Rayne Young vs. Dexter Grant

[Konrad Raab]

2 RP Limit for singles

Deadline: 11:59:59 pm ET Tuesday, November 5, 2024 (to ensure plenty of time post-Breakdown)

[Cobra]

OOC: Managed to actually get something done. Sitting down for the past three hours, smashing it out. Hopefully, it makes sense and I hope you can get something up, Dexter. Goodluck.

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OFF CAMERA - Family travails…
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Victory.

Is there anything more wished than victory in this world? Maybe sex? Money? No. These are seen as victorious accomplishments. They're a part of the bigger picture. The grand picture. Victory. Winning. Conquering. All of these words are merely a way to express our triumph over something. The ultimate feeling of the universe. The reason we are born for. From our first breath until our last breath, we seize life and try to be as triumphant as possible. Over anyone or everyone if so needed. What matters, in the end, is who was still standing when the dust settled. History is nothing but a story as remembered by the victors. Those who survived to tell the tale their way. Who seriously gives a damn about a loser? The world is full of meaningless existences of losers.

The saviours of the world are those who have the power to go further than any other man. Those who have the power to be victors. Winners. Conquerors. Talking is easy however, getting it done is the hard part. If not, everyone would have their name in history, but only a few, select men are noteworthy of such deeds. Giants. Gods. Their names would be remembered for the rest of the human race's existence. And through their works, their deeds, their words and their prowess, they would live forever through mankind.

Our story begins in a place unknown. As you glare around, you realise you're inside a hallway. This is no ordinary hallway, however. As you examine it more carefully, you realise the dark, old stones are covered in dirt, dust and even blood all around. It looked like a proper dungeon taken from a horror movie. Twisted, sick and disgusting. There are also a couple of doors, one for each side. They were made of dark wood and once again seemed incredibly old and rotten. This would surely be a place where you wouldn't want to live. However, the owner of this didn't use it as a living place either. It was rather a warehouse for all his dirty, secret activities. Hidden from public view, hidden from the world. This was his domain, and his domain alone. Free to rule it however he saw fit, as twisted or perverted his desires would be. He had absolute power, the wish of every man. And as everyone who has power, he used it to the point of abuse. In here he was lord. In here he was law. In here was supreme. He was more than a man or a mortal within these walls... he was... God.

A chained noise starts to become louder and louder on your back. It draws your attention and as you look backwards, you see three men. The two on the sides look like proper thugs on steroids. The one on your left is named Marco La Scala. He was very tanned and had a marine buzz haircut and a piercing on his left eyebrow. He is built like a bull, but you can easily see that. He's wearing a white, tight-to-the-body sleeveless shirt, showing his many tattoos on the arms, along with jeans, a black belt and timberland boots. A very typical design in clothing. In his jeans, you can see the shape of a gun with only its handle popping out over his white sleeveless shirt. The other on the side was wearing a very different attire. He was wearing an oversized T-shirt and jeans, with some black sneakers. If he had any weapons on him, you couldn't see it with your naked eye. He wasn't nearly as built, although not exactly skinny either and was just a fair-skinned bald man with a big goatee. His name was Fabio Argenziano.

As for the man in the middle. You wouldn't know his name. Neither would I. He was not a friend of the other men, as he seemed to have been incredibly beaten up and was currently being dragged on his knees by the other two men. He looked tall and well built. He had a ripped shirt, black jeans, and black socks as he was wearing no shoes. He had a black bag on his head, which covered his identity, but you could see blood dripping from the bag and going over his nearly naked chest. Some bruises could be noted as well. Interestingly, although not tied up by any means, the man had a large chain wrapped around him, which was making all those noises that brought this matter to your attention in the first place.

As they were walking towards the end of the hallway, some screams of a girl started to become louder and louder. The man being dragged seemed to respond to them, though he barely could move, the other two men didn't seem even bothered by them though. It seemed as if they were just used to them. One of the doors suddenly opened by their side and another man came out. Both men dragging the poor fellow seemed surprised to see the other man there, although happy, just like the man who had just come out. He was zipping his jeans and was wearing black sneakers and a black shirt. He shoved his short curly hair backwards as he was greeted by Marco.

"'Sup man!"

"Hey! Whatcha guys doin'?"

"The usual..."

"The Boss wants to see this guy. You?"

"I was just bedding in the new girl we’ve got. Quite literally! There’s probably going to be some left for you most likely!"

"No man, i’ll do alot of things, but not that. I’ll pass.”

The man's name was Alessandro. He then walked away. Before he closed the door, Marco caught a glimpse of the girl he was talking about slightly. Blonde, fair skinned and very thin. She was crying and screaming while a dark-skinned man was standing behind her. That man was Jimmy. Marco hated him, especially the way he and Alessandro treated the women around here. He’s always wanted to take Jimmy down a peg or two, but unlike Marco and Fabio however, who worked directly under the boss, Jimmy seemed to have much more space to move as he was in charge of his particular "business", and just worked under the boss's wing. Alessandro was his right hand, and he also worked directly under the boss, which further strengthened the boss's connection to Jimmy. This was out of Marco’s control, however, so he kept moving forward towards the end of the hallway, pretending not to have seen anything. Fabio followed his lead, without ever getting a glimpse of what was inside the room. He knew he probably wasn't getting anything from there so it didn't even bother. He and Jimmy were big buddies in the past but their friendship had recently met some obstacles.

