Title: Houou no Naku Koro ni - I: Rebirth
Featuring: Seymour Almasy
Date: Mid-late December, before King of Kings
Location: Japan (for ReV 238, v. Tom Walczak)

Some stories have happy endings.
Some stories have sad endings.

Those blessed with the former can celebrate, and even those who suffer the latter may commiserate with those who care for them.

The story of Seymour Almasy’s eight year career in professional wrestling, however, has no ending. He leaves and returns seemingly at whim, when the wrestling bug bites him again. To most, he is an undeniably talented fly-by-night, rarely gracing a promotion for more than a year before moving along, driven seemingly by some unknown force.

What the fans of the world see in front of the camera, however, is a small, tiny fragment of Seymour’s true motivation. For him, professional wrestling alone would have lost its allure years ago.

What he seeks is not simply championship glory, though he loves to wear gold. What he yearns for is not the acceptance of his peers or recognition as the best in the world, though he would not deny holding either as a goal.

This is the story of a man who rises from the ashes yet again in a never-ending search for the truth of the moment in time that reduced him to cinders.

This time, the answers he seeks are out there, whether he wants to find them or not.

And perhaps those answers will finally be enough to grant Seymour Almasy that which he desires above any victory or trinket.

An ending to his story.

I. In Which the Final Fantasy Prepares For Battle

“6:00 PM tonight at the Shinjuku FACE? No problem. I’ll be there.”

Perched on the bed of his small Tokyo apartment, Seymour Almasy couldn’t help but smile. He had retired from the glitz and glamour of big time professional wrestling in the United States to move to Japan. When you called yourself “the Final Fantasy” and had spent a good deal of your teenage and young adult years becoming fluent in Japanese for the sole purpose of being able to play your beloved video games earlier, Japan seemed like a swell place to retire to.

Needless to say, the thirty year old Almasy wasn’t ready to ossify in Phoenix just yet.

Big promotions had sent out the occasional feeler to him, but he had turned them down easily. He didn’t care for such things anymore.

The reason he didn’t care, though, was that he was essentially a man on a diet who every so often allowed himself to binge on barbecue ribs, buffalo wings, and glass after glass of beer.

“Let me think, that was Hosaka-san,” Seymour reasoned to himself, making his way off of his bed across his cramped room to the closet across the wall. “That means that I’m going to be Phoenix Mask today.”

In Seymour’s closet sat a half-dozen different wrestling costumes, all nicely hung up on hooks. On the closet floor sat an equal number of boots to go with those costumes, as well as a large duffel bag emblazoned with the logo of a Japanese wrestling promotion so obscure even the most diligent of American puroresu fans would be hard pressed to recognize it.

The smile on Almasy’s face was broad as he pulled the Phoenix Mask costume from its hanger, and began to undress from his usual pajamas and t-shirt lounging attire. He had about two hours to bell time, more than enough considering he lived a ten minute walk from the Shinjuku FACE, a tiny 300 seat arena in a red light district of Tokyo best known for being the biggest arena dozens of sleazy indies could afford to run.

Over the past six months, it had become one of Seymour’s favorite places. No longer was Seymour Almasy selling out the Staples Centers of the world. No, he was now the Sovereign of the Shinjuku FACE. He’d worked there, by his own count, at least thirty times over the half-year, with characters ranging from Phoenix Mask to GARUDA, to even the day that he let his hair return to its natural color, got it cut, and stepped into the ring under his former true name of Jason Wilson.

Sure, he probably made 5000 yen on a particularly good night, but it was fun being able to wake up and walk ten minutes to work. It was nice to go backstage, put on whatever persona he was going to be that evening and go ten or twenty minutes with a local he’d never met before, or a foreigner thrilled to be getting his first break in Japan.

Amazingly, no one had ever been the wiser to his masquerades. Almasy took great pains to keep his identity secret, and most backstage and in the crowd thought he was simply a talented independent wrestler who had simply never gotten his big break. Really, it was the independent run Seymour had never had thanks to being snapped up by the UWF so early in his career.

It would, seemingly, be his final night competing in Japan.

