Seven part 2

[The Rogue]

And suddenly my world was righted. Who would have thought a simple piece of paper could relieve so much anxiety? The weight of being Champion had been removed and yet I was still wearing the crown. An order by the board that would settle my mind, at least while I was at the shows. Micky O’Reilly could no longer touch me outside of a sanctioned match. That meant no cheap shots. No attacks. Just me, doing what I do best; winning. I would see O’Reilly again, only it would be on my terms. Now I could focus on my opponent for this week, finally. I had been doing my research on the Harvard Connection, but aside from the things I already knew, I fell short. Still. I had time. Michael Tomkins was still on top. And that’s how I plan to stay.

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The phone rang, loud and shrill. Only today I didn’t react how I had the past several times I had heard it. I didn’t jump. I wasn’t uneasy. No paranoia. The one threat that I felt had gone for now. I had breathing room, for the first time since I had won my Championship Gold. I pressed the pause button on the DVD remote, stopping Chandler Scott’s pin fall as the referee’s hand was about to come down for a three count against Jared James. Homework done. I reached for the phone and pressed it to my ear, with a casual smile.

Mike: Hello?

Voice: Michael, my friend. How are you?

Mike: Ah, Steve. Eddie got through to you, alright then?

Steve: That he did. I got your contract so everything is official. I am your agent now.

Mike: Great. So what does this all mean for me then?

Steve: Well being that you are the Frontier Champ, top guy in the company means we can play a little off of your local fan base. While you are earning a modest amount with your Title bonus, I can advertise your name for local functions to earn you a little extra. This will help promote the company a bit more, and make you a bigger star too. I have spoken with the FGA and they are onboard with my ideas. The way they see it, any exposure is good for business. They want their golden boy to do his part.

Mike: Golden boy? I don’t know about that.

Steve: While word of the incident in the gym had gotten around, we have managed to brush the brunt of it under the carpet, so don’t worry too much about that. Given the situation with Micky O’Reilly and Tim Brown, it’s rather understandable, especially with the hospital thing and the drugs spiked into your system. Still got no idea how that happened?

Mike: Nothing concrete, but I’m not sweating it at the moment.

Steve: I also heard from the company. It turns out Mr. Brown was pulled over for a DUI for drugs. Cocaine. He had been released on bail but a court date is set for a couple of months time. With that and the assault charges, he is under close watch so if he has anything to do with the New York thing, you can rest assured that he is no threat for the time being.

Mike: That’s the second bit of good news I have heard this week. Great.

Steve: I have you one more. I have booked you for your first publicity gig. It’s only a local birthday party so I imagine it just involves some photographs, some autographs and a few sentimental words for the occasion. That sound good to you?

Mike: After the gym thing, I think anything in the community might be a good idea. I don’t want to gain a reputation for being Frontier’s bad boy after all.

Steve: I really don’t think you are under any risk of that, my friend. Especially with me going to bat for you.

Mike: Well, thanks very much, Steve. Where is it?

Steve: I will send a fax to your hotel with all the details. It’s not until tomorrow so you have time to sort it all out and get the location etcetera.

Mike: Alright. Thanks again, Steve.

Steve: Just doing my job, Tomkins. Just trying to help “raise the bar” for my superstar.

Mike: Ha! I like that one. That was good.

Steve: I do try.

Mike: Well, I’m going to get everything sorted for today and check what I need for tomorrow when the fax comes through. I will speak to you later.

Steve: Alright. Well give me a call tomorrow to let me know how it goes. Take care, Mike.

Mike: You too, Steve.

As I hung up the phone, I couldn’t help but crack a smile. Last week everything seemed to be weighing me down. The pressures of keeping my game at the highest level mixed in with all the outside disturbances my life contained were getting to me. Yet now, one or two things had changed and now everything was clear. I could finally focus on what I had to do in the ring. And also for the FGA. Although wrestling was my priority, I had the intention of helping the company to grow. Like Steve said, any exposure we could get would help us to expand the fan base and therefore more people would come every week. We could then sell more merchandise and move on to bigger arenas. Possibly even land a network deal or something. But that wasn’t going to happen over night. As well as put on a good show, I had to work with Steve all I could outside of the Wednesday Night Combat shows.

