Season: ZERO

What was Season: Zero and what does it have to do with GTT7?
title

Are you Legion? leave behind yourSELF

If you would like to apply to Legion, read the manifesto first.
title

Welcome to Brooklyn... now WHO is Legion?

Ladies and Gentlemen... THE BASEMENT TAPES for Season One: Brooklyn.
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Matches Wrestled:
Points:
Team Points:
W:
L:
DQ:
D/NC:
PCT:
Submission:
Pinfall:
FPR (Successful Falls Percentage):
WAR (Wins Above Redshirt):
Plus/Minus (points for/points against):
Minutes Wrestled:
Soul:
Golden Ropes:

WRESTLER A

TOP ROPE

WRESTLER B

CENTER ROPE

WRESTLER C

BOTTOM ROPE

The Draft Battle Royale - Quick Results

April is a month when memorable events take place all over the sports landscape. It is a time for the NHL and NBA playoffs to start, the MLB season to begin and the NFL draft to take place. Not only those notable events but of course college basketball’s March Madness also reaches it’s zenith in April, and we are treated to the WWE’s Wrestlemania as well as ACW’s Legends.


Now the start of Legion’s first season can be added to that list, as the Draft Weekend for Legion’s first season of the 21st century took place across the weekend of April 24th and 25th. The DVD for the Draft Battle Royale, as well as the availability to download a digital copy of the show from the Legion blog, is set to be made available later this week. The Draft Weekend will also be airing after Late Night w/Eddy Love and The Later Show w/Scotty Bowman all this week on ESEN.


Quick results of the Draft Battle Royale can be found below. Stars were born, reputations made, relationships forged in fire and canvas… and legends brought to life. Only in Brooklyn… only in Legion… leaving one last chance as the season begins, to be a singular force.


Tune in live to the PTC CHATROOM on THURSDAY, April 29th, at 7pm EST to experience Legion’s LIVE and UNABRIDGED DRAFT.



MINUTE-TO-MINUTE RUNDOWN

00:00

GVP is first to enter, Aaron Jones Jr. is second to enter. After a short bit of back and forth, the son of SilverHAWK shows his greenness within the ring and GVP eliminates him. Leaving Patton in the ring alone for…


00:03

Jesse Ramey is third to enter.


00:06

Latrell Samuel enters. Eliminates himself trying to go off the top rope, getting toppled off.


00:09

David Noble enters.


00:12

Mary-Lynn Mayweather enters. Is eliminated by David Noble.


00:15

Kristos Zatania enters. Ramey eliminates Noble.


00:18

Orazio Duke enters. Zatania eliminates Ramey. GVP eliminates Zatania.


00:21

Rune Winters enters, attacking Duke. K-Wolf’s music hits early, but wait it’s Sharc who comes out instead! Sharc eliminates Winter. Winters is piiiiissed.


00:24

Inoue Doi enters.


00:27

The Woman With A Black Heart enters. The Black Heart and Inoue eliminate each other.


IN-RING: GVP, Sharc, Duke.

00:30

Nibi Augustin enters.


00:33

Naveed enters.


00:36

The Flying Frenchie enters.


00:39

Mike Randalls enters. Eliminates Duke, eliminates Sharc, almost eliminates Naveed, gets double-teamed by Frenchie and GVP before that devolves. Gets into it with Augustin, who is out of his element with Randalls.


00:42

Impulse enters, big hometown favorite. Eliminates Nibi, as he looks to get a reprieve from Randalls and walks right into a duel with an entering Impluse. There’s a moment of… hey, I thought Nibi could win this whole thing, the kid had heart… but it passes.


00:45

Jonathan Wilson enters.


00:48

Chet Worth enters. Kicks and punches people, before being outclassed and eliminated by Naveed who’s shining for the first time tonight after just trying to survive for the first fifteen minutes.


00:51

Brian Spaes enters. Wilson is eliminated by GVP.


00:54

Alias enters.


00:57

Brooklyn Rivera enters. Fans LOVE her, she’s the hometown girl. Alias eliminates Spaes, as Spaes had almost over-zealously gone after the Original Pulp Hero the moment he came into the ring. Spaes is not pleased in the least.


01:00

Hornet is the last to enter to much aplomb. Randalls IMMEDIATELY goes after Hornet, and in vicious fashion drops the legend out of the ring on his head, eliminating him. Medics rush out to check on the medical condition of Hornet.


IN-RING: GVP, Alias, Rivera, Randalls, Frenchie, Naveed, Impulse

01:09

Rivera is eliminated by Impulse, who is then eliminated by Randalls. GVP, after being in the match for more then an hour, is eliminated by Alias. We now know the four captains.


Alias.


Mike Randalls.


The Flying Frenchie.


Naveed.


Three legends, and an unknown quantity.


01:15

Alias is eliminated by Randalls.


01:26

Frenchie does something especially sneaky to eliminate Randalls, but is dragged to hell as well, by Randalls. Frenchie is therefore eliminated by Randalls. It's too close to call on whom gets the second and who gets the third pick in the draft, but that isn't important. Naveed defies all expectations in WINNING the Legion Battle Royale and earning the number one pick in the Legion Draft.



TIME IN BATTLE ROYALE

01:10 – GVP

00:53 – Naveed

00:50 – The Flying Frenchie

00:47 – Mike Randalls

00:28 – Impulse

00:21 – Orazio Duke

00:18 - Sharc

00:14 – Jesse Ramey

00:13 – Nibi Augustin

00:12 – Brooklynn Rivera

00:07 – Brian Spaes

00:07 – Jonathan Wilson

00:06 – David Noble

00:05 – Kristos Zatania

00:05 – Inoue Doi

00:03 – Chet Worth

00:02 – The Woman With A Black Heart

00:02 – Aaron Jones Jr.

00:02 – Rune Winters

00:01 – Latrell Samuel

00:01 – Mary-Lynn Mayweather

00:01 - Hornet

The Basement Tapes :: Season One, Track Twenty-Four

I had turned the corner onto 13th street at 5th avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and came across five people milling about outside Lucky 13 Saloon, smoking cigarettes.


At least, I assume they’re cigarettes. The people who smoke the other stuff usually walk up a few feet into the darkness.


Not much, Tim, I said, meeting someone here tonight for business.