For, as had so often happened in the past four years, Seymour found his life torn apart by yet another lead.

Yet another hope.

Yet another chance.

II. In Which the Past is Prologue

One day earlier...

Seymour Almasy stood in front of the doorway to his apartment, clutching a bag of takeout from a local sushi joint in one hand, wearing one heck of a surprised expression on his face.

The apartment, he knew, was rented under the name of one of his good Japanese friends who had sub-letted the place to him. Seymour received precious little mail here, having retained his New York address for most correspondence and other such necessities.
Why, then, was there an envelope on his front door step, labeled with his name? The entire point of being in Japan was to avoid people recognizing him, to avoid the prying eyes that had defined his time in the United States.

Stooping down to the mat in front of his door, Seymour picked up the envelope. Testing its weight in his hands, he found it to be light. Probably not a bomb, then, he figured.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that a fan could simply have figured out who he was by watching him wrestle. It could also be a document important enough that it reached him here in Tokyo.

This entire thing was bizarre. As far as Seymour could tell, precious few people knew where he was right now, and yet the envelope had clearly been labeled “To: Seymour Almasy.” It was very odd, and Seymour’s curiosity had been piqued.

As he carried the package back into his apartment, he flipped it over to find no return address. Nor was his own address written on it, the package was labeled with simply his name.

Safely in his apartment, Almasy ripped open the top of the manila envelope, and reached inside. There, he found a small holder of photographs, much like one might receive from getting pictures developed at Walgreens or Target. Placing it on the ground, he inverted the manila envelope and shook it in an effort to find any other contents. None were forthcoming.

“Who the Hell sends me pictures,” he asked out loud. It was odder since he hadn’t been in the public eye for a year. Fans often sent him pictures they’d taken, but he hadn’t been in a position to have any taken lately.

Carefully, he opened the photo container to find at least a dozen photographs, and a folded-up piece of paper. Setting the paper to the side, he looked at each photograph in turn, the expression on his face growing more and more confused with each that passed.

They all seemed to be of a different woman. One had long, luxurious red hair, and was clad in an evening gown. Another seemed to be a tattooed goth-looking girl wearing a Metallica t-shirt and a pair of ratty blue jeans. Still another was a short-haired, tomboyish looking blonde. Picture after picture, the woman changed, though appearing to be of similar height and build.

“The Hell is all of this,” he asked, flipping through the pictures. “None of this makes any goddamned se�"“

It was the final picture that hit Seymour like a punch in the stomach. Unlike all the others, it did not seem professionally developed. It looked much like a digital camera’s photograph, somewhat blurry, but there was no mistaking the subject: a woman, lying on a sandy beach, bleeding from a wound in her chest.

If there was any doubt in his mind as to the subject, it was swiftly erased when he saw himself kneeling at the side of the woman, clutching her hand in his own.

He swore under his breath, and reached for the piece of paper. As he unfolded it, a small metallic object fell out, but Almasy’s eyes were focused on any contents of the paper.

The message was short, to the point, and to Seymour’s mind, slightly taunting.

“Do I have your attention, Mr. Almasy,” he read, hand shaking as it fought to keep the paper steady. Below that message was a phone number, but Almasy made no move for his phone. His breathing had slowed to something nearly catatonic, and all because his eyes had fallen upon the metallic obje�"no, the wedding ring that had been wrapped in the paper.

He didn’t even need to compare it to the one on his own ring finger. He recognized the stones and the design. Just to be sure, though, he picked the ring up, and looked at the inscription on the inside. His lips moved as he read the words silently, before clasping the ring in his hand.

Desperately he wanted to call the number on the paper, but emotion had overtaken him. For the umpteenth time since the death of the woman he loved, he sobbed, tears falling down his cheeks and on to the carpet of the apartment floor.

“Why does it keep doing this,” he asked no one, and yet everyone at the same time. “Why does it keep tormenting me with possibility after possibility that leads to dead end after dead end? If she’s gone, just leave her be, please…”

Seeing Laura Winters, the love of his life, lying unconscious and bleeding would have horrified him even more if not for the fact that the image had haunted his dreams for years, and would likely continue to do so until the day he died.

