time: evening; nine thirty seven, p.m.

day: october twenty-first; oh-five.

place: bailey's bay, bermuda; engel residence.

(So it's done. So it's set. So I'm one step closer to having my daughter back. The man's voice, so coarse and professional, is still ringing in my ears. Ring. Cringe. Rage.)

Man: Wednesday. Next week. The 26th. Milwaukee. 9pm. Or your daughter loses a leg. I'm told the bleeding on that is very hard to stop. We're not doctors, so I suggest you be there.

(Oh, I'll be there. Trust me. I'll be there. And everyone will know I was there, because Lake Michigan will run wild with your blood. I've never felt so serious in my life. I've never felt so corrupt in my life. I've never felt so full of rage in my life. It's amazing how traumatic situations can turn peaceful people into warmongers.)

(I'm at war, with wit and hope as my weapons. A chance in hell is what they may say I have...but in reality, that's all I need. That one very slim chance...and things change. People are avenged. Criminals are taken down.)

(Justice is served. All on the account of one chance. That's all I have; that's all I can afford.)

(I've been getting this feeling creeping down my spine. You know, that feeling after you see someone die? Or actually do the job yourself? Wait, you don't know? Well, I do. I'm probably the only man around here who does, except Demise and his thugs. It's not a wonderful feeling, but it has its advantages: satisfaction, relief, and vengence. However, guilt can out-weigh all of that if you let it.)

(If. Bury the guilt. Bury the pain. Bury the suffering. I've done my job, I'm getting my daughter back; the past is finally just that - the past.)

(Dwelling on things never gets you anywhere, one of few tips I was able to pick up as a young man. If you live and breathe in the past, you destroy yourself. How can you go on with life, living in history with no ability to change it whatsoever? Things become useless. Life becomes pointless. Until one day you sit down to a bottle of Tylenol PM's and slowly put yourself to sleep.)

(Slowly. The acetaminophen lowering your heart rate farther than it can handle until it ceases to function.)

(But right before that happens, your very life flashes before your eyes. You see the things that could have been, the things that should have been, and the people who truly care about you. The people who would've been there for you, if you let them. At that very moment, regret hits you harder than you've ever been hit before - death ensues you.)

(Trust me, I've seen it.)

(My life wasn't always peachy.)

(I remember coming home to the days of high school football and soccer. I came home a winner, because I was damn good at those sports. Was that ever enough for him? No, it wasn't. I came home, with perfect grades. I had tons of friends, I had girls. I did everything and anything I wanted to in school, in life, and right now. Is it ever good enough for my father?)

(Nothing ever was. It was always "More, more, more", while he was drinking himself to bad health and a beer gut, not to mention constant physical and mental abuse on his family. How can a son live with that?)

(After a reality-check dosage of Tylenol PM, I realized I can live with that. Two words.)

(Fuck him.)

(I'll create my own legacy with or without him. Sure, a man of flesh and blood can be destroyed, ignored, and discouraged. Legend, symbol; they are ever-lasting.)

(It's a story I've never told and a story that will never be heard by anyone but me. Sometimes accepting the past and moving on means completely forgetting it ever existed.)

(But, how could I live with myself if I'm not given the chance to raise my own child and never make the mistakes my father did? I have to prove to myself that I'm not like him.)

(Decked out in dark blue cargo-like shorts and a relaxing melancholy green t-shirt, I lay across my leather couch enjoying a show that I catch whenever I can. Thank God for DigitalVideoRecorders. It makes TV much more flexible now-a-days. I look at the clock; nine forty. I stretch...contemplating whether I should or not. Might as well.)

(I press pause on the cable box and get up on the couch. I stroll into the kitchen, locating the usual video camera and set up. Night again. I love doing promos at night; it adds more meaning to what I have to say. How can anyone take me seriously with a sunny, cloudless sky behind me? I grab the camera, putting a fresh tape in it, and set it in its usual spot. I place myself at the other end of the table, my back to my floor-to-ceiling windows. You can see the moonlight reflect off the pool water. It's quite beautiful. I press record.)