Tim let the cigarette hang from his lips as he stepped toward me and gave me a hug. He DJ’s here on Thursday nights, mainly because he lives three blocks away and it’s an easy night for him.


“You and your business,” said Tim, “Just flippin’ relax tonight, dude.”


He didn’t say ‘flippin’ either, but by now I’m sure you’ve figured out that I’m applying a filter to my night.


Tim was a mainstay of the underground Metal community in New York City, and Brooklyn in particular. He knew everyone, from Juliya to the boys in Killcode, to Otep, to Marilyn Manson, to Jimmy Duff, to the girls in Kittie, to Sum 41 of all bands, and the list could probably continue indefinitely. But he was happy – I hesitate to say content – doing his local DJ gigs every night of the week.


Thursdays was Lucky 13’s, like I said.


Who’s here, I said, even though I could just as easily go inside and see.


“It’s dead,” said Tim, “Joey James is supposed to be on his way, and I talked to Willow before, she said she was coming out which means Michele probably will, too.”


Willow and Michele were both locals, good kids and talented photographers. Joey James, on the other hand, was an amazingly talented artist who has done work for Otep, Type O Negative, Duff’s Brooklyn, and a bunch of people I’ve forgotten. Not to mention his Los Angeles billboard.


Cool, I said, will see you inside, sir.


I pulled the door open and was greeted with the sounds of ‘The American Dream’ by Walls of Jericho. Good song, but incredibly heavy. I met Chris and Candace when they last swept through New York, and they were cool folks, but she was far too angry on record.


She makes Miss Ivy look like a hippie, if you get my drift.


Hey Jen, I said, as I stepped toward the bar. I kneeled on one of the barstools and leaned over the divider so I could give the girl a hug.


“What’s going on, Knox?” asked Jen, “How’s your better half been?”


Working, I replied, all the time. But she’s off next Thursday and told me she wants to do the Brooklyn tour and see everyone again.


“Cool,” said Jen, getting down to business, “What can I get you?”


Amstel, I replied. That’s my home – away –f rom – home drink, since most bars in NYC don’t carry Dos Equis.


Jen fished the bottle out of the cooler, and in one smooth motion, popped the lid, pulled a coaster from the stack on the bar, and placed coaster and beer in front of me. I dropped a ten and waved her off.


Yeah, the beer was five bucks and I left five for Jen. Tip your bartenders, people.


“So how’ve you been?” asked Jen, “I heard you got hurt.”


Hesitation.


As if talking about it could make it happen.


Yeah, I hurt my back before wrestling at Coop’s, of all places, I said, but I’m fine now. I’m actually meeting up with someone in the biz tonight.


“Cool,” replied Jen, “So we’ll see you on TV again soon?”


I don’t think these guys are on TV, I said, but yeah, I’ll be getting back to work soon which means pain in strange places and more classified crap.


Her eyes went wide.


Joke – things, I said, Pain happens, but it’s just post – match stiffness. Long as I don’t push it, I should be fine.


Tim reentered the bar and made a beeline for his DJ equipment. The song was coming to an end and he quickly changed tracks.


Otep. Crooked Spoons. Of course it is.


So I’m waiting for this guy to come in, I said, he’s this old school journalist that’s gonna be involved with the new group I’m starting with. Has anyone been in here looking for me tonight?


“No, not that I know of,” replied Jen.


I nodded and leaned back to see what was on television. Looks like The Thirst, a truly horrible vampire movie. Lucky’s was always good for a few things: good music and bad movies. But it’s a law of nature, the only thing better than a good horror movie is a bad one.


“Impulse?”


I didn’t recognize the voice, but I knew who it was. Randall Knox, I said, as I turned around, you must be Russel David?


The man in front of me nodded and extended his hand, which I shook.


“Jamison, neat,” said Russ to Jen, which made me chuckle. The bar was fully stocked, but I was always amused whenever someone ordered something other than a beer or a shot.


Let’s move to a table, I said, gesturing to the sea of them in the middle of the floor, and you can tell me what this is all about.


“Basically,” said Russ, “myself and a few partners and investors are bringing Legion back to life. You know the history of the organization?”


Dude, I said, You called me because you apparently knew about me, so you should know the answer to that.


The answer to that, by the by, is that I know the history of any organization that shows the slightest interest in me, and the history of any organization that I’ve got the slightest interest in working for.


Who else is on the roster, I asked.


“Well, we just released some information on Mike Randa—“


I’m in, I interrupted.


“—lls. Wait, what?”


I’m in, I repeated. I want to be a part of Legion.


“Well, alright then,” said Russ, as he raised his glass and clacked it against my bottle, “I don’t have the paperwork with me but I’ll give you a call in a few days.”


Maybe it was strange that all it took for me to want to be part of Legion were the words ‘Mike’ and ‘Randalls’ but it had been two years since I’ve seen him, and had some things to talk to him about.


Nobody knows about this, but before NFW Wrestlestock 2, I couldn’t sleep, so I went wandering though the desert and came across a bonfire, and a man and a woman sitting around it.


Angel, lead singer of Valerian’s Garden, the de – facto headliner of record for the musical portion of Wrestlestock, and Mike Randalls himself. As far as I can tell, nobody knew he was there except for the three of us.


And he might not even have been there; I don’t remember going back to the tent with Rosie, and I couldn’t find the site the next day, so it might’ve just been a dream.


But I don’t know.


They both gave me some advice that night; good advice that’s served me well. I’d like to have the chance to say thank you.


Even if it was all in my head.

The Basement Tapes :: Season One, Track Twenty-Three

Whoever said Spain was a clean and beautiful country was full of shit. Walking down these streets every night after a show reminds you of being back home. So much trash that you feel like you’re walking down an alley in New York City and so many homeless people that you feel like you’re in D.C. It’s hard on the soul knowing that these are the people you’re fighting for, yet when you can’t even get things right in your own country, how are you supposed to help every other one? In this day and age it’s hard to catch a break yourself; breaking your back for over eighteen years at something you’ve devoted your life to. And it’s hard to even catch a decent meal yourself, I’d toss these bums something everywhere I went if I didn’t have to keep it for myself.


