Post by Deleted on Oct 5, 2012 21:21:23 GMT -5
1! 2! 3!
The count was punctuated by the sound of a ringing bell, something that James “The Hammer” Harlow had gotten used to after twenty-three years in professional wrestling. Throughout his career, he had never been one to keep track of his matches; he won some, he lost some. If you couldn’t handle getting your shoulders pinned to the canvas a few times, then you were definitely not cut out to be a pro wrestler. It was unrealistic to think that you could make it in the business without taking a loss here or there. As a wise man once said, it wasn’t how many times you got knocked down that mattered; it was how many times you got back up.
After Monday night’s loss to Bliss, Harlow had gotten back up. Of course, he had to have help to do it, since Bliss had rung his bell with the MPW North American championship belt. Petite or not, she had put all of her weight behind the blow, which had left Harlow dizzy, nauseated, and bloody. Losing never felt good, but Harlow had to admit to himself that he wasn’t all that disappointed. He had stepped into that ring after eleven years away and gone toe-to-toe with one of the business’s best, young talents with hardly any signs of ring rust. Bloody and wobbly-legged, he had walked back down that aisle and into the locker room with the cheers of the fans ringing in his ears. It made the eight stitches in his forehead worthwhile.
Two days later, “The Hammer” found himself wondering whether or not he had taken one too many chair-shots to the head. To say that his return match on Monday Night Main Event hadn’t exactly gone the way he had anticipated would have been an understatement. Losing to the North American champion wasn’t a bad way to start off in MPW, but getting cheap-shotted was a shitty way to go out.
He flopped over on his back, grateful that the Four Seasons had better beds than the Budget Inn in Reno. In fact, everything about the Four Season was better. He glanced at the floor-to-ceiling windows, wishing that he had remembered to pull the curtains so that he could enjoy the spectacular view of the mountains. Even at the apex of his career, he had settled for more modest accommodations. At the time, it had just seemed a little unnecessary to spend more than eighty bucks a night for a room, especially considering that he had usually ended up passed out in the floor, an empty Jack Daniels bottle clutched in his hand.
Luckily, those days were in the past. He had never really been addicted to drugs, although he had done his fair share of experimenting. Pot had only made him hungry, horny, and sleep all at the same time. He had tried coke a few times in the early ‘80s, but it hadn’t really done anything for him. Alcohol, on the other hand, had nearly been a constant companion, until he had given it up in 2004. Most days he didn’t even miss it.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those days.
He had gotten a phone call from the MPW front office earlier saying that he was going to get a second chance to defeat Bliss, but this time it was going to be a title match at the After Shock Pay-Per-View.. His gratitude and his grin had both vanished, however, when he had been told that it was going to be a triple threat match with Rage added to the mix. In the back of his mind, he had known that a match against Ryan was inevitable, but he just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.
Rage had a lot to answer for as far as he was concerned. Unfortunately, double-crosses and backstabbing were pretty common in professional wrestling, but usually the one getting screwed over was given an excuse. Rage hadn’t even bothered giving him a lame excuse why he had turned on him. “The Hammer” had wondered countless times if maybe Ryan’s double-cross had been the final straw that had led him to retiring.
A knock on the door derailed his train of thought. He checked the digital read-out on the clock next to the bed and sighed. The first thing he had done after finding out about the match at After Shock had been to call Jay Wyatt and schedule some promo time. Ordinarily, he would have requested to meet someplace else other than his hotel room just to provide some atmosphere, but he had a nasty, nagging headache, and just didn’t care about window dressing for the promo.
The knock came again, this time harder than before. The pain in Harlow’s skull seemed to throb in synch with the pounding on his door. Frowning, he sat up with a groan. “It’s open.”
The door opened, but Tim Bowers walked in, a cameraman tagging along close behind. The MPW interviewer was decked out in a cream-colored, double-breasted suit with a pale lavender dress shirt and a black, silver, and violet striped necktie. He smirked at Harlow’s confused expression. “Expecting someone else?”
“Where’s Wyatt?” The question came out as a growl. Harlow had seen Bowers a few times since signing with MPW, and didn’t care for him. He always seemed a little too arrogant to be mouthing off to people that made their living beating the hell out of each other. It was almost like Bowers felt he was too good to be working for a wrestling promotion.
