Post by Rain on Oct 12, 2014 21:53:26 GMT -5
Evening, everyone.
That loss was ... unexpected. Not humiliating or life-altering, as Zak Shields would have you believe, but quite unexpected.
Really, I'm more to blame for it than Zak himself - simply put, I underestimated him. I went in expecting Richie McRich, a pompous spoiled brat who only wrestles because he has a knack for it and doesn't have to worry about money. What I got was a man who knows what he's doing, a man who is more than capable of getting it done in the ring, and a man who is every bit as deserving of that Dual Championship as anyone else is.
I wasn't expecting to meet that man, and when I did meet him, I didn't take him seriously. I didn't give Zak Shields everything I could have, everything I should have, and damned if he didn't make me pay for it.
Part of me can't help but wonder what Zak will think when he hears this. He already thinks that my silence up to this point has been indicative of a drained spirit, of a broken will; no doubt he's been hoping that when I finally did address the masses, it would be from a pulpit of denial, from a podium of anger, from a lectern of deflection and negation.
Sorry, Zak - I'm not going to give you the satisfaction. You haven't earned it yet.
Truth be told, I'm not all that sore of a loser. In spite of my recent claims to being the best wrestler in the world - a title I still lay claim to, by the way - I don't believe myself to be unbeatable, nor will I ever attempt to present myself as such. There are times, however rare they may be, when even the best among us is topped; a time when a mistake is made, a chink is found in a seemingly impregnable suit of armor, a weakness is uncovered and exploited ...
... and sometimes, a lucky shot finds its mark.
But I digress. Unlike some, I can own up to being bested. My ego isn't so large that there's no room in my psyche for a loss here and there.
On Monday I was beaten, and somewhere down the line I'm likely to be beaten again. That doesn't change things, though, at least for now - I'm still the Phenom, I'm still the best wrestler in the world, and I'm still in the hunt for the Thy WWE World Heavyweight Championship.
A single loss doesn't change any of those things - there's a difference between being the best and being perfect. It's the same difference that exists between confidence and delusion, between knowledge and assumption, and between simply wanting to be the best and being willing to take the steps necessary to claim the title.
It's the same difference that exists between Zak Shields and myself.
Read into that how you will.
--o--
Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right ...
Rain's feet rhythmically pounded the treadmill's canvas belt, the leg muscles driving them having grown taut and strained. The air rushed in and out of his lungs, burning deep in his chest every time he inhaled; sweat coated his body and stained his workout clothes, running from his hairline down his forehead and the back of his neck.
Wiping a few of these stray beads of sweat from his face, he briefly looked down at the machine's digital displays for speed, incline, and mileage: they read 7.5, 3.0, and 4.91, respectively. Satisfied with these numbers, Rain looked back up at the wall-mounted TV in front of him. Less than a tenth of a mile to go. He could handle that.
Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right ...
He began every day this way - a mile on the treadmill to warm up, an hour-and-a-half on the weights, and four or five miles of cardio to finish up. Give or take a few minor day-to-day changes, it had been his standard regimen ever since he began training for his first ever wrestling match in any ring.
Rain had always tried to avoid taking his workouts too seriously; he knew guys in the business who thought it counted for everything, who had made being physically perfect the centerpoint of their game. Unfortunately - and this was something Rain had come to terms with his inability to impart - when one neglects the technical, strategic aspects of a sport in lieu of pure physical fitness, that physical fitness also becomes a shatterpoint.
Those same guys had offered him advice from time to time:
"You shouldn't do so much cardio."
"You should spend more time on the weights."
"You're too lean, Rain - you oughta work on building up some muscle mass."
Those were the guys who tore their biceps, tore their quads, tore their pecs clear off the bone. They were the guys who bogged down like mastodons when faced with a guy who knew there was more to the game than muscle mass, a guy who could really move, a guy who could really wrestle.
On more than one occasion, Rain had been that guy; on more than one occasion, he'd been the one to send the muscleheads who had been so kind to give him advice back to the locker room, sometimes with a mere bruised ego, other times on a stretcher - some of them didn't go down so easy.
Others got mad at Rain, even blamed him for what happened. Those were the ones that pissed him off. Part of him knew he shouldn't be angry with them - to do so was like getting angry with a small child. They didn't know any better, that was all. It wasn't their fault they didn't understand the sport - its nature, its nuances - the way he did.
