Harry Hampton Vs. Aaron Kincade Vs. Dominick Strife

          Story Time with Uncle Dom          

Have you ever been knocked out?

It's a funny sensation. I've been knocked out cold at least twice in my life. The first time as a child, I was pitching for a little league baseball team. Comebacker. The ball bounced off of the bat and caught me right up underneath the nose. I fell backward but don't remember hitting the ground. I opened up my eyes, but all I could see was pure white.

I could feel my Father, who was the coach of our team, as well as a few assistant coaches lifting me up off of the ground. As I was looking up at this blank expanse above me, I felt something cold and wet trickling down my upper lip.

"Dad...? Is that... water... on my face?"

He looked down at me and replied, "No son. That's blood."

They were carrying me over to the bench, so that they could resume the game.

The second time I was knocked out I was lying prone on the Baltimore beltway. Same deal as before, although several years apart. By the time I had opened my eyes all I could see over me was this pure bright whiteness. What I could feel of my body, which wasn't much, felt like I was lying there spread eagle on my back again. I knew what I was doing before the crash. I knew that I must have landed in one of the center lanes of traffic. Somehow the rest of the cars on the road were nice enough not to run me over.

I tried to lift my head up off of the asphalt.

"Ugh..."

But sometimes it just feels nicer to lay back and accept one's fate. The white faded into cotton-candy clouds floating in a sea of wispy sky blue. The ringing in my ears and the buzzing in my head faded as well into car horns and sirens and the sound of a brand new white Dodge Ram sizzling in a nearby ditch like one of those new entrees at Applebees; skillet and all. I lifted my head up a second time to check.

Yep.

Not exactly a country fried steak. Twenty-five foot high flames and a mangled ball of twisted metal, broken glass, and burning plastic right in the exact same spot where my Dad's truck used to be. I laid my head back down and laughed. I laughed 'till I coughed. Coughed right up until I spit a bit of viscous fluid out of my mouth. Next thing I knew, an EMT came running right up to me.

"It's going to be alright son." He said as he dropped his equipment bag down next to me before dropping to his knees. "Don't move, alright? You've lost a lot of-"

"Let me guess..." I smirked. "Water?"

He didn't get the joke.

I ended up being okay. My Father's pride and joy? I wrecked that long before I wrecked his precious truck.

"Can you tell me who you are? Can you tell me what day it is?" The EMT asked.

Of course I knew what day it was... and I always will, too. It was 'last straw' day. A new holiday. I'm coining the phrase. It was the day that my Father finally decided that he had 'had enough of my shit' and that it was time for me to go. But at the time, I didn't know that. I couldn't tell you if it was March 15th or December 31st.

"My name... is Dominick." I grunted. Felt like somebody slammed the steering column into my ribcage at sixty or so miles an hour. Or at least I assume that's how physics works when one comes to a sudden, abrupt stop. "Dominick... Strife."

"That's good, Dominick," the EMT said as he tried his best to mimic a tone that he thought I would think sounded reassuring. "Just stay with me okay?"

"Wasn't exactly planning on going anywhere, Doc." I chuckled. "Not now, anyway."

As I was laying there all I could think about was being on that ball-diamond again: my Father and his friends picking me up off of the ground and dancing like those guys in the meme with the casket as they took me off that field. It was the same sky and the same feeling. My existence wasn't just whittled down; one hard smack and I was out of it completely. Nobody cared.

I guess that was the lesson that the old man was trying to teach me back then. Bad shit happens. Life likes to go on. Life needs to go on. Life will get a little pissy attitude if you try to hold it up in any way... nobody cares if you're dying, dead, or otherwise. That's just the reality of... people, I guess... in a broad sense anyway.

The EMT dude strapped me to a gurney, neck brace and all, and about three or four seatbelt-like aparati that worked better than the one that was supposed to keep my body inside the truck. I glanced over at the firemen rushing to extinguish the blaze. I looked back at the spot in the road that I was peeled up from. Somebody had made a little snow angel in the street. Except the snow was red for some reason. For a brief moment, I had wished that they would put me back. The police eventually allowed grateful motorists to continue on and I actually witnessed one car drive right through my blood without even worrying that they might have to wash that shit off of their tires later.

Like I said, it's a funny sensation. Because I figure being knocked out is probably a good halfway point between being alive and dead... and I was sure that when my Father had found out that I wrecked his truck that he was going to help me finish the rest of the journey into the afterlife.

But that's not exactly what ended up happening.

My Mom was legitimately extremely thankful to Jesus Christ and his Father that I didn't die. She felt blessed that her son was ejected from the truck before it went careening into that ditch. That miraculously he escaped that ordeal with only some minor bumps and bruises, a few cracked ribbies, and a really bad case of road rash on his gluteus maximus.