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With my Championship belt strapped over my shoulder, I climbed out of my car. As this was a public event, I felt the need to wear more clothes than my traditional wrestling attire. I wore jeans, with some Tennessee made cowboy boots, and a black “Raise The Bar”TM tee, which would hit the Frontier stands on the Wednesday of the show. It was a warm day for February, and the sun was shining brightly, so I sported a pair of expensive Ray Bans. I knew I looked good enough for a public appearance, so when I walked across the lawn of the house I had been called to, I was slightly taken back by the appalled look from the middle aged man running to greet me. I tried to ignore it and as he approached me, I held out my hand politely.

Man: What the hell?

Mike: Good day to you too.

I was definitely taken back now, but I tried to remain calm. This guy was clearly rude and unappreciative, but he had paid for my services. Not only that, but the services of a Frontier Grappling Arts employee and thus I had to represent the company in an appropriate fashion. There was, after all, only so much dirt they could effectively sweep under the proverbial rug.

Man: You can’t be “the Rogue!”

Mike: I’m sorry? I am. Michael “the Rogue” Tomkins.

Man: Well why are you wearing that, then?!

Mike: Look, Mr…. ?

Man: Adams.

Mike: Mr. Adams. Right. I didn’t feel my usual attire was appropriate for a children’s birthday party. So I put the jeans on and wore this top.

Mr. Adams: What are you talking about? What do you usually wear then?

Mike: A pair of black trunks, and some black boots.

Mr. Adams: What the hell!!! You can’t wear things like that to a children’s birthday party!

Mike: I figured that, sir. That’s why I am wearing the jeans and tee.

Mr. Adams: Wait, let me check the facts here. You do work for Frontier?

Mike: Yes. I’m their top guy. The kids will love me.

Mr. Adams: And you are “the Rogue?”

Mike: Yes, Michael “the Rogue” Tomkins.

Mr. Adams: Then what’s with the trunks and the boots?

Mike: Well it’s hard to do what I do in jeans in the night time. And tights aren’t really my style.

Mr. Adams: What? What the hell do you do?

Mike: Well, in the day times I just do public appearances for entertainment purposes.

Mr. Adams: In nothing but trunks?

Mike: And boots.

Mr. Adams: I don’t understand. You can’t seriously ride on horseback in just that? For a start that’s highly inappropriate. Secondly…

Mike: Wait, what?

Mr. Adams: I hired a cowboy for my Grandson and I get you. A fucking pervert!

Mike: Whoa, wait a minute. There has been some sort of mix up!

Mr. Adams: A mix up! You’re damn right there is. A normal cowboy wears a hat and a shirt. They have a horse or at least a gimmick horse. And they have a lasso and stuff. What the hell do you call yourself a cowboy for?

Mike: Mr. Adams, calm down. I am not a cowboy.

Mr. Adams: I gathered. I didn’t want an exotic performer, thank you very much.

Mike: I’m not. I am a wrestler.

Mr. Adams: A wrestler?

Mike: Yeah. For Frontier Grappling Arts.

Mr. Adams: I have never heard of them. Well what are you doing here then?

Mike: You hired me.

Mr. Adams: I hired a cowboy!

Mike: Apparently not.

Mr. Adams: I phoned a place called Frontier and asked for their best guy. They said that’s “the Rogue.”

Mike: No, you phone Frontier Grappling Arts and effectively asked for their Champion to come over.

Mr. Adams: Well what the hell am I supposed to do now? I have already paid you.

Mike: Well if you phone the office I am sure they will refund you.

Mr. Adams: Well where am I supposed to get a cowboy on such short notice? And on a Sunday?

Mike: Beats me.

Mr. Adams: You have to do it. Please! I am begging you!

Mike: But I’m not a cowboy.

Mr. Adams: You are an actor though.

Mike: first of all, I resent that. What I do is real. Secondly, I don’t have a costume.

Mr, Adams: Could you not get one?

Mike: I don’t know.

Mr. Adams: Please, try. If you do I will pay more. And I will take the family to your shows. I’ll tell all my friends. Please, just help me. I don’t want to let my Grandson down.

Mike: Hang on, I’ll give my agent a call.

