Indy's Christmas Carol

A cut that would require stitches was nothing new. Neither was the concussion. But sustaining those kinds of injuries and still managing to win? That was something new to Indy entirely. After returning to Indianapolis from his long weekend in Denver, Indy took the time to recover as well as attempt to remember the important moments of Unbreakable Resolution that he had experienced through a concussed fog.



The first thing he tried to process was his Shooting Star Press from the top of the cage. It had been his dad’s finishing move, and the very last move Clive Darling performed before his heart gave out in the midst of a match. It wasn’t the kind of move Indy used on a regular basis, saving it for those moments where he felt that he needed an added emotional punch. Apparently John Nash Strader had put up the kind of fight that a half-conscious Indy realized it was do or die. Fortunately the move found its target, not that his sore ribs were appreciative of the fact.



Cage match aside, there was another aspect of Unbreakable Resolution that Indy couldn’t quite wrap his head around. Colton Saint and Myojin had fought to the point where they were seemingly on death’s door, battering each other with a hatred that surpassed any other emotions on an intense and loaded show. In the end, “The Last Breathing Outlaw” could not make it to his feet for that one last stand, and “The Shining Star” stood triumphant.



Yet it was not the match itself that lingered in Indy’s mind, but the events that transpired afterwards. Daniel Horror, Big Drip Productions, and Kasey Winterborn were all determined to get their last shots in, and it made Indy sick to his stomach to think that he could have done more to make it stop. Yes, this was a man who had said terrible things without apology, committed unforgivable actions without remorse, and seemed hellbent on going out in a blaze of glory. Yet he had also been the man who didn’t look down at Indy when the winless rookie received a shot at his X-Factor Championship. After the shocking upset that saw Indy capture the title, Colton Saint could have obliterated Indy in retaliation. Instead, he gave him a pat on the back and left the new champion to savor the moment.



Yes, Colton Saint was ruthless, selfish, and egotistical, but in that one moment, Indy also believed that he had a shred of honor. Whether right or wrong, it was a moment Indy had held on to ever since. Whether it was naivety or not, Indy held onto the belief that everyone could find redemption. Unfortunately for Colton Saint, that did not seem to be a belief shared by his most infamous victim. The dazed and concussed Indy had agreed to let her dish out justice as she saw fit, even if the sober and fully aware Indy couldn’t shake the guilt over his own culpability in whatever happened after the show.



Accepting that it was nothing he could change or control, Indy eventually decided to push the unanswered questions out of his mind. Unbreakable Resolution was over, and a Championship Showcase was on the horizon. For the first time in his young career, Indy had achieved something that many never thought possible. He would main-event the Proving Ground Draft Show against Warrior Rising Champion, T.J. Thompson, and the Grand Champion himself, Dickie Watson. It wasn’t a title match and it wasn’t on Pay Per View, but it was a main event match all the same. If Indy had one regret, it was that his father wasn't alive to see him reach that level.



On one hand, having extra time to prepare for a match of that magnitude was a blessing, but on the other, Indy knew he would be going stir crazy over the holidays. With his training limited until he had the ‘all-clear’ from his doctor, he found himself wandering around Doc’s warehouse/gym just as much, if not more, than Fat Sammy the alley cat. And with the concussion, Indy couldn’t even get on a plane and wander the hospital where Doc was being treated. At that moment, his thoughts began to drift away from his manager and turn towards Doc’s daughter, Meg. Indy could picture the two of them ice skating, sharing hot chocolate, relaxing by a crackling fireplace, and all of the other holiday stereotypes. Of course in reality, he could barely put together a coherent sentence when he talked to her on the phone.



No, there would be no holiday romance for Indy this year. There were no presents to exchange or gatherings to enjoy. He didn’t even have a Christmas tree in the gym to decorate when he was bored. There would be no family, no friends, no joyous celebration of the season. It would just be Indy, Fat Sammy, chicken-flavored ramen, and reruns of old Christmas movies. The thought of spending the holidays alone even made Indy consider looking up his estranged mother, although he knew that would only end in an argument.



“Bah humbug.” he said glumly, as he made his way up the ladder that led to his rooftop perch. If he had to be alone for Christmas, at least he was going to do it in style. Wearing a thick black scarf with his thermally-lined denim jacket. Indy crawled onto the roof to look out at the lights of Indianapolis at night. From this vantage point, he could see homes and businesses decorated for the holidays, their light displays doing little to appease his sense of loneliness. Still, he had one thing that his upcoming opponents did not have during the holiday week. He had plenty of time to focus on their match and deliver a well-thought out promo. With his phone recording, Indy knew there was no time like the present.



INDY: “Where does somebody start when they want to cut a promo on T.J. Thompson? I mean, I genuinely like this guy. Who doesn’t? He’s fun, he’s enthusiastic, and let’s be perfectly honest here...he’s got the hip. I’m not entirely sure what the “hip” is, but I do know that T.J. has it. Alongside Yung Sauce and Lil’ Petey, Big Drip are some of the most entertaining guys on the roster. If I’m so babyface it hurts, they’re so babyface that it’s lethal.”



Indy turned his head away from his phone for a moment and remained so silent that only the chill wind of Christmas Eve night could be heard. After this pause, he turned back to look at the screen as if nothing had happened.



INDY: “The thing is, this is my first chance to participate in a main event, not just for Project: Honor, but on any stage at this level of the business. So no matter how much you entertain me, no matter how many fans we might have in common, I’m determined to put on the kind of performance that ensures it won’t be my last main event. So T.J. can dance, he can spit a rhyme, he can drop a sick beat, he can do whatever spins into that unique head of his, but he has to know that I’ll do whatever it takes to knock that head off his shoulders.”



“It may not be the most popular thing I’ve done, but if you didn’t catch me wearing a Colton Saint tee shirt on pay per view, I’m not looking at this as a popularity contest. Yes, I love my fans and the support they give me, but if you’re in this business to do anything less than be at the top of the card, it might be time to consider a career change. T.J. and Big Drip might have their music to fall back on, but this is the only option for a guy like me. It might sound funny coming from someone known as “Everyone’s Favorite”, but I didn’t get that nickname because I’m a nice guy. I got it because I’m willing to put it all on the line where it counts.”



“So as much as me breaking into a dance sequence with T.J. Thompson might be entertaining, I just can’t afford to do it in a main event on one of the most anticipated episodes of Proving: Ground to date. Besides, T.J. and I will both have something else to worry about when it comes to that match. After all, we’re not the only two scheduled for the main event. We’ll be in there with a seemingly unstoppable Calamity known as the Project: Honor Grand Champion, Dickie Watson.”



Again, Indy turned his head away from the screen of his phone, his brow slightly furrowed as if he was concentrating on something beyond our ability to observe. Once again, he turned back to his phone after a few moments of silence to continue his promo.



