The gym was empty. It was midnight on this cold winter evening in Australia. A few cars drove past on the road outside, none of them giving a passing glance towards the dimly light confines of the ju-jitsu battleground. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of students had rolled on those mats since the last time Justin had stepped foot on them. Tonight, he was back to a place where he could think. A place where he could relax and focus on what was important to him. It wasn’t Vis Imperium. It wasn’t Mark, Xander or Andrew. Not even Banks was his focus. That would be an advisory for another day. Tonight, he was chasing the fittest man on earth and it was a race he must win!
The mats were fairly clean. Justin used a training dummy to test out a few moves; a knee bar, a new transition into full mount and a modified choke from side control which he had never truly be able to master. No luck tonight, unfortunately. Justin punched the mat, kicking the dummy away in frustration as he leaned back against his forearms.
“Even against a dummy I can’t get that stupid choke,” Justin cursed, slapping the mat with his palm as sweat dripped from his brow. Even on this cold night, training warmed his body and a needling thirst crept up into his throat.
Like the night air, the water was cold as it washed down his throat. Justin took two huge gulps before tossing the water bottle underneath the bench closest to the wall. Somebody can clean that up in the morning, the champ does not, thought Justin.
Throughout the evening Justin continued to train but it shifted onto various other forms. He turned to the punching bags and began counting out sets of 10, followed by a sprint across the room and repeating.
“Fittest man on earth, huh? We shall see about that.”
Whenever his breath became short or his legs began to tire, Justin gritted his teeth and pushed. His heart rate racing faster, faster and faster. The WZCW World Heavyweight Championship resting on the bench to the side, Justin stealing a glance whenever he wanted to quit.
“Come on! Don’t stop, he isn’t stopping. Flex wouldn’t stop. He wants what I’ve got. Fuck him. Fuck him and his workouts,” shouted Justin.
A few hours later, after several variations of training, Justin collapsed in a heap amidst the blue ju-jitsu mats. His shirt soaked with sweat, his hair sticking together, his chest rising and falling quickly as he struggled to suck in air. Justin reached for the water bottle but it was far out of reach, he cursed under his own breath, before staring up at the gym’s ceiling. It was plain but it was all he had to look at, he tried to stand but that was a mistake. His head began to spin and Justin fell right back down onto his knees, forced to crawl towards the bench where he leaned himself upright.
“I hate him... so...” deep breath by Justin, his head still spinning whilst his fingers fumbled for the half empty water bottle thrown beneath the seats. Finally, his right hand found the bottle; Justin unscrewed the lid, tossing it aside, and poured the remaining contents into his mouth. A fair amount missing and leaving him soaked twice over; once by sweat and by drinking water. “... much.”
It took a few minutes but Justin recovered while sitting upright against the bench. It was early morning now, his eyes wanting to close to a rest from having trained all night. He had pushed himself ever since the match was announce; Justin Cooper versus Flex Mussel - WZCW World Championship on the line. Not just any World Championship but Justin’s World Championship, the very same title he fought six years to earn.
That same World Championship now rested in Justin’s lap as he lifted a mobile phone up to his ear. A few seconds later somebody on the other end picked up.
“Yeah, it’s me. I knew you’d be up. Look, I’m at the gym and I need to talk.”
He began to stand up and gather his things, holding the phone between the side of his head and his shoulder by pushing them together. “Okay, see you ten minutes,” Justin replied. He exited the call and threw his phone into the black gym bag he carried with him. Inside it he threw in the gym clothes he had worn; just basic black shorts and a throwaway shirt.
Justin stood in the gym, naked as the day he was born, and saw his reflection in the large mirrors on the opposite side. They were there for training, allowing people to see the mistakes they were making but Justin saw only his sacrifices. His body was scared all over. Small cuts, large cuts, some deep while others were healing over. Some parts of his body were a different colour, the skin had healed but the layers had done so at different rates leaving a purplish look to his skin in places. Mayhem. It had taken its fair share of flesh but overwhelming this wasn’t just from that early part of his career, all his wounds were part of the larger game: WZCW.
He was dressed and outside the gym when the man on the other end of the phone turned the corner into the street. Wearing skin tight leather jeans, a thick gold chain, diamond earrings, a shirt made of the thinnest fabric you ever did see and a bulky leather jacket; Mark Keaton strutted down the street in the dark of night with golden hair which lit up everything around him.
“My man! Enjoying the night life this fine country of yours has to offer I see. About time I do say,” Mark said mockingly, he brushed his hand along the forehead of Justin, letting out a horrid shriek. “On second thoughts, maybe try a nice book? Much less sweaty. You know I don’t mind which way somebody wants to swing but gyms are awfully dirty. A pool of infection... or so I hear.”
Justin searched through his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it up and took a long drag before replying to his mentee.
“I was training, doofus. I couldn’t sit at home any longer knowing that while I was there, drinking, watching television or with somebody, Flex Mussel could very well be training. Most likely he is, right now as I stand here finished for the night, he is still fucking training and for what? He’s not training to have a good match. It’s not to be the best wrestler. Flex is up every morning and into the night, while most of the pretenders on the roster are sleeping or out partying,” Justin shot Mark a disapproving look.
“Flex is pushing himself further than anyone else to become WZCW World Heavyweight Champion. He wants it. I saw it in his eyes last week on Meltdown. He was a few inches away from me. Even as you and Xander held him still, he was defenceless, we had him trapped, but I could still see the determination and the hunger for the title like I had. I knew this would happen, Mark! I told you!”
As his mentor tossed his bag to the ground, Mark looked confused.
