---

---

In the center of the ring stood a ladder.

At the top of the ladder sat Micheal Graves.

In only his underwear, mask, and T-shirt.

Holding a beat up briefcase.

The confusion on his face was only matched by the confusion on Miss Furry's.

She had walked in on this scene about 30 seconds ago.

Graves never acknowledged her.

"Is everything okay?"

"Fine. I'm just tryin' to wrap my head around somethin'."

"Anything I can help with?"

"Hmmm? Sure. Tell me again, why do we climb?"

"To get to the top."

"So what happens when ya get there?"

"You get what you climbed for."

Graves stared at the briefcase in his hands.

"Yeah..."

Graves looked down at the ladder under his ass, then back to the briefcase.

"That's what I thought."

"So... What's this really about?"

"Isaiah King. Facing him on Warfare. It's a shot at a shot at the Uni."

"A ladder."

"Exactly."

"And there's a problem?"

"Just tryin' to figure out what makes a guy spend his whole fuckin' life climbin'. Finally gets to the top. Gets exactly what he wanted. Takes a fuckin' nap instead of cashing in. Then shows back up at the bottom rung while he's still got the damn prize in his hand."

"Maybe he's a creature of habit? Or maybe he just wants more."

"More?"

Graves tossed the briefcase in disgust.

"More what!? He's already got the magic fuckin' lunchbox!"

"Maybe he wants another way to get there."

Graves stared down at her.

"Another way?"

"Insurance."

Nothing.

Furry could almost hear the gears grinding.

Slow, painfully, and lube free.

"A backup plan."

Graves' eyes narrowed.

He looked at the briefcase he'd thrown across the ring.

Then the ladder.

"Motherfucker thinks I'm a rung to be climbed?"

Then Furry.

"Good luck with that, but the dummy just exposed himself."

"How so?"

"By showing his lack of Faith."

"In the briefcase?"

"In himself."

Furry paused for thought as Graves suddenly stood on the top of the ladder.

Still in his underwear that you could now better see the yellow and brown stains on.

Furry's eyes widened.

"Please sit back down."

"Think about it!"

"I'm having trouble thinking about anything aside from controlling my gag reflex."

"Isaiah spent God knows how long cryin' about ladders. How many rungs? How far to the top? How many times can poor little Isaiah fall down before his boo-boos become holy scripture or some shit?"

"I don't think that's exactly how he put it."

"Then the motherfucker finally does it! Climbs all the way up! Beats everybody! Grabs the briefcase! Gets himself a guaranteed shot whenever the fuck he wants!

And what's the first thing King Shit does with the keys to the kingdom?"

Furry shrugged.

Graves slowly lowered his ass back onto the top step.

"Nothin'. Fucker goes to bed for three months."

"Maybe he needed the time off."

"For what? His arms tired from carryin' that thing?"

Graves pointed toward the briefcase—with authority!

"It's a fuckin' suitcase, Emily! Samsonite ain't exactly known for causing career endin' injuries."

"You don't know what he was dealing with."

"I know what he's dealin' with now."

The ladder creaked as Graves leaned forward.

"Me!"

For a brief moment, the silliness disappeared.

Then Graves scratched his balls.

Furry frantically looked away.

"Jesus Christ."

"Anyway..."

He sniffed his fingers.

Furry immediately regretted looking back.

"How are you so naturally disgusting?"

"FOCUS!"

"I was! You derailed it!"

"He already won the right to pick his moment. Pick his champion. Pick his fuckin' spot."

Graves held up his index finger.

"One bullet."

A second finger.

"Any target."

A third.

"Dead with one big swing of his royal nutsack."

"You were doing so well."

"But apparently that ain't enough."

Graves hopped down a rung.

"So now Isaiah wants another shot."

Another rung.

"And before he gets that shot, he needs to earn a shot at the shot."

Another rung.

"And if he gets through me, he gets to fight somebody else for the shot that gives him the shot he already fuckin' has."

He looked toward Furry.

"You know what I call that shit?"

Furry folded her arms.

"A good work ethic?"

Graves shook his head, disgusted by her answer.

"That's double-baggin' bullshit!"

Furry blinked.

"What?"

"Ya ever see some scared seventeen-year-old kid buy condoms?"

"I don't like where this is going."

"Motherfucker pays a premium for the branded ones. Then double-bags just in case. Has all that protection and ends up pullin' out anyway."

"Oh my God."

"That's Isaiah! Still crawling up the object of his desires while being so fuckin' terrified of the finish, he might as well be pickin' out baby names!"

"Please never explain wrestling like that again."

"He's walkin' around with a guaranteed title shot in one hand and reachin' for another with the other because deep down he's already thinkin' about what happens when he fucks the first one up."

