and cranny. High-end art from Europe, sculptures from many parts of Africa, Ralph Lauren paint on every wall, the place was decorated to the bone. On the back wall was the largest high-def television I had ever seen. Had to be one hundred inches wide. Had to have been imported straight from Japan. Picture so clear it seemed like I should be able to get up and walk right into the screen. Where most of the country was suffering from a depression and a banking scandal, this playa was living it up. I tugged at my leather gloves “I’m watching the news. Do you mind?” My cell was in my hand. I took a picture of the injured man, sent it to the person who was responsible for this job. The phone on this end was a clone, stolen and untraceable, just like the one on the other end, both to be disposed of when the evening came to its premeditated conclusion. I looked out the window again, stared at the freezing tundra. The weather was in the low twenties, was going to hit zero before long. My breath fogged in front of me. I much rather be wrestling inside rather then dealing with the end of winter frost. Reverend Coleman raised his pain-filled voice and asked: “How much are they paying you?” I looked at him “I’ll pay you one hundred thousand to reverse this shit and…and…and…” “Do unto others.” He growled, “An eye for and eye.” “In the name of the lord.” “I’m offering you one hundred thousand dollars.” Religion had vacated his tone, replaced by vulgarity and desperation. “Let me think about it.” I went back to watching the Local 4 News. There were accidents on the main highway, thirteen mile road, and on the connector ramp to the opposite freeway. Weather was getting so bad that all of the public schools were being closed. The Elementary, Middle, and High school…Closed due to weather. Another report had more stores closing due to unpaid debt, homes being foreclosed. Country was falling apart. So much for the black man asking for change. “Economy is fucked all around ay. I figured as much. Didn’t know it was this bad.” The reverend struggled to breathe. “Are you…planning…to kill me?” “Will you please shut up?” He ignored my request and shouted, “If this is a robbery, get to robbing and get the hell out of my home.” Go fucking figure. I’ve already beat the shit out of the guy, and pretty much have him begging for his life, for his dream of being Sultan. And he’s just now telling me to get the hell out? Funny world we live in. Of course I wasn’t taken back from the macho outburst. “What part of shut up don’t you understand?” “I have a family.” So much for the macho look, he was starting to cry at this point. “A beautiful wife. A daughter. A little boy.” I forgot about the news and looked at him. His right eye was swollen, the size of a baseball. His left eye wasn’t too much smaller. “There isn’t much money here at the house, I swear, but let me ring my wife. She will pay whatever you ask, without question, without reporting the incident. Let me talk to my children. I want you to hear their voices, Hear the love. You have a heart, don’t you? You have children?” He spat on the floor. Blood and saliva. Marked the floor with his DNA. I looked at my watch Revered Coleman sounded like he was in the pulpit, fire and brimstone in his voice, as if he were in charge. “I have two. Two wonderful children. Both attend Christian schools.” Confirmation was due five minutes ago. Palms sweating. Listing for sirens. That had left me more than nervous. Couldn’t live his dream of being Sultan in a prison. “Greater Life Academy. A Christian school. Children must attend schools that are not afraid to acknowledge Jesus and give praise to the lord. Do you believe in the lord? My daughter is six. My son is four. Straight-A students.” “Hallelujah, Reverend. Now shut the fuck up.” He closed his eyes, prayed. Back to the news for me. The mayor’s recent state of the city address was being talked about, debated, said the mayor was forth-right when he said his city was in trouble, refused to let it die on his watch, pundits saying the city was already dead and needed to be funeralized. “Reverend…is that you and a group of protestors standing behind the mayor?” “Is that what this is about?” “With the power you have, you could get a political stronghold here. Maybe even be named 2009 sultan” “Is that what this is about? My announcement that I was considering running for the spot of Sultan?” “Wow. Look at that close-up of you as the Man in charge of are city is speaking. Man, you look pissed off.” “Because we disagree with all that he has done. People have left, the ship is looking dim. Nothing has any history nor meaning around here anymore. Under his rule, the land of no limits has been run into the ground. I’d rather live in Ninth Ward of New