Where Eagles Dairy

            There aren’t many who change this drastically, this quickly. In a natural way, at least. But I guess that sometimes, change is necessary. Animals evolve; they mould and shape their features to adapt to their surroundings.

            Okay, that’s probably a bad example. That particular form of change is far too gradual. While my own change is one of graduality, it happened much quicker, and not in the most natural of senses like evolution.

            But my environment has shaped what I’ve become. With a little help from those around me.

January 19, 2016

My house

            “You sure about this?” Heath asks, sweating bullets in the seat across the table from me.

            “I don’t think we have a choice,” I respond, drenched with an equal amount of perspiration. I know it’s a long shot, but what other choice do we have? We’re the Twin City Champions, the very best team there is. If we lose here, we’ll be belittled beyond recognition. We have to take every chance we need to -- regardless of the risks -- in order to upkeep our reputation of impeccable unity.

            “But... What if it doesn’t work?” Heath questions, wiping the sweat from his brow, almost hyperventilating to keep his composure.

            “Don’t think about that,” I try to reassure him, doing my job as the optimist of the tandem to push the negative thoughts out of his mind. “We’ve come too far to second guess ourselves. If we fail here, we undo all of that hard work!”

            With a lick of his lips and a slight nod of his head, Heath sends the unmistakable signal through the fire in his eyes I’ve seen on many occasions. He’s in the zone. He’s ready.

            Still trembling slightly, he lifts the tweezers off the table, pinching them firmly between his thumb and index finger. He shoots me one last glance, which I reciprocate with a nod of confidence. As he leans in for the game-deciding move, his own nerves get the best of him -- as the tweezers come in contact with the metal edging on the shinbone, the buzzer of failure rings out like a foghorn as the little guy’s nose lights up like a Christmas Tree.

            “Ohh! You’re done!” Missy taunts, raising her beer in triumph as Heath throws the tweezers down. Rebecca joins in on the boasting -- their team did win, after all. Even though Heath and I lost, I can’t help but chuckle at his reaction to the defeat. He jumps out of his seat, taking on an aggressive stance -- akin to James Hetfield in the Master of Puppets era -- almost as if he’s trying to intimidate the board game.

            “Fuckin’ Operation!” he growls. “No-one wants to play you! You’re a piece of shit!”

            He angrily flips the table, sending game cash and plastic ailments all over the kitchen floor. I’d usually be annoyed by his behaviour, but today’s different; for some reason, I can’t help but burst into hysterics of laughter. It seems to be infectious too, as Missy and Rebecca soon join in -- though adamant at first, the pouting Heath eventually cracks a smile.

            These are the good times. Having fun, enjoying a night of games and goofing off with some of the people I’m closest to. I live for nights like this; if I'm feeling down, got no reason to continue on, I just remember I have nights like this to look forward to -- and suddenly, life doesn't seem so hard any more.

            “It's getting late, I'm gonna turn in,” Missy yawns, checking her watch. “You want a ride, Rebecca?”

            “Yeah, sure.”

            I give my girlfriend a quick kiss as her and Missy head off on their way, leaving just Heath and I to clean up the empty pizza boxes and bottles scattered all around.

            “Well that was fun, huh?” I say with a smile, dumping my collection of cardboard in the recycling bin. Heath doesn't answer. It's not uncommon for him to become ticked off by something such as this, and there isn't much that can be done when he's in this state. I just leave it be, and usually he’ll be back to his old self within a day or two.

            As the clock rolls over to 1:00 am, I'm still lying in bed, wide awake. After watching what happened in the #1 Contender’s Match on the last Breakthrough, I'm still in shock; the Chaossworn and the Neon Babes put on an immaculate performance, every move thought out and executed with precision. You could tell, just by watching these two teams go at it, that they wanted this title match more than anything in the world.

            We’re no strangers to the climb. In fact, we've had to deal with it our entire careers: through the EBW ranks, on the road to the RCW straps, and even here in VoW. The path is winding, treacherous, and riddled with chaos and despair. But if you can find the will to claw your way through the other side, you may find that you've lost a part of yourself; whether it be your sanity, as in Heath’s case, or your innocence, as in mine. Part of you is dead and gone; such is life in this crazy business.

            The Neon Babes were ultimately victorious, albeit probably not in the way they had hoped; despite the match ending in disqualification, they still had their hands raised, and were thus declared the #1 Contenders. To be honest, I was actually excited when they won; I've been watching their matches, ever since their debut, and they're intense to say the least. The way they’re able to gel so well in the ring, despite being so different, is akin to how Heath and I have worked together our entire tag team career.

            And it's exciting!

