A bottle tipped over and rolled towards the front door, the noise prompting Dean to sit up in an instant. He looked straight to the entrance to the apartment, thinking somebody might have been there. Fortunately, there wasn’t. He let out a loud sigh, swivelled round and took a seating position on the sofa. His head in his hands, he took a moment to gather his bearings and thoughts.
Dean Ambrose: Ugh. What day is it?
One glance at his phone, which immediately ran out of battery after a second of lighting up, told him it was Saturday, 11pm. He jumped out of his seat and immediately fell over. Balance was not Dean’s friend lately. He had taken a legitimate beating from Solomon Crowe. That’s just how they did it – always had and always will. Ambrose, however, was not looking forward to upwards of half an hour of it on Sunday. He wasn’t in the best of shape – house shows were the only thing keeping him fit lately. Stealing the show come the Rumble, however, was a foregone conclusion. He had read the whole card this time round and managed to memorise it.
The crowd would love the women’s rumble opening – the EBWF women’s division was solid and the fans were into it. Ziggler and Zayn would put on a wrestling clinic, picking up the extra interest of the portion of the crowd blind to women’s wrestling. Natalya, Trish, Summer and Eva pulling double duty will be a challenge for them but they’d handle it. Velvet and AJ knew they’d have a lot to top given the fairer sex’s large presence on the PPV, and if any of the ladies could do it - it would be them. And then, in the prelude to the Royal Rumble match itself – the star attraction – would be the match where the fans interest would need to peak. The card was set to build the excitement gradually and perfectly.
And this is how Dean thought about his matches. The position on the card means a hell of a lot. The Rumble PPV, however, is usually a unique one. The World Championship is only a focus of the show if you can make it a focus. Everyone is there to see the show stolen over and over again during the Royal Rumble match itself.
Dean took another phone out of his pocket – a noticeably older Nokia model. He selected ‘SC’ from his contacts, and punched in a message.
“Bring everything but the switchblade. We’re on TV now.”
He rested the phone on the arm of the sofa, and turned to look at a small camera sat on top of his TV.
Saturday, January 31st. Odd smelling apartment. Not-so-anonymous Location (Vegas Baby!)
The camera came into focus on a two-seater couch. Seated on the camera’s left hand side was an empty box, the opening facing the camera. The imagery on the box suggested it once contained a television. A television much like the one propped on a stool, somewhat in view behind the sofa. It was turned on, displaying a still image of a man fishing and praying – a gun creeping into the shot behind him.
???: YOU BROKE MY HEART, FREDO.
A man walked into the shot and took a seat next to the cardboard box. He settled forward slightly to get comfortable, his hands together on his knees.
Dean Ambrose: Before you all jump the gun – no, this is NOT the Crowe’s Nest.
He took a look around and presented the ‘set’ to the camera.
Dean Ambrose: It may look EXACTLY LIKE the Crowe’s Nest, but I promise you it isn’t. This is…
Dean muttered to himself for a moment – mixing words with his own name.
Dean Ambrose: …The CisDean Chapel. WELCOME… To the CisDean Chapel. And I welcome you into my, uh, chapel… NOT to worship me, but to listen to my sermon!
Ambrose turned away from the camera for a moment and shook his head, apparently amazed by his own creativity.
Dean Ambrose: Today’s sermon is about a man with quite the religious name! Excellent! Solomon… Well, it’s funny calling you that after all these years, I must admit. But of course we’re new people now. Sadly for me, the new and improved Dean Ambrose has found himself coming up short against you these past few weeks. Back in the business for a few months and it apparently I’ve already met my match. What sort of hero am I to you fans? You still cheer for me even though I’ve been leaving arenas in ambulances? Getting knocked unconscious in some nest? You think that’s cool, kids? You think I’m the type of guy your children should be looking up to, Mom and Dad?
Dean smiled at the camera.
Dean Ambrose: You’re damn right. Solomon, every beating you’ve given me has just made me more excited for our match this Sunday. You should know this by now – I love the pain. The blood, the broken bones, the cuts and bruises… Some would call that a bad night at the bar. Me? I call it training. I call it preparation. I mean, look at me… I’m right here. I’m healthy. I’m happy – VERY happy. And most of all I’m excited, like I said. Are those the qualities you usually find in a man you have beaten and bloodied repeatedly? Hell no. You can put me through as many tables as you want before or after any bell. You can leave me in a pool of my own blood in the street – the street is not the wrestling ring. You beat me senseless without a referee calling it? It’s just a bit of fun then, isn’t it? It means NOTHING.
He slapped himself in the face.
Dean Ambrose: ALL you’ve done is thicken my armour. I come back from every hospital visit a whole new man – a stronger man. You strengthen a regular man? Sure, he’s gonna be able to shift a few more boxes at work. You strengthen a man who fights for a living? You’re an idiot.
His expression having gone manic throughout the past few statements, it returned to a happy one.