Graves descended another rung.

"That's why he's here in the gutter with me."

"Oh please. You're hardly in the gutter."

"One foot in, one out. Doesn't change the fact that Isaiah came all the way back down here lookin' for another way up."

Graves looked across the ring at the battered briefcase.

"Because maybe Isaiah King ain't scared of fallin'."

He walked toward it.

"He's done that enough to grow accustomed."

He bent down and picked it up.

"Maybe he's scared there's gonna come a day when there ain't a ladder left to blame. Just the man climbing it."

He turned the briefcase over in his hands.

"The fuck's in this thing anyway?"

"How would I know? You brought it."

"That don't answer my question."

Graves popped the latches as Furry leaned forward.

"Well?"

Graves stared inside.

"Porn."

"What?"

"Lots of porn."

He tilted his head as he retrieved a DVD from the case.

"Huh..."










"Where did you get that briefcase?"

Graves put the DVD back and slowly closed it.

"Apparently from a man with excellent taste."

"Ew."

"Point is... Isaiah's got a guaranteed shot in one hand and he's already reachin' for another...

But after Warfare...

Ain't nobody gonna have to wonder why Isaiah thought he needed insurance.

I'm gonna show 'em!"

Graves dropped the briefcase beside him and lowered into the corner.

Furry stared at him.

"You're seriously staying here? Go home. Get some sleep."

"Got shit to think about..."

---

"Isaiah...

Look, I get wantin' more.

I do.

Fuck, half my life's been wantin' shit I probably shouldn't have.

Belts.

Respect.

Revenge.

Girls.

So I ain't gonna stand here and call ya greedy because you want another shot at the Uni.

Greedy I understand.

What I don't understand is...

Why the fuck are you doing it like this?

You already got the goddamn briefcase!

You already won!

Not the belt, obviously. Calm down.

But you won the good part.

You get to pick the champ and the moment.

You can sit at home with your feet up, wait for the Universal Champion to get his ass beat half to death, then stroll in fresh and cash that little magic lunchbox in while the poor bastard's still trying to remember if he has kids or not.

That's fuckin' beautiful.

That's practically cheating.

I respect the shit outta that.

And instead?

You came back down here.

To me.

Why!?

You had all the control in the world and just...

Gave a good chunk of it away.

Now you don't get to pick whether I'm in the mood to wrestle or see how far your head twists before we hear something go pop.

You're just another sonofabitch standing between me and something I want.

And YOU should know better than anybody how bad a spot that puts you in!

Last time we did this shit, you were in there with Dyson...

And where the fuck was I?

THE CEILING!

I fell outta the goddamn ceiling and smashed all the fight right outta ya!

There wasn't no master plan!

Never catch me sittin' in the back studying tape and drawing little arrows and X's on a whiteboard.

I was up there.

You were down there.

Fuck it.

Seemed like a good idea.

Then proved it was when we threw your ass through a fuckin' window!

But now, somehow...

SOMEHOW...

You walked away from that experience and decided: 'Yep. That guy. That's who I want involved in my plans again.'

The fuck is wrong with you?

Seriously.

You know me.

You know there ain't no planning around Micheal Graves.

Half the time I don't know what I'm gonna do until I'm already halfway done doing it!

And now you've put yourself between me and something we both want.

Again.

And you know what?

SEB got one thing right.

I cared.

I cared a hell of a lot more than I acted I did.

I spent all that time pretendin' the Universal Championship was just another belt.

Bullshit.

Losing to SEB pissed me off.

Losing my chance to be Universal Champion pissed me off even more.

So congratulations, Sebastian.

You got me.

Happy?

Now give me another fuckin' shot at ya.

And if getting back there means I gotta plow through everybody between me and that belt for the third goddamn time?

Fine.

Done it twice already.

Might as well make it a full fledged fuckin' trilogy.

Besides...

Third time's supposed to be the charm, ain't it?

What's one more trip through the meat grinder for a guy like me?

But you?

Your prospects ain't nearly as pretty.

I beat you, this little backup plan dies right here and now.

I knock your ass off the ladder and leave ya standing there with the same briefcase you showed up with...

Only now you're staring at that fucker knowing exactly why you wanted insurance.

Maybe that finally does ya some good.

Maybe you stop shopping for another shot and grow the balls to use the one you already got.

But hey...

Maybe you beat me.

Not that I'm plannin' on it.

Problem is?

People get their hand raised against Micheal Graves.

Then they go home and try figure out what the fuck I took with me.

That's the part you're not thinkin' about.

You're too busy thinking about what you GET for beating me.

But what does it cost?

That's the question.

Because once that bell rings, that briefcase don't mean shit to me.