            We have to defend our titles against them in a Double Jeopardy match, which is a variation of a traditional Ladder Match. Looking back at my own personal history with ladders is quite unflattering, with me failing to win my only Ladder Match to date -- a battle atop the aluminium against James Eriksson to determine the inaugural FBW Heavyweight Champion.

            Since that crushing defeat, I opted to turn down Ladder Matches; not just for the humiliation I endured, but also for the nagging back injuries I've worked through since that day. Even taking extended periods of time off has done very little to remedy the situation. So when a match of this nature comes along, you'd expect me to throw up my hands and pack it in.

            But, not this time. That was way back in 2010, and I've grown since that time. As Megadeth shouts with intensity -- “This day, we fight!” The Neon Babes may be a very different team to what we’ve faced this far, but I'm excited for the challenge. I can't wait to see what they bring to the table, especially with all of those ladders and other goodies in there they can get their hands on! One thing I know for sure is the fans will be going home happy come Double Jeopardy.

January 20, 2016

My room

            Sleep eventually comes, but doesn't last long as I'm woken by the dawn. This generic Wednesday morning begins as it usually does, with Link stretching his claws on the exposed section of the mattress where I’ve pulled the sheets off in my sleep. It would normally be irritating, but my mind is elsewhere -- the upcoming Ladder Match is all that’s on my mind. No disrespect intended to Gina and Nicole, but that ladder will be my real nemesis at Double Jeopardy.

            I need someone to talk to about this, I’m having that sense of doubt again. If I can’t find a way to shake that, there’s no way we’re walking out as champions. I pull up Heath’s number, but just as I’m about to hit the call button, I hesitate; he’s going through his own problems right now, with his son being manipulated and all that. Would it really be appropriate and ethical for me to bring up my anxiety when it comes to Ladder Matches? It seems ridiculous by comparison.

            I consider calling Missy, but once again decide against it; this isn’t an issue that’s going to be solved simply by talking about it -- I’ve got to delve deep into myself, locate the problem, and rip it out by its roots.

            And I only know of one man who can help me. I need to improve, as made evident by my most recent match: Last week, once again, I was the one letting my team down. Matt Robinson pinned me, asserting his dominance over me in front of a worldwide audience -- in the main event, no less. If I ever hope to protect my friends, I need to get stronger. As I am right now, Robinson, The Orphanage and anyone else who cares more about injuring people than actually proving themselves the old-fashioned way are going to persist in their quest to put innocent people on the shelf… And that tears a hole through me.

            Packing my bag, I leave some food out for my feline baby and set off on my quest. To gain the necessary courage, and the right skill set to crush it in this match, I have to seek out the fabled “Man In The West”; sounds a bit ridiculous, but that’s what they call him. They say he’s a wise old man who was once considered the best in the business, winning championships the world over with his patented finisher, The Buster Breaker.

            Part of me -- the skeptical part -- doesn’t believe the rumours to be true. A world renowned professional wrestling with a seemingly-infinite fortune, retreating to the woods to live his life in solitude, harbouring an unbelievable finishing move that could never be replicated by his peers seems a little farfetched.

            But I want to believe.

            If the tale is true, and if The Buster Breaker really does exists, I could see myself improving my game beyond recognition. To conquer my hesitation when it comes to climbing ladders and add The Buster Breaker to my already impressive arsenal, it would take every fibre of my being; not only that, but I’m taking a huge risk skipping out on training and preparation to chase down an old fable, which could’ve just been a joke passed down from generation to generation.

            The remainder of the day is spent trekking the harsh wilderness, tracking the coordinates of where this guy’s place of residency is said to be. My arachnophobia is put to the test, as spiders the size of my face are above, below and all around me as I navigate the dense forest -- but it’s all in the name of improvement.

            Come nightfall, the true terror of my surroundings is exposed; snakes, spiders, scorpions… You name it, it’s out here. It’s a true test of character, being able to remain calm in the twelve or so hours I’m stuck here. Sleep isn’t an option tonight.

January 21, 2016

Somewhere in the wilderness

            At sunrise, my packed provisions are no longer in existence. As the gurgling in my guts becomes increasingly louder, I start becoming desperate from lack of nourishment; as rain begins to pour heavily, through what must be sheer luck shining on me, I somehow stumble upon an old shack deep within the foliage.

            I ignore any morals my parents bestowed upon me about privacy, and decide to venture inside. What good am I going to be at the pay-per-view if I’m hacking my lungs up, or suffering from a terrible case of pneumonia?

            Walking in, a big bowl of freshly-picked fruit on the opposite side of the room immediately catches my eye, as if it’s calling to me. I inch ever so closer to the holy grail, every creak of the unstable floor causing me to hesitate momentarily through fear of falling right through. I reach the bowl without incident, lift a shiny red apple and take the biggest bite I’ve ever taken -- juice from the fruit flies every which way with the determined crunch; nothing has ever tasted so sweet, or so delicious!

