The Tyranny of Evil Men: Part 1

“Motherfucker!”


Julius hit the steering wheel of his 1970 Cadillac DeVille with all of the aggression one would expect if he were in the midst of a fight for his life. The drive from Montreal to Indiana was taking far longer than he wanted, and hanging back to film The F-Word had already kept him from home longer than he wanted. It wasn’t a desire to see family or friends in Indianapolis that had him frustrated. It wasn’t a need to hit the gym and better himself to prevent another loss like he suffered at Fallout. It wasn’t even the aching bump on his head where Bruce McLeod’s shillelagh had connected that had him fired up.


“Motherfucking motherfucker!”


Unconcerned with any damage he might be doing to his vintage automobile, this time his fist hammered against the dashboard as he cruised past a pair of slow-moving vehicles, ignoring the solid yellow lines on the highway that indicated a no-passing zone. His reckless driving was proof that his anger was not the result of self-concern, but for one of the few people in life he considered a friend. He thought about his tag team partner being led out of the arena in handcuffs on Proving Ground along with his own hypocritical lecture on friendship at the end of this week’s F-Word. Neither were sitting well upon his conscience.


“You fucked things up good this time…”


Cursing at himself wasn’t making things any better, but until he returned to Indianapolis, it was all the otherwise helpless Fairweather could do. Having been a lone wolf most of his life, it didn’t bother him to play the part of Indy Darling’s friend if it meant getting into the profitable business Project: Honor had built. Pretend to like the guy, train alongside him, and lend an ear when he needed someone to talk to. In return, Julius got himself a spot on the Fallout roster and even charmed his way into an exclusive show on the company’s website. Everything had gone according to plan except for one tiny detail. In the course of playing the role of Julius Fairweather, friend and confidant of Indy Darling, the man behind the charade actually started to like his mark. The number one rule for any conman was to not get emotionally invested, but even an experienced grifter like Julius had never dealt with the genuine good nature of Nathaniel Demetrius Darling.


“Fuck you, Indy! Why you gotta be such a goddamn good person?!”




The small studio that Project: Honor had rented out in Montreal had been packed full of fans just an hour earlier. It was The F-Word’s second episode, and while Julius had doubts that it was as fun and memorable as his first, it had still been a success. Winston had already departed with Bambi and Candy, but instead of joining the afterparty, Julius decided to hang back and take advantage of the fully-equipped studio. If he had any guilt about using his F-Word resources to cut his Crowning promo, it was not visible as he sat behind his desk to start the video with a wide smile.


“Wargames, motherfucker. An opportunity to be Project: Honor’s one and only Tyrant. That shit’s almost poetic, considering how I claim to be The Shepherd protecting the weak from the tyranny of evil men. Now I find myself in a situation to safeguard the weak from 15 motherfuckers fighting it out to call themselves a tyrant. This might even be the reason fate has put my ass in Project: Honor! You might even say it’s my duty to win Wargames just to save us all from a world of trouble down the line. This situation’s so ironic that it could make Arik Holt squeal with delight, if he is indeed a Motherfucking Friend of Fairweather.”


“And speaking of friends, I like to think I have a few of them in this match. My main man, Indy Darling is one of them, and every motherfucker in Wargames knows it. But he’s not the only one. Queen V herself is in this match too. Now I love me some Victoria Strader, especially when we’re making it rain in the VIP Lounge at Butch’s Beaver Emporium. That girl knows how to party, but she also knows how to throw down. I may not like the idea of having to mess up my favorite wing-woman, but the name of the game says that only one motherfucker can be left standing. We’ll sort shit out on the other side of this thing, Vickie, but at The Crowning I’m gonna have to do what a motherfucker’s got to do.”


