Sunday, August 30, 2026 – on board the Oceanic, docked in Halifax, NS, Canada

 

Being a giant of a man had its advantages in the ring and in life, but one of the drawbacks was the wear and tear that size had on the body.  Many a giant wrestler, from Andre to Paul Wight to Kevin Nash, had been reduced to shells of their former selves by the time they made it to their forties.

 

And it was with that in mind that Dylan Erickson rose from his bed feeling all of his forty-four years.

 

“Happy birthday, Dylan,” came his wife’s voice from the bed.

 

Erickson rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Stef.” He’d long since reached the age where he dreaded his birthday instead of welcoming it. He’d started to notice the pain about five years ago – the cold weather in Russia didn’t help either – and since then he’d dedicated himself to slowing down the aging process as much as he could. He’d worked like hell to get into better shape, and he’d lost some sixty pounds from his near-500 pound peak. He stretched for fifteen minutes every morning and every evening and hired the best personal trainers money could buy, but even then he could notice his senses becoming less sharp over time. He could lift less weight, his personal bests got lower and lower with every passing year, and that was when Erickson decided that it was now or never for him to try and make one last run in wrestling before his body totally gave up on him.

 

He walked into the living room of his palatial suite, started making himself a coffee, and looked over at the pier. He’d closed his deal with Sebastian Jalabert and Warhammer during his string of losses a few months prior, and already a massive factory complex was starting to take shape. The foundations had been poured and the steel skeleton of the building towered over the ship, and Erickson expected that everything would be finished in a couple more months.

 

If there was one thing he missed about his life in Russia, it was the power and influence he’d held running one of the country’s largest weapons companies. He loved a challenge and running a billion-dollar company came with no shortage of challenges. So even though his family had hoped he’d get out of the weapons business, Erickson had pressed on in making a deal with Warhammer.

 

But it wasn’t just his desire for a challenge that drove him. He’d come back home with over a thousand employees and family members of his company, and those people had found it almost impossible to find work in North America. Erickson was nothing if not loyal to those people who had placed their trust in him and so he felt he owed those people work.

 

Sebastian Jalabert and Jeremiah Vastrix knew this, and they’d both been tough customers – particularly Jalabert – to negotiate with. But Erickson knew he had leverage too; Jalabert in particular wanted higher quality and cheaper weapons than Warhammer itself could produce, and Erickson knew his people could deliver. So after Erickson had toured Warhammer’s facilities and Jalabert had visited him on the Oceanic, it hadn’t taken long for both sides to hammer out a deal that would make everyone happy. And the nine-figure subsidy from the Canadian government to set up a weapons factory in Halifax didn’t hurt either.

 

And, best of all, signing the deal meant Erickson could start paying those thousand refugees again – meaning they could finally get off the ship where they’d been living for the past six months. That, more than anything, was the cherry on top of the Warhammer deal – he finally had his home all to himself again, and it felt so good.

 

Stefanya walked into the room and poured herself a cup of coffee. “So how’s my husband feeling today?”

 

“Old, Stef. Your husband’s feeling old as hell.”

 

“There’s that trademark Dylan Erickson optimism I fell in love with.”

 

“Oh, come on. Do you feel good on your birthday last month, my dear? When you thought you saw that wrinkle on your birthday?”

 

“There was a wrinkle, Dylan. I swear I saw it.”

 

“You’re just as beautiful as the day we met, Stef. I mean it.”

 

Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. “Sure, my dear. Sure. So what does the great half-wrestler, half weapons czar Dylan Erickson got on his agenda today? Another day of watching his minions put his factory together?”

 

“Nope. Today I’ve got a full day of training ahead of me. This Tarrasque guy’s tough as hell and I’ve got to be ready for it.”

 

“He’s big, too.”

 

“True, but I’m bigger. I know I can beat him, but it won’t be easy.”

 

“And here I was, hoping we could have a romantic dinner or something. I really thought I’d have my husband back after we escaped from that asshole of creation six months ago, I really did. But between Warhammer and wrestling it seems like you just want to work yourself to death. Is it true that you had this show off and you demanded a match anyway?”

 

“I called Vastrix and asked for one. I don’t want any free rides, Stef. The clock’s ticking and I want to get my reps in as much as I can.”

 

“You know Paul and Anastasia would have loved to have their father around a little more.”

 

“And once the factory’s at full production and I’ve got some gold around my waist, they’ll have as much of me as they want. But you know I won’t slow down until I get what I want. You know I’m not wired that way.”

 

She sighed. “I know. I just wish I had a little more of you to myself.”

 

“And Ana’s doing great heading up the factory construction. She just wants me to get out of her way.”

 

Stefanya chuckled. “She wants to prove herself. Reminds me of someone else I know.”

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 

With the thousand refugees finally off the Oceanic, Erickson had turned one of the ship’s enormous dining halls into his own personal wrestling gym. And after a day of hard training, the cameras were on and focused on the giant in the middle of the ring.

 

“Tarrasque. I wanted a match instead of a day off and you’re the unlucky soul who drew the short straw. But let’s get a couple of things straight. You think you’re stronger? I’ve got a hundred pounds on you. You think you’re better? I can form a coherent sentence. I’m a two-time fucking World Champion facing off against an overgrown Forrest Gump-type motherfucker. You’re strong as a bull, sure, but I’m the irresistible force and the immovable object.

 

“I have to commend you for having the courage to get in the ring with me, but you’re too stupid to realize what you’ve gotten yourself into. I got back to my winning ways the last time I stepped into the ring. I’ve got momentum on my side and I know damn well that you don’t know what’s coming for you. You want to send me packing and running back to my ship? I’ll be coming back, all right, but with another win under my belt and another loss under yours.

 

“So I wanted to thank you, Tarrasque. Thank you for stepping up to the plate and accepting a match with me, and thank you for giving me another victory. I’m sorry to say that it’s going to be a massacre.”