INDY: “I have a lot of things I want to say to Dickie Watson, but it’s nothing that can’t be said tomorrow morning. After all, you’re all in your homes celebrating with friends and family, and watching a wrestling promo is probably the furthest thing from your minds. So we’ll pick this up later. No early presents for Dickie this year…”



With that, Indy shut off the camera on his phone and stood up. He took a moment to look around the roof, silently wondering if the interruptions he had heard during his promo were real or a side-effect of his recent concussion. At first, he could have sworn that he’d heard the clanking of metal on metal, but what was more disconcerting was the voice that came a short time after. Internally, he wrote it off as mistaking it for someone on the street below, despite the fact that it had sounded like it was directly behind him on the rooftop. Chalking it up to the massive headache he’d had since Sunday, Indy made his way back to the rooftop hatch in order to get out of the cold and take a much needed painkiller. Closing the hatch behind him, he left the voices of the night alone with wind.



A short time later, he found himself in his bedroom loft, resting his weary mind by watching the Bill Murray classic, “Scrooged”. With Fat Sammy curled up nearby, Indy watched with half-interest, still thinking about the things he wanted to say to Dickie Watson and the Project: Honor fans. As Bill Murray watched his deceased mentor pour himself a drink on screen, Indy once again began to hear the sound of metal on metal. He sat up on his bed, noticing that whatever the sound was, it wasn’t disturbing the pale blonde tomcat by his side.



: “You’re a good man, Indy.”



The X-Factor champion whipped his head to the side, recognizing the voice coming from within his room. What he saw, however, was something he never could have prepared himself for. There was no mistaking the man who stood in his doorway, despite the look of weariness and despair he presented on his face. His short blonde hair was darkened by what seemed to be fresh dirt, and his graying face displayed the lines of a hard life. Yet even more strange, were the coiled links of chains hanging from around his neck all the way to the floor.



INDY: “What the fuck?!”



Indy leapt from his bed in a state of shock, not only with the questions of why Colton Saint was in Doc Miyagi’s Indianapolis gym, but also why he looked as if he’d just clawed his way out of the grave. The nightmare version of Colton Saint gave Indy a half-hearted smile as he stepped into the room, his once colorful eyes now drained of life.



GHOST COLTON: “Hey, kid. Gotta say, I liked that shirt last weekend.”



INDY: “What the...what the fuck, dude?”



It seemed to be the only thing Indy could come up with to say, as his mind raced in search of a logical explanation.



GHOST COLTON: “Relax, Indy. I’m not here to hurt you. It’s like I said, you’re a good man. I’m just here to give you a little heads-up.”



With great effort, this ersatz version of Colton Saint made his way towards Indy, dragging his chains along with his stiff limbs. Reaching the edge of Indy’s bed, he sat down with a heavy sigh, apparently grateful for the opportunity to take the strain off his body. Indy, however, backed away until his body was pressed against the bedroom wall.



GHOST COLTON: “It’s too late for me, Indy, but it’s not too late for you. You’ve still got a chance to prevent this business from destroying you inside and out like it did to me. That’s why I’m here, to serve as a warning.”



INDY: “What-what-what the fuck?!”



GHOST COLTON: “You see these chains? Do you understand what they’re made of?”



Indy's mind raced for something other to say than his explicit questioning of the undead Colton's presence.

INDY: “Uh...steel?”



While Indy was proud of his ability to say something other than “what the fuck”, the figure on his bed found no humor in his response.



GHOST COLTON: “These chains represent what the wrestling business did to me. They tied me with contracts, profited off my ability to both take and give out punishment, and then had the balls to chastise me when they thought I took things too far. Even when I wanted to walk away, they couldn’t simply let me leave. They put me in a death match, a last man standing match, they even angled half of the roster against me. You should know...you were one of them.”



That twinge of guilt he'd felt since Sunday pierced Indy's heart yet again.

INDY: “Colton...I’m...I’m sorry. I barely remember going out there...my concussion…”



GHOST COLTON: “And what about the first time? You seemed all too happy to march to ringside behind Myojin and Zane to look down on me in judgment. But I don’t hold that against you, Indy. I really don’t. I wouldn’t be here if I held it against you.”



INDY: “So...why are you here?”



GHOST COLTON: “Like I said, I’m here to serve you a warning. The wrestling business wrapped its chains around me and dragged me off to hell, but you still have a chance. Tonight you will be visited by three spirits who will take you on a journey. They will show you what has been, what is, and what could yet be. Pay attention to what they show you, Indy. Listen to what they say, and maybe, just maybe, you won’t share in the same fate as me.”



Indy remained with his back against the wall as what he could only perceive as the zombie version of Colton Saint rose back to his feet and made his way toward the door. As if to test the reality of what he was seeing, Indy finally took a step forward and reached out to touch the chains hanging from Colton’s shoulders. He immediately pulled his hand back as they froze his fingertips with the slightest touch. Colton then turned back to look at Indy one last time, giving him a firm pat on the back.



GHOST COLTON: “Remember, you’re a good man, Indy. Don’t let them ruin you like they ruined me.”



And with that, Indy shot up to a seated position in his bed. The “No-Longer Breathing Outlaw” had vanished, and on his television screen, Bill Murray was stepping into an otherworldly taxi cab. Fat Sammy was still sleeping at the foot of his bed, and Indy’s head continued to throb. Desperate to relieve his dry mouth, Indy rose from his bed and made his way to the mini-fridge in his room. As he opened it and took out his last bottle of Mt. Dew Merry Mash-Up, he suddenly heard a terrible roar coming from somewhere below.



It took him a moment to realize that it was the revving of an engine, but it did not seem to be coming from the street. Instead, it sounded as if it was actually inside Miyagi’s warehouse. He grabbed a baseball bat from under his bed and rushed toward the door, throwing it open and moving to the landing overlooking the practice ring below. Instead of seeing the ring itself, Indy was shocked to see nothing but a cloud of swirling smoke, and somewhere within it was the revving engine responsible for producing the cloud of exhaust.



Indy rushed down the wooden stairs to reach the main level, and upon reaching the bottom, he could make out a figure on a motorcycle, burning black donuts into the floor of Miyagi’s gym. Indy felt a rage swell up from deep inside, as he raised the bat and charged into the smoke, doing his best to ignore the stench of burning rubber. He reached the man on the motorcycle in an instant and did not hesitate to take his best swing, but if Indy had not known any better, it seemed as if his weapon passed right through the figure, putting Indy off balance and sending him tumbling to the ground.



As he sat up and clutched his bat, the man on the motorcycle finally came to a stop, resting his 1947 Harley Davidson Panhead mere inches from where Indy had landed. As the fumes began to dissipate, Indy was finally able to make out the man responsible for breaking into his manager’s gym in the middle of the night. Sitting before him on the bike, appeared to be none other than John Nash Strader.



