▶The Long Way Home Part 1
“You have no choices about how you lose, but you do have a choice about how you come back and prepare to win again.” ~Pat Riley
The drive back from Philadelphia should have felt like a victory lap; instead, it felt like a funeral procession. The Tennessee state line had appeared hours ago, yet neither Dan nor Chris seemed relieved to see it. Rain tapped softly against the windshield as the truck rolled through the dark backroads toward Smithville, the radio long since replaced by the low hum of tires on wet pavement and the occasional growl of mountain thunder.
Dan stared out the window, his silence weighted. Three nights earlier, the Golden Intentions Rumble had swallowed his momentum. Despite fighting through injuries that would have sidelined anyone else, he had watched his opportunity vanish. He could still feel the roar of the crowd, the final moments of being tossed over and hitting the floor with the cold realization that it simply wasn't his moment. At least not this time.
Chris glanced at him every few minutes. The silence wasn’t all that unusual between them. He was used to his older brother not talking, but after everything they had survived together, they didn’t need words, but something was different this time around. It’s as if the silence had weight.
"You know," Chris finally broke the silence, "most people would've killed to last as long as you did."
"Most people didn't come to win," Dan replied, eyes fixed on the dark trees, daring to not look away from the window.
"There it is. The pity party." Chris sighed.
"What? It’s not a pity party." Dan retorted.
"Sure sounds like one," Chris adjusted his grip on the wheel. "You lost one match, Dan. It happens to the best. Even the legends have bad nights."
"It wasn't just one match, Chris. You know that. It was the setup. The timing. Everything was supposed to click."
"And it didn't," Chris said flatly. "So what? You going to let one three-count define the rest of the year?"
"I'm going to let myself be pissed off for at least the drive home," Dan snapped. "Is that okay with you?"
Chris sighed, the wipers swiping away the heavy Tennessee rain. "Fine. Be miserable. Just don't expect me to hum along to the silence."
Chris understood that Golden Intentions was the chance for his brother to cement a legacy. He understood that it was Dan’s ONE shot at getting the title his brother had yearned to hold for years. He knew it was Dan’s one opportunity and now that chance, and history of winning twice, belonged to someone else.
The rain intensified as neither brother spoke for several miles. They reached Smithville in silence. The shiny bright lights of Smithville glistened amongst the headlights. To most people, the town was a predictable, quiet relic, possibly even boring. For them, it was a sanctuary, a place free from futuristic wars, impossible missions, and life-or-death countdowns. Or so they hoped.
The next morning was gray and humid. Dan woke with an ache born of deep exhaustion. With Luca and Elias away visiting relatives, the house felt unnervingly empty. He sat at the table staring into a mug of orange juice he had just fixed. He continuously kept replaying the image of his loss wondering if he had just done something different, maybe focused better, then maybe the outcome would have been in his favor. He knew nothing could change the past, but his brain was running wild with the what ifs.
Athletes had always been taught to move on and to focus on the future. But the reality of it was much harder to do. The loss lingered so heavily in Dan’s head. He knew that win was the one win that mattered. It was his opportunity to compete for the main title he wanted for ten years. He was completely lost in his thoughts, he never noticed that Chris walked in, without knocking of course, tossing a greasy bag of biscuits and bacon onto the table.
“You look terrible,” Chris noted, pulling out a chair.
“Good morning to you, too. Glad to see you’re still using the spare key I never gave you.”
“Locks are suggestions, Dan. Eat your bacon. You need the grease to jumpstart whatever's left of your brain.”
“I'm not hungry.”
“Liar. You're starving. You've been moping since Philly. You need to eat or are you just gonna sit around all day?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s so pathetic.”
“Maybe it is little bro.”
Chris laughed, “There he is.”
Dan finally cracked a smile.
“There may be some hope to recovery after all.” Chris joked.
The conversation drifted through easier topics such schedules, family, the mundane. For a little bit, the disappointment was fading, until Chris noticed a newspaper on the kitchen counter. An article was circled in red:
HISTORICAL CAVE SYSTEM DISCOVERED OUTSIDE SMITHVILLE.
“What’s this?” Chris asked, his expression shifting as he read. “It says they found evidence of recent habitation, but no official records. Footprints. Signs of someone living there for years.”
