March

Dandy DiVito stood in a long checkout line at the dilapidated, trashy little convenience store near his Jacksonville traphouse. In the line ahead of him was a gathering of the type of people who’d buy gas station roses to use their glass tubes as makeshift crack pipes, a cavalcade of the unwashed and forgotten types with whom others would frantically avoid making eye contact on the streets.

The frustration of waiting was burning a hole into Dandy as he stood there. Dandy wanted to be done with his store run, but at the same time, he’d hoped it would keep him away from his home as long as possible. He knew what awaited him when he returned: Dandy would be stuck nursing Richard back to health after the younger DiVito had suffered mightily at the hands of Downfall at Clash the day prior. After all, it was Richard’s sake that brought Dandy to the only open store in this beaten up, broken down neighborhood in the dead of night in the first place. Richard needed something to treat his swelling and contusions, and Dandy was all out of anything which could prove useful in the moment.

As one transaction after another slowly but surely concluded, Dandy moved forward in line carrying a large bag of ice and other frozen odds and ends. Dandy’s eyes darted around the checkout area as he examined the impulse buys available just like the capitalists that designed the space intended. As he looked, his attention fell on a particular item, one which when found in a little shop like this surely indicated how seedy the place really was. Dandy’s eyes fell upon a disposable, burner cell phone.


Dandy stands solo in a studio looking straight into the camera. He’s surly; he’s pissed.

As I stand here, y’all see goddamn well I ain’t got my fuckin’ shit wit’ me. I ain’t got my fuckin’ strap or even got my fuckin’ brother runnin’ he goddamn mouth from behin’ me. While this shit’s always a fuckin’ bitch, I been in this fuckin’ boat befo’, ain’t I?

I’m walkin’ into this fuckin’ match in the same fuckin’ shoes I been in e’ry otha goddamn time I challenged fo’ the world fuckin’ title, an’ you know what happened e’ery time to now? I fuckin’ won that shit. Revolution 5 ain’t gon’ be no fuckin’ diff’rnt.

I had plenty of fuckin’ bumps in the road fo’ my AW career to this point, and the nature of the fuckin’ beast is that the shit’s only gon’ get rougher. But the fuckin’ thing here that I got goin’ fo’ me than ain’t nobody else got goin’ fo’ them is simple: I am the unfuckin’ killable mad man who will walk through hell it damn self to get whateva the fuck I decide that I wan’.

An’ righ’ now? I wan’ my fuckin’ belt back. Righ’ now? I want to be THE fuckin’ man who all but officially punched his ticket into that Action Wrestlin’ Hall of Fame as the first and fuckin’ only mo’fucka who threw that World strap ova his fuckin’ shoulder FOUR GODDAMN TIMES.

I been in fights fo’ personal shit befo’. Ask Lissie. Ask Kemp. Ask Shaw. I ain’t afraid to get in the fuckin’ trenches an’ go to fuckin’ war ova respec’ an’ honor. But this fight? This fuckin’ fight’s about legacy. It’s ‘bout my fuckin’ legacy in this ring, in this fuckin’ comp’ny, in this whole-ass career.

I’m the three-time soon-to-be four-time world champion, an’ I know how mo’fuckas turn that shit into a fuckin’ knock… oh if Dandy is a three time champ, it means he lost that bitch three times. But what that shit proves is I’ve had three fuckin’ chances to dust my shit off after I got knocked the fuck down, an’ e’ry damn time I stood back up? I walked the fuck out wit’ my strap restored to the mo’fuck’s rightful place on my shoulda. Come Revolution 5, it’s my next opportunity to do what I done ova and ova before, mo’ frequent than an’ wit’ greater success than anybody in the fuckin’ game!

Revolution 5 is just the next chapter in the fuckin’ career of Dandy DiVito. Regan an’ Downfall just gon’ be footnotes in that bitch.


Back at his house, Dandy walked into the living room where Richard was resting on the couch. Dandy extended his hand to offer a towel wrapped bag of ice to Richard which the younger DiVito took with his injured glee and placed on one of the many swollen areas on his head.

“So…”

“So?”

“So, uh, where were you?”

“I was at the store, ya fuckin’ idiot.”

“Not what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?”

“When I was getting my ass beaten… where were you?”

Dandy looked at his brother with disdain.

“You need me to hold yo fuckin’ hand e’ry time you think of steppin’ outta yo safespace?”

