It's utterly, completely bullshit.

My manager, Mario, calls me up and feels the urge to tell me what all the hot-spots online are saying about me. Ethan snuck one in on me, and that means I'm starting on the downhill slope? I'm old and need to retire? And that one cheap victory means Roxy has a great chance at taking me down too?

I'm tired of addressing political bullshit. Old doesn't describe me. I'm not on a downhill slope. Midlife crisis? That's another story, completely unrelated to my ability to hold my own. I'm like a good wine. The years have only made me better. And I'm not addressing this issue of Roxy one more time after today.

Mario wants to know if I'm really considering retirement. It's crossed my mind, but we haven't spoken face-to-face on it. He reads tabloids, Internet rumor mills like everybody else. I understand where he's coming from. Without me, he has no paycheck, and he goes back to producing Mexican TV commercials south of the border for little pay and no respect. I slip up, and I let one guy cheat me out of a victory, and he starts questioning it.

When I returned from my little hiatus, I said I was back for one thing. I'm not here to put a gold belt around my waist and talk about how great I am, or how I'm the best NLW Champion in its history. I'm not here to prove anything, because I've already proven all that I care to. As if it really mattered to anyone, anyway.

I came back and saw the shambles this place had been left in. A champion who was MIA until someone finally tapped him for a title defense, and he had no option but to show his face. A roster of nobodies who thought their big mouths equalled big ratings and big crowds and big success. A man who sits in an office week in, week out, pretending to care for a company that means nothing more than a huge paycheck for his big bank account in another country.

I came back to get everything back in line. The NLW universe is jacked up. I slipped up and let victory slip from my hands last time I was in the ring, but I give credit where credit is due. Ethan Dashery learned to take advantage of every opportunity, to win no matter the cost and matter the manner. Because when the wrestling columnists look back 50 years from now, and see the outcomes of his matches piece by piece, it won't say how he won. It'll show all that matters: 'win.'

Lesson learned.

And now, as I've said time and time again, I move forward realizing I cannot let myself become an example for my own preaching and teaching. This is my journey, and Roxy is another stopping point along the path. I hope she only realizes what an opportunity this will be for her career. There are men I've lost to who I regret even facing. I fear what the critics will see in the future, when looking back over those losses. Some were set-ups ... some were clean finishes. All of us have them if our careers span any legitimate length of time.

But it is failure that makes us stronger. It is failure that reveals victory. Little lady, I hope you truly take that to heart. If you take nothing else away from our match... if the bruising you suffer says nothing, if the bell ringing when it's all said and done says nothing ... remember that, in the end, it will be OK that you lost to Josh Allen. I'm one of those guys. If there's one person to lose to, and not kick yourself over... it's me.

IT WAS WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 16, 2009
MY WATCH SHOWED STRAIGHT UP NOON
LOCATION? WASHINGTON, D.C.
MY MOOD? WORRIED, EXCITED

Josh Allen had never felt such a mixed emotion. Halfway across the city, a man he'd believed was a former friend, Jordan Brock, was near death. But it wasn't Jordan. At least, not according to professionals. He was an identical twin - a triplet, actually, though the third brother had passed away at birth.

Allen scrolled down the Google search results of 'identical triplets.' He learned quickly that it was a very rare occurrence, something that almost needed to be straight from a Hollywood script to fit so perfectly into such a situation.

He exited the web browser on his Blackberry and leaned his chair back. He sat in a large, open room, highlighted by the large, dark oak table in the center. Giant leather chairs circled the table, and folders were placed neatly, and orderly, in front of each place. But Allen was the only one in the room, and the silence was nearly threatening. He lifted the small, clear glass of water in front of him and sipped it.

About 10 minutes later, a line of other men and women in dull, black and brown shades of clothing filed into the office. They each took their places as if they had them memorized. Most of them avoided eye contact, and looked as though they'd lived humorless, boring lives. Anton DeAngelo took his seat right next to Allen, patting him on the shoulder as he opened the file folder in front of his chair.

'We're all aware of why we're here,' the older woman at the very end of table said in a monotone voice. Her wrinkles showed years of stress, and her eyes said she was all business. 'At approximately 0400 hours on the 11th day of this year, 2009, a learjet carrying 19 passengers and three crew members crashed on the northwest runway at the local airport... '

Allen rolled his eyes. He'd been through something similar before, and it was pointless and nothing but a way for big-wigs to try justifying their six-digit government salaries.

'Ensuing investigations led officials to believe that the cause of said incident was related to mechanical failures in two of the airline's three undercarriage wheels. Further investigations focused around said failure leads us to believe the error was intentional.'

Josh sat up, the words coming as a surprise. In all that had happened, he'd honestly never entertained the notion that someone had caused the crash. He'd assumed Skye Ricardo's presence at the airport was related more to knowing where Allen and DeAngelo were taking Brock. Or... Brock's identical.

She continued.

'Through warrants issued on Monday, our agency confirmed that a subject was underneath the learjet less than an hour before the flight was in the air, en route to D.C. Our experts continue working to enhance the quality of the video, but as of yet, have been unable to make a matching identification on the person of interest. Checks with airport executives lead us to believe almost without a doubt that the man was not employed by any agency working at the airport or on the airline.'

Allen cleared his throat and sort of raised his hand, trying to get her attention.

'I... I, or, we, can identify who it was,' he stuttered.

He was quickly met with a kick beneath the table from DeAngelo, who made a slight grunting noise and tried to give Allen a look, without making it obvious.

The woman stopped. Allen couldn't tell if she was interested, or pissed that she'd been interrupted.