As they approached the last door to the left, Fabio dropped the man who almost fell like a dead body and proceeded to open the door. Marco picked up the man all by himself and dragged him alone to the inside of the room. Fabio stayed outside and closed the door, standing still as a good guard. On the inside, Marco brought the man to the middle of the room and, whilst keeping him on his knees, took the bag out of his head. The man's face was visibly beaten. He had short brown hair and glazed eyes, though he couldn't really open them as they were so swollen. Bruises all over his face, and his nose was broken. Blood was dripping from his mouth, eyebrows, nose and even ears. It would seem rather amazing the man seemed to still be alive after so much damage had been done to him. As he heard someone laughing, the man tried his best to raise his head and take a glare around, although it wasn't particularly easy as even his neck hurt when he tried to move his head. Not that it would help much, really, as in the end, he could barely see anything with his swollen eyes.

This room didn't seem anything like a dungeon. Rather, it seemed a proper work office of some rich guy. The walls were beige and plain, with some big paintings covering its emptiness. There were two black couches, one on the south wall where Marco came through and one on the west wall. They both touched each other, rather looking like just one big L-shaped couch. In the middle of the room, there was a big carpet, with Italian designs on it, coloured from dark red, to white and green themes. In front of the man stood a big, glassy desk, with a couple of computer screens standing on top of it and a big rack on the back, which was probably connected to the screens. Standing on the big chair, in front of this desk, was a man who seemed to be playing with a couple of papers and folders. You could see this man was dressed in a proper, black suit, with a white shirt and a red tie. He was the person the poor beaten fellow heard laughing. His face however remained hidden in the shadows. Only his evil smile stands out. As he greeted Marco, he bowed his head slightly forward, indicating both his respect and fear for the person standing in his front.

"Hello, Marco."

"Boss."

"Have you finished all the tasks I've assigned to you, yet?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. So... this is him, hmm? I've always thought he'd be..."

The man got up and walked around the desk, walking towards the middle of the room until he was standing very few inches far away from Marco and the beaten man. He snapped his fingers, and Marco quickly went outside, coming a couple of seconds later with a small steel chair. He set up the chair just behind the man, and once that was done he forced the man to sit on it. He also seemed to use the chains that were wrapped around him to tie him to the chair. Tying both his arms, legs, and even neck to the chair, to make sure he couldn't possibly move any longer. The man coughed some blood, in pain from everything that had been done to him. Noticing this, Marco slapped the man with so much strength he almost took him to the floor again. The man coughed more and tried to grasp for air. Marco seemed incredibly nervous as he turned himself to face the boss, with his head looking to the floor in shame.

"This carpet wasn't exactly cheap... Marco..."

"I'm sorry, boss!"

"I'm aware. You've done enough. Leave us alone."

As quick as a flash, Marco turned on his heels and left the room. The boss noticed Marco was nearly sweating, as he feared for his well being after spreading blood on his carpet. Marco had proved to be one of his best hands however, and as such the boss wouldn't as easily dispatch him, although he wouldn't exactly hesitate either if the time came, and Marco knew it. With his right hand, he grabbed the man's jaw and pushed his head up, so the man could see his face causing him considerable pain in the process. Seeing his face now, the man noticed he had blonde, short hair, and eyes that looked just like his. He was well-shaved and looked like someone you'd expect to meet on Wall Street or a bank. His smile kept shining, however, as it showed how evil the man was. It was even "creepy" and scary.

"We... my friend... have a lot to talk about..."

"Please... I did nothing wrong..."

"Oh! Most certainly not!"

"Then why... me? Please... I have a family..."

"Indeed. We're aware of who your family is. That is why you're here."

"Who are you?"

The boss laughed. Once again that laugh. The man started to believe that this man was somewhat of a madman with more money than he should have. The boss then slapped him, and the man started to cough blood again. As he coughed, the boss started to laugh. He noticed some blood was on his hand, he picked up a paper and slowly cleaned his hand, throwing the paper in a small black garbage that was beneath the desk. He then came back to the man and once again grabbed him by his jaw and this time he approached his face to the man's face, once again, smiling like the devil.

"Who I am, is not important. In fact. The one who's asking the questions is me. And you're going to answer them."

"I-I'll do whatever you... want... but please..."

"Good boy! I suppose you're wondering why you are here. In fact. You've asked about it already. It's none of your business but I'll tell you anyways. You see... this is all because of your father."

"My... Dad?"

As the boss talked about his son, the man started to remember his son. It’s been a while since he saw his dad. After the death of his stepmother, he tried to reach him but to no avail. He wanted to be there for his brothers and wanted to make sure they were being looked well after. If this was about his Dad, surely they’d be brought up in conversation. Managing to slowly open his swollen eyes slightly, he saw the delight his pain brought to the man standing in front of him.

"Yes. You may be unaware of this, but he's done wrong to us in the past."

"Really? Color me shocked!" He said sarcastically and with a grin, which led to another hit to the face.