            “You right there?” I hear a shriveled voice call out. Startled by the sound of another person, I prematurely swallow the apple in my mouth, choking for a moment before forcing it down my throat. I peer over my shoulder, and lay eyes upon an old, hunchbacked man in a cloak with what looks to be a hand-carved cane. This guy couldn’t be more than four foot tall, and as he hobbles over in my direction, he speaks once more, “You don’t see me comin’ into your place and eating all your food, do ya?!”

            “Oh! I, uhh…” I place the apple back in the bowl, as if that’s going to rectify what I’ve done. “I’m really sorry, sir! I just haven’t eaten since yesterday, I was starving…”

            The man looks me up and down, getting uncomfortably close as I stand like a soldier. He pokes my belly lightly with his cane a few times before stating, “I don’t believe you’re in any danger of that happening, sunnyboy!”

            As he walks by me, I relax my shoulders and exhale; at least now I know he’s not going to try knock my block off for trespassing. He approaches the fruit bowl, gazing at the gaping hole left in the apple from my dentures, then turns and tosses it to me. “You can have it,” he generously hands it over, and I waste no time finishing it up until it’s right down to the core.

            “Thanks a lot, mister!” I call out, satisfied by the delicious fruit now resting comfortably in my stomach.

            “Yeah, yeah…” he waves it off, as if it was irrelevant. “You can be on your way, now.”

            I can tell from the tone of his voice that he partially doesn’t want me to leave. It’s like he’s asking me to stay, but can’t quite force the words out. “You live here?” I ask, looking around the shack, trying to fathom how someone could possibly live here voluntarily.

            “What’s it to ya?” he snarls, turning to his side to avoid eye contact.

            That’s when I put all the pieces together. The position of this shack, the appearance of this guy…

            “You’re the Man In The West, aren’t you?!” I shout excitedly.

            “Heh?!” he reacts, jumping in place, looking stunned by my sudden outburst.

            “You were a legendary wrestler in your time, weren’t you?! Oh, I knew it! I knew you were real! This is great!”

            “Now hold on there, whippersnapper!” he shouts, losing his composure for a moment. “I never admitted to anything! What’s this ‘Man In The West’ you keep babbling on about?”

            “When I was a kid, I was told about a famous wrestler with a devastating finisher!” I explain the tale. “He won match after match, championship after championship, but one day he just...disappeared.”

            “And what makes you think this legendary wrestler is me?” he snaps, seemingly annoyed at my upbeat attitude.

            “Because he relocated to the west, to start a new life in the solitude of the wilderness,” I continue to explain. “It must be you! It makes total sense!”

            He completely no-sells my latest statement, instead opting to ask more questions of me. “How did you get here, young lad?”

            “What do you mean? I walked!”

            “WHAT?!” The old guy almost has a stroke. “That’s got to be at least 30 miles in radius! And you walked that far?!”

            “I guess so,” I shrug, not really receptive as to why that’s supposed to be such a big deal. The old guy strokes his beard, scratches his nose and fidgets with his false dentures, as if he’s deep in thought. “Umm, sir..?” I politely check in on him.

            “If you really walked all the way to this very spot, then you’ve passed my test,” he announces, with a toothless grin. “I am who you’re seeking -- the Man In The West. But, you can call me Buster.”

            YES! I knew it wasn’t just folklore! The Man In The West is real, and he’s standing right before me! This is great! I’m going to be unstoppable!

            “Can you teach me The Buster Breaker, sir?!” I excitedly request, fists clenched with unbridled passion.

            “Now hold on there, chap,” he halts me, raising his cane in a defensive stance. “Just because you’ve found me doesn’t mean I’m ready to reveal all of my greatest secrets to you. You still have to prove yourself worthy.”

            “Oh, okay,” my excitement subsides a little after discovering I’ve still got a long way to go. It’s still there, but my impatience far exceeds it. “What do you need me to do?” I ask with anticipation.

            “You’ve already proven you’re ready for the physical portion of my exams,” he states, referencing my journey here. “But now I need to test your mental capacity.”

            “I’m...not following…” I respond, confused.

            “The Buster Breaker is no joke, young ‘un. It takes spectacular physical and mental conditioning to master, and perform safely.”

            “Oh, I get it! How will you test that, though? An IQ exam?”

            “Give me something you value,” he blurts out, taking me by surprise a little bit. I fumble around in my backpack, which is now empty -- my heart sinks a little. Without something I hold dear to myself to present to this guy, he won’t agree to teach me his most devastating technique. “What’s that doo-hickey strapped to your arm?” he asks.

            “Doo-hickey..?” I repeat for clarity, glancing down at my forearm. “Oh, that’s my phone! It’s tracking my heartrate.”