The image of Jesse Ramey continuing to stroll down a Spanish alley way continued; his arms rested inside of his vintage trench coat. And to think, the only coat I can afford is the very one that I wear to the ring every single night. If I’m not careful in a couple of years I could wind up on the unemployment line, and living in a box like the rest of these people. All of the things I’ve fought for in life could easily forget about me with the next new thing that steps foot through that curtain. I’m not getting any younger, and all of the talent coming into this sport just keeps getting younger. Sometimes I wonder if these old bones should just hang up the boots, but then again the thought of eating at a soup kitchen every night isn’t as appealing as it may have been when I was younger.


I’m beginning to wonder if I’m good at much of anything really. I haven’t been able to find success in nearly eight years and Lord knows the men I’ve trained haven’t seen any kind of success either. So, what will my legacy really hold? Or will there even be a legacy to be held? Am I doomed to just wonder off into the darkness and be forgotten completely like so many other greats who have stepped into that squared circle; but never quite could escape that glass ceiling?


That was when Jesse suddenly stopped, he had been watching the ground as he walked and pondered. His line of sight slowly adjusted upward as a pair of fancy black shoes caught his attention, standing directly in front of him. The dimly lit alley way had only offered him a view of the shoes standing in front of him though. Jesse brought his hands from within his trench coat ready for whatever was to come, when a hand emerged from the shadows holding an envelope. Jesse took a moment before extending his arm and taking the envelope, the hand retracted into the shadows. Jesse flipped the top of the envelope and pulled out the contents.


“Dear Mr. Ramey, we have been watching you for years. We know of your struggles; and your accomplishments. This road you walk is a lonely one, but we are offering you something more meaningful to do with your life before your end comes. Do you have it in you to climb to the top one more time, or will you let this chance slip through your fingers like you’ve done so many times before? This is an expiring offer; do you have what it takes to be a part of Legion?”


When Jesse looked up from the card, the man standing before him had vanished and he was only left with more questions now. He slipped the card into his pocket, along with his hands as he continued walking down the dark alley way.

The Basement Tapes :: Season One, Track Twenty-Two

Two years since the TEAM Invitational 64-man tournament, Randalls stood on the outskirts of Sheffield, Texas, at what some would call a ranch. Needing supplies for the week he had decided to drive along Route 349 south to the lone filling station near town. As he drove into the station, it was midday. The sun hung above the old rusted and dusted building, as if to shine a spotlight on an age forgotten, once the highways were made to stretch across the countries as fast as possible… crossing the details off the map, if you will.


The taste of his activities from the early afternoon still lingering in his mouth, Randalls bought a pack of cigarettes from the proprietor. He then gathered basic foodstuffs and filled his gas tank and then went back in to pay.


You looking forward to March Madness? Asked the proprietor.


Pardon? Randalls replied, taken off guard by the sudden small talk.


Basketball. You know, the kids and not the overpaid adults. I’m cheering for Baylor. They’re my team.


Your team? You own them?


Well, obviously not.


You seem awfully faithful to men you don't know...


Well… you just decide to be a fan.


Sounds like misplaced entitlement to me.


Well… alright, I’m not asking you to be one. The man behind the counter said, as he pushed forward the change. It was stacked as if it where a pile of chips. Randalls looked at his change, and then back up at the man. The man behind the counter squirmed slightly.


Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?


Why Baylor?


Wife and I lived in Waco for twenty years until her father passed away. See, he used to own this place.


And you inherited it? Randalls voice was without care, he was indeed still lost in his head after what had happened earlier in the afternoon.


Nah, her father used to own it but after he died… we simply decided to take it over.


So you did inherit it.


No, sir. We just took responsibility for it.


There was a silence as Randalls simply stood there and stared at the man behind the counter. The proprietor squirmed once again, before looking to the side and coughing into his fist.


I had a vision this morning.


Excuse me, sir?


A vision. A spirit walk, I suppose you could say it was a journey. Though I’m not sure what you would call it and shouldn't assume such things.


You not get enough sleep?


Randalls tilted his head at the man behind the counter, and again the man looked out through the window at the gas pumps and coughed into his fist.


It could have been a dream by other accords. Have you heard of Legion? Randalls asked the proprietor, knowing the answer.


No, was the answer.


I didn’t either. But then I saw it all.


All?


One-hundred and twenty years of history. Four points of light, four corners of the mind. Earth, water, fire...and the air. The Constant is air, the Legion is all around us… he’s the earth, the Shepherd is the water, nourishing the world around it… and finally the fire is the Destroyer. Though I do not know the air, I am familiar with the earth, I’ve lived with it's salt. These are the things I know… who I know, but then I saw it… a dog-headed man, red teeth tearing at a grey jay. Wolves at the door. The flood coming, the black moon rising and I wondered to myself if it was up to me.


Oh…kay...


Do I become the Shepherd or the Destroyer… where will the Way lead me?


Sir, you gonna be alright?


Me? I’m going to be just fine. Legion...


Randalls' eyes fixated on his new friend 'causing the man to take a big gulp.


...they know nothing of the their black horizon.

The Basement Tapes :: Season One, Track Twenty-One

Mehrdad is my cousin, my mother's sister's boy. I used to hang out with him a lot when he lived in Miami. Smoked weed my first time with him. I fucked his girlfriend when we were all 16, but he doesn't know that.


If he had come from my father's side, he would know the importance of King Ahriman Ashtaad, the Farsi Firebrand, the Terror from the Near East, one of the greatest Persian wrestlers of all time and my father. He would know what lacing up the boots means.


As it is, he knows drugs, and he's been in New York long enough to get good connects to the best substances, best clubs, best girls. I appreciate it. I came to New York to party.


I'm standing outside of a high school in some suburb of the City, I already forget the name. I've just finished a show with a podunk outfit known mostly for bringing in washed-up talent to have pity matches with rookies who lost more often by tripping over their own feet than by anything those old geezers did. It's a little cold, a little chilly, and I think I should have worn a sweater under my Carhartt. I shouldn't be smoking, but I can't help it, I've bummed one off one of the other wrestlers even though I didn't stay to say more than Thanks and Where's the bathroom? The light at the end of the cigarette burns bright, angry, when I draw in. I knock my knees, look at the two-lane road that feeds into the high school, the two-story planned residences just beyond, waiting for the car that's supposed to come pick me up.