“Your piece of shit, Dad, put my brother in jail!"

This time, it was the boss who suddenly stopped for some seconds.. The boss reminded himself of his brother. A tall, semi-built man. Very short, dark hair, and always with a somewhat sick smile on his face that reminded the boss of himself. He was younger, however, about twenty eight or seven years old now. He knew who put him in jail. He even knew the friends who helped put his brother in jail. He also knew why though, he knew his brother killed someone. A girl.

But the boss didn't care one ounce about that. Why would he care? He cared about his family, not someone else’s. And having his brother rotting away in prison. His enemies, as he surely had some, could use that to their advantage. This wasn't a situation the boss liked to be caught up with. Thankfully, from his perspective, none had succeeded in doing such a thing. However, the boss held great contempt for the man's Dad for having harmed his brother, and even him indirectly.

So now he has to pay... and unfortunately, he's not the brightest fellow, as we've threatened him in the past but he seemed to forget it as the years passed..."

"What... do you mean?"

“Seven or eight years ago, I can't remember exactly, we threatened him to quit wrestling. And he did. But now he's back!"

"He's... back?"

"You were not aware?"

"No..."

"Can’t call yourself a good son, can you?"

"He’s no father of the year himself?"

A couple of tears ran down the man's face, as the boss just stood there looking at him in shock. For the boss, family was one of the most important things there could be, and yet, this man seemingly didn’t even care that much about his blood. He hoped his Dad wouldn't be as careless about family, or else his plans would never come to fruition. But he was sure he wasn't like his father, as what made him put his brother in jail was the fact that he murdered his long-term girlfriend.

The man tried not the cry, but the truth was that he still felt anger towards his Dad. For all these years he had kept the matter very well locked in his subconscious. He knew his father loved wrestling and walked away from it due to his brothers being born and he wanted to be the father he always wished he would’ve been for him… But it seems he kept the real reason hidden from all his loved ones.

"He put my brother in jail... and as soon as he gets out of jail he's going to want a piece of him... but the death of a star won't go unnoticed... will it? That's why we had to make him quit wrestling... so people would forget about him."

"But... if he's coming back... your plan failed..."

"Indeed. And that will not do!"

"That's... too bad!"

The man was quick the answer back and started laughing in the boss's face. This type of defiance was not something the boss regarded as courage, however, but rather pure, genuine stupidity. He pushed his hand backwards to get some good distance and then slammed it forward, slapping the man as hard as he could. The man and the chair fell together sideways after the impact, of balance. No more laughs were heard, as the man started coughing once again. The boss seized the opportunity to kick him in the chest, in a bold move, filled with anger, for how could such a man dare laugh in the face of someone like him?!

This was unacceptable. He breathed more heavily, frustrated that someone had laughed in his face. As he managed to compose himself again he quickly picked another paper to clean his hands from the blood, and after discarding it, he shoved his hair back and straightened his suit to look tidy again, as if nothing had ever happened. The boss started to breathe a little deeper, and he picked up the man and the chair and pulled them straight. Once again he put himself right in front of the man, and grabbed his jaw, forcing their eyes to meet each other one more time. The boss started laughing and looked at a wall for a brief moment before getting back to staring at the man's eyes, with a smile on his face.

"His return wasn’t expected…. He’s telling the world why he’s back, but at what price, huh?"

"I guess you’re on about me! You can barter my life with him, but i think that’s going to do you more harm than good…"

"I’m not scared, kid. You see, by my standards his death would have been done already... and it would look natural... such as a steroid overdose or something. But my brother... boy he's crazy. He wants to fight him to the death. You've pictured that? He wants to fight a professional wrestler and kill him with his own, bare hands..."

"Murder?!... That’s cute… I know for a fact my father has put a few men in the ground himself, so it’ll be something to feast my eyes on…"

"Such a death however needs to be kept in the shadows. And for it to be kept in the shadows, your father needs to be hiding in the shadows. If he's standing in front of the world with his arms raised high... such a death will not be possible."

The man wished he could just free himself and stop this nonsense. That this was nothing more than a nightmare, or if not, that he would be granted the power to stop them right now and save his father from the problems that he sees now coming his way. But once again reality found him powerless to do anything against these people, as his father’s apparent enemies are much more powerful than him, at this moment in time.

"But... why do you need... m-me? I’m guessing to make him suffer!!"

"Oh, the answer is simple. We need him to remember that we're still around, and waiting for him. We're going to blackmail him. Expecting, of course, that he has more interest in your well-being than you have in his..."

“That’s stupidity at its highest. I know he loves me, but him wanting to come back to wrestling was something he’s been yearning for…."

"Well everyone has a weakness. We'll find his. And if your death is necessary in the process, well... I wished I could offer you a more... meaningful death."