            “Your phone?!” Almost another stroke, I’m sure. “You can attach phones to your arm now?! To track your heartrate?!”

            “Oh, they do much more than that! You can check the weather, catch up on the news, watch tv and movies…” I can see he’s almost passing out from what must be mind-boggling information to him, so I stop prattling on about the features and functions of modern technology, and get back to the real reason I’m here. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t have time for this! I need to get Puerto Rico as soon as possible! I have a Ladder Match to compete in!”

            “Let me see that phone of yours, boy,” he orders, and I pause at the odd request. “I have unlocked psychic abilities from my spiritual enlightenment,” he explains. “I can learn a lot about you just by touching your belongings.”

            A little odd, and more than a little creepy. Seems like this guy should be wearing a tinfoil hat, if anything. But I really want to learn that move, and this is the only way. I hand the phone over, and he raises it to his forehead for a moment. Eyes closed, he starts humming to himself as I stand idly by in awkward silence. He then proceeds to place the phone in what looks like a plastic bag, taking it up with duct tape.

            “Wait, what’re you--” I begin. Before I can reply, he’s already making a b line for the back door to the shack (by back door, I mean a cut out of the wall where the door should be). I trail behind briskly, perplexed by what he’s doing; he suddenly comes to a stop, and hurls the bundle with a pitch that would make major league players jealous. It lands with a plop in the swamp adjacent to his shack.

            “What?! Why did you do that?!” I shout at him, livid. He doesn’t react; he just simply turns around to face me, with a pleased smile on his wrinkly face.

            “That bag isn’t going to keep the swamp water out for long,” he snickers. “If you want to save your doo-hickey, you’d better start swimmin’!”

            “Crazy old man,” I grumble, stripping down to my boxer shorts and taking the plunge into the murky water. Normally, I wouldn’t go near any kind of fluid this contaminated, but I need that phone. So much of my life is situated on that phone, from my contacts to my appointments and appearance dates, to my social media accounts and bank details. It’s like my office is burning down and I’m trying desperately to save all the information I can.

            The water’s almost pitch black; visibility is zero. I have to repeatedly come back up for air due to my poor lung capacity, and the foul stench produced from the swamp. It’s soon apparent that old man Buster doesn’t have plumbing, so where else would he be emptying his poo bucket?

            Yeah, gross. I can taste it.

            Each time I swim to the surface for that desperately needed oxygen, Buster makes a snide comment, such as “You’re taking your sweet time…” or “Tick-tock, tick-tock!” I’m eventually able to pull the phone from the cesspool, but it’s not in time to save my phone’s life -- it’s dead and gone. There goes my only connection to the outside world; assuming I’d be able to find reception in this dense forestation.

            I climb out of the water at dusk, ripping leeches hanging off every limb of my body.

            “Tough luck, eh?” Buster snickers.

            “You destroyed my phone!” I snap, tossing it’s technological corpse to the ground.

            “You don’t need it,” he assures me.

            I clench my fists, suppressing my rage as to not go ape-shit on this decrepit old geezer. As the cold night air begins rolling in, I feel a chill right down to my bone. “Can I have a towel?” I managed to force beyond my chattering teeth.

            “Do I look like I bathe to you?” he responds, implying that I’m going to have to brave the night soaking from head to toe.

January 22, 2016

Buster’s shack in the middle of nowhere

            I wake up to the sun’s warm glow, although it’s not with the energy and enthusiasm I’d like. I’m still trembling, probably suffering from hypothermia and massive blood loss from those leeches, feel like I’m going to vomit because I’m so hungry… Not a fun way to spend a Friday.

            “Wakey-wakey!” I hear that familiar, irritating voice call out from high above. Confused, I look around at the treetops, spotting Buster perched high above my head on a platform that I’m pretty sure wasn’t there last night.

            But that’s not the strangest of it. An entire contraption, made up of rickety platforms and ladders crafted from splintered wood is spread out through the branches of the trees. I stand up, rubbing my eyes and gawking at what looks to be some kind of obstacle course. “What is this?!” I call out, a little intimidated.

            “It’s your next test!” Buster announces, arms spread wide like Cyrus from The Warriors while he delivered that penultimate speech of his.

            “I’m not doing this any more!” I shout defiantly, still weak as a kitten from the previous impromptu test/failed attempt to save my phone.

            “You are if you’re wanting breakfast!” he shouts back, motioning his cane towards the top of the trees, where the fruit basket is suspended from a single rope.

            Well played, old man. Well played.

            I prepare myself mentally at the foot of this daunting structure as best I can; I'm exhausted, I'm nauseous, and seriously beginning to question my decision to venture out here. As I put one hand and the opposite foot on the first rickety ladder that's barely holding together, the old man shouts out again.