Seemingly ever since that day, there had been thoughts that her death had suspicious circumstances around it. Her casket had been exhumed in response, only for the cemetery in which she was interred to find a clean, brand new casket buried underground with no sign a body had ever been in it. Back then he’d been sure it was the break he was looking for, but it had turned out to be as ephemeral a lead as all the others.

This, on the other hand, seemed a Hell of a lot less like a lead and a Hell of a lot more like something that could be proven or disproven.

Trembling hands reached into his pocket to unearth his cell phone. Seymour didn’t care how much this particular call was going to cost him. A ridiculous phone bill was more than worth the peace of mind that this call could grant.

He punched the numbers into the phone and raised it to his ear. It only rang twice before someone on the other line picked up with a simple “Hello.”

“You have my attention,” was all Seymour said at the sound of the other man’s voice.

“I thought that I might,” the other voice said. “My name is unimportant, though I recognize that not having a name to call me by may be difficult. Call me Mr. Reynolds, if you like. I am a good friend of Jonathan Calver’s. I had him take care of delivering the materials to you.”

Well, that explained part of the mystery. Jonathan Calver was Seymour Almasy’s agent and personal assistant, one of the few people that he counted on professionally and personally. Calver definitely knew where Seymour lived and how to contact him.

“You know John,” Seymour asked, somewhat surprised.

“I do, yes. He’s an old acquaintance of mine. But enough of that. I’m going to tell you what you need to know, and no more than that. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do,” Seymour replied. “Go ahead, I’ll listen.”

“Here goes, then. I’m a private investigator. I was hired by someone whom I’ll mention later to take a long, hard look into the circumstances surrounding the death of your ex-wife, Laura. As I’m sure you know, there’ve been a lot of rumors and odd occurrences since her supposed death in 2005. There’s a lot here that’s not going to make sense to you, but just listen to me.”

“To make a very long story that I’m not the person to tell you short,” Seymour heard, “the wedding ring was found in a Las Vegas casino. The pictures have been taken over the course of several years. Only now have we been able to put together enough evidence to conclusively state something that we believed privately for years.”

He barely dared to ask, even though he was reasonably sure he knew the answer.

“That being?”

There was a silence of a few moments on the other end of the call, and Seymour heard the man suck in a deep breath.

“Laura Winters’ death was faked. I’m sure of it.”

“How sure are you talking, here?” Seymour asked, the usual doubt and suspicion starting to creep back into his voice.

“100% certain, Seymour. I’ve seen the DNA profiles. It’s a perfect match to Miss Winters. I have the records to show you, and I ran the damned test. We have DNA from four of the women in those pictures. The profiles are all the same.”

The “punched in the gut” feeling returned. If all of this was true…actually, if all of it was true, he had no idea what the fuck was going on.

“I visited her in the hospital. I saw her hooked up to all kinds of machines. You’re telling me that was all planned?”

“I can’t tell you any details, but let’s think this through logically. Hospital records confirm that Laura was there. According to John, you visited her several times over the course of her hospitalization, yes?”

“I did,” Seymour replied, “but I wasn’t there when she passed away. She died when I was across the country at a wrestling show.”

“Given what I know,” the other man said, “that makes this even more suspicious. The hospital she was taken to has something of a reputation under the table for being easily bribed. I’ve been provided with police reports and court cases indicating as such. If you get the chance, go take a look at it. It’s been renamed and rebranded within the past three years. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was released under cover of night while you were gone.”

“Why the Hell would she fake her own death, though,” Seymour asked. “To what end? I’m so confused right now.”

If this *was* all true, that meant that she was out there, somewhere. Yevon only knew what she was doing, or the purposes, though.

“When someone disappears from this world presumed but not actually dead, Seymour, there are three likely possibilities. One of them is they faked their own death on their own. We ain’t dealing with that. There’s too much at stake, too much scrutiny. Insurance companies conduct investigations, as does state government, even the FBI if it’s high profile enough. If she did it herself, bottom line, we’d know by now. Not to mention that if she had faked her own death, she’d have contacted someone. Her parents, possibly. Her friends. You. Someone. A layperson’s not smart enough to get away with it, no matter how careful.”

