Amid endless chaos, I wonder what Eriq is thinking. I can't help but know he has a plan. I'd like to think he's too ignorant to have a plan - especially the way he's handled NLW - but he says he has a plan.

Maybe it's just a charade. Perhaps he's just talking it up, hoping everything falls into place so that it appears he really did have plan all along. But it seems to me he'd be better off planning something a bit more thrilling than tossing me in with these low-card opponents and trying to call the match a 'main event.' I'm sure he's expecting her to win at any cost, the same way my last opponent did. So he's giving me a taste of my own medicine.

Karma's a bitch. I couldn't avoid it forever. So I deal with it as it comes. And in the end, fate will deal its own hand, but not before I give Roxy Erikson a fucking beating. I'm tired of being the subject of a game, I'm tired of an old friend playing god when he's nothing more than a peon in this company.

But I have news for you, Eriq. Throwing every fucking scum-of-the-earth NLW low-carder at me won't deter me from obliterating Ray Lopes. If that's the 'plan' you have - to give me Dashery, to give me Erikson, and who-the-fuck-ever else you throw my way after this - then you better prepare for failure.

The intentions are so clear. If Eriq really thought Roxy or Dashery were worthy of facing me, he would have made these matches for my gold belt. But he doesn't. It's a sham. Roxy isn't worthy of being the NLW Champion. Neither was Dashery. It would mean certain doom for a company already on the downhill path to hell. And Eriq, if nothing else, knows that.

It wasn't about whether they were good enough to beat me, or good enough to be the next star of NLW. It's about MAKING the outcome against my favor. It's about trying to make a fool of me.

Foxy Roxy, you're just a pawn, like me, in the overall picture. Don't let him confuse you by throwing you a bone against the world champ. You're not on my level. He knows that. You know that. The guy who plunges the toilets at the arena knows it.

And if he allows you to get a cheap win on me, you still won't be on my level. So don't ever forget that. This moment in history, in NLW, isn't reality. We've stepped off into the fucking world of Willy Wonka under the guidance of Eriq Mobely. And it's about to push me over the edge.

IT WAS YEARS AGO
THE HOSPITAL CLOCK SHOWED 4:30 P.M.
LOCATION? ALBERTA, CANADA
MOOD? BITTER SWEET

'They're boys!' he said.

The sweat dripped down her face, and she was exhausted. She'd been told twins, but never followed up for another ultrasound. To her surprise, three baby boys were born that day. She patted her husband's hand and closed her eyes as the doctor pushed the door open and entered solemnly. He'd done this for years, and had never learned to deal with being the bearer of such news.

IT WAS FRIDAY, SEPT. 11, 2009
MY WATCH NOW SHOWED 4 A.M.
LOCATION? WASHINGTON, D.C.
MOOD? ANGRY

Anton DeAngelo threw his body down the inflatable slide leading from the crashed learjet to the pavement. Fire trucks, ambulances and police cars swarmed the plane as Anton hit the ground. Allen, aware that all others were now off the plane, followed, hitting the pavement awkwardly. The barrel of his pistol pierced into his hip, and he groaned as he struggled to stand. His legs finally straightened, and he began running after Anton. He yanked his pistol from its holster and moved it over to his right hand.

'He's going for the fence!' Anton screamed. He was talking about Jordan Brock. He'd bolted from the plane amid the confusion and excitement. Anton yelled at Brock to stop, and pulled his own pistol, aiming it towards the back of Jordan, who slowed to a jog, then a walk, and quickly stopped. 'Drop to your knees, and extend your hands away from your body. Do NOT move!'

Brock stood motionless, unwilling to follow Anton's orders. Josh finally caught up to Anton and drew his pistol as well.

'Come on Jordan, the quicker we clear this up, the better we'll all be in the end,' Josh rattled off. He wasn't buying it himself, and knew Brock probably wasn't, either. 'They're just going to question you, and if you have nothing to do with their case, you have my word you'll be back out doing whatever it is you want to do.'

There was a moment of silence as Brock's body began to shutter. Allen could hear a whimper in the man's voice. He wanted a closer look, and began stepping forward slowly, gun still drawn. In the background, law enforcement who had been summoned to the plane crash began taking notice of the action several hundred yards away. Anton and Allen could hear them yelling and trying to get across to see what was going on.

'Jordan, I'm walking up behind you. Don't do anything that'll scare me and make me shoot you,' Allen said. Brock was still sniffling.

'It's not me,' he whispered.

'What do you mean?' Josh asked. 'Say something. You have to talk to us.'

Anton was getting impatient.

'Brock, just drop to your fucking knees right now!' he screamed.