Whoever you're planning to cash it in on don't mean shit to me.

Don't care.

That's tomorrow shit.

And tomorrow ain't in the ring with me.

You are.

Maybe you needed somebody to remind ya what this shit feels like when there's another human being standin' across from ya trying to hurt you.

If that's it?

Good choice.

I'm fuckin' fantastic at that.

But don't confuse me with part of your comeback tour.

I'm not here to help Isaiah King get his groove back.

I'm not here to shake your hand, give ya a tough match, and send ya off to the next chapter feeling real fuckin' good about yourself.

You lookin' for another way up?

Fine.

You found it.

Now let's find out what it fuckin' costs."

---

---

Miss Furry stopped in the doorway staring in disbelief.

Graves was in the ring.

Still wearing the mask.

Still wearing the same stained underwear.

"Please tell me you went to bed."

"Mornin'."

"Did you?"

"No time for sleep."

Furry sighed.

"You have class in an hour."

"Allegedly."

"You at least need some clothes..."

Graves looked down.

"I'm wearing clothes."

"That stained rag doesn't qualify."

"HMPH! That's elitist."

Furry walked toward the ring.

"Do you really plan on teaching like that?"

Graves looked down at himself and considered it for a moment.

"Might establish dominance."

"The only thing letting the students see you like that will establish is a mass exodus."

Graves stepped toward the ropes.

His weight shifted just enough that Furry noticed.

She watched as Graves took another step.

There it was again.

"Why are you limping?"

Graves stopped.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"That's just how I walk after a night with Bridgette!"

"Ew..."

"You brought it up."

Graves resumed limping as Furry climbed onto the apron.

"Micheal."

"Emily..?"

"What happened to your leg?"

"Nothin' happened to my leg. I told ya, it's a side effect from sexy time."

"Okay."

Furry climbed through the ropes.

"Okay."

She walked directly toward him as Graves eyed her suspiciously.

"Walk towards me."

"Fuck off."

"Walk."

"I don't perform on command like some dancing monkey."

"You wrestle professionally."

"That's different."

"How?"

"They let me hurt people."

Furry pointed across the ring.

"Walk."

Graves stared at her.

Furry stared back.

Finally Graves threw his arms out in defeated frustration.

"Fine!"

He walked.

Five steps.

Six—Seven.

The limp became harder to hide the longer he went.

The annoyance faded from Furry's face.

"Is that from SEB?"

Graves immediately turned.

"The fuck makes you say that?"

"Because you were favoring the same side after Bad Medicine."

"Aw, bullshit! I was just tired."

"And now?"

"Stayed up all night. Still tired."

Furry moved closer as Graves backed away.

"You're hurt."

"Everybody's hurt."

"You're not supposed to get hurt."

Graves looked away.

Furry didn't.

"Sebastian Everett-Bryce hits hard... Or somethin'."

"Yeah, I'm sure. That's why he is where he's at."

"...Real hard."

"I know."

"Like somebody stuffed a brick inside another brick and taught that brick how to throw elbows."

"Micheal."

"What?"

"You heal."

"Yeah."

"Fast."

"Usually."

That word came out before he could stop it.

Furry caught it.

So did Graves.

"Usually?"

"What!? You're suddenly a fuckin' language-artist?"

"How long?"

"How long what?"

"How long have you noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

"That you're not healing right."

Graves laughed unconvincingly.

"I'm healing fine."

"You're limping."

"Lots of people limp."

"You don't."

"Maybe I'm trying something new?"

"Turn around."

"Emily, if you've been waitin' all this time to make a move, there's gotta be a healthier way to express—"

"Turn around!"

Graves turned slowly as Furry lifted his shirt.

The bruising along his side had faded, but not disappeared. Yellow spread beneath the skin and a light purple ran across his ribs.

"That should be gone by now."

"It's gettin' there."

"It should've gotten there the next day."

Graves turned back around.

"According to who?"

"According to every injury I've watched you get since I've known you."

"Maybe I'm slowing down."

"That's what I'm asking."

"I meant generally."

"So did I."

Graves' smile disappeared.

"Is this the first time?"

Graves looked away.

"We got fifty minutes before class."

Graves headed for the ropes.

"I'm going to get some grub..."

Furry stepped in front of him.

"Is this the first time?"

"I don't know."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I don't fuckin' know."

"How do you not know?"

"Because I don't keep a goddamn spreadsheet of every bruise and busted joint, Emily!"

His voice echoed through the Boneyard.

Furry didn't flinch, but Graves did.

His hand went instinctively to his ribs, but he quickly lowered it and tried to play off the pain.

"You're scared."

Graves' eyes snapped onto hers.

