FADE IN to the fog covered streets of Brooklyn, New York. The grey 1999 C-34-member of the Mercedes Benz family brushed past the intersection of Atlantic/Clinton headed west en route to the Cathedral.

In the drivers seat? Osario Duke.

Grandson of late, Peter Duke and the newest generation of the Duke tradition.

If you know anything about the foundation of LEGION, the last name Duke should ring plenty bells. Peter Duke is a New York fuckin’ LANDMARK and he paid the cost to be the boss. Or so went the mind of Osario, not fully realizing the controversy and finally disaster his grandfather finally met within the streets of Brooklyn. Now that his time is up and his only son’s two children are left to be part of the company that’s finally off it’s feet for the fourth time…

…lets just say we have a severe case of Sibling Rivalry with a little Disfunctional Family on top. She doesn't want any of this, but he does, and she doesn't want him to have it because she simply doesn't trust him. So she holds onto Legion. Simple as that.

Osario Duke is on his way to the Cathedral, the Church of Fight.

The time can’t be past 11:30 AM and traffic is heavy as usual but the car strolls along before making a couple twists and turns before he put the car in park and looked across the street at where all LEGION events would take place.

The Church of Fight.

Racing through his mind were thoughts of discomfort in terms of how things turned out for the company – his grandfathers pride and joy. Now managed by Russel David, O’s sister only owning the rights to the company it was almost as if the Duke family had no say in the matter anymore of a company they’ve had in the family from the ground – up.

See unfortunately for O, he was the younger of the two and Peter Duke didn’t exactly create a Will when he passed away. So the only two remaining members of his family, not including his mother in Queens who wasn't exactly in the best shape, were to decide who would receive rights to Legion. Unfortunately for Osario, who grew up watching his grandfather’s blood, sweat and tears in the form of the company could not receive the rights to the company.

His elder sister Sonja received rights and until this day will swear to never allow Osario to have anything to do with the company.

Her reasons? She loves him but he’s a punk. He’s an idiot. He’s a thug. He’s a hustler. He’s a thief. He’s a drug dealer.

…the list goes on and on.

So while he got the shaft in terms of management, Osario being the… notorious figure around Brooklyn and Queens, that he is, pulled a couple strings with his boys and instead of handing out the Dunn Cup after each season – he would be competing for it.

The first Duke INSIDE of a Legion ring.

Something the great Peter Duke couldn’t have wanted more.

Unfortunately lack of athletic ability and self discipline rendered Peter a better fit for the management of a pro wrestling circuit as opposed to competing in one. Same could be said for Legion's other architects.

After putting the car in park and finishing a Newport, Osario got out of his Benz and sat on the hood admiring the Church of Fight across the street and attempted to visualize the battles he’d be enduring at this very spot in the near future.

That’s when the vibration of a silent-mode activated phone was heard and Osario checked the call display on his cell and it read – SONJA.

Osario chuckled before answering the phone…

OSARIO – “Sis! How nice to hear from you…”

SONJA – “O, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING?”

OSARIO – “Me? Well I’m wondering what my FUCKHEAD sister has done to our families company and trying not to think of how many times grandpa has turned in his grave since you sold the rights!”

SONJA – “I DIDN’T SELL THE RIGHTS, O. I SOLD THE IDEA!”

OSARIO – “Oh that makes everything all better. Heels all the wounds. Fixes all the problems. Now what grandpa spent his entire life brainstorming and envisioning belongs to somebody we don’t even KNOW. This shows now in the hands of somebody outside of the family and that means as ‘pa’s grand kids – we fucked up. So instead of being in-charge of where the Dunn Cup stays at night or making sure everybodies playing fair – I will be doing something you and I both know Grandpa only DREAMED he could’ve done. I’m going to win, the Dunn Cup.”

SONJA – “You must be out of your fucking MIND, O! Have you seen some of the guys they’ve already hired? You’re fuckin’ high if you think you can compete let alone win the Dunn Cup, you're going to get hurt!”

OSARIO – “I don’t plan on anything but bringing the Dunn Cup home and putting our last name on it’s plaque. And when I do bring that title home, Son – we’ll know who almost FUCKED it all up… and who SAVED HIS SISTERS ASS!”

O slid his phone shut before putting it back in his pocket just as a short but sadistic smirk developed on his face and FADE OUT.

My name is Kristos. Kristos Zatania.

I look out of my hotel room window, at the scenery that Brooklyn offers me. And I smile, nodding wordlessly to myself. Who else would I be communicating with non-verbally? I have no one in my life currently.

