time: 11:30, morning.

day: tuesday, march first.

place: bermuda's capital, hamilton;
the radio station.

(You wake up one morning to realize that your life has done a complete one-eighty in a shorter amount of time than you can handle. You wake up to find your beautiful wife still lies next to you and not in a steel containment six feet underneath the surface. You wake up to figure out your mind and brain are misfunctioning and you sound crazy, psychotic, and ludacris. You ask yourself one question:

Why me?)

(I don't know what I ever did to deserve this kind of punishment, I don't know why the Lord himself chooses to punish me, an innocent victim, rather than the evil that spreads throughout this world. It's so fucking ironic that it makes me want to regurgitate everything inside this body of mine. Maybe I should do that, rather than deal with the misery and madness that exists inside my head. Maybe I should perform a vigorating seppeku on myself and put the insanity to end. But then again, that just isn't me. Once I step back, take a deep breath, and open my eyes; it's just the insanity talking. Yeah, it talks, often too much like a TDR promo.)

(I think all the time about the wonders of the world, the madness within the world, and the acts of violence throughout the world. It makes me sick to my stomach to think that within all of that, in part of the world there is a man suffering from some sick disease that no one knows about. There is a man who dreams horrible things and then makes them to believe that there are real. The worst part of this all is that I can't stop. I have these dreams, and they're so real, yet when I wake up - it never happened. Every single time that occurs, I never give in. I never want to give in, I never want to believe it never happened. How can all of your senses be tricked by just a dream and then to be expected that it was just all a trick? The mind believes what you can see, touch, feel, smell, and taste, however there's a sixth sense which doesn't sit well with me now-a-days; faith.)

(It seems I've lost faith in myself. I can't believe that I'm going insane.)

(I find myself day-dreaming, sitting in the radio station that my brother owns. Some of you might recognize the name "The BoX Office", it's the title of my brother's radio show he is doing for ACW. I listened to his show yesterday and it was good, I didn't know he had talent for radio, but he sounded awfully nervous. I guess I would be too, radio's a bit different than cutting a promo or doing an interview. The secretary at the front motions to me that Joe Engel will see me now. Well I damn well hope so, after all I'm just his brother, his flesh and blood. I smile at the woman, noticing how pretty she is - of course he would hire a pretty secretary that he probably takes back to his place once and awhile. I walk to the back, down a flight of stairs, and I come to my brother's office. I notice that the actual recording room with the shitty equipment is down the hall, but I knock on the door.)

BoXeR: Enter.

(And I do just that. I walk into the office and notice my brother is working on next week's radio show, the script of course. From what I talked about with him over the phone, he likes to script out his show so he knows what's going on the whole time. He doesn't read from anything, but if he has a great plan in his head on how the show should run, he can always improvise and make it better along the way. A nice idea, I might add. I sit down in front of his desk and he looks up, realizing who has been waiting a half an hour to see him.)

BoXeR: Dude, why didn't you just tell the secretary in the first place that you were my brother?

virus: I don't know, I don't think she would have believed me. She didn't seem to recognize who am I, I seem to come across a lot of people like that. Maybe I'm not as famous as I thought.

BoXeR: Ah, shut up. You know you are, but not everyone in the entire world watches wrestling. Only, statistically, sixty-seven percent of them. But, that's neither here nor there. How's it going man? What have you been up to? Is Mia good? And Alexia?

virus: Yeah, things are...weird, but okay. I haven't been up to much. My match with fucking Protean got cancelled by the front office due to some controversy, much like what you were talking about on the radio. Word is that they ARE pushing the card back a week, good call on that. Mia is doing great, she's more beautiful than ever - and don't say anything about plastic surgery, because she's all real. Trust me, I would've seen the bill. Alexia is doing great ever since we adopted her. Her grades are good, she's social, doesn't get into too much trouble. Who would have ever thought after all she's been through.

BoXeR: Yeah. Well, after all of that and what I went through with Tara, I didn't think I could handle being a father. And I knew she would be in great hands with you and Mia.

virus: Yeah, did you think about that when you insulted me forty-five times on your radio show?

BoXeR: Oh come on dude, don't give me shit about that. You know it's an act. You know I care about you, man. I'm sportin' the brother versus brother rivalry.

(The look in his eye told me differently, but he is my brother and I'm sure he is a tad bit jealous that I'm a bit more successful than him. Oh well.)

virus: Whatever, it's alright. I just came down to see the new gig here and see how you were doing. You don't like to answer your cell - you know that's what it's for, right? When important people to you want to call you and see how you're doing, you answer the phone?