Richard scoffed and winced as he grabbed his ribs in pain.

“I’ve helped you reclaim the world title, get your revenge on two of your most profound enemies, and you let me get turned into hamburger. Where’s the justice in that, bro?”

Dandy stood angrily and walked off toward the kitchen again. Richard carefully berated Dandy as the elder DiVito stormed out of the living room.

“What? Now you’re just going to run from the uncomfortable truth again?! Jesus Christ, Winston! THIS WHY DAD WAS READY TO GIVE UP ON YOUR ASS UNTIL I TALKED HIM OUT OF IT!”

As Richard’s words settled in on him, Dandy stopped dead in his tracks just inside of the doorway to the kitchen. Dandy closed his eyes and snarled as he blindly grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen from the counter and turned in his heels to face Richard.

“Hey, cunt, you got fuckin’ water?”

Richard’s face contorted in confusion.

“Yeah…?”

“Then take these, and shut the fuck up.”

Stunned, Richard shook his head in disapproval.

“You didn’t know I…”

Dandy threw the pill bottle forcefully, and it took Richard by surprise as it smacked him full force in the chest.

“FUCK, WINSTON! OW!”

“Go to fuckin’ sleep, an’ don’t wake me up ‘less you fuckin’ dyin’.”

Dandy stormed off toward his room while Richard gingerly laid himself back on to the couch muttering to himself.

“Fucking couch better not give me scabbies ridden bedbugs. Fucking asshole…”


Regan, I guess I getta be the first ta welcome yo ass to the fuckin’ big time, huh? I know you prolly thinkin’ that Turmoil was yo’ introduction to this big time shit, but goddamn, any mo’fucka can fluke they way through one fuckin’ tournament. Shit, just ask Shaka Smart how that shit works; ain’t nobody heard shit ‘bout no VCU since March Madness 2011. So Regan, fo’give me if I was watchin’ yo’ rise thinkin’ the carriage yo’ ass rode in on would be a pumpkin at midnight while I held on to the expectation that you was gon’ fly too close to the sun and melt them fuckin’ Icarus-wings. But now it’s pretty fuckin’ clear that you in the main event - this week. Ain’t no lipstick on this pig, huh?

Sure, girly, sure. We both know that you lookin’ at this shot an’you thinkin’ you made it, but really you oughta be seein’ that this is that sweet Waffle House waitress givin’ yo’ cup-a-coffee in the big time a li’l refill. You bout ta be the first rookie of the year that don’t cash in on that shit an’ hoist the big belt to the fuckin’ sky. I’m confident as fuck in that shit, too, ‘cause e’rythin’ you doin’? E’RYTHING... well, it’s all a cheap fuckin’ immitation of what I already done, Regan, an’ since I nutted up an’ pulled off the greatest fuckin’ underdog win of all time when I ended the damn near year long reign of Ryan Lockhart, I got a li’l mo’ than suspicions that your cheap version’s gon’ involve eatin’ a pin in a match ‘gainst a one-month champ an’ the man who’s the presumptive favorite given he fuckin’ resume’s longer than e’rythin’ in the world ‘cept he big ol’ dick.

You showed up as the fuckin’ firebrand here, huh? Winnin’ whatever you set yo’ fuckin sights on... as a fuckin’ cruiser. You was champ in fuckin’ no time... as a fuckin’ cruiser. You took some lumps, beat some cruiser legends, an’ found yo’self in Turmoil... as a fuckin’ cruiser. Regan, you been followin’ my fuckin’ mold but you been doin’ it on fuckin’ easy mode. There ain’t a fuckin’ way in the world you can claim to be a qualified mo’fucka in a world where yo’ accomplishments all came from a fuckin’ show where Derrick fuckin’ Vayden could still be considered an all fuckin’ timer. Like what the fuck is that shit? Do somethin’ here where it fuckin’ counts in the big leagues and then maybe? MAYBE? You won’t be some fuckin’ Kroger Brand knock off.

An’ fuck, don’t get me started on this desperate attempt to match the fuckin’ fire an’ energy and success of the Two Dandy Dicks with yo’ fuckin’ dry snatch symphony, Affluenza. Jesus, girl. Didn’t you figure that shit out in school? When you copy yo’ fuckin’ work off the kids who better than yo’ ass, you gotta do mo’ than just change a few fuckin’ words in yo’ answers. While the people in them stands might not be seein’ through yo’ shit, Regan, I do, an’ I’m ready to enforce some mo’fuckin’ copywrites at Revolution 5.