My best friend in the whole world, Abishiek, is enjoying the wonders of married life and no doubt plundering his new wife non-stop. My younger sister, Helena, is probably partying away at some rave in the Czech Republic and flashing her chest at whoever shows her the slightest interest -- or promises her a taste of whatever new drug's making the rounds.

No, I have nobody in my life. Just myself and my memories of the past. A past that haunts me. It's an unfulfilled past. I've lived a life of very little consequence, with nothing to show for myself. I've just turned 32 not a week ago, and as I try to remember what I've done that I can brag about, I come up empty.

10 years ago, I had the bright idea of becoming a wrestler. I was fit enough, I thought. And since I had money, I purchased some fake documentation to validate myself as a professional. Those few months? I deserved an Academy award for managing to shield the fact that I was wounded pretty badly after every match.

Still, the thrill of the sport enticed me greatly. I became a wrestler as a form of earning some pocket change and also as a way to kill the time, since I wasn't doing anything else. However, I fell in love with the business. And I decided that I would dedicate myself to becoming good. Great, even. Stupidly, I vowed to become the greatest wrestler that ever lived.

How foolish I was. I look back now not with rose-tinted glasses, but with absolute disgust. Stepping away from the window, I walk toward the shower, cringing at the stench of my own body odor. I take a peek at the random girl I'd picked up the night earlier after much partying and felt proud. I pounded her ass well and good.

Reaching the shower, I turned on the water heater and looked myself at the mirror. My beard was growing back after simply two days of not shaving. Not a surprise.

What is a surprise is looking down and finding my reproductive organ completely flaccid. It should have stiffened by now. Just as well, what's-her-name isn't awake and I'm not one to literally poke and prod somebody in a state of slumber. Although, as I walk out of the shower and approach the side-table next to my side of the bed, I take a glance at the calendar and make a mental note about going to a doctor to get a routine check-up.

I'll be needing it, now that I've found what I've been looking for.

It all began three months ago. It culminated last night. And the best part about it is that every time I think about it, I become so happy. So much so that I wrote it down on a piece of paper.

Placing my bare ass back on the bed, I look at the folded piece of paper laying in between the calendar and my pack of menthol cigarettes. I pick up the piece of paper, my right hand trembling in excitement. I haven't been this hyped since I thought I'd won a million dollars, only to later realize that I was scammed.

This time, however, I can feel it. The electricity in the air is intense. That one single word written down on the piece of paper in my hand will change my life forever. I just know it.

I open up the folded piece of paper, and the single word written on it makes my lips curl upwards. I'm beaming from ear to ear, and everything I've seen the previous day about this particular project makes my heart swell. I know, in that instant, that this is what I've been needing.

It's what my whole life has been building up towards. Oh yes.

L E G I O N

And my eyes twinkle with delight.

"This is it. This is what I am meant for."

I make a conscious choice not to look back from here on out. The past would forever be the past. The future would be unwritten until it happened.

The present, however? The here and now?

It would be the only thing I have control over. And I will therefore steer myself towards the Church of Fight, believing in myself. My heart. My soul.

I believe.

... And that's all I shall need.

White snow on black marble.

A light snow speckled down onto on the streets of Manhattan. The monolithic black marble tower of Morgan Lynch Investments Inc. only blended in with the rows of skyscrapers for financial and stock investment companies. It had been a row that had been rocked in recent years... and most say deservedly so. Except for maybe those that worked within the buildings. Russel David was deep within the financial district after all, looking out on the cars whipping down Wall Street. Sleek black luxury cabs outnumbered yellow taxis almost two-to-one. David shivered, as he waited underneath the grand marble arced entrance to MLI. He wasn't a smoker, but at least the others standing around smoking in the falling snow, at least looked warmer.

David, preoccupied with keeping warm, missed Sonja Duke walking right past him.

He had been waiting for her, so this was a problem.

Sonja Duke was dressed in appropriate attire for an investment brokerage's research analysist. Black jacket, black skirt, blue blouse. Intensely black hair, up in a bun on the back of her head. The look belied two things, Russel thought, one) she was... really quite attractive, underneath the librarian/school marm outfit. Olive skin, Mediterranean features, strong nose... dark eyes. If he wasn't sure she was a Duke, David might even mistake her for being Jewish, as opposed to Italian. And two) the woman was profressional, and breathed that very fact. She was proud of it, and had to be to keep her job.