Orleans than watch my beloved No limit fall apart.” “Title of Sultan gives you a edge. Makes your backstage disagreements public. Taking on the ruler just to be called Sultan.” “Did he send you to do this?” “You sure publicly disagreeing with the sitting ruler is the right thing to do?” “That overrated, pimp-suit-wearing son of a…does he have something to do with this?” “I don’t know, he sort of reminds me of a white Suge Knight. Whatever happened to Suge? Last I saw he was getting laid out.” “Is Maj…Is he behind this? Is this about the church protesting and demanding the mayor to step down so we can once again make the land of No limit’s a great kingdom it once was? Watch us. We will put the No Limits back in Championship Wrestling. We will be netter than when we ever was.” “Running for Sultan. Didn’t know you were that famous Mr. Coleman.” “I am a simple man. A man of God. I have been a pillar of the community for a year now. I was a know winner. Had the trophy’s and meaningless gold to show for it all” “Hot damn. You’re famous. International. Maybe I should get your autograph.” “Please, let me go.” So much for a little humor to lighten the mood. There were enough pictures of him and others like him to display his lust for power. His photos told me he was a man who had to be in control. Now he had no Control! The reverend had a lot. Seeing his worldly possessions reminded me that I’d been robbed of all I owned. Robbed by Joyellen. I though about Joyellen. Though about the last time I saw her. I thought about all she had taken from me. I should’ve put a bullet in her heart and killed my anger. My eyes went to the pictures of the Rev’s family and friends. So much love in the pictures between him and his wife. That forever love. Sometimes I wanted that. What I saw in those pictures, I wanted that shit for myself. “I caught fellings for this women a long time ago.” Mr. Coleman grunted. “What you say?” Stunned, who wouldn’t be. I just beat this fucker and now I’m carrying a conversation. Fucked up ay “Was talking. Telling you about this girl. Met her at on a beach in Italy. The old man they called Big V ran this hot spot. A bona fide thieves’ paradise. A simple girl, she was. At least she was back then. Beautiful, exotic girl dressed in Salvation Army clothes. But the part of her I found so beautiful, nobody could see. She didn’t see it herself. I saw beyond her daddy issues, the issues she had with her mother, saw beyond the sibling rivalry she had, saw beyond all that shit in her life.” “What’s your problem, son?” Reverend Coleman coughed, spat up blood. “Speak your mind.” Guess it wouldn’t hurt. Fucker would be dead before I left the night. Had to be. I also wanted to be Sultan. And I would kill for it. But since I have some time before the whole killing starts… “Melissa” “Speak your mind, son” “Sure you want to hear this?” He grunted, struggled to breathe. “Speak your mind.” “She was seeing somebody else. Flimflam man. A high roller. But I put my bid in. She laughed in my face, told me that if I wanted to be with her, I needed a million dollars in the bank.” He released more pain. I whispered “A million dollars, and the title of Sultan” “So that is what motivates you. Your love for a woman.” “My hate for one woman fuels my anger while my love for another fuels my purpose.” “Hate is cancer of the soul. Tell me about the one you hate.” I don’t want to talk about that whore.” “A man should not speak of a woman with such venom.” “No Rev. Whore is accurate. She’s a woman of the night. She’s a whore.” “Like Mary Magdalene.” “The one I like, I’ve been trying to get a million dollars in the bank ever since I met her. That and a way to call myself Sultan.” “The one you hate is a whore.” “Yeah.” “The one you love, she hung out in a den on a beach with thieves and wrongdoers.” “She’s a thief, runs scams. An artful dodger. Bona fide flimflam woman.” “A thief and a Whore. Criminals and the unrighteous. Transgressors. Like you.” I took offence to that comment “I don’t scam or steal. I’ve been stolen from. But I never steal. Never been a righteous man, not like you. Guess you could say criminals always end up being drawn togther.” His pain was getting the best of him. Sweat dripping from his skin like rain. Then my cell phone vibrated. It was a text message. I flipped the phone open and finally saw a three-word message. FUNDS TRANSFERRED, PROCEED. followed by a smiley face. “Time for us to raise up out of here.” “Where are you taking me?” “Cold as hell outside.” “Can I please get my coat?” “Afraid not.” “I need to take my bible. A man of god must always travel with his word near his heart.” He loosened his collar and limped his gigantic frame across the room, went to the wall filled with leather bound books, and