Once again the man laughed. He knew for sure the last time he had done it, he got under the nerve of the boss. And this time it didn't seem to be much different. The boss dropped his jaw and was about to punch him this time, but instead, he grabbed his hair and started walking around. As he composed himself again, he glared straight into his eyes, as he slowly bit a bit of his under lip, trying to keep himself together and not fall in a fit of anger and start kicking the living shit out of the man. The boss realised that if he continued to beat the man, who was already beaten to hell, in the end, he would end up killing him. And the boss couldn't let himself be found as a killer, not with his own hands. Besides, he still needed the man alive so he could get to his dad, otherwise, all this would have been a massive waste of time, and in a world where time is money, this couldn't be accepted. He wondered, however, why would someone be in such a condition be laughing... as the boss saw it, there was nothing laughable about this, especially not from the man's perspective.

"What's so funny about this?"

"You guys... think you own the w-world... don't you? Well... He won’t cave… Instead, he’ll burn everything you’ve built down to the ground if anything happens to me."

As he cursed the boss, in his boldest move and display of courage, the man tried to cover his face the most he could as he was sure there was a big beating coming. He stood still for a couple of seconds, waiting for the boss to strike. However, he felt no strike for a period that seemed to last for minutes, he looked up and found the boss to be extremely still and quiet. His eyes were as open as he had ever seen in a human being. The man could tell that the boss was most surprised. He wondered why, however... Had someone who was able to kidnap him not know enough about him?

"Most... intriguing!"

The boss picked up a small knife he kept on the top of his desk and a piece of paper. He approached the man, who tried to get away as quickly as possible. Preventing any fight from happening, the boss kicked the man and both he and the chair fell backwards. The man hit his head hard and couldn't barely move anymore. Pain was going through his entire body in a way he had never felt before. He believed he couldn't take it any longer, and that if he didn't get to a hospital soon enough, then he'd die. And this wasn't very far-fetched from the truth, as indeed the man was suffering from a considerable amount of damage done to him by several people to get him to this point. The boss used the knife to cut the man's arm. The man screamed as he felt the cold blade opening his skin as if it were butter in the summer. His warm, red blood started dripping quickly from the cut. As the man yelled, the enthusiasm of the boss seemed to grow larger. He used his knife as a pen and started writing a message on the paper, using the blood from the man as his ink.

"MARCO!"

The man laughed as he finished the letter. And quick as a flash, Marco came in through the door. He had waited outside with Fabio all this time and was simply waiting for the boss to say his name to come in. He seemed very surprised to see the man on the floor, bleeding and his boss writing a letter with his blood on the floor.

"Yes... boss?"

"I need you to take this man to Marie so she can take care of him. If nobody stops this bleeding he's probably going to die and that will not do. We need him alive. You hear me?"

"Yes, boss!... do you want me to talk with Susan as well?

"Yes. Tell her that my office needs to be cleaned. As quick as possible."

"Yes, boss!"

"Also... who is your most trusted man?"

"Fabio, he's waiting right outside sir. Why?"

"Give him this letter, and tell him it’s to be hand-delivered..."

"To who?"

"I need it delivered as soon as possible... to Rayne Young."

"Yes sir!"

The boss finished writing the letter, he dried the blood so the message wouldn't be lost and then gave it to Marco. As he turned his back, Marco picked up Rayne’s son, Clay by the chair and pulled him with himself outside his boss's office. He closed the door quickly, so the boss wouldn't be bothered anymore. The truth is that, anyone who knew the boss personally was frightened to death by him. He gave the letter to Fabio who looked oddly at him as he tried to unchain the man from the chair. Fabio helped him out. Once they managed to take him out of the chair, Marco gave him the chair and grabbed the man who couldn't even stand on his knees anymore.

"Look. Track down Rayne Young and give him that letter. And on your way out talk with Susan, tell her to go clean the boss's office as soon as he can, ok?"

"What the hell was going on in there man?"

"I dunno. And I don't wanna know. And you shouldn't either."

"Alright man. I’m on it."

Marco dragged the near-dead body of Clay away. Fabio looked down at the letter and looked back at Marco dragging Clay down the hall, thinking to himself, what on earth is going on… He knew his boss had some dealings with Rayne about eight years ago, but nothing’s been said on the matter since. What is truly going on!?!?!

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ON CAMERA - Shoot
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“Dexter…. Fucking… Grant… And your little bitch boy, Weasel. I’ve seen the shit you’ve been spouting and how you like to think you’ve gone off the grid. You’re a hypocrite. Living off the grid? Hate social media and what technology has done to the generations of people on this earth? And you’re using both to propitiate your cause.

You see Dex, i’m 43. The use of social media and technology has gone beyond anyone’s imagination. People are seduced by it all, and to me, i couldn’t give a rat's ass if i ever use the internet or social media again. But to attack me to try and spread your propaganda. Disconnect to reconnect, right? In principle, i agree with you, Dex. But you’ve poked the wrong bear in the way you’ve gone about it.

To take my cell, which has my family's names and contacts, putting their privacy at risk is something i can’t let lie. I was always going to kick your ass for attacking me with my interests elsewhere. But when you put my family in the mixer, you done fucked up boy. And the icing on the cake, Dex? It’s happening in my second home. My home away from home, Motor City Baybee.

The MC holds fond memories from the past. The Joe Louis Arena became my fortress, and even though it’s been torn down, the little caesars will have to do it instead. New Arena, same town, same fucking outcome. At Under Attack, Dex, you won’t know what’s hit you. The anger and hatred i’ve got for something fucking around with my family, there’s no coming back for you now.