"Excuse me! Ms. Duke!" Russel David shouted out to get her attention. Sonja, however, didn't even break stride as Russel David ran to catch up with her.

"I told you, no. I'm not going to talk to you about this anymore. So just walk away Mr. David."

Okay, so Russel David had been sending her message after message about Legion, since he had gotten information on it's availability, it's full relevance, three weeks ago. However, Sonja Duke wasn't like her grandfather, her grandfather's grandfather, or simply her father. No, unlike most in the Duke lineage, she had absolutely no interest in being an architect for another age of Legion. She had watched it haunt her father, until his untimely death of a heart attack last fall. Her grandfather, Peter Duke, had been so proud of Legion and it had destroyed... so her father wanted to bring back the league, make it proud again. But he was just a blue collar guy, with a restaurant. He never had the money for the wrestling business. And now, Sonja didn't have the time. She needed to get home, check on her mother, see if she needed anything. See if her cat, Cat, was keeping mom company.

"Isn't this what your father would have wanted?" Russel David blurted out, one last ditch effort before Sonja reached the line of taxis, one of them waiting to take her back to Queens. She stopped in her tracks, and pivoted in her black heels. Russel David took a step back... I mean, at least it stopped her.

"Are you really going to go there?"

Duke stared a hole through Russel, looking to scare him off now, and for good. He paused, took it in and grinned. It couldn't get any worse, right?

"Yes?"

Sonja had to hold back and smile, to her surprise. The audacity of this man. She just shook her head, and rubber the temple of her forehead. There wasn't going to be an easy way to get rid of this guy, and she really wanted to get out of the cold. She tilted her head, and looked Russel David straight in the eye.

"If I let you know where the Cup is, will you at least name it after my father?"

"Yes." Russel didn't miss a beat in replying, but it still came off as a really shite lie. He turned away and paced a few steps before turning back to her and shrugging his shoulders. Hell, he tried. Probably could have tried harder, but he was a writer damn it, and it wouldn't have to be her Cup, so why name it after the Duke's. Not a bad idea, but it wasn't there spirit as much anymore. Not now.

"Okay, look I don't care what you call it. I honestly couldn't give a shit about this wrestling stuff. I know you must love it, but let me just tell you, Mr. David... it's been a plague on my family." she points her finger at him to put an exclamation mark on it, "You hear me? A plague. This sport of yours has done nothing but hold my family back. Generation after generation after generation wasting there hard work and potential on fake fluff. A family like mine, with a history of business going back as far as it does, that should mean something, you know? Except when it comes to business like yours where men can lose everything and be blackballed and forgotten about, and your a bankrupt footnote! My family just doesn't want to learn from it's mistakes. From my great great, seven-times great grandfather to my stupid little brother."

Her fists where clenched now, she was almost in tears, Sonja's eyes darted to Russel and then she looked away embarrassed.

"I think it's more like eight or nine greats." Russel David said with a grin, trying to cheer her up. All he got this time was a glare in return.

"Legion has had it's rough past. Yes." Russel then said, using all the warm charm he could possibly muster. "But it's potential is still there. Still totally there in full. Wrestling these days is all about the individual all about me, me, me. The bigger and the better. People want to be the best, so they get eaten up by steroids and drugs and they end up going crazy. The community has been lost, the team aspect as been forgotten. The leaders, they don't lead by example anymore, they lead by mistakes. With Legion... we can... make a better, cooler world."

Okay, thought Russel. Maybe he kind of went big with that last statement. Sonja Duke let a grin slipped and just looked at David like he was crazy. So she said just that.

"Are you crazy?"

"Nah.", he grinned back at her and looked up and away, "I'm Legion."

Duke just shook her head, again, widened her eyes. This guy might be crazy, but at least he was sure about what he wanted. "Fine." And digging into the purse under her arm, she grabbed todays copy of the New York Times. Obama's face was the picture on the front page, but she folded it in half horizontally, grabbed a pen from her bag and scrawled something along the top between the headline and the Times information scrawl. She handed Russel David the newspaper.

"This is the address for the storage locker, where the Cup is in Newark. Probably. There should be a bunch of musky boxes in there as well. I don't think my brother pillaged any of those, since he's not so much into reading as he is reacting, you know what I mean? There should be stuff in there, of interest to you... as long as it hasn't been destroyed by water." She gave David a curt nod, but then turned back around, "And this doesn't mean you've gotten any of the rights. The Cup is on loan, and everything that still belongs to my family... belongs to my family. Any of the rights that I inherited, are still mine. I'm not stupid. I might not respect it, but I know not to sell it wholesale to the first man to come along with interest... and you're not even the first. Write out the royalty check for my mother, please"

Sonja Duke slipped into the closest cab, and Russel David held the door open for a moment. "The checques will come in the mail, with a couple of tickets to each show."

