time: 9:30, evening.

day: monday, march seventh.

place: hamilton, bermuda; radio station.

(Today is turning out to be worse and worse at the turn of every corner. Every footstep I make takes me closer and closer to agony. It's like I'm dying to cry out and ask for help, but my vocal chords are malfunctioning. I want to face the fears and demons that haunt me, but all I do is ignore them and hide in my place. My place inside my head. Everyone has one; only the insane and delusional dare admit they do. And if you don't have one? Well, you're not fucking human. People need to realize that's the only thing that separates the "normal" from the "insane"; that place they go to inside their head. Some go to a nice place filled with fantasy and tranquility; some go to a place of horror and the unimaginable. It depends on the person, I suppose.)

(Why I can't do what I want to do and only act when I need to act, I don't know. It seems like I'm waiting for something. Maybe I'm waiting for someone, I haven't a clue. I wish I knew what was wrong with me, I wish someone would just tell me - "you're fucking crazy; put the white jacket on him". All these thoughts, all these dreams, all these realities - they don't exist. They only exist in my head. Do you have any idea how fucking lonely and withdrawn that makes me feel? No, you don't. No one does.)

(The last thing I want to do is see a shrink about my problems. I doubt he or she would even understand. I might scare them off. It's worth a try, I suppose. I'll do it after next weekend.)

(I reach the front door of my brother's esteemed radio station, wearing hilfiger blue jeans and a nike black shirt - taking steps with my new balance gray and silver shoes. I go up to the secretary who still doesn't recognize who I am.)

virus: Hi, my name is Matthew Engel and I need to see Joe immediately so tell him I'm coming in.

(Not even wasting a step, I stroll right by her. She doesn't even bother to respond, only she tells Joe that I'm on my way in. I can here some rustling in his office, but nothing major. I walk in and I see that he's packing his stuff into two boxes.)

virus: I heard the news. Why the hell are you quitting? You've only done one show, man.

BoXeR: Dude, that's exactly why I'm quitting. I've only done one show - no harm, no foul. I talked to Payton Strader the other day and he's offered me a better deal over at KTDR, his privately owned radio station. I get my own airtime, whenever I want, and the benefits are nice. The pay is the same - shit - but he says if I do well I'm eligible for raises and such.

virus: So you're just going to give up on ACW Radio entirely? I doubt they find a replacement, since it only had one show.

BoXeR: Quite frankly, dude, ACW treats their people like shit compared to Strader Incorporated.

virus: You're serious? I can't believe fuckin' TDR talked you into a new gig at his station. What a prick. The last thing I want is him messing with my fucking family. He needs to haul ass back to Texas where he belongs chasing black boys around with a noose.

BoXeR: You're overreacting, man. All he did was offer me a job and I took it.

virus: Oh and of course this has nothing to do with the fact I'm facing that redneck next Sunday at Mourning Glory?

BoXeR: I thought it was tonight?

virus: They pushed it back a week instead of a day.

(Joe shakes his head and I speak, not wanting to waste my time with his gestures of disappointment.)

virus: So you're just gonna pick up and start off fresh at KTDR? You're such a traitor, man. Why don't you just join their fucking family why you're at it?

BoXeR: Hey, hey! You're the one that doesn't give a shit about family, alright? Not me. I can't help it you run to Dustin every five seconds about anything that goes wrong in your so-called perfect life.

virus: You know what? Fuck you. I have called you plenty of times and most of the time you're too drunk to either answer your phone or talk on it. Don't get me started, I have so much dirt on you that I could bury you with it. And you wonder why I have Alexia and you don't.

(You guessed it. The fucker punches me square in the mouth.)

BoXeR: Get out.

virus: Listen man, I went too far; I'm so--

BoXeR: What did I just say?