“So if she didn’t do it herself, how else does she stay alive but be considered dead to the world by professionals,” Seymour asked, growing slightly impatient.

“Second option is that they’re in witness protection. That’s possible here, but if my theory is correct, you don’t need seven or eight aliases when you’re in witness protection. Our current intelligence has her using a ton of different names over the past few years. Unless you’re an awful screwup, once you get reassigned once, that’s it.”

“And number three,” Seymour asked, though his most recent American wrestling jaunt had given him a sinking sort of suspicion where Mr. Reynolds was going.

“Number three is that she’s ended up in a role in which she doesn’t want or need her old identity. There are dozens of organizations around the world that fit the bill. Secret societies and other such groups that need people such as Laura for reconnaissance and assassination purposes, to name just a few.”

“How the Hell can they use her, though? She’s recognizable. She’s been on television before.” The idea of it all was somewhat improbable to Seymour. It seemed as useful as his attempts at disguise, none of which had been successful, and all of which had gone poorly.

“Creating a new identity is easier than you might imagine,” Mr. Reynolds started, a “let me tell you how the world really works, kid,” tone in his voice. “An enterprising teenager can get a fake driver’s license on practically any urban street in the country, and that’s a kid without much means. Those with the time and energy to devote to this stuff can do far better. They find unused social security numbers. Those with the proper connections can get forged birth certificates that are printed on the same paper as yours and mine. And that’s the hard part. They have makeup artists and fashion designers to help dress up their new people. Even if you could find Laura, I doubt you’d recognize her.”

“Seriously,” was about the best Seymour could do. He could almost hear Mr. Reynolds nodding.

“Organizations like the ones I’m talking about can create new identities like you or I drawing a stick figure. It’s remarkably easy.”

On his end of the phone, Almasy shook his head, back and forth, as if trying to make this all go away. “Why would she do this, though? What organization could have a use for her like that?”

“I don’t know,” Reynolds replied. “You’d probably know her much better than I would. It’s not my job to know, though, so you’ll have better luck talking with someone else.
I’m going to hand everything I have over to a friend of mine who knows the sort of group I’m talking about better than I do. Guy’s name is David Walter Smith. He was actually in your line of work until he got his leg destroyed a few years back at a huge show. Walks with a limp to this day.

Almasy knew the name. As a long time professional wrestler, he at least knew of just about anyone with any degree of notoriety. “He was walking around backstage as an agent in SCCW when I was there. Worked for Phillip Kennedy, if I remember.”

“Yeah, that’s David,” Reynolds agreed. “He also happens to be a high-ranking member of a group called Sapientes Gladio that has its hands in a lot of different pies. I’ve got him working on seeing what he can find out. When you get to the States, head over to Cambridge when you can. He’s living in Boston but spends most of his time at Harvard auditing classes.”

“I assume this Sapientes Gladio is who you’re working for, then,” Almasy asked, throat dry from the subject matter of the conversation.

“It doesn’t matter who I work for really, does it,” Mr. Reynolds asked. “I know there’s a lot that doesn’t make sense, but speak to David. Literally, all I have access to is what I’ve been given: the wedding ring, those pictures, and DNA samples. Any specifics, you’ll have to dig deeper. I’m just a scientist.”

Seymour was not entirely sure of that, but pushing the other man for more information, when he’d been so otherwise forthcoming, didn’t seem particularly prudent.

“Before I go,” Reynolds continued, voice suddenly severe. “I’m going to tell you something that I’m sure you’re going to ignore, but I want it off my conscience: just stay away from this. Once you meet with David and confirm she’s alive, please, don’t get involved. Be content knowing.”

“I can’t promise that,” Seymour said, voice low. In spite of the solemnity of the moment, the man on the other end of the call chuckled.

“That’s about what John told me you’d say. Good luck, Mr. Almasy. I’ve got a sinking suspicion that you’re going to need it.”

