**Residence of William Prydor: February 14, 2008**
Sunrise
found him staring out to the east, facing the rising sun as his mind continued
to whirl around the events of the last couple of days. Within his reach was a phone, and it took
every fiber of willpower he had to not grab the phone and dial. Beyond that, on the marker board he usually
reserved for reminders were written three short words: “The Ice Man.”
Yes, there was more than enough for him to deal with at the
moment without bringing <I>her</I>
back into his life. But yet, a part of
him wanted to know what she needed to say.
He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him did want to see her again. But the greatest part of him was scared to
open the old wounds he thought were once staunched and forgotten.
Picking up the phone, he held it for a moment, stoically
looking at the numbers on the keypad.
Ten numbers is all it would take to re-open Pandora’s Box and just hang
on for the ride, seeing where the consequences would lead. Ten numbers that screamed within his head,
wanting a release he was hesitant to give.
Sighing and visibly shaking, he put the phone back down and
walked into his private screening room.
He had to find a way to get her off of his mind, and re-reviewing Ice
Man’s match from this past week for the fifth time was as good of a way as any
to do it as he sat down and queued up the match.
A few minutes passed, until the end of the match, when Ice
Man callously kicked the ribs of his beaten opponent and then had the audacity
to spit on her. A careful observer would
notice that he scowled a bit and tightened his right fist as that last bit of
action occurred before the clip faded and the lights came back on.
“…disrespectful little $#!*…I’m going to enjoy this.” His voice was barely above a whisper as he went
back to his window seat. The irony that
he was unconsciously trying to make right a situation that involved a woman—much
like his situation with her—did not register with him. All he noticed
at the moment is that his opponent treated a worthy competitor with disdain,
and that is one thing he is completely against as a professional.
The ringing of the phone startled him from his thoughts, as
he walked out to where he left his phone on the window seat, and saw those same
ten numbers that had been screaming in his head now appear on the LCD screen of
his cell phone. Bracing himself
mentally, he pressed the “talk” button.
It was now or never. “You have thirty
seconds. Start talking.”
There was silence from the other end of the line, and he was
about to disconnect the call when he heard, “Are you all right?”
Her voice was trembling; it wasn’t like her to be so
nervous. Still, he could relate to the
feeling. “I’m preparing for my next
match.”
“I see…I won’t keep you long then. I know you’re wrestling in Chicago on the 24th, and I also
know about the situation surrounding your match. Afterwards, though, I really need to talk to
you.”
“About…?”
“Several things I’d rather not say over the phone, although
one of them concerns your property. I’d
much rather talk in person.”
He paused and exhaled, running his free hand through his
orange-dyed crew cut. “On two
conditions. One, I name the time and
place. Two, you do not try to contact me
by any means between now and then.”
There was a brief moment of silence. “Granted.”
He sighed once again, narrowing his options. “No one has been in your little bungalow in
the End of Nowhere since you left two years ago. We’ll meet there, high noon the Wednesday
after my next match.”
Another brief silence followed. “So be it.”
A few seconds of uncomfortable silence later, she disconnected the call. Sighing, he closed his phone, and then his
eyes, mentally wondering what he had just done.
He turned as he opened his eyes, and staring him in the face
was another reminder of his next opponent—a still shot poster of The Ice Man
driving him into the mat with the Ice Pick.
A cold, controlled anger swept through him, and with a snarl he lashed
out, his right hand going through the poster and knocking a hole in the wall. As he pulled his hand away, a fist-shaped
hole was all that remained where the face of The Ice Man originally was.
In that instant, he came to terms with the need for revenge
that had been inside of him since the 27th of January, and managed
to put it to work for him, rather than against him. He would not let anger lead him into a
mistake…but would instead use his anger to force his opponent into a
mistake. As he turned away, the image on
the back of his shirt—that of a phoenix rising from the ashes in a plume of
fire—seemed to glow in the sunlight as he began to chuckle darkly.
“In the end…he will plead for mercy, only to be denied. He will cry for leniency, but no quarter
shall be given. And all will see that The
Ice Man’s greatest mistake was to cross paths with me in the manner that he
chose to do so.
“In Chicago,
he will suffer. Locked in the Blaze of
Glory, he will cry. Tapping in agony, he
will linger…and his title hopes will swiftly die.”
Another dark chuckle followed this as darkness began to
overtake the city of Baltimore. Walking into his bedroom, he opened the door
to his closet and slid aside the several normal sets of wrestling attire he
used. There, in the back was a set that
he had only worn one time in his professional career…that day being when he
came out of the crowd to defend her
from the man who broke his ankle—an emotionally-charged event in and of itself.
When asked after that show as to why the new look, he said
that “this way, no one can see the blood on me when I beat my opponent to
within an inch of his miserable existence…it will blend right in.” Some people drew comparisons to the Mord-Sith
characters in the Sword of Truth fantasy series by Terry Goodkind…and who’s to
say, maybe they were right.
The outfit he now gazed upon was what, in his mind, he
decided he would wear in Chicago. It was a crimson-colored t-shirt, with the
stylized outline of a phoenix on the back in an almost burgundy color. A set of knee-length crimson shorts, crimson
wrestling boots, and dark crimson—almost black—gloves rounded out the
ensemble. As he stared at this outfit,
the last piece of doubt left his mind.
He was ready for The Ice Man at Uprising in just over a
week’s time. And there was no one—not
even Brandy—who would deter him now.
This time, The Phoenix would indeed see it done.
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