The thing is, I can't help that I'm good at this wrestling business. Not in the way my dad was. He was a professional wrestler in the strictest sense of the phrase. I just fight. Try and survive. It translates well enough. Eddy Hollidae rides home to whatever hovel he calls his own tonight with a loss, even after having wrestled all throughout high school, trained extensively to be the best, won numerous state championships, went to Washington State University and became a two-time NCAA champion, had been wrestling five years prior throughout the world, had busted his ass in Japan, in the sweltering gyms in Mexico, in Britain, Germany, Puerto Rico, South Africa, but here, in Shittown, NY, he took a loss to Naveed 'cause no man who really calls himself a man is gonna walk right after a kick to the nuts and no human that has a working brain to get caved in will get up after a piledriver onto a chair. It translates because pain is pain, combat is combat, and winning is winning, no matter how you get there.


In the seventh grade, when Mehrdad still lived in Miami, he got into some shit with this black kid named Tyrell. Girl that Mehrdad liked started paying attention to Tyrell, I think. Fight breaks out on an alley, shortcut back to our neighborhood, usually deserted. Mehrdad, who has always been a skinny little prick, is getting his ass handed to him. Nobody's here to see this except me. I could have, and I should have, let Mehrdad get the shit beaten out of him, but of course I intervened.


In Miami I learned how to fight. We would get into shit, or I should say Mehrdad would get into shit, or maybe we wouldn't even be doing anything at the moment, selling off pills we didn't have time to take or didn't like the effects of or had just found or stolen, someone would rob us, but whatever happened, we would mobilize, attack. We had to. Earned nowhere near enough to be okay with getting robbed, especially not to get a reputation for that kinda shit. I learned how to fight dirty because that's the only way to do it. Quick. It's not about honor, it's about survival and profit.


It translates directly. But of course, Mehrdad won't understand. I won't make him try to. His heavy black luxury car pulls into the high school parking lot and swings around until it's in front of me. His window lowers and he grins out at me. Mehrdad is skinny all over, still after all these years, never filled out, in his cheeks or arms or torso or nothing. His hair is black, stringy, parted from his face into an effete ponytail. His black silk shirt, delicately patterned with nearblack purple polygons, hangs like a Halloween sheet over his shoulders. He's seen the videos in my dad's house and thinks they're stupid, insists we get out of there as soon as possible whenever he has to stop by.


Mehrdad's picking me up here 'cause if he doesn't I don't have a ride. He's supposed to be showing me this spot he's got an in at. He assumes the black dufflebag is for something illegal or kinky or both, and I say "Let's get back to the fucking City, man." and toss my bag into the back of his car, sink into the passenger seat, and snort a line off of the windowpane he's got prepared. I ask about painkillers, he says he hasn't got any on him. He doesn't ask about why I'm at a high school. He doesn't ask me about what I'm doing in this nowhere. I assume he's forgotten the town's name, too.


"Yeah, my guy at the club, he actually knows your dad," Mehrdad is saying. We're back in the City now. The two hour drive has taken us into proper night, into the Hyatt suite that's being paid for me. Mehrdad has thrown his skeletal body over one of the long seablue couches, bobs his feet idly. I'm stashing my duffle bag away, making sure I've got cigarettes, cash, lighter. I don't change from what I've got on. No need to draw questions.


"Yeah?" I reply.


"Yeah, old Firouz's a wrestling fan," Mehrdad laughs. "Used to watch all those old shows, apparently, with King Ahriman down in Florida. Persian pride or whatever."


"Huh. Weird." I'm looking at my phone. I hadn't checked it for what must have been hours, stuffed it in my bag and forgot about it. I've got a voicemail message.


"Mr. Naveed. We haven't heard back from you yet. Are you still coming to LEGION? We need a tape. Send it by noon tomorrow and we'll be alright. The Church of Fight. You can find it."


One of the people at the head of the company or franchise or whatever the fuck LEGION is. I had barely talked to them before myself, though this message was left by the guy I'd had my phone interview with after they had already gotten a look at my tapes and decided I'd work for them. And yeah, I forgot to call the guy back. I've been busy since I got to the City.


"Yo, EnVee, what's the hold up?"


"I'll be right out."


I close the phone, pocket it. I'll keep my eye out for the Church of Fight if we roll past, but my mind is on the club. Has been on the club. Will be on the club. LEGION is a payday, a means to an end, an end which is coke and X and special K, heroin when I want it, which is not regularly, meth if I'm feeling reckless and broke, poppers for fun, and I'm telling myself as I exit the apartment, flanked by Mehrdad, that LEGION is just a payday, that I'm not doing it because I want to, it's just because I've got good instincts in the ring, because it pays well enough, even though wrestling doesn't pay nearly well enough for the damage I'm doing to my body to justify it to anyone who doesn't already know why I do it.


The EC6, the club that Mehrdad had talked about. The bouncer in black suit and shades reacts when Mehrdad says Firouz's name and perfectly plays the irritated V.I.P. I know the role well enough, grin patronizingly at the bouncer as I glide past him and into the beat of the club. Rolling house, my style. Mehrdad's got the same taste as me, so he avoids hip-hop clubs, rock clubs. The pitch black is inflamed by varicolored lasers, the sea of gyrating people briefly illuminated in hot greens, reds, blues, purples, the DJ presiding, cap turned backwards, skinny but of huge presence in the room, and my arm is already up, pumping in the air, but Mehrdad isn't going to the dance floor and I follow him up a curving staircase to the balcony above.


Upstairs is scarcer, but still peopled. Maybe it just seems more spacious because nobody's dancing. Here, everybody's well-dressed, invariably well-monied, probably well-drugged. I don't feel out of place because I come from money and I know how to get money quick if I need it, which is the same thing as having money. Some of the people here have seen Mehrdad before, look up from their mixed drinks with coked eyes and smile slimly, manic energy focused into gesticulating or cutting lines or laughing as boisterously as possible and shoving people and enjoying themselves. Nobody talks to Mehrdad, even if they smile at him. Their eyes pass over me as if I'm not there.


"Mehrdad!" someone calls, an older voice, deep and masculine. "Ah, and is this the one you said was coming?" Mehrdad grins, approaches a table set into a half-cylinder nook, his arms spread to accept the terse embrace of a portly, middle-aged Persian man that I assume is Firouz. Beside Firouz sits a woman who looks somewhere between his age and mine, good-looking but not beautiful, dressed in a silver dress that didn't hide her cleavage but hid her thighs, wearing enough pearls, gems, and gold that I knew she was marked property.