“Oh, the kid had other obligations.” His smirked widened. “So, you got me.”
Harlow fought the urge to smash the cocky son-a-bitch’s face into pulp. He rubbed his temples and tried to clear his mind, so he could concentrate on the task at hand. “Great.”
“Listen, Hammer,” Bowers said, contempt practically dripping from Harlow’s nickname. “I would much rather be talking to someone else. Preferably someone with a little class – “
Harlow let the insult slide, but he didn’t know how much he was willing to take from Bowers. It would be a pain in the ass to get fired for throwing an MPW employee out of a hotel window. He had to admit, though, that watching Bowers scream and soil himself as he bounced off the outside of the Four Season would be amusing as hell.
“ – so, let’s see if we can get through this as quickly as possible.”
“The Hammer” ground his teeth together, trying to ignore the spike of pain that shot through his head and jaw. A few minutes with Bowers was going to seem like a fucking lifetime. Unfortunately, it looked like he didn’t have much of a choice. “Have a seat, Bowers. Let’s get this over with.”
With the setting sun over the mountains behind him, James “The Hammer” Harlow looked like a brooding king sitting upon a throne as he sat in one of the room’s grand, over-stuffed armchairs. Framed by flowing sandy blond hair, his ruggedly handsome face was weathered and lined, years of hard living etched into his countenance. The jagged line of stitches across his forehead was surrounded by dark, mottled purple and yellow bruises, a testament to Bliss’s desire to win. He was dressed in sneakers, faded jeans, and a gray-and-black Harley-Davidson T-shirt. He scratched his beard thoughtfully, before turning his eyes to the camera.
“Twenty-three years in this business. It’s safe to say that I’ve done it all.” He managed a small, bemused smirk. “But a petite, five-four woman beat my ass Monday night.” He shook his head, grimacing at the pain. “Bliss, I don’t blame you for taking a shortcut. I guess you figured the deck was stacked against you, considering your ex was the referee. Up until you decided to use that North American belt to rearranged my face, I was beginning to think that you were going to play by the rules.” He took a deep breath and smiled. “I guess I should have known not to trust a woman. Especially a beautiful one.”
From off-camera, Bowers snorted. “Are you trying to say that you actually think you had a shot against Bliss?”
Harlow frowned, clenching his jaw. He should have known better than to trust Bowers to do a professional, unbiased job, too. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. There’s no doubt Bliss is faster and more agile, but despite what everyone wants to believe, I’m not some broken-down, old geezer trying to recapture the fame and glory of yesteryear. My past is my past; MPW is my future.”
“You may have the experience edge over everyone in MPW, but – like you just pointed out – Bliss is faster and more agile. The same can be said for most of the MPW superstars. Professional wrestling has come a long way from the days of immobile titans like Andre the Giant and John Studd.”
“What are you getting at, Bowers?”
“Back in your day, guys didn’t really have to do a whole lot inside the ring. For example, back then a vertical Suplex was something the fans oohed and awed over. The modern wrestling fan needs a little something more.”
Harlow raised an eyebrow. “No kidding.” He shook his head, rolling his eyes at Bowers. “Have you ever wrestled?”
“Well, no. But –“
“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Look, I’m not one of these one-dimensional wrestlers that you are comparing me to. I know what the fans like to see. I’ve never been one of those guys that just has four or five big moves. I’m always working to improve my in-ring abilities.”
“You’re set to face Bliss and Rage in a triple threat match at After Shock for Bliss’s North American Championship. A lot of people are saying the powers that be only added you to the match to avoid you crying foul at being defeated by Bliss Monday night.”
“Then, I’d say those people are blind. Did I get pinned on Main Event? Yeah, there’s no denying that. Did Bliss manage to beat me cleanly? No, she didn’t. With Newman out of the picture, I think booking me against Bliss at the Pay-Per-View was the next logical step. Obviously, I didn’t expect it to be a title match, but I’m not complaining.”
“Even though you technically didn’t really earn a title shot? Don’t you feel that’s a bit unethical?”
Harlow pressed his lips into a thin, bloodless line. “No, I don’t. If anything, the match was made because they saw the kind of chemistry that Bliss and I had in the ring against each other. It’s an honor to be given a title shot so early in my MPW career, but I wouldn’t take it if I didn’t feel like I earned it.”
“And the addition of Rage? How do you feel about that?”
