005: LIMITLESS [OCW]

VAE VICTIS. It's a Latin phrase – I learned it from the Blood Omen video game franchise but it's a good statement. It means "woe to the conquered". Wikipedia breaks it down a little further, says that it means those defeated in battle are entirely at the mercy of their conquerors and should not expect or request leniency.

I guess I screwed that up with my campaign to get back into the tournament then, didn't I? Wait. Was I vanquished? Humiliated and humbled in front of thousands in attendance and millions watching online? I guess you'd be a better judge of that than me.

"Oh cool. It's an avocado slicer." Rayna brandished the oddly shaped scoop that contained wickedly curved and serrated metal blades.

Max nodded, glancing up from the label he was inspecting on the soup, trying to find the one with the least amount of added salt. "Awesome! We should definitely get that. And some avocados, of course. Maybe try them on toast like everyone else in Florida does?" He settled on a sweet potato bisque and tossed a few cans into the cart.

"I think that's more of a California thing," she replied with a gentle smile, resting her hand over his as they ambled down the aisle in the grocery store, "but I've heard it's pretty tasty."

"Might be good on marble rye. Do we have any of that left in the freezer?"

"I think-"

"Excuse me," a soft voice interrupted and Max turned around to look, already smiling even though Rayna's hand tensed over his against the cart's handle. This had happened a few times already over the last couple weeks and he was gradually starting to get used to it. OCW had a pretty huge fanbase and they seemed to have embraced him with pretty open arms.

"Hi there, friend." The corners of his blue eyes crinkled as he looked up at the taller kid in the baseball cap and the JESUS IS MY HOMEBOY tee. "How's it going?"

"I'm blessed," the kid replied, "I hope you'll forgive the intrusion but I've been here today doing a little outreach ministry and I couldn't help but notice…" he paused and looked at Max with a strange smile before his gaze settled on the wrestler's bad hand.

"Notice what?" Rayna bristled, her gaze following the kid's. There was something in that guy's smile that just seemed… off.

"Your hand. Does it give you pain?"

Max shook his head. "Not really. No. Maybe a little in my wrist when I overdo it at the gym. It hurt like the dickens after that Hammer of Thor on Vargas but-"

Rayna's elbow jammed into his side and he abruptly stopped talking, glancing at her pretending to read the package of Oreos she'd randomly picked up from the shelf.

"Well, has it always been that way?"

"As long as I can remember," Max nodded, "I'm a lot luckier than some others. I don't need a wheelchair and it hasn't grown any worse over the years. It's-"

"A deformity. I can see that. I was wondering, though, would you allow me to pray for your affliction? That's what I'm doing today. Spreading the power of Jesus' love. I'm Jeremy, by the way."

Max stared at the kid for a good twenty seconds, not really sure what he was supposed to say. Rayna snorted in derision, her gaze swinging back to the kid's as she picked up one of the cans of soup, holding it as though she wanted to bash it through the kid's smiling face.

"I…" he cast a helpless look at Rayna, shrugging, "you know, in thirty-three years, nobody's ever thought to do that." His tone held a hint of that acerbic wit of his but the kid didn't seem to notice, "sure, friend. That would be swell." He gave his girl a look that said he wanted to ride this out, see how deep the rabbit hole of crazy went.

The kid grinned, reaching out to clap his weirdly hot hand on Max's shoulder, closing his eyes even as his voice raised. Rayna's hand tightened on Max's. "Father God, I'm here with my friend…" he paused and Max realized a beat too late that he hadn't told the guy his name and this kid had absolutely no idea who he was.

"Max. Uhhh… Ironside."

"I'm here with my friend Max today, Father God. We're here to bring you Max's burden, to ask that you lay your healing hands on him, lift him up and cradle him to your ever-loving bosom and strip away the evils, the foul putrefaction of this world that has withered his limbs, that has caused him so much pain and distress. In the name of glorious son who sits at your right hand, Father God, please bless and heal your child. Make him whole again...amen!"

He opened his eyes and looked at Max who stared back at him, trying to assess if he felt any different. His shoulder felt sweaty where the kid's hand had been but otherwise he felt exactly the same. "So… when do I start to see results?"

"The Lord works in his own time, in mysterious ways." The kid slipped a brochure for his church into the basket of their cart, nodding and grinning like an absolute lunatic as he walked on, seeking another victim.

"Did that…" Rayna sputtered laughter, "did that actually just happen?"

"Yeah." He felt like he'd fallen down the rabbit hole and was still free-falling off into nothing. "That was weird."