Dean Ambrose: I know, guys… This isn’t the fun, light-hearted Deano you’re used to. But that’s because playtime really is over. Sure, I like to have fun outside of the ring… Solomon does too. He takes great pleasure in making people’s lives miserable. But it’s business time, now. This is as important as it gets. Millions of people watching… A World Championship on the line… A show to put on… This is what it’s really about, Crowe. You can carve out this mysterious persona. You can scare people. You can make people bleed. You can play the comic book villain – We are professional wrestlers. Nothing matters until that bell rings.
He looked down at his attire – a white vest and blue denim jeans. Dean then looked up and pushed his hair out of his face.
Dean Ambrose: Okay, neither of us look like professional wrestlers. We were dragged up the hard way – through despicable death matches, barbed wire prisons and seemingly every single innocent item on fire. Surrounded by drunks every night who just wanted to see us bleed instead of put on a show. And yeah, fighting is our style – but it’s all gravy in the ring. It’s how we go about business. Being dragged up like that hardened us to the core and THAT-
Dean stood up and took the camera from its stand.
Dean Ambrose: -is why Sunday night is going to be a WAR. A brutal, bloody war presented under the beautiful banner of professional wrestling.
Ambrose went to put the camera back down, but apparently thought twice and turned it back to his face.
Dean Ambrose: And let’s not forget – I may have broken your heart once upon a time, Sami… But I’m even better at breaking bones.
Dean shut the camera off, and the scene faded.
Happy to be off camera again, Dean set out to the great outdoors to find a taxi cab. He lived less than 10 minutes from the crazy epicentre of Las Vegas, and he knew every corner. It was a strange place for him to call home – overly-glorified and full of tourists. Being around people completely different from himself, though, was a solitude in itself. The usual maximum of 2 nights a week he spent home were Dean’s excape from the world of his love and profession – a world which had changed a lot in recent years. Fortunately, this was a business where he would always have a fanbase, and therefore have something to go with the love of the art to keep him doing what he does.
???: Hey, crazy man!
Dean stopped in his tracks.
Dean Ambrose: Aw shit.
He rubbed his eyes and made to carry on walking.
???: You know I don’t want any money! Just some wisdom!
Dean went to speed up into a jog, but immediately tripped over a loose chipping in the pavement.
???: Oh lordy that was meant to be! Heyyy!
Whoever the man shouting after Dean was had caught up to him. Dean got up, brushed himself off and turned to the man.
Dean Ambrose: Not tonight, Winston. Please, never any night. How aren’t you in prison?
Winston: Here, boy. How did ya know my name was Winston?
Dean stared blankly at the old man. His white, frazzled hair stuck out from underneath his woolly hat. His big parka style coat was hardly hiding a t-shirt with his own face on, the letters ‘insto’ could be seen underneath.
Dean Ambrose: It’s not like you have more than one shirt. How come you never want money? I have some. Literally, I will give you my life savings just to leave me alone right now.
Winston went to touch Dean’s shoulder, Dean immediately backed off.
Dean Ambrose: No touching! Remember?
Winston: Ye seem troubled, son. Maybe… Givin’ me some wisdom will make ye feel better?
Dean narrowed his eyes at him.
Dean Ambrose: I don’t know what fucking accent that’s meant to be, but it’s not endearing enough to keep me hanging around. Last time I bumped into you-
Winston: That was God’s decision, boy. A night in the cells did you a whole world of good. Look, ye got yeself a haircut.
Dean ruffled his own hair, confused.
Dean Ambrose: That clearly isn’t true. Right – here’s your wisdom-
Winston: You’ll do fine, boy. Don’t ye worry about it. Whenever I have a little smokey smoke with my old buddies it’s always the best smokey smoke man can smokey smoke.
Dean Ambrose: That’s one fucked up metaphor. Wait – you’ve been watching TV!
Winston: Ye’v been in the papers as well, boy. Big night tomorrow night, huh?
Dean Ambrose: YOU CAN’T READ!
Winston: Ye should stop talkin’ to cameras and talk to your fellow man once and a while. Lay out ye problems. The two of ye go way back. Ye both have the will to do the greatest things. And best of all, ye both deserve to be there. If ye deserve to be where ye are, and where ye are is a place people can only dream of – ye must be doin’ somethin’ right. There aren’t many of your kind left, crazy man.
Dean Ambrose: What… wrestlers?
Winston: Exactly, boy. Once upon a time I happened upon a Mr Pat Patterson around these here parts…
Dean Ambrose: Skip the next 5 points of that story.
Winston: Understood. Better I don’t recount that, wasn’t pleasant for me in the slightest. But he didn’t shut up about that business you fellas are involved in. He told me what makes the stars. He told me what keeps the fans a’comin. It’s people like you, crazy man. People they can relate to. Them larger than life types can only go so far. You’re special, boy. You’ll be the one keepin’ them tickets sellin’ for years to come. That’s unless…
Dean Ambrose: I end up killing myself doing it. Yeah, I know
Winston: Now you’re on me level.
Dean Ambrose: …shit.