The call ended there, abruptly, leaving Seymour to look around an apartment that suddenly seemed even tinier than it was.

“Well, that was unexpected.” The words escaped him before he realized he’d said anything. The entire thing was ludicrous and improbable, but he had chased down leads that seemed a Hell of a lot sketchier than this.

There was only one option for him now. There was no way on Earth that he could just let this go. He had to return to America and meet with David Walter Smith.

III. In Which Two Friends FACE Off

In a place like the Shinjuku FACE, there were no star locker rooms. Hell, everyone was lucky that there was a single locker room where all the boys dressed together.

Tonight was a BASH show, a small Tokyo independent that Almasy had put considerable time in for over the past few months under a multiplicity of personas. Phoenix Mask had been the most popular, though, as a flashy, hated high flyer. He was hated enough that the FACE was sold out, all 250 or so seats, to see local hero Hakata Ryou unmask the Phoenix in a mask versus hair match.

Seymour sat on a bench in the room, already masked. He always entered the locker room with his mask of the day on so as to prevent his secret from getting out. It was an easy matter to put on the remainder of the spandex costume and lace up his red, orange, and yellow boots for what was likely the last time.

He glanced around the room through the eyes of the Phoenix mask. There were no stars here, just wrestlers who loved what they did. All of them, he knew, had other jobs for a living. One of his fellow masked men was even a corporate suit who donned his ring gear on the weekends to live a dream so secret not even his wife and children knew.

There were no egos here. No huge paychecks. Of course, sometimes Seymour worried about severe injury as some of these guys were poorly trained, but it was a risk Seymour felt he could take. After all, he had the money to go get such injuries fixed and rehabbed. His colleagues weren’t so fortunate, and the pressure that many of them felt whenever a representative of a larger company showed up at the FACE led to injuries and a constantly changing cast.

“I hear it’s your last night,” said a man about Seymour’s height and weight, approaching his erstwhile opponent for the evening to sit next to him on the bench. “Guess that means I’m gonna have to rip that stupid mask off your face as a going-away present. Seriously, that thing is hideous.”

Smirking under his mask, Seymour clapped Hakata Ryou on the shoulder. “More power to you…IF you can pull it off, of course.” The two men had teamed on Seymour’s first BASH show, and had become quick friends ever since. “How’s the girl?”

“She caught me after the last show with Fumiko,” Ryou said, in heavily accented English. “Slapped me and dumped me. Not that I can blame her.”

“You’ll be fine,” Almasy replied. “You don’t strike me as the kind to commit to a girl right now, anyway. Besides, you know those three hot girls are going to be front row tonight, like always.”

“Yeaaah,” Ryou grinned. “They’re *so* hot, and so easy, too. I don’t understand it at all, but I’m not complaining. So, tell me more about this being your last night. You get a gig somewhere else? You deserve it if so; I haven’t seen too many people in this building as good as you who’ve been stuck here so long.”

Seymour shook his head. “Nah, I’m headed back home to the United States. I’ve got a lot of things that I’ve been running away from for a long time that need to be dealt with. I’ve been avoiding them for four years, but I’m tired of running and hiding. I’m going to confront them, unpleasant or not.”

Ryou nodded at his opponent for the evening. “We’ve all got things we’re running away from in this locker room, be it family, friends, or our own personal demons. It’s why we’re here. For a few hours a few nights a week…”

Hakata paused, the memories of three years in the sport flowing through his mind. For him, the Shinjuku FACE was a shithole, but it was HIS shithole, and he’d clawed his way to getting to work in it by working in shitholes that made this one look like a bathroom in a five-star hotel.

The younger man finally simply grinned. “You know how it is, I’m sure. You’ve been doing this a long time it seems.”

“Yeah,” Seymour couldn’t help but admit, “I have. But this’ll be my last match in this building for a long time. It’s a shithole, but damnit, I love this shithole.”

Hakata Ryou nodded. “So do I. So do we all, or we wouldn’t be here. If this is going to be your last dance in Shinjuku, let’s make it one worthy of the place.”

