James leans his back against a bookshelf crammed full of Dungeons & Dragons manuals, Steven King books, and ten year old Playboys, folding his arms over his chest tucking his chin down, giving his friend a disapproving glare. “You’re not making me very happy, Jimmy,” James says with a brooding hostility.

The man is large and shaped roughly like a pear, a long ponytail and unkempt beard rounding out an image that appeared to be some cross between Kevin Smith and the Simpsons ‘Comic Book Guy’. “It’s a dead end, Nick,” the man insists, sweat beading along his brow, working it’s way down his face to inevitably join the massive sweat stained rings of his Metallica tshirt. “They’re too good; they covered all their bases. I’m just some computer nerd who does this stuff in his spare time.”

“You were the first one to crack MySpace Music for pirating,” James says, coolly unconvinced, “Don’t tell me you can’t find them. I want to know where they are.”

“Listen, there’s a difference,” the sweaty hacker insists, “Companies, big businesses, they have all sorts of protections to keep you out. But they have rules they have to play by. Legalities. These guys are not like that. By the time I was able to get within a hundred miles of them, they had my computer riddled with triple encrypted worms full of gay porn. I can’t hit the space bar without sending an email attaching child pornography to the local police.”

“I’ve got money,” James says dismissively, “Don’t worry about police; I can keep you out of trouble.”

“You don’t get it,” the man jiggles, the orange Cheeto dust clumped in his mustache wagging as he shakes his head, ”Local police. They know who I am. They know where I am. And they have been very open about their lack of tolerance for interference. How much more do you think I can push before they kick in my door and put a bullet in my ear? What am I supposed to do, run? Look at me.” He guestures towards his ample belly with body hands, pivoting on his computer chair as he does so, as if to send the point home. “Keep your money,” he insists, ”I don’t know who you’re mixed up with and I don’t want to. I’m not touching them. You’re on your own, Nick.”

“Within a hundred miles,” James recalls, the gears in his mind already starting to turn, “Tell me what you did manage to get.” James tosses the man a brown paper sack containing the originally promised funds.

The social miscreant with technological skills to replace his hygiene glances into the bag, then looks back up nervously. “Boston,” he says, his voice shaking, “Call came from Boston. Phone was a throwaway pay as you go deal. It was either purchased at a WalMart or Target; not sure which one, but it was definitely a chain store. That’s all I can get, I swear. I’m bailing. If you’re smart, you’ll do the same. Whatever these guys did to you, it’s not worth it.”

“They threatened me,” James says, understating the facts, ”I don’t respond well to threats.” James narrows his eyes to slits, glaring fiercely at the trembling tub of jello that poses as a human being. He shrinks back in his seat, terrified, but leaves James confident he’s not holding out on anything further. Turning away, James climbs the stairs back to the lower class streets of downtown, stepping into the blinding sun of daylight once again, hands balled into fists at his sides.

This time is no different, of that he is certain. Two years ago it had been Trent Steel, kidnapping his father and torturing him for weeks in a warehouse on the east coast. James had found him then. He wasn’t exactly Sherlock Holmes; Trent Steel had been very open about wanting James to find him. This wasn’t any different though. Another nutjob wanting to screw with Nick, thinking he would be an easy target because of his age and size. They had no idea the amount of drive that was in him, the way he became obsessed with his goals and rolled forward like an unstoppable juggernaut. Trent Steel had underestimated that once upon a time, and he had paid a painfully steep price for that arrogance. It wasn’t Steel behind this, however. He had manned up and admitted defeat in the end. Not to mention that subtlety and caution were not the way that flamboyant clown got his point across. If there was one name off the list of potential subjects, it was Trent Steel.

Still, there was too many possibilities, too many variables to make a final move. Much like these classic OWF muck-up matches, resolution wasn’t complicated. Simply eliminate the variables. Easier said than done in some cases, but who really want something to be easy anyways. The six-pack match wasn’t lined up for a vacated belt or a contendership spot; nothing on the line but bragging rights. And who among the competitors hadn’t already earned those a dozen times over. Maybe Drake Munday, but by now even he had a couple of (fluke) accomplishments under his belt. Six highly talented and motivated warriors put in a battle to the last. He forced himself to open his clenched fists, the tiny crescents of blood shining on the ball of his palm where his nails had dug in. This whole thing was getting under his skin. Something like this six-pack deal would do him good, take his mind off things.

The entire night was scheduled as some sort of homage to the bastard child of Diamond Kidd and Chase Johnson. Certain other faces may have stepped up to the plate in excitement, pleading for another chance to compete under the Outsider banner, while even more stepped up to redicule the idea, screaming obscenities at the dead promotion and crying resentment and outrage. James saw through all the pomp and circumstance, however. James saw it for what it was, all the OWF ever was, a cheap way to ruffle feathers and try to force a reaction to something that would otherwise not deserve noting. 'Presented by the OWF' means nothing, for better or worse, and Nick James would not be marching down that road again. 'Nick James never wrestled in the OWF,' he kid reminded himself, 'That was always Vacant, and that idiot is dead and buried.' No triumphant return, no glorious rebellion, just a mildly substandard job done billing an event in an otherwise unremarkable night. Nick James retained his focus.

Trent Steel and Drake Munday he was aquainted with already, neither worrying him too much. Black Phoenix and Fallen Sentinel were of a different sort, talented and established competitors that he'd seen plenty but never actually faced. Not that it much mattered; a match like this couldn't involve a some intricate chess-match strategy planning eighteen moves in advance. There was too much room for deviation, too many random variables. The only way to win was to stay alert, be aware and watch for opportunities. Nobody covers themselves on five sides every minute of the match. Pick your shots carefully and stay out of the trouble places, near the ropes or on the ground in the center. Don't make yourself the easy target; shunt off the competition toward easier marks. Fly under the radar without attracting too much attention, and keep that up until things are ready to close. Then go big, hit hard, and score the big finish. These types of matches were far from difficult, but that didn't mean much. If the wind blows wrong the whole house of cards could go tumbling over; anyone's chances were balanced on the head of a pin. Play smart and keep your head down. This was doable. After all, if being OWF night meant anything at all, it was that the level of competition just dropped about eighty percent.