Brock whispered again, this time, anger hidden within the tone of his voice.

'But ... it's ... not ... me ...'

Allen placed his hand forward, reaching to grab Brock's left arm, but Skye's voice halted him.

'No no, Mr. Allen.'

Ricardo stood to the right of the three men, his own voice ricocheting off planes and metal buildings in the vicinity. He still wore the security garb he'd donned earlier.

'You guys don't understand what's going on,' Ricardo said. By this time, police patrolmen from the D.C. department were running up behind Anton, guns drawn on him and the others. 'You're making a big mistake.'

A patrolman identified himself as a police captain, and yelled at Anton and Allen to place their weapons on the ground. Allen placed his hands in the air, clearly showing them his pistol.

'We're FBI!' he screamed. 'Well, he is!' he said, using his head to point to Anton, who was standing behind him.

'Just let me show you my badge!' Anton pleaded.

The captain insisted he first place his weapon on the ground.

'Excuse me for being so fucking blunt, but if I do that, our prison could escape!'

'JUST DO IT!' the officer screamed. About a dozen other officers now stood in a semi-circle, also pointing weapons.

DeAngelo sighed and slowly placed his gun on the ground. From the darkness, Ricardo watched, unwilling to move. Allen still had a weapon, and Skye knew he could probably use it fairly well. Anton reached into his pocket slowly and yanked his agency-issued identification out. He extended it forward to the officer, who looked it over.

'OK,' he finally said.

At that moment, Ricardo ran for Brock, yanked him around and drew his own weapon. He placed it against Brock's head. The larger fighter, Jordan kept still. He seemed dazed as he was turned around and faced the other men. Allen backed away slowly. Ricardo spoke into the small piece of equipment he'd used to communicate with someone else.

'His medicine is wearing off,' Ricardo said. 'Where is it?'

Allen had nearly forgotten that the pills were now inside his pocket. He reached in and pulled the bottle out.

'These?' he asked. A grin formed across his face. 'And what happens if he doesn't have them? What are they for.'

'You don't get to ask the fucking question!' Skye screamed. 'Now give them to me, or I shoot him.'

Anton edged up closer to Allen.

'Don't,' he said.

Allen popped the cap off, letting it fall to the ground and roll away. The police officers were confused as to what was going on, but kept their weapons pointed in the direction of Skye and Brock.

'Come on, Ricardo,' Allen said. 'He's screwed as it is. You think I care if you shoot him in the head? That clears up half our case and leaves us more time to fucking nail YOUR ass. What are they?'

Skye was silent. Allen lifted the bottle, which contained only two more blue pills, towards his own mouth.

'I'm going to find out, one way or another,' Allen said.

He tilted his head back and let the pills slide down his throat. Ricardo cursed and threw Brock to the ground. The actions startled the policemen, one of whom unloaded a round in Ricardo's direction. Anton and Allen both hit the pavement as Ricardo scurried into the shadows, shooting back but hitting nothing as he ran. Anton tackled Brock, who'd become slightly more aggressive, but was screaming in pain. He noticed the blood that was dripping down Jordan's chest.

'Shit! God damn it! Get me a medic, somebody, fast!'

Allen stumbled up and took off in Skye's direction, but before he'd made it 20 feet, he seemed to get cloudy. He forgot what he was doing, and his body tumbled onto the ground. He blacked out.

IT WAS MONDAY, SEPT. 14, 2009
LOCAL TIME WAS 1:15 P.M.
LOCATION? WASHINGTON, D.C.
HIS MOOD? WORRIED

'Why haven't we heard anything?! I want to fucking know what's going on!'

Skye Ricardo pulled his vehicle up outside a large hospital building and pulled into a parking spot. His passenger sunk down in his seat, pulling a ballcap over his face. He was quiet.

'How would you hear what's going on? You think Josh or Anton or whoever are going to give you a call and say, 'Hey, Skye, long time, no see! How's it going? Did we hit you when we shot at your ass?!' You're lucky you got away. Don't ever pull that shit again.'

Skye put the car in park and ran his hand through his hair. He was exhausted. It had been days, and he'd seen and heard nothing about anyone's condition. He'd honestly been surprised no one had tailed him or busted him yet. He wasn't exactly the most well-hidden guy.

'I sold them, motherfucker, so don't start acting like I'm anything less than amazing, Jordan.'

IT WAS MONDAY, SEPT. 14, 2009
DON'T KNOW WHAT MY WATCH SHOWED
LOCATION? IT FEELS LIKE A HARD COT, SMELLS LIKE MEDICAL SUPPLIES
MY MOOD? UNCERTAIN

For the first time in days, Allen realized he was alert. His eyes were closed, and it seemed nearly impossible to force them open. He listened to the intercom. Dr. So-and-So was being paged to intensive care. Another was needed in delivery. His nose picked up the scent of all that was terrifying about a hospital - the disinfectants, the rubber gloves.

