Title: わたしだけ?
Featuring: Pete Whealdon
Date: 10 July, 2018
Location: New York City


Leaning against a ghost white brick painted wall. New York City. The endless blare of the same horn from different cars is cast just beyond eyesight. Around the next corner.

Around the one after that.

An actual ouroboros of cars consuming not only its own tail but the citizens as well. A stockbroker might as well be a whore, that whore your favorite chef's favorite chef, him a her, her anyone from anywhere staring into the neverending false dawn of street lamps and neon haze.

“Let’s talk about last week. You and Me.”

The ever-present shades, even in the evening. Leather Jacket, Ikaruga spaceship painted on the left sleeve. Shirtless and dripping sweat from the horrific summer humidity.

“I’m sure and fairly fucking certain, that in the back, there are two types of people. Those who say something audacious and then scheme their collective way to the top, and then people like me. People like Bronson Box, and people like Eric Dane.

Duce Jones didn’t matter. Just like his father. Just another soft knee strike hero playing at the edges of his own faltering clown show, keep watching tapes Duce, someday, somehow you’ll make daddy proud and make those kick pads worthwhile... 

Autumn Raven didn’t matter, another hot topic pasted wrestler doing flips and screaming like, 

This time.

This wrestler.

It will matter.”

Whealdon ashes his cigarette as he looks askance, cleaning a bug out of his ear. 

“But the paradigm is shifting. Isn’t it. I will find the challenge I seek. Is it going to happen this week?

I’m doubtful that Duce Jones’ old man is going to be the adversary to get me to pay attention, It’s like looking at the son, adding twenty years of “nobody has ever heard of, or given a shit, about me”, removing a strange reliance on Duce’s “look at me” young puppyisms, and somehow turning out the exact same thing.

I’d say it was like looking in the same boring, whatever mirror. But I think we all knew that.

Why Allen Jones is using a mononym is beyond me. You can’t escape the joke of your progeny anymore than you can hide behind that old grizzled crazy bastard persona. It’s like the whole family has this subtle tic.”

Whealdon waves away that next thought with his cigarette.

“But it’s not the ‘ooooooooo, we’re violent and scary and a little off our rockers’ tic. It’s that at the end of the day, you wake up just like your son, just like Azrael, just like Billy Anderson, and just like Autumn Raven.

You’re scared of the future where no one remembers your name. 

Though in Allen Jones’ case, no one cared about him before retirement, and his coming back just furthers that thought doesn’t it. You left a legacy of a second generation wrestler doomed to fail as miserably as the first. Your son isn’t even worth lighting a third cigarette for. 

He doesn’t deserve to be in the ring with Azrael, let alone his shameless pandering to any big name that will have him.

Allen Jones raised a whore. 

Allen Jones is the career of that whore after he is all used up.

How many pointless shots to the head have you taken Allen? How much of that pointless mimicry of your betters paid off? How many insipid little garbage time minutes did you fill while men better than you, Devon Case, Jake Shaw, Alex Martinez, J.W. Oswald did the heavy lifting? 

It’s easy to see why your son carries on much in the same way, sitting on the bench, begging to be put in when it matters.


Whealdon brushes the dust off his jacket. Cleaning his nose. All rote movements, all expected.

“When it did matter when he got the chance to face down someone far and away out of his league.

What did he get.”

Whealdon exhales.

“Exactly what he deserved.”

Whealdon inhales a breath, lighting a new cigarette.


He rubs the consistent two-day-old stubble he wears, somehow manicured almost perfectly.

“Now, with the opportunity of gold dangling before me, I get some old gaijin and the fox looney toons hour. Like this matters. I see two men desperate to put a belt around those collective waists. Desperate to put that new car scent on the beater on blocks in the driveway. 

But what the CWF, and wrestling world really cares about.

What am I going to do.”

Whealdon again ashes his cigarette, dreams floating away in the wind. 

“I’ve spent a career chasing gold. Chasing accolades. Chasing ‘the dream’. I’m not some washed up never was like Allen Jones. I’m not some. Whatever in the actual name of reality the American Patriot is. 

Who am I just _dying_ to hear from, by the by.

I can’t wait for the rote waving of the American Flag, I can’t wait to hear about how I am not role model, corruption, immigrants, the whole shtick.

I’ll save you some time Patriot.

Your crusade, valiant as it likely is to be, is going to end up in the graveyard of ‘been there, done that’ ideas that rest of the CWF is peddling like this is some new day. The only difference is you won’t be sporting the latest nineteen nineties mall ‘I’m mad at mom and dad’ darkness that seems to be all the rage here, it’ll just be an American Flag.

Appropriate. “

Continuing to look ahead nearly robotically, Whealdon fishes another cigarette and lighter out of the pocket of his leather jacket.

“See in the long run, you can put whatever stamp you want, on whatever belt you have, and you can eek out a little tiny amount of self-worth.

That’s exactly what an old tired man and the congealed human equivalent of Breitbart are looking for.

Not me.

This title. If Bronson wants it. I will deliver it to him. Because he matters, if Eric Dane asks me to win this thing, I will. Because he matters.

The wildcard title? 

Meaningless unless one of _us_ wins it. This match only moves me one step closer or one step further away from finding that challenge I seek. 


This is just another frail little thing to raze.”

Episode 5: Keep facing sideways, you’re too hideous to look at face on

In the neverending accusatory light of day, whether it be solar, neon, or halogen. Pete Whealdon loathes who he is. 


Los Angeles.



Walla Walla.

The Youth of the Beast is haunting him. It is him. He runs from himself, alone. To arrive alone, shaking like boughs, sleet of addiction hanging on him as winter chills his bones.

“Dare ga koko ni iru no?”

Silence. A hand rubs at the temples. A mustache has become a mossy beard. Previously straightened hair tentacles around eyes the color of floss blood spit. 

“Watashi Dake?”

To dry fish, one must find an area that is of low humidity, slightly windy and primarily chilly, especially during the night. 

This helps the preservation process immensely. 

If the fish has been polluted, it is not suggested that one dries the fish, as the concentration of potential poisons should be obvious to even the most inexperienced lay observer. 

In the process of preparing fish for sushi, curing should be done under similar conditions wrapped in plastic, for two-three days. This gives the protein in the fish an opportunity to relax the collagens and proteins for a supple mouthfeel. In the singular case of octopus, it is important to boil it twice and to kill it the day it is to be served.

The first boil breaks down the extremely fibrous tentacles. The second produces a texture that is pleasing to the mouth.

Alternatively, it can be worked with soy and sugar until pliable. This allows a second texture, shared in concert with the first, that many people find extremely pleasurable.

The curing of Salmon can be done in several ways…

... A hand reaches towards the light, wordless mumbles, sweat of brackish water pours onto the tatami. 

I wanted to throw up. It was so much mayonnaise. I just wanted to throw up…

...Light softens.

They say the hardest part of giving up something you love, you truly love, is the first day. Days of Daze pass, the same day.

The same first day.

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