08 December, 2028. That’s when the ticking sound in my head ends, along with my career in this deranged and poorly dressed carnage circus called professional wrestling.

2 years, 2 months. After that, party’s over. I hit 40. Turn the lights off, lock up, and walk away. Been doing this now 14 years. Somedays it feels like 14 years too long. This business can wear your ass out quick and harsh like a terrible dom. It hits you from all angles like geometry: crooked promoters, fake friends, companies you invested time and blood in folding. And some of these “fans”…

Swear to God Almighty half these fans watch just to intentionally spike their blood pressure. It’s never good enough for some of these assholes. Too static, too flippy, too boring…

Some of you “fans” should try fentanyl then. In large doses. Hey, if you’re gonna waste time and money on a habit that just makes you miserable, invest in one that’ll make you too out of it to complain.

Every reason to walk away. Hell, I did a couple of times. Felt good, too. Yet I keep coming back. Why?! The answer is simple. I’m damn good at this shit! 30 fucking belts in less than 15 years good. The sport was a platform: boxing, investments, endorsements. Hell, there’s even a few people I’ve met that turned out to be absolute treasures to be around. When wrestling did me good, it did me GOOD GOOD!

But it's also bent me over a rail too many times to count. Plus, I can’t lie, I’ve shot myself in the shins a couple times along the way. Hazards of being a diva: sometimes you SHOULD disengage. Least it gives people something to talk about.

The love for this game is starting to dwindle. So I’m treating it like the thing it truly is: a job. Something you clock in to do, get paid, and leave when the shift’s done. It’s what worked for me. The game got fucked up when I started giving it human dignity and heart. Treating wrestlers like people instead of the animals they truly are trying to eat your food. I’m not doing that again. I let some flea infested creatures in my life doing that. I keep my spaces clean from now on.

No more friendships, no more trying to please people that can’t be pleased. Most already have me painted as a problem. I’ll stay in my pose. It’s very liberating when you have no one left to impress. In fact, I hope my new success and attitude annoys some folks.

Say what you will about me on a personal level. For 14 years, no one could talk about my ability in a ring.

The next 2 years and change, we’re keeping it that way! After that, folks can say what they want. I won’t be around to hear it.

London, UK

“Never thought I’d say this, but I miss being back to this miserable water logged island!”

Living in the UK voluntarily takes some fortitude. It’s not exactly paradise. The weather is a temperamental twat, the economy sucks, the government and politics are daft and all your neighbours DESPISE your ass! I’m Algerian by birth, every time I visit Paris they get more upset over my British passport instead of that. England has become a sick old man that still thinks it’s a stud in its prime. Place is an aging dumpster fire.

But it’s still exponentially more sane than the US is, and I got a whole bunch of bread in the bank and an estate in Chelsea. If you’re gonna live in a bog, get the nicest shack in the swamp.
Plus my wife hates the States, especially in the era where they’ll deport you “for talking funny round these here parts!”

I get it. Months touring with TWA in America made me miss Europe. A break was needed to recharge and regroup. I dropped my bags 2 steps from the door, the house was empty. The manor staff was gone, no kids arguing or playing too loud. My wife wasn’t there either to greet me. But somebody was in my house, in my den playing…

Dwight Yoakam? Either my burglar is into honky tonk or…

I didn’t take a chance. I keep a Glock stashed in a bureau next to the door. It’s a big legal no-no for this country having that piece, but the Police Service is notoriously unreliable. I’m creeping down a dark hallway with the heater like Leon in Resident Evil, carefully and with stealth open the door. What do I find?

“Goddamn, boy! You breaking out the iron over a fucking bottle of scotch?! Shit’s not even that good!!”

Figures my fucking dad would pull this! Nathan’s always been sneaky as shit. He learned the craft in Vietnam during the war, sneaking through tunnels and jungles. There was nowhere the old man couldn’t infiltrate, even in my house with the small fortune on security I apparently overspent on.

As I’m putting the gun down: “And you almost got smoked over that “mid” scotch. Jesus Christ, a text saying come pick me up would’ve worked. Why’s your carbon dated ass sneaking in my house anyways?!”

Nate laughed, taking another sip. “Figure it’d be a good time to use those old skills while I still got them. Wanted to visit my son, while I can still recognize him.”

“Dad…the fuck you mean…”

That sigh from him was heavy enough to collapse a bridge. “Hopefully that curse skips your generation. It sure as hell found me.”

“What…what curse?”

“Same one that claimed your grandpa and my brother Wayne, boy! Same ghost that haunts us Savage men. No gun, no fist, no payout or negotiation can stop it. You know what it is.”

I already knew, but when he handed me that treatment packet from the neurology clinic he flew from Atlanta to London to see, it still wrecked me. Fucking ALZHEIMER’S! The fatal genetic flaw on my dad’s side. Savage men have survived wars, fleeing religious persecution in France back in the day, Depressions, high impact sports….

But in the end, half of us die from our own brains taking a shit. Dementia is a family member we don’t want but shows up anyways to wreck the party. I’m especially fearful of it considering I do combat sports as a job. Alzheimer’s is bad enough, I don’t need CTE added to the order as well.