My Father told me that my things would already be packed and out on the lawn for me to retrieve when I got home.

---

          "Homeless"          

"Strife Delivery Service! You name it, we deliv-"

"Sarah?"

"Dom?"

The Founder, President and CEO of Strife Delivery Service, Dominick Strife, was just as surprised by his older sister answering the phone as she was to hear his voice.

"The hell you doin' answering my phone?"

"Pssh. You're lucky I even picked up."

Sarah was always the golden child in the sense that she excelled at pretty much whatever she set her mind to. Above average grades. Made varsity teams for girl's volleyball and soccer. She had most of her community college tuition already paid for in scholarships before she had even taken the SATs. But college was at least partially delayed or derailed for her when she became pregnant at 17. Now the third-generation Strife was the main reason why Sarah spent most of her time at their parents home.

"Thought you actually had a client for once."

"At least I'm doing something with my life. Speaking of, where's Iz?"

"She's around here somewhere."

"No really, ya think?" Dom's impatience had grown. "Have you checked outside?"

"I dunno. I thought I'd go look for her, but then I'd actually be doing something with my life. Wouldn't want that now, would I?"

Izzy, or Isla Burke, was not just Sarah's childhood friend. She was also the top employee at Strife Delivery. Long flowing platinum hair. Looks to kill. She could have been the captain of the local highschool cheerleading squad if she wanted to be. But aside from her beauty, Iz always marched to the beat of her own drum.

"Just find her, okay? And tell her that she's supposed to be doing her job-"

Sarah couldn't hide her amusement even behind the portable receiver of an old landline. She cut her little brother off with that annoyed chuckle that spells danger to those who hear it.

"What's so funny?"

"You can pretend to be her boss all you want, Dom. But you damn sure ain't gonna talk to me that way-"

"Hey- wait a minute. Who said I'm pretending?"

Sarah and Iz went way back as friends. All the way back to girl scouts. Roughly the same age, they went to the same middle and high schools together. Took most of their classes together. Wherever Sarah was, Izzy was figuratively right beside her... and vice-versa apparently.

"Keep it up smartass and your little 'business' is gonna be the least of your trouble."

"Ugh. Fine. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted."

"Now would you please put Izzy on the phone?"

"Is it important?"

"Just hurry up." Dom said over what could only be the incessant blaring of a car's horn. "I don't have all day here."

"Right. You're just sooo busy." Sarah groaned and open-palm smacked her hip. "So what happened this time? Truck break down again?"

"Please don't jinx it."

"I thought you weren't superstitious."

"I thought you were going to get Izzy?"

Sarah grunted.

"Fine, I'm going. I'm going!"

She took the phone with her as she walked over to the sliding glass door of Dom's crapp, cramped basement apartment. Sarah slid the vertical blinds out of the way and saw Isla standing out on the concrete patio with her back turned toward the glass, puffing away on a cigarette. Sarah tapped the antenna of the phone into the glass and Isla jumped when it startled her. Isla motioned that she wanted to snuff out her cigarette but Sarah opened the door and held the phone out to her.

"Phone's for you."

"A Client? Oh shit-"

"Nope. Just Dom. He says it's important."

"Oh-" Her voice trailed off as she took the phone from Sarah. "Truck break down again?"

"Not this time," Sarah replied with a crooked grin. "Who would have thought that piece of shit could last two whole days without breaking down again?"

Izzy giggled as she put the phone up to her ear.

"What do you need Dom?"

Back in his truck - an old, beaten-down, rust-bucket pickup - Dom was trying to be as patient as he could as the driver behind him was laying on the horn.

"I'm at McDonalds. What do you want?"

Isla rolled her eyes. "Really."

"Yeah. I'm in the line, at the speaker right now. Hurry up, but try to keep it on the dollar menu. We ain't rich yet."

Iz glared over at Sarah. "Well I guess fries are out then. Did you ask Sarah what she wanted?"

"I ain't buying shit for her, Iz! We don't have the money. She has food at home and besides, Sarah doesn't work for me."

"Ugh, fine." Iz rolled her eyes again. "I guess I'll take a Big Mac. But you really should ask Sarah if she wants-"

"Okay, great, thanks! Gotta go!"

Dom couldn't hit the end call button on his cheap prepaid cellphone fast enough. The line behind his truck was at least seven cars long... and there was nobody in front of him.

He rolled down the window of his truck with the crank handle on the door, just like they used to do back in the twentieth century, which only opened himself up to the pure and utter disdain that these strangers had for him just because they had to wait a little longer to shove this shitty food down their faces. He had to yell into the speaker-

"Hey, I'm ready now!"