(I look at him in the eyes and I turn my back on him, leaving the office and soon enough, leaving the radio station. I feel my bottom lip and my finger is covered in blood. What an asshole. I didn't really mean what I said, he just kept eggin' me on and on. I can't believe he's betraying the family to work for the Straders. I find some napkins left over from a fast-food dinner one night and cover my lip, trying to stop the bleeding and drive at the same time. I make it home to my lovely mansion and enter through the front door. As soon as I drop my keys on the counter, I hear Mia coming down the steps. She walks into the kitchen.)

Mia: What happened to your lip, baby?

virus: Uh...Joe hit me in the mouth. I said some things, went too far, and he hit me.

Mia: What did you say?

virus: He's going to work for Strader Inc., now, at KTDR Radio. Just forget about what I said, I need an icepack.

(I search around our medicine cabinet for an icepack I can freeze up real quick and Mia speaks again.)

Mia: You know, you and Dustin both encourage him to go out, get a job, and do something with himself. He finally does it, but takes a job somewhere else where you guys AREN'T and you yell at him for it?

virus: Honey, I didn't yell at him; it's just, he's going to work for the Straders. I don't like the Straders. I never have. Granted, they have a line of great wrestlers, but it doesn't make them good people. I just want what's best for him.

Mia: And it might be Strader Incorporated, it might not be. You don't know that and only he can make that decision.

virus: I know that. (I find an icepack, placing it in the freezer, and I put the napkin back over my lip.) But he has a history of making bad decisions, you know this.

Mia: That might be true, but he needs to learn from his own mistakes and you need to let him. Just because he's not as smart or as talented as you, it doesn't mean he can't make competent decisions on his own. He's fully capable, he just needs to lay off the alcohol.

virus: Alright, alright. I'll leave him be. But, Payton's going to get the shit-end of the stick come Sunday.

Mia: That's fine, take it out on Payton, but not your brother. He loves you and you love him, you shouldn't let petty things like that get between you two.

(I love her so much. Whenever I'm out of focus, she realigns my perception and leads me down the right path. I'm so lucky.)

Mia: Speaking of Strader, Dustin sent you another tape again - it seems Payton doesn't keep his mouth shut. Here.

(Mia hands me a copy of Payton's promo, which I've already seen, and I lay it on the counter. I might as well get this over with, huh? Mia walks into the den, out of sight, and I get my video camera right. As usual, it captures me and my beautiful background - not to mention a lovely day in Bermurda. I grab the remote and hit record.)

virus: Payton, I don't even know where to start. I was so lost in your promo that not even God himself could've pointed me in the right direction. However, with all my power and wisdom, I will try to return the proverbial bitch slap and implied "Fuck you". Quite frankly, I really don't care if you know all that I've done in this industry. If you want to sit back, relax, and kick it to A&E's Biography starring myself, then by all means have a brewski and do so. I don't bother with that kind of thing because the past is the past, and you seem to be living in it.

Granted, you talk about future and two thousand five being the year of the Straders, but get over yourself...this isn't HiC or aWe. This is ACW. Times have changed. Men have fallen. Stars have risen.

And you? You're done. Welcome to the new age, Payton, and guess what? You didn't make the cut. Sorry.

However, Payton, if I recall I gave you my acknowledgement of respect as well. I gave you my courtesy, don't you remember? I didn't knock your "shindig" at all. I just don't agree that the fans want us to sit around and talk about how great we are and how great each other is. The fans want us to battle; the fans want us to get our match heated up with words and proverbial nonsense. I'm always one for doing what the fans want because we're here due to their loyalty.

But if you think the fans would love us if we liked each other and sat around the fire tellin' old war stories, then I think you need to brought back down to size and back to reality.

You know what - I've certainly lost all respect for you, Payton. The moment you found out what went on between me and my family - which is personal - and brought my family into this, you lost all my respect. Why? Do you see me bringing your family into this and turning them against you? No. I could, if I wanted to, but I'm not a heartless son of a bitch. I live by principles and ethics, two words that ain't in your fucking vocabulary.