“…”

I had to sit. My legs turned into noodles and I wanted to puke. Dad tried to offer me a drink, but the last thing I wanted right now was something that clouded my judgement. Things were already getting weird in my life, now this.

“How long has this been going on, dad?”

Pops polished off the last swig in his glass. “Few months ago, I started getting gaps where I’d forget shit. Mostly minor things; where I put my keys, an appointment for a haircut. Hell, even called your brother Lance by your name once. Just figured it’s an age thing, you get slower as you get older.”

“Then, 2 weeks ago I left the house to go pick up some chicken. 3 mile drive from the house, 20 minute trip (it’s Atlanta, traffic is always shit). I lost track of everything. 6 hours later, I snap to, I’m in goddam South Carolina looking for an old Marine buddy who died in a water skiing accident back in 1999!”

“Goddamn it, dad!”

“It’s been getting slightly worse since. Hell, the other day I was in the kitchen and I flashed back to when I got the call you were born in Algiers again like ‘88. I came this close to buying a ticket to Algeria.”

Pops laughed, but there was no humor behind it. I knew my old man well enough the diagnosis alone was killing him. You lose your mind with this disease. It kills you completely, mentally, physically, psychologically. My dad might not even BE my dad by the time he dies. That’s what scared the shit out of him. Not being able to recognize the people he loved, or even the year he lived in. I can’t imagine a supposed Hell that would torture you like that.

“So…so what now?! You doing a treatment plan? Consulted with a specialist?”

“Yea, Etienne's got me in a research clinic in Paris. Trying some treatments, experimental mostly. They might delay the disease some, but…”

“Hell, there ain’t no miracle coming. Best I can do is enjoy the time I got, maybe help these doctors find that miracle. Even if they gotta crack my head open like a pistachio and dig in there, find something that helps.”

“Boy…boy don’t be sad.” He calmly put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m fucking 80 years old. I survived Nam, being a Fulton County sheriff, and business takeovers. Shit, I survived cheating on your mom.”

“I was gonna say, if MOM is taking you to a hospital still alive, this shit is serious!” I couldn’t help but laugh. Mom hated pops so much she divorced his ass and left America after I turned 18. She won't even speak English anymore because of him!

“Yeah, least it’s got her speaking to me again with half the cussing and death threats. At this point, I’ll take any win I get. Point is, I had more than enough time on this planet. Hell, I’ve probably overstayed my welcome by a few years. When it’s nearly time to go and you can’t stay, enjoy the time you have. I got grandkids to spoil and a son to watch who makes me goddamn proud everyday, even if he does some hard headed shit.”

“And who do you think passed that gene to me, huh?”

“That gene could’ve stayed in my balls.”

So, here we are. Two relics about out of road; me and my career, dad and his life. Neither one of us has much time left on our respective roads. Plus it put things in perspective. As bad as things have gone for me in the last 2 months, there’s always worse. And I’ve got plenty of time to steer the ship back on course.

Common trope in wrestling is everybody has a shit dad. Not me, Pops always comes through to help his son, even when he should focus on himself. It’s my job now to ensure he only sees the best in me.

2 old warhorses with Doomsday Clocks ticking in their heads. At this point, fuck it! We ball until the shot clock runs out.

That’s what Savages do; we fight like Hell and live like Heaven, especially at the end of our days.

ACT 3: The part that actually matters….

“Mysterio. No, wait…it LOOKS like Mysterio, but due to copyright laws, it’s not!!”

“Mysterion. Okay, that’s the right one. Not a whole lot about this guy to sink my teeth into. The Enigmatic Enhancement Talent. A man with no face and no history in the sport. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, having no paper trail in this industry. Sometimes not being known is better than being absolutely famous. Me, whole forest of paperwork on me good and bad. Amazing triumphs filed with “what the fuck was he thinking?” in the same cabinet. That’s pretty much the story behind most wrestlers: peaks and valleys like topography. I got a wall full of plaques and a head stuffed with bad memories. Only mystery about me is what guy you get day to day: friendly and altruistic or petty and vile?”

“You, M, you’re not a puzzle. You're a blank slate. Canvas fresh from the art supply store. Nobody, not even YOU, know what you’re about. What you’re truly capable of. I’m a bit envious, actually.”

“Me…heh…again, myself and fans know far too well what I can do in the ring. I feel a bit exposed. I’ve shown everything already, I have no clue about you! No history to retread or remind you of.”

“This…this is thrilling! Brave New Masked World. I can’t use psychology when I have nothing to dig into. So, now it means it gets real ugly. I simply have to outwrestle you then, and…well…”

“Goofy Halloween themed newbie…not much experience or success versus…literally one of the BEST wrestlers on the planet making his debut from free agency….”

“Yeah…odds are not great…it’s still Tony Savage, but next Vanguard is solving the biggest mystery in this story…who, exactly, are you, Misty?”

“Opening card fodder or future asset? Guy who folds when a big name flexes or roars back? A man who rides trends, or sets standards? It’s all on you next episode.”

“People wonder what’s behind the smoke and curtains with you. I’ll solve that mystery, when I tear those curtains off the rungs once the bell rings!”