He closed the door, and the cab merged into the Manhattan traffic. It was really the biggest thank you that Russel David could give to Sonja Duke. A chance to see her families dream become something more...

Something concrete. Russel looked down at the copy of the New York Times. There it was, the location to the Legion Cup, written below the type face... what would become known as the Dunn Cup, soon enough. What different men, with different histories, with different paths in life would all be looking to hold high. It held the past, and it held the future.

Yeah, this newspaper was going to have to be framed.

That black ink on white paper.

Christopher Sheffield raised a glass in the memory of a dead friend to assure he wouldn’t become a dead memory.

It being the fifth anniversary of the death of Charles Dunn, the Original Pulp knew he had to get shit-faced in the annual wake following Charles death during an apparent attempted robbery. It was apparent as nothing was stolen, though it was thought that the man responsible was spooked once Charles had been shot. Why a man brings a bookstick to a cat burglary was beyond Sheff’s detective skills as he continued drinking into the night. Tonight was extra special, as an old friend in James Boyd joined him.

Boyd had joined Alias on this night as he had heard that Sheffield had made something of an annual tradition out of this night… and if Boyd’s favorite wrestler (the reasoning behind which I’ll explain in a moment) was going to have a drink in honor of the man that Boyd had broken through into the business with, and eventually even into the promotion bracket with, becoming inseparable from during those peak years of the 90’s into the double aughts… then damn it, Boyd was going to join Alias in drinking to Charles Dunn.

“Gnarly, can you grab us a couple of Mississippi Punches?”

“What’s in that exactly?”

“Booze, lemons and sugar. Classy enough for a wake but still dirty enough to fuck you up by tomorrow.”

James Boyd looked at Alias for a moment and laughed. He had come a long way since the mid 90’s, and was not a man of mythical proportions. It was a far cry from the blue-ship brat that he and Dunn had found fighting in the crowds, the fabled angry young man of “Flyboy” Brian Sheffield. The same boy that had disappeared by ’98, not returning for five years.

“You know when you came back in ’02 I couldn’t believe that Alias was once Chris Phoenix.”

“S’at right?”

“Dunn was the first to believe in you again. Said in this our life there are no beginnings, but only departures entitled beginnings, wreathed in the formal emotions thought to be appropriate and often forced. He got that from Delmore Schwartz. Said you’d probably even understand that, that he’d seen it in your eyes. After that, everyone else couldn’t help but believe in you after Dunn did.”

Words couldn’t express what Alias felt about that. The conversation between the two inevitably turned to Legends. How Alias was put into the position to save ACW from the clutches of Ethan Winters, a Machiavellian money man who had wrested a controlling portion of ACW away from Dunn and Boyd… and then wanted it all. Alias was put in the position to sace ACW and that is just what he ended up doing. It was why he was James Boyd’s favorite wrestler… and why Boyd wanted to talk to him about something in particular.

“Sheff, I might have lied to you…”

“You’re a cheap drunk aren’t you? I knew it. I’m not carrying ya home though, if you can’t keep up!”

“No, it’s about why I’m here. I’m here for Dunn, of course, but I also wanted to talk to you about Legion.”

“I know the name.”

“We’re looking to return it to the glory days.”

“We?”

“I’m helping Russel David. He’s a good man. Honest.”

“I know him, too.”

“Course you do. And?”

“Really think you can do this all again, starting a fed I mean. Without Charlie?”

“He’ll be there, in spirit.”

“And I’ll be there too? Is that what you’re hoping.”

“You know what you are, Chris? You’re a lighting rod. You draw energy in and lots of it. Even from people that you might not expect. A lot of people love you… and a lot of people don’t.”

“Some people of those people might even be willing to fight me.”

“Exactly. And not just willing to, but able.”

“I’m not a team player.”

“The only team I have made you a part of… well that paid off, didn’t it?”

“I can’t save you and Dunn every time.”

“But you can try.”

“Yeah… I can try.”

Christopher Sheffield and James Boyd would drink into the wee hours of dawn for Charles Dunn, and his legacy. They would talk even more about the past, the present and future.

The future of Legion.

Six months ago.

Black ropes and a white canvas.