“This thing ain’t just about friends fighting it out though. I’m gonna look across that ring and see the very familiar face of one Bruce McLeod. As much as I’d like to have some beers with this motherfucker and put our differences behind us, we’re gonna find ourselves as opponents for the second show in a row. If there’s one thing Bruce has over yours truly, it’s experience inside of a wrestling ring. No number of amateur matches, MMA fights, or boxing bouts prepared me for Highlander Mac, and I’ve still got the lumps on my head to prove it. I’ve seen what that motherfucker brings to the table firsthand, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed. Only this time I ain’t about to get caught off guard and knocked over the head with his big stick. In fact, I might just take that motherfucker and put it to good use myself. No matter how this thing turns out, I owe your ass a drink, Bruce. I also owe you a few lumps on top of that thick Scottish skull. I think we both know which debt I need to pay off first.”


“So who else do we have up in this bitch? How about Fallout’s resident matchstick-sucking motherfucker, the man known as Pyro? We don’t have any beef between us, but if he tries to bring an open flame anywhere near this glorious Jheri Curl on top of my beautiful melon, I’ll erupt like motherfucking Mount Vesuvius and burn hotter than even he can handle! Save the flame-broiled bullshit for Burger King, motherfucker, cause I ain’t about to play that game! Consider my ass Fire Prevention Week, cause I’m gonna stop, drop, and roll you up like my favorite medicinal blend, motherfucker! The only smoke coming out of Wargames will be when Julius is making like Puff the Magic Dragon on your ass! You dig?”


“Speaking of smokin’, you’d see me grinning like the motherfucking Cheshire Cat if I was surrounded by Kayla Richards, Kallie Reznik, and Kasey Winterborn any other day of the week. Unfortunately, this ain’t Hot Tub Hour at Casa de Fairweather. It’s a motherfucking fight, and I ain’t about to take these three women lightly. I’m no fool, and I’m well aware that they wouldn’t be in this kind of match unless they’re each capable of winning the motherfucker. So for now, I’m gonna put my Valentine’s Day plans on hold and worry about kicking booty instead of pleasing it. Kayla, Kallie, and Kasey are a deadly triple threat in this match. In fact, we could just call them Triple K or even The K...K...motherfucker! I bet DeMarco did that shit on purpose just to fuck with me! And during Black History Month too! Now I’m all kinds of fired up and have no choice but to take it out on all three of them!”


“Don’t worry, Jason Long. I ain’t forgotten about your ass either. Rounding out the Fallout line-up in Wargames is this thirsty fool who’s just begging to get knocked on his ass. When it comes to this self-proclaimed “King”, I ain’t never seen a face in such a dire need of punching. This may be The Crowning motherfucker, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let your sleazy ass walk away from the match with any legitimate claim to the throne. That’s right, motherfucker, I just called your ass sleazy. You know if I’m the one throwing out a name like that, you’ve gotta be lurking at the bottom of the barrel. Planned Parenthood would probably give me a medal if I took it to the next level and sterilized your skanky ass! Castration by way of Bruce McLeod’s old school Billy club, courtesy of Julius motherfucking Fairweather. If nothing else, at least no one will have to worry about you humping the ring post in the middle of the motherfucking fight.”


Julius shakes his head and takes a deep breath. He then takes a moment to open his desk drawer and pull out a silver flask. He gives the camera a bug-eyed stare as he twists off the top, takes a few deep swigs, and then places the empty container on his desk.


“Goddamn! I’m only halfway done talking about the motherfuckers in this match! We’ve still got all those bright-eyed catch-as-catch-can motherfuckers on Proving Ground. Now it’s only been a matter of weeks since the draft, but there’s already some fresh faces on the block that I ain’t too familiar with. Emmanuelle? Kagome Akaibara? Blair Regent? Welcome to Project: Honor, motherfuckers! Consider me your official tour guide to this fucked up circus sideshow. I don’t know a goddamned one of you, but you can bet your asses I’ll be scouting each and every one of you motherfuckers on the way to The Crowning. Being new on the scene, I have my doubts that I’ll have to look across that ring at any of you, but consider my ass prepared just in case that eventuality comes to pass.”