with his injured hands struggled to pull out a worn bible. It was a beautiful red bible with golden letters across the front. It was a hell of a bible to say the least. If I ever carried one, it would have to be in that fashion. “This was my first Bible. My first. It was father’s first bible. He was a minister and a fighter. He owned it before me. And this bible, it is to be my son’s first bible. Hallelujah, glory to gawd.” Almost had me ready to yell Amen. I was growing old of this and wanted to get this over with. So I could be one step closer to the title of Sultan. He held the bible to his chest like it was his salvation. Or his bulletproof vest. Again, in a shaky voice, he said, “Who are you?” “I don’t have a name.” “You have to have a name.” “Why?” “So people know who to be afraid of.” He laughed a painted laugh. I was dumbfounded. Fucker was cracking jokes when his death was a walk away. Couldn’t believe it. Would you? “How are people going to know who to be afraid of? You can’t be afraid of someone who doesn’t have a name.” “I don’t need a name for what I’m doing here.” “What is Jesus didn’t have a name? What if Santa Clause didn’t have a name? Good or evil, everyone must have a name. We name what we praise, we name what we fear.” The bible he held, though his hands were wounded; at least two fingers were broken. “The wrong you’re doing…stop doing evil while you can. Stop because one day somebody will come for you. One day what you do to other people, that will be done to you.” His righteous words slowed me down, sent a chill through my frame. Didn’t know why. He had to understand that he wasn’t right to carry the title of Sultan. “Two hundred thousand. I’ll get you two hundred thousand in thirty minutes.” “Not doing this for the money! I want the right to be named Sultan. A right you aren’t going to give up.” “I will never give it up to a self-righteous, arrogant motherfucka.” A rush of fear and desperation bloomed in the reverend’s face. He began praying. With those damaged fingers he fumbled with the bible. Struggled to open the damn thing. The pain in his hands were too great. But he never stopped praying. He dropped the bible and it popped open. God’s words had been hollowed out and replaced with a snub-nose .38. That four inch barrel leapt out, hit the marble floor hard, slid ten inches in my favor. His swollen eyes met mine, panic came out of his body on the winds of the loudest scream I’d ever heard. I raced for his .38 like I was racing to stop my own death. He tackled me like he was a pro bowler, lifted me up quick and fast, ran with me, knocked over North African sculptures; the sheep became a raging bull as he slammed me into the one-hundred-inch television against the wall. I swung at his head, connected a few times, but it did no damage, not enough to take him down. He slammed me into the wall again and again. I gritted my teeth, grunted with each blow. One final slam and I screamed Pain consumed me like fire and I went limp, almost blacked out. He was winded, out of shape, and had to let me go I went down fast and hard. So did he He collapsed and lay there praying and breathing hard. I lay there rolling in pain. Revered made it to his feet first, staggered away from me, limped toward the .38. “Satan will not defeat me. Not for my Sultan rights. And not in my home. Not in the lord’s house!” He picked the gun up, frantic, grunting, his swollen fingers getting the best of him. “Son of a bitch. I’ll kill every motherfucking devil that gets in my way to the throne of Sultan.” Funny I was trying to accomplish the same thing. He grunted and with his aching fingers raised the .38, pointed it at my head. I was staring at the long barrel of death. Time slowed down. By sunrise, the revered would be a hero. Attacked in his home by an assassin. Then killing the assassin. God was on his side. He’d into the next round with out breaking a sweat. Larry King would want to chat with him. Octo-mom would be forgotten. He would become the next Sultan All from my death There were three explosions. The first bullet would’ve been in my left eye, had I still been there. I scampered across the frozen marble, rolled, and yelled out. My own fear, came up one knee, crouched, now a smaller target. Sweat in my eyes, pain in my lower back, I had come up facing my enemy, my semi-final enemy, my hand reaching underneath my coat, pulling my .22 from its holster. I was trapped against the wall, broken television behind me, death in front of me. It was .38 against a .22 The third explosion came from my gun I had aimed at his chest, but my pain lowered my gun and my shot was way off, the bullet hitting his right leg. He screamed staggered, went down on one knee. He wasn’t running. They always ran. He was