INDY: “Strader? What the fuck, man?! You said it was done between us, and now you break into Doc’s building? I’ll fucking kill you!”



: “Quit your pissing and moaning, kid. Fuck, you sound like a petulant child!”



Indy pulled himself back up and took a swing at John’s head with all his strength, but yet again, the bat seemed to move directly through its target, depositing Indy on the floor a second time.



: “Will you knock it the fuck off? You look like a damn idiot swinging that thing around.”



INDY: “Wait...you’re not...you’re not Strader, are you?”



: “Finally he gets it. I only look this way because that’s how your little brain chooses to see me. The name’s “Ghost of Christmas Past”, and if John said that things between you were in the past, well, kinda makes sense doesn’t it? Now get on the bike, we’ve got some shit to do.”



Wide eyed and in yet another state of disbelief, Indy got back on his feet and reached out toward the man on the bike. When his hand disappeared through the man’s leather jacket, he realized that he was either dreaming or that his concussion was far worse than the doctor had thought.



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “Are you done now? Hurry up and get on the bike, I’m on a schedule.”



INDY: “No...no way, dude. Strader would never invite me onto the back of his bike, and I sure as hell wouldn’t jump on if he did.”



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “Oh for fuck’s sake…”



With a nod of his head, the spirit seemingly conjured up a sidecar out of thin air and continued to wait for his passenger impatiently.



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “Now pretty please, with sugar on top, get in the fucking sidecar before I pull my gun on your dumb ass.”



With little choice, Indy moved toward the sidecar and gingerly stepped into it. Once he was fully seated, the Strader-looking ghost revved up the engine.



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “Now hold on, shit’s about to get bumpy.”



INDY: “Shouldn’t we be wearing helmets?”



Indy barely had time to finish his previous sentence before the bike began to accelerate, leaving yet another patch of burnt tire marks on the floor. The combination of exhaust and burnt rubber filled the air to the point where Indy could see nothing in front of them, but the Strader Ghost did not seem concerned as he howled with excitement.



When Indy finally opened his eyes, he was no longer within the confines of Miyagi’s gym. Instead, he was in the hallway of what appeared to be an income-based apartment unit. To his side, Strader stepped off the motorcycle and moved toward a door with a simple wreath hanging from it. The number 215 was printed alongside the doorframe, sparking a moment of recognition in Indy’s brain.



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “C’mon, kid. I ain’t got all day.”



INDY: “But...I know this place. I used to live here.”



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “Yep. Christmas Eve 2001. Somewhere behind that door is a four-year-old Indy Darling. So get your ass out of the sidecar, I don’t have all night.”



Indy followed the ghost’s orders and joined him at the door, before the ghost grabbed him by the arm and suddenly hit him with a short clothesline out of nowhere. Indy hit the floor, but when he opened his eyes and began to protest, he realized that he was now inside of apartment 215, and his protests were cut short by the sound of an argument.


MAGGIE CARMICHAEL: “How much longer do you expect me to put up with this shit?! What’s wrong, another promoter skip out without paying you?”



CLIVE DARLING: “I’m sorry, love. I truly am. I thought this would be the year.”



MAGGIE CARMICHAEL: “You’ve thought it was going to be the year since the day I met you, which was one of the worst days of my life, by the way!”



CLIVE DARLING: “Please don’t say that, and try to keep your voice down. Nate’s sleeping and the last thing he needs to wake up to on Christmas Eve is his parents arguing about money.”



Indy slowly stood up and found the Strader Ghost standing nearby, watching the argument unfold. Instead of objecting to their presence during this private moment, Indy found himself transfixed by the sight of his young father, mother, and an argument that he remembered all too well.



MAGGIE: “Like I give a damn about what that kid thinks! Talking about the worst days of my life, his birth is close second to meeting you!”



The ghost could not help but look over at Indy with an expression mixed with shock and pity, but instead of finding Indy looking back at him, the young man’s focus had turned toward a darkened hallway. The ghost followed Indy’s gaze, and in the shadows he could see a four-year-old boy in Star Wars pajamas, wide-awake to hear everything being said in the living room.



MAGGIE: “And it’s not just about the money, Clive! It’s this lifestyle! I have a promising future ahead of me, but I’m not going to reach it if I’m saddled with a loser and his kid!”



CLIVE: “Is that so? Did Mitch tell you that?”



MAGGIE: “Leave him out of this! Just accept what I already know...that you are a complete loser and you’ll never change! It’s never going to be your year, and do you know why? Because you’re Clive fucking Darling, and that’s not good enough, it’s not even close to being better than a man like Mitch!”



CLIVE: “You don’t mean that…”



MAGGIE: “The hell I don’t! I’m leaving, Clive. I’m leaving tonight, and with any luck, I’ll never see you again as long as you live!”



The Strader Ghost began to shake his head in disbelief at the actions of Indy’s mother, as they carried a venom that not even he was used to hearing.



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “Jesus, kid. That really sucks. I’m guessing that’s you at the end of the hallway, right?”



INDY: “Yeah...yeah that’s me. I think I had forgotten this, or at least, I tried to.”



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “Can’t say I blame you.”



As Indy and the Ghost finished their exchange, they watched Maggie Carmichael march toward the apartment door. She grabbed the handle of a suitcase on her way out, not even bothering to look back at the man whose heart she’d just broken. Clive remained motionless for a few moments, until he began to hear a sob from down the hall. Indy and the Ghost watched as Clive’s heart was broken a second time, and he rushed to comfort his young son.



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “I feel kind of bad for bringing you here now, kid. If anyone needs a reason to hate Christmas, this is a good one.”



Indy watched as his father knelt down and wrapped his son in his strong arms. No words were shared between them and no excuses were made.



INDY: “That’s just it. I don’t hate Christmas. I love it, actually. It’s when that bitch finally got out of our lives for good.”



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “Oh yeah? Guess that makes sense. She didn’t even tell you goodbye. So why the long face?”



Indy paused for a moment as a lone teardrop rolled down his cheek. When he answered the ghost’s question, he did so in the most direct way possible.



INDY: “I never got to tell him goodbye either.”



Sensing that they had seen all that they could of that moment in time, the ghost reached out to take hold of Indy’s arm. This time he refrained from executing a clothesline, and simply moved them along with a nod of his head.



In the blink of an eye, Indy was no longer in his childhood home. Instead, he was in the front row of Proving Ground in the T-Mobile Arena in Paradise, Nevada. It was a disconcerting feeling, going from one environment to another in the blink of an eye, but for Indy, it was even more disconcerting to see himself in the ring against Colton Saint.



INDY: “What the...where...is this…”



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “The night you won the X-Factor Championship. In fact, we’re just in time.”



TREY BOOKER: “The crowd has come unglued and with good reason here J.T. This is Indy’s chance!