For someone who claims to live off the grid, it makes me wonder how you got all that info on Chase Upshaw! You and Weasel, you’re both the type of guys that lurk around social media with faceless accounts. Both of you are just faceless pussies when it’s all said and done. I’m not just going to beat you at Under Attack, i’m going to make you bleed. And once i’m done with you, you will want to tuck your tail and finally leave to actually live off the grid.

Unlike you, Dex. When i say i’m going to do something, i’ll make good on it. I’m going to blaze a train, Dex. Continuing with you at Under Attack. Say a prayer for yourself and Weasel, because i will bury both of you.”

“I don’t want to be a product of my environment, i want my environment to be a product of me. I’ve got my self-esteem back, and i’ve got my confidence up. And Dexter Grant, that means you’re in for a world of hurt in the Motor City.

[Digitox]

OOC: The political opinions (or rather, the disdain for politics in general) expressed by Dexter in this RP do not reflect my own political beliefs. I simply took an idea based on what today is and ran with it as best as I could so I had something to post, and I figured it made sense that Dexter would have a general apathy for politics similar to his apathy and disdain for social media and the current state of technology as a whole.
=================

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

Dexter was very familiar with that old line, and although he didn’t agree with it considering the state of the world he found himself fighting against day after day, he knew the unfortunate truth that some things truly hadn’t changed, only adapted to fit in with the digital trends of 2024. Politics was one such thing, and Dexter didn’t even need to taint his eyeballs with the toxic temptation of code building out an elaborate web page to know that politics and social media were essentially parasites feeding off one another, fueling their respective webs of misinformation and distrust because at the end of the day, a nation thoroughly divided was a nation that was easier to exploit for profit.

The very thought of this cyber-cancer being weaponized for political gain on top of every other reason Dexter already despised it had him wanting to vomit.

Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it. No matter where he walked in Detroit, all he could see were campaign signs and banners littering every street corner, endorsing this candidate or begging him to vote for that one. Truth be told, Dexter never cared for politics in the first place. Even before he became the Digital Detoxer, he saw the whole thing for what it was: a sucker’s game that never truly benefited anybody at the end of the day and only served to stroke the egos of anybody desperate enough to suck up to the masses and say anything they thought would give them a taste of that delicious power…at least until the reality of their position and how powerless they truly were in the grand scheme of things crashed down over their heads like a tidal wave.

“I hate this time of year,” Dexter huffed to himself. Ever since he’d arrived in Detroit for what would be his in-ring debut on a pay-per-view or premium live event or however the hell SCW did their business, he’d found it impossible to enjoy his usual distraction of preaching his message to the masses from the comfort of his soapbox, and it was all the fault of the election being days away.

All anybody cared about was who was going to be the next President of the United States of America, and the moment Dexter took a stand on his soapbox, anyone around him immediately assumed he was going to campaign on behalf of one of the big two candidates and ran him off with threats of violence when it became clear what he had to say had absolutely nothing to do with the election at all.

At least he would have Under Attack to serve as a distraction.

Dexter wanted to hope that his machinations had become pretty clear as of the last Breakdown. After all, he had no reason to linger on Gavin Taylor deciding to snub him in favor of chasing after a more marketable match when the SCW roster was loaded with lost souls in desperate need of detoxing before their lives were brought to an end and their corpses were strung up to further feed the social media machine. That was the reason why he had ‘upset’ Marie Jones to unsurprisingly send her back to Twitter or X or whatever it went by now to lament her latest failure and garner pity points over something needing to change for her. It was the reason why he had decided to offer his help to another supposed veteran who was clearly obsessed with the image that had been crafted of himself and needed a dose of reality.

“It’s crazy seeing how different a place can look in the final stretch of election season,” Wendell remarked as he caught up to Dexter, who was just passing by the coffee shop he’d sent his flunky to for not only a coffee run but also to stealthily hop online and gather some more intel.

“Disgusting is more like it,” Dexter scoffed as he took his coffee from Wendell and took a nice, long drink of the bitter black substance.

“Have you put any thought towards who you’re voting for?” Wendell chanced asking. “Because I think our cause could be helped if-”

“I’m not voting.”

The stern refusal seemed to surprise Wendell, although Dexter just kept drinking his coffee and distracted his thoughts by pondering why the hell Detroit’s weather was in the 70s during mid-autumn.

“But…but…huh?” Wendell stammered out.

“You heard me,” Dexter reiterated. “It’s a waste of time, all of it. You put someone in office, they don’t do shit for a few years because they sorely underestimate how much they have to answer to not only each other but also the people who put them there in the first place, wash, rinse, repeat. It hasn’t worked yet, and it will never work if you ask me.”

“I don’t get it…” Wendell seemed confused as he looked around in a panic, almost as if Dexter’s words were going to draw attention to them that wasn’t going to turn out well.