“Rage,” Harlow said with a sigh. He pinched the bridge of his noise between his thumb and index finger and closed his eyes. “That was unexpected.”
“Don’t you have a history?”
“You could say that. Back when Rage was still calling himself by the name his parents had given him, I helped him break into the wrestling business. Years later, he decided to stab me in the back.”
“He put you in the hospital with a concussion, three bruised ribs, and –“
Harlow’s eyes snapped open. “I was there! I don’t need you to run down a list of the injuries that Rage left me with.”
He took a deep breath and looked into the camera lens, ignoring Bowers completely. “Bliss, I gave you the benefit of a doubt that you’d rely on your abilities in our match. There’s an old saying that goes ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me’. Well, you’re not going to fool me twice. I’m going to chalk Monday night’s defeat up as a learning experience, because at the Pay-Per-View I’m not going to fall for the same thing.” He smiled and cocked his head to the side a little. “You got rid of Newman. Good for you. I don’t want you to have any excuses for taking the low road out on After Shock. I want you at your best, fully focused, and ready to bring everything that you’ve got to the ring. Anything less just isn’t going to cut it this time.”
His features tightened. “Ryan – Rage, or whatever you want to call yourself now . . . listen to me very carefully. You don’t get the same kind of professionalism that I’m going to extend to Bliss. Kicking her cute little ass is just business, title or no title. Kicking your ass is personal.” He leaned forward slightly. “A long time ago, we were friends. No! More than that, we were brothers. We both had the same kind of passion for the business, but somewhere along the way, you changed. All of the warnings that I gave you about the egomaniacs, the assholes that only looked out for number one, they must have gone in one ear and come right out the other, because that’s what you became. Oh, I’m sure you had your reasons for screwing me over, but instead of acting like a man . . . you acted like a coward.”
Harlow leaned back into the chair, resting his forearms on the arms of the chair. “I trusted you, Ryan. But you proved that my trust in you was misplaced. This Tuesday I don’t any preconceived notions about trust when it comes to you or Bliss. While it would be an honor to represent Millennium Pro Wrestling as its North American champion, the title isn’t what’s first and foremost on my mind. Showing the MPW fans what the new and improved ‘Hammer’ can do is.”
“Wha –“
Harlow cut Bowers off with a steely glare, before looking back into the lens. “It’s been all fun and games up to this point. After Shock is where it gets serious. Bliss, Rage – enjoy the weekend, because you’re not just stepping into the ring against James Harlow at the Pay-Per-View. No, you’re stepping into the ring with the man that was given ‘The Hammer’ nickname because of how hard he hit. Now, in this day and age, a top rope elbow drop isn’t as flashy as some moves –“ He cut his eyes at Bowers for a second. “But after I drop you on your heads with a piledriver, it’s still effective enough to get the job done. Am I guaranteeing a win? No, because there are no guarantees in this world, but I will make you both a promise.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “You’re both going to know that you competed against one of the toughest men to ever step foot inside the squared circle. It’s time for ‘The Hammer’ to drop here in MPW.”
A knock punctuated Harlow’s statement. He shot Bowers a questioning look, but the interviewer just shrugged. ‘The Hammer” walked to the door, brushing past the MPW cameraman, who turned to keep him in view. Professional wrestling had a history of sneak attacks and behind the scenes drama; he didn’t want to miss a single second.
“Who is it?” Harlow asked.
“It’s . . . it’s Carrie-Anne.”
Brow furrowed, Harlow opened the door to find his ex-wife standing in the hallway. Either she had dressed down to come see him at the Four Seasons or else she had dressed up to come see him in Reno, because she was wearing a simple baby blue Juicy tracksuit over a white tee. Her hair was pulled up into a quick, messy bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were red, the liner and mascara smeared. He felt something tighten in the pit of his stomach.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Bobby.” Her voice cracked as she fought off the urge to cry again. “He’s . . . oh, Jimmy, he’s in the hospital.”
“What happened? Is he okay?” Harlow pulled her to him, and for once, she didn’t fight. “How bad is it?”
“I’m not sure, but . . .” She looked into his eyes. “Jimmy, I think it might have been Ryan.”