            “WAIT!!” he bellows, his voice bouncing off the trees with a haunting echo.

            “What is it this time?!” I shout back, getting into that frustrated state that goes hand in hand with severe starvation.

            “You've got thirty minutes to get the fruit basket, before I try and take it from you!”

            Thirty minutes?! To climb this?! It'd take me that long just to make it halfway up what ever you'd call this monstrosity. But I can't not try, I've got to do all I can to get that fruit. That fruit is all that matters right now.

            I cautiously ascend the first ladder -- it creaks like a rusty gate, and I'm concerned that it won't be able to support my weight. However, it holds, and I'm on the platform to the next. I trek along nicely, until I come across a ladder slippery from mildew -- my foot catches it and I slip, almost plummeting to the hard ground below. Instead, I land flat on my face on the platform below, and then begins to slide off on my belly -- somehow, I miraculously muster the necessary muscle to clutch the edge of the platform in my fingertips.

            I refuse to look down, knowing what I’d see. Determination through being severely winded and possibly suffering a fractured jaw gives me the willpower I was counting on to pull myself back onto the safety of the podium. No rest for the weary, though -- I’ve got a mission to complete!

            As I desperately will myself through the obstacle course, Buster shouts out how much time I have left.

            “20 MINUTES!!”

            “13 MINUTES!!”

            “6 MINUTES!!”

            I've got to hurry. Time’s whittling away, and I've still got a long way to go. By my count, three minutes have elapsed, giving me a remaining three -- I have to get that fruit basket.

            I manage to push beyond my mental limits, and get to the top with around a minute to spare. I’m almost salivating as I climb the final ladder, extending for the basket above my head. I'm a fingertip away, stretching far more than I should be -- suddenly, a very familiar wooden cane hooks the handle of the basket, yanking it out of my reach. Buster sits on the branch above me with a cheesy grin.

            “Hey! I still had a minute left!” I complain, furious that he broke the rules.

            “And you trusted me when I said that?” he asks, slyly munching on a nashi pear.

            “Of course I did!” I respond, not giving it a second thought. Why wouldn't I trust him? He's training me, wouldn't he want me to have all the information of his lessons upfront so I can complete them to the best of my ability?

            “You’ve failed this test,” he announces, plopping the final slice of the final orange into his mouth.

            “You can’t be serious!” I kick up a stink. I watch as he devours the final banana, emptying the basket. There’s nothing left; null.

            “Look at where you are,” he states, encouraging me to inspect my surroundings; I notice just how high above the ground I am, and start getting that anxious pain in the pit of my gut. “See how far you climbed?” he continues. “You climbed this far, because you had a goal to work towards.”

            “Yeah, and you took it away by cheating,” I spit.

            “I shouldn’t have to tell you this; nobody in the wrestling business fights fair. No-one. If you’re foolish enough to believe there’s any sense of decency inside any of your peers, you’re a fool.”

            He stands on the branch, not displaying any form of trepidation as he does so. I watch as he tosses the empty fruit basket into the air, and look over my shoulder just in time to watch it shatter as it hits the ground.

            Before he hops down from his perch, he catches my attention by clearing his throat for one last lecture. “Think of this ladder labyrinth as the wrestling business; you’re constantly climbing to reach the top -- the fruit basket. If you put your trust in others, they’ll snatch it from your grasp when you’re not expecting it -- and they’ll eat the sweet nectar of their success. Then, you’ll end up falling back down -- just like that basket -- until you lie at the bottom, as a broken shell of what you once were.”

            “That's all, for today.”

January 23, 2016

            I’m wasting away. I’ve lost buckets of blood to those parasitic worms in the swamp. My core temperature has dropped to dangerously low levels. I’ve been starving, as I haven’t eaten since that apple on the day I arrived here -- I must’ve shed 20 pounds, just from malnutrition! My nights are sleepless, my days are tiresome. To make matters worse, I haven’t shown any signs of moving any closer to learning The Buster Breaker.

            I’m really regretting this decision. I could’ve stayed in civilisation, trained with Heath, and come up with strategies and game plans. Instead, I’m enduring pointless life lessons from an old coot who’s completely out of touch with the modern wrestling world. How could he suggest my friends would stab me in the back the way he did? Heath would never even think of doing that to me.

            ...Would he?

            No. I can’t start thinking like that. We’ve always had each other’s backs, and that’s not about to change; especially not when we’re tasked with the biggest match of our careers. To think that the company trusts us to headline a pay-per-view event ahead of the World Title bout boggles my mind. To be in a pay-per-view match after Seth Iser and Casanova English… How many people can say they’ve done that?