Dan shrugged. “Crazy people live in caves, Chris.”
“It’s not just that,” Chris pointed lower. “Researchers reported hearing voices. Dozens of conversations occurring simultaneously deep in the chambers.”
“Probably some kids with a Bluetooth speaker having a laugh,” Dan muttered, though he felt a tightening in his chest.
“Kids don't hike two miles past the trailhead for a prank; Dan. Listen to this: 'the voices were described as clinical... rhythmic.'”
A chill crept down Dan's spine. Something about the description felt familiar…a buried memory of the strangest experience of his life.
“I'm going,” Chris said, standing up.
“No. We literally just got back. I haven't even finished this orange juice.”
“The juice's warm now, and you're bored. Admit it.”
“I'm not bored. I'm retired from 'weird.' That was the whole point of moving here.”
“Yes. Absolutely. Pack your boots.”
Three hours later, they were hiking through the suffocating Tennessee heat. Two miles from the nearest road, the forest fell into an uncomfortable stillness. No birds, no insects. Just a void of sound.
“Too quiet for you yet?” Dan whispered, his hand hovering near his belt.
“Shut up and keep moving,” Chris replied, though his voice was low. “You feel that? The air is changing.”
“It's getting colder. That shouldn't be happening in June.”
The cave entrance was massive—a twenty-foot jagged maw breathing cold air into the woods. Dan felt a primal unease, but Chris clicked on a flashlight and stepped into the dark. Dan followed, the temperature dropping twenty degrees as they descended.
Minutes into the stone corridors, the voices began. They weren't echoes or wind; they were distinct, overlapping human speech, growing louder the deeper they went. The tunnel opened into a massive chamber where their beams landed on something impossible: a rusting metal door set into the prehistoric stone.
The voices stopped instantly. The silence was deafening.
“Chris,” Dan breathed, his light shaking slightly. “Look at the seal on that door. That's not local construction.”
“I see it. Stay back.”
Dan stepped closer, his light illuminating an inscription etched into the rusted metal. His blood turned cold.
ESTABLISHED 2326
“Tell me I'm misreading that,” Dan said, his voice cracking. “Tell me that says 1926.”
“I can't lie to you that well, Dan,” Chris whispered.
The same year. The same future they had fought to escape.
A violent metallic thud shook the chamber from beyond the door. Then came the pounding—heavy, rhythmic blows that vibrated through the floor. The voices returned in a roar, hundreds of them screaming directly behind the steel.
“We need to go,” Dan yelled over the rising din. “Now!”
“The latch is moving!” Chris shouted back.
Whatever was on the other side wanted out.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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The camera cuts to a cavernous, empty arena, the air thick with the scent of stale popcorn and floor wax. Shadows stretch across the rafters, save for a single, blinding spotlight that carves a circle of light into the center of the ring. Within that halo stand Dangerous Dan and Crazy Chris. The Paramount Championship rests on Dan’s shoulder, its gold plating catching the overhead light, while Chris stalks the perimeter behind him, his boots thudding against the canvas like a low, rhythmic heartbeat.
For a long moment, the only sound is the hum of the cooling systems. Then, Dan’s lips curl into a sharp, jagged smirk.
“You know, Chris, people love the sound of their own voices. They love talking about what they think they know.”
“It’s their favorite pastime,” Chris says, his voice a low rasp.
“They think they know how Golden Intentions broke me. They think they know what that time away did to my head. They think they’ve already written the next chapter. And they’re reading the wrong book.”
Chris stops his prowling, stepping up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother, two pillars of defiance in the dark.
“See, Golden Intentions was supposed to be the coronation. Everyone felt it. I walked into that Rumble with the world in my pocket, knowing a World Championship shot was waiting at the end of the line. And I choked. I lost. No shadows, no smoke, no blaming the referee. I failed. And that failure has been a cold stone sitting in my gut every second since.”
“Good,” Chris says flatly.
“Good?”
“Yeah. Good. Because you’re only ever a nightmare when you’re bleeding. Every time you’ve been truly dangerous, every time you’ve made a person regret the day they laced up their boots… it’s because you were backed into a corner. You’re pissed off, obsessed, and starving. Right now? You’re the hungriest man in the building.”
