No ******** idea.
After an eerie silence and emptiness on television screens around the world, the audience at home was suddenly shocked by the sounds of John Fogerty screaming the opening verse to "Born on the Bayou" through their speakers. In the distance was a young voice singing along with the chorus and the sound of driving on dirt. The only thing that had changed about the image was that there was a digital clock on the bottom right-hand side, counting as quick as milliseconds could be. It was 9:22pm. Thursday, September 18, 2015. What an interesting time of day -- and day of the week for that matter -- to be singing Creedence and four-wheeling. The over-enthusiastic tone of the driver on vocals had begun his one-man performance. By his voice, nobody could tell who they were listening to at this point.
"When I was just a little boy,
Standin' to my daddy's knee!
My poppa said 'Son, don't let the man getcha
or do what he done to me!
'Cause he'll getcha!'"
Standin' to my daddy's knee!
My poppa said 'Son, don't let the man getcha
or do what he done to me!
'Cause he'll getcha!'"
It was after that last line that panic escaped closed lips. However, the driver only sang louder.
Another momentary pause of silence had overcome the segment. The clock had disappeared from the corner of the screen, and for a good three or four seconds, it had remained this way. Once the senses of this segment had returned, it was 9:48pm. Twenty-six minutes of what may have been muffled cries for help and random music had come to an end, for there was no more anxiety seen and the only sounds now were that of the camera being dragged and a creepy whistling rendition of "Engel" by Rammstein. There was still nothing to be seen as of now. Only the sounds of nature and those who harm it would be able to create the image of what was going on. And soon again, the time and the sounds would come to a brief close. Yet when they returned, the camera showed signs of life, yet not life that the BBW fanbase had grown to care for.
Sitting across from the table was Jake Roman. It looked like an interrogation room, the way it was lit and the lack of windows that seemed to be in his surrounding. The Kid was wired; he tried to hide his use with sunglasses, but he could not hide how jittery he was. It could have been mistaken for a natural high by someone with innocence, but Roman was never interested in retaining the innocence of the "BBW Universe" -- or anyone for that matter. The Kid's half-finished cigarette hung lazily from his bottom lip. His black hoodie was unzipped to reveal a blank white t-shirt. The simple style in clothes was to give the illusion that he was a simple man. Jake, however, was far more complex and delusional than what people gave him credit for.
"Time and time again, these old-timers and so-called experts said... 'Kid, you got a little bit of crazy in you, and a lot of talent. You could be something in this sport.' But then they told me I had an ego - that faith that wasn't fueled by action meant less than the s**t at the bottom of my boots. I don't need faith. I don't answer to a Higher Power, because I work so goddamn hard at what I do, that one day, you won't see a power greater than me. Maybe that's something you can have faith in. I'll do all the footwork, and let you cowards bet on it. You call it ego? I call it being the only one walking in these shoes and knowing what I am at my full potential. They keep comparing my work to someone else's. And when that certain someone turns out to be a loser throughout their career, a scumbag, a runner-up, a washed-up almost-was-but-hasn't-been... it puts an extra chip on my shoulder. It gives me extra incentive to keep pursuing this dream."
"You know what else they told me? 'Jake, go out there and get it. Get what you want, get what you say you deserve.' I know I haven't deserved twenty-years of no hot water and a father gone missing. I haven't deserved to have all my hard work go to waste, and I haven't deserved to be forgotten so quickly when for the last two months, I have been on a mission to hunt for what's rightfully mine. I have gone out and searched, and fought, and plotted, and cornered what is mine, and now I have it. NOBODY can take that away from me. THIS?"
Jake grabbed the object holding the camera and pulled it down towards his direction. A heavy and loud thud was heard, but the camera was still completely in tact. Jake pushed the camera holder back up and held it in the palm of his hand. He was now a good six inches closer to the camera to show he was getting to the point. He could have spoken for hours, but the desire to show off was too irresistible.
"This is my trophy. And it may not be gold, but it will be at the top of my shelf or the bottom of my fridge when I make it choke at the hands of defeat.
Abruptly, Jake stood up and hopped over the table, getting behind the camera and knocking it backwards. The foreshadowing of the man he was referring to was unseen until a blur of his outline had shown. There was a mirror covering the ceiling, and as the camera slowly zoomed in, it had shown the forty-one year old AJ Warner unconscious, unwilling to fight off the abuse anymore. Around his cut-up forehead was a GoPro that was filming this promo all along. One eye was legitimately black from bruising, and the welts around his chest and arms were sickening. Jake had him locked into the crossface chickenwing, and the lost veteran had found his way into a new kind of torture. The enemy was his old reflection: a young, hungry, egotistical kid with the world in the palm of his hand. Wisdom would not fill his mind. Fear was imminent -- not only for himself, but for the fans who stood in awe at what they had just witnessed.
Roman's redemption had just begun.
