Saturday, September 08, 2007 Affinia 50 155 East 50th Street New York, New York 10022 Room 243 Huhhuh, my name's Jihad. I'm going to return for all the glory, and give respect, and have unfinished business. Fuck you, asshole. I'm your unfinished business. Not this Eliza Corvin bullshit. None of the XFC understood the entire story, nor would they have the patience to sit down and listen. Jihad came to my home, he broke in, attacked my girlfriend, and nearly killed my BEST FRIEND. At this point, though, I didn't care. I didn't care about the boos, the jeers, the cheers, or who stood on what side. I was blinded. Blinded by hate. I wanted to rip out the man's heart, feel the blood drip down my arm, pool at the crease in my elbow, and stream to the floor in a harmonic pitter-patter. I wanted to see the pain in his eyes begin to fade as everything got dark, and I wanted to see it all fade to black for him. This went far beyond some stupid pride issue. It became personal when he brought those who weren't fighters into this. The people who molded my life, attacked. It all changed that day. I was going to be nice, XFC. I was going to turn the other cheek, and walk out of here. No sweat, no harm done. No. Then he had to show his fucking face. I hadn't slept much since being thrown out of the arena. My eyes were heavy, but I was still counting down virtually every second until I finally get my hands on that prick. Before anything, let's rewind to how I even bothered showing up here. Tuesday, July 10, 2007 11:23 p.m. Affinia 50 155 East 50th Street New York, New York 10022 Room 243 >< Yes, it's the One Bedroom Suite - Deluxe. >< Shit. Another whiskey shot down. I let it weigh on my tongue for a second, giving me the illusion that it was pushing it down, and then gulped it. The burn trickled down my throat, and began it's explosion into my chest and died just as quickly as it came. That's four. I had grown extra sick of the politics floating around in UIWF, but rather then them opting to just take me off completely, I was able to take an extended break and sit at home. Since Ander had returned to competition, Eric, Jon, & Michelle all went back to Catalina Island. I didn't need the big apartment, so I struck a deal with Affinia and bought out one of their rooms. It was cozy enough, and I got to hear the hustle of the city outside, so it was great. Well, just not right now. I had the thoughts racing, as per usual, throughout my head. I hadn't been out of retirement for more than a year, and I got sick of UIWF. There was kickbacks for former employees, and the corruption really ran deep. Jake Heke disappeared, as did a few other friends, so, like usual, it was Ander & Me. And now, I was on break...sent home from “Merry Old England”. Fuck England. Just thinking about the UIWF lately pissed me off, and I couldn't put up with it anymore. I hated the entire lot of people there. Psychosis, The General, Vincent Liger, Dexter Damage, Andrew Smith, Dean Jones, Diego, Eagle...the list could go on and on. I poured myself another shot, and just stared at the bubbles as they fought their way through the thickness of the maize alcohol. Fuck 'em. With a slap of my hand on the coffee table, I downed the shot, and the same burning explosion in my chest, then faded out. “Fuck 'em all,” I muttered to nobody in particular. It was with that, almost miraculously on cue, the phone rang. I picked up the phone, and half-mumbled a hello somewhere. The guy on the voice, seemed surprised I was even awake. “Yeah, uh, is this Johnny Holliday?” “Who's this?” “Just don't hang up. My name is Travis Blaine.” “What the fuck do you want? I don't want shit to deal with you...” “Holliday, listen.” “You listen, prick. I had enough of your fucking company trying to run me out.” “Listen to me. I want you here as a guest. Come check out our compan-...” “No.” “Holliday, you need to...” “I don't need to do jack shit. You need to understand, I don't a thing to deal with you, your company, or anyone.” “Look, it's understandable how you feel, but you need to listen. I know UIWF is dying out, and I'm not wanting to see a career like yours just fade out.” “Fuck you, I don't fade out. I find a new place.” “So why not here?” “Because, your pissant pawnshop hates me for trying to save my job. And I don't give two shits about anyone on your roster.” “Our roster has improved. If anything, would you at least scout? Your airfare, travel, lodging. I'll spring for it. I just want you to look. I'm not asking for a contract. Even if it's to keep your name going around.” “I don't want my name whored around by rivals. No thanks.” “I'm sending the tickets by mail anyway. If you change your mind, the offer's on the table.” I hung up. Fucking asshole. What kind of balls does he have? Back to Present Day. I think it goes without saying what I decided. My curiosity got the best of me, and I decided I would check it out. I ran into Philip Adams, and Jake Heke. We caught up on some old times, and I decided I'd stay for a couple of weeks. Indecency number one was caused by Holocaust. Bitch. I let his actions slide, because with a name like that, some muscular Jew is going to come any day now, and make hell for him. I honestly don't have time to deal with another stupid giant. The next was by these XFC loyalists. Fuck 'em. I knew there was no way I could ever change their minds about me. Nothing I could say, and nothing I could do. At this point, I didn't care. I wasn't here for something that was utterly hopeless. I was here for one thing: Closure. I don't mean the kind of emo bullshit that a fifteen year old schoolgirl has with her ex. My head was fucked with. My best friends. My girlfriend. The only people that actually