“Next up is Shawn motherfucking Warstein, one half of the Tag Team Champions and partner of “The Second Most Suave Motherfucker on Twitter”. I kinda like you, motherfucker, just not very damn much. If it’s you and me at the end of Wargames, you’ll find out firsthand how little my respect and admiration go. I figure you’ve got a pretty good chance of being there at the end, but I also know I’ve got a good chance of knocking your ass out. Dropping you like a bad habit is nothing personal, but it’ll still be a personal pleasure. You feel me?”


“Of course I can’t forget Ozymandias, the big, bad motherfucker who worships a giant octopus-faced motherfucker named Cthulhu. All I have to say about that is “gesundheit”, motherfucker. Thankfully your big ass wears a mask, otherwise I’d be worried about all the germs you’re spreading every time you speak in tongues. All joking aside, if there’s one person in this match that fits the whole tyrant vibe, it’s gotta be Ozy. He probably sees this as his next step in summoning his elder god or some shit. Motherfucker, all you’re gonna be summoning is a big plate of calamari after I kick your ass and send you back to Red Lobster for your next cult meeting!”


“And speaking of family dining establishments, let’s talk about Alex Slayer. I admit, that was a shitty segue, but Alex Slayer is a shitty wrestler so it still works on different levels. This motherfucker’s been around a while and he hasn’t had the best of luck just yet. That ain’t gonna change at The Crowning, cause we won’t be in Vegas and this match is gonna be a lot tougher than taking a gamble on a roulette wheel. But if Alex Slayer is feeling lucky before the match, I suggest he bets on black. That way he’ll at least make his motherfucking money back.”


“Then we get to the man with briefcase, Mr. Mark Hunter. My boy Indy is too nice of a guy to say it, but the only reason you’re where you’re at right now is because John Nash Strader handed you a win in your debut match. In Wargames, you ain’t getting handed nothin’ but an ass-kicking, motherfucker. If you make it to the end of the match against me, we’ll find out exactly what’s in that little briefcase you’ve been carrying around when I break the motherfucker open over your head. My bet is that it’s Rock Johnson’s dirty undies, cause if this company thinks you’re worth more than that, they’re even more delusional than Ozy for believing in a giant squid god, or Alex Slayer for thinking he has a chance in hell of winning this match.”


“Last but not least, there’s my boy, Indy Darling. Motherfucker, I’ve got a lot I need to say to you, but I know we’ll have the chance to do it face-to-face before The Crowning rolls around. I’ll see your ass in Indianapolis soon enough, and hopefully we don’t start Wargames off a couple of weeks early. As for the rest of you, well, I hold some of you in high regard. Some of you I don’t even know, and some of you are barely worth mentioning. The one thing you all have in common is being a part of the Wargames Match, which makes each and every one of you a target for The Shepherd. I know it ain’t fair, cause you’d all rather sit back and be entertained by my righteous self, but that shit just ain’t in the cards. It’s time some motherfuckers found out that I hit just as hard as I talk, and I’ve got 15 perfect test subjects lined up at The Crowning."

Julius leans back in his chair and continues to stare at the camera, not with his eyes comically bugging out of his head or with that wide, bright smile on his face. Instead he looks calm and collected, like the still leaves of a tree moments before the storm.

"Now that the stereotypical bullshit of trashing everyone by name is out of the way, there's just one more little thing all you motherfuckers need to know before you run off and include Julius in your own ‘cut a promo on everyone in the match’ schtick. That one little thing is that not one of you, not a single motherfucker in the whole bunch, knows just what makes my ass tick. Maybe I am a Samuel L. Jackson parody. Maybe I'm just the motherfucking comedy relief. Maybe I'm content with my spotlight on The F-Word. Then again, maybe I'm not what any of you think I am. Maybe you all see what I've wanted you to see since my first post on Twitter a few months back. Maybe the real motherfucker behind the bug-eyed stare and car salesman smile comes out to play at the Crowning. Maybe the motherfucker that spent his life knocking people out and making them tap rears his ugly head in jolly old England. Maybe, just maybe, you're all a part of the long con. Maybe I'm not the Shepherd at all, but the Tyranny of Evil Men itself. I guess when that bell rings, at least you'll all get to find out together."

