“I’m on the path! To glory!”
The words came out beautifully, sung like a raspy angel – like Tom Waits meets Nina Simone. One young fan with a fake beard chanted ‘yes’, raising his own arms in the air in response. The arm was stretched out to high-five the youngster, and it stung for some reason. Then came some victorious spinning – he was indeed on the path to glory. And at that thought, the pavement ahead of him turned to gold, and everyone but the beautiful women disappeared, who had taken a turn for the angelic. The jolly walk turned into a skip, and the scene was truly like something out of a wonderful film. But this wasn’t a film – this was real life. And life – was – beautiful.
How did that film end? The one with that horrendous wedding song and the mistreat infants in the corner… Some loser he knew had done it on TV as well.
The lift. The victorious lift. The pièce de résistance of any dance, when you reach for the heavens because you’ve earned the ascent. And there, right ahead of him, was his dance partner. Long legs, sleek brown hair blowing in the golden wind… But she hadn’t done anything to deserve the lift. As perfect as she was, this was his moment – SHE would be doing the lifting. It could be seen in her eyes. She knew – she nodded. The grand finale was here.
Confidence flowed and he pranced towards her outstretched arms – it was time. He lept.
And there was a loud roar of pain and the smashing of glass combined with the crashing of wood. They had both went through the table – he had effectively given her a running cross body. Except this didn’t feel like a woman, the impact had been much too great to be the woman he had been running towards.
Dean rolled over, obviously used to taking such bumps. He sat up and looked towards the wreckage. A rather tall and bulky man was struggling to his feet, aided by two women. Dean could tell by his attire that he was a waiter, and upon further inspection, that they were situated in the front-outside area of a bar/restaurant. Another man dressed in a slightly different uniform stormed towards Dean.
Manager: What in the blue hell is wrong with you?! I’m calling the police! Give me your identification!
Dean Ambrose: Hey come on! That tickles!
The manager had gone straight for Dean’s pocket, pulling out his wallet within a moments fumble while Dean giggled. An ID was pulled out from the wallet.
Manager: Savio Vega, huh? You sure don’t look like a Savio.
Dean was too far gone to even muster any Spanish.
Dean Ambrose: Oh come on, no need to be racist! Do you want to go to a table as well?
Dean hiccupped.
Dean Ambrose: No, no. Do you want to go through a racist as well?
He struggled to his feet, but was pushed back down by the manager.
Manager: You’ll stay here until the police arrive!
Ambrose struggled back to a seated position. His next thought was wondering what on earth he had drunk. He was sure that his dream land was real.
Dean Ambrose: You must have served me! You’re the criminal! Look what you caused! You’ve fed me actual drugs haven’t you!
By this time, the fallen waiter had gotten to his feet. Even by Dean’s hazy vision, he looked fine.
Dean Ambrose: What’s the matter? Don’t know how to take a table bump? Come on man, that’s an indy basic. You think you can get by with your COLLEGE BACKGROUND?
Dean grabbed a piece of the broken wood and threw it in the air in anger. It came straight back down and hit him in the knee.
Dean Ambrose: At least you sold-
The man ran towards Dean, but was stopped in his tracks by the manager.
Manager: Don’t worry Justin, I’m calling the police… Dammit. My phone wont connect!
Dean Ambrose: Here, use mine.
Dean handed him the piece of wood. The manager stared blankly at him. Ambrose looked to the waiter, who was stomping around furiously.
Dean Ambrose: Your name is Justin?
The waiter didn’t respond, he simply shot Dean a look of the upmost hatred.
Dean Ambrose: This… This… is… a fucking COOL METAPHOR!
He jumped to his feet before the manager could stop him again, and just about kept his balance.
Dean Ambrose: Listen, what is the real damage here?
Dean motioned asif to survey the scene.
Dean Ambrose: There’s one broken table, right?
He paused for a moment, feeling really confused – it showed on his face.
Manager: Spit it out, you bum.
Dean Ambrose: … There’s one broken table, right? RIGHT?
Waiter: Get on with it!
Dean Ambrose: … There’s one broken table, right? OKAY and one broken waiter… No?
He stared at the waiter intently.
Waiter: Well, I’m not hurt-
The manager shushed him straight away. He whispered something in his ear – one of the words sounded mysteriously like ‘courtroom’.
Dean Ambrose: WOAH! If you’d let me finish. What is the actual DAMAGE? We don’t need to get all… nerdy.
The manager pondered for a moment.
Manager: Give us one thousand and we’ll call it a day, okay?
Dean clapped his hands together in happiness.
Dean Ambrose: You’ve got my wallet, buddy! Take the credit card out, and take two g’s if you want!
The manager’s eyes lit up as the waiter sighed.
Manager: Oh shut up Justin you’ll get a cut.