matter. Ander was almost killed. And that prick can only move on like something never happened. I sat and tried to contemplate it all. Looking around at the Affinia room now, I could only wish I could have stepped outside myself and looked to see what I was like on July 10th. I wish I could have slapped myself, and told myself that Jihad would be there. Drunk or not, I would have gotten up, and taken the offer hands down. No. It almost slipped through my fucking fingers. Then, all those little bricks fell right into place. XFC: Malicious Intent I Saturday, September 1st, 2007 Pengrowth Saddledome Calgary, Alberta, Canada I had just been thrown out of the Saddledome, tossed out by eight fucking rent-a-cops. I tripped over a step and fell as the door slammed shut. I got up and kicked the door. “FUCKING ASSHOLES!” I pounded on the door. No fucking use. “YEA? WELL, FUCK YOU! NEXT WEEK. NEXT WEEK, PRICKS!” I could only imagine some sort of smile going across Jihad's face. I had a chance to get him right here, and all the rent-a-cops in Canada, as well as Mounties, had to fuck my chance up. I whipped out my cell phone, and for a second, stared at it. Then, a voice came. “Going to call someone?” I spun around and clenched a fist, but I saw Travis Blaine. He walked out from another exit, but had security with him. “You and your fucking rent-a-cops can get fucked. I'm going back to England.” “You want Jihad?” “What, you're going to offer me some shit?” “2 month contract to start. Nine grand a month. You get Jihad on September 13th, with a ten thousand dollar purse.” “Purse? What the fuck is this, prize fighting?” “No. We actually reward fighters base on their performance.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cigarettes. Upon opening the box, they were all broken. “Your fucking rent-a-cops broke my cigarettes.” Blaine extended his hand, and had one. “Do we have a deal?” I reached out, took it, and lit it. “You got two months to convince me it's worth being around. I have two months to fuck Jihad up.” “No. You have two months to prove to me I'm not making a bad investment.” “Hey Blaine, fuck you. I'm Johnny Holliday. You either want me, or you don't.” “If I didn't, I wouldn't give you a cigarette, would I?” I took another drag, walked up to one of the security guards, and blew the smoke at him. “Next week you can't touch me. And I'm going to beat this little XFC hero senseless.” The guard, for his part, smirked. “Nobody likes you here Holliday. You're back to square one.” I dragged on it again, and blew it in his face. “My favorite odds, fucko.” Present day. Once again, a flashback killed off time. The sun was rising eventually, and the sky was tinted a light blue. I had to wait a week to become an official “active-active”. Right now, the only thing in play was a contract. I wasn't entitled to cutting a promo until the day of the show, and even then, I could only imagine the shit I could legally say without being censured. Then again, I knew I wasn't on TV right now, so I could just get it all out. Yeah, I'm Jihad. I have a deep-rooted obsession with messing with guys and their minds. I probably get a hard-on from their struggle. Fuck you, Jihad. I don't care what your name is, where you're from, your country's story, none of that shit. I just don't care. I could say this until I'm dead. YOU made this personal, you insolent little shit. You made this what it is today, and then when you saw a man fighting back, you cowered. You disappeared because I just kept coming back after whatever you threw. How does it feel? How does it feel to have the walls closing in? The spotlight fading out? YOUR glory days are over. No more titles, no more fun for you. There are people in this wrestling world that see and know what happened. They know what is going on, and they know the fight I'm fighting is to finish what you started. It's all coming back to haunt you. Go ahead, and use whatever excuse you want. Your family being slaughtered, whatever. I don't care. I could have empathized, and I could have been your friend. You had to go and fuck all of that up. I'm the one person that could make or break you. I'm the one person you don't want to be sitting on the other side of the table for, but low and behold, here you are...almost like a game of Russian Roulette, and we're down to 2 chambers remaining. One of us is going out for good. It damn sure isn't going to be me. Have your XFC loyalist fans, and have the entire company in your corner. That shit hasn't stopped me in the past with people. Sellers. Vola. Harwell. Olsson. Just to name a few. I don't care, especially when I'm at the limit. I passed that limit six months ago. Your fans, they can cheer for you. They can be happy one of their own is back in the picture, because it makes the company seem that much stronger. The company? They can side with you because I came from a 'rival company'. I don't have a company affiliation. I'm Johnny fucking Holliday. Mr. Showtime. Broadway's Finest. I'm not UIWF, nor am I XFC property. Everything that is me, I own. All my entities. But that's just a name. You can own my fist sinking into your skull any day of the week. Guaranteed. So, come on. I told you it wasn't over, and I told you it'd be a cold day in hell before I'd forget. It's a matter of time winding down here. I'm in the best shape I've ever been. You sir, are fucked. My eyes refused to stay open anymore, as they shut. I sunk deeper into the couch, content in the fact that my inner demons and rage could resurface, and it all can come to fruition. Soon. Soon. The whirring of the air conditioner began to drown out. I was entering my own sleep, and the surroundings of this world began to fade to black.