{James ‘The Hammer’ Harlow vs. Bliss vs. Rage – MPW North American Championship Match – Triple Threat Rules booked October 9, 2012 for the After Shock PPV}
The count was punctuated by the sound of a ringing bell, something that James “The Hammer” Harlow had gotten used to after twenty-three years in professional wrestling. Throughout his career, he had never been one to keep track of his matches; he won some, he lost some. If you couldn’t handle getting your shoulders pinned to the canvas a few times, then you were definitely not cut out to be a pro wrestler. It was unrealistic to think that you could make it in the business without taking a loss here or there. As a wise man once said, it wasn’t how many times you got knocked down that mattered; it was how many times you got back up.
After Monday night’s loss to Bliss, Harlow had gotten back up. Of course, he had to have help to do it, since Bliss had rung his bell with the MPW North American championship belt. Petite or not, she had put all of her weight behind the blow, which had left Harlow dizzy, nauseated, and bloody. Losing never felt good, but Harlow had to admit to himself that he wasn’t all that disappointed. He had stepped into that ring after eleven years away and gone toe-to-toe with one of the business’s best, young talents with hardly any signs of ring rust. Bloody and wobbly-legged, he had walked back down that aisle and into the locker room with the cheers of the fans ringing in his ears. It made the eight stitches in his forehead worthwhile.
Two days later, “The Hammer” found himself wondering whether or not he had taken one too many chair-shots to the head. To say that his return match on Monday Night Main Event hadn’t exactly gone the way he had anticipated would have been an understatement. Losing to the North American champion wasn’t a bad way to start off in MPW, but getting cheap-shotted was a shitty way to go out.
He flopped over on his back, grateful that the Four Seasons had better beds than the Budget Inn in Reno. In fact, everything about the Four Season was better. He glanced at the floor-to-ceiling windows, wishing that he had remembered to pull the curtains so that he could enjoy the spectacular view of the mountains. Even at the apex of his career, he had settled for more modest accommodations. At the time, it had just seemed a little unnecessary to spend more than eighty bucks a night for a room, especially considering that he had usually ended up passed out in the floor, an empty Jack Daniels bottle clutched in his hand.
Luckily, those days were in the past. He had never really been addicted to drugs, although he had done his fair share of experimenting. Pot had only made him hungry, horny, and sleep all at the same time. He had tried coke a few times in the early ‘80s, but it hadn’t really done anything for him. Alcohol, on the other hand, had nearly been a constant companion, until he had given it up in 2004. Most days he didn’t even miss it.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those days.
He had gotten a phone call from the MPW front office earlier saying that he was going to get a second chance to defeat Bliss, but this time it was going to be a title match at the After Shock Pay-Per-View.. His gratitude and his grin had both vanished, however, when he had been told that it was going to be a triple threat match with Rage added to the mix. In the back of his mind, he had known that a match against Ryan was inevitable, but he just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.
Rage had a lot to answer for as far as he was concerned. Unfortunately, double-crosses and backstabbing were pretty common in professional wrestling, but usually the one getting screwed over was given an excuse. Rage hadn’t even bothered giving him a lame excuse why he had turned on him. “The Hammer” had wondered countless times if maybe Ryan’s double-cross had been the final straw that had led him to retiring.
A knock on the door derailed his train of thought. He checked the digital read-out on the clock next to the bed and sighed. The first thing he had done after finding out about the match at After Shock had been to call Jay Wyatt and schedule some promo time. Ordinarily, he would have requested to meet someplace else other than his hotel room just to provide some atmosphere, but he had a nasty, nagging headache, and just didn’t care about window dressing for the promo.
The knock came again, this time harder than before. The pain in Harlow’s skull seemed to throb in synch with the pounding on his door. Frowning, he sat up with a groan. “It’s open.”
The door opened, but Tim Bowers walked in, a cameraman tagging along close behind. The MPW interviewer was decked out in a cream-colored, double-breasted suit with a pale lavender dress shirt and a black, silver, and violet striped necktie. He smirked at Harlow’s confused expression. “Expecting someone else?”
“Where’s Wyatt?” The question came out as a growl. Harlow had seen Bowers a few times since signing with MPW, and didn’t care for him. He always seemed a little too arrogant to be mouthing off to people that made their living beating the hell out of each other. It was almost like Bowers felt he was too good to be working for a wrestling promotion.
“Oh, the kid had other obligations.” His smirked widened. “So, you got me.”