Oh fuck, did I forget to tell you what to drink as I shit on e’rythin’ you done in the company, Regan? Fuck. My bad. This shit’s best paired wit’ you fuckin’ yo’self an’ gettin’ enough fuckin’ smarts to get the fuck outta of my main event scene. No matter how fuckin’ loud she gets ‘bout it, this company ain’t got a women’s representation issue, Regan. What it’s got is a women’s over-representation pro’lem. Between you, Jilly Bean, Lessie her damn self, and the rest of you hatchet wound havin’ overachievers, the company seems to set out on a laser focused mission to just push y’all to the moon. Well, what’s gon’ be a bitch for y’all is when you turn out like that fuckin’ Challenger teacher, Christa McAuliffe. You got a dream, you worked fo’ that shit, you, uh-hem, worked for it, and you strapped yo’self in for the ride of yo’ life only to fuckin’ blow up on take off. Well, just like Christa, yo’ demise is gonna be yet another Regan’s fault, li’l lady.

And what’s the fuckin’ world gon’ lose? The fuckin’ shell of an adult who can’t help but hold mommy an’ daddy’s lack of support responsible fo’ her shitty decisions in life? A li’l fuckin’ harpy who won’t accept no fuckin’ responsibility fo’ the shit cards she’s choosin’ ta play? I know I said you just tryin’ to poorly Xerox my shit here, Regan, and lookin’ closer just proves it mo’ and mo’ as far as I’m concerned. The pro’lem really is that yo’ jus’ tryin’ ta carbon copy the shit understandin’ of my life an’ my situations that people like fuckin’ Ash Blake seem believe tell the Dandy DiVito story. My folks? They been right fuckin’ there through thick an’ thin, through them good times an’ them bad ones. My fuckin’ pops is flankin’ me an’ Dick nowadays ready to send them big guns should the need arise. That sound like absentee shit to you? Nah. An’ that responsibility shit? My god, girly... if I didn’t own my shit an’ fix the flaws, I NEVER woulda won the World Title three fuckin’ times!

As far as I see it, Regan, the biggest fuckin’ difference between the two of us is this: I got the fuckin’ guts to do the hard shit, and you? You just throwin’ fake blood ‘roun’ yo hotel room to pretend like you did the hard shit. Regan, look, I see through you. You all show. All sizzle, no steak. All smoke, no fire. All fuckin’, no cummin’. And THAT? That shit’s where you fall totally short in your otherwise believable Dandy DiVito impression.

You see, Regan, I’m the realest motherfucker in the game. If I look you in the fuckin’ eye and tell you I’m comin’ hard, you best get your fuckin’ armor on. If you got somethin’ I want to take, you better hire a fuckin’ army to keep me away from it. If you’re in my way, you should prolly get used to what yo ass is gonna look like wit’ tire treads or boot prints smashed into it. ‘Cause Regan, baby, I don’t fuck aroun’. If I gotta burn my own fuckin’ home to the ground to send the right fuckin’ message, I’ll do it. If I gotta throw away e’rythin’ I been workin’ on for a fuckin’ year, I’ll do it. If I gotta change my fuckin’ game in the middle of the mo’fucka, I’ll fuckin’ do it. Don’t believe me? Just ask Kemp.

You though? Fuck, Regan. You ain’t even got the fuckin’ guts to stick a pig in the neck fo’ real. But that’s the thing here... either you fuckin’ stick the pig and do what you gotta to survive, or you join the li’l fucks an’ march wit’ ‘em, an’ at this point, it’s clear as fuckin’ day that you put on yo’ nicest Prada marchin’ boots, bitch.

At Revolution 5, the only marchin’ I’ma do is straight to the fuckin’ top of the mountain again to become the first ever 4 time World Champion in Action Wrestling history.


In Dandy’s room, he sat on the edge of his bed holding his head in his hands. He thought about what Richard had said before, that his own father was ready and willing to walk away from him until Richard intervened and helped make the Empire Business a reality.

“Wait… that li’l fuck was as surprised as me when dad pitched his plan… how the fuc… oh goddamn it, Richard.”

As Dandy thought, he punched hole after hole in Richard’s story and concluded that, like he often was, Richard was full of shit. Even so, a lonely feeling settled in on him that was unshakable.