Part of him knew that, but another part - a larger part - couldn't help but be angry.
Throughout his career, he'd been in the ring with former bodybuildiers, former football players, former baseball, basketball, and rugby players. They were all athletes, all from similar competitive backgrounds, and each and every one of them had assumed that that meant they'd be able to hang in the squared circle. They had all thought it would be easy, and when they were proven wrong - either by Rain or by someone else - each declared it unworthy of his time and/or effort, denounced it as a real sport, took his ball, and went home.
That was what angered him, and rightfully so - who were they to make light of his vocation, his life's work? Who were they to say he wasn't an athlete, when they were the ones who couldn't wrap their heads around what was required to be successful in wrestling?
Who were they to question him? What gave them the right?
A loud 'BEEP' drew his attention back down to the treadmill's control console. 5.00, the mileage display said. Rain hit the big gray button marked 'Stop', and the canvas belt beneath him gradually slowed to a stop. He planted his hands on the railings that stuck out of either side of the machine and just stood there for a moment, head bowed as he worked to slow his breathing.
It didn't take long - a minute, minute-and-a-half tops - and Rain was soon headed for the staircase that led down to the fitness center's ground floor, where the locker rooms were located.
Those other guys - the prior athletes who hadn't been able to hang - the reason they hadn't been able to cut it in the ring, at least in Rain's opinion, was because they weren't in the right mindset.
They came in thinking they already had the physical tools to succeed; that belief, in and of itself, was what set them apart from guys like Rain.
Guys like Rain knew that there was no set benchmark, that in order to succeed in the Sport of Kings, you had to recognize that concepts like 'good enough' could never enter your head. You couldn't trouble yourself with static terms like good, great, or perfect; the second you began defining yourself in those or similar terms, you were cooked.
For Rain, the only terms that mattered were better and best. Yes, he called himself the best - the best wrestler in the country, the best wrestler in the world - but at the same time, he knew that his stake to that moniker was in constant jeopardy.
His loss to Zak Shields had only served to reinforce that notion. Until the guy beat him while Rain was at his best, his win on Mayhem would never be considered anything more than a fluke, but still ... constant improvement was necessary on Rain's part. His own underestimation of Shields's abilities were solely to blame for the loss, and he had double-sure, triple-sure, that he didn't make an error like that again.
Down the stairs, past the entrances to the indoor pool and the basketball court, and into the men's locker room. Rain went to his locker - #591 - and opened it. No sooner had he taken his phone out than it began to vibrate in his hand.
Rain checked the caller ID and put the device to his ear. "Hey."
"Hey. You almost done at Lifetime?"
"Yeah." Rain nodded, in spite of the fact that Ryan wasn't there to see it. "I'm in the locker room right now."
"Oh, okay - great. You know we're picking Ash up at the airport at two, right?"
"Yeah."
"Cool. What time should I come by your place?"
"Oh, I dunno ... " Rain ran through a quick mental checklist: shower, get dressed, drive back to his apartment. "I should be back there by one," he said after a moment.
"Sounds like a plan. See you then, man."
"Bye."
Ending the call, Rain returned the phone to his locker and peeled the cutoff he was wearing away from his body.
Ash was coming to visit.
Great.
--o--
"Her flight was supposed to get in at two, right?" Ryan asked.
Rain didn't answer right away - he knew the answer. So did Ryan, for that matter, but he was just trying to break the crushing sense of monotony with a bit of small talk.
It wasn't working.
"Right," he said finally.
Ryan glanced over at the bank of monitors displaying arrival and departure times on the far side of the concourse. Rain didn't join him in looking, but he imagined that the monitor's current time display said something like 3:30, maybe later.
"Fuck," Ryan said sullenly, facing forward in his seat again.
Rain nodded slowly, more than willing to share his friend's sentiment but not quite willing to put forth the effort necessary to vocalize it.
Fuck was right. They'd been at Ash's gate for almost two hours, and Rain's nerves had built up almost to the point where he was ready to bug out. It had been a slow build, ever since Ryan had first told him and Ash was coming to visit, but his nerves were nearing fever-pitch.
It had been almost three years since he'd seen Ash, and the two of them - her and Rain, that is - hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms.
"Hey," Ryan said, turning to him.
"Yeah?"
"Didn't you have somewhere to be today? I thought I remembered you saying something about the Thy WWE wanting you for a promo shoot or something."