IT WAS OCTOBER 2008
THE LIBRARY CLOCK SHOWED 9:07 A.M.
LOCATION? ORLANDO, FLORIDA
HIS MOOD? BORED

Though he'd never been much for reading books, Skye Ricardo had wandered into the public library in search of other information. He felt sort of scorned by Josh Allen, the man who'd given him a start in the business. Why hadn't Allen seen fit to help Ricardo land another monumental contract, help him score another lightweight title victory? Allen was too busy, too distracted.

And Ricardo was never one to be tossed aside like one-night stand. He paid for an hour of computer usage, and when that time had expired, paid for two more. He found himself mesmerized by the articles he would read. He started with JA's history, and it eventually led him to other information on JA - who he'd worked with, who he'd worked for. Jordan Brock's name popped into the equation somewhere in the research.

On a lucky hit, and with a bit of determination, Ricardo clicked and clicked through the material on Jordan Brock. There didn't seem to be anything complicated about the man. Well known throughout Canada, even parts of the U.S., for his shoot fighting skills. He'd been the source of many wagers, and he'd won people some big bucks.

It was a newspaper article from a small community in Canada that caught his attention. It had been written by a contributor to the paper who'd frequented a pub on the outskirts of a lake. On a Friday night, he crossed paths with the man he believed was fighter Jordan Brock. The man led him on as if he was indeed the famous fighter, but after nearly an hour of conversation, the liquor had gone to his head. He admitted he wasn't this 'Jordan Brock' the reporter had spoke of.

It wasn't believable for the writer, so he asked for identification proof. He was being humored. The man - Worthy Carmichael - flipped his ID out. The article had appeared as a celebrity impersonation type publication, and while many had read it, no one ever followed up or even hinted that perhaps the two were related.

Skye typed his name into the Google search engine and found nothing but that same article. Regardless, he felt a need to do some digging.

IT WAS WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 16, 2009
MY WATCH SHOWED 12:16 p.m.
LOCATION? WASHINGTON, D.C.
MY MOOD? CONFUSED

'What do we know about this man ... this ... 'Skye Ricardo?' Shirley Higgenbotham, her large bifocals pulled down to the tip of her nose, glared at Allen, then switched it to DeAngelo. Anton pounded his fist on the table, startling the others.

'With all due respect, the transportation authority has no right to be questioning the bureau about our case,' he yelled at her. 'And if we sit here and argue jurisdiction, that means Ricardo has more time to flee the country or harm someone else. And until your agency comes with with a warrant demanding such information from the FBI, I suggest you take your happy, wrinkled little as out that door and do YOUR thing, with YOUR employees, at YOUR office.'

Higgenbotham pushed her chair out from under the table and stood. She placed both hands on the table, leaned over and stared toward Allen.

'Mr. Allen, the question goes for you, too,' she said, as if it hadn't phased her. 'And it's in your best interest, as a man who was on that plane when it crashed, carrying a firearm, that wasn't registered to you... and not only that, but you aren't even an officer of the law anymore, according to my sources.'

Josh remained mum on the issue, giving her a confused look but determined he should keep his trap shut. He'd spoken a little too early, not thinking about the jurisdictional boundaries of the FBI and the NTA.

She sighed and pulled a cell phone from her small purse. Moments later...

'It's Shirley. I have no cooperation from the bureau, so I need you to .... but I .... fine.'

She turned the phone off, gave a menacing look at both Allen and DeAngelo, grabbed her purse and stormed out of the room. A few seconds of silence resulted in the other members, none of whom had ever said a word, taking their file folders and quickly filing out of the room.

Anton slugged Allen on the arm and stood, clearly upset.

'You nearly cost us everything, asshole,' he said. 'If they find out, they bust him for that, and our case is overshadowed. He pleads out, does no time, and all other charges are dismissed because he plays the mental competency card. We can put him away for good if we just go get him.

Allen shook his head no and stood from the table.

'I have plans. I'm flying out of here this evening.'

'WHAT? After all we've fucking been through you're walking away from this? You can't!' Anton demanded.

'I have no choice. You forget I have a real job. One that I'm actually getting paid for. If I don't put this out of my mind, I'm going to overlook my match and end up on the losing end like I did last time. To hell with Skye Ricardo for right now. What's the worst he can do at this point? Try to crash my plane again? Shoot you in all your armed-vest glory in broad daylight? He's hiding. We'll burn him out, but it will take time. And that, I fear, I am out of at the moment.'

IT WAS WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 16, 2009
THE HOSPITAL CLOCK SHOWED 12:45 p.m.
LOCATION? WASHINGTON, D.C.
HIS MOOD? TORN

The security guard had been called away to the emergency room, where a disorderly patient had overturned a medical cart and stabbed himself with a scalpel. Brock, a stocking hat covering his hair, slid down the hallway so gently and opened the door to his brother's room.

He entered and stared at the body that seemed so lifeless. Tubes went every which direction, and monitors beeped and buzzed. He approached slowly, looking him over top to bottom. It was like an out-of-body experience, looking at a man who was his mirrored image.

Brock grabbed Worthy's left hand and held it in his. His throat clogged and his eyes began to water as he dropped his brother's hand, grabbed a spare pillow from a nearby chair, and placed it over his brother's face. There was little effort in fighting it, as Worthy had been out of consciousness for days. The monitors flatlined as Brock tossed the pillow aside and walked to the door. He stopped, staring at the white, tiled floor, and sniffled.

'It has to be an untold story, brother. You'd understand.'

He opened the door and quickly left the building.