“Fuck, man.”

As he lifted his head from his hands, Dandy’s gaze fell upon two of the impulse buys he made at the convenience store: the burner phone and a full bottle of Hennessy VSOP. He was pissed at himself as he grabbed the bottle and took a deep pull from its mouth.

A while later, Dandy’s head spun and he let out a zombified groan as he stared at the now half-empty bottle which remained on his nightstand.

“Ughhhh…”

Dandy’s view shifted to the burner phone, and he thought to himself, “Fuck it, I’ma do it.” as he mashed in a phone number and then the call button.


But to win numba 4, I gotta go through the mo’fucka who stumbled in to his numba 1 at my fuckin’ expense, don’t I? Third times a fuckin’ charm. Downy, you took them tag straps from me by way of Sammy, an’ then you took my fuckin’ world title by way of my own fuck ups. The trouble fo’ you is that I don’t make the same fuckin’ mistakes twice, son, an’ now? You gonna have ta figure out what kinda game play you can bring to war wit’ Dandy DiVito when he’s already had a hell of a look at yo’ bag of tricks. I don’t give a fuck what them records say righ’ now, you havin’ to go to war wit’ me AGAIN means the advantage is in my corner.

But you know that shit already, don’t ya? Otherwise, why the fuck would you make yo’ moves to target the DiVito that ain’t got a fightin’ bone in his body? You the piece of shit who wants to key the neighbor’s car but you ain’t got the balls so you toss a li’l poisoned cheese in their yard to kill the fuckin’ dog. I ain’t got no fuckin’ respect for that kind of cheap, easy route bullshit. You wanna fuck wit’ me, come direct! Whip yo’ li’l pecker out, get it all ready to roll an’ press yo’ fuckin’ luck, Downy. I’ma cut that shit off, but at leas’ we can both know you gave an honest effort, yeah?

But no, you ain’t got that in ya, do ya? You spent the fuckin’ month syncin’ yo’ cycle up wit’ Regan an’ tryin’ ta tear her apart while she consistently got the fuckin’ better of ya. Good fuckin’ work, Champ. You really showin’ up for the dick swingin’ contingent of the roster, huh? You getting wrecked by a li’l thang that ain’t weighin’ but 100 pounds fuckin’ soakin’ wet with pig shit. You lettin’ the fuckin’ girl scouts fuck yo’ whole world up, huh? Fine, man. Keep that shit up. Focus on the li’l women like you writin’ a Civil War era novel an’ my busted ass li’l brother like he’s a stand-in for the three-time champion, real-deal fighter he callin’ a bro. I’ll just sit back, let y’all fuckin’ destroy one another, and like a fuckin’ vulture, I’ll pick yo’ bones clean. I ain’t above it. I fight hard, but mo’ than that, man, I fight smart (Send the cease and desist to my lawyers, Spence, and we’ll all tell you to fuck yo’self).

But you, Downy? You sure seem to be fightin’ from yo’ back foot eva since you took my strap, huh? You ain’t got the fuckin’ spine for this world, man. You runnin’. You dodgin’ the responsibility, the fuckin’ target on yo’ back, the stress. Me? When I was champ, I leaned right the fuck in to that shit! Lissie Hope had the All-In case? I took that shit from her. Kyle Kemp hit a sucker shot when I’d just won, I pounded his ass into the fuckin’ groun’ to snag it back. You though? You was easy. You come out swinin’ yo’ li’l pee pee an’ I just said no. I took up the free real estate in yo’ fuckin’ dome by treatin’ you like the punk bitch you is, and while the immediate result wasn’t quite what I fuckin’ wanted, the story sure as fuck ain’t ova, and at Revolution 5, I getta show you what the final chapter looks like when I get into yo’ fuckin’ brain an’ live there. When I get you so desperate that you seein’ yo’ li’l team fallin’ apart in the stress, that you seein’ enemies where they don’t exist, that you lookin’ to lash out an’ the best you got is to pop my dickhead brother ‘cause you ‘fraid to come for the fuckin’ Pitbull Terrier.

