I've never been the type of guy who could suppress the rage until it went away. I can force it down, and I can contain it for a while, but I've seen the guys that can lower their heads and power through the bull shit until it doesn't bother them anymore. That's not me, and it never has been.

I slam gloved fists into a heavy bag repeatedly. I'm barely thinking about technique or combinations, not conserving my energy; I just throw until my arms are spaghetti noodles, and my heart pounds in my chest like a jackhammer. It feels like it's about to burst through my ribs and fall onto the floor.

Don't stop.

Keep going.

I pivot from an orthodox stance to southpaw and bring my right leg snapping up into the bag with a thunderous kick, and then another. I throw a jab and a hook then unleash with another kick, this time the Brazilian "question mark" kick to what I'm imagining is my fathers head.

I can see him standing in front of me. He's smiling at me. Mocking. Taunting.

I lunge forward with a sharp elbow into his orbital socket, then wrap my left hand around the back of the heavy bag as if holding him in a thai clinch. I throw the elbow into his face several more times. I imagine his nose shattering underneath my forearm, a river of blood pouring down his face and into his mouth where another crushing elbow has left his teeth shattered and jagged.

Punish him.

Fuck if you're tired.

Fuck if you pass out here on the spot.

Kill him, make him pay.

I drop my head against the bag, I can barely hold it up anymore. I'm pouring sweat onto the "HILITE FC" mats and breathing like a wounded animal that's fighting for it's life. I start ripping uppercuts into the body, my shoulders firing like pistons at a pace that surprises even me. Hit him in the liver, dig into his kidney, snap a rib into his lung if you can and watch him bleed out.

For your mother, and your siblings.

Fuck his world up.

I finally hit the wall, and stumble backwards away from the heavy bag. The room is spinning around me, stars popping up in front of my eyes as I realize I can't suck in a breath no matter how hard I try. I collapse to one knee, my face flushed and hair matted to my head. I stare at the heavy bag, and slowly drop to my side on the floor.

Everything closes in to a pinhole.

He's still staring at me.

He's still smiling.

I didn't even leave a mark.

I expected the trio of dumb fucks in this gauntlet to come at me with dog shit. I expected half cooked theories and harebrained accusations. I expected verbal diarrhea and chest puffing. I expected the absolute worst of the worst.

I still expected something.

Don't get me wrong, I know Kropotnik or whatever the fuck his name is took the time to make his presence felt, but barely. Like I said, if he claims I'm not worth his time why the hell should he get my mic time? Where are you Marlow? Where are you Ben? Where are you mystery opponent that wants to sneak in at the end and steal a cheap win from me, but is too cowardly to give a name beforehand?

You're fighting the fucking Universal Champion, douche bags, show some fucking respect instead of wasting my time yet again. This could be a platform to superstardom, a chance to put yourself on a map that you haven't even been able to locate yet, and the three of you are pissing on it like high school girls after their first beer. Why? Because it's a lost cause? Because if you engage verbally, I'll shred you worse than I will in the ring? Because you're desperately banking on the mystery entrant saving your asses, and making everyone forget you were even involved to begin with?

It's not going to happen, kids.

I'm going to wreck you like you're Biebers asshole in a prison, and if you don't believe me ask every other XWF Superstar past or present that had ten times your talent and fell short of what you've all set out to do.

They all thought the odds were stacked in their favor as well.

They all thought they had an ace up their sleeves.

Fuck them.

Fuck you.

Fuck whoever the fourth entrant of this match is, with a barbed wire wrapped railroad spike and a salt water enema for dessert.

Oh, and fuck Chasm.

It seems like I've got a minute here, since there's no one else of value to speak on. You may have noticed our match on Warfare this week is for the Universal title. You're welcome. I thought about the stipulation you offered, and realized there was no shot in hell that you'd ever beat me twice. I told management to just go ahead and give you the opportunity; you're unlikely to ever earn it otherwise.

I'm not Blingsteen, I'm not running from anyone. I always respected you Chasm, even if you are flakier than a french pastry and less talented than William Hung. I'm not running from Robbie Bourbon either. I'm sorry he wasn't man enough to face me straight up, but if he needs to stab me in the back and manufacture some bull shit to motivate himself so be it. I'll beat his ass either way.

I'm here, and I still will be come Saturday Night.

Fear the Raven, Forevermore.

JEREMY: James! James, are you OK?

My eyes flutter open and I see the face of my agent looking down at me with concern, a bottle of water in his hands which he splashes on my face like an asshole. I sputter, looking around and trying to remember what happened.

I see the punching bag, and I remember.

I use my gloved fists as anchors to try and push myself back up to my feet, but Jeremy grabs my shoulders and holds me down.

JEREMY: Relax, don't move.

RAVEN: I'm fine.

JEREMY: You're not fine. You got knocked the fuck out, and you're the only one here kid.

RAVEN: Fuck you.

JEREMY: I know. You've been telling me that since 2009. Come on, sit over here.

He helps me crawl across the floor mats to a nearby wall and turn my back against it, handing me the bottle of water and crouching silently next to me as I empty the entire thing. He helps me pull the training gloves off of my hands and tosses them into the corner, then stares intently at me.

RAVEN: Stop it. Don't look at me like that.

JEREMY: I don't want to be a dick, but stop being a dick. What the hell just happened in here?

RAVEN: Nothing. I laid down. It was a tough work out, and I needed to rest.

JEREMY: Bull shit. I've seen you put yourself through brutal work outs in the past, and you don't just lay down and take a nap afterwards. What the fuck is going on with you?

I can't believe he's this dense about everything. As if he wasn't just standing with me in 'The Century Club' a few hours ago, face to face with my father as he told me that he was going to put a full court press on seeing my son. My father; the man that beat everyone in my family except me growing up, the man that I'll believe for the rest of my life contributed to the death of my mother and brother...

I will die before I let that happen.

RAVEN: You know what's going on Jeremy. What happened here doesn't matter, I'm fine, but you heard the things he said about Tyler and Mia... we have to stop him.

JEREMY: WE have to stop him? This is some serious family shit, James. I don't think I need to have anything to do with it.

RAVEN: I've spent more time with you in the past decade than anybody I share blood with. You are my family Jeremy, and I pay you damned well to call on you when I need you. I need you now.

He knows I'm right, and to his credit he doesn't argue. He sits silently for a moment before nodding his head.

JEREMY: Fine. You're right. So what's the next step?

RAVEN: Savage in California, I have a gauntlet of jobbers to kick the shit out of. Then we go to Arizona and see Mia and Tyler. We have to figure this shit out before my dad gets in touch with them.

JEREMY: Lead the way.

If my dad wants to turn this into a war, we can do that. He'll lose. It was a mistake to exile him before, sometimes you need to grow a pair and execute.

FADE TO BLACK