“Told me what? I didn’t do anything. Look, Flex might be training but you said it yourself last week. ‘Even the fittest man on earth can’t stop four men’ and you were right. He can’t defeat the power of Vis Imperium. So long as you have us that title will remain in Vis Imperium,” Mark answered, thereafter picking up the fallen bag and beginning to walk with Justin.
“But what if? What if something happens and he wins? It takes three seconds. That’s nothing! Three seconds and it’s six years down the drain. I told you I didn’t want to join Vis Imperium because I knew, the moment I joined, I’d become too confident. I’d rest. I haven’t got to this spot by resting, Mark! I got here by crawling, fighting and pushing harder than the rest.”
Justin took a drag of the cigarette, blowing smoke to the side as he and Mark continued to walk the deserted streets at night. The wind was cool, they stopped for a moment so Justin could check that the World Championship was still safely in his possession (meaning in the bag held by Mark) and then they continued.
“Now, I have someone else pushing harder than the rest. What if he’s pushing harder than I am? I might not be enough, Mark. I cannot lose this title. I just can’t. I must not lose, Mark. Do you understand? I can’t lose,” Justin said, his eyes looking towards Mark with a piercing desperation. A plea for help.
“You won’t. I’ll do everything I can to make sure you keep the title, Justin. That’s what I promised you when you joined. It’s what I’ve done since you won Lethal Lottery. I will always do what’s best for you.” Mark Keaton said, and it was exactly what Justin wanted to hear.
They reached a set of lights, both men looked both ways and then crossed the street. Justin had nearly finished his cigarette as they approached a bar. The champion pushed on the door, it swung open and he beckoned Mark to follow.
“No man works harder than I,” Justin spoke. They took their seats at the bar, two drinks were ordered for both. The bar was almost empty save for a fat man in the corner eating a large bowl of nuts and a healthy stack of finished beers that surrounded him. Justin and Mark each got a beer, the barman left them to talk as he went to the other end to keep a watchful eye on the fat man; he looked to be falling asleep.
“The hardest working man will win this match. He thinks that his hunger for the title is stronger than mine to keep it. He is sorely mistaken, my friend.”
A curious look came over Mark’s face, he took a sip of his beer and leaned forward. “Humour me, Justin. The training, all day and night. I’ve barely seen you at all. Yet, here we are having a beer and you were smoking earlier. Doesn’t that defeat the entire purpose? Like, what gives?”
A sly smile came over the face of Justin. He took another sip of his beer and scratched his chin. A bowl of peanuts sat on the bar and he grabbed a handful, shoving them into his mouth.
“Life is full of contradictions, Mark. I train all night but I enjoy the odd cigarette. One thing does my health good while the other is surely slowly killing me and shortening my career. That’s the game we play. Mikey Stormrage, the man whose back you broke, is as fat and pathetic as that drunken slob over in the corner. Yet, whilst being fat he was considered the best athlete in the entire world when he held the WZCW World Heavyweight Championship. We do things and accept things even when we know they’re wrong. It makes the world interesting.”
Justin took another sip of his beer. A smirk came over his face as his turned towards Mark.
“In all honesty, I just like the taste.”
They both laughed and Mark called for another beer. The two no longer discussed Flex but the conversation turned to more recent events. Justin crunched down on another peanut, the saltiness drying out his lips.
“The Beard this week, Coops.” Mark mentioned, his attention split half and half between a roach that had appeared on the counter.
“Aye, reminds me of the early days of our dynamic duo. We go back a long way that Beard and I. All the way to the days The Empire when that worthless partner of mine, who shall go nameless, and I defeated The Beard during his tag title reign. Ever since then we’ve been linked. I was defeated at the start of his run in the Gold Rush tournament. History says he didn’t win of course but it was the genesis for the King for a Day who ended up becoming World Champion and doing what few have ever done, main event Kingdom Come.
“A pity really. How many times must I knock the man down before he goes insane? We beat him and the ant twice, back to back, at the beginning of your career and drove the latter out of the business. The Beard followed suit and now, I daresay you might have heard, but our old friend Garth Black has up and vanished! The Beard, elegANT, Ty Burna, Mikey Stormrage and now Garth Black. At this rate there will be nobody left in the company if we keep driving them away with defeats! Sure, they come back and try as they might, some even change their names but a coward with a new name is still a coward,” Justin took a long sip of his beer and thought long and hard. Flashes of his battles with The Beard appeared before him, the one defeat he had against the man came during Beard’s most successful run. But this was different. Justin was the man, he was the man in WZCW and that loss meant nothing anymore.
“Do you want us at ringside?” Mark asked, the roach now scurrying down the side of the bar.
With a few peanuts in his hand, Justin shook his head. “No need for that. The Beard shouldn’t be a problem. You focus on taking down Vee. That kid needs reminding just who the hell we are. If John had been as attentive as I am with the likes of Vee, someone who has challenged me, like I did to John and the original Vis Imperium, than he would have never lost control over this faction. That's the difference, Mark. I'm sending you out there against Vee to crush any notion of rebellion that the rest of the locker room might have. When you and the girl of Clark put down Vee, I doubt anybody is going to want to play hero after that.”
“I got it, boss.”
“Good. I will not suffer my name being associated with defeats by the likes of him nor The Beard. This week, Vis Imperium does what it will always do, from now on, and that’s to act in the best interest...”
“Of the team!” Mark shouted, raising his beer in the air.
Justin hesitated, slowly lifting his beer and clinking it with Mark’s.
“Of the team,” Justin replied, his eyes not looking at Mark. They were focused on the gym bag next to him, slightly opened and the glistening sparkle of the World Championship which lay within.