“I’ll admit that democracy is a much better system than anything else in the world,” Dexter shrugged. “The problem is that we pioneered this revolutionary way to decide who leads us and decides the laws and so on, but then we fucked it up by basically allowing for money to go a long way in deciding who gets those positions to benefit people like the social media moguls who know they can spin all of this, no matter who wins, into press for themselves to sucker more people into their world wide web. After all, if social media and whatever ‘information’ it’s presenting and the platform it gives people to yell and scream the loudest about who they want to win can decide an election, imagine how easy it would be to keep shoving down people’s throats to try and connect with ‘their elected official.’”

Blasphemy? Perhaps, but it could also perhaps be true that the hints of the man Dexter Grant would become were already present in his disdain towards politics and the rise of social media simply gave him a more tangible enemy he felt he could fight, kill two birds with one stone maybe. He knew there was at least some truth to the words he’d just spoken, and he could see the gears turning in Wendell’s brain as the poor kid realized he was undergoing another impromptu detoxing session by hearing Dexter’s words. After all, how much would anybody really care about who was elected after November 5th anyway? And those that were would just tweet about it and entice more people to tweet about it until it all became a jumbled mass of nonsensical words that would make even the greatest wordsmiths of our time have the mother of all migraines.

Dexter briefly wondered what Chase Upshaw would have thought about any of this. Sure, the man had been a geography teacher, supposedly, instead of an english teacher, but that still meant he supposedly worked at an institution of learning that would’ve had to put up with any of this garbage.

“So…um…” Wendell fumbled, trying to figure out how to put this conversation back on some sort of track. “Election aside, I guess…what’s the plan?”

Dexter huffed before downing the rest of his coffee and slamming the empty cup into the trash bin they were passing by. “That’s the problem…this extended wait because of SCW’s schedule just so I can get back to work is infuriating. I understand because they want to promote a ‘bigger show’ and all that, but it just adds to the problem I’m trying to help this company detox from in the first place. And with everyone so addicted to rallies and voting and the Presidential race and all that nonsense, I can’t even get two words out from atop my soapbox before these digital dummies want my head because I’m refusing to throw gasoline on their fire in favor of trying to open their eyes to something far more important.”

Silence overtook their walk once more as Dexter continued leading them to where he’d parked his truck. As sturdy and reliable as the vehicle was, Dexter found comfort in distracting himself with thoughts of a potential upgrade. After all, the truck was already being pushed a lot harder than he’d ever had to before since he wasn’t particularly one for airports…mostly because his usual attire made him out to be some sort of lunatic that airport security would wrongfully assume had harmful intentions in mind for other passengers and he had a feeling he wouldn’t even be let beyond the checkpoint, much less onto a plane. That would be an issue to potentially deal with if he ever found himself with a truly international booking perhaps, but for now…maybe investing his hard-earned money into an RV wouldn’t be a bad idea. Certainly a far better use for his paycheck than a little blue checkmark that ‘verified’ him online, for all the use that would ever have in the grand scheme of things.

“You still hung up on how I feel about this election bullshit?” Dexter suddenly asked as he and Wendell climbed into the truck.

“I…well…maybe?” Wendell stammered. Dexter noted that the kid did that quite frequently whenever he seemed to rock the guy’s world with some sort of revelation. It almost reminded him of a malfunctioning robot, which was a good image in his mind if he could help pull Wendell away more and more from the toxic threads of the online world. “I guess there’s a lot of things I’ve been confused about.”

“It’s a natural response,” Dexter nodded as his truck roared to life and he began driving, mentally mapping out a path to the nearest forest that did exist in the Motor City just so he could unwind in a setting he had grown to feel comfortable in. “I know a lot of what I’ve told you over the years might seem controversial or bizarre, but that’s the trick. The deeper one falls into digital oblivion, the harder it becomes to put down the phone and see beyond the rosy tint it leaves in your vision.”

“Well…” Wendell interjected. “There’s also the fact that…for as much as you’ve let me in to prove I can trust you, I also feel like there’s a lot about you that I still don’t know.”

“I have my reasons, Wendell,” Dexter sighed. “I could sit here and say that it’s my own little safety precaution to keep from trying to have my personal information hanging out there for anyone to see and spread around for the bidder with the biggest wallet of whatever the hell this ‘bitcoin’ crypto bullshit is, which isn’t exactly a lie. The full truth, I think, would lie somewhere closer to the realm of any of that being relevant to the old Dexter Grant, the man who bought into all those lies and tweets and could have very easily ended up as just another cog in the machine. The moment I pierced the veil and severed my cables was the moment where all of that became irrelevant. The man I am now? Maybe still a work in progress, but that’s just part of my fight, to define who I truly am and show the world why they need to listen to me if they want to make that decision for themselves as well, not just be whoever Instagram or Tiktok or whatever dictates they should be to garner likes and reposts and all this other crap that has no real world value or relevance.”

Wendell took a moment to ponder this as Dexter embraced the silence once more, his mind wandering to places he didn’t want it to go right now. He was reminded of his father, of the confrontation they had in the streets of Boston prior to his leaving the city to go beat a Boston native in the ring on Breakdown in Ottawa…as stupid as it sounded, he couldn’t help but wonder who his father, his whole family for that matter, might vote for, maybe hoping that it turning out a certain way would prove they’re willing to support his message even if they weren’t as willing to commit or detox like he was.