Dan nods, his eyes reflecting the harsh spotlight.
“You’re damn right I am. I can still taste that loss. I can still feel it slipping through my fingers like sand. But one night doesn't bury me. One setback isn't the epitaph. I’m still standing, I’m still draped in gold, and I’m still hunting the top of the mountain. Maybe I didn't earn it in Philly. Maybe the stars didn't align. But hear me: some way, somehow, I will find that door again. I’ll kick it down if I have to. The World Title is my destination, and when I get back to that stage, I’m not letting go.”
“That’s the stubborn bastard I remember,” Chris grins, a flash of white in the dim light. “The one too dangerous to know when he’s beat.”
“Rich, coming from you.”
“Oh, we’re getting to me. Because while they’re dissecting your night in Philly, they’ve been whispering behind my back. 'Where’s Crazy Chris? When’s the return? Is he finished?'”
Chris’s grin vanishes, replaced by a look of predatory focus.
“Surprise. I’m right here. And I’m done being a spectator.”
He steps closer to the lens, his presence filling the frame.
“People don’t get how the rot sets in when you’re away. You watch them competing, living your dream, while you’re forced into the silence. Every day you’re gone, a piece of you starts to scream. Because this isn’t a job. It’s the blood in our veins. I got tired of the silence. I got tired of the patience. I’m back, and the timing is poetry—because I get to walk back into the fire with my brother.”
Dan’s smile returns, shadowed and grim. “That brings us to Infernalia. Buffalo, New York. Broadview Arena. The Tag Team Titles on the line. And Jared Holmes. Poor, deluded Jared Holmes.”
Chris lets out a short, bark-like laugh. “Jared’s got a problem. A catastrophic one. Freddie Styles isn't coming to save him.”
“Not today.”
“Which means Jared needs a body. A replacement. A placeholder. A volunteer. A sacrifice.”
They both share a dark, quiet laugh that echoes through the empty seats.
“Here’s the punchline: we don’t care who he picks. Bring a rookie, bring a Hall of Famer, bring a seven-foot freak or the next 'chosen one.' It doesn't matter. The moment they step across that line, they’ve made the final mistake of their career.”
“The world forgot what happens when we combine our shadows. They remember Dangerous Dan and they remember Crazy Chris, but they’ve lost the memory of what happens when those two storms collide.”
“It’s been a while.”
“Too long.”
“But Buffalo is the reminder. We’ve bled, fought, and suffered as one. At Infernalia, we don’t just win—we take back what’s ours. We become two-time Tag Team Champions.”
“Not by invitation. Not by politics. But because we are the apex team.”
“Because we’re blood, and because we refuse to be ignored.”
They loom over the camera now, a united front of desperation and intent.
“Think about the math,” Chris whispers. “You’ve got my resurrection and Dan’s redemption happening in the same breath. You know what that cocktail tastes like? Motivation.”
“Desperation.”
“Violence.”
Dan chuckles. “That, too. Jared Holmes isn't walking into a wrestling match; he’s walking into a hurricane. He’s walking into two men who have nothing left to lose and everything to prove. We aren't leaving Buffalo empty-handed.”
“And when the smoke clears and the dust settles over the Broadview Arena, you’ll be looking at the new kings of the division.”
Dan hoists the Paramount Championship high, the light shimmering off the plate.
“Philly didn't break me; it sharpened the blade. My path to the World Title is still clear. But first… we have an execution to attend in Buffalo.”
“Jared, pray for a partner who can handle the heat. Pray for a miracle. You’re going to need it.”
They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, monolithic beneath the single beam of light.
“The ENDD is Near. Can you feel it?”
Dan holds his title high, then steps back, ceding the floor to his brother. Chris stares straight into the soul of the lens.
“Get your wallets ready, ladies and gentlemen. Buy the shirts, learn the names. The Danger Boiz are taking the throne and there isn't a soul alive who can stop us. Because that’s the Gospel of Crazy Chris: Chapter FUCK verse YOU!”
The screen plunges into immediate, suffocating black.
“The price of success is hard work, dedication to the job at hand, and the determination that whether we win or lose, we have applied the best of ourselves to the task at hand.” ~Vince Lombardi