"Oh, that. Yeah, they wanted me to come by and film something for my match with Bob Cena this Friday. Probs they were hoping I'd have something to say about Shields beating me last week, too." Rain interlocked his fingers over the crown of his head and leaned back in his seat, looking up at the ceiling. "I blew 'em off," he said casually.
"Can you do that?"
Rain shrugged. "Eh, what're they gonna do? Punish me for not being a chatterbox like Shields? Guy talks too much for his own good."
He shook his head, still looking up at the ceiling. "I shudder to think of the rambling he's gonna do this week - I beat Rain! I beat Rain! Yay me! I'm the bestest!"
"Yeah, it'll go something like that." Ryan faced forward again, looking through the large picture-window at the runway outside. "So are you just not cutting a promo this week?" he asked after a time.
"Maybe." Rain closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I might go in and half-ass one on Friday if I have time."
"Nice ... hey, dude. Look."
Rain opened his eyes and leaned his head forward, following Ryan's finger. He saw it quickly enough - the huge jetliner that had suddenly come into view, slowly taxiing towards the terminal. He couldn't help but say a quick prayer of thanks; it had certainly taken long enough.
"Finally," Ryan said. He got up out of his chair, and Rain followed suit.
The two of them joined the crowd that was steadily growing by the causeway door, which still had yet to open. They watched, along with the growing throng, as the 747 slowed to a halt just outside the picture window, perfectly lined up with the causeway entrance.
The door was eventually opened by airport staff, and after a time people began filing out.
Rain could feel his nerves rising again; presently, he looked down and saw that his hands were shaking. He wasn't sure he could do this, wasn't sure he could face her again, after all the time that'd passed.
After what he'd said to her ...
After what he'd done ...
"There she is," Ryan said to him, and started waving. "Ash! Ash, over here!"
Rain's breath caught in his throat. There she was indeed - brunette hair, piercing eyes, tall, tan, toned figure - Ashley Harris, in all her glory. He felt every muscle in his body tense up as she walked over to him and Ryan, pulling a wheeled suitcase behind her.
"Ryan," she said warmly. Rain watched as the two of them embraced. It was nice to see that they were still on good terms, at least.
Then Ash turned to him, and he saw with sudden clarity that she'd been dreading this encounter just as much as he had.
"Hey, you," she said, offering up a smile that was shy if nothing else.
"H ... hey," Rain stuttered back. A period of tense silence followed, which he was only able to break through sheer force of will. "Um ... can I get that for you?" he asked, gesturing to Ash's suitcase.
"Wha ... oh, this? No, it's fine, I've got it. Thank you, though."
"Yeah," Rain said, shoving his hands as far as they'd go into his pockets. "Anytime."
Another silence ensued. Rain found that he had to actively work to keep himself from squirming, and began hoping, willing, praying for Ryan to say or do something to break the tension. His friend didn't disappoint.
"Shall we go?" Ryan asked. "We're parked just outside, Ash - Rain thought we should take you out to lunch once you got here."
"Really? Oh, that's an awesome idea - I'm starving." Ash turned to Rain and smiled again, this one far more genuine than the last. "You haven't changed a bit, y'know that?"
Rain smiled and nodded as they started walking, doing his best to ignore the sudden sense of self-loathing that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach.
He had changed. That was the problem.
---o--
"All right ... ready?"
Rain folded his arms over his chest and nodded at the director, who in turn signalled to the cameraman. He'd made it very clear that he wanted this promo to be a simple one, and the Thy WWE camera crew had obliged - they'd simply stood him up in front of a dark-blue backdrop, set up the camera, and begun filming.
"Okay ... action."
Rain was silent for a few seconds after the camera started rolling, but not for lack of inspiration. He knew full-well what he wanted to say, but sometimes it was best to make the listener wait a little - sometimes less was more, a fact lost on many of wrestling's so-called greatest talkers ... as well as the likes of Zak Shields.
But that was neither here nor there.
"Bob Cena," Rain said after what might've been six seconds. "The, uh ... the Untouchable, isn't that right?" He briefly looked to the director for confirmation; he nodded, and Rain turned back to the camera.
"First of all, Bob, I'd like to apologize to you. I want to make it perfectly clear, right here and now, that I had nothing to do with you being placed in a match with me this week. So on Tuesday, when you become a, um ... "
He paused, searching for the right word.