            Very large shoes to fill, indeed. At the rate I’m going, I’m not sure I can make it to Double Jeopardy.

            I shift from my position on the cold wooden floor and trudge outside as fast as my aching, blistering feet can take me -- which is a snail’s pace, at this stage -- and report in for my morning of torture.

            “What’s on the agenda for today?” I whine to Buster, who stands silently with his cane. “Dodging rocks? Maybe climbing into a live volcano, risking being melted by molten lava, for a muesli bar?”

            “You’ll be meditating,” he responds with a stroke of his whiskers.

            I force a fake chuckle, as I think he’s just pulling my leg; but as his face remains stern, my smile washes away. He’s serious. “You want me to just sit around? What’s that going to teach me?”

            “Discipline!” he answers with authority, tapping his cane on the ground for emphasis. “You lack patience, boy. We need to remedy that.”

            “I don’t need patience, sir. I need to learn The Buster Breaker! And fast!” I bite my lip as soon as those words escape my mouth -- I can see where he’s coming from. I take a deep breath and ask, “What do you need me to do?”

            “I want you to sit right here,” he instructs, tracing a large circle in the mud behind him.

            “That sounds easy enough,” I shrug.

            “And I don’t want you moving from this spot until I tell you!” he adds, as if he knew sitting perfectly still was never really my jam. I huff and puff, but ultimately acquiesce his request and take a seat in the squishy mud, legs crossed.

            “How long do I have to sit here again, sir?” I question, silently praying within my head that it’s a short period of time.

            “I’ll let you know when it happens,” is the only response I’m given, as he turns away. “Now, shut your eyes and concentrate on nothing but your breathing.”

            What is this, some kind of hippie remedial therapy? I don’t see how this is going to be beneficial in the long run, but if it’s going to get me what I want, I have no reason not to do it. I close my eyes, at first seeing nothing but darkness and a few light spots swirling in my eyelids -- the kind you get when you’re really tired. Which reminds me, I haven’t eaten in ages.

            My thought process is broken with a loud THWACK!, and a stinging pain in my spine. I turn to see Buster standing behind me, cane in a follow-through position. “What was that for?!” I groan, holding my back in agony.

            “Sit up straight!” he hisses, bringing his cane back for another swing. I hastily correct my posture, pushing my shoulders back and stretching my spine skywards to avoid another assault from the walking stick. As I close my eyes once more, I’m again taken away into my own thoughts.

            I miss the civil world. I miss video games, my cats, my friends… I miss food. I would do anything for a big bowl of chicken noodle soup right about now. What I miss most though is the comfort of my own bed; I’m getting stabbing pains in my neck and hips from sleeping on a hard, mouldy wooden floor every darn night.

            Listen to all the wondrous sounds of the forest, though; when you have your eyes closed, your other senses really are heightened. Birds are chirping, frogs are croaking; I can hear the wind gently carrying falling leaves all around me. All that’s missing his a piper to play a soothing melody, and then I’d be set. It’s actually quite peaceful; I can see now why someone might want to leave the material world behind to live the rest of their days here.

            I’m disturbed once more by the sounds of crunching. I open one eye and observe Buster munching on sunflower seeds about three feet away from me. I close both eyes and try to ignore it -- but the longer it goes on, the louder it gets, until the point where I can’t take it any more.

            “Hey!” I roar aggressively. “Can you keep it down? I’m trying to concentrate over here!”

            My outburst is rewarded with an emphatic THWACK!; of course, this time around it hurts much worse, as it’s right on the top of my head.

            “No talking!” he barks.

            I snarl a little, then settle back into my meditative state. A cool feeling runs from the top of my cranium, and down to the tip of my nose -- at first, I presume it’s sweat -- but as it drips down the side and into my mouth, I soon come to realise that it’s blood. I’m bleeding from that last cane strike.

            I sit for hours on end in exhaustive reticence. Nothing but the sound of my own breathing, just as Buster had demanded. I can feel the air chill around my body, safely placing my bet that it’s night time.

January 24, 2016

            The irritating squawking of crows -- coupled with the sudden calefaction -- alert me to the fact that the following morning has arrived. I somehow managed to combat malnourishment and enfeeblement to remain meditating throughout the night.

            My sense of sound seems to have increased greatly, as I can hear the sounds of approaching footsteps before they're anywhere near my vicinity. I don’t react, remaining stiff as a board, fearing that this may be another of Buster’s tests. As he walks away, I take a small peak in front of me -- and what else do I see but a big, enticing grapefruit situated in plain sight.

            My first instinct? YES! Finally, he’s decided to feed me! But then common sense kicks in -- to get the grapefruit, I’d have to leave the very spot he ordered me to stay in, thus warranting a third caning. Fighting every basic human instinct within myself, I leave the grapefruit where it is, its delightful scent tempting me more and more with every passing hour.

