Jon Moxley lit a crumpled cigarette that he had futilely tried to straighten out from the pack he had accidentally stepped on in the floor. As he lit a cigarette and took a drag, the burly bartender behind the bars glared at him and pointed towards the no smoking sign on the wall. Jon studied him silently, letting the smoke roll down his throat and into his lungs. The man was bigger than him and, judging by the beer gut that hung over his belt buckle and stretched out his “Trump/Pence” t-shirt, was quickly diving headfirst into the deep end by glaring at Jon. Looking up through his shaggy hair that hung below his eyes, Jon held the cigarette between his teeth like a vice as he continued his study. Thick, graying beard, dark eyes, an American Flag bandana to hide long, thinning hair, and tattoos on his arms that showed an allegiance to a local biker gang. It wouldn’t take much to drop him. A well-placed stab into the top of his hand, bounce his face off of the well-polished and the stocked bar, then drive his thumbs into the man’s eyeballs. Jon took another long drag from his cigarette as the bartender came closer and slapped his hand down on the bar right in front of him. Moxley’s eye focused on the hand as he took the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled the smoke from the corners of his lips.
Bartender: You want to put that out or do you want me to put it out for you?
Jon held the cigarette between his fingers and looked down at its orange, glowing embers. He remembered being a kid and how his mom would smoke like a freight train in front him. Even in the 1980s, the secondhand smoke thing wasn’t taken seriously. Not like it mattered anyway. Moxley’s mother barely remembered to feed him, what was some secondhand smoke going to do? Moxley’s blue eyes moved from the orange embers the pale, flabby top of the bartender’s hand. Another memory came up… his mom burning him with a cigarette after he interrupted her while she was “at work” because he had a nightmare. Apparently men who purchase the services of prostitutes don’t enjoy being reminded that children exist… and that John was especially not crazy about seeing him even if his mother’s ruby red lips were wrapped around his swollen member. Mox remembered how he could hear his skin sizzle as his mother put the Marlboro Red out into his arm. He still had the scar on the inside of his left arm - a perfect circle. Scars are God’s tattoos. They tell stories and ascribe meaning and the worth of a man can be measured by how much scar tissue he has. The man’s flabby, pale hand looked like it could use a new story… a new meaning. Jon Moxley put the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot.
Jon Moxley: I’m not looking for any trouble.
The fat bartender waddled away as Mox flipped the shot glass full of bulleit rye whiskey back down his throat. The cheap whiskey burned as it rolled down his esophagus or at least he assumed it did because he didn’t feel it. Jon Moxley didn’t feel much of anything these days. The cheap liquor tastes just like the paint thinner it smelled like and it lingered in his mouth. This have been his fourth shot. Soon his head would feel heavy, his body would betray him, and he’d collapse on the ground somewhere for a few hours blacked out. Alcoholics drink because they think they need it to survive, but Mox wasn’t interested in surviving anymore. He just wanted to go away for a while. Away from his thoughts, away from his history, away from reality… just away from life. If that meant he had to drink himself into oblivion to get the job done then so be it. Moxley pushed himself away from the bar and stood on rubbery legs as he stumbled to the outside patio of Tony’s Tavern where a man could get a smoke or maybe something more “effective” if the right people were out there.
Tony’s was a friendly little place at the edge of Barstow, Nevada where a man can lose himself amongst the crowd of debtors, pimps, whores, and dealers who found themselves on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Between the extreme heat in the day and extreme cold at night, things had a hard time surviving in the desert. Perhaps that’s what drew him to it? He would either die out here or be beaten into something that could live through the extremes