"What can I get for you?"

Dom squinted as he looked at the menu. Big Mac? They were like, four dollars and some change, just the sandwich. He gritted his teeth.

"Uhh, actually I'll just take a couple of the uhh McDoubles please."

"That'll be three dollars and sixteen cents, Sir. Please pull around."

"Three dollars? I thought they were on the Mc-fuckin'-dollar menu?"

"No Sir... they haven't been a dollar for like, over a year now."

"Well just give me three regular burgers then." He grunted as he searched the truck for the spare change that he knew he didn't have. "As long as it's less than three fucking dollars."

"Alright. Please pull around for your total."

Dom pushed on the clutch and threw the truck in gear and it puttered as he pulled around. He hated living like this... having three dollars to his name and nowhere else to turn. As he pulled the truck up to the window, Dom tried to hide his face behind his sunglasses, a visor, and the ever-so-discreet motion of trying to hand money out of the window without turning his head toward the cashier.

"That'll be two-eighty-six please."

Dom handed the cash over with his left arm, and turned his head to the right. The man reached out for the cash.

"Dom? Is that you?"

"Fuck."

Dom turned his head and smiled like a thief who had been caught in the act.

"Hey Brian."

"You're not allowed to be here. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know." Gas was expensive and so were truck parts. It wasn't exactly like the 'Strife Delivery Service' was taking off like Dom had hoped that it would, especially in the midst of a global pandemic. "Just give me the burgers and the change, and just pretend like I wasn't here, okay?"

"Oh man, if Clarence found out you stopped by," Brian replied with a twisted smirk. "He'd probably call the police on you."

"Ya think?"

The McDonalds employee handed the bag out through the window and Dom snatched it right out of his hand.

"The only thing Clarence is gonna do next time I see him is catch that can of ass-whoopin' I promised him. If I ever see him again I'm gonna deliver an entire six-pack on his ass."

Dom went to pull off but the employee called out to him.

"Hey Dom!"

Dom slammed on the brake.

"What?"

"Don't you want your change?"

Brian held out the fourteen cents almost in a teasing fashion. Dom smirked back at him.

"Nah. You keep it. You work at McDonalds. You need it more than I do."

Brian didn't take too kindly to Dom's words.

"Yeah, well, at least I'm not the one who got fired from McDonalds for not being able to hack it there."

Dom pursed his lips.

"Hey Brian?"

"Yeah?"

"Go fuck yourself."

Dom pushed in the clutch and slammed the truck into gear. He stomped the gas pedal straight down to the floor and was going to burn the rear wheels right off of this bucket, screeching all the way out of the parking lot and back onto the road. But instead, he slammed the gas pedal to the floor, instead of redlining, the engine straight up flatlined.

Steam and smoke billowed from under the hood. Instead of the roaring of an engine, all Dom could hear was the laughter from his former coworkers.

He reached down for his phone and pressed the call button. He gritted his teeth as he held the phone up to his ear.

"Strife Delivery Service! You name it, we deliver!"

---

          Story Time with Deja Ndiaye           

"Dominick... Dominick Strife?"

The kid that turned around was about one of four stuffed into a backyard shed.

From all accounts, they were there by choice.

"Yeah, that's me."

Not too long before, somebody had the idea to take a stack of 2 x4s and plywood and they erected a wooden box around an old 14-foot 'pony' ring. None of the kids bouncing around in there were above the age of twenty-three.

"What can I do for you?"

Carnage Wrestling sent us out there, and to be honest I thought we had the wrong address at first. Apparently Joe had heard a word about a kid who was coming up in the independent ranks; he wanted to take a chance and see what that kid's got.

It was my job to interview him. Get a few words about his upcoming triple threat match at Chaos 96. It was going to be his professional wrestling debut.

Dom grabbed a water bottle and a hand towel. In this sweltering heat, I told him I could only imagine how hot it must've gotten wrestling inside that crate. He smiled and told me his only complaint was that the roof wasn't high enough to practice his high-flying maneuvers, but it was okay because he needed to work on his ground game anyway. He asked me who I was, so I told him that my name is Deja Ndiaye, but he could just call me Deja if he liked. I said that I was the daughter of Carnage Wrestling's senior official White Rey and that Carnage had just hired me to be an interviewer so I was just as new to the game as he was. I pulled him off to the side of this makeshift building and we started to do the interview with his friends still bouncing around on the inside.

"So, are you nervous at all? Scared?" I started him off with some of the easy questions. "It's a big opportunity for someone your age."

He smiled again.

