#I'mWithStevie versus The BombTrax

Press eased himself down onto the bench, tossing the PAW Championship off to the side so that he could clutch at his aching shoulders. Youth stood off to the side, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He had a knot forming on his forehead from Lola’s Cherry Cola, but nothing as serious as the injuries that canvased Press at this moment. The door burst open, followed by a couple of camera flashes, and a medic appeared, shutting the sights and sounds out as quickly as they had come.

The medic dropped his first aide bag in the floor in front of Press, and the big man allowed his hands to drop to his sides so that the medic could begin his examination. He pushed against the forehead lacerations from Stevie’s bare knuckle punches early on in the contest, and Press winced at the discomfort as blood oozed from the wound. The medic then stepped around behind Press, and parted his hair in order to see the damage caused by the title belt, which still bore the remnants from its effect.

The medic shook his head, before coming back to stand in front of Press. “The wounds on the front are bad, but not as extensive as the ones on the back of your head. Those are going to require staples. I can administer those now, or you can go to the hospital. I warn you now, I can provide simple anesthetic to numb the area, but I can’t provide any scripts for the pain. A hospital might be your best bet.”

Press was already shaking his head before the medic could continue, and held up his hand to end any further suggestion. “No. No hospitals. Just get me patched up so we can get out of here.”

The medic’s face went grim, but he nodded, kneeling down in his bag to grab the necessary tools for his trade. Youth watched as he cleaned the area with cotton swabs and alcohol, and didn’t envy his friends predicament, even though it appeared that he would soon be in a place to receive the same. WICKED #9 had already been announced to the crowd as they had made their way into the backstage area.

Stevie Harris and Lola versus The BombTrax.

From a business perspective, it was a good match for PAW, and ensured that the ongoing title saga that was unfolding show to show could continue. Personally, however, Stevie Harris was a madman. Anyone fool enough to get into bed with him had to be even crazier. Enter Lola. They were dangerous enough when left to their own devices, but together, they were an unpredictable calamity just waiting to happen. The hangings, the cult like rhetoric, the army of followers. There was no end to how bad this could really end up, all in the name of ‘entertainment’. There was nothing Pure or Amusing about it. It was war.

When the medic moved back around Press to start the stapling, Youth looked off at the side, not wanting to see. It was bad enough he could hear the clip of the stapler as it inject the prongs into his friend’s skull. Neither of the men were strangers to injuries, considering the profession they had chosen for themselves, and the mission that had chosen them outside of the ring.

He smirked at the thought of the mission. Neither of them had been on a hunt since arriving in Louisiana, and he saw no reason to push for one as long as Press was focused on his career. The only reason it bothered him at all, was because of their history in New Orleans, which always seemed to come back to haunt them at some point or another. Monsters were like weeds, and if the garden was left unattended for any length of time, the monsters would plumb take over. That wasn’t a pleasant prospect, considering some of these beings had the ability to affect you even beyond the grave.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the medic packing up his bag. “That’s all I’m able to do here, Mr. Jones.  I still urge you to reconsider visiting the hospital. It doesn’t appear that there’s a concussion, but an MRI would help clear a lot of this up.”

“No, I’ll be fine.” Press said in a tired voice, sparing a glance at Youth for help.

Youth stepped forward and clapped the medic on the shoulder, causing him to jump. He offered a genuine smile, while helping direct the man towards the door. “There’s no need to worry, pal. We’re The BombTrax, so you can only imagine what the other guy looks like.”

Youth offered a wink, before pulling the door open, and allowing him to pass while keeping the vultures at bay. The medic offered one last concerned look at Press, before shrugging, and making his way back through the crowd. Just as questions started flying at the door, Youth promptly slammed it, shutting them out.

He turned to face his partner, who began the process of taking off his braces and gear. “You really alright?” He asked, a hint of worry lacing his voice.

Press tossed the gloves to the side, and looked up at Youth through his long hair, which cascaded down into his face. “I’m fine, kid. Just frustrated.”

Youth nodded, moving over to grab the duffle bag in the corner so he could help gather up their things. “Yeah, I get that. Thought this would be the final nail in the coffin on old Stevie, but it looks like we’ll be seeing him and Lola real soon.”

“Yeah,” Press grunted, his lip curling up a bit at the thought of those two. “I guess it makes sense, but I wonder if Munin’s starting to get the picture. This asshole isn’t going to quit, and the minute the focus falls off of him, and onto someone else, he’s going to increase his antics to stay on the top bid. Now, you tell me, kid, in your experience, when a person’s already hanged a man on TV, what does upping the ante mean for a guy like that?”