" ... a casualty, please remember that I had nothing to do with it. That one's on the bookers, not me."
Rain paused again, giving what he'd said time to sink in.
"But you will be a casualty," he stressed. "As you can well imagine, Bobby-Bob, I'm not in the best of moods right now. Some ... some personal stuff has come up recently, some stuff I'd hoped I'd never have to deal with again. And on top of all that, I'm currently in an ongoing feud with a very well-spoken, very irritating member of the Thy WWE Roster. I'm sure you know who it is I'm talking about."
"But I digress," he continued. "What all that adds up to, Bobby-Bob, is a bad week at the office for you. I get that you're big, and I get that you're supposed to be scary, but I'm above all those mind-games. I'm Rain - the Phenom, the future Thy World Heavyweight Champion. I'm the best wrestler in the world, and when you step into the ring with me, your only saving grace is whatever wrestling ability you bring in with you. Last week, I made the mistake of underestimating how much ability my opponent brought, and it cost me dearly; this week I will make no such error."
Rain paused again, bowing his head for a brief moment. When he looked back up again, his eyes glittered dangerously, like those of a great preadator.
"I will not underestimate you, Bob Cena," he said matter-of-factly. "What that means, in layman's terms, is that you are going to lose."
He then nodded to the director, who signalled for the cameraman to stop filming. A few buttons were pressed on the camera, and the feed abruptly cut out.
--o--
I want you to pay very close attention tonight, Zak.
I know you're going to be busy handling your own stuff - marrage, taking care of personal and family matters, et cetera - but try to watch what happens in my match with Bob Cena.
You think I brought my best in our match last Friday, and that my best wasn't good enough - when I first heard that, I laughed out loud. Really, I did; it still gives me the giggles just thinking about it.
Watch my match tonight, Zak, and you'll see what my best really looks like. You'll see what happens when I don't underestimate my opponent, when I give them everything they deserve and more. And after you're done watching me pick apart a man bigger and stronger than me, piece by piece, multiply its severity by a factor of ten.
That's the difference between last Friday and what will happen when you and I square off again.
When I eventually get a shot at the Unified Intercontinental Championship, that's what will happen to you.
Remember that.
That loss was ... unexpected. Not humiliating or life-altering, as Zak Shields would have you believe, but quite unexpected.
Really, I'm more to blame for it than Zak himself - simply put, I underestimated him. I went in expecting Richie McRich, a pompous spoiled brat who only wrestles because he has a knack for it and doesn't have to worry about money. What I got was a man who knows what he's doing, a man who is more than capable of getting it done in the ring, and a man who is every bit as deserving of that Dual Championship as anyone else is.
I wasn't expecting to meet that man, and when I did meet him, I didn't take him seriously. I didn't give Zak Shields everything I could have, everything I should have, and damned if he didn't make me pay for it.
Part of me can't help but wonder what Zak will think when he hears this. He already thinks that my silence up to this point has been indicative of a drained spirit, of a broken will; no doubt he's been hoping that when I finally did address the masses, it would be from a pulpit of denial, from a podium of anger, from a lectern of deflection and negation.
Sorry, Zak - I'm not going to give you the satisfaction. You haven't earned it yet.
Truth be told, I'm not all that sore of a loser. In spite of my recent claims to being the best wrestler in the world - a title I still lay claim to, by the way - I don't believe myself to be unbeatable, nor will I ever attempt to present myself as such. There are times, however rare they may be, when even the best among us is topped; a time when a mistake is made, a chink is found in a seemingly impregnable suit of armor, a weakness is uncovered and exploited ...
... and sometimes, a lucky shot finds its mark.
But I digress. Unlike some, I can own up to being bested. My ego isn't so large that there's no room in my psyche for a loss here and there.
On Monday I was beaten, and somewhere down the line I'm likely to be beaten again. That doesn't change things, though, at least for now - I'm still the Phenom, I'm still the best wrestler in the world, and I'm still in the hunt for the Thy WWE World Heavyweight Championship.
A single loss doesn't change any of those things - there's a difference between being the best and being perfect. It's the same difference that exists between confidence and delusion, between knowledge and assumption, and between simply wanting to be the best and being willing to take the steps necessary to claim the title.
It's the same difference that exists between Zak Shields and myself.
Read into that how you will.