Harlow fought the urge to smash the cocky son-a-bitch’s face into pulp. He rubbed his temples and tried to clear his mind, so he could concentrate on the task at hand. “Great.”
“Listen, Hammer,” Bowers said, contempt practically dripping from Harlow’s nickname. “I would much rather be talking to someone else. Preferably someone with a little class – “
Harlow let the insult slide, but he didn’t know how much he was willing to take from Bowers. It would be a pain in the ass to get fired for throwing an MPW employee out of a hotel window. He had to admit, though, that watching Bowers scream and soil himself as he bounced off the outside of the Four Season would be amusing as hell.
“ – so, let’s see if we can get through this as quickly as possible.”
“The Hammer” ground his teeth together, trying to ignore the spike of pain that shot through his head and jaw. A few minutes with Bowers was going to seem like a fucking lifetime. Unfortunately, it looked like he didn’t have much of a choice. “Have a seat, Bowers. Let’s get this over with.”
With the setting sun over the mountains behind him, James “The Hammer” Harlow looked like a brooding king sitting upon a throne as he sat in one of the room’s grand, over-stuffed armchairs. Framed by flowing sandy blond hair, his ruggedly handsome face was weathered and lined, years of hard living etched into his countenance. The jagged line of stitches across his forehead was surrounded by dark, mottled purple and yellow bruises, a testament to Bliss’s desire to win. He was dressed in sneakers, faded jeans, and a gray-and-black Harley-Davidson T-shirt. He scratched his beard thoughtfully, before turning his eyes to the camera.
“Twenty-three years in this business. It’s safe to say that I’ve done it all.” He managed a small, bemused smirk. “But a petite, five-four woman beat my ass Monday night.” He shook his head, grimacing at the pain. “Bliss, I don’t blame you for taking a shortcut. I guess you figured the deck was stacked against you, considering your ex was the referee. Up until you decided to use that North American belt to rearranged my face, I was beginning to think that you were going to play by the rules.” He took a deep breath and smiled. “I guess I should have known not to trust a woman. Especially a beautiful one.”
From off-camera, Bowers snorted. “Are you trying to say that you actually think you had a shot against Bliss?”
Harlow frowned, clenching his jaw. He should have known better than to trust Bowers to do a professional, unbiased job, too. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. There’s no doubt Bliss is faster and more agile, but despite what everyone wants to believe, I’m not some broken-down, old geezer trying to recapture the fame and glory of yesteryear. My past is my past; MPW is my future.”
“You may have the experience edge over everyone in MPW, but – like you just pointed out – Bliss is faster and more agile. The same can be said for most of the MPW superstars. Professional wrestling has come a long way from the days of immobile titans like Andre the Giant and John Studd.”
“What are you getting at, Bowers?”
“Back in your day, guys didn’t really have to do a whole lot inside the ring. For example, back then a vertical Suplex was something the fans oohed and awed over. The modern wrestling fan needs a little something more.”
Harlow raised an eyebrow. “No kidding.” He shook his head, rolling his eyes at Bowers. “Have you ever wrestled?”
“Well, no. But –“
“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Look, I’m not one of these one-dimensional wrestlers that you are comparing me to. I know what the fans like to see. I’ve never been one of those guys that just has four or five big moves. I’m always working to improve my in-ring abilities.”
“You’re set to face Bliss and Rage in a triple threat match at After Shock for Bliss’s North American Championship. A lot of people are saying the powers that be only added you to the match to avoid you crying foul at being defeated by Bliss Monday night.”
“Then, I’d say those people are blind. Did I get pinned on Main Event? Yeah, there’s no denying that. Did Bliss manage to beat me cleanly? No, she didn’t. With Newman out of the picture, I think booking me against Bliss at the Pay-Per-View was the next logical step. Obviously, I didn’t expect it to be a title match, but I’m not complaining.”
“Even though you technically didn’t really earn a title shot? Don’t you feel that’s a bit unethical?”
Harlow pressed his lips into a thin, bloodless line. “No, I don’t. If anything, the match was made because they saw the kind of chemistry that Bliss and I had in the ring against each other. It’s an honor to be given a title shot so early in my MPW career, but I wouldn’t take it if I didn’t feel like I earned it.”
“And the addition of Rage? How do you feel about that?”