Youth leaned back from the duffle bag, and stared at Press. “I never really thought about it. Things are about to get really bad, aren’t they?”

Press met Youth’s gaze, and there was a sparkle in his eye. “Kid, things are already really bad. I’m saying, they’re about to get worse.”



The BombTrax had arrived at the amusement park around noon, both going off in their separate direction. Press had made his way towards The Crossroads to check in with Samedi, while Youth had delved into the park, no doubt in search of a glimpse of Abigail. As far as Press knew, they hadn’t seen each other in over a month and a half, mostly because Youth had been avoiding the park except for shows during his time off from the concussion. They had talked many times since their initial confrontation at the St. Patrick’s Day Super Show, and Youth was starting to act like his usual self, which was a nice reprieve from the brooding act.

Press pushed open the double doors leading into The Crossroads, and stepped through the archway and into the main room. There were a few people milling about, most having lunch, or an early drink, but the place was relatively quiet. He spotted Samedi behind the bar, and sauntered on over, taking a seat on one of the high backed stools.

Samedi turned to spy his large friend, and a look of consternation passed over his face, before being replaced with a forced smile. “Welcome, PAW Champion. I thought that perhaps since winning your title you had grown too good for the likes of The Crossroads, considering I haven’t seen you since before.”

Press chuckled at the voodoo priest, but made mental note of the strain in his voice. “Nothing like that, Sam. Just been busy. Munin’s had us doing meet and greets all over the place, and got us a few promotional deals around New Orleans. Haven’t had a lot of time for much else. Surely Bobby’s told you we still get by The Emporium for a taste of Mama’s Gumbo.”

A genuine smile creeped out of Samedi’s features, and he nodded in confirmation. “Yes, I would imagine that being champion comes with many new duties. Allow me to offer you my official congratulations.” He said the last while producing a glass and an ornate bottle from underneath the counter. He sat the glass and the bottle in front of Press, and then turned the container so that the big man could read the label. ‘Glenmorangie Pride 1981’.

Press eyes shot open in surprise, and he began shaking his head. “Sam, that’s a forty-two hundred dollar bottle of whiskey! It’s too much for the likes of me.”

Sam smirked, producing another glass from beneath the counter, and setting it in front of himself. “In that case, I had better try some of this as well.” He uncorked the top of the ornate container, and poured two even portions in the two glasses. He grinned, before replacing the cork with one hand, while raising the glass in salute.

Press carefully took his glass, and lifted it as well. After a second of silence, the two men clanged their glasses, and then drained the expensive whiskey in one shot. It was incredibly smooth, with an earthen taste to it, and it burned down to the gullet like a good whiskey should. It was almost worth becoming champion just in order to earn the chance to taste something so divine.

Sam licked his lips in satisfaction, uncorking the bottle, and pouring two more portions. This time, however, they decided they would nurse the fine vintage.

“So….how does it feel?” Sam asked, leaning against the alcohol cabinet behind him, giving the whiskey time to breathe.

Press regarded the proprietor with a tired expression, but he filtered appreciation into his voice. “It’s good, but it comes with its hang ups. All eyes are on me right now, so I have to deal with a lot of things I’m unaccustomed to. Like appearances, autographs, and the like. The build up to the finals of the tournament was tremendous, but even after the dust settled, I haven’t really had time to slow down and process it. To enjoy it.”

Press let the explanation trail off for fear that it could be construed as complaining, but Sam just nodded in understanding. “And how is your partner faring these days, with you being the big man on campus, no pun intended.”

Samedi grinned, but Press noticed at the mention of Youth an edge had creeped into the priest’s voice. “He’s better. Got over it, I guess. Now that he’s cleared to wrestle again, he seems in his usual spirits.”

“Oh?” Samedi questioned, non-chalantly taking a sip of the whiskey. “And what of the girl he was seeing? The one you were telling me about.”

Press eyed the Cajun, pretty sure that there was something off about his line of questioning, despite this being the very type of thing he would expect to be asked. He shuffled in his seat uncomfortably before answering. “I don’t think they’re seeing each other anymore. She sort of called it off from what I gathered. That, along with everything else, sort of left him out of it for a while. Seriously, Sam, there’s no need to worry about the kid. He’ll be fine.”

At the mention that Youth was no longer seeing the girl, Sam’s off putting vibe seemed to melt, and Press could’ve sworn that he even saw a glimmer of relief in the priest’s eyes. “What’s going on, Sam? I can tell you’ve got something hidden behind those dark eyes.”

