Early evening, October 4th

'What's the game plan tonight, sir?' I didn't move at all as I spoke, breaking the silence of the locker room. Ethan sat a few feet away from me on a low bench, his head in his hands, while I leaned against the lockers nearby.

It was a sad attempt at conversation. I think Ethan knew as well that I really didn't care what what his response was. A game plan was ludicrous in light of his mystery opponent and the fact that Ethan simply wasn't an intellectual wrestler. Some would come up with strategies for bigger opponents, smaller opponents. A plan to deal with a hardcore fighter, or a technical wizard, or something, anything, to give them some semblance of a method coming into a match against a mystery opponent.

'The same game plan every show, Pinky...what the bloody hell do you think, George? Lay a beating on some worthless peon, and get paid. Same as always.' He grunted with finality.

Nope, that just wasn't Ethan's style. I'd hoped by now that the point would be clear, that he was winning on smoke and mirrors, on technicalities and blown calls by referees. He should diversify his offense, work a little on striking and grappling, so he didn't resemble a punching bag for ninety percent of his time in the ring. Instead, to Ethan, in spite of his beatings, every further win simply validated him and his complete lack of wrestling skills.

I was curious when everything would finally crumble. His ego alone was keeping him going, but sooner or later, his body was simply going to give out, and this sad excuse for a wrestling career would be done with forever. Even now, with him just sitting in the locker room during a show, he was wincing in obvious pain, while somehow imagining that he was hiding it.

'I was just curious if you gave some thought to strategy for your match, sir.' I was answered with silence for a moment, before Ethan shifted uncomfortably.

'Yeah, I was thinking about paying off someone to beat down whoever I'm facing. That Munday bloke looks promising.'

'Sir...how should I put this? Your finances might not allow that much further.' I couldn't believe that he would even think he had the resources to think about it. Most of his considerably fortune was tied to his family, and not so much him. What remained wasn't unsubstantial, but at the same time wasn't going to pay off professional wrestlers. Not unless they were really broke themselves. All the while, Ethan had to lay off his own help around the house...I just couldn't wrap my mind around Ethan's situation, especially as I had better insight to him than most. The tank might not be on E yet. In spite of his NLW contract, his lifestyle was still slowly taking things there, to the best of my knowledge. Something had to give.

'You know what, George? Just go. Go enjoy the show from the seats. I don't need a nanny. Go.'

'Sir, you know I'd rather be at ringside. You need someone to watch your back, especially with this match.' While I did think that the implosion was inevitable, I didn't want to actively take part in it, even simply by absence.

'Actually, George, get out of the arena. Go. I don't want to see you until the end of the show. GO!' He stood up, pointing at the door. I could see his expression deeply creased with pain. I felt this welling of...sympathy. The word itself felt dirty. The feeling rising in my chest made me sick even as it made me almost reach out to grip his shoulder, but I locked my arm in place.

Then I reached out, grabbing his shoulder anyway. I cursed myself a thousand times silently. I reconciled with myself swiftly, telling myself that as much as I hated sympathizing with Ethan, he hated me pitying him a thousand times more.

Both of those thousands are appropriate. I might be off by an order of magnitude, tops, but when you're dealing with Ethan, hate and cursing come and go in numbers warranting scientific notation.

'George...stop worrying. I'll be fine. This is what I do.' His words were strangely calm, as he looked me in the eye. I shook my head slightly. I knew better. Yet all the while, I pulled my arm away, and stepped out of the room. He was a grown man. It wasn't my responsibility. You can't help someone who doesn't want help.

So I walked out of the room.

Ethan stared at the open door where George had departed. A part of him shivered slightly, as the pain in his neck intensified immensely. Every step caused him pain. He couldn't run out there and tell George he was wrong, though. He just couldn't do it. He was a Dashery. George, as useful as he was, was a peon all the same.

'Enough of this.' He waved an arm for emphasis, even only to himself. 'Time to get things in order. First, I'm going to find this Munday bastard, and make sure he breaks Okuma nice. And then I'll get him to watch my back in the main event as well.'

He stood up, and turned his head toward the door. Immediately, he dropped to his knees, stifling an immense cry that died in his throat, coming out instead as a harsh groan. Moving his hands to his neck brace, he tried to steady himself to rise, but nothing came of it. The pain was too much. He leaned against the locker, biting into his lip as he reached in, feeling around among his personal items, until he found one of his pill bottles.

Shaking it close to his eyes, he allowed himself a pained grin at the loud sound of clattering pills. He slammed his palm down onto the ground with the bottle in it, shattering the plastic, leaving a few spikes of pain in his palm as some of the shards penetrated his skin. Pills scattered on the floor. He scooped a handful of them, possibly as many as half of the contents of the bottle, and shoved them in his mouth.

He finally flopped onto his back, laying motionless on the floor. The pain in his neck was still there, but this posture minimized it moreso than any other. Part of him wanted to get up and close the door, as he saw staffers and other wrestlers walking down the hallway, fully able to see him. Some even stared blatantly.

At the same time, he didn't really care. The more the minutes dragged on, the less he cared.

The best seat George found for himself was in the section above ground level. He watched in horror as Ethan's opponent was unveiled, and the match began in usual fashion, with Ethan getting beaten badly.

By the time the match was nearly over, he had vaulted the railing at the front of his section, and was attempting to make his way toward the ring through the floor level seats. George cursed to himself as he fought mightily but in vain to come to Ethan's aid as JC cranked on his neck mercilessly.

They were finally broken apart when George found himself at ringside. He cringed, imagining the pain or the damage done to Ethan. All that came to mind was the words 'career-ending.'

Then Ethan staggered to his feet, with the help of the ropes. George could hear the announcers exclaiming in disbelief as he did.

'How does he do it? How the hell can he do it?' George spoke aloud to no one in general, in disbelief as well as even part of the crowd began to cheer for Ethan.