            Frigidity indicates nightfall again.

January 25, 2016

            Somehow, I’m still alive. Not only that, I’m still meditating. I’ve got two whole nights without sleep, and just as long without food or water. The grapefruit is still there, I can smell it rotting. It's a terrible waste, but I've got to press on -- I don't want to have to suffer for nothing.

            “You haven't eaten,” I can hear Buster say.

            “You told me not to move,” I respond, keeping every muscle in my body perfectly still, except the ones required to speak. There's a long period of nothing, as Buster must be debating my current position.

            “I think you're ready,” he says. “You can move now.”

            It feels like an enormous weight has been lifted off of me -- as my shoulders collapse back to a comfortable posture and my pupils adjust to natural light once again, I feel somewhat stronger. Lighter, even. Something’s certainly changed inside.

            “I didn't think you would make it this far,” he states, inspecting my movements as I try to uncross my legs with great effort.

            “Neither did I,” I confess, taking a breather as I stretch my legs out. Wriggling them around a little to get blood flowing back to my feet, I feel a stabbing pain in my upper thigh. “Hey… What does deep vein thrombosis feel like?”

            “Are you hungry?” he asks, almost as if he's ignoring my question.

            I weakly force out a chuckle. “Starving,” I answer, with that two syllable word being the only thing I can apparently muster the energy to make audible. He graciously hands me a rockmelon -- or cantaloupe, you may know it as -- and I reach out to it with a trembling hand of uncertainty. As soon as I’m able to clarify that I won’t be punished for taking it, I eat that thing as fast as I can. It’s delicious. I’ve never tasted something so sweet.

            “You’re something different, you know,” he comments as I slurp every remaining morsel of the sweet fruit from its skin. “Just looking at you, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

            “A lot of people make that assumption without even knowing me,” I reveal to him, discarding the skin. “I like to think I surprise them, even in defeat.” He nods contentedly, stroking his chin in a manner I’ve come accustomed to seeing after all this time.

            In fact, I almost don’t remember a lot about my life before coming out here. Friends’ faces slowly fade from my memory -- I doubt any of them would even recognise me. Then again, maybe it hasn’t been as long as I think it has, and I’m completely exaggerating.

            “Can you teach me The Buster Breaker now? Please, sir!”

            A long pause, before he firmly and emphatically says, “No.”

            “What?!” I shout vehemently as I leap to my feet, almost losing my balance but keeping my feet. “Did you lie to me again?! Is this another one of your tests or something?!”

            “No, this is no test,” he calmly explains. “I can’t teach you The Buster Breaker because -- simply put -- it doesn’t exist.”

            Bewildered, I settle down a little. “What do you mean it doesn’t exist?”

            “It’s a metaphor. You’ve already learned everything I have to teach you, just by completing these challenges; finding your phone in the swamp taught you to keep fighting for what’s important, even when it seems like it’s all in vain. The ladder structure tested your endurance, and taught you to never trust anyone, even when you’ve got every reason to. And your meditation exercise taught you patience and discipline.”

            “I see…” It’s disappointing that there’s no ultra-divine wrestling move that can help me pull off a game-changer, but looking at it from this perspective, it’s a little absurd to believe there would be such a thing. I thank Buster for all of his teachings and slowly head off in the direction which I believe will lead me home.

            “Naw, I was just kidding!” I hear him call out. I spin around and lock eyes with him as he announces with a toothless grin, “Of course there’s such a thing as The Buster Breaker! I’ll teach it to you, but be careful; it’s very dangerous.”

            He wasn’t kidding. The Buster Breaker is a dangerous move, for both the opponent and the user. It starts by placing the prone victim in a wheelbarrow bodyscissors position before hoisting them up with a powerbomb-style lift into an inverted back-to-back backbreaker submission hold. The third and final part of the move involves dropping down with the opponent in a double underhook piledriver, commonly called a vertebreaker. The move is incredibly risky, and potentially career-ending; I’ve got to make sure I only use it as a last resort.

January 26, 2016

A random all-hours diner

            I stumble into a diner, not too far from the woods -- as the little bell rings, the attention of all the patrons is fixed squarely on me; my ragged, unpleasant stench and appearance must be offensive to all senses as I awkwardly make my way to the counter. I request to use a phone, and I’m pleasantly surprised to be directed to an operating landline hanging from the wall. I waste no time calling my manager.

            “Hey, Missy? It’s me.”

            “Where have you been?” She demands, irate. “I’ve been calling you nonstop for days!”

            “Sorry,” I apologise, using the wall to prop my weak body up. “I went to see the Man In The West.”