--o--
Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right ...
Rain's feet rhythmically pounded the treadmill's canvas belt, the leg muscles driving them having grown taut and strained. The air rushed in and out of his lungs, burning deep in his chest every time he inhaled; sweat coated his body and stained his workout clothes, running from his hairline down his forehead and the back of his neck.
Wiping a few of these stray beads of sweat from his face, he briefly looked down at the machine's digital displays for speed, incline, and mileage: they read 7.5, 3.0, and 4.91, respectively. Satisfied with these numbers, Rain looked back up at the wall-mounted TV in front of him. Less than a tenth of a mile to go. He could handle that.
Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right ...
He began every day this way - a mile on the treadmill to warm up, an hour-and-a-half on the weights, and four or five miles of cardio to finish up. Give or take a few minor day-to-day changes, it had been his standard regimen ever since he began training for his first ever wrestling match in any ring.
Rain had always tried to avoid taking his workouts too seriously; he knew guys in the business who thought it counted for everything, who had made being physically perfect the centerpoint of their game. Unfortunately - and this was something Rain had come to terms with his inability to impart - when one neglects the technical, strategic aspects of a sport in lieu of pure physical fitness, that physical fitness also becomes a shatterpoint.
Those same guys had offered him advice from time to time:
"You shouldn't do so much cardio."
"You should spend more time on the weights."
"You're too lean, Rain - you oughta work on building up some muscle mass."
Those were the guys who tore their biceps, tore their quads, tore their pecs clear off the bone. They were the guys who bogged down like mastodons when faced with a guy who knew there was more to the game than muscle mass, a guy who could really move, a guy who could really wrestle.
On more than one occasion, Rain had been that guy; on more than one occasion, he'd been the one to send the muscleheads who had been so kind to give him advice back to the locker room, sometimes with a mere bruised ego, other times on a stretcher - some of them didn't go down so easy.
Others got mad at Rain, even blamed him for what happened. Those were the ones that pissed him off. Part of him knew he shouldn't be angry with them - to do so was like getting angry with a small child. They didn't know any better, that was all. It wasn't their fault they didn't understand the sport - its nature, its nuances - the way he did.
Part of him knew that, but another part - a larger part - couldn't help but be angry.
Throughout his career, he'd been in the ring with former bodybuildiers, former football players, former baseball, basketball, and rugby players. They were all athletes, all from similar competitive backgrounds, and each and every one of them had assumed that that meant they'd be able to hang in the squared circle. They had all thought it would be easy, and when they were proven wrong - either by Rain or by someone else - each declared it unworthy of his time and/or effort, denounced it as a real sport, took his ball, and went home.
That was what angered him, and rightfully so - who were they to make light of his vocation, his life's work? Who were they to say he wasn't an athlete, when they were the ones who couldn't wrap their heads around what was required to be successful in wrestling?
Who were they to question him? What gave them the right?
A loud 'BEEP' drew his attention back down to the treadmill's control console. 5.00, the mileage display said. Rain hit the big gray button marked 'Stop', and the canvas belt beneath him gradually slowed to a stop. He planted his hands on the railings that stuck out of either side of the machine and just stood there for a moment, head bowed as he worked to slow his breathing.
It didn't take long - a minute, minute-and-a-half tops - and Rain was soon headed for the staircase that led down to the fitness center's ground floor, where the locker rooms were located.
Those other guys - the prior athletes who hadn't been able to hang - the reason they hadn't been able to cut it in the ring, at least in Rain's opinion, was because they weren't in the right mindset.
They came in thinking they already had the physical tools to succeed; that belief, in and of itself, was what set them apart from guys like Rain.
Guys like Rain knew that there was no set benchmark, that in order to succeed in the Sport of Kings, you had to recognize that concepts like 'good enough' could never enter your head. You couldn't trouble yourself with static terms like good, great, or perfect; the second you began defining yourself in those or similar terms, you were cooked.
For Rain, the only terms that mattered were better and best. Yes, he called himself the best - the best wrestler in the country, the best wrestler in the world - but at the same time, he knew that his stake to that moniker was in constant jeopardy.
His loss to Zak Shields had only served to reinforce that notion. Until the guy beat him while Rain was at his best, his win on Mayhem would never be considered anything more than a fluke, but still ... constant improvement was necessary on Rain's part. His own underestimation of Shields's abilities were solely to blame for the loss, and he had double-sure, triple-sure, that he didn't make an error like that again.