Winston: Go do what ye do best, boy. I’ll be rootin’ for ye.
Dean Ambrose: Maybe you’re right… Maybe I do need to talk to people more. Hey, Winston – I wont try and run away from you next time-
Out of nowhere, Winston threw up. The vomit connected with Dean’s shoes. Dean looked at Winston in sheer disbelief. Composing himself as best he could, Winston took a step back from Ambrose.
Winston: Ye wisdom should have been to send me to me alleyway. That’s where the sick goes. Get on form, crazy man.
Winston turned and walked away, leaving Dean utterly flabbergasted. He looked at his shoes, shrugged and continued on his way.
The next day at the arena, Dean was in his locker room. He’d never spent much time in locker rooms, as generally he wrestled in his regular clothes and chose to arrive dead on time and leave after his matches. He’d bought a new pair of shoes – no way was he going Jimmy Snuka on PPV. The pressure of the title match was no longer playing on his mind. The day had arrived, any alcohol had cleared and the weirdness of Las Vegas was behind him. He was back in the world of wrestling now – a world where he had no worries as he knew what he was doing.
For years they had fought back and forth across the country. Brothers, teammates, enemies… It had all been done before. This would be the culmination of years of hard work, blood, sweat, tears and blood. The whole world was going to bear witness to their story… and perhaps the final chapter. The mere thought of all those eyes on him and Solomon in just a couple of hours sent tingles up and down his spine.
Dean knew the inevitable was coming. She’d be coming with a camera crew soon. There was only one way to avoid that…
“Hey Hey, My My” hit the PA as the pre-show crowd erupted into cheers. Not used to being addressed in the arena by Dean Ambrose, the pop grew louder as he emerged from the back onto the ramp. He smirked at the crowd, taking it all in, and then made his way down to the ring. Rolling underneath the bottom rope, he signalled for a microphone from the ring announcer. He paused for a moment.
Dean Ambrose: ...Long time no see, brothers and sisters.
The crowd cheered loudly.
Dean Ambrose: You all haven’t seen me in the best of lights lately. You’ve probably seen more of my own blood than my actual face in recent weeks. And for that… You are welcome. And for that, you also have a man to thank. A man who to me is a brother. A friend. A foe. A despicable enemy. An evil, twisted maniac who I am PROUD to call my opponent tonight – well, you know who I mean.
The crowd booed for the most part, but there was some appreciation from some sections.
Dean Ambrose: Yeah, you’re right to boo him. You’re also right to cheer him. Yeah that’s right you rasslin’ fans – boo and cheer this man. He deserves your every emotion. There’s an entire roster back there, most of whom you will see tonight, who I would love to stand toe to toe with in this ring. Hell, there are guys back there who would push me to my limits and tear the house down with me. Dolph Ziggler – it’d be like a car wreck. Lance Storm – it would probably be weird. Chris Jericho – they’d be talking about it for years, decades, forever! Even the boss, Wes Ikeda… Well, me and you would probably kill each other one-on-one lets face it. But there’s one man back there, well… hopefully… One man who will take me further than any single professional wrestler on this planet can. One man with whom I can kill two birds with one stone. Bird one – become World Champion. Bird two – have my dream match. You ask most people about their dream match, they mention Flair. They mention Austin. They mention Rude. They mention Hennig. Me? My dream match is where I leave every single piece of me in-between these ropes. My absolute FANTASY match is one that leaves you people not chanting ‘holy shit’… It’s one that leaves you in silence. One that leaves the kind of eery stunned silence that can only be matched by some kind of atrocity. Can that happen in a wrestling match?
Dean smiled at the crowd.
Dean Ambrose: It can in a match between myself and Solomon Crowe. And it will – trust me. Solomon, I hope by now you’ve had time to take in everything I said in my little piece to camera. All jokes aside, you know this is more than personal. I suppose you’d love all of these people to know every single detail of our dark pasts… Me? I’ll show them how personal it is through what I do to you.
Dean pointed at the announce table.
Dean Ambrose: I won’t just put you through an announce table, Crowe. I’ll send you straight to hell. I’ll use this entire arena to dismantle you if I have to. But I know this won’t be a one sided affair, oh no. I can’t wait to see what you have in store for me. I’m yearning for it. I can’t wait to push you to your limit. But most of all I can’t wait to see the look in your eyes when you realise that when it comes down to it – you’re second best. Contrary to what a lot of people say – you deserve that belt. You deserve it more than almost anybody who has held it. The problem for you is that I deserve it more. I want it more. And I want to beat you to within an inch of your life even more than I want that title. For you, Solomon… Sam… This is a recipe for the greatest disaster that could ever happen in your sick and twisted realm – the downfall of Solomon Crowe. The emasculation of Solomon Crowe… The end… of Solomon Crowe. NOW BRING ON THE SHOW.
Dean threw the microphone mid-sentence and headed straight for the turnbuckle. He stood on Bret’s rope, a demented yet somehow happy look in his eyes, as the crowd chanted for him.