He rummaged around in Dean’s wallet, pulling out the sole credit card. He inspected it.
Manager: Well it’s in date… But your real name is Phil Brooks, huh?
Dean hit himself in the head in false embarrassment.
Dean Ambrose: Oh, you got me! I’m literally the breast in the world.
Dean took a seat at a table which was in one piece. He stared around at the entire restaurant and bar area – all eyes naturally focused on the situation.
Dean Ambrose: NOW none of you recognise me. I suppose for once that’s a good thing.
And he sat back in the chair, rocked it back and forth on it’s hind legs and started singing.
Dean Ambrose: I’m on the path… to glory…
It sounded truly terrible. He passed out.
-
The next thing he knew, he was in the back of a cab. He sat up, the movement of which brought a faint smell of vomit in the air. He locked eyes with the taxi driver in his mirror.
Dean Ambrose: WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME?
The driver shook his head and focused on the road.
Cabbie: Your home address is printed on the inside of your shirt. There’s an instruction in your wallet saying to check it.
Dean clenched his fist in victory.
Dean Ambrose: I knew that was a good idea.
The cab came to a halt.
Cabbie: And here we are. It’s a real shame we couldn’t talk more. Now get the fuck out before I piss on you to make you smell better.
Dean fumbled his way out of the vehicle. He leaned in to talk to the driver.
Dean Ambrose: You don’t want paying?
The driver laughed.
Cabbie: The manager of the restaurant took care of that. Thanks, Phil!
And he drove away, laughing manically.
Dean Ambrose: I’d feel bad but I literally cannot feel anything right now.
He turned to his apartment block and entered, laughing to himself.
Dean Ambrose: He was called Justin. I LOVE METAPHORS.
Upon entry to his apartment he made an instant dive into his couch. Once comfortable, he let out a great sigh of relief.
Dean Ambrose: It’s good to be home.
This was, however, not only the couch of delightful comfort – it was also the couch of sobering deep thought. It had been a strange night – his favourite kind of night… Something of an adventure. But in less than 24 hours he would be performing for millions of fans worldwide. The nerves had overtaken him and he had hit the city, aiming to numb his brain from any such weakness. Now with the wonderful escape coming to a close, he would have to force himself to focus.
Wrestling a guy like Justin Gabriel was never something you could just phone in. The guy exuded confidence, speed and technique. His style would expose any inkling of sluggishness for the entire world to see. If Gabriel walked into his apartment right now with a cameraman and Dan Severn and they went one-on-one like Owen and Shamrock in the dungeon – Dean would surely be out of a job. His work rate would match that of an injured sloth. He’d be wrestling Sandman in a school gymnasium within the month. He had never had much contact with Wes Ikeda, but he knew he didn’t put up with any such bullshit.
He had to hype himself up, enter confidence mode and compose himself like a professional.
And with that thought, Dean fell into the beautiful arms of sleep.
-20 Hours Later-
After waking up an hour or so later, calling a cab, the cab company refusing to take him from Nevada to Missouri, realising he had a flight booked and running to the airport instead of getting a cab and finally making it to Kansas City – Dean smiled at the sight of the Sprint Center. Last night felt like a century ago. He made his way to the designated entrance and was instantly greeted by Michael Cole.
Dean Ambrose: NOPE!
He pushed past Cole.
Michael Cole: Do you realise what time it is? You were meant to be here hours ago! You’ve missed a serious amount of arrangements!
Dean stopped and turned to him.
Dean Ambrose: And since when is it your job to chastise guys for their screw-ups? Isn’t that Hilary McClinton’s job?
Cole looked furious.
Michael Cole: No – it is not. But I was meant to interview you 2 hours ago and I missed two other interviews trying to find you!
Dean smiled. He pulled a pair of sunglasses out of the inside pocked of his jacket, put them on and turned to strut away.
Dean Ambrose: Looks like I’m in demand tonight!
He strutted away, leaving Michael Cole in a fit of rage.
Inside the arena, Dean was hot on the prowl looking for an actual competent interviewer. Eventually, he came face to face with Renee Young.
Dean Ambrose: An absolute NOPE!
He rushed past a furious looking Renee, who appeared to be holding a plastic bag filled with CDs. After making sure the coast was blonde-clear, he stopped and perched himself on a table.
Dean Ambrose: I really need to start making friends around here…
“HEY, ASSHOLE!”
Ambrose turned to see a rather murderous looking CM Punk steamrollering towards him.
Dean Ambrose: I DO HAVE A FRIEND!
CM Punk: You did!
It all came to Dean in an instant and he realised what was going on, which led to him instantly running away. The next thing he knew, he was at the famous Gorilla Position. He turned to the nearest production nerd.
Dean Ambrose: The cameras are all set up out there, right?
The team member nodded.
Dean Ambrose: Get them rolling!