Down the stairs, past the entrances to the indoor pool and the basketball court, and into the men's locker room. Rain went to his locker - #591 - and opened it. No sooner had he taken his phone out than it began to vibrate in his hand.
Rain checked the caller ID and put the device to his ear. "Hey."
"Hey. You almost done at Lifetime?"
"Yeah." Rain nodded, in spite of the fact that Ryan wasn't there to see it. "I'm in the locker room right now."
"Oh, okay - great. You know we're picking Ash up at the airport at two, right?"
"Yeah."
"Cool. What time should I come by your place?"
"Oh, I dunno ... " Rain ran through a quick mental checklist: shower, get dressed, drive back to his apartment. "I should be back there by one," he said after a moment.
"Sounds like a plan. See you then, man."
"Bye."
Ending the call, Rain returned the phone to his locker and peeled the cutoff he was wearing away from his body.
Ash was coming to visit.
Great.
--o--
"Her flight was supposed to get in at two, right?" Ryan asked.
Rain didn't answer right away - he knew the answer. So did Ryan, for that matter, but he was just trying to break the crushing sense of monotony with a bit of small talk.
It wasn't working.
"Right," he said finally.
Ryan glanced over at the bank of monitors displaying arrival and departure times on the far side of the concourse. Rain didn't join him in looking, but he imagined that the monitor's current time display said something like 3:30, maybe later.
"Fuck," Ryan said sullenly, facing forward in his seat again.
Rain nodded slowly, more than willing to share his friend's sentiment but not quite willing to put forth the effort necessary to vocalize it.
Fuck was right. They'd been at Ash's gate for almost two hours, and Rain's nerves had built up almost to the point where he was ready to bug out. It had been a slow build, ever since Ryan had first told him and Ash was coming to visit, but his nerves were nearing fever-pitch.
It had been almost three years since he'd seen Ash, and the two of them - her and Rain, that is - hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms.
"Hey," Ryan said, turning to him.
"Yeah?"
"Didn't you have somewhere to be today? I thought I remembered you saying something about the Thy WWE wanting you for a promo shoot or something."
"Oh, that. Yeah, they wanted me to come by and film something for my match with Bob Cena this Friday. Probs they were hoping I'd have something to say about Shields beating me last week, too." Rain interlocked his fingers over the crown of his head and leaned back in his seat, looking up at the ceiling. "I blew 'em off," he said casually.
"Can you do that?"
Rain shrugged. "Eh, what're they gonna do? Punish me for not being a chatterbox like Shields? Guy talks too much for his own good."
He shook his head, still looking up at the ceiling. "I shudder to think of the rambling he's gonna do this week - I beat Rain! I beat Rain! Yay me! I'm the bestest!"
"Yeah, it'll go something like that." Ryan faced forward again, looking through the large picture-window at the runway outside. "So are you just not cutting a promo this week?" he asked after a time.
"Maybe." Rain closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I might go in and half-ass one on Friday if I have time."
"Nice ... hey, dude. Look."
Rain opened his eyes and leaned his head forward, following Ryan's finger. He saw it quickly enough - the huge jetliner that had suddenly come into view, slowly taxiing towards the terminal. He couldn't help but say a quick prayer of thanks; it had certainly taken long enough.
"Finally," Ryan said. He got up out of his chair, and Rain followed suit.
The two of them joined the crowd that was steadily growing by the causeway door, which still had yet to open. They watched, along with the growing throng, as the 747 slowed to a halt just outside the picture window, perfectly lined up with the causeway entrance.
The door was eventually opened by airport staff, and after a time people began filing out.
Rain could feel his nerves rising again; presently, he looked down and saw that his hands were shaking. He wasn't sure he could do this, wasn't sure he could face her again, after all the time that'd passed.
After what he'd said to her ...
After what he'd done ...
"There she is," Ryan said to him, and started waving. "Ash! Ash, over here!"
Rain's breath caught in his throat. There she was indeed - brunette hair, piercing eyes, tall, tan, toned figure - Ashley Harris, in all her glory. He felt every muscle in his body tense up as she walked over to him and Ryan, pulling a wheeled suitcase behind her.
"Ryan," she said warmly. Rain watched as the two of them embraced. It was nice to see that they were still on good terms, at least.