"I always do what I say, don't I?" Mehrdad says, moving so that Firouz can look at me. Firouz has mirrored Mehrdad's style almost to a T, though he's not in Mehrdad's starvation shape, and though he's allowed a full black beard to grow over his jaw and hide most of his mouth. Firouz holds his hand out for me and I shake it firmly.


"Naveed, yes? I am Firouz. Come, come, sit down, make a space for him." We sit awkwardly, the woman scooting aside, me glancing at her often, helpless, sitting down between Firouz and Mehrdad. A tall white guy with a buzzcut and a braided beard steps out when Firouz lifts his hand. He fixes me with his stare briefly, trying to scare me, which is his job so I let it slide. "Powder." And the man produces it, sliding the small bag across the table. Like a magician, Firouz unknots the bag and dumps cocaine carelessly on a windowpane that I don't even remember being produced.


Disinterested in the cocaine, the woman shifts her body, rests her chin on her hand, and stares out at the sea of flashing laser light and bobbing heads.


Firouz deftly makes coke lines with a credit card, all the while talking: "How long you been here, Naveed? A week! A whole week and Mehrdad hasn't brought you? Ahh, ha ha ha, come, Mehrdad, you know I tease, and besides, Friday night, best night for partying anyway. I'm not mad! Ha ha, of course I'm not mad! Here, you first, Mehrdad, please! You know Mehrdad helped me set this place up? Yeah, six months ago, he did! Lots of legwork for me. Couldn't have done it without him."


"I just do what I can," Mehrdad says, still slyly grinning, passing straw and glass to me. I snort quick, feel it in my nostril, rub my nose and slide the apparatus along.


The conversation isn't Mehrdad's. He's barely part of it. Firouz has locked on me, wants to talk to me. He starts bringing up my father, King Ahriman Ashtaad. He knows his real name, Ardesh, used to live down in Florida and would go to all the matches. He saw my father put a fan's eye out when the motherfucker was getting too rough and rowdy, which were Firouz's words. Firouz passed the coke to the woman, she declined, he passed to Mehrdad, who now stares out at the crowd the same way Firouz's woman does, interested in the coke but disinterested in our wrestling conversation. I'm not conversing. Not much. I'm really just here, a target for Firouz to let out this Persian wrestling love onto, and I appreciate it because King Ahriman is my father, my idol, the reason why I even looked at a wrestling ring in the first place. I'm not saying anything, trying to keep cool for Mehrdad, snorting coke and passing, ordering drinks, but Firouz knows his shit, knows everything about my dad, about Florida wrestling, about Persian wrestlers in general, old school wrestling in general. While I play the part of the helpless and distressed adoree, I'm drawn in to all this history.


"I'm going down there," Mehrdad says after a while, disgusted, and he disappears.


Cocaine gives Firouz energy, access to memories he maybe thought he had forgotten but now dragged up rabidly. "Uh huh." is all I can say. "Yeah. Wow." Not sarcastically, just stupefied. I can see the woman glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, watching me, without Mehrdad's sneering overbearance, with the chemical erosion of my inhibition, turn into the devoted wrestling fan I am at my core, the ambitious wrestler that is still a hidden part of me. I want to shrink, but the cocaine has made sure I have nowhere to shrink to, no shame to hide behind.


I start to tell stories of my own, half-remembered shit my dad would let slip out sometimes, big shows and the aftermaths. I tell Firouz one where my father met a group of fans outside the ring and he broke one's nose but the others didn't believe he was tough so he broke one of their arms and they still kept coming (and this was with a couple other guys there helping my dad, too, but I don't remember their names) and then he bit one of their lips off and spat it at them and the fuckers scattered.


"King Ahriman Ashtaad!" I shout it loudly but probably not loud enough to get over the pulsing house, laugh, sit down and snort a line. Firouz is howling with laughter like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. I feel good until the woman looks at me again. I try to put her haughtiness out of my head, involve myself in story and substance.


Eventually Mehrdad returns, dog-faced. He's gotten shut down by some chick no doubt. He takes it hard, always has, always will. Firouz grins and suggests we go back to his place, because he has all these old tapes of the Florida territory he wants to show me, and the woman rolls her eyes but she's obviously going to come, and Mehrdad doesn't give a fuck where we go, he just wants to get out of here. Firouz enlists the white guy who'd got the coke to drive and Mehrdad leads him to where he's got the car. Firouz needs to piss, so he excuses himself, allows me to take the final line, and I let it energize me even though I don't have anything to get excited about.


The woman, that saucy, silent siren with the breasts, she's still here, though I was about to forget when she asked me for a cigarette. Marked goods, I remind myself. I agree, we slink out past the monied drug-partiers, avoid the heavy dance scene that I haven't even enjoyed a bit of tonight thanks to Firouz's rambling, into the chilly night. We wait on the side of the road with our cigarettes, myself tugging frantically, needing nicotine, her completely calm, detached, more interested in watching the unused smoke lift than in smoking the cigarette.


"You're a wrestler, aren't you?" she says. Doesn't ask me. I look at her.


"What makes you think that?"


"You know it too well." Her upper lip twitches and I know she isn't impressed.


"Think there's some better way I should spend my time?" I step closer to her.


"Please." She tosses her hair arrogantly, flashes a dirty look at me, turns to the empty road ahead of us. "Wrestlers are fat half the time. Roided up freaks. Or like you."


"Like me?"


"You ain't fat." She smiles, condescending. "But you ain't in shape either."


"You think I can't kick the shit out of somebody if I wanted to?"


"I'd be surprised if you've ever been in a fight in your life."


In Miami I learned how to fight. We would get into shit, Mehrdad or my boy Jani or Press or whoever, we would have to throw down, and I would throw down. Always. I didn't back down because my father always told me, he said if you back down people will hear about it, and the first time will be the last time. And then I got into wrestling, and yeah, I learned that sometimes discretion is the better part of valor, sometimes you duck and dodge to get what you want, to get ahead, but it's always like that, in the ring or out. And so I'd learned by the time I got into the ring. I already knew what it was all about.


I take a drag, trying to emulate her calm.


This chick wants to boil my blood.


Dragon's breath billows from my nostrils.


She wants to boil my blood. She thinks I can't cut it.


But there's a way to show her. I'm backed into a corner. I spill it.


"You ever been to the Church of Fight?"