I want to make sure the world knows how much I appreciate the support here, I really do. I know without the support I received, without the petition and the assistance of Ed Houston spreading it around, I probably wouldn't be booked this week, let alone returning to the Block Party tournament. I feel like respect should be given here – where it's due, of course. On paper, Chad Vargas is certainly worthy of a nod. Tag team champion, Hall of Famer and OCW stalwart. The last time, I got bogged down in those facts. I lost sight of the goal and I let my emotions get the best of me.

I can't promise that it won't happen again. The man has a particular set of skills, after all.

I wanted to prove that I could be like Mike Best, collecting the rings from fallen HOF members for his gauntlet of power. Snap my fingers and skate right through to the next round. I need to accept that I'm never going to be seen in that light and even though I want it more than anything, there's a suspension of belief that happens when I get between those ropes. Some people see me as an inspiration. I don’t knock that. I appreciate that and I've been told more than once that persistence is an admirable quality. Enthusiasm and passion are key if you want to make it in this business. Ask Ariel Shadows, ask Jon and Nate Dravers – they'll tell you that dedication matters far more than being lucky.

You know me, or maybe you think you do. I don't really know anymore – I lost sight of those certainties when you paraded around the ring, pretending to be 'crippled' in an effort to mock me. The guy who came here with stars in his eyes and hopes of being taken seriously died a horrible death that night. I took you to the limit, Mr. Vargas. We went to hell and back and while I'm not one for self-aggrandization, I think it was a match of the month contender for sure. Since that night, I've been hard at work trying to silence the voice in the back of my head that's calling me a BROKEN, PATHETIC RETARD. It sounds like yours and while it's nothing I haven't heard before, the feeling of righteous anger that accompanies it is new. You're a champion. A legend in the company. Just because you're on that pedestal doesn't give you the right to look down on people, Mr. Vargas. You know that, though, don't you? It's all part of that master plan of yours. Be as abrasive as possible and maybe you can put people so far off their game that you can rip out the tablecloth and call it a great trick even though all the plates smash on the floor. You meant to do that, though.

You don't care about collateral damage.

Revisionist history is for those who can't accept the truth. At this time of year, I can't help thinking about resurrection and rebirth. Don't have to be religious to understand that this time of year lends itself to those instincts – out with the old and in with the new. Flowers are poking up, those tulip bulbs relocated by the neighborhood squirrels to the middle of the lawn rather than the flower bed – they don't care. They bloom where they are.

I can look you in the eye and tell you that I've learned from my mistakes. You can stare right back at me and call bullshit, twist these words as if I'm doing nothing more than grasping at straws of support thrown my way. You believe deep down that you've got my ticket, ready to punch it again – you've seen this a million times before.

Losers regroup, don't they? They look for a new deal. A new gimmick. A new lease on life – whatever. I've never done that. I took a run at Aidan Carlisle more than once. I threw everything in the tank at her and I made her tap out. It didn't count because the referee wasn't coherent – it's a technicality. I didn't win the match, the championship that was on the line. I had to leave empty-handed. I wasn't broken, though. I wasn't cowed or bowed – I knew what I had just accomplished. I knew that if I faced her again, I could build on that knowledge. Sadly, Defiant closed its doors. My second shot never came.

It's here now. I recognize this for what it is.

I beat you and it's a huge accomplishment. I beat you and I prove that their faith was worthwhile – I prove that I can hang with a Hall of Famer and while I'm not after your ring, I am looking for something from you. An apology for being a jerk? Acknowledgement that I took you to the limit?

I want to meet your eyes across the ring and know that you can see the change in me.

I want this more than anything. I want to go on to the next round. I want to chase gold and glory and I want to have people on their feet, feeling the triumph with me when it happens. And it will. I have faith that it will because I work hard every day towards that goal. My head needs to shut up and get back in the game, stop repeating your words. My body doesn't care what you think. Every waking moment I'm living with these truths, pounding those repetitious into my skull. There's no magic fix here. I know that and I'm ready for our rematch, Mr. Vargas.

So here I am, squaring my shoulders, taking a deep breath and crossing that line drawn in the sand. Maybe I'll be defeated again. Maybe I'll win but the truth is I won't know which one until I try. Risks, Mr. Vargas – I'm talking about risks. Victims don't take risks, do they? No, they don't. They suffer. They are oppressed and harassed, cowed into submission by their assailants. I don't have an AFFLICTION. I have CONVICTION.

I'm not a VICTIM. Don't pray for me. Don't try to change me because my possibilities are LIMITLESS.

I will be VICTORIOUS.