coming after me. Minister by trade, soldier at heart. He’d become the wounded animal after his hunter. His next shot hit the marble floor near my feet. The next hit the shattered television behind me. If I hadn’t beaten him down, if his hands weren’t broken, I’d be dead right now. There were two more explosions. Both came from the .22 I was holding One tore into his left arm, that brand-new pain slowing him down. The second ripped opened a tiny hold in the front of the reverend’s head. There was another explosion, one last echo. The final sound from the battle. His gun fired at the ground, the bullet ricocheting off the marble and shattering glass. The gun fell from his swollen hand; the reverend slumped into his death. He lay there like a big rag doll, his body in a pool of blood, part of his brain decorating the wall behind him. I swallowed. Trembled. Looked down at the gun in my hand. I used the camera phone, took a photo, sent the image to show the world, we were one short. I was trembling. First I was as cold as a Siberian wasteland. Cold and detached, like a whore with her john. It was if I were watching someone else do horrible things. Then I realized I was drenched. Face damp. Sweat glands were pumping hard. Chest rising and falling. My phone rang Sweat in my eye, I pulled myself together and answered “Talk to me.” “Is he…Coleman…did you…” “You get the picture I sent you?” “Yes” “Then don’t ask stupid questions.” Another chill hit me. Like Death was in the room collection souls, passing through me, its icy fingers grabbing at my insides, knowing it wasn’t my time, but warning me nevertheless. The reverend was right. Every man needed a name. People needed to know who to praise Or who to fear Sultan That’s what they can call me… Sultan -- [ * ] -- Ryan Coleman, we meet before didn’t we. Bloodbath was the stage. A battle I was absent in mind. Not the case this time around. Bloodbath was nothing more then a simple match between two rookies of No limit. This Sunday is a totally different ball game. This time around were fighting for the right to be called Sultan. A title I have no problem killing for. That is what this is all about. Not respect and not anything else. This is for all the bragging rights. This is about being named 2009 Sultan of the squared circle. This is for everything we’ve both dreamed of. At bloodbath you were to be the first victim of a newly born God. Unfortunately, that was put on hiatus. I can’t say you’re going to be the victim of a newly born God this time. Oh no. that’s Galen’s line You’re going to be the victim of a my manifest to the top. You’re going to be the victim of a man who puts the asses in the seats and the one who keeps you employed. You’re about to be the victim of the man who has started the journey to put NLCW on his back and bring it back from its knees to the promise land. I meant everything I said at Avulsion. I’m the bailout of the NLCW Guys wearing pink, faux hawks, t-shirts with large words printed on them, and being metrosexual. What are these, you ask? These are passing fads. Things people do for a while and then push them to the side. These are things people associate themselves with and once the hype is over, they’re on to the next big thing. Why am I bringing these up in a middle of a rant? Simple, Ryan Coleman is nothing but, you guessed it, a passing fad. Best way to describe the kid See Coleman, you can’t do anything to get the upper hand on me. You can’t come at me from behind, you can’t make a failed run in to save someone, you can’t sweet talk your way over me and you sure as hell can’t get into my mind. You pride yourself on this being YOUR time to shine. You pride yourself on being the one who is destined to be at the top; the future ruler of NLCW. But to be at the top, you need desire or the fire in your eyes. I honestly don’t see any fire in your eyes. I honestly don’t see you wanting the title of Sultan. If you do, then that’s a huge shock to me but ask yourself this: why do I want this title? Is it because you want the power, or is it because you really believe you make some sort of a difference here? Ryan you‘ve been here longer then I have and in case you haven‘t realized NLCW is still stuck in the shitter. So if your goal is to carry the weight of a promotion, your failing miserably. I believe its time for you to step to the side and let a fresh face take a whack of blowing new life into the NLCW. You had your short and all you managed to grab from it is a couple of Plexie awards. Bravo Still, you’re going to come at me full force to fulfill some sort of personal destiny. You want this win more than anything in your life so you are going to try as hard as you can. You’re going to crack in the ring and while you’re not Humpty