“Maybe this will help clear things up,” Dexter suddenly said, startling Wendell a bit from the broken silence. “Who do you think Rayne Young would vote for in this election?”

“I…um…” Wendell thought hard for a moment. “I don’t think it matters?”

“Exactly,” Dexter nodded. “Because stuff like that is irrelevant as far as I need to be concerned with. People can distract themselves with this election all they want, Rayne Young included, but it doesn’t change the fact that he still has to submit himself to detoxing if he’s ever truly going to be someone worthwhile in this world. It’s all a convenient distraction, just like those chamber matches and everyone in them are SCW’s convenient distraction to bury my message and the example I’m going to make out of Mr. Young. Who cares about what I’m going to do to him, after all, when they can post and react to whatever insane thing happens in a match designed to be a deathtrap? Even if our match doesn’t matter, SCW won’t just kick it off the card now that a big deal has been made out of it being there. It’s the unfortunate cycle that people trap themselves in that these digital demons take advantage of.”

“So you just need to make the most out of getting into the ring and kicking Rayne’s butt!” Wendell realized.

“Of course,” Dexter laughed. “As long as I can find importance in it, I will pursue it. That’s the same thought that drives these politicians to their campaign trails and the billions of dollars they waste on ads defaming their opposition. It’s why anybody does anything. The only difference is that I’m trying to force the iron grip of social media to let go of their stranglehold over this cycle so people realize their place in it should be for what they want it to be, not what some trashy website of dubious quality suggests it should be.”

Wendell nodded, believing he could see exactly what Dexter was getting at, and Dexter was certain he did. He had more faith in Wendell and his place in this fight than he often let on, and that had actually been the reason why he’d been allowing his flunky more autonomy in trying to help spread their message on SCW television. Even if the results weren’t quite there yet, Dexter was hopeful they would be if the fight continued.

For now, he would have to content himself with walking right up to a highly touted wrestler of over 20 years worth of experience and exposing him for nothing more than a digitally generated front who had lost his way and needed the help of someone like Dexter Grant to prove there was any substance to match the style he wanted to present himself with. After all, Dexter had substance in spades, and a severe imbalance in experience didn’t counter the old adage that anyone could be anybody else on any given night.

Under Attack just wasn’t going to be Rayne Young’s night, not so long as Dexter was his living, breathing reality check.

~ ~ ~

The following VHS tape was delivered to SCW headquarters via mail, courtesy of Dexter Grant. Despite Dexter’s demands not to do so, the following video was extracted from the tape and converted into a digital format for general viewing.

We start with all the hallmarks of a recorded VHS tape. Blue screen with the occasional crackle of visual white noise, an audible mains hum, the little text in the corner that reads “PLAY” next to the play symbol. Once we move past this however, it becomes clear that we’re back to a lower quality recording similar to the first time we witnessed something like this from the man we’re here to see. It doesn’t take us long to find Dexter Grant, although it does take us a moment to realize where he’s at. Almost oddly fitting for the Motor City, which we can see the skyline of clearly in the distance, Dexter has made his way to the top level of one of those parking garages, sitting on his familiar soapbox as he scans his surroundings, taking in the various cars parked all around him, perhaps wondering what their owners are currently up to. After a moment of enjoying the wind in his face, Dexter reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a tape recorder, and the sound that greets our ears is clearly a live recording from perhaps the most recent Breakdown, given the otherwise poor sound quality and the sound of people reacting.

“Rayne Young wants to cut his head bald, then you want to cut your head bald.”

“If Rayne Young wore a bandana, you wanna wear a bandana.”

“If Rayne Young puts a cross on his back, you wanna put crosses on your back.”

“You ain’t Rayne Young, this is Rayne Young.”

Just as we hear what sounds like the start of pyro going off, Dexter stops the tape, shaking his head almost in disappointment. He takes one look at the tape recorder before he tosses it over his shoulder, letting it go soaring off the top of this parking garage and not caring about how far it’s going to fall before it inevitably smashes into the pavement below. Dexter merely scoffs before he finally speaks.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a walking, talking trend to discuss today, and despite how highly he thinks of himself, the truth of the matter is that he is no different from any of you. That, however, does not make him any less dangerous…no, I do not refer to what he can do in the ring, but rather, how much he’s practically begging for you, for your children, for any impressionable minds out there to imitate him just to believe for a scant few seconds that they, too, can be Rayne Young. I mean, you heard his grand spiel that’s a part of his entrance each and every week like some hypnotic suggestion or pathetic attempt to get his name trending on social media like it’s the latest challenge to take over something like Tiktok, as if we haven’t had enough of those since that godforsaken app came into being.

I suppose I need to ask the question that should truly concern you all: if Rayne Young told you to eat Tide Pods because he claims to have done so without issue, would you proceed to eat Tide Pods just because he did?”

Dexter lets that thought hang in the air before snapping his fingers, and after a moment, we see Wendell walk into the shot and nervously stand right beside Dexter before he states some facts.

“Between 2012 and 2013, there were over 7000 cases of young children eating Tide Pods. Why, you ask? Because it was the social media craze of the time, a challenge that they felt they could not resist. Given that 57% of children have admitted they imitate their media heroes by copying what they do and following what they say, and these so-called ‘heroes’ have more and more often been influencers on sites like Youtube and Tiktok, it makes sense to be concerned that your child may watch Rayne Young compete and proceed to try and become just like him.”

