Title: Ruit [ReV 244]
Featuring: Brian Postal
Date: April 17, 2011
Location: Bejiing, China

Brian flicks off the television and stands up from the leather chair, stretching. The sun has fallen low enough in the sky to start beaming through the west-facing windows of his downtown Beijing hotel room. It's about two hours until ReVolution 244 starts and he's decided it's time to shower, shave, and hit the arena a little early to work the treadmill for 30 minutes or so before his match. Postal drops the remote into the chair and lumbers across the beige carpet toward the bathroom. He reaches into the tub and twists the faucet on, letting the water warm up for his shower. Brian turns to look at himself in the mirror, rubbing the stubble on his face listening to the torrent of water thundering into the tub basin.

Brian's head suddenly snaps to the left when he hears his cell phone going off. He jogs out of the bathroom and back across the beige carpet, snaps his iPhone 4 off the oak end table next to the king size bed and looks at the screen to see who's calling.

His face drops as he lets out a deflated sigh. He's really grown sick of this feeling. As the pit in his stomach deepens he slides-to-unlock and holds the phone up to his ear.

"Yes, Mr. Tocco. How are you this evening, sir?" Brian pours out automatically.

"I've had better days, my boy."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

"Me too, Brian." Jack Tocco said with a smile. "That's what I like about you, Brian, You always know the right thing to say."

Brian grits his teeth, he wants nothing more than to hang up the phone. He's got things to do. Less than two hours now until the ReVolution 244 Cold Open and he needs to be focused. He's got an important match against a longstanding member of the PRIME roster in Tom Walczak and he needs to be ready. Brian's Win-Loss record flashes momentarily through his head and he is aware he's not been impressing so far, and he knows it has a lot to do with the man on the other end of this phone call. In spite of all the anger at he feels toward the man Brian still manages to spit out a "Thank you, Mr. Tocco."

"I have a job for you, Brian. There's a--"

Brian interjects, "Can this wait until tomorrow, sir?"

Jack Tocco is unimpressed. He rages into the phone, "Brian. Please tell me you didn't just interrupt me. I know you would never. EVER. Disrespect me like that. Right, Brian?"

"Of course not, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"That's a little more gaddam like it, you two-bit nothing! Remember who you are, and remember who I am. I made you, Brian. I. Made. You. And I swear to sweet Jehosaphat, Brian I will take you down. I will bury you next to Jimmy Hoffa next time you disrespect me like that. Do you understand me, Brian?"

"Yes sir, I do, sir. I'm sorry, sir." Brian sinks away like a lap dog from an angry master. "It won't happen again."

Jack Tocco takes a deep breath, smiles, and continues where he left off. "There's an associate of an enemy of mine at a hotel two blocks from where you are now. Well, there will be. He arrives in about 90 minutes. That means he should be up in his suite in less than an hour and forty minutes. I've already arranged for the north-facing service entrance to be unlocked so you can avoid the lobby security cameras and placed a Barret .50 on the roof in a spot that has excellent line-of-sight to the target. Get this done for me."

"Sir, ReVolution starts in less than two hours. By the time I make this hit I'll have less than 10 minutes until the show starts and less than 30 until my match."

"So?" Jack Tocco retorts incredulously.

"So… it takes almost 40 minutes to get to the arena from here."

"I guess you'd better walk fast, then." Tocco sneers into the phone.

"Besides that I used a Barret .50 in Italy. You know I never use the same gun twice in a year. I don't have a signature. It's very important to me - and to you - that I don't have a signature. Plus, the last three have been at stops on the PRIME tour. I don't like this. I need time to plan my attack. I don't let other people do my set-ups."

"Brian, it's too late. I saw an opportunity and I had to take it. You're there, he's there, this is happening now."

"But, this--" Brian throws his phone down at the bed in frustration when he hears a 'click' in his ear from Jack Tocco hanging up on him. Brian turns to the wall and starts punching it repeatedly with his right hand until he breaks through the gyprock and left a hole in the wall. He slumps onto the bed, knuckles bleeding and beginning to swell just as his phone alerts him to a text message. He falls backwards onto the bed and reaches for the phone with his left hand. It is a message from Jack with an address and a picture of the target. Brian glances at the clock - there is no more time to waste. He gets up and leaves the hotel, bringing only his phone, wallet, and room key.