Then Ash turned to him, and he saw with sudden clarity that she'd been dreading this encounter just as much as he had.
"Hey, you," she said, offering up a smile that was shy if nothing else.
"H ... hey," Rain stuttered back. A period of tense silence followed, which he was only able to break through sheer force of will. "Um ... can I get that for you?" he asked, gesturing to Ash's suitcase.
"Wha ... oh, this? No, it's fine, I've got it. Thank you, though."
"Yeah," Rain said, shoving his hands as far as they'd go into his pockets. "Anytime."
Another silence ensued. Rain found that he had to actively work to keep himself from squirming, and began hoping, willing, praying for Ryan to say or do something to break the tension. His friend didn't disappoint.
"Shall we go?" Ryan asked. "We're parked just outside, Ash - Rain thought we should take you out to lunch once you got here."
"Really? Oh, that's an awesome idea - I'm starving." Ash turned to Rain and smiled again, this one far more genuine than the last. "You haven't changed a bit, y'know that?"
Rain smiled and nodded as they started walking, doing his best to ignore the sudden sense of self-loathing that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach.
He had changed. That was the problem.
---o--
"All right ... ready?"
Rain folded his arms over his chest and nodded at the director, who in turn signalled to the cameraman. He'd made it very clear that he wanted this promo to be a simple one, and the Thy WWE camera crew had obliged - they'd simply stood him up in front of a dark-blue backdrop, set up the camera, and begun filming.
"Okay ... action."
Rain was silent for a few seconds after the camera started rolling, but not for lack of inspiration. He knew full-well what he wanted to say, but sometimes it was best to make the listener wait a little - sometimes less was more, a fact lost on many of wrestling's so-called greatest talkers ... as well as the likes of Zak Shields.
But that was neither here nor there.
"Bob Cena," Rain said after what might've been six seconds. "The, uh ... the Untouchable, isn't that right?" He briefly looked to the director for confirmation; he nodded, and Rain turned back to the camera.
"First of all, Bob, I'd like to apologize to you. I want to make it perfectly clear, right here and now, that I had nothing to do with you being placed in a match with me this week. So on Tuesday, when you become a, um ... "
He paused, searching for the right word.
" ... a casualty, please remember that I had nothing to do with it. That one's on the bookers, not me."
Rain paused again, giving what he'd said time to sink in.
"But you will be a casualty," he stressed. "As you can well imagine, Bobby-Bob, I'm not in the best of moods right now. Some ... some personal stuff has come up recently, some stuff I'd hoped I'd never have to deal with again. And on top of all that, I'm currently in an ongoing feud with a very well-spoken, very irritating member of the Thy WWE Roster. I'm sure you know who it is I'm talking about."
"But I digress," he continued. "What all that adds up to, Bobby-Bob, is a bad week at the office for you. I get that you're big, and I get that you're supposed to be scary, but I'm above all those mind-games. I'm Rain - the Phenom, the future Thy World Heavyweight Champion. I'm the best wrestler in the world, and when you step into the ring with me, your only saving grace is whatever wrestling ability you bring in with you. Last week, I made the mistake of underestimating how much ability my opponent brought, and it cost me dearly; this week I will make no such error."
Rain paused again, bowing his head for a brief moment. When he looked back up again, his eyes glittered dangerously, like those of a great preadator.
"I will not underestimate you, Bob Cena," he said matter-of-factly. "What that means, in layman's terms, is that you are going to lose."
He then nodded to the director, who signalled for the cameraman to stop filming. A few buttons were pressed on the camera, and the feed abruptly cut out.
--o--
I want you to pay very close attention tonight, Zak.
I know you're going to be busy handling your own stuff - marrage, taking care of personal and family matters, et cetera - but try to watch what happens in my match with Bob Cena.
You think I brought my best in our match last Friday, and that my best wasn't good enough - when I first heard that, I laughed out loud. Really, I did; it still gives me the giggles just thinking about it.
Watch my match tonight, Zak, and you'll see what my best really looks like. You'll see what happens when I don't underestimate my opponent, when I give them everything they deserve and more. And after you're done watching me pick apart a man bigger and stronger than me, piece by piece, multiply its severity by a factor of ten.
That's the difference between last Friday and what will happen when you and I square off again.
When I eventually get a shot at the Unified Intercontinental Championship, that's what will happen to you.
Remember that.