You certainly gain an interesting perspective in the wrestling business when you’re sitting in the back of a Traverse City, Michigan gymnasium. James Boyd was in Traverse City because he was scouting talent, because there really was no other reason why he would be shifting in a hard black steel chair trying to soften the spot to no avail, if not for this kid that he was watching wrestle in the ring.

Nibi Augustine had spiked up on Boyd’s radar after a Youtube video of the kid’s talent was e-mailed his way. Boyd couldn’t quite remember who sent the video, but it was a welcome gift none the less… the kid had something. He reminded James of Jimmy Gonz, in those earlier days of All-Star Championship Wrestling almost twenty years ago.

They hadn’t even signed Christopher Sheffield or Vince Jacobs yet, and yet, with a roster full of hungry talent… there was something special in the air. Gonz, ACW’s first home grown talent, a kid that Boyd and Charles Dunn had brought up from smaller grassroots feds, had really taken off in his own right. He was put in a program with Henry Irwenson, Ironsides, who had had a great run with the CWL but had left thanks to the backstage politics of Angus MacGregor… a hulking presence in pro wrestling at the time.

And even if there paths to that point couldn’t be more different, Ironsides and Gonz had made Dunn and Boyd more then proud. The storyline between the two, up to this point, was emotional, it was riveting, full of respect. Somehow both men had grown as great faces to the crowd. The comic element of RIP Wilson helped with that.

And the blow-off fight that night, between the two, for the newly minted Spirit of ACW… it had blown the crowd away. Jimmy Gonz had won, and Ironsides would continue to chase him. The crowd was so enthralled that the World Championship match later that night got barely half the reaction.

“They’re all going to remember this one day, those fans.” James Boyd grinned to himself as he whispered this again, in the school gym. Remembering that night in The Pyramid in Memphis. How he almost screamed it at Charlie, the both of them smiling there asses off. He was young then, he thought, and prone to hyperbole.

He flinched, thinking of what would happen to the many involved in the special moment of that night… but it, it didn’t matter not at the moment. That was the moment that his own wrestling dream had crystallized and the years from there held so much damn excitement and potential. James Boyd wanted to be lost in the good times today.

“You’re going to miss seeing what this guy can do, if you don’t pay attention. He's going... something.” Someone said to Boyd, jolting him out of his nostalgia. He turned to see a thirty something fellow, dressed up enough while still looking like he rolled out of bed, at least Boyd thought. The man nodded at Boyd, and then turned back to watch the action in the ring. Something caught James, and he tilted his head at the man.

“You. You’re Russel… David? Right?”

The man let out a bit of a laugh, and then turned back to Boyd. “Yeah. That I am, Mr. Boyd. I’m impressed, I’m not exactly known by my face.”

“Well after ACW won all those Mark Awards in 2005, I made it a point to remember who you where. So I could shake your hand when I finally met ya in person. Plus, hey, I know stuff. It's my job.” Boyd put out his hand, for David to shake, then pulled it back for a moment. “And either James or Boyd, but never Mister.”

“Fair enough.” Russel David nodded, then shook the hand of James Boyd. The moment they let go of it, David just up and went for it with a certain glint in his eye. “What do you think about starting another fed?”

James Boyd sat there for a moment and blinked. He couldn’t even get away from the wrestling press in Traverse City. Thinking about that for a moment though it didn’t make sense. The wrestling press wasn’t that good. So he answered the question with the quiet but strongly stated opinion that he had always been known for. “Well let’s see, the CWL had to go overseas, ACW is a growing indy fed as opposed to the national fed it used to be, the FWO is dead in the water after what happened with the scandal, the Squared Circle fell off television… a few years ago now…”

“Who ever said wrestling needed to be televised?” Russel David pointed out. It was only something that was left for the real money businesses out there, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a thousand indies either. Plus, David had always been a print man, anyway.

“You heard the rumblings with ACW, right? European television rights. Maybe. If you want to compete with a proven company like that. Plus PRIME. Of course you know the buyrates that Colossus brought in. Culture Shock too? I don‘t know if I can shepard another grass root league… I don't know if I have the... drive.” Boyd pointed out, right back. There was something in this guys heart, Boyd would give him that. He was looking for something more then an interview or a scoop. Something much more.

“That’s just the thing. They're something. They're impressive. But they’re federations. Painkiller fueled corporate empires built on backbreaking touring schedules.” Russel David had really gotten spirited now as he replied to Boyd, and it had grabbed the attention of a few people sitting around himself and Boyd. Including a mean trucker looking fellow in the row in front of them.