Why you had to go and convince my brother to work for you, I have no idea. Why you had to disrupt my family and bring them into something they had nothing to do with, I have no idea. Are you at the bottom of the rope for desperate measures to intimidate and manipulate me? Do you think I'm going to lose focus in my match because my brother works for you now, or he's at the booth commentatin' a storm about me and my greatness, only he thinks I'm shit?

I'm not one to lose focus, Payton. What you're doing is wrong, but when that bell rings - my life gets thrown out the window and wrestling steps in. It shows my love for the sport, something that IS on my resume. TDR, desperation is a stinky cologne.

(I take a moment to myself, turning away from the camera. I remember the look in my brother's eyes when he punched me in the mouth today. I notice my lip isn't bleeding anymore.)

So go ahead, make the jokes about the rivalries between my brother and me. Go ahead and make your jokes with your corny Texan humor that you managed to get my brother to work for you and that you'll use him against me to show that you're "innovative". What you fail to realize that it doesn't show that you're innovative, it shows that you're a fucking prick.

It shows that you have NO class.

And no, my brother called it wrong - that's why he's going on your show, so he doesn't look bad when he votes for the Straders.

I don't know where you get off on me begging you to retire; when, in fact, I'm begging you to do the exact opposite. I'm begging you to show these people why you think you're the greatest thing since Easy Mac. I'm begging you to become innovative and give these people a damn great match and their money's worth.

I'm not begging you to retire; I'm begging you to step up and show me why TDR are the most feared initials in entertainment industry and not the initials of another has-been.

I'm already someone, TDR. I'm already legendary. You need to show me why you think you belong in the ring with me and not at your local McDonald's.

(I laugh a bit, remembering Joe once worked at a McDonald's and how funny his uniform was.)

Now, what I don't understand is what the hell you and Kaleb have to do with our match? Who cares if you guys won nine championships? Who cares if you guys kicked a lot of ass and my brother and I didn't. I mean, this is singles competition, Payton. Have you forgotten?

You're not gonna have that chance to tag in Kaleb to save your ass from getting out-wrestled. No, certainly not.

My brother was never my tag team partner, we had our separate businesses in separate federations back in the AoWF. He was cleaning up house in the Justice Wrestling Alliance and I was doing my part in the Unified Hardcore Wrestling Alliance. I emphasize the word hardcore there, Strader. Why? Back in that day, when you saw the dictionary definition of hardcore, you got a picture of me.

Make me bleed a river, Payton, it won't stop me. It's not like I haven't done it before. You might find yourself having trouble being "innovative".

Oh no, I'm scared. I'm scared because TDR thinks he's got twenty three years left of wrestling dominance. I'm so petrified, I just wouldn't know what to do. I can't handle Straders running around and dominating, it would just break my heart.

I'm laying the sarcasm on thick this time, even for your Texan intellect. Be careful, TDR, your career could end on march thirteenth because I might just snap something of value. That's the beauty of this sport, you never know what's going to happen. You can't possibly predict and guarantee us twenty three more years because you never know what I'm going to do to you. You never know what move I might put on you that might bend something in the wrong direction. Wrestling is unpredictable, Payton.

I think you said to be truly innovative you have to be inspired...well, I'll be damned. You hit the nail right on the head. I'll bring a new level of innovation to the ring, Payton, because I'm inspired to shut that damn mouth of yours. I'm inspired to put an obstacle or two in your rise to supremacy in ACW. I'm inspired to be that one or two guys that you just couldn't beat, no matter how great you become.

That's inspiration. That's innovation. To do and accomplish what most people couldn't do. I'm right in the middle of your warpath, TDR, and I'll live to tell about it.

(Or die trying.)

Come march thirteenth, innovation will have a new name.

Engel, of course. Not Strader.

(I go to turn off the video camera, but something strikes me that I forgot to mention.)

One more thing, I heard Jacob doesn't agree with my motive for being at MG.

I don't recall asking you for your opinion. Shut the fuck up before you get hurt, kid.

(Finally I turn off the video camera, putting it away where it was, and popping out the video. I lay it down on the counter and join my wonderful woman in the den. She looks lovely, don't you wish you had someone like her?)