The echos of feet stepping hard here and there on mats, of fists hitting leather, of weights being placed, lifted, dropped, lifted dropped, of grunts of physical exertion, still ring through the empty gym, turning the hot silence into an eerie sort of dream/memory. Ichabod sits on a bench by a mat, looking down. Streams of sweat gather on his chin and drip in slow motion to the floor. In his mind, the constant scenes of what his career have been still march incessantly in double time, as if to the beat of some Marine cadence. That brings his mind to Bigg Wafer, his cousin, who gave up the glamorous life of professional wrestling to protect our country as a jarhead. Thinking of Wafer brings him to think of the ORS, and of Nison, Lobster, Fatdaddy Cain, and finally, Justin Payne.
It would be a little over twenty four hours before the two of them would take destiny by the throat. Ichabod felt the anticipation of the end of his career in the way that a thoughtful and meticulous Native American would calmly wait for Death, not in fear, but in respect and in wonder. The final time is a time of rejoicing in their culture, and for Ichabod, it will be no different.
Justin, very soon, I'll be hanging up my boots in exchange for a nice suit. We've both had a hell of a run, from the International Pro Wrestling Federation, to the Worldwide Online Wrestling, we have left a mark in the minds of every man, woman, and child we have come across. We've left a legacy behind in every building we graced, in every ring we shed blood in, and no one, but no one, can doubt our contributions to the sport.
You may be on a long road to the top still, but I've nearly had my fill. Nearly. You see, the one pockmark, the little unfilled fissure on the face of my career, that hole that I've never seemed to been able to fill, is you. In my career, I have written the book of success, and yet left the final chapter undone. Tomorrow, that chapter will be written, and it will be inked in your blood, my friend.
You and I both know that I am not some Hulk Hogan, who has gotten stale, and therefore should retire if he is to salvage any kind of dignity. I am still in my prime, I am still a fighter. I have many good years left in me, but I have climbed as high as any wrestler can, and I must drive further, to greater heights. This I will be able to do as an executive power, not as a frontman, entertaining the crowd.
Justin, win or lose, nothing will change between us, in my opinion. Why then is this match important? Because it has always eaten away at the back of my mind, who is the better man. Every pair of friends has these thoughts. No matter how close anyone is, there is always that will to outdo the other man, and when you know you can, it puts it to rest, and you can get on with your relationship. I have built a solid foundation of trust and respect for you, Justin, but until we have settled this score, there will always be something there, like the nagging of a housefly.
Win or lose, it will be settled. But know this, for all of our catch phrases, for all of our gimmicks, for all of our words, the two of us know that Ichabod has excelled well beyond what Bigg Wafer, Chris Conner, Smoke Dawg, and even Justin Payne ever expected. Your chance will come, but I will take it from you just as easily as I gave it. And I will leave the BiLo center the reigning undefeated champion.
Ichabod pulls himself up off the bench. He looks into the mirror at his bloodshot eyes. He steps a little closer and re-examines them. What was bloodshot the day before now looks clear as day. Ichabod knows the final coming of the match he has wanted for so long has finally put him at peace. Its been days since his last episode. Maybe it was a temporary thing, meant to scare him. Or maybe Steve was wrong about a chip in his head.
A numbness covers Ichabod's body as he realizes the unlikliness of that. His face in the mirror seems to change before him, twisting into a viscious snarl. Ichabod backs up away from the mirror. He grabs his bag and leaves the gym in a hurry.
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