“Rage,” Harlow said with a sigh. He pinched the bridge of his noise between his thumb and index finger and closed his eyes. “That was unexpected.”
“Don’t you have a history?”
“You could say that. Back when Rage was still calling himself by the name his parents had given him, I helped him break into the wrestling business. Years later, he decided to stab me in the back.”
“He put you in the hospital with a concussion, three bruised ribs, and –“
Harlow’s eyes snapped open. “I was there! I don’t need you to run down a list of the injuries that Rage left me with.”
He took a deep breath and looked into the camera lens, ignoring Bowers completely. “Bliss, I gave you the benefit of a doubt that you’d rely on your abilities in our match. There’s an old saying that goes ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me’. Well, you’re not going to fool me twice. I’m going to chalk Monday night’s defeat up as a learning experience, because at the Pay-Per-View I’m not going to fall for the same thing.” He smiled and cocked his head to the side a little. “You got rid of Newman. Good for you. I don’t want you to have any excuses for taking the low road out on After Shock. I want you at your best, fully focused, and ready to bring everything that you’ve got to the ring. Anything less just isn’t going to cut it this time.”
His features tightened. “Ryan – Rage, or whatever you want to call yourself now . . . listen to me very carefully. You don’t get the same kind of professionalism that I’m going to extend to Bliss. Kicking her cute little ass is just business, title or no title. Kicking your ass is personal.” He leaned forward slightly. “A long time ago, we were friends. No! More than that, we were brothers. We both had the same kind of passion for the business, but somewhere along the way, you changed. All of the warnings that I gave you about the egomaniacs, the assholes that only looked out for number one, they must have gone in one ear and come right out the other, because that’s what you became. Oh, I’m sure you had your reasons for screwing me over, but instead of acting like a man . . . you acted like a coward.”
Harlow leaned back into the chair, resting his forearms on the arms of the chair. “I trusted you, Ryan. But you proved that my trust in you was misplaced. This Tuesday I don’t any preconceived notions about trust when it comes to you or Bliss. While it would be an honor to represent Millennium Pro Wrestling as its North American champion, the title isn’t what’s first and foremost on my mind. Showing the MPW fans what the new and improved ‘Hammer’ can do is.”
“Wha –“
Harlow cut Bowers off with a steely glare, before looking back into the lens. “It’s been all fun and games up to this point. After Shock is where it gets serious. Bliss, Rage – enjoy the weekend, because you’re not just stepping into the ring against James Harlow at the Pay-Per-View. No, you’re stepping into the ring with the man that was given ‘The Hammer’ nickname because of how hard he hit. Now, in this day and age, a top rope elbow drop isn’t as flashy as some moves –“ He cut his eyes at Bowers for a second. “But after I drop you on your heads with a piledriver, it’s still effective enough to get the job done. Am I guaranteeing a win? No, because there are no guarantees in this world, but I will make you both a promise.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “You’re both going to know that you competed against one of the toughest men to ever step foot inside the squared circle. It’s time for ‘The Hammer’ to drop here in MPW.”
A knock punctuated Harlow’s statement. He shot Bowers a questioning look, but the interviewer just shrugged. ‘The Hammer” walked to the door, brushing past the MPW cameraman, who turned to keep him in view. Professional wrestling had a history of sneak attacks and behind the scenes drama; he didn’t want to miss a single second.
“Who is it?” Harlow asked.
“It’s . . . it’s Carrie-Anne.”
Brow furrowed, Harlow opened the door to find his ex-wife standing in the hallway. Either she had dressed down to come see him at the Four Seasons or else she had dressed up to come see him in Reno, because she was wearing a simple baby blue Juicy tracksuit over a white tee. Her hair was pulled up into a quick, messy bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were red, the liner and mascara smeared. He felt something tighten in the pit of his stomach.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Bobby.” Her voice cracked as she fought off the urge to cry again. “He’s . . . oh, Jimmy, he’s in the hospital.”
“What happened? Is he okay?” Harlow pulled her to him, and for once, she didn’t fight. “How bad is it?”
“I’m not sure, but . . .” She looked into his eyes. “Jimmy, I think it might have been Ryan.”
{James ‘The Hammer’ Harlow vs. Bliss vs. Rage – MPW North American Championship Match – Triple Threat Rules booked October 9, 2012 for the After Shock PPV}