The course of my life had changed when I turned sixteen. Just like Roman, I too had wrestling flowing through my veins. I didn't have a linage, but I had a desire to be in the squared circle preforming feats of insanity and glory in front of millions and millions. The childhood dream fit when everything else in my life did not, and for years I had fought tooth and nail to get to this moment.

Four hundred days as WWE Champion.

But, this was not my final goal. It had been – many years ago – but then I saw something truly spectacular and found in that moment a new goal. A new final goal. It has a lot to do with the message veterans pass on to rookies. The message I got came from a veteran in William Regal, who once told me legacies are not made, they are craved out from something greater. To every every guy who I have handpicked to lead the new charge of change I have said these words of legendary verbatim. Stamped it into their lives with brandishing potential, with a hope that it would become something of a daily prayer.

In respect to my own life though, Regal's words fit like a glove. They had become my daily prayer, in retrospect, as they matched quite well with this title. This title that states that I am the Champion, and yet, in that one moment not so long ago, I came to realize that it never mattered. Being Champion was not the greater from which my legacy would be carved out from. Being the Champion was nothing more than being the Champion.

Four hundred days as WWE Champion. This in itself is an achievement that would otherwise cement a legacy, but somewhere along the line – probably since that day – I had become greedy. This greediness of mine is nothing new. I've always had it in small portions, but it only truly surfaced the day I found myself lying at the bottom of a pit with the sun blocked out, and the exit nowhere in sight. The day he broke his promise, I found a new goal.

"This storyline is amazing Punk…no brilliant. It's brilliant!" Paul smiles joyously at me. I try to mirror it, but the pain in my neck worsens to the effort. "You're really cementing yourself as the backstage hero with this one." He gently places a hand on my shoulder and closes in with his wide smile. "And about that other matter, Vince is looking into it as we speak. We should hear something soon."

I nod lightly – aggravating the sore neck – and feign a smile in response.

Paul stands back momentarily before crossing his hands into a lock beneath his protruding stomach. It was sign I know all too well. "I know you'll probably disagree with me, but I'll say it anyways. You need to take a break Punk."

I rest the bag of ice on the bench and lean back as best I could to face him, "Paul—"

"Phil, I'm serious." He was. Even without the tone, having known him for years, I knew when Paul Heyman meant the words he said. "You've only taken a week off for that hip surgery and you came back even more damaged than when you left. Then you fight Ryback in a TLC match and injured your neck and shoulders to that oaf's Shell Shock." Worry encases his face, "You keep going like this and you won't make it to Wrestlemania."

A soft sigh depletes the air in my stiff lungs, "I know Paul, but I have to push through these days in order to get what I want." A frown caves into my forehead, "And what I want is the Dead Man."

Paul shakes his head slowly as he brings his crossed arms up to his chest area, "You're foolish to think you'll be able to even stand in the ring with him with all the injuries you're acquiring." He sighs defeated, "And then there's your alternate lifestyle." He stares sternly at me, "How many partners do you go through?"

I look to the floor in thought knowing the answer, "Just the one."

His face sells horror, "Don't tell me you're bedding that animal?" My silence answers for me, "Phil!"

"It's not like that!" I shout back, clenching my hands into fists, "I need this Paul." My eyes look back to him with a stream of desperation that I can feel glazing over them, "I need this. Especially now."

Paul stares at me. First it's shock. Then it's anger. Finally his expression rests on complete exasperation. We've heard this song before, and he already knows the lyrics. "I just hope you know what you're doing Phil, because if you fail—"

"I won't." I cut in immediately, "I can't."

He sighs once more, "I hope so buddy. I really do."

It had come without warning. I knew it was on the horizon the moment he walked through the door with that million dollar smile and exhilarating blend of confidence and arrogance. However, it still came without warning.

I was the Champion.

Four words. It isn't like this is the first time I've heard them. I had been a past tense champion before – many, many times before. In fact, one of those times served to set the stage for my ultimate fall from grace. And eventual rise to the top. However, it still is a hard pill to swallow no matter how much I tell myself that I knew this day was coming. I knew because I wrote the script. I knew because this was all just a stepping stone to the greater. I knew, but knowing did me little. And the pill still isn't going down.

For times like this, I shut myself off. I did it once before – became a recluse within my own self and pulled out to a false sense of change that never truly existed. I had lost many friends to that fallacy, but in it found the root of this corrupt and dying business. And with my pipe bomb, I blew up the root and the tree and planted a new seed in The Shield.

While I fell to the fame and fortune of one royal ass-kisser in Dwayne Johnson, the Hounds of Justice (as some chose to call them) stepped into the center stage with authority. Not a single living fan did not know and acknowledge their existence, their talent and their potential. For all three men, bright future's lay ahead. For me, however, a future is hard to look forward to at this stage. Over a year ago I decided to walk the bent path of revenge, and knowingly accepted the consequences. I have no future past today. I only have one goal. When the time comes, win at all costs.

"This is rare. You coming to me." I irk to the sight of that cocky grin, but keep myself steady at the hilt of the doorway. "Why are you here?"

"I challenged him." My voice skates slightly on the adrenaline still pumping through me. By comparison, July 26 was the only time I had ever felt that way. July 26…what I wouldn't give to be back in that mindset. Back in that moment when all that mattered was me, the title, and the door. But none of that matters now. Now it's me, a chance of revenge, and a grinning beast whom I've actively sought out. "He accepted."

"I heard." He leans on the door frame. "So, why are you here?"

My eyes lower slightly to break away from his lean naked torso, shifting through the barrage of answers to that question. "A little while back, I watched Jon Moxley tear a man's arm out of its socket. I watched Jon Moxley nearly rip off the ear of a personal wrestling god with his bare teeth. I watched Jon Moxley break a man's jaw with a shredded fist. I watched Jon Moxley get his head bashed in and come back swinging head butts, biting and clawing his way to victory." I look back to Dean's slightly perplexed expression that's cloaked by his bored eyes, "I watched you earn your nickname The Devil's Thoroughbred. And then I renamed you and sealed it all away."

Like a puppet on strings, he leans forward and instantly grabs the back of my head in a tight clutch. "You didn't seal shit. I'm still Jon Moxley. I've proved it every day since you took me on."

"I know you have." I grit my teeth momentarily to subside the pain of his hold, "That's why I'm here." Dean loosens his grip, "I want to become Jon Moxley. Just for one night, I need to be you."

A sinister smirk roots to his face as he uses his remaining hold to drag me into the room. In a second my body crashes to the floor as Dean pounces on top of me. His lips envelope mine in a heated and passionate kiss that lengthens once he grabs hold of my tongue. I claw at his back for air – which he eventually gives after biting down on my lower lip. I can taste my own blood as it spills over my sore tongue. However, I don't have the time to think about it as Dean instantly strips away his own clothes and pulls away my own. My pants fall short at my knees and my shirt buckles at the haft of my neck, but still Ambrose feasts on the flesh presented to him. He sucks and chews both nipples to impossible soreness, and all but stuffs two fingers into me. Working at lightning speed, he sloppily prepares me, before entering.

Not even a minute and I've already cum once.

Dean looks on in sadistic pleasure as he sets up for round two. He knows the night is still young…and so is he.