Seventy-Two Hours.

Seventy-Two hours I have been awake.

Seventy-Two hours.

Three days.

Three days of sleepless nights. Yet I dream all the same.

Dante Cross…Riley Williamson…Shade…

Three men.

Three seconds.

I’ve removed myself from the view of the so called fans for the past few weeks. More so for my own interest than anything else. It’s no secret that I’ve not been at my best lately. The loss to David Michaels hit me hard. To say I was confident of victory was an understatement. Perhaps that was my downfall. But it wasn’t that I thought I was better than David Michaels, no, it wasn’t that at all. I’d trained. I’d prepared. I went into that match thinking that at last, this would be my vindication. That this would be the day Dante Cross took his rightful place at the top. The pinnacle of success. To defeat the World Heavyweight Champion. But that day never came.

And now.

A new day has come. Now, I face two men whom I’ve gone toe to toe with before. Two men who stand in the way of my first real taste of championship gold in a long time. It’s been so long. It’s been so damn long since I held the shining symbol of my validation.

Seventy-Two hours.

I’ve waited as the time ticked by.

Seventy-Two hours awake.

For Thirty minutes to be alive.

They call it hell.

I call it home.

DING! DING! DING!

The three competitors in the match are due to start now that the bell has been rung. Dante Cross rises up from the corner in which he sat. He’d come to the ring wearing a sort of long skirt, covering his legs, but now he pulled it away to reveal what lay underneath. Wrapped tightly around his shin guards on each leg, barbed wire was entwined. Instead of knee pads, he’d gotten metal plates over his knees. Across the ring, the Hardcore Champion Shade grinned from beneath his hat. The camera closed in and as he lifted his head, the light caught the brim of his hat. It was then that notice was taken to it. The brim of Shade’s hat was razor sharp, metal laced. The Hardcore Champion removed the hat and ran a finger along the edge. A thin streak of blood flowed out onto the hat. Shade brought the hat to his lips…and his tongue touched the cold steel, licking off the blood. He placed the hat down in his corner of the ring. The third man in this match, Riley Williamson, was playing it straight. Or as straight as you can in such an extreme match. He removed his jacket and began to walk to the center of the ring to meet his opponents. Shade and Dante each stepped out from their respective corners and joined Riley in the middle of the ring.

I’d brought a bag into the ring. Left it outside the ring just near where I was sitting. It’ll come in handy soon enough. Once the blood starts flowing and the flesh starts showing. Oh this is going to be a joyous match. The referee is standing there holding the title that will soon be mine. Showing it off to the fans while the announcer, Laura Watts, rolled off the regular blurbs for these kind of title matches. Hmph, Laura Watts. Little known fact…I’ve hit that a time or two. She has this uptight demeanor at work. Well, perhaps that’s not the best way of saying it. Professional. Yeah, that seems more in line with it. She has this professional character about her at work, but in the sack she’s a different beast. The scars to come from this coming battle will not match those from the aftermath of our sexcapades. Is she still talking? Hm, seems she is nearly done. She said my name. Guess I’ll give some slight acknowledgement in her direction. Movement of the lips. A cut of the eyes. A look of general disinterest. That seems to be along the lines of my usual M.O.

The match has started and Riley looks to be going outside. I’d follow him but there are more important things to do. Shade and I brawl for a bit in the ring. I get the better of that multi-personality piece of shit.

So fuck this, I’m out of this match. Razor Xtreme sucks dick as Genera l Manager.