//////////////////////////////////////////

It's a relatively cool night in Beijing, around maybe 15ºC (63ºF for the Imperial among us) with a spotty cloud cover, but the humidity makes it feel a little warmer. The lights of downtown Bejing are starting to come up and it looks very pretty. Brian Postal is sitting on a rooftop with his Barret .50, silenced perched along the edge of the roof. The target should be walking through the front door of his suite any second. Brian's right eye is firmly pressed into the scope and right index finger feathered against the trigger guard. He's tapping the metal ring waiting. Waiting.

PRIME was supposed to be a way out, but he'd done four hits (including this one) since coming to know his supposed salvation. How many more before this world tour was over? How many more after that? Brian had a feeling his days were numbered anyhow. Things weren't like they were before. Back in July 2007 Brian was at the threshold of being a made-man. Offered a spot in the Detroit Partnership and the hand of Jack Tocco's granddaughter. Since then he's been trying to get out, and while freedom is no closer now than it was in 2007 Brian was much more acutely aware of the walls that had been slowly building around him. He never thought to build a door out of this walled garden, and now he was beginning to believe the only way out was in a body bag. 'It's almost 40 stories to the ground from here' he thinks to himself. That would be an awesome rush followed by near-instant death. Helluva way to go out. He'd already lost his parents, his brother, his fiancee, his recording contract, Jack Tocco owned him, Devin Shakur had him on a leash, and Bryan Dawkins - the only guy in PRIME Brian actually respected was just another job - another contract - for him to take care of. There really isn't much to live for now. Even his big Gauntlet Match win for ReVolution 243 seemed hollow and meaningless.

Brian takes his eye away from the scope and leans over the edge. He looks down and thought about how long it might take him to reach the hustle and bustle traffic of the Beijing street at dusk. Catching people on their commutes home. He'd make the local news for sure. Maybe Rachel'd hear about it and miss him. Maybe… Jeremy. Hopefully not. They'd find the gun… they'd know what he was - what he is. Maybe it'd lead back to Tocco! Maybe he could break the walls down and take the Partnership with him. This was becoming a better and better idea. Tonight would be Brian Postal's swan song.

He rests the rifle and sits in the loose gravel on the rooftop, back to the raised lip on the roof. He takes out his phone and calles the Detroit Police, long-distance. He would tell them where he was, what he was doing, and who was responsible. Then? Then he'd jump.

But as the phone starts ringing another text message comes in. From Father Peter.

'Praying for you, Brian. Great job last week. Good luck this week. Never give up. God bless.'

"Dammit!" screams Brian, shaking violently out of frustration. He stands up and throws the phone as far and hard as he can into the Beijing skyline.

He takes a knee, picks up the rifle, looks down the scope at his target who has been in the suite for a couple minutes at this point, lines him up in the crosshairs, and pulls the trigger. A .50 calibre bullet rips through the middle-aged man's head, painting the wall with his brains. The body slumps onto the floor like a sack of russet potatoes and the deed is done.

Brian quickly pulls the rifle down, lays it flat on the roof and runs a metal brush up and down the inside of the barrel. Then he coats it in kerosene and sets it on fire before making his way to the emergency exit. He scurries down the stairs and out the same side door he'd come in.

Winded from the long decent he jogs heavily to the curb a hails a taxi. With only ten minutes before the start of ReVolution he knows time is exceedingly short. He hollers directions to the cabbie and communicates very clearly his desire to get to the arena fast.

"Hey you from PRIME wrestling! I know you!" the cabbie says with great excitement.

"Yeah, and I'm late." replies Brian, trying to put on a happy face, despite the torment going on inside.

"I will get you there real fast. I know shortcut!" exclaims the cabbie in his best Engrish, trying to impress the wrestler. Maybe his only brush with what might be called fame.

25 minutes later the cab comes screeching into the back lot of the arena and Brian leaps from the cab before it is even fully stopped.

"Thanks!" he hollers back, leaving double the fare showing on the meter laying on the back seat. A stage hand is waiting at the rear entrance waving at Postal.

"Straight down this hallway! Keep left! Your match is starting now! Go! Go!"

Brian is running for all he's worth to the gorilla position...
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