Indy watched himself as he headed to the turnbuckles slowly and made his way to the second rope. All around him, he could hear the crowd calling for his “Independents Day” to bring the match to an end. Instead, he watched Colton Saint catch him on the jump in a powerbomb position and then drive younger Indy down in devastating fashion.



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: Y’know, I can’t help but feel like he had you right there. I mean, there’s no way you could have kicked out after that, and yet, he doesn’t seem in any hurry to pin your shoulders to the mat.”



Indy glanced over at the ghost, wondering exactly what he was getting at. Somehow, he knew that even the spirit was suggesting that his win was dumb luck or maybe even a fluke.



J.T. PRICE: Look what that chance turned into Booker! Kid is pretty much done without even knowing it!



TREY BOOKER: While that’s still up in the air, things certainly aren’t looking good for Indy Darling here.



Indy continued to watch as Colton grabbed hold of younger Indy’s leg, dragged him to the middle of the ring, and began to set up an STF. Then, just as Saint was going to twist into the submission, younger Indy reached up to grab the champion and roll him into a small package.



ONE…

TWO…

THREE!!!!



Indy glanced over at the ghost again, this time to see him shaking his head back and forth.



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “I’m calling bullshit. No way a main eventer like Colton Saint gets rolled up by some rookie kid to lose a championship.”



INDY: “What the hell are you getting at?”



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “You know exactly what I’m getting at, cause you’ve laid awake at night wondering the same thing. Saint was sick of being called a champion that never defended. He was sick of the office, the fans, and his opponents. Later on that same night, he would beat the hell out of Zane and stuff her in a trunk, and less than a few weeks later, he’d announce his retirement. What I’m saying is, he let you win.”



Indy was momentarily speechless. He had no comeback and no defense. Since that night in early November, he had to listen to everyone call him a fluke, a belief that only gained momentum with every loss that followed. During that time he put on a brave face and denied the claims of his detractors, but now having his own inner doubts shoved into his face, he could no longer deny it. Was he a worthy champion? Did Colton let him win?



No. No goddamn way. Indy had put up with that kind of talk from guys like the real John Nash Strader, and he wasn’t about to put up with it from some fart in the wind that happened to look like him. He stood up defiantly, giving the ghost a look that demanded he do the same. Instead, the Strader Ghost simply gave Indy a cocky smile.



INDY: “Stand up and say that to my face. I don’t care if you pull that fade away shit, I will find a way to wipe that smirk off your goddamn face!”



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “Now that...is more like it. I think we’re done here, kid.”



Indy continued to hold his ground, unsure what the ghost meant.



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “What else is there to do, right? You got to accept the fact that your mom is a bitch and you’re better off without her. You got to remember what an amazing dad Clive Darling was. You even got to stare all of that doubt and self-loathing right in the face and tell it to fuck off. Pretty good for one night, but you’re just getting started. Now I’ve gotta get you back before number two shows up. She can be a real hellcat when I’m late.”



Despite the ghost’s admissions to Indy passing the strange tests that had been put before him, he continued to stand his ground.



INDY: “No. No way. Fuck you, man. You make me relive one of the worst nights of my childhood and then you criticize one of the best nights of my professional life. We’re gonna throw down, right here and now.”



Instead of getting offended, the ghost reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a cigarette. As he began to light it up, he glanced up at Indy.



GHOST STRADER OF CHRISTMAS PAST: “Is that so? I beg to differ…”



With his cigarette lit, the ghost exhaled a surprisingly large cloud of smoke that engulfed Indy’s entire head. Despite being a smoker himself, Indy began to choke and was momentarily blinded. He desperately tried to fan the smoke out of his face until it finally dissipated and Indy once again had a clear look at what was in front of him. Bill Murray was stumbling around a television studio as a winged Carol Kane taunted him.



Sitting up in his bed yet again, Indy verbally cussed his pounding headache and the strange dreams his concussion seemed to have caused. Deciding to give up on rest, he instead made his way out of his bedroom and back down to the main floor. He was relieved to see that there wasn’t a biker waiting for him as he crossed the main floor and headed for Doc’s makeshift kitchen. Hoping a midnight snack would help to ease his troubled mind, Indy opened the door to the kitchen, surprised to see that the room was fully illuminated. Even more surprising than that, was the smell of baked goods and the sight of a familiar young Asian woman eating a cupcake.



INDY: “Wha...Zane?! No...no way...don’t tell me…”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Great, you’re here already! we’ve got a lot of work to do...but first...cupcakes!”



As the ghostly version of Zane bit into the pink-frosted dessert, Indy watched in amazement as a pair of pixie wings sprouted from her back and buzzed rapidly enough to lift her off the ground.



INDY: “I’m starting to think this isn’t a concussion. Let me guess...Ghost of Christmas Present?”



With pink frosting on her lips, the ghost turned to Indy with a big smile.



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Did someone say presents? Oh, Indy...you shouldn’t have!”



She then buzzed toward him and remained a few feet off the ground, before giving him a playful bop on the nose.



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “And to think I told Lillie no meow…”



INDY: “Is that why you look like Zane? Because of Twitter? I mean, I have no issues with her. We’ve never even had a match…”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “I can’t tell you why you see us the way you do. That’s up to your own aching subconscious. I guess you could say...it’s a secret…



The ghost leaned forward as if she was whispering something in Indy’s ear, but much to his surprise, Indy couldn’t hear a damn thing.



INDY: “Wait...what…”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “No more time for questions or cupcakes! We’ve got places to be and people to see!”



With that, the ghost reached out with both hands to grab Indy by his ears. He squeezed his eyes closed, expecting to receive a headbutt much like Bill Murray had gotten from Carol Kane, but instead, the blow never came. When he gingerly opened his eyes, Indy found that he was no longer in Doc’s kitchen, but on the streets of Indianapolis. It was midday, and people were hustling and bustling as they attempted to check off those last few items from their shopping lists. With the ghostly Zane still hovering beside him, Indy found that he had many questions on his mind. The first of which was...



INDY: “What are we doing here?”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Oh, we’re just checking up on someone.”



Indy began to look around the busy street, unable to pinpoint anyone he recognized. The sounds of traffic and conversation made it difficult to pick out anything of importance, and yet the ringing of a bell seemed to grab Indy’s attention. He began to walk through the mass of humanity with the ghost following along, offering no clues as to whether or not he was going in the right direction. The ringing of the bell grew louder with each step Indy took, until finally he was able to make out its source. Standing in front of a department store was a young woman in a red Santa hat, happily ringing a bell in her hand as she wished passersby a Merry Christmas. Beside her, a red kettle from the Salvation Army was propped up on a stand.



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Don’t you just love the kindness and spirit of giving this time of year?”