It didn’t take long for Steve to come down with a cowboy suit in hand. It seems that either he had good access because of his clientele or that he knew beforehand of what this job would entail. I didn’t question him. I chose to believe it was the first choice. So I gritted my teeth and bore through it. It was painful. I attempted to use a lasso and tied the Grandpa, Mr. Adams, to the chair. I made the world’s worst balloon horse. I posed for a few pictures and we handed out some courtesy FGA merchandise, along with some vouchers for money off the following Wednesday Night Combat show. I was sure we’d at least managed to reach out to the Adams family. What bugged me most, though was later on I found the family footage on the FGA website. Apparently Steve thought the whole thing would get me on good with the FGA board. All I saw it as was extra ammunition for the likes of Chandler Scott. But at least with all the events of the week out of the way, I was in a relatively upbeat mood ahead of my Main Event clash with the Straight A Stud.

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Standing in front of a plain white wall, Michael Tomkins wears a pair of jeans and the new “Raise The Bar” tee, which comes in black or white (this one is black) and is available at the merchandise stand from Wednesday 22nd February for just $14.99. He looks cheerful, and cocky. Back to his usual self. He stares at the camera for a few moments, before allowing his pecs to bounce, drawing attention to the merchandise.

Mike: Chandler, my friend, you make me laugh. Did you know that? I mean, the way you look at things is entirely different to how I see them. But for now, that’s fine. That will do. We have conflicting opinions and conflicting interests. Come Wednesday we ourselves will engage each other in combat the Frontier way. None of these childish birthday parties. This is all about business. The business that I love and excel in. Now you can sugarcoat circumstances anyway you like, but certain facts still remain. First off, you have lost before. Not just to me, but to Jared James. The former Mr. Nice Guy. But Chandler, you have to ask yourself. Have I lost yet? Nope. I have won six matches without loss. And things aren’t going to be any different after Wednesday. I’m the Giants and you’re the Patriots. No matter how good Brady is, it still won’t win that elusive ring you so desire. Now I assume with your prestigious education, you will understand the analogy there, however I wish to explain it anyway. You might have a good arsenal of offensive moves, but the talent and athleticism of Michael Tomkins will prevail regardless. I am the Raise-The-Bar-Superstar, Scott. The guy who carries the FGA gold and does it with pride. And when I finally defend the belt against someone worthy, I will still be that guy. I will still be the Champion. Why? Because otherwise it would be a tragedy. Speaking of tragedies, dear friend. You decided to bring up the differences between the two of us. You mentioned that I was suffering under the pressure of being the Champion. That paranoia was eating away at me, and that you would be the one to capitalize. My favorite playwright, Oscar Wilde, said “there are only two tragedies in this life; one is not getting what one wants and the other is getting it.” Why do I say this? Well it is adequate for our situation, isn’t it. Both of us wanted nothing more than to wear this Championship. You, Chandler will never ever get what you want. You will never hold this Title because I will make sure it doesn’t happen. I said it in January and I will say it now. As long as I am in Frontier you will never be Champion. It’s a tragedy, I know. That thing you want, the thing you dream of, the only thing you can’t buy… Will never be yours. Where as I got what I wanted. Now what? Now I get attacked. I get threatened. I have every single guy on the roster gunning for my spot. They all want top billing. They want top pay. They want my job. And what do I do? I can’t go any higher. I’m already at the top of the mountain. I can’t better what I have already done. I’m the first ever FGA Heavyweight Champion. I’m the only guy with an undefeated streak in the company. I am the best wrestler here. So where can I go? I can’t go up. I can only fight to equal what I have done. Retain what I have already earned. I can’t rise. But I can fall. That too, is a tragedy. What does one want if they already have it?

Tomkins pauses for a bit, allowing the thought to sink in, before continuing.