Dexter spits on the ground at the sound of this.

“That is the kind of man we are dealing with, ladies and gentlemen. A so-called ‘legend’ and ‘hero’ who knowingly promotes himself as whatever SCW wants him to be because it gets his name trending and makes him appear to you all at this larger-than-life being with all the experience in the world…the perfect conqueror to end the threat of yours truly and save social media from the big bad Digital Detoxer who wants you to…put your phone down.

I’d ask if you all see the discrepancy here, but I know you’ll ignore it. After all, nothing online has told you that I’m to be trusted even though I’ve been operating with YOUR best interests in mind this entire time.

People like Rayne Young, like Gavin Taylor, like Marie Jones, they’re all a dime a dozen. These social media machines manufacture these junkies for fame and shove them down your throats, not caring if they burn out while chasing that precious online clout because they can always just mass produce more like them when that star burns out. Now, I’ve left Gavin alone because I’ve already shown him that his star is fading, and if he is insistent on ignoring my attempts to help him then he can die his slow and painful death already. Marie learned the hard way on Breakdown that she may call herself a phoenix, but she is struggling to continue rising from her ashes the less relevant she can become while begging and pleading for your support.

As for you, Rayne? Your detoxing begins at Under Attack, right here in Detroit.”

Dexter can’t resist spreading his arms, forcing Wendell to step aside a bit as he shows off the incredible city behind him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? The Motor City, the home of some of America’s biggest automakers, the birthplace of at least 20% of all cars made in this country. But why enjoy the city when you can tweet about it? Why drive cars anymore when you can just look them up on Instagram and marvel at the impressive ride someone has and wish it could be yours? Hell, driving itself may soon become obsolete if these self-driving cars ever get their bugs worked out…if that thought doesn’t terrify you, then congrats, you’ve proven yourself to be enslaved by your screens, which makes you ripe for the picking of someone like Rayne Young to convince you to cheer him on and save you all from the real hero who’s been fighting for you this whole time, trying to save you.

But oh dear, how could I possibly be the real good guy in this situation? After all, I stole Rayne’s phone and could have risked the privacy of his entire family…never mind the fact that this company promotes a freak in a Halloween mask trying to haunt and set fire to one of its champions like we’re all living in some sort of slasher flick. Sounds to me like if a breach of privacy is your biggest concern, Mr. Young, then you set foot in the wrong fucking company. Besides, you need to get your facts straight: Wendell, my devoted disciple, is the one who took your phone, all to give you a chance to prove him wrong. If I laid a finger on your precious little smartphone, it would have immediately found itself a pile of scrap because, let’s be honest, no one actually uses those things to CALL anyone! If that’s all you needed a phone for, there’s older options that could have proven you weren’t someone to end up in my crosshairs.

Wendell acted on his own accord to help me spread my truth…you do not call me a hypocrite by making baseless claims and tying the crimes of someone devoted to the cause back to me.”

Wendell shoots a surprised look at Dexter, but one glare from him is enough to remind the kid that his presence is no longer needed, causing him to awkwardly shuffle back out of the shot.

“Mr. Young, you are aware that there exists more conventional methods to obtain information that have nothing to do with the internet, right? I mean, hang around the SCW locker room for long enough, and most will spill their life story to be put on file as public records somewhere along the line. But no, that doesn’t work with your narrative, does it? The one where there’s no coming back for me, where you’re going to rid SCW of me after you bleed me dry. After all, everyone online will just eat that shit up blindly because it’s the perfect way to promote a man who’s supposedly seen and done it all in 20 something years of being in this sport when compared to someone like me who doesn’t have anywhere close to that level of experience.

Again, ask Marie Jones how much experience ultimately mattered.

Allow me to tell you what’s actually going to happen, Rayne. No matter how much you make me bleed, no matter how much this so-called cobra you refer to yourself as tries to kill me by injecting your digital venom into my veins, I will get back up. I will hit you harder. I will rip your fangs from your mouth and give you a taste of your own medicine so that you can finally wake up and comprehend the poison that has long since infected you. You will be brought to your knees, begging for me to be your antidote, and I will not heed your request. On a night where our match is irrelevant when compared to the social media phenomenon that is three chamber matches, I will remember the wise words of never turning your back on a snake and I will cut off its head, revealing the true Rayne Young for the world to see…a Rayne Young who is nothing more than just another hollow shell bearing a supposedly big name that means nothing against my mission, my cause, the very hill I am willing to die on because someone has to save humanity from its own impending destruction, and we both know it’s not going to be you.

How can I possibly compete against the brutality of these chambers and everyone within fighting to be the trending story of the night, you ask?

Simple.

I disconnect Rayne Young from SCW…to reconnect all of you to reality.”

Dexter makes a very simple motion, that of running his thumb along his throat as though he were cutting it, before turning that thumb down as he glares into the camera with pure disdain. This, however, is when the video is lost to white noise that inevitably returns to the familiar blue screen, and from there, the whole thing cuts.