VIRUS: Can I ask you something, Braindead? Do you know what irony means?

Do you?

Well, allow me to give you the 'textbook' definition, courtesy of Merriam-Webster. Irony is a pretense of ignorance and of willingness to learn from another assumed in order to make the other's false conceptions conspicuous by adroit questioning.

Now, let me educate you on a context definition concerning you, me, and PHW.

Yes, you might be a dominant tag-team with your partner...Deathstroke...but you're in a singles match against me. I don't care about Ricky and Vern and you two beating them. Celebrate that stupidity on your own time. When it comes to gloating about that kind of victory, when you're up against a man like myself tomorrow, it doesn't mean anything. Please, write that down.

It. Doesn't. Mean. Anything.

I was like that back in the beginning of my career. I won tag-team match after tag-team match and thought I was in-fucking-vincible, but I wasn't. I lost singles matches left and right because I didn't have quite the experience I wanted. Going from tag to singles is very complex and difficult, because they're two completely different matches.

See where I'm going with this? Don't assume you're the best of the best of the best, sir, because you're good in tag matches. You're in a different ballpark now. No, scratch that; a different league.

(A slight grin.)

VIRUS: You two as a tag team might be 'the real deal', but please don't let that egotism and chauvinistic view carry over to our match. You, Braindead, are not the real deal. You have yet to prove yourself as the real deal. And until you do, you will never use the term 'the real deal' ever again, so help me God will I beat the ever-living shit out of you.

Check my interview with Vander about why I've been called 'the Virus'. You'll find it to be most interesting and I'll bet my house that it's more entertaining and of more importance than the nickname you have chosen for yourself. So go ahead, catch up on some reading, but since you obviously haven't, please shut the fuck up about it.

You cannot possibly insult, or even joke with, a man's nickname when you have probably the most retarded one ever since 'twenty one'.

Yeah, that hit home on some of you.

So...I don't have to worry about you making fun of my name, when that's all you did in the first two or three sentences you spoke to me in your promo? I mean, really. How am I not supposed to be upset and disappointed? I'm one minute into your promo and I'm already shaking my head.

Allow me to reiterate what I said before, you haven't proven yourself, Brian. Seriously. I'd have to go back to your W3 days and look at your singles matches tapes in order to get a glimpse of your style. A tag-team match doesn't display much, since you're working as a team with another person in order to defeat another team. It's a completely different concept and thus, what have you done in PHW to make me believe you'd actually give me the match of my life?

Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

Ricky and Vern are fucking jokes. Second tip of the day.

Third? Don't underestimate me, when I actually can and have backed up my talk on numerous accounts in PHW, whereas you haven't.

Fourth? Having two or more nicknames is beyond stupidity. You're either Braindead, or the Devil. Pick one. You can't be both for obvious reasons.

You can't use me as a stepping stone, Brian; I lack the essential grip. You'll slip and fall at my feet, like the rest of your W3 pals.

(A smile. A wicked smile. The message is clear, Braindead.)

VIRUS: We'll see how you hold up tomorrow. We'll see if you can actually be somewhat of a challenge. All of this talk and hype isn't good for you. One slip and no one will let you forget it. No one.

Remember that.

You can't slip.

You can't make a mistake.

You can't fail.

Your entire career in PHW is resting on our match. If I put you away, you'll have to start all over. I mean, how bad would it look for you if someone out of your league pinned your shoulders for three count? It's embarrassing.

But it's standard for me, because I am out of your league. I'm way beyond your league. I stopped playing on the amateur level a long, long time ago.

Let's see how you hold up against a professional.

(A stern look, then a reach for the remote control. I hit the stop button and eject the tape. Grabbing the tape, I set it down on the kitchen counter as usual. I tuck the video camera into the corner until I have to use it again. It's getting late. If only Slaughterhouse wasn't on Saturday, I might go out. But, according to some people, I need all the help I can get. We'll see. I walk back into the family room, hitting play on the cable box to resume my show.)