Mike: And talk about sour grapes, Chandler. The fact remains that while you were the closest caller to ending my streak, you still didn’t get the job done. You can blame Timmy Brown’s interference all you want, but none of that matters, does it? Regardless of what happens, when people look back they won’t remember you. They’ll only remember me. The Champion. The first Champion. The guy who won three matches, besting seven opponents to win the crown. And it’s not a crown of thorns. It’s not uncomfortable for me to bare. The only thing I find uncomfortable is your constant whining. “Jared James and Blaine this” and “Timmy Brown that.” Christ, man! I figured someone who claimed to be better than everyone else would have some form of integrity. Some form of dignity. But not you, no. You just pretend. But being rich and intelligent doesn’t make you the best. Wilde also said, “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Essentially, they look up and dream that they are something else, something different; better. But all of us in our essence are filthy primal beings that will grind in the dirt for a taste of something better. We work and we sweat and we aim to be the best, when we are all on level with each other. There is no such thing as a better human being, despite what you think. While I am the best at what I do, I am not a better human being than anyone. I am the same. Just with certain talents that are more finely tuned. Like I say, raise the bar.

Mike motions to his tee, before smiling.

Mike: Oh, this? It’s just a little something that will be on sale from Wednesday. Official FGA merchandise. $14.99. But that’s neither here nor there. Chandler, I do not know what you realistically expect when we meet in a Combat ring, in the main event of Wednesday evening. You say you will win, but I doubt that you truly believe that. The Rogue has a never give up attitude that you will not be able to break. I will prevail. There’s no two ways about it. No what ifs. No but maybes. And with Tim Brown not in the building, you will have no excuses when I put your shoulders down to claim back my three seconds. There is nothing you can do to change that fact, Chandler. You can complain all you want about things that have already happened. Certain circumstances that possibly handed me the opportunity of victory. I get that. But you won’t come so close again. This match will end with the same result. And when you are dazed and confused. Out on your back. Staring up at the lights. Make no mistake in knowing that I just handed you your Harvard ass. And like I said before, you will connect with my left boot.

He smiles widely, full of confidence. Then, Michael reaches down to pull his shirt over his head, leaving him bare-chested.

Mike: With everything that has happened since I came to the FGA, I have gained a lot of perspective. I know what I am capable of. I know that despite everything that anyone has tried, no one has managed to keep my shoulders against the mat for more than two seconds. No one has managed to force me to give up. It didn’t matter if it was an Indy legend, a former World Champion, a rookie or Mr. Nice Guy himself, no one had it in them to defeat me. And as for my victories, yeah some of them have been straight, and some of them haven’t. That shouldn’t be the thing you of all people focus on, Stud. You should be looking at the other fact. The fact that I am the guy who in six matches has not been bested. I have had enough fight in me to overcome all the odds. I have gone from being the no hope underdog to being the FGA Heavyweight Champion. Actions speak louder than words, don’t they? I can tell you, here and now, that there is nothing you can do that will make you beat me. I can carry on going with all my play on words, my catch phrases and my rebuttals, but it won’t mean anything to you. Not yet. So I will just let you know that on Wednesday night I will come for you. Chandler Scott, you are number seven. No, not like in the film; “I am Number Four.” You’re not some cheesy sci-fi concept where the last hope of an alien race is held by number on our own planet. No. You are the seventh would be guy who will never be. You are the seventh in a line of guys just itching to knock me off of my perch. I invite you to try. I invite you to give it your all. But after it is all over, I don’t want any of your typical excuses. I don’t want to hear any bull shit about cheating. No crap about luck. I just want to hear you admit that the Champion defeated you. It will happen. Believe me, I am sort of an expert seeing as I have told six other people the same thing and proven the fact straight after. You will not beat me. Nothing you say now will change that. Nothing you do on Wednesday will. Michael Tomkins will remain with his perfect record. He will have raised the bar he himself set when he won the Title. I am making history. I am writing the record books. I am taking on all comers and I am going to go through you without a care. I am looking past you, seeing Blaine or Jared standing in the distance, ready to try and climb the proverbial ladder. And I will look past them to Micky O’Reilly, at a time when we will finally put an end to whatever deranged problem he has with me. Things are going my way. Momentum is in my corner. And why? It’s already a well known fact, but I will remind you anyway. Apparently Harvard Graduates learn so much that eventually they can’t see passed their own egos. Chandler Scott, it takes three seconds to win a match, just three. And everybody already knows, because I have said it six times before, those seconds belong to me. They always belong to me. I’ll see you Wednesday, mate. I can’t wait.

With that Michael Tomkins flashes one more cocky grin, puts his hand up to the camera to signal the end of the promo and the screen fades to black as the FGA logo flashes over the screen.

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