INDY: “Yeah, I’ve always enjoyed hearing those bells, even when I didn’t have a penny to offer. My dad used to volunteer to ring the bell outside of the gyms and arenas during Christmas shows. We didn’t have much, but that didn’t stop him from giving back in any way he could.”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “It sounds like your father was a good man, Indy. I hope we’ll see that kind of generosity here today…”



Indy continued to watch as people stopped to drop their loose change in the kettle, until finally, someone very familiar to Indy appeared on the scene. Wearing a black suit and tie with a Santa hat atop his afro, was the newest member of Miyagi’s gym and the Project: Honor roster. It was none other than “Furious” Julius Fairweather.



INDY: “Hey! It’s Julius! Man, that dude is so cool! Look...he’s gonna ring the bell!”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Hmmm…”



Indy and the ghost continued to watch in silence, as Julius approached the young woman with a wide smile.



JULIUS FAIRWEATHER: “Hey there pretty momma! I love the way you shake that mother fu...that is...you’re doing a fine job of ringing that bell!”



YOUNG WOMAN: “Oh, thank you! Would you like to make a donation?”



The young woman was so full of cheer and kindness that Indy could not wait to see how much money his new friend would drop in the kettle.



JULIUS FAIRWEATHER: “For a beautiful woman like you, I think I can spare some pocket change…”



Indy continued to watch as Julius pulled a one hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and dropped it into the red kettle. The look on the young woman’s face was one of complete shock and gratitude.



YOUNG WOMAN: “Oh my gosh! That is so generous of you!”



JULIUS FAIRWEATHER: “Hey, you can’t be a bell ringer and not be willing to give, you feel me?”



YOUNG WOMAN: “Oh, are you a volunteer too?”



Julius reached into his back pocket for his wallet and flipped it open to show off some impressive looking credentials.



JULIUS FAIRWEATHER: “You could say that. I’m actually with collections. They’ve got me out collecting donations today so we can get them where they need to be by tomorrow. I was just stopping by this fine establishment to pick up today’s collection.”



YOUNG WOMAN: “Oh, that’s great! My shift is almost up and I was afraid of leaving this unattended while I went inside to get the store manager.”



JULIUS FAIRWEATHER: “Well, worry no more! I can stand guard here while you track the mother fu...that is...while you track down the manager of this fine establishment. Then we can go over all the necessary paperwork together. Maybe when we’re done, you and me could even take a stroll to the head office together. I’d love to tell them what a fine little bell ringer you are.”



The young woman seemed to consider Julius’ offer for a moment, but after considering his own generous donation and official looking credentials, she seemed to decide that he was on the up and up.



YOUNG WOMAN: “That is so kind of you! It will just take a minute!”



JULIUS FAIRWEATHER: “Take your time, momma. Santa will be right here waiting when you get back.”



The young woman handed Julius her bell, gave him a bright smile, and then turned to rush off into the department store. Once she was gone, Julius gave the bell a quick ring and then another, before eventually tossing it into traffic. He nonchalantly kicked the legs of the stand together, tucked the entire contraption under his arm, and smoothly blended into the busy crowd with the donations in his possession. Indy watched with mouth agape, unsure of what he’d just seen.



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “I knew there was something I didn’t like about him.”



INDY: “But...no. He wouldn’t do something like that. I mean...this is all just a big misunderstanding...”



Indy continued to watch as the young woman returned with the store manager. The confused pair began to look up and down the sidewalk, as a visible concern started to form on the young woman’s face.



INDY: “Come on...you don’t expect me to believe that Julius would steal from a charity on Christmas Eve. Seriously? Do you really expect me to believe that?”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Seeing is believing...isn’t it?”



INDY: “Well yeah, but...whatever. This is just a stupid dream. I’m not going to judge someone because my concussion is screwing with my mind…”



Without warning, the ghost suddenly reached out and slapped Indy across the face, nearly spinning him around on his feet.



INDY: “Ouch!”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Did that feel like a dream?”



Indy rubbed his sore cheek and gave the floating image of Zane an annoyed look. Then, just as he was about to interject, she reached out to grab him by the ear once again. This time, she tugged on his ear with a single hand, like a frustrated parent would do with a spoiled child.



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “I think we’ve seen enough here. Let’s visit a place where the people are just a little more kind, shall we?”



Indy felt the sensation of being pulled off his feet, and before he could protest, he found that he was no longer standing on the busy streets of Indianapolis. Instead, he was halfway across the country in sunny Los Angeles, or more specifically, the care center that was responsible for the wellbeing of his friend and manager, Doc Miyagi. Indy landed on all fours in one of the hospital’s hallways, as the ghost continued to flutter in midair. The X-Factor Champion pulled himself back to his feet, and immediately looked from side to side, where he spotted one of the doors to a private room propped open.



From his position in the hallway, he immediately recognized Doc’s daughter, Megumi Yamamoto. She was sitting in a chair alongside a hospital bed, and while Indy could not see the patient clearly, he could only assume that it was her father. He remained in the hallway for a few moments, even after the ghost floated into the room ahead of him. Finally, the ghost turned back toward Indy, and with Zane’s face, beckoned for him to follow.



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Come on, silly. You’re not going to learn anything standing out there.”



Having quickly learned the futility in arguing with a holiday spirit, Indy followed the Zane Ghost into the room, where he saw his friend and manager for the first time since the long ambulance ride in Paradise, Nevada. It looked as if Doc had been well taken care off with his gray beard trimmed and his hair parted and in place. Having spent the majority of his days with Doc seeing him highly animated, whether at the gym or in public, Indy could not help but feel weird seeing him in such a peaceful state. Meanwhile, the ghost’s attention was all on Meg and her one-sided conversation with her comatose father.



MEG: “So the doctors say that it’s helpful if I keep talking to you, but it’s so hard to think of things to say. I wish I had reached out to you sooner, that I had seen through mom’s lies when it came to you.”



INDY: “Zane...Ghost...whatever I’m supposed to call you, I don’t feel very comfortable with this. It seems too private.”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Hush. She’s getting to the good stuff.”



MEG: “I guess we could talk about your work, but I’m afraid I don’t know much about wrestling. Mother never let me watch it, let alone ask questions about it. When I was younger, I did manage to find a few of your matches on YouTube. I’m sorry, Benjiro, but it didn’t seem like you were very good.”



Indy seemed to take Meg's comment as a personal insult.

INDY: “Is she serious? Doc was great! Sure, he didn’t win much, but there wasn’t an opponent that got into the ring with him that didn’t come out better in the process!”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Maybe she just needs someone to educate her?”



Indy gave an annoyed glance at the ghost, but he found that he couldn’t stay mad at her for long with the pink frosting still dotting her chin.



MEG: “Your student or protégé, whatever it is that you call him, seems very interesting. He’s even kind of cute in that lost puppy sort of way. I’m guessing you wouldn’t want to hear that, though.”