“What about Just?” Russel David continued, but quieter, so as not to bring the ire of the trucker in front of them, as the fellow went back to drinking his drink and cheering on the man wrestling against the Augustine kid. Boyd hadn‘t replied to David, he just couldn‘t peg a fed like Just. “My point exactly. It’s the strangest of products out there, for it’s own entirely different reasons.”

“So what do you have in mind?” Boyd said to Russel, still not entirely sure what neither was getting out of this conversation. Boyd suspected it was big however.

“Legion.” was all Russel said, as he turned back to the action in the ring again, and waited for it to sink in with Boyd. Which he could only hope it would.

It was music to the ears of the wrestling savant. Butterflies actually hit Boyd's stomach. “You ever hear that line that Brian Eno always said?”

“Tell me.” Was Russel David’s quiet reply, right now he was the student.

“While only a few thousand people bought the first Velvet Underground record upon its release, every single one of them was inspired to start a band. Well, I swear to god that almost every single person that was a Legion fan in the 70’s, went and became a wrestler or promoter. Myself included.” Those memories where all rushing back to Boyd, watching "Flyboy" Brian Sheffield and “the Paladin” William Sun fight, the legend of "Fabulous" Freddy Cassidy. The Legion Cup captured his imagination… and then… it had just...

“So who are you scouting for, anyway? ACW?” Russel David once again broke Boyd’s concentration. Boyd had been hard to find, watching one man wrestle here, and another there. Only 'here' and 'there' being smaller indies on either coast. David had found him in Traverse after hearing about his return from a CWL show in France.

“Nah, just a rainy day…” Nibi jumped off from the turnbuckle closest to Boyd and David, which meant that he was still pretty far away. Still, the grace of that kid was something to behold. The big trucker looking fellow roared with appreciation, and threw his cup into the air. The water in it rained down. Boyd squinted as some of the water speckled off his bald head, and onto his black shirt covered shoulders.

“They’re all going to remember Legion, one day.” Boyd grinned, and then chuckled, catching himself. He must be prone to hyperbole in his old age. Russel elbowed him in the side, before replying with a smile of his own.

“Only one day?”

White paint on the black top.

INTRODUCING BROOKLYN

“I don’t really give a shit about food.”

Words of dripping apathy out of the mouth of a mohawked skater punk, as he walked his large pit bull, and talked to a black and pink pig-tailed woman, and his other pit bull walking, cap-wearing friend. The three of them dressed in mostly blacks and dark greens. The three of them totally ignoring the flow of traffic, as they walked across the street and Russel David hopped across the street in the opposite direction, so as to not hold up traffic. The Brooklyn Bridge loomed behind him.

“So everything is in place, hey?” The man behind The Mark column, spoke into his cell phone to an unknown voice on the other end. He was a tall lanky fellow, with shortly cut hair and deeply intense eyes. Though those eyes might have just appeared intense due to the dark bags under them, incurred by numerous late nights writing about wrestling, and otherwise helping build a life of comfort for himself, his wife and his baby girl. Russel David, weaved between a pair of Chinese immigrants in front of a Korean food market, and a chubby Puerto Rican kid sloppily eating a hot dog with a biiit too much sour kraut. He was in the DUMBO district, down under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass.

“No, tell them I’ll be there in a few minutes, just had to park my car near the C, E line.”

Yes, Russel David was deep in Brooklyn.

“Again, thank you for… all of this.” David smiled, as he snapped the cell phone shut and slipped it in his pocket.

He rushed along the sidewalk, because he knew they where all waiting for him. More or less everything had been settled, and everything was put in place, and if he didn’t arrive soon enough… someone might spill the beans about that Cup to James Boyd. It was the last touch to all these things they had planned, and David wanted to be the one to tell him. It really had been a busy afternoon, for Russel David. It wasn't going to get any quieter either.

The deal for Hurley Fairfax had almost fallen through, with his manager Jimmy threatening to take him to Japan, even with Jimmy Beretta’s ties to Legion. That was almost the draw for David, having read what happened to Beretta’s career through all the fault of his own… to see him almost drag someone else down, as well. The mans ego truly was infamous, just as Boyd had remembered a quick call from James Boyd to Beretta, though, helped settle things. Beretta got something of a signing bonus for Fairfax, as well as a finders fee for himself, but also there was something else that Beretta had never held himself, while he wrestled, and it lay within the walls of this thing that Russel David was now putting his heart and soul into…