Dumpty, you will have a great fall. It will be the fall from this invisible pedestal you’re standing on. You think you’re so good and you think you’re the best. Well, Ryan, I haven’t had to do a damn thing yet I can honestly place myself ahead of you on the climb to the top of the mountain. How you ask? I didn’t even have to qualify for this tournament. Yet here I am. I would say that already puts me on the up swing of this whole ordeal. And of course we both battling to solidify are positions. Where both inching our way to the top. You’ll make that last ditch effort to grab the edge, but you’ll slip, and come up short. Then what happens when you don’t reach the top, your fall will leave you scattered. Your body will be scattered as I tear you limb from limb and throw your body parts to the left and right. Your mind will be scattered to the point where I, finally, force you into early retirement and save the world from the trash we call Ryan Coleman. You all can thank me later. It’s what I do, Ryan. I see a person like you try and take what is mine and I just dismantle you. I take what pride you have and crush it. I take what ability you have and I cripple your legs so you can transfer your ability to playing wheelchair basketball. That’s the only time you’ll have some sort of recognition. It will be when people see you and they have pity. They’ll comfort you and for the first time in your life, you will be recognized. You will be known as the former wrestler turned cripple-ball hero. You’ll finally be someone people can relate to. You’re a commoner now and I don’t relate with commoners. Which is why destroying you in the ring will be so enjoyable. I’m not going to make this easy on you, Ryan. One bullet, and you’re done. Or maybe, for fun after you’re dead, I’ll roll you over on your back and put the shotgun to your nose and pull the trigger. If your blood happens to fly on my face, it will make the job even better. So don’t plan on a wrestling career after this match. In fact, don’t plan on having any social status because I’m going to make your face look like Rocky Dennis. Too late, it already does. Your death is now, kid. You’ve been a dead man walking since Bloodbath and you’re just now getting ready to sit on the electric chair. You’re guilty as charged for trespassing on my turf. Once I hit the switch, there is no turning back. And while the lights in the room blink and your body shakes from the excruciating pain, you’ll see the lion standing in front of you with the most devilish of smiles. Your days of claiming to be The rising star are over. Your days of claiming to be Sultan are over. I am NLCW and there is nothing you can do about it. Especially not on Sunday. That is when I officially get my crown. Believe in destiny and believe in hope. But also face the facts, You’re nowhere near my league or anywhere above it, as you might want to claim. You’re the thing on the bottom of my shoe that’s bugging the shit outta me. You’re the pounding ache in my hand right now. I want to get rid of you but I have to wait. At Sultan of the squared circle is when I get rid of the pain. You will be the first person I destroy on my way to history. You’re the first step in the way on my way to achieving immortality here in NLCW. Coleman, bring the talk of you being the future of this company. Talk about you wiping out this rookie sensation and becoming a sensation yourself. You’ll never be a sensation while I’m still breathing. So try and stop me Ryan. You can be another victim of a mailing of the Italian Lion and will be a hard landing for you. When you’re looking at the mat from atop my shoulders, you can go back to what ever it was you were doing pre NLCW. When you’re flat on your back, you can go back to working out in gyms. When you’re lying on that stretcher, you can go back to praising my name. It’s a darling one. Just as darling as Stacy Jones. I’ve heard many things about you sweet hart. I’ve heard you’re a great wrestler. I’ve heard you’re a hell of a fighter for a female. I’ve also heard you swallowed more loads than a gay prostitute. OoO a sexist remark to a female, common much? Maybe. Do I care Much? Not at all I’m not afraid to strike a woman in that ring. Outside it is a different story. The way I see it, if a woman is willing enough to train and put her body on the line, then I might as well hit her ass with a Last Shot and knock her out cold. It’s nothing personal, just business. I mean, you seem okay Stacy. I might be giving you the benefit of the doubt, but you seem alright. Just, don’t sue me when your neck is broken and your body contorted to the point that you need a wheelchair. Nothing personal. Just business. Don’t get it twisted doll, I believe you can make some noise See, people like