Her eyebrow lifts, intrigued.

The Basement Tapes :: Season One, Track Twenty

In 2005 the world was in his hands, he could do no wrong.


In 2006, he ascended higher, at the very cusp of superstardom, before crashing through the ground.


In 2007, he was the subject of "what if?" questions being asked, rampant speculation about his next moves.


In 2008, people wondered what happened to, and he was spoken of as though he wasn't the best in the world for at least a week.


In 2009, people moved on. He was a forgotten footnote.


In 2010, he moved on.


In 2010, he still lives on, in another body, another soul ready to catch lightning in a bottle one more time.


Chester Holecko has moved on.


Now, we are Chet Worth.

The Basement Tapes :: Season One, Track Nineteen

“Come in, already.” crackled a voice over the intercom. Russel David craned his neck, looking to see just where it was, and gave a bewildered and amused smirk. His was a strange life, as any in professional wrestling ended up being. And this week, it had only gotten stranger.


David stood up from his seat, opened the door to this left and walked into the room.


He had been sitting in that chair, as if he was back in detention at Lord Asquith High because within that slick black envelope that he had received. Within the pictures of old Legion teams, and wrestlers, the manifestos from ages past for a better wrestling world, and a deed to the Cathedral… and what a place that was… where detailed directions to the dark ominous place he had found himself.


With one door that locked behind him, and another that was locked before he had entered.


With a seat that had the word SIT written on it with thick permanent marker.


And then the intercom that he hadn’t even noticed until it had spoken to him.


Russel David squinted when he entered the room, it was dark. Yep, David though, the clan destine atmosphere was heavy.


He knew somebody else was in the room because of the sound of metal tapping on wood. A coin? A pen? A ring?


“Hello.” Russel said into the darkness.


“Russel David.”


“Hello?” Was all he could think of saying in reply, as a reporter this was Deep Throat territory to him, and it actually kind of scared him.


“Sit.” The voice said from the darkness, before adding. “Please.”


Russel David sat down, in the well stuffed office chair, and then looked across the desk at the man in the shadows. At this angle he still could see the man, all that well. There was light coming in the from the window to there right and it shone through the half shut blinds.


“So, you sent me Legion…”


These where the first few words that came out of Russel David’s mouth, before the man in the shadows sat forward, and his face shifted from the shadows, into the light. David was at first, speakless. The man spoke back to him, enjoying this moment. He spoke.


“Hello.”


“But you’re…”


“I know.” was the man's reply, he had a grin on his breath. And it was a mile wide.

The Basement Tapes :: Season One, Track Eighteen

“And this…is one of our fine junior penthouses.”


Kenneth Bostom, he of the slicked-back hair and ostentatious suits, stretched his hand out to illuminate the skyline unfolding before him. It was easy to do his job, to sell real estate in New York. Every other day, some nouveau riche European was coming in and signing for one of his penthouses. Where the weakening of the American dollar had hurt some, it had only lined Kenneth Bostom’s pockets with gold.


“The view is pretty awesome,” Nibi Augustin replied. He anxiously grabbed the inside of his pockets. The tan Carhartt jacket had him sweating, but he’d staunchly refused Kenneth’s offer to hang it by the door. That jacket was one of the few Traverse City memories he carried with him.


It reminded him of the time, a year ago, when Alain TwoCrow had jumped him on the way to school (back when Nibi was still occasionally showing up to the rez school). For almost five minutes, Alain had wailed on Nibi for talking to his sister. For five minutes, Nibi had felt the vicious crunch of steel-toed boot against ribcage. For five minutes, Nibi had wondered if the Creator would take his life. And for five minutes, Nibi had worried about getting blood all over his new Carhartt jacket.


“One of the finest views in the world,” Kenneth replied. “What kind of work did you say you do, Mr. Augustine?” He wrongly pronounced Nibi’s last name like the saintly city in Florida. Nibi let it slide. “You’re an athlete?” Nibi knew that Kenneth had some misconceptions about him, but thus far, he’d felt free to be their beneficiary.


“Yep.” Nibi didn’t yet feel comfortable saying much in New York City. They spoke too fast and too wantonly here. On the rez, people had the luxury of choosing their words carefully.


In the pocket of his jacket, Nibi rubbed his small eagle charm. The metal was warm, despite the apartment’s air-conditioned interior. It had been a gift, and now it was a totem that thrust him back into his memories. The sequence started with his mother, Elinor, trying to smile as he returned the bloodstained jacket. And then there were only flashes of Alain’s comeuppance. Nibi had walked up to the TwoCrows’ front door and asked Mrs. TwoCrow if Alain could come outside to fight.


“Are you one of these new UFC guys?” Kenneth Bostom knew very little about anything practical, but he was a fad genius. If it’d been mentioned within the pages of GQ, on Perez Hilton’s blog, or by pop pundit Pat O’Brien, Kenneth knew about it. And he knew that “this MMA stuff” was taking off.


“Nope,” Nibi quipped. Kenneth’s smile leveled off, leaving a puzzled look in its place.


"Strikeforce Fighting?” Nibi shook his head, studying the splendid view of the Big Apple. He could see the Empire State Building, its spire ascending majestically in the midday sun. While Nibi didn’t recognize anything else, he knew that trillions of dollars were made, lost, stolen, and gambled every day in the buildings around him. He’d always known that the world was much grander in scope than Traverse City, but seeing the concrete titans of the free world’s capital hammered home that point.


“Nope.” Nibi had respect for those guys, guys who fought for a living. But having watched Jimmy Snuka, having seen the Superfly Splash (but never live, he lamented), he knew that there was something more that called to him from the squared circle. He would leave the mindless fighting to thugs like Alain.


Mrs. TwoCrow had been blindsided by Nibi’s request, on that hot day last summer. Dumbstruck, she walked into the nearby TV room and told Alain to come to the door. When Alain saw who was outside, Nibi didn’t have to ask politely again. Alain burst through the screen door, swung once, then received the same five minutes of hell that he’d given Nibi. Nibi even checked his watch; once the five minutes had elapsed, Nibi helped Alain waddle to his front door, and walked away without another word.


“So I’d be wrong if I guessed that you were a baseball player?” Nibi turned away from the cityscape, frowning at Kenneth’s unending questions.


“Yep,” Nibi replied.


