I two-step with Lucifer, and ever since I started dancin'
I've walked a fine line between Einstein and Charles Manson
- "Frontlines", by Diabolic and Immortal Technique
He hated that cold fuckin' city, the stench of stale beer and armpits, the sound of Sami babbling in his ears. Not even making sense, just syllables going up down up down, Sami's voice squeaking a bit like he was still going through puberty. Jon Moxley elbowed his way through the crowd like he owned the place. He could own this place, one day, if he felt like it. So what if no one knew that other than him. One day, if he got the notion to do so, he could come here and bust down the doors and stampede over everyone in his way, and he'd be king of the fuckin' mountain and everyone will look up to him.
Moxley blew a strand of hair out of his face. He'd worked a couple shows for Ring of Honor a little while back, not that any of these guys seemed to remember him. If he cared, he'd be pissed off. Fuck these losers.
"Fuck these losers!" Attaboy, Sami. Callihan looks ready for a fight. If he jumped the barricade and stormed the ring, should Moxley try and hold him back? Moxley decided against it. It would be far more interesting to see what would happen.
"Not a single guy in that locker room could take either one of us out," Sami said, sounding mighty confident for a former fat kid who'd made his debut less than a year ago. "You and me, Mox, we could take this whole company. Just take over the damn thing." Some of the ROH fans overheard them and started jeering in their direction. Moxley flashed his teeth at them in an expression that was not quite a grimace, and not quite a smile, but somehow all threat.
Some new guys made their way to the ring. Moxley could hardly hear their introductions over the cheers and boos of the crowd. Cheap special effects popped and sizzled, and that godawful dry ice fog wafted over the barricades at them. Back home in their territory, Moxley made his entrance through a curtain, sometimes in front of fifty pairs of eyes, and on at least one memorable occasion to one hundred and one eyes (one fan had lost an eyeball to an unfortunate spork accident). He watched the first tag team enter the ring with disinterest. Not wanting this trip to be a total waste, Moxley tried to occupy himself by thinking of interesting ways he could twist and yank their joints until their faces turned red and the veins on their necks popped out.
Sami seemed excited to see the second tag team. "That's Jimmy Jacobs," he said, as if Moxley hadn't seen Jacobs when he wrestled for Ring of Honor a few months ago. All right, so he hadn't talked to the guy or anything, sue him, he'd only been there a couple days, weeks apart. But he knew Jimmy Jacobs on sight. Jacobs was supposed to have become some kind of psycho; he wore dramatic eye makeup, but at least he'd left the fuzzy boots at home tonight. The other guy with him was a little more intriguing.
"Tyler Black," said Sami.
Black moved like some half-tamed young animal, his body taut and ready. He walked right past them, hair falling into his face, looking right and left into the crowd. Some girls squealed. Moxley twitched. His hands clenched at the barricade.
"Dark eyes," said Jon Moxley.
Sami didn't hear him, or heard him but didn't understand him. "Yeah, he's supposed to be Mexican or something." He started laughing. "What a fuckin' pretty boy! Hey, pretty boy!"
Tyler Black actually looked their way, and those dark eyes locked with Jon's own. For that moment, silence fell, nothing else in the world mattered. Moxley was gripping the barricade so tightly he could feel his nails bending. Then Tyler Black blinked those eyes, dark eyelashes brushing his cheeks, and looked away. Sami was shouting some bullshit, but shut up once Moxley got his hands on him.
"Shut your trap," Moxley warned him.
"What the fuck is wrong with y-"
"Him." Moxley nodded significantly at Tyler Black, who was now in the ring. Black looked over his shoulder, flicking his fringe of hair out of his eye, as though he could feel Moxley's gaze boring into him. "Shut up, Sami, and listen. That's him. That's my Achilles."
"Huh?" Sami looked at him like he was an alien.
Moxley sighed. "Achilles. I'm Agamemnon and he's my Achilles. The greatest warriors of our age. He'll end me, or I'll end him. We both know it. That's the way it has to be."
Sami let out a nervous chuckle. "Whatever, man."
Growling, Moxley let him go. Why couldn't anyone understand? No one else had seen this momentous moment happen, or saw it for what it was. He knew, to the marrow of his bones, that his destiny was in there, in that ring, with Tyler Black. Warrior prince pretty boy of Ring of Honor, your Agamemnon awaits. If he had to hunt Black all over the world, he would; one way or another, Moxley was going to get his hands on him, whether they met on a mutual ascent or whether it was on Moxley's way up and Black's way down. Tyler Black was trying to get psyched for his imminent match, but he kept glancing back at Moxley at ringside.
Moxley smiled ferally at him. His body felt like it had touched a live wire; he could hear the blood rushing through his veins. Come to me, he mouthed to Black.
Jimmy Jacobs moved between them, eclipsing Black. Moxley groaned. Jacobs shot him a suspicious look, almost a sneer. Moxley glared back, silently daring Jacobs to stand in his way. I won't stay on this side of the barricade forever. Jimmy Jacobs wouldn't keep him from Tyler Black, not for long. This thing, it was meant to be. Moxley didn't know how it would play out, but he was ready for it. Eager. Hungry.
Tyler Black was looking at him from over Jimmy Jacobs' shoulder. Black's tongue flickered out, wetting his bottom lip. Moxley mirrored the motion. All appetite.