Samedi grinned his skeletal grin, and in an assuring tone, commented, “Nothing at all, Redeemer. You must be seeing things.”

Press eyed the Cajun a minute longer, and then shrugged off the feeling, figuring that the priest had a good reason not to tell him if he didn’t want to. “Listen, Sam, I’ve got to cut a promo for WICKED#9, but I’m sure by then Youth and I will have worked up an appetite. We’ll stop by for a bite, and talk more then. Cool?”

“Very cool, my friend.” Samedi answered, taking the expensive bottle of whiskey and putting it back under the counter. “The three of us can finish this bottle over a pot of gumbo.”

Press smiled appreciatively, and nodded his agreement. With that settled, he pushed away from the bar, and made his way towards the doors that exited into the park.

Samedi watched as the big man went, and he outwardly sighed in respite after he disappeared past the double doors. He had talked to Minerva about Youth’s new girlfriend, and confirmed that Abigail, was in fact, dead. The boy had been carrying on a relationship with an apparition that had ties to the Park back when it was a plantation. She was also the same spirit that had helped save his life, so many moons ago. (See VooDoo Woman (Part 2) for more details.)

It only stood to reason with their spiritual connection and history that they would be drawn together, but what that could mean for the fabric of time and space was undeterminable. These types of things weren’t meant to happen, and the only entity in the universe that could contrive of it was Fate. Destiny. Karma. When she was involved there was little that could be done, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t want to be prepared. The outcome of such a meeting could cause irreparable ramifications, not to mention open the door to unforeseen circumstances. The priest shuddered at the thought, before taking his rag, and absent mindedly wiping down the bar.



Youth stood at the end of the lane that would lead him to The Black Cage, staring at the building, and the occupants that were milling about outside in construction gear. Every once in a while he caught a glimpse of Dick Reynolds moving about, shouting orders at some of the crew. Beneath their yellow caution vests, and hard hats, almost every single one of them wore a I’mWithStevie t-shirt, which made the entire scene suspect, to say the least.

He had been watching them since entering the park, stopping only for a brief moment to buy a hot dog and soda off of one of the food carts that filed down the lane. Normally he wouldn’t have cared much about what Stevie Harris was up to, but with the sudden appearance of Dick Reynolds and Alex Black, along with some strange tie between manager and The Movement, he figured now was as good a time as any to start. Not to mention their upcoming tag match, and all of the problems that Harris had been causing his tag team partner, the PAW Heavyweight Champion.

A tap on his shoulder startled him from his stake out of the joint, and he turned swiftly in the direction of the touch, ready for a fight. Instead of a Harris Zealot waiting to pounce, he came face to face with Abigail.

She took a step back, her cheeks going flush beneath her coffee colored skin. Her eyes searched the man in front of her. The same man that she had shared relations with on the night of Fat Tuesday back in February. She looked as surprised as he was, despite the fact that it was she who had approached him, and she nervously used her hands to smooth out her white linen blouse, drawing attention to the heaving bosom that was barely held back by the garment.

After the initial shock of seeing her passed, Youth looked down to notice his posture and closed fists, and willed himself to relax before looking back up at her with a faint smile. “You sure do know how to give a man a heart attack.”

She smirked, calming because he had, and placed her hands on her shapely hips. “And don’t you forget it, Mister.”

Her voice was pleasant and teasing, and Youth smiled wider at the change of attitude. Especially since the last time they had spoken, Abigail had told him she never wanted to see him again. He ran his fingers through his medium length hair, before asking, “How have you been?”

She noted the serious tone that had crept into his voice, and realized that the time for easy going pleasantries was over. Her eyes lowered a bit, before she spoke in a faltering voice. “Jason, I…..I want to tell you that I’m sorry. Not seeing you in so long made me realize what a fool I was to question you, especially after what we shared…….I just wanted you to know that.”

Youth was close to her in an instant, lifting her chin in the grasp of his hand. Their eyes met, and like kismet, their lips followed suit. After a few moments lost in one another, Youth finally pulled away, cupping the young woman’s face in his hands.

“I’ve missed you so much, Abigail. I wanted to come and find you, but I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“I was a fool, Jason!” She exclaimed. “This world is so unfamiliar to me. I don’t even know how to act.”

Youth laughed, kissing her again, and then drawing back. “You’re such an odd duck. What do you mean ‘this world’?”