“Mr. Augustine,” Kenneth started, his voice becoming cross, “exactly what do you do? You can’t be a day over twenty, you don’t seem to be involved with a major sports league, and you don’t say more than one word unless I beg you to. Who are you, exactly?”


“Nibi Augustin,” the youngster beamed back, pronouncing his name the correct way. Knee Bee Uh Gust Inn. It wasn’t a hapless, naïve grin, but his playful side shining through. Kenneth Bostom was finally realizing that the jig was up, something Nibi had known for nearly twenty minutes.


“Oh no,” came a voice from the adjacent hallway. Kenneth and Nibi both turned their heads to see the less maligned member of the TwoCrow family: Aurore.


“What’s got him smiling like that?” Aurore always carried a confident way about her, especially in her voice. Even seven hundred miles and thousands of social conventions away from home, her words demanded attention. Her turquoise jaguar eyes and boastful hips, they also demanded attention. There was more than one reason Nibi had fought Alain over her. “Do you have him smiling like that, mister?”


“Aurore, I was just telling Mr. Bostom that I’m the first professional wrestler to ever come out of Traverse City.” Kenneth lowered his eyes, his lip curling up in a truly hideous manner.


“Unless Traverse City is another name for El Dorado, I don’t think a professional wrestler,” he spat, saying wrestler in the same voice one might refer to a pedophile, “could afford living in the Fairhaven-Rookwood.” Where others might’ve been careful to stifle a giggle, Nibi laughed out loud at hearing the building’s name again. He didn’t even have enough money to buy all the vowels in Fairhaven-Rookwood, no less afford the lavish suites within. But when Kenneth Bostom had answered the phone enthusiastically about showing some apartments to a young “athlete”, Nibi hadn’t asked questions. He and Aurore had gotten a free lunch and a look around this beautiful high-rise.


“C’mon, mister,” Aurore playfully pleaded, “what’s the difference between Nibi and some UFC guy?” The glint in her eye had Kenneth going for a moment, and not only because his Jdate profile had yet to deliver any potential mates. That glint was well known on the rez as a male mind control device. Aurore, recently eighteen, had a virulent form of nubile sexuality.


Kenneth snapped out of it. He’d heard the horror stories. Wrestlers going crazy from steroids, killing family members. If it wasn’t steroids, it was painkillers. If not OxyContin, then booze. His sneer carried all the discontent he felt at being hoodwinked by this nineteen-year-old “wrestler.”


“The difference,” he scoffed, “is two or three zeroes, miss.” He folded his arms, signaling to the young couple that this tour was over.


Nibi didn’t need another invitation to head for the elevator. Aurore quickly moved in step, sneaking into the cozy, warm space under Nibi’s right arm.


“Why didn’t you tell him while I was looking around?” Aurore had to look up when she spoke to Nibi, being only 5’9.


“Was having fun,” replied Legion’s junior member. “I like the view,” he added, before clamming up. He scratched the side of his head, a sign Aurore knew none too well. He was sneaking off into his own head, often the only place he felt comfortable. She’d long ago come to grips with his internal mechanisms (everyone on the rez knew from the moment seven-year-old Aurore chased eight-year-old Nibi they were destined to chase one another forever).


“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” But she still always offered to listen, if he wanted.


“Nothing. Well,” he started, pausing as he came up with a way to say what he wanted, “you think we’ll be okay? We’re not s’posed to be out here. You’re not s’posed to be out here.” Nibi already felt a weight on his shoulders at having uprooted his girlfriend, taken her from the rez, and repatriated her in an alien city. While she’d been sleeping on the plane, he’d spent the ride wondering whether he’d ruin both their lives chasing a specter.


“Okay, new rule. Nibi Langlade Augustin, you don’t get to act like this is a captivity narrative. You didn’t steal me from Mama and Papa. I chose to come with you. This is your dream and I’m not waiting until you wake up to get my time in. So ha!” She punctuated this rule with an emphatic press of the elevator’s down button.


“’Kay, just sayin’.” Nibi liked to think that his general clumsiness with language was due to the clutter in his head. Currently, there were myriad threads of brain activity: finding an apartment, getting Aurore a job to supplant his Legion as-of-now-paltry Legion check, learning how to live independently, trying to teach himself all the things he’d be missing while Alain and dozens of others went to college for free.


But even though life was just beginning to set in, Nibi’s heart pounded at the thought of something else: the premier Battle Royal at the Church of Fight. He’d proved he was more than a regional talent, dismantling everything that Grand Traverse County Wrestling had to offer. He knew he deserved a spot in the ring. But, oh did he feel butterflies at the thought of making his own name, his own life, out of wrestling.


“Alright, well, we’ve got our first rule. Ready to go see what makes those hot dog carts so good that they need one on every corner?” Nibi offered a muted smile, actively admiring Aurore’s glowing enthusiasm.


Ding!


The elevator whooshed to a stop, the doors slipping open. Nibi grabbed Aurore’s hand, both of them stepping into the fine, marble-walled contraption. Nibi lost himself in his thoughts again, as Aurore peered around the elevator’s high five-figure interior.


“You think we could live here someday?” Ever the optimistic wonderer, Aurore was grinning when she finally caught Nibi’s eye. “Someday?”


Nibi nodded wordlessly.

The Basement Tapes :: Season One, Track Seventeen

Call me Ahab.


The city at mid-afternoon looks like it will just crumble at any moment. Bring it on. Being in other countries such as Canada, England, and Spain makes you realize just how disgusting this cesspool of a continent appears. The same is true for all who inhabit it. Little ants, running around their concrete pathways, using technological toys that either made them feel like they matter or completely shut out the world.


All of them, on the verge of extinction. Neutered cats. Nothings. Their deaths are imminent, and they don't even have a clue. And neither do those who have signed on with Legion.


Doughty drew closer with each step. I could almost feel myself being pulled, as if by an invisible rope. There was no going back now.


I'd been walking for the last thirty minutes, after having taken a break from walking the city streets to eat alone and review the dossier. The wait gave me plenty of time to do just that. Forty-five minutes just to get a table. Another thirty minutes for food to arrive. It was an odyssey unto itself. On any other day, the thought of stabbing someone's throat with a broken beer bottle would've been bouncing around in my head as if it were nothing more than the happy refrain of a song. Would I really do it? Probably not. It's not that I'm morally against stabbing. Hell, I once stabbed someone during a wrestling match. But we're veering off point quickly.