“Most dances in Shinjuku are of the “lap” variety, Hakata-san,” Almasy chuckled. “Unless you swing that way, I’d suggest a better analogy.”

“Hey, you know how it goes,” Ryou winked. “What happens in Shinjuku…” After throwing an arm around Phoenix Mask’s shoulder, he shook his head. “For your information, I don’t swing that way, but I like flustering people.”

“Yeah, yeah, I can see that. I notice you’re not so quick to take that arm from around me,” Seymour pointed out, chuckling. Ryou immediately withdrew it, hands raised protestingly.

“Naw, man. I’m hoping to bag Fumiko after the show again. Best piece of ass I’ve ever had, and she’ll do ANYTHING. She loves it when she gets to fuck one of the guys who had the best performances on the show, so you and I gotta go all out.”

“So I can get you laid, Ryou?” Almasy shook his head. “If that’s the motivation you’ve got, who am I to deny a buddy getting some?”

“That’s why you’re my friend, Phoenix,” Hakata Ryou grinned. “Always willing to help a guy out. But besides that, in all seriousness, I want this to be good. It’s our first and probably last match together, so…”

“Let’s give everyone a show,” Almasy agreed, clasping hands with his friend. “We’ll show them that the FACE is in good hands with you, well after I’m gone.”

“You’re one of the good ones, man,” Hakata grinned, getting up to prepare for the contest. “Even if your attire sucks.”

Seymour watched as Ryou headed for the curtain, ready for one of the biggest matches of his young professional career. The exuberance in the young Japanese man reminded him a Hell of a lot of himself back before life had royally fucked over a lot of his passion for his chosen sport.

He tugged at his mask one final time to make sure that it was snugly in place. Reaching down into his duffel bag, he grabbed a roll of athletic tape and carefully taped up his hands, making a fist with each to judge if the tape was too tight. Nope. Perfect.

With that final preparation, Phoenix Mask was ready.

Ready, for the last time, to step out in front of two hundred and fifty screaming maniacs who sounded like four times that number on most nights.

IV. In Which Phoenix Mask Loses Both Phoenix and Mask.

“OHHHHHHH!”

The lithe body of Seymour Almasy/Phoenix Mask came off the top rope, twisting itself 450 degrees before coming down to crash-land across the chest of one Hakata Ryou. The impact was such that Almasy bounced off of his opponent, landing several feet away. He clutched at his ribs, trying to get back in position to make a cover on his younger opponent.

Almasy draped an arm over Ryou, and the crowd deflated, waiting for the end.

“ONE!”

“TWO!”

“THR�"NO!”

The sounds of feet stomping against the ground rang throughout the small venue as Hakata popped his shoulder off the mat at 2.9. For his part, Phoenix Mask looked apopaplectic, screaming at the official and kicking the bottom rope in frustration.

With his pathos play done, Almasy returned to his would-be victim, raking a thumb across his throat. The Shinjuku loyalists knew what was coming next: the butterfly brainbuster that Phoenix Mask called the Down in Flames.

He successfully butterflied one arm, but the three year pro opposing him managed to slip free of the attempted double-underhook. That one moment of surprise was all that Hakata Ryou would need on this night.

Hakata grabbed hold of Phoenix’s head, twisting him into a perfect small package. The masked man kicked and struggled to free himself as the referee’s hand hit the canvas once, twice, three times. An astonished gasp arose from the few hundred in attendance, as the man they’d watched wrestle in the FACE for the past three years picked up what could only be called the biggest win of his young career.

Ryou’s hand went up to run through his black locks. This win was an important one for more than the simple fact of it; his hair was one of the things that made him popular with the groupies and prostitutes that waited after shows for the wrestlers. A win of this magnitude likely meant that he’d have first pick.

With that and the moment on his mind, he rose to his feet, and pumped both fists in the air triumphantly.

“HA-KA-TA” chants rang out through the arena, as Phoenix Mask rolled to his hands and knees, letting his head fall into his hands in defeat. The sound of the ring announcer heralding the victory of his opponent was muted, as the knowledge of what was about to happen slowly filled Seymour’s mind.