Finally, he forced his left eye open. Then his right. He turned them around, surveying the tubes entering and leaving his body on the hospital bed. The blinds on the windows were all closed tight. The lights in the room were off, and he could see the shadow of somebody standing outside from the light beneath the bedroom door. In the far corner of the room, Anton DeAngelo sat in a chair, his feet kicked up on a table as he looked over papers in a manilla envelope. He heard Josh moved and quickly stood.

'It's about time. You've been out for days,' he said.

Allen grunted.

'So, what was it?' he asked.

'What was what?'

'The pills. You know, the things that put me here?' Allen snorted.

'Oh, right, just a second!'

Anton walked to the light switch, flipped the bright lights on and opened the door to the room. He told a security guard to get the doctor in Allen's room ASAP, and walked back to the side of the bed.

'You've been out for a couple days, but we've learned years' worth of stuff, Allen. I'll let the doctor fill you in first on your condition.'

He nodded as the older gentleman walked in wearing the typical white outfit. He and Allen exchanged greetings.

'So you took quite a spill. Not the best way to taste test a random pill, Mr. Allen. Forgive me for being so blunt, but it was quite ignorant. Could have been fatal.'

Allen shook his head.

'But it wasn't. And if I'd sent them to a lab, it would have taken weeks. Here, you have no choice but to find out what they are so you can cure me. It's not my first rodeo, doc.'

'Fair enough. The pills you ingested were some sort of medicinal hypnotization. They're unlike anything I've ever come across before, and they're definitely not on the market. At least, not in America, and not in any legitimate market globally.'

Allen sat up, a little weak and feeling hungry.

'Medicinal hypnotization? Is that really possible?'

The doctor nodded.

'Of course. We have them in other smaller forms, but what you took seemed to be a massive, massive amount. At Agent DeAngelo's request, we sampled you, and we sampled the other patient brought in for a gunshot wound. What we found is that his body had been introduced to over a period of several months - maybe a year or more - to this drug. That's probably why it had the effect it did on him - dazing him, making him uncertain about what he was doing, where he was, who he was. For you, your body didn't handle the two pills so well. I'd guess our other patient...'

Allen put his hand up to stop the doctor.

'You mean Brock, when you say the 'other patient,' right?'

The doctor shrugged and looked at DeAngelo.

'I'll leave that to you. I have patients waiting. Mr. Allen,' he said, looking back at Josh, 'this drug should be out of your system no later than today. We'll check up on you this afternoon and let you know if you can go home.'

He walked out of the room and left DeAngelo, who pulled up a chair and pulled out the papers from his folder. He sort of chuckled, but held back because what he was about to say had actually irritated him when the information was first confirmed.

'Did you really think your old friend Jordan Brock was gay?' he started.

Allen thought about it.

'When it comes to something like that, I make decisions based solely on what I see. And we saw Jordan and Skye kiss in Vegas, before you busted his ass on the strip,' said Allen. 'That's what I saw.'

DeAngelo shook his head and tossed the papers onto Allen's stomach.

'No you didn't,' he said. 'We brought him in to be treated for the gunshot wound. He nearly died, he'd lost so much blood. It's so simple, but we all missed it. Every one of us. That guy in the hospital room, clinging for his life right now, isn't Jordan Brock.'

Allen offered a rebuttal.

'The hell it isn't,' he said. 'I know the guy very well. I've traveled with him, I've worked with him. He was a close friend. That guy is Jordan Brock.'

DeAngelo laughed.

'Exactly what I said when we tried matching the fingerprints to Brock,' said Anton. 'But what we found out is that he, most definitely, is not Jordan Brock. We have Brock's prints on file. So that sent us into a state of confusion, but, of course, we have experts to handle this. Less than 24 hours later, we find out a little information we all should have known. Brock is actually one of three triplets. One of his brothers died at birth. The other was adopted out before he was 2 months old. The adopting family changed his name.'

Josh couldn't believe it. It sounded too manufactured.

'This isn't CSI or All My Children, Anton,' he said.

'Nope, it's not!' DeAngelo said. 'This is Jordan's twin. Or triplet, however you look at it. He's an identical version of Jordan. Skye Ricardo duped us. You said Skye told you that you didn't know the whole story. He wasn't kidding. And whether or not he knows it, Jordan Brock has a twin brother lying on a hospital bed, dying slowly because doctors can't get the internal bleeding to stop. And if he dies, so does part of our case.'