The dossier.


Thumbing through and scanning papers quickly about the staff -- Russel David, James Boyd, Sonja Duke, the Fourth Man -- wasn't all that interesting at the moment. There would be plenty of time for that later after the meeting. Eventually, one name on one piece of paper stopped my progress.


One name.


Five letters.


Alias.


Just upon seeing the Pulp Hero's name, the left side of my lip curled into an unconscious snarl. Clutching my fork with a clawed right hand, I couldn't help myself from stabbing the four metal points right into the black letters on the white sheet of paper.


Ours was a war that began many years ago. And it has not gone well for me. Constantly, Alias upstages me. It's driving me to the verge of madness. Alias has become my white whale, so I have become Ahab. Conquering Alias is my life's work.


Oh, but it didn't end there. After turning over the Alias page, another dark chapter of my life slapped me in the face.


Mary-Lynn Mayweather.


We aren't strangers. I owe her pain. Her (and High Flyer) cost me a world championship. Just seeing her name made it feel like that royal fuckover happened yesterday. I hate yesterday almost as much as today, but not quite as much as tomorrow.


More names floated past my eyes. I know of many of them, but haven't competed against any of them before.


Rune Winters? That beast? Hope he brings his shovel.


By the end of lunch, I knew all the players. I knew all the pawns.


Now it was time to meet my contact. The one who's trying to manipulate the entire outcome of the game before it even begins.


Doughty and Everit.


Church of Fight.


I had arrived.

The Basement Tapes :: Season One, Track Sixteen

“We’ll be down in Spain for a week but you’ve got Vince’s number if you need to get in contact with us about anything.”


Victoria Jacobs cooed these words, almost as-if she was a mother as well as a fried. Monet simply smiled and nodded curtly.


“Get going already, you’ll miss your fight. You still have to pick-up the kids.” Monet added, and watched Victoria walk out the front door of the Jacob’s estate. Monet walked a few steps across the marble floor and sat at the edge of the landing of the grand entrance. Surveying what was only the beginning of an awe-inspiring McMansion, Monet could only sigh.


She and Chris Sheffield had more or less started in this business together at the same time as Vince Jacobs. Not only that but Monet had a hand in introducing Vince to Victoria…. And yet, as the future Jacobs became successful through the hard times, which also helped make them shockingly grounded outside of the spotlight… Monet Samuel and Chris Sheffield never really made it out of ’96 as a pair.


Though they did become the proud owners of a baby girl, at least, to remember their time together. And by they I mean Monet… as with the dissolution of the relationship, the man who many now knew as Alias drifted into the dark reaches of the world for a time. Monet was left to raise her daughter Izzy as a single mother. Though Monet hasn’t looked to blame Alias… not for a moment.


Not least because he and the Christopher Sheffield she once knew where very different people.


In becoming a referee within the Squared Circle, it gave Monet a chance to reconnect with the Original Pulp Hero. Let him know of the daughter he had inexplicably left behind when he had disappeared all those years ago, back in the days when Monet hadn’t yet even realized that she was pregnant. And Monet believed that reuniting this small family formed within the traveling circus of the Squared Circle… would finally give her life stability. Give her Izzy an anchor.


It was not to be, but thanks to tSC… Monet was able to establish a home, and with it the anchor she had hoped for, for Izzy.


But that was also not to be, as losing the house thanks to occurrences beyond her control left her and her daughter to crash on the couch of a couple of old friends. Though it wasn’t a couch in the literal sense as the Jacob’s had more then a few spare rooms… it was still the embarrassment behind the loss of control that dug at Monet.


Monet had sat up from the landing and made her way into the ornate kitchen, which was rarely ever used, where she poured herself a glass of red wine. She still had a few hours to relax before picking Izzy up from dance class. The wine within the glass seemed almost black in the spring light of the late afternoon.


Sliding out through the expansive living room area, and out into the back yard, Monet decided to sit poolside and dip her feet in the crystal blue water. Suddenly a chill went up Monet’s spine as an oddly familiar voice came from within the shadows at the side of the house.


“You’re tired, aren’t you?” The voice said.


“Who…” Monet started, twisting her body at her waist as she did.


“An old friend.”


“I might not have many of those, but you’ll have to be more specific.” Monet was quick to return, pushing the raven black hair from her eyes.


“An old friend of Legions.”


“Legion?” Synapses fired in the back of Monet’s brain as she remembered the name from her father’s time in the business, how he used to talk about… this… Legion.


“You’re tired aren’t you?” Questioned the voice once again.


“Maybe.” Monet shrugged, kicking the water, she thought of looking for the source of this voice… but knew enough that the person would disappear, “And I’m sure you have a plan to fix that?”


“As long as you can still wrestle.”


“I haven’t wrestled inside a ring since 1994.” Monet’s eyes drifted to the middle distance. Remember her days as Freefall.


“Does that mean you’ve wrestled outside of one, since?”


Monet smiled to herself. This could be taken a number of ways. Well, there was that one guy she brought back home from the blind date who wasn’t her blind date… then again, their was also that stupid prick who tried to take her purse and ended up tasting her purse. “A woman does what she has to do.”


“And how did it feel?”


A quiet hung in the air.


“… Good. Great.”


“Good. Then… you are Legion.”


Legion, it must be a league though… what kind of fed? What kind of people?


“And what do I get in return?” Monet smiled to herself. It would be the last time she would do so, for a good while.


“You’ll get your daughter back.”


The conversation continued, rules where set and stakes were made… but Monet would hear none of it. Each word after those five specific ones really only pierced her at the heart. Blackening her heart, as they did.

THE CARTEL

NAVEED ©, CHET WORTH, BROOKLYNN RIVERA, SHARC
PNTS: 0 RCD: 0-0

FRENCHIE'S FOREIGN

THE FLYING FRENCHIE ©, INOUE DOI, KRISTOS ZATANIA, ORAZIO DUKE
PNTS: 0 RCD: 0-0

WOLVES

MIKE RANDALLS ©, NIBI AUGUSTIN, BRIAN SPAES, RUNE WINTERS
PNTS: 0 RCD: 0-0

PULP HEROES

ALIAS ©, GVP, JONATHAN WILSON, JESSE RAMEY
PNTS: 0 RCD: 0-0