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"This is my spinaroonie. There are many others like it, but this one is mine. My spinaroonie is my best friend. It is my LIFE! I must master it as I must master my hustle. Without me, my spinaroonie is useless. Without my spinaroonie, my broke ass is useless. I must spin my roonie true! I must fight harder than my enemy, who is tryin' t' whoop my ass. I must axe kick him 'fore he suplex me. I will! Befo' God I swear this creed: my spinaroonie and myself are defenders of this business, we are the masters of our enemy, we are the saviors of my life. So be it, until there is no world champion but me. Amen, sucka'."
He wakes up in a cold sweat. For a long moment, he looks around the room, unaware of his surroundings. Sweat pours off his face, drips off the tip of his nose, tickles his jawline as it navigates his beard. His heart pounds violently beneath its flesh and bone confines and threatens to break free with every guttural THUMP. He can hear a helicopter overhead, gunfire in the distance, someone screaming in Vietnamese... for a moment, he thinks he's back in the shit. Booker T runs his hands through his hair and throws his blanket back. Sitting on the edge of his cot in the nude, he touches his chest and takes a deep breath. He doesn't hear the sounds anymore and slowly but surely, his heartbeat returns to normal. He looks down at the digital clock on the cardboard box which doubles as a nightstand and it confirms what he already suspected:
He gets up and clicks the light on, revealing that he's sleeping in the backroom of his training facility in Texas. The room is a mess. The floor is bare concrete, the walls and ceiling are water damaged, and the room is "decorated" with faded accolades from his past, torn-up posters and dusty replica belts. He walks into the nearby bathroom, no bigger than a broom closet and looks at himself in the dingy mirror hanging above the dingier sink. He turns on the faucet and catches water in both hands before applying it to his face. As water follows the roadmap of wrinkles on his face back into the sink below, he stares into his own eyes. "I neva' thought I'd find myself back behind enemy lines." He hears heavy footsteps behind him and stands upright, glancing over his shoulder. He feels a shiver up his spine even though he knows it's impossible, that the room is too small... that he locked the door to the Reality of Wrestling training facility before he laid down for the night.
His upper lip curls with disgust.
He looks at his wet hands in the sink and clenches two fists. He clenches them so tightly that it begins to hurt and then lets go. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. "Dis run ain' s'posed t' be about da' Booka' Man. I ain' 'ere f' me, ya' dig? Mick Foley's ass know I'm 'ere f' her. Rok-C. Dis is her dream, t' be a champion unda' the bright lights onna' biggest stage of'em all... but here I am... throw'd right back inna' middle of it like I ain' never left. More'n thirty men, it's gon' be war... it's gon' be war like I ain' never seen, man... not inna long ass time." Gunshots ring out behind him and he cups his ear, grimacing with pain. He hears the voice of General Rection shouting to press onward, push forward, don't give up an inch. Lieutenant Loco shouts something like "look out for the Filthy Animals, they're up in the trees!" but Booker T doesn't catch the warning... he doesn't understand Mexican accents. He tightly shuts his eyes and grips the edges of the sink. "Who dis man think I am, huh? Brock Lesnar, Roman Reigns, fat ass Keith Lee! Who ain' in dis battle royal, man? He say... he doin' me a favor but I ain' never asked f' nothin'... I'm exactly where I wanna be right now, dis is da' life 'at I chose, ya' heard?" "Is that what you really believe, soldier?" The familiar voice booms from somewhere in the tiny room and Booker T whips around, his hair flying in every direction. There's no one behind him. Breathing heavily, he tears back the makeshift curtain which obscures the showerhead, revealing nothing by a murky shower drain. He flings open the cabinet door beneath the sink... no one to be found. "I can't go back, man. I ain' cut out f' dis shit no mo'! I thought I could... I thought they was one mo' run left in the Booka' Man... but when I put my hands on 'at little dude on the YouTubes... I... I--" "Don't lie to yourself, soldier. You enjoyed it. You left that man laying, just like you was trained to do. You're a weapon, Booker T. You're one of the best. That's how you earned your codename. If it wasn't for you and GI Bro's efforts during the war, Chris Kanyon might still occupy the Atlanta territory today." "Chris Kanyon? Dat was one o' the easy ones, sergeant. Naw, my ass lay awake at night, thinkin' bout them Filthy Animals 'n them New Bloods, man... I can't get dat image out my MIND, man, Corporal Cajun laid out, been given that got-GOT by JUVENTUD... I rememba' it, sergeant. I rememba' ever'thang like it was yesta'day... da' faces o' all dem kids... and Corporal Cajun wit' his ratchet ass sideburns lookin' up at me, his little Cajun eyes burnin' into mine, INTO MY SOUL... 'n he said somethin' in Cajun like "rezzy jezzy soo-flay-DOH!" Sounded like some cartoon shit... but I unda'stood it as a question 'n I don' need to speak Cajun t' know what da' question was: why, GI Bro? Why?" "War is hard, soldier. War breeds hard men." Closing the cabinet and standing upright, Booker T looks at himself in the mirror again, hearing and, somehow, feeling the conversation take place in the room. A man in a camouflage vest over a red t-shirt walks into the frame behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Booker T looks down at the hand and sneers. "You were never the same after the war. You lost everything. You're trying to regain some of your humanity by helping this girl but that will only get you so far. It's up to you to take control of your life and turn this war around. It's up to you to deliver your axe kick upon Bron Breakker and vanquish the infernal HOOK with your nuclear solution, The Book End." The hand on Booker T's shoulder grips him even more tightly. The man steps into focus, revealing a camouflage floppy hat resting on top of his bald head. The man's bottom lip quivers with intensity. Booker T doesn't look surprised because he recognized the voice from the beginning.
Booker T looks in the mirror, glaring at his reflection.
Releasing his grip on Booker T's shoulder, Pittman gives him an encouraging pat on the back.
Booker sits bolt upright in bed with a gasp. No helicopters, no gunshots, no screaming in Vietnamese. Sunlight streams through a nearby window. Hours later, the sound of a heavy bag being pounded by the fists of a motivated man fills the gym. The sound of a key unlocking the front door can be heard and then Rok-C enters the gym with her bag. Booker T stops pounding on the bag and turns to greet her, removing MMA style gloves from his hands and dropping them on the floor. She drops her duffle bag in shock at what she sees.
He pays no mind to how she's looking at him.
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