            “Oh, that’s just foolishness!” she snarls. “How could you believe such a childish--”

            “No, you don’t understand!” I cut her off. “He exists. I met him! He taught me The Buster Breaker!” I can sense her astonishment through the phone line. “Hello? You still there, Missy?” I bash the receiver on the wall a few times, just to make sure connection hasn’t been lost.

            “Yes, I’m still here, you baboon!” she shouts. “Stop hitting the phone!”

            “Oh, okay. Did you hear what I said? About The Buster Breaker?”

            “...You’re not messing with me, are you?” she skeptically enquires. She’s not convinced, and I guess I can see why -- if someone had told me this story before I had experienced it first-hand, I’d probably find it a little difficult to believe.

            “I swear, it happened. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home. It shouldn’t take too long, hopefully.”

            I hang up and head on my way home, all the while rehearsing what I’m going to say once I get there in my head. When I have so many thoughts swirling around in my mind, I tend to stutter and step all over myself; that certainly won’t help my case, Missy’ll just think I’ve gone insane. I have to prepare what I’m going to tell her to make it sound believable.

            Thank goodness it’s only her I have to explain this to, and not a whole group of people. I’d be a nervous mess.

            As I approach my residence, though, I'm just about in a state of shock -- loads of vans, cameras and people are gathered around like there's some kind of big news story.

            “There he is!” I hear Missy shout. As the ground breaks, I can see her extended finger pointed directly at me.

            There's a news story, alright… And it's yours truly.

            Seemingly all at once, news reporters from five different stations are shoving microphones in my face, asking rapid fire questions simultaneously, causing it to become an incoherent audible mess. I shoot Missy a glare, and she flashes a toothy grin in return; she's proud of her handiwork, it shows.

            Finally, the other reporters pipe down, allowing me to hear just one of them ask a burning question. “Mr Bickerton,” she starts. “Is the Man In The West real?”

            “Sure is!” I happily reply, standing proudly before them.

            “Did he teach you his Buster Breaker finishing move?” a man off to the side quizzes.

            “Yeah, he did. It was a--”

            “Will we be seeing you use it at Double Jeopardy?” another reporter butts in.

            “Well, uh, I don’t--”

            “You’re looking a little rough around the edges. Care to explain?”

            The questions just keep coming and coming, with their relevance to the match diminishing with every one of them. Before it gets to the point of “What’s your favourite colour?”, I take it upon myself to grab a hold of the nearest microphone, hushing the chattering media moguls as I catch their undivided attention.

            “I’ve been through a lot this week,” I begin speaking. I’m still quite nervous talking to a large audience, even after all this time wrestling on national television. Performing and speaking in front of an assembly of humanity are two very different tasks, and I have little to no problem doing the former. I just make-believe I’m a leader giving a presidential address, through my tone of voice and mannerisms, I’m commanding their attention; I’m slowly getting better at this sort of thing.

            “I did meet and train with the Man In The West, and he taught me The Buster Breaker; a nasty, intense maneuver that I don’t plan on using, unless it’s absolutely necessary. That being said, I don’t know what challenges Double Jeopardy harbours; I don’t know if I’ll need to rely on what I’ve learned through my training, if I’ll have to rely on old tactics, or if I’ll have to put a little more faith in my partner.”

            “But, what I do know is we are facing two very talented young ladies in Nicole Evans and Gina Neon. I’ve been following their story since they arrived, and they’ve shown phenomenal fortitude. Honestly, I can’t even begin to explain how excited I am to have this match with such challengers! We’re going to put on a match worthy of the main event!”

            I hand the microphone back to the young woman I took it from, who immediately asks a follow-up question. “Do you have any opinion on the situation with your partner?”

            “No comment,” I sternly say, walking away as they follow me like a gaggle of geese. Missy herds them the other way, convincing them that the interview is over. As they pull off in their vans one by one, I shoot Missy a look of indifference.

            “What?” She asks, beaming with pride.

            “Did you really have to call the media here? I just got back from the wilderness.”

            “You do smell rank…” Her bluntly honest words don’t help her case. “Oh, come on! It’s good exposure for you guys! You’re bringing the unstoppable finishing move -- the move no-one has ever been able to kick out of -- into the biggest match of your career!”

            “There’s no guarantee I’m even going to use it,” I remind her as I walk inside. “Besides, it’s a Ladder Match, remember? No pinfalls.”

            “They still won’t be kicking out of it then, right?” she half-sarcastically says, following me a little too close as I enter the bathroom, closing the door in her face. “Come on, don’t sulk…”

            “I’m not sulking, I’m going to take a shower!” I shout to her through the door.

            “Fine, don’t be too long,” I hear her yell back as I start running the hot water. “We’ve got to leave for Puerto Rico soon.”

            “Heath going to meet us there?”

            “Well, about that…”