BoXeR: I've been keeping busy with this, sorry man. But I did receive a call from Dustin sometime last week and he told me something about you. Are you okay? I know a great neurosurgeon that can take a look at you to see if anything is wrong.

virus: Uh...I'm...fine. What did he say?

BoXeR: He said you keep having dreams and you think they really happen. I heard about that one dream, man that must be rough. I wish no one had to feel that way, unfortunately I know how much damage it can cause a human being.

virus: Yeah, I appreciate it. Do you have a card or something for that neurosurgeon? I'll go see him in a couple weeks, I've got important wrestling coming up soon.

(He pulls out his wallet, searching through it, and finally reaches his one and only card for the surgeon. He hands me it and I grab a pen and a piece of paper to write down the name and number. I put that piece of paper in my pocket and hand him back his card. He puts his wallet away.)

virus: Well, it seems like you're doing just fine here. I'll let you get back to your script. See ya.

BoXeR: You don't want the extreme Tour?

virus: I'll be by again, I'm sure. I have something I have to do right now anyway.

BoXeR: Alright, don't hesitate to call me. I promise I'll answer the phone if you need anything - ANYTHING. I feel guilty that you always need to run to Dustin for help, I'm here too you know. I might be busy and drunk most of the time, but I'm still your brother.

virus: I know that. I'll give you a call. (He gives Joe a hug.) Take it easy.

BoXeR: You too. Tell Alexia to come by whenever she wants.

(On that note, I exit the office, going back up the stairs and walking out the front. I hop into my beloved corvette, driving off from the radio station and back to my house. Back to where it all started. And definitely, back to where it will end.)

(I reach the long driveway of my home and finally park the car outside the garage. I don't like parking it in there because this car is valued at 75 grand and so help me God if anything should randomly fall or get shifted and damage my car. But, I guess, it could happen even outside the garage. I don't know. Maybe I should build a building with nothing in it besides my car. That would be nice. We have so much crap that the garage is filled anyway. I walk into my house, resting my keys and my cell phone on kitchen counter. I see that I have mail. It's the tape of TDR's promo, from Dustin. "I know you've seen it, but I hate the fact you don't make tapes of your opponent's promos, so here. - Dustin." He's such a nice guy. I put the tape down and go to my video camera, sitting in its usual corner. I move it into good position, capturing me and my lovely backyard. I sit down at the table, hitting the record button on my remote control.)

virus: First things first. I have no idea why my match with Protean was cancelled, after all - I was looking forward to it, in a sense. I had a grasp of knowledge that lead me to believe I would come up victorious, but we'll never know. At least not until a couple of weeks if by chance I get booked against him again. Like I said, I don't know what happened. Protean, if it's any consolation, I would like to wrestle you one day or another. Whenever you'd like. Just let me know and I'm there.

I assure you, I won't be disappointing like some people have turned out to be.

Moving along, the lovely Lisa Lorenzo has offered me a chance to fight at her much-loved event entitled Mourning Glory. I love the title, I must say, but the style of matches? I don't agree with. I don't think victory should be decided by who can bloody the other guy more and who can use a foreign object the best, I believe victory should be decided with who has the better talent, who has the better skills, and - all in all - who is the better wrestler. I had my days of being hardcore, making men bleed rivers in the ring, and punishing people with barbed-wire, chairs, tables, cinder blocks, and nun-chuck cats, but those days are well, well behind me. When I left the AoWF, I left those hardcore intentions behind me. I realized that it wasn't getting me anywhere, it wouldn't win me a World title, and it certainly wouldn't make me one of the best wrestlers known to date.

Psychoduck thought it would, but look at where he's at. Wait, you don't know?

Exactly.

(I pause for a moment and smile, then glory.)

You know where I am, I'm still around. I'm still famous. I'm still loved. I didn't completely give in to that idea of wrestling, but gave it up and choose something more professional, more long-lasting, and definitely something with more skill - technique, acrobatics, and submission. Those three forms of wrestling in which infer my style of wrestling are what I will use to defeat my opponents, if it's a hardcore match or not. Yes, I was the AOWF's King of Extreme champion. Yes, I had some of the most bloodiest matches of all time in the UHWA. Yes, I was a fucking hardcore icon.

Not anymore. I'm a wrestling icon, I'm a living legend. Look around, people, you're engulfed in it. You're engulfed in me.