The roller coaster was about to start again. Once he took off the Phoenix Mask, there was no turning back.

With what was at stake now, though, Seymour was willing to risk worldwide humiliation one more time. He was willing to risk everything, from his life on down, even for just the chance to know what truly happened that fateful day on Long Island, and if there was an aftermath, just how far down the rabbit hole went.

Hakata hovered over the fallen Phoenix Mask, gesturing to his own head, signaling for the masked man to live up to his end of the bargain. Slowly, very slowly, the Phoenix rose, and turned to face his conqueror. Nervous fingers reached up and back, working at the laces of the mask that concealed his identity.

Moments later, Seymour Almasy pulled the Phoenix Mask off entirely, placing it in the hands of an utterly stunned Hakata Ryou. Soon enough, small murmurs in the front row spread backwards to the remainder of the crowd, but Seymour barely even noticed. He grabbed Hakata’s wrist and raised the younger man’s arm in victory before taking his leave of the ring and heading to the back without so much as saying a word.

There, he found the stunned promoter Hosaka, mouth opening and closing in astonishment at the sight of him, but no sounds came out. Almasy clapped the other man on the shoulder, and moved on with a “thanks for everything, Hosaka-san.” Seymour wasn’t particularly concerned with his payout for the evening.

He moved with purpose and haste, next returning to the locker room where he received a huge ovation from the boys. It was slightly embarrassing, all things considered, to see the looks on the faces of everyone as they realized that they’d all stepped into the ring with a man many considered a legend of the sport. Seymour shook hands with everyone and even signed a few autographs before grabbing his duffel bag, and heading out the locker room’s back door, leaving the Shinjuku FACE for what was likely the final time.

The air was cool outside, and Seymour took a moment to just look around at sights that he wouldn’t likely see for a good long while. Japan had been his fascination throughout most of adolescence. Now, in his late twenties, it had become the home of a man who had lacked a true home ever since the woman he loved died.

His plan, when it came right down to it, was remarkably simple. Seymour needed an excuse to move throughout the country �" even the world, if necessary. To do so on his own would call attention to himself. In the pit of his stomach, Seymour didn’t quite believe the possibility of Laura being alive, but if she was, he imagined there was a very good reason he’d never been contacted by her over the past few years. He needed a way to move around justifiably, and that way was professional wrestling.

“Wish it was a few years ago,” Seymour said, to himself, “when everyone was touring. My options are a lot more limited these days.”

With the economic downturn across the world, major companies had kicked the bucket, or become smaller, regional promotions. There weren’t a ton of national products in American pro wrestling these days, but only that sort of company would give Seymour the travel ability that he needed.

Almasy knew that in spite of the interest he often received, his options at the top of North American wrestling weren’t good. Sin City Championship Wrestling was in its death throes, so much so that he’d actually been called by ownership and released from his contract that barred him from wrestling for another major American company. Global Championship Wrestling and Seymour had what could best be called a love-hate relationship.

No, there was only one real option for him at this point, and it was an option that he had sworn on many occasions, loudly and publicly, never to take: PRIME.

The company was and always had been the, well, Colossus bestriding Primetime Central. Almasy had worked for the UWF, Global Wrestling, GCW, and SCCW over the years largely to try and help someone, anyone, compete with the global power that was PRIME.

Primetime Central, though, was now dead and buried. The man who styled himself as Mr. PTC no longer had a PTC to call home. His career was, in the minds of most, as dead and gone as the place he had once thrived in.

All of that, coupled with his newfound motivation, meant that Seymour Almasy had little choice but to swallow his pride and place a phone call to the one executive in the wrestling business he’d never thought he’d have to talk to.

“Can’t believe I’m doing this…”

As Almasy sat down on the cold, hard curb outside the Shinjuku FACE and began to dial an American number for what would be a ludicrously expensive call, his final thought was that, at the very least, this was more dignified than begging Steven Caldera for a job.

“Lisa Tyler? This is Seymour Almasy. I believe we have a few things to discuss…”
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