Downy, you sittin’ on the weakest fuckin’ run wit’ the strap that we seen in years, an’ yeah, I’m countin’ that shitshow 2 minutes I had when Kemp got a wild hair in his ass. You treat the strap like it’s yo’s but yo’ grip on that shit is tenuous at best, and really, you just keepin’ it warm fo’ me. Whether you know it or not, you just bidin’ yo’ time befo’ you can figure out how to patch the fuckin’ holes you pounded into the Vanguard, ‘cause, man, you ‘bout to go from double champ to not-a-champ quicker than a dog shits when it got the fuckin’ runs.

I gotta tell ya’, man. Winnin’ the championship is the easy part. All the pressure’s on the champion in a title match. If the champ loses? Fuck. Was the title run even fuckin’ real or was that a fluke? If the challenger loses? At least ya gave a good effort! What I see when I look at you is a champ that is fuckin’ terrified to lose that first defense. An’ I get it. I been there, man. I got three fuckin’ reigns. I got a big ol’ handful of title defenses, too. Buncha multi-man match ups. Buncha one-on-ones. But you know what? All of my title defenses came in my first run wit’ big goldy. My second run was barely a fuckin’ sprint wit’ Kemp’s games, and my third run? Well, you know about that shit, I guess. The point here though, man, is that march to the top of the mountain is the easy part. You got there. Congrats. You welcome. All that shit. But now? It’s on yo’ frantic, sweatin’ li’l ass to keep yo’self up there, and I’ll be goddamned if the view ain’t mo’ than a little fuckin’ head spinnin’. It takes a fuckin’ tough sumbitch to ride out that storm wit’out tumblin’ off the peak. You, man? I don’t think you gonna survive the summit, an’ even if you do, the fuckin’ free fall to basecamp is sure as shit gon’ rip yo’ heart right the fuck out. Winnin’ the strap is all fun an’ games, but bein’ the champ? Ha! That shit fuckin’ sucks after a while, an’ wit’ you? I see the telltale signs that it’s alread workin’ it’s magic on you, them stressed out, sleepless nights of worryin’ and strategizing, the second guessin’ and self-doubts. I see it all. It’s why you strugglin’ to take out that rich girl pig shit covered trash an’ why yo’ aggression is targetin’ my li’l bystander instead of me. The pressure is buildin’, Champ, an’ I know you prolly rationalizing it by tellin’ yo’self that diamonds are formed wit’ pressure, right? But that lame shit falls right on it’s fuckin’ face when you realize pressure also causes fuckin’ heart attacks. I’d bet my left nut to say that you, Downfall, is a fuck ton closer to the heart attack than you is to bein’ a fuckin’ diamond.

At Revolution 5, while you clutchin’ yo’ fuckin’ chest an’ Regan’s clutchin’ she pearls, I’ma be clutchin’ my fuckin’ strap AGAIN an’ havin’ my hand raised as the FOUR FUCKIN’ TIME ACTION WRESTLIN’ WORLD CHAM-PEEN. Third time’s a charm, an’ now I’ma murk yo’ ass like you Carter Shaw, ya fuck.


Dandy hit the speaker button on his burner phone and drunkenly held it at arm’s length over his face as he lay prone in the bed. The line rang and rang as the anxiety in him that could break through the VSOP-induced haze built to a fever pitch. Finally, a voice on the other line broke through, and Yaz’s voice once more caressed Dandy’s ears.

“Hello?”

Dandy struggled to utter even a sound as his throat tightened and tears stumbled down to well in his eyes. Meanwhile, Yaz’s frustration grew.

“HELLO?! WHO IS THIS?!”

As Dandy opened his mouth to utter something, anything really, he heard a heart wrenching sound in the background of Yaz’s line: the baby started to cry. The sound served as a particularly sharp and wounding reminder of that former life Dandy had begun to plan his own around. He drunkenly reflected on how at one point not long ago, fatherhood was only a matter of seconds away. He thought about how excited he had been over the prospect of having something good to live for just before the cruelty of a fate ripped the promise away and made Dandy a fool. He agonized over the life that child would surely live without a father, but another voice derailed his train of thought.

“Who’s calling, Yaz?”

Dandy’s brain belligerent screamed at the sound of the vaguely familiar male voice. In his surprise, Dandy’s throat let out a bellowing sound.

“IS THAT FUCKIN’ CJ?!”

“DANDY, IS THAT YOU?!”

Dandy smashed the button to end the call and angrily snapped his disposable flip phone in half and muttered to himself as he grabbed the VSOP bottle to down even more cognac.

“CJ Pheonix… God fuckin’ damn it…”