Abigail’s expression melted into one that was overly severe, and she gripped him by the shoulders, her tone serious. “I’ll show you, but not now. I have to get back, I can’t stay. They are already calling to me. In two weeks, meet me at the old plantation house, and I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

She broke away from his embrace to go, but his hand flashed out and caught her wrist. She turned back to see a mask of confusion on his face. “What are you talking about, Abigail? Who’s calling to you.”

She looked down at her entrapped wrist, and then back up to him with pleading eyes. “Please, Jason. Two weeks! I swear!”

Their eyes met, and he searched hers for an answer, but found none. She was terrified of this unseen force, that much was obvious, but he couldn’t hold onto her forever. Not if she wasn’t going to tell him what was going on.

She turned her head as if she heard something else, and he searched for it as well, but saw nothing. When she turned back to him, a tear fell down her cheek, and in a cracking voice, she begged, “Jason….please.”

He let loose of her wrist, and she turned and ran with all haste down the lane, before disappearing around a corner out of sight. He continued to watch in utter confusion, staring at the spot where she cut the corner, unsure what to do next. He shook his head in frustration and helplessness, and he could feel a rage stirring inside him, but knew that there wasn’t anything he could do about it right now. But in two weeks, whether she was there at the plantation house or not, he was going to get his answers. With that thought in mind, he looked at his watch, and seeing the time, took off towards the Pure Arena to meet his partner.



By the time Youth had made it to the studio he had calmed down a bit, pushing his personal life down in favor of the persona that was on the verge of making The BombTrax famous. Press was waiting for him in the studio room, leaning against the PAW logo, with the championship sitting on the table in plain view of the camera.

Youth strolled in, and took a seat right on the desk, and looked over his shoulder at the big man. “We ready to roll?”

Press smirked. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Youth grinned, twirled his finger in the air, and then looked back at the camera. Frank, the usual cameraman, worked his magic and produced the blinking red light.

“Stevie, Stevie, Stevie…” Press began, shaking his head, and stepping forward into the limelight. “Here we are again. The way this little death dance of ours has been going lately, before we’re through, neither one of us are going to be worrying about championships, but funeral costs. Which, I guess, is exactly how it has to be. You see, Stevie, my frustration with you doesn’t come from the fact that you want to be champion. Hell, everyone wants that, and if you’re here in PAW and don’t, then you really need to figure out your fucking priorities.”

Press readjusted, growing a little more agitated.

“No, it’s not that. Hell, it’s not because you don’t have the talent to be in the ring with me. You’ve proven that. Nobody handed your spot, and you never asked them to. You’ve done your fair share of shit in the ring, and you earned your right to walk tall in this promotion. Unlike some of these younger punks running their mouth about age, like that gives them some sort of advantage over veterans like us. What they fail to realize is the age old adage that whatever limited experience they’ve had in the business that makes them think they are unique, you and I have been there, done that. More than once, I’ll wager. So for the Calvin Harris’, CJ O’Donnell’s, and the Jack Nomad’s, keep flapping those gums boys, cause I’ll get to you when your time finally arrives.”

Press grins, but it is mirthless, and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Stevie, it’s not your penchant for violence that gets to me either. As you’ve found out first hand, I’ve been known to get a little rough, from time to time. So cracking somebody upside the skull, making them bleed all over the place like a stuck pig, hearing the crackle of bone on bone. Well, that doesn’t bother me that much. It’s the price you pay for being in this profession, where, let’s face it, violence isn’t an option, it’s the fucking rule.”

Press’ lip curls, and he stares daggers into the camera with dead orbs.

“No, Stevie, what gets my goat, is your delusional outlook over the past few weeks. In Part One of our little saga, you threw everything you had at me, and I gave just as good as I got. I walked through your noose, your belt, your brass knuckles, hell, even an army of your followers, and just when it looked like there was nothing left in your tank, you tried to waffle me with my own fucking weapon, a steel chair. But that backfired on you, didn’t it Stevie. I guess you couldn’t see my size 15 boot coming for your face on account of all the blood and sweat you’d lost. Then 3 seconds later, they were handing me the PAW Heavyweight championship, while you were being carted out of the ring by your whore.”

Press grinned, reliving the moment.

“From that moment forward you bitched, whined, complained, and cried about how you had been robbed. Claiming that I’m a false god, some pretender to the throne that you had already laid claim to. What’s worse, you hid behind your bevy of trailer trash followers, sending them out to bitch and whine for you. And you know what, Stevie, it worked. You got your rematch. Part 2 saw you come to the ring on crutches, feign an injury only to sucker punch me while my back is turned. Hell, that’s not even what gets me. I’ve cracked a few unsuspecting skulls in my day. Some of them right here at PAW.”