"Now there ain’t a hell of a lot left to say. I’ll be seeing you soon, motherfuckers. Sooner than any of you will like.”




At best, it’s a 13 hour drive from Montreal to Indianapolis, not adding in the time it takes to cross the border or stop for breaks along the way. Julius had spent all of that time thinking about what had led up to that moment and how he would explain his actions. If his mark had been anyone else in Project: Honor, he wouldn’t have felt guilty, but something about Indy’s sincerity gnawed at his conscience like a scavenger picking at a carcass.


After laying out his smack talk the night before, he felt confident that everything he said was sincere, and Julius couldn’t care less if any of his verbal targets had their panties in a bunch over his comments. Yet when it came to Indy, the smooth-talking Shepherd couldn’t bring himself to offer respectful praise or antagonistic jabs. All he could think about was the time Indy spent in police custody and the questions he could have been asked. Julius knew the kid was naïve and overly-accepting of strangers, but even Indy would start to put 2 and 2 together if pushed hard enough.


The city lights of Indianapolis were not far away on the horizon as Julius headed southwest on Interstate 69, his long journey home from Canada nearing its end. After all of that time on the road, he still didn’t know what to expect when he reached Miyagi’s gym, and he sure as hell didn’t know what he was going to say. The more he thought about what waited for him upon reaching his destination, the more his thoughts became a jumbled flurry of events that had unfolded over the past few months.




“I’m telling you baby, this is gonna get your ass in the door.”


Luther Franklin had been out of work too long to ignore his girlfriend’s insane plan. After all, what did he have to lose? Up until a year prior, he had made his living off of competitive fighting until a torn Achilles Tendon brought it all to a sudden end. Surgery had repaired the damage, but he no longer had the speed to compete at a high level inside of a boxing ring, and potential MMA opponents would now have an easy target the moment he stepped inside of a cage. His temper had gotten the better of him during his time as a collegiate wrestler, and getting kicked off the team also meant an end to his scholarship. With no degree to fall back on, Luther didn’t have many options when it came to future employment.


“Professional wrestling. I’m telling you, we keep working on the old man and the kid, and we’ll get you into that Project: Honor place in no time.”


Luther finished off the last swallow of his Hennessey and kept his eyes locked on Malaysia, interested in her proposal yet not fully invested.


“The kid had this dream a couple of weeks ago, right? He dreamt of some Samuel Jackson looking motherfucker, and in the dream they were best friends or some shit. That fucking dream was all he talked about for two goddamn weeks until he won that title last night. The old man says the kid is in desperate need of a friend in the business and he’s starting to think of recruiting a tag team partner for him to lean on. That could be you, baby!”


Luther sat his empty glass down on the table next to his recliner as he glanced down at the long scar along his ankle. A year after the injury and he still couldn’t fight the urge to keep it elevated. He slowly looked back at Malaysia and silently wondered why she had bothered to stick around. The only income they’d had for the past year was what she made as a massage therapist, at least until the retired wrestler had mistaken her for an escort and started throwing all his money at her. The thing was, it was a lot of money. Luther couldn’t help but wonder how much the actual wrestlers were making if a washed-up manager had enough to throw away on women and booze and still pay his bills.


“So you take a couple of weeks to figure out this character you’re gonna play, and while you’re doing that, I’ll work on convincing the old man to give you a try-out. He doesn’t seem down with the idea of taking advantage of the kid’s fucked-up dream, but you know I have a way of getting what I want.”