to overlook what you can do. I can see what you can do. You can pummel people with objects never thought of or you can take people down with one scream from your virgin throat. Hell, you’re so fucked up there’s no wonder no one has popped that cherry yet. Well, I guess someone has to pop your cherry and who better than the one true future of NLCW? I’ll leave your blood all over the ring, my boots, and all over my throne of Sultan. I guess what I’m trying to tell you Stacy, is I’m better then you. Go figure a hour long promo and my final conclusion is I’m.Better.Then.You. Although it has been said from everyone at some point, the difference is I actually know I’m better than you. If you thought Dom was going to be a problem, then missy, you don’t know what a problem is. I’d suggest studying tape after tape after tape of me, and then get a sliver of what talent I can bring to the table. You think I’m all technical, I’ll throw some power moves. Then you think I’m all power, then I’ll go aerial on your ass. That’s what I did to that Priate who has since gone AWOL. You saw it. I know you’re fuckin’ scared out your mind, right? Sitting there in your Hannah Montana panties shaking your leg for your impending death. Ha, Hannah Montana But no worries ay Doll, because after the match (if it happens) I’ll make sure to send you a nice little present in the mail. You’ll get it at your house, open it up, and it will be a nice big trophy. You’ll bend down to read what the engraving says and you’ll smile because, for the first time in your life, you’ll be number one at something. You’ll be my number one bitch. Another word I hear in my world is the word ‘respect’. Its one thing too many people try and throw around. They respect him or her or I don’t respect anyone. Dominic Pericolo seems to have that respect deal imprinted in the back of his head. He is a returning great. A multi time world champion. Sure, everyone can respect the old timer but that doesn’t mean I respect him. I don’t respect him. I don’t respect most people because you have to earn my respect. In this business, if you do something nice, win championships or have a good match you have ‘respect’. Nah, not to me. Respect is when someone steps out of the way for the new blood to shine. Respect is someone who passes the torch and allows the recipient to run with it. Respect is when you retire and stay Retired That’s respect. Must suck though Dom, your first run as NLCW champion, meant nothing, because it was handed down to you. Must make you think ay Dom, Years of experience and nothing to show for it. Why do I bring up dead points, Simple Dom, I want you to prepare for me with viciousness. I want you to look at me and hate me. Act like I just killed your mother or rape your beloved wife or something. Act like I’m public enemy number one because, in all reality, I am. You notice everyone seems to think I’m going to the finals. Dom I want that fighter that carried NLCW to great highs. I want the guy that used to carry a deal of fear when there name was brought up next to you. I want the Dominic of the years past. Not the fresh out of the home Dominic. If we meet, I want everyone talking. I want everyone watching as the once great NLCW Champion falls to the future… And I want that without the excuses that come along from facing a returning superstar I did ponder the thought of, if the time ever came, would I be able to take you down Dom. It’s not a thought anymore. See, DP, I’ve grown more than you could ever dream. Sure you have your fans, your pride, and the respect of millions around the world but you’ll never have the resume I have built. And the sad part is…It’s still growing. And if the time comes Sunday, it’ll have a legend’s name attached to it. The question I’ve tossed in my head since I came to NLCW is would I ever be on the level of a Dillion Durst, a Sean Galen, a Alex Jay, a Enigma. Then the replacement into the brackets and a new question…‘Can I beat Dominic Pericolo if the time comes?’ You know…the answer used to be easy. Before I wasn’t near the level you were at. I was young, naïve, and talentless. But that was before I came here. Now, I’m on a level I don’t think you can obtain. Now, I’m experienced, smart, and full of talent. Now the question returns. Can I beat Dominic Pericolo? I won’t just beat you Dom but I will force you in to permanent retirement. I will make sure you and I meet in the finals and when we do you can ask yourself the same question. But… you will have to stop and think about it. A moment in time where Dominic Pericolo thinks about his decision. A moment so important. A moment so anticipated... Hell, I don't know the answer. But I'll let you in on a little secret. I'm looking forward to it. -- That’s A Wrap! --