His arms uncrossed, and he slammed down on the desk, almost growling his next line.

“BUT NONE OF THAT MATTERS! You got your shot, and you fucking blew it. You had your Spam Flavored Pop Tart bring her darling ass down to the ring to try and help you get one over, and it all went to hell in a hand basket, and here we fucking are. Part 3, I’m With Stevie versus The BombTrax. Well now all the cards are on the table Stevie. I have to wonder what you’re going to pull out of the magicians hat this time, cause last I checked, you don’t have any more friends on the roster than I do. There won’t be anybody left to come rushing down to the ring to try and hit me or Youth from behind. There won’t be anyone left to keep me from finishing this, once and for all, because all the fucking players are present and accounted for, and Stevie….”

Press got extremely close to the lens.

“I don’t see you walking out of WICKED#9 with them odds.”

Press leaned back away from the table, his eyes continuing to bore holes into the shot, when suddenly Youth’s grinning face appeared. He held up his hand, and waved at the camera, before launching in.

“Hi! This is the portion of the promo where things get comical and off topic. See, there’s a formula to our madness. That’s right. A formula. The big guy behind me tells everyone about how they are about to get their asses kicked, while I swoop in with some comic relief and good natured fun. It’s a dynamic duo type scenario. I mean, can you imagine this guy without me. He’d pop a fucking blood vessel just trying to tell you he hates you.”

“Will you get to the point?” Press chimed in, but Youth waves him off, and pulls the camera to where it’s focused on him.

“Now, now. Temper, temper. We don’t want to have to go back to those classes again do we? That’s what I thought! So anyways, like I was saying, there are a few things that we have to clear up here this evening. Mainly, CJ O’Donnell.”

Youth produces a four leave clover pendant out of nowhere, and shakes his head, tossing it over his shoulder.

“This bloody Irishmen is running around, making a mess of things, claiming to be the #1 Contender, even though he got beat. Twice. He’s kind of like Luke Knux, but in reverse. But HEY! Who cares about that nonsense? That’s more along the lines of my pal here with the championship. No, my beef goes way back. Back before he became the #1 Contender. Back before he was putting itching powder in girl’s panties. Back before he became a kiss stealing bastard. Back before he made everyone think he’d be better suited coming out to Boys II Men rather than Gangster Rap lyrics. You know, back at WICKED#5, when he gave me a dose of Irish Knowledge.”

Youth looked a little confused.

“Dude, you’re a little shit stain from South Boston who’s only saving grace was not getting on the sauce like the rest of your Mic family. Instead you poured all your hate, and rage, and welfare checks into wrestling school, because hey, that’s the thing to do. Cause about the only thing the Irish have ever been good at is getting the shit knocked out of them time, and time again. That’s why they make the best boxers. That’s why they are all over MMA. Irish Knowledge. What a fucking joke. That knee to my noggin didn’t teach me shit about booze, a million ways to cook a potato, or how to speak English in a way that no one under-fucking-stands. No, all it did was give me a concussion, and knock me out of wrestling for the past two months.”

Youth winks.

“But you know what dude, you’re not even my opponent this week. The BombTrax have to take out the other trash before I can put my focus on you, so I digress. Let me get to the fucking point.”

He throws his hands out at his sides, ‘Aw Shucks’ style.

“Stevie and Lola. If that isn’t a reality show on SPIKE TV, I don’t know what is. Watching these two together is like watching an unending loop of ‘The Wonderful Whites of West Virginia’. Entertaining at first, but quickly loses its appeal around the third viewing. I do have one question for you though. Do you two take your teeth out before you do it, or do they stay in for dramatic effect? I imagine in the throes of passion, Stevie cries out when his misanthropic member fires his load all over Lola’s Oreo Cookies, and in the process sends his dentures skittering across the floor. Oh, and if you aren’t wise to the upkeep, that’s not an age joke. It’s a white trash joke.”

Wink #2.

“Either way you look at it, The BombTrax are destined to win this match. Why? Because Stevie is an adolescent way of saying Stephen, and at 44 years of age, it doesn’t endure to the younger generations. It just makes you an asshole.”

Trademark grin.

“Well, that’s all the time we have for today, folks. I hope you people in El Paso bring your appetites, cause come April 28th, WICKED#9, The BombTrax are going to be serving up a Texas size ass beating to anyone wearing an I’m With Stevie t-shirt. Ya’here?”

Youth winks for a third time, before the camera draws back to encompass both he and Press. Both men smirk, nod, and then disappear off camera. The scene fades to black.