-
“Hey Hey, My My” by Neil Young hit the PA as the handful of fans who had taken their seats early jumped up in shock. Dean Ambrose made his way out from behind the curtain, looking back with every few steps as if to make sure he was alone. He rolled into the ring and took in the few hundred fans asif they were in their multitudes. He signalled for a microphone, but nobody was at ringside except a few cameramen and a couple of road agents.
Dean Ambrose: WILL ONE OF YOU DEAN MA-FUCKING-LENKOS GIVE ME A MICROPHONE?
A cameraman put his camera down in order to hand Dean a microphone. Dean tapped it to make sure it was on.
Dean Ambrose: Testing-
It was extremely loud.
Dean Ambrose: GET THE LEVELS SORTED, NERDS! Right, thankyou. Now I know you’re all in a state of shock and awe to see me out so early, but I was sat backstage having the time of my life and I figured that I just couldn’t wait to see you all!
The small crowd cheered. Dean embraced it like a Wrestlemania main event victory.
Dean Ambrose: Now I’m here to share a vision with you all. A beautiful vision I had in the early hours of this morning of a wonderful golden path. It was the Path to Glory, my friends. And at the end of it – the beautiful championship that I’m going to gracefully acquire from Mr Justin Gabriel tonight.
He turned to the announce tables, a sudden air of frenzy about him.
Dean Ambrose: BY DEMOLISHING THOSE TABLES WITH HIS LIFELESS BODY.
He turned back to the cameras.
Dean Ambrose: Now, Mr Ikeda – I had no idea what a Sadistic Madness match was until a few hours ago. But when I heard the name, I thought you had created a match just for yours truly. But when I found out that wasn’t the case, and you simply wanted me to make a South African stuntman bleed to within an inch of death – I think I fell in love with you.
He turned to the crowd.
Dean Ambrose: EVERYBODY! He wants me to paint this arena red with Justin Gabriel’s blood! And paint it I shall. I’ll turn this into the Sistine Chapel of massacres for every single one of you to enjoy. You’ll be selling bloodstained clothes on eBay tomorrow and making hundreds of dollars – which I would like you to forward to a Mr CM Punk, please. You see, to reach the end of this golden Path to Glory, boys and girls – I have to turn it crimson. That’s right, to pin Justin I have to first show the referee that his last line of defence is down and his body is broken to the point of bleeding. Oh, sadism doesn’t get much more beautiful than this.
He leaned forward on the ropes, looking as relaxed as if he were holidaying in the Bahamas.
Dean Ambrose: It’s going to be beautiful, Justin. We’re going to create art in this ring tonight. It’s just a shame that the paint has to come from you. Because of course – I have no history with you. There’s no – pardon the expression – bad blood between us. But you are what is standing between me and proving to the world that I am not just some BUM.
The crowd didn’t know what to make of this. His calm demeanour had diminished for a brief moment.
Dean Ambrose: The difference between me and you, Justin, is that I was raised in the hell of this business. I’ve had my face carved open with chainsaws. I’ve had my skin ripped apart by barbed wire. I’ve woke up with bald spots from where my luscious hair has been ripped out. ‘Death Matches’, they called them. Every independent wrestler’s worst nightmare, but something a lot of guys have got to do to make it, sadly for them. Me? I didn’t need them. I knew I had the ability to make it in this business without such evil and insane practices. But you see, Gabriel… I did them anyway. I did it all through choice – through LOVE. I wouldn’t be the man I was today without taking that wonderful abuse, that beautiful pain… No drink, no drug, no insane sex in the world can compare to going through sheer horror and anarchy to have your bloody hand raised after the bell. It’s a sick joy… The best way to earn it. And the brass here? They know that.
He smiled, both evilly and coolly at the same time. He then changed his expression to something a little more manic.
Dean Ambrose: They’ve set me on the fast track to the top and I’m riding the train right through the Village of Madness and straight into Glory Bay. First I ruin the Angel Gabriel’s Christmas and then come the Royal Rumble I show that Dean Ambrose is the MAN.
Each of his statements seemed to be ending in spurts of anger.
Dean Ambrose: I’ve been described as many things in my time… Unstable, crazy, a lunatic, even an idiot. Tonight, I prove all of these to you. I prove to the entire world that I am as sadistic as they come, and that you simply cannot match the madness of Dean Ambrose. And once I’ve went through Gabriel.
Dean pointed into the camera.
Dean Ambrose: I think I’ll be paying a little visit to the Crowe’s nest. And the Sadistic Madness won’t be stopping here tonight.
He gave a little wave and a wink into the camera, threw the microphone down and quickly exited the ring, storming backstage to cheers from the crowd – which had doubled in size since he came out. “Hey Hey, My My” blared from the speakers as Dean swiftly exited backstage.