So whatever kind of match we have, since it won't be decided until that actual night, don't expect me to use anything except my legs and arms. Don't expect me to unwrap a turnbuckle, grab a steel chair, set up a table, or use the steel stairs. I'm not like that anymore and I certainly will not change. You see, what people haven't figured out is that the fans don't care if you're hardcore or not. They don't care if you're the best damn wrestler in the whole fucking world. You know what they care about?

You flying off the top turnbuckle and hitting the most elaborate move they've ever seen. You picking up your opponent and slamming them to the mat with the most painful move they've ever seen.

You giving them something they've never seen before. Can you do that TDR with a hardcore match? No. It's a broken record. It's over-played, everyone has seen pretty much anything that can happen in a hardcore match. But if you become innovative, then I guess the crowd will love that too. However, I find it easier to use real wrestling and real skills, rather than swinging a steel chair around, to please the crowd and give them a great show.

(I pause for a moment, thinking back to my UHWA days.)

Yes, I do know that I came up with something innovative in my UHWA days that would be considered as hardcore. My incident with the kitty nun-chucks, maybe some of you remember that, maybe some of you don't. Those days are gone; I beat my opponents with skill, not some ridiculous weapon.

(Then again, I don't know. That was pretty damn good and I got so much acclaim for that. Who knows. I hate the life of a hardcore wrestler and I hate those matches now, I just don't see the point in using weapons to defeat your opponent in the ring. It's not war, it's wrestling. Like I said, who knows.)

Maybe some of you agree with my thoughts, maybe some of you don't. I don't really care. You won't see Matt Engel pick up a weapon at Mourning Glory, but that doesn't mean he won't pick up the dubya in his records. I intend to win, I will do my best to win, and I don't need a baseball bat to do so.

Of course, I'm sure most of you caught ACW's radio show this week. I wasn't favored to win, only because my brother is an asshole. That's okay, though, he's still my brother, I guess.

(Scoff.)

Anyway, on to more important matters, I do still have a match against the Dream Reaper on March 6th. Yes! Your hero is booked in something along the likes of hardcore. First things first, I realized you've claimed two thousand five as the year of the Straders, or maybe just Payton Strader in particular, it doesn't really matter. TDR, you can have the year. I really don't care, I'm not out to dominate and take control of everything. I just do what I do best - wrestle. However, you're going to have one hell of a time trying to capture march sixth in your two thousand five reign. Why?

You're looking at why.

I'm against the fad of domination, so consider me your most deadliest opponent. Win or lose, when two thousand five comes to an end and you've looked back at all the greatness you've accomplished, remember how hard it was against me. Remember how tough I was. Remember just how fucking great I am.

I have that effect on everyone. They look back at their careers and they remember, "Man, fuckin' Engel was my hardest opponent". That's the only thing I plan to accomplish while people are spewing off on how they're going to do this, this, and that. Remember the actions speak louder than words thing? Yeah. Mine always do.

Always.

However, I do respect the fact that not word one in your promo was an insult towards me. I do respect that. Not a lot of people can come out and say they admire a certain wrestler and not speak badly about them. For that, it makes you a class act in my book. I know you're a man of actions yourself and you'd rather save all this for the ring, where we can truly show everyone just how great we are. And I have no ill will toward yourself, you've had your accomplishments and I've had mine. We've been around this business awhile now, but I do remember a certain promotion we were in together. ECWA. Remember that? Didn't we have a match? I could've sworn I won their Intercontinental Title, was that against you? I don't know, I seriously can't remember. It's funny how I'm losing my memory at age twenty-seven.

(It's funny how I spoke the answer before I knew it.)

But, would I really give the people here what they want if all I did was sit here and talked nice about you? Granted, you're a good wrestler and I respect you, but I can't just sit here and say how nice you are. That's not what people want. Unfortunately, we live in a society of doing what other people want us to do because we get something in the mail called a paycheck. That's how the world works, Payton.

On march sixth, I will show you the meaning of defying the odds. Like I said, I don't need a weapon to beat you. All I need is my bare hands, that's how I've taken down so many men and I don't plan to discontinue that. You'll get the best from me, Payton, in the honorable way. I really don't care what you think about that, all I know is that you better be planning on that.

You better be planning on fucking killing me before I ever give up to you.

You better plan on taking that steel chair and beating me to death with it, because I will get up and I will never stop.

Never.

That's the class act that I am.

(I turn away from the camera, noticing my front door opening. I hit the stop button on the video camera and Mia walks in to the kitchen. I blow her a kiss, like I always do, and she smiles at me. Oh how I love that smile.)