Luther’s gaze trailed up from his ankle to the young woman in the blonde wig. He looked at her bright lipstick and eyeshadow, taking note of how it contrasted against her dark skin. In that moment, he no longer wondered why she had stuck around, but began to wonder if he would even care if she did leave. She wasn’t the same woman he’d met after his Golden Gloves fight all those years ago, or maybe she was the same and it had just taken him that long to realize who she really was.


“What? Are you gonna get some blue-collar job, working in a factory or doing construction? Maybe you can keep shoplifting or passing yourself off as a veteran on the street corner. How long is that gonna last? You know you want the spotlight just as much as I want to see you in it. Maybe it’s time you start using that charm to make some real money instead of just ripping off the suckers that take a wrong turn and end up in this neighborhood. Hell, you get on with Project: Honor and you might finally be able to afford that Caddy Darnell keeps trying to sell you.”


Pushing his thoughts of his girlfriend to the back of his mind, Luther finally interjected his own voice into the previously one-sided conversation.


“So what? I pretend to be some Sam Jackson character that just walked out of this motherfucker’s dream, and you think he’s gonna buy it?”


Malaysia gave her down-on-his-luck boyfriend a wicked grin in response.


“No, baby. You don’t pretend to be shit. You become the motherfucker. You eat it, breathe it, and live it. There won’t be anymore Luther Franklin if we’re gonna pull this shit off. That broke-ass motherfucker disappears tonight.”


Luther thought about what life could be like if it actually worked. He thought about making some real money, about getting back into competitive sports, about paying off the bookies, and about having the chance to finally get out from underneath Malaysia’s thumb. He tried to think about what he had to lose if it didn’t work, and in the end, he couldn’t think of a single thing.


“So what would my name be again?”


Malaysia’s smile grew larger as she realized that Luther was now on board.


“Furious Julius Fairweather, the suavest motherfucker in Project: Honor.”




He parked his Caddy outside of the gym and let the engine run for a few moments, wondering if Indy would be waiting for him somewhere inside. He finally shut off the engine and pocketed his keys, accepting the fact that he could no longer put off the potential confrontation. He felt like he was a prisoner walking to the gallows as he made his way from the car to the building’s entrance, condemned to a fate he no longer had a hand in. When he opened the door and saw that the main floor of the warehouse gym was dark, Julius felt a sense of relief wash over him. He allowed himself to breathe easy as he started to make his way across the gym, having decided that crashing on Miyagi’s worn-out couch would be preferable to his own bed, where Malaysia was no doubt waiting for her weekly hand-out.


Having put the threat of confrontation out of his head in favor of thoughts about a full night’s rest, Julius is completely taken off his guard as the steel chair lands across his shoulder blades with a resounding CLANG! The blow sends him stumbling forward into the back of the couch, which fails to break his momentum as he tumbles over it and eventually comes to rest on the floor near the ring apron. It takes him a few moments to unclench his eyes and look to the source of the blow, at which point he sees Indy standing behind the couch with the bent chair held firmly in both of his hands.


“Motherfucker…”


It’s all Julius can manage to say between clenched teeth as he squints up at his friend and tag team partner, fully grasping the look of sheer disgust and hatred upon Indy Darling’s face. He continues to writhe in agony for a few seconds as Indy hurls the chair at the floor, the din of its metal connecting with concrete echoing throughout the gym. Using the ring skirt to pull himself back to his feet, Julius keeps his eyes locked on Indy, who remains seething in eerie silence. Once back to his feet, Julius utters the first thing that comes to his mind.


“I’m...sorry…”


Indy glares daggers back at Julius, either unaccepting of the apology or simply ambivalent to it.


“You tried to murder the only good person in my life…”


It was Indy’s voice, but not in any tone that Julius had heard before.


“...and now I’m gonna break your fucking neck.”


The two men, once seemingly destined to be the best of friends, stand a few feet apart, their fists clenched and minds fully aware of what is to come. The war has indeed come early, and neither Julius Fairweather nor Indy Darling are willing to wait for The Crowning to end it…