"Well, it wouldn't be polite of me to ask you what your age is, Miss Deja." His voice was sweet and kind. His sopping black hair glistened in the light of the sun above. "But I'd venture to guess that we're around the same age. To work for a company like Carnage is a big opportunity for anyone. I mean I'm glad that they're willing to let me at least try to prove that I'm ready to take this next step. But I really don't think age has anything to do with it?"

"Why not?" I said as I returned his smile with one of my own.

"Age is one thing. Experience... well... that's a whole 'nother thing entirely."

"...and people like us don't always come with that much experience on our resumes."

"Right," Dom replied, "and I'll do you one better. Some of us aren't even professional wrestlers."

That last one caught me by surprise.

"What do you mean, exactly?" I replied.

Heh. If only I knew how much Dom liked to explain himself.

He told me that he had only been on the independent circuit for about a year, give or take a month or two either way. He wasn't really sure. But he didn't start wrestling for the passion of the industry, or because he saw himself as the next Sinc Mercier or Jack Michaels.

"Actually, I joined up with a local wrestling school because I heard that I could make a couple extra bucks on the side fighting," he said with a smile on his face. "I made a deal with the guy who owned the place... I think his name was... Jim? Anyway, the entry fee was about two-grand, but I talked him down to taking a job to clean up the school about twice a week and after every event. When I wasn't sweeping the floors or disinfecting the canvas I could sneak in a little training time on my own. I busted my ass for a little while, got a few practice matches in with the other students-"

"...and then it just took off from there, right?" Normally I'd be jotting down notes. But this time I had a Carnage Network camera to catch the entire interview. I figured I could edit the raw footage down to its most juicy parts later. "...and that lead you to the indies."

"Yeppers... and I was doing good, too." His bright smile took a downturn. "Winning matches. Making fifteen, twenty... hell even thirty-five bucks a night up in P-A. Then when all this COVID shit happened? Bam. The circuit, the school... fuckin' everything shut down overnight."

"So then what did you do?"

Dom threw his arms up.

"Same thing everyone else did apparently. Absolutely nothing." I could tell it was a sensitive subject for him. "I mean, I panicked. I wasn't sure how I was going to make rent. My business wasn't doing very well at the time, either... and-"

"Wait a minute. You own your own business?"

Dom's smile came back.

"Yeah. Strife Delivery. We do all kinds of odd jobs... Or at least we used to."

"That's... pretty cool actually."

"I know, right?" He took another sip from his bottle. "I was hoping to get back into that soon, but-"

He would go on to talk about how the infection rate was trending back upward. That nobody really wanted to hire anyone right now to come in and haul stuff over fear of catching the virus.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I replied. "But hey, at least there's a silver lining to all of this."

"Yeah?" He asked.

"If Carnage works out for you, your whole life could change."

For a moment there, Dom looked frozen in time. It was like he had never even considered what it could mean for him if he were able to score an actual pro contract. He had been down, his business had been hit with hard times. Carnage might not have been a glorious place to work but at least it remained open during the lockdown.

When he came to, he responded "Well, that's why I'm out here now, putting in the work."

"Just that extra little bit to help get you over the edge hmm?"

"Nah. If I don't have what it takes to beat Harry Hampton and Aaron Kincade by now... I ain't gonna find it by tomorrow night." Dom smiled at me again. "I'm just trying to stay fresh... you know... up here."

He pointed to his head.

"Tomorrow night's a triple threat," Dom continued, "and you know what that means, right? Chaos. No disqualifications. So basically... very few rules."

"Yeah?"

"Kincade's already had his debut. Over in another place somewhere, against one of their enhancement talents. Bragged about it on Twitter, too. Don't know much about Kincade other than he's in more or less the same boat as I am... except he really likes his chances. The way I see it, the Kincade show ain't my biggest problem. He might try to steal a victory and he'll definitely cheat. If Kincade decides to take a shortcut, there won't be much that I'll be able to do to stop him. I can only hope that he feels the same way about Harry Hampton as I do."

I'm stuck between asking Dom what it is he feels about Harry and why he hopes Aaron Kincade feels the same way. So I ask him both.

"I feel like Harry Hampton is the biggest threat in the match, myself included. Honestly. The man is a former tag team champion and has more experience in Carnage than Kincade and I combined, obviously. If it wasn't for that leg injury he suffered he probably would be looking at challenging for gold at this years WAR to make up for losing tag belts a year ago. A guy like that is dangerous because he has a lot to prove... not just to the fans, but to himself. If a guy like him can't beat two newcomers then people are going to tell him that it might just be time for him to hang it up."

"So I guess it's your job to make Harry Hampton look like he doesn't have it anymore?"

Dom sighed at me. He looked up to the sky. His eyes traced the clouds overhead.

"Seems like it."