"Watch yourself."

"I'm not insulting you."

"Sure fuckin' sounded like it."

"I'm worried about you."

"Worry about yourself!"

Furry softened her tone.

"When was the last time you were still hurting three weeks after a match?"

Graves thought about it for a while.

"Micheal?"

"I don't know."

"Because you can't remember? Or because it hasn't happened before?"

Silence.

Graves limped towards the corner, he didn't bother trying to hide it now.

He leaned on the turnbuckle.

"SEB beat the fuck outta me."

"Yes."

"Maybe that's it."

"Maybe."

"Motherfucker said himself the match took years off his career."

"Maybe it took something out of yours too."

Graves slowly looked up.

He was thinking it, but he didn't like hearing it.

Not one fuckin' bit.

"I'm fine..."

Furry sighed.

"Okay."

Graves blinked.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"That's it?"

"You said you're fine."

"I am."

"Then you're teaching today."

Graves smiled.

"Obviously."

"Full class."

"Yep."

"Demonstrations too."

His smile faltered.

"Sure."

"Perfect. I have a friend to catch up with. Thanks Gravy!"

Furry climbed through the ropes and started toward the locker rooms as Graves watched her go.

"Oh."

She stopped and looked back.

"One more thing."

"What?"

"Put on pants before the students get here."

Graves looked down.

"Fuckin' dress codes..."

Furry disappeared through the doorway.

Graves waited until she was gone.

Then his knee buckled and he caught himself on the ropes.

He stood there.

Staring down at his leg.

Flexed the knee.

Pain.

His hand moved to his ribs.

Pressed.

More pain.

He stared at his hand.

"Huh."

The clock on the wall read 11:17.

Forty-three minutes until class.

Graves pulled himself upright.

Tested the leg again.

It hurt.

He took a step anyway.

Still limping...

"Fuck it..."

---

---

"Ya know, Isaiah... I been thinkin'. Dangerous fuckin' hobby, I know.

SEB beat me. There. Said it. No excuses, no asterisks, no Mercury bein' in Gatorade or whatever the fuck. He beat me, and when that bell rang? I knew it.

What I didn't know was the motherfucker wasn't done.

Three weeks later and he's still gettin' shots in. I get outta bed, my knee says good morning. Take a deep breath, my ribs tell me to go fuck myself. SEB ain't even in the goddamn room and somehow he's still beatin' my ass.

That's impressive.

Pisses me off... but it's impressive.

And I guess somewhere along the way I forgot fights can do that. Bell rings, everybody goes home, Gravy sleeps it off and wakes up good as new. That's usually how this shit works for me.

Usually.

Broken bone? Whatever. Torn muscle? Give it a minute. Burned, cut, stabbed, dropped on my head, thrown through 10th-floor window?

Gravy comes back.

Always have.

So maybe I got a little fuckin' spoiled. Started thinkin' I'd bounce back from anything.

SEB showed me otherwise.

Sometimes that shit follows even me home.

And I've been lying here thinkin' about that...

Which, unfortunately, led to another thought.

Maybe I'm a fuckin' hypocrite.

Been bustin' your balls all night about insurance, meanwhile I've been carrying around the best goddamn policy anybody ever had.

Me.

My body.

Hell, maybe that's why I've spent so many years doing stupid shit nobody with a functioning brain would even consider.

Didn't have to think about it.

Didn't have to be brave, just needed to be stupid.

And brother...

I am GREAT at stupid.

But SEB might've fucked that up for me.

Three weeks later, the knee still hurts, ribs still hurt, shit that should've been gone before breakfast is hanging around all this time later, and now I gotta figure something out.

Was I ever really fearless?

Or was I just some dumb asshole who knew tomorrow would put him back together?

That's where you come in, Isaiah.

Lucky you.

Because you're gonna be the first motherfucker I get to test that theory on.

You came into this thing looking for another safety net.

I might've just lost mine.

And if I still dive into an empty pool headfirst knowing whatever you break might stay broken...

Then I got my answer.

And THAT'S what SEB might've actually given me.

Not some life lesson.

Fuck perspective.

He gave me a reason to find out what Micheal Graves is after the reset button jams.

For all I know there's an expiration date stamped on my ass somewhere and Furry's gonna find it the next time she makes me turn around.

Don't care.

I'm still coming at you and whoever comes next between me and SEB.

Because if this shit's really winding down?

Fuck limping quietly toward the finish line.

I'm chargin' straight through that motherfucker.

Or hobbling.

With a chainsaw!

Point is...

You and me both got insurance on our minds.

Difference is, you're trying to get more.

Me?

I'm looking to find out whether I ever needed mine.

And you're the lucky motherfucker who gets to help me find out."