Indy could not help but beam with pride upon hearing Meg's confession.

INDY: “Cute? She thinks I’m cute?”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Aw, are you having a Rudolf moment?”



MEG: “I don’t think he’d see me like that anyway. We didn’t exactly hit it off after our first meeting…”



With that, Indy's brief smile of hope turned upside down.

INDY: “I knew it…”



MEG: “Truth be told, I was very rude. I know he meant well, but even a blind man could see that he didn’t have the first clue when it came to talking to women. I guess that’s part of his charm. As for me, well, I’m so used to the egocentric guys in L.A. that I just didn’t know how to talk to someone so...genuine.”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Did you hear that? You’re still in the game Indy! My only question is why you’re wasting your time in Indianapolis with people like that nasty Fairweather when you could be in sunny California with someone who likes you? I’m sure she could use the emotional support since she’s out there caring for her father all alone.”



INDY: “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. The doctor says I shouldn’t travel with this concussion…”



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Concussion McMuffin! People in your business ignore doctor’s orders all the time! If you had a title defense tomorrow, are you telling me you wouldn’t do everything you could to get in the ring?”



INDY: “Well, of course I would, but…”



Before Indy could finish, the ghost reached out and smacked him across the face yet again.



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “No buts! Admit that you’d rather feel sorry for yourself and avoid human contact than take a chance by jumping on a plane! What’s the worst that could happen? You spend Christmas alone in California instead of Indiana? Big deal!”



INDY: “Fine! I get it, okay! The airlines are probably packed but I’ll give it a try…”



Another quick smack left Indy wondering what he could have possibly said wrong. The ghost was quick to provide an explanation using the wise words of a Jedi Master.



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “Do or do not! There is no try! You think that just because your father sacrificed his social life to make it in the business that you have to do the same thing, but you forget something very important! He still had you by his side! You don’t have to be alone to succeed in your dreams, and the sooner you learn that, the better!”


For a moment, Indy was puzzled by the spirit's proclamation.


INDY: “So you’re saying that I shouldn’t trust Julius because I don’t know anything about him, but I don’t know anything about Meg either, and you want me to trust her?”



With an expression more sincere than he’d ever seen on the real Zane’s face, the ghost floated closer to Indy and rested her hand on his shoulder.



GHOST ZANE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT: “No...I want you to trust me.”



The ghost’s words sent a shiver down Indy’s spine, as if he could sense the truth behind them. Those words had meaning, and without thinking twice, he understood that she was telling him the truth. Then, before he could reply or even take one last look at Meg and Doc, Indy’s surroundings swirled into a blur, disorientating him to the point of needing to close his eyes tightly.



Bill Murray was in an elevator, completely unaware that the other passenger was the third and final spirit. No sooner could he say, “Back off big man. It may work with the ladies, but not with me”, did Indy sit up in his bed and reach for his throbbing head. Still thirsty and hungry, he instinctively turned to sit on the bedside, but before he could stand, he noticed a cupcake with pink frosting sitting on his nightstand. Not only that, but underneath the cupcake was a plane ticket to Los Angeles with the departure time of 8 AM the next morning.



INDY: “What the fuck…”



Fearing that his concussion had actually caused permanent damage, or worse, was really an undiagnosed brain tumor, Indy leaped to his feet and made a direct path for his bedroom door. He reached the landing outside of his bedroom, but before he could continue down the stairs, a sudden voice stopped him cold.



: “Oi! Cunt!”



Before he could respond, a charging man rushed across the balcony, driving his shoulder into Indy’s midsection. The impact proved to be forceful enough to drive Indy backwards, with his attacker still driving forward with the spear. Indy heard the glass of the window begin to crack before he felt it, and both men were airborne before he’d barely had time to register the impact. The fall from the second story window to the alley below took a lot longer than Indy expected it would, while the hard landing in the dumpster below the window was much worse.



With great difficulty and a few groans, Indy pulled himself up and leaned over the edge of the dumpster, acutely aware of the broken slivers of glass that penetrated his back. Yet despite the clear pain, he could not help but take notice of the man dressed in complete black, sitting against the wall on the opposite side of the alley. Holding his stomach from his fits of uncontrollable laughter, it appeared to be none other than Dickie Watson, the Project: Honor Grand Champion. However, by this point in the night, Indy was convinced that it was something else entirely.



INDY: “Ugh...ow...let me guess...Ghost of Christmas Future?”



GHOST DICKIE: “Heh...nah, mate. Ghost of Future Yet To Come. Don’t you read your Dickens?”



Indy kicked a leg over the edge of the dumpster and lowered his body to the alley’s icy surface, completely oblivious as to what the ghost found funny about throwing the both of them out a two-story window.



INDY: “Right. Of course. My bad.”



He brushed the remnants of street refuse from his clothes as he gingerly limped toward the spirit. On one hand, Indy was relieved that the third ghost hadn’t turned out to be some creepy version of the grim reaper, although he struggled to make the connection between the ghost and Dickie Watson.



INDY: “So, Dickie Watson? What the hell does he have to do with me?”



The spirit rose from the ground as well, brushing dirt from his own long, dark coat.



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “Glad you asked, mate. The others might know fuck all about why they look the way they do, but me? I know exactly what you’re thinking. Wanna have a look?”



Indy responded with a defeated shrug.

INDY: “Do I have a choice?”



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “We’ve all got a choice, mate. Of course it’s like the last wanker told ya...any man not willing to take a chance learns fuck all.
"


INDY: “Fine. Let’s get this over with. Do you teleport me with a clothesline or a headbutt or what?”



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “Nah, ya daft twit. Where’s the fun in that? Just turn the fuck around.”



INDY: “Fun...says the guy who speared me out of a goddamn window…”



Half expecting to be grabbed in a German Suplex, Indy slowly turned his back on the ghost, ultimately surprised when the dumpster and Doc’s warehouse/gym had vanished from sight. Instead, he once again found himself in the front row of some unnamed arena with a Project: Honor ring set up before him. Only this time, the match between the ropes was not one Indy was familiar with. Instead, he found himself watching the closing moments of what seemed to be a grueling contest between himself and the man whose face the third spirit was wearing. At ringside, Indy caught a glimpse of The Project: Honor Grand Championship, glistening from its perch at the time keeper’s table.



INDY: “What is this supposed to be? The draft show?”



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “I don’t see T.J. Thompson in there, do you?”



Indy returned his focus to the match in progress and watched himself catch Dickie with an unexpected superkick. Then, pointing to the rafters above in honor of his late father, Indy watched himself ascend to the top turnbuckle before taking careful measure of where Dickie laid in the ring. Seeing himself execute a Shooting Star Press in person was a strange feeling for Indy, but what turned out to be even stranger was seeing him crash into the canvas as Dickie rolled to his side.



INDY: “Fuck. I could tell he wasn’t stunned enough. Why the hell would I do that?”



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “I’ve seen worse, mate. People do strange things in the heat of the moment with glory on the line.”



He looked on as the future version of himself began to pull himself off the mat, helpless to offer any kind of warning as Dickie reached his own feet first. Then came a pained pivot as future Indy looked to track down his opponent, only to find him waiting and ready. Dickie grabbed hold of Indy’s torso and swung him backwards before throwing his own body toward the canvas, planting the apparent challenger with the modified reverse STO known as Dickie’s Revenge.



ONE!

TWO!!

THREE!!!



J.T. PRICE: “Let’s be honest, Booker. I’m not sure anyone ever thought the kid had a chance against The Calamity, but at least he put up a good fight!”



TREY BOOKER: “Did he though? If you ask me, Indy just wasn’t ready for this kind of challenge. I think the kid needs to stay in his end of the swimming pool and leave the deep end to the big boys.”



Indy let out a heavy sigh from ringside, even if he himself had not been expecting a different outcome.



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “I mean, I’m not about to bet against Dickie while I’m wearing his face, but is that really how you think it would play out?”



INDY: “What are you talking about? Of course it is. We just saw it.”



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “Oi, twit, hasn’t anyone ever told you that the future has yet to be written? This is the outcome we’re seeing because it’s the outcome you expect. Now that you’ve had a successful X-Factor Title defense, I know in the back of your mind the idea of challenging Dickie has come up. But instead of pulling the trigger, you’re too caught up in your own psycho-semantic bullshite. You went off on Edgebrook because he was reporting on what he saw. You jump on the defensive every time some Strader or Mark Hunter brings up your win/loss record. You, my friend, are in your own fucking head.”



The X-Factor Champion shook his head in denial.

INDY: “You make it sound so easy…”



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “Well it ain’t rocket science, is it now? How are you gonna know if you can hang with the champ unless you challenge the champ? So what’s the worst that can happen? You issue the challenge and you lose? Boo fucking hoo. Like another check in the loss column really matters at this point? What you’re not bothering to do, is think about what happens if you win.“



INDY: “Oh yeah? What’s that? I’ll silence the haters? I’ll earn respect?”



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “Nah, mate. You’ll stop carrying around that doubt in your heart, that little voice that tells you you’ll never make it bigger than your old man or your manager. You’ll stop comparing everything you do to them and finally realize that Indy fucking Darling is his own man with his own destiny.”



Indy let out another heavy sigh.

INDY: “Fine. I’ll think about it, okay? Let’s just see how the Championship Showcase goes first.”



Having said that, the ghost put an arm around Indy’s shoulders.



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “Fair enough, mate. Now let’s be off. You’ve got one more stop to make before this magical mystery tour comes to an end, yeah?”



Suddenly, the spirit’s grip around Indy’s head tightened and he began to take a running charge forward. Before he could react, Indy found himself planted on the ground with a running bulldog as the ghost’s laughter echoed in his ears.



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “Ha! I couldn’t fucking resist!”



Indy pushed himself up with both hands, no longer cursing or blaming his concussion, but muttering a few choice words for a Mister Charles Dickens. As he reached his feet, Indy saw that he was no longer in the unknown arena, but in a place much more intimate and reserved. On either side of him were several rows of pews, each of them empty. Ahead of him was an altar and behind it the chapel’s priest, but the non-descript open casket that rested in front of the altar is what really caught Indy’s attention.



INDY: “Son of a bitch.”



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “Oi, I take it you’ve seen this one?”



INDY: “Everybody knows this one. At first I’m supposed to think that it’s Doc’s coffin or something, but then you go with the big reveal that it’s actually mine. I just don’t see why this is necessary. I mean, other than being alone this year, other than having a hundred different things on my mind, I actually like Christmas. So, come on man, can we just skip this part?”



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “Nah, mate, I’m afraid you’re still missing the big picture.”



The spirit began to walk down the center aisle toward the casket, leaving Indy little choice but to follow along. Upon reaching it, Indy took notice of the board standing alongside the casket. Sure enough, it listed the name Nathaniel Demetrius Darling along with the dates June 19th, 1997 - December 25th, 2087.



INDY: “Ninety? That’s not so bad…”



He then glanced over at the open casket at the withered old man laying inside. His white hair was nearly gone, his hands were placed peacefully across his chest, and his father’s sunglasses rested upon his face.



INDY: “Wow. I got old. Still, it’s creepy to see myself like this and all, but I’m still not seeing the point…”



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “That...(the spirit said as he motioned toward the church behind Indy)...is the point.”



Indy turned to look, but other than the rows of empty pews, he remained oblivious as to what the spirit was trying to tell him.



INDY: “Yeah, so? Pretty big church. They must be expecting one hell of a turn-out. How many fans do you think they can fit in this place?”



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “Nah, mate. The service was scheduled to start 10 minutes ago. Old father Jimmy behind the altar must be your biggest fan, or maybe he’s just getting paid to be here.”



Indy turned his attention away from the empty church to give the spirit an incredulous look.



INDY: “What? You mean, nobody shows up? Is that what you’re trying to say?”



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “Now you’re finally catching on. Let me spell it out for you a little bit better. Ninety-year-old former professional wrestler dies alone in a nursing home. He was preceded in death by a bunch of other fucks who were too busy with their professional lives to make a personal one for themselves. He had a bunch of fans back in the day, but they either died or moved on with their own lives. Fans today either never heard of him or can’t be bothered to give a shite about anyone past the age of fifty. Now if that’s not enough, we can swing by ol’ Dickie boy’s funeral to check on his grandkids and great grandkids, not to mention extended family and friends. Maybe we could even stop by Strader’s for a laugh as well. I hear they had to rent out two churches in order for his family to put him in the ground...”



Indy began to back away from the casket slowly, as the realization began to sink in that his current path ended with his death and no one left behind to mourn him. A knot began to twist in his stomach as that very organ crawled up past his ribcage and into his throat. Suddenly desperate for air, Indy turned away from the spirit and rushed back down the church aisle, not even stopping when the ghost called out after him.



GHOST DICKIE OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME: “Oi! Cunt! Not even gonna thank me? Ain’t even gonna say goodbye?”



Upon reaching the church doors, Indy threw all of his weight against them, hurling his own body outside. He crashed onto the ground, too busy retching and gasping for air to immediately realize that he was back in the alley beside Miyagi’s gym. As he desperately tried to get the world around him to stop spinning, his hand found the cold surface of the very dumpster he’d fallen into previously. Angry at his father, his mother, his manager, and the face behind every spirit he’d seen during the night, he balled up his fist and began to hammer it against the unforgiving green steel.



In that moment of ultimate desperation, the psychologically scarred man behind the Indy Darling persona gave up on every aspect that had made someone like Colton Saint consider him to be a good man.


    
INDY: “FUCK YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU ALL AND I’LL FUCKING KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!!!”



The words that came out of his mouth were not his own. They were the words of a terrified four-year-old who learned that his mother resented him. They were the words of the twelve-year-old who watched his father die in the ring. They were even the words of the twenty-three-year-old who was afraid of failure, rejection, and loss. It wasn’t a public display or a vile act of evil perpetrated in the ring or on camera, yet it was Indy Darling’s heel turn nonetheless. It was the monster that had always been inside of him, the monster that he had been feeding since he signed his contract for Project: Honor.



It was unleashed, unchained to see the world with its own eyes. To taste the putrid air of the alley for itself. It was free to curse the rest of the world to damnation and ruin. To relish in it’s own self-pity and righteous self-loathing. It was every ounce of his being that felt unloved, unwanted, and unappreciated, and it was ready to rage at anyone that dared to draw near.



But only for a moment.



Streaks of blood stained the dumpster from Indy’s busted knuckles and his throat was raw following the few seconds of primal screaming. He sobbed without restraint, still kneeling on all fours in the frigid alleyway. Yet as he put the monster back on its chains, as he forced it back down to where everyone’s monster stays hidden, his cries slowly turned from tears of despair to those of hope.



He hadn’t missed it. Christmas would still come in a few short hours, and Nathaniel “Indy” Darling sure as hell wasn’t going to spend it alone in a cold Indianapolis warehouse battling his emotional demons. He had an airline ticket to book, because he wasn’t about to trust the one by the cupcake on his nightstand to be authentic. But first, he had a window to board up, a window that he assumed he had stumbled out of due to intense dizziness. After all, everyone knew that ghosts weren’t real. Didn’t they?






When Indy turned his phone back on to record the end of his promo toward T.J. Thompson and Dickie Watson, he was seated in an airplane awaiting takeoff. With his signature sunglasses hiding the dark circles under his eyes, he tried to pick up where he left off.



INDY: “At this point, I guess a Merry Christmas is in order. So from the current X-Factor Champion to all of the fans, staff, and competitors of Project: Honor, I hope you all have the very best of holidays. Because let’s be honest, the worst is yet to come.”



“Now I don’t mean that in a completely negative way, but if we’re being reasonable, we all know that the upcoming year is going to have its share of trials and tribulations. Hopefully not as many as the past year, but it will definitely have its moments. Dickie, T.J., right now we’re on top of the world here in Project: Honor. Along with Warstein and Raven, we’re the champions that the company is looking at to lead it into the new year.”



“Of course, the chances of us still holding our titles when the upcoming year reaches its end are pretty slim. By this time next year, T.J. could be wondering how he managed to drop his title to Arik Holt. I could be cursing myself for underestimating Lil’ Petey. Legacy might find themselves baffled by the team of Pyrophobia, the surprisingly effective combination of Pyro and Daniel Horror. Dickie could end up losing his strap to Myojin, Matthew Knox, Kasey Winterborn, or...hell...even me.”



“The point is, none of us knows what the future might hold. From Rock Johnson to James Edgebrook, all they have are their best guesses. So I’m not about to come out and declare a victory over T.J. and Dickie on the very first show of the year. Am I going to go into that match giving it every last ounce of effort I have? You’re damn right. Am I going in looking at myself or T.J. as underdogs, afraid of what people might say if I come up short, or what another loss might mean for my career? Hell no. The people in this business who give in to despair or self-doubt are the ones that get chained to those things for eternity. Caliban used to say that there were no strings on him, but I can promise you that there are no chains holding Indy Darling down.”



“We’re in the main event of the first show of the year, a historic night that not only kicks off season two, but also headlines the first ever Project: Honor draft. So while those on the roster who will head to Fallout already know what the champions on Proving Ground can do, let’s give them one final reminder on their way out the door. That way they have something to live up to when they take over Thursday Nights. I know I’m up for it, I know T.J. is hungry for it, and it ought to be second nature for Dickie by now.”



Indy is momentarily interrupted as an announcement comes over the plane’s speakers, informing passengers to fasten their seatbelts, silence their phones, and every other task that goes along with a routine takeoff. When it’s finished, Indy gives his camera phone a quick shrug of the shoulders.



INDY: “Sounds like my time might be running short, at least where this promo is concerned. My time in Project: Honor though, well that time is just beginning. I plan on being around for a long time to come, and one day, just maybe, the new faces that come into this company will no longer look at Dickie Watson as the measuring stick. Instead they’ll have their eyes focused right on “Everyone’s Favorite”. As for me, the only measuring stick I’m going to worry about in the coming year is my own ability and what I know that I’m capable of. Not my dad, not my manager, and not any of the other competitors in this company. Only I will know when I’ve given it my best and only I will know when I’ve truly come up short.”



“Now I know I said that I had a lot of things to say to Dickie Watson when I started this promo last night, and that still holds true. Only this isn’t the time or the place. One day, if Dickie is fortunate enough to keep his iron grip on the Grand Championship, it might be time to share those things. For now, he has my utmost respect as the face of this company and as someone with a record second to none. This isn’t me kissing ass or playing nice. I’m just calling it as I see it. Does he do everything that I think the face of the company could be doing? Like I said, there’ll be another time to cross that bridge. After all, he’s been chalking up wins while I’ve spent the past few months finding my footing. As of today, consider my feet to be planted on solid ground. Sure, I’ve taken my lumps, but guess who always comes out on top when the chips are down? I did it in my first ever title match and I did it again when the title was on the line inside the steel cage. Everything else is just the trimmings around the main course. As for Dickie Watson, T.J. Thompson, and my first ever main event in the business? If that doesn’t sound like a main course, I don’t know what does."
 
"So yeah, Dickie has my respect and honor and all of that other sentimental nonsense the pops up when a pair of decent dudes end up looking across the ring at each other. He's also going to have my foot in his face, my passion countering his every pin attempt, and my determination to be the best flustering his every move. At Proving Ground, it will be Dickie's turn to doubt himself and question why he can't keep Indy Darling down, why he can't seem to outfight a rookie that everyone says he can beat in his sleep. That will be Dickie's burden to bear, because the days of doubting myself and the heights I can reach in this business are a thing of the past. My rise to the top of Proving Ground and Project: Honor? That's the future, and it's a lot closer than anyone might think. Even a complacent calamity...an unmotivated Moltov...a champion that doesn't yet realize how much he needs an opponent like Indy Darling to truly put him at the top of his game.”



“In closing, I just hope that Dickie brings every bit of that English orphan attitude and that T.J. Thompson brings the hip, the drip, and the desire to represent his new championship...yeah, I can rhyme. Because you can all rest assured that I’m bringing whatever you’re expecting and a little extra as well.”



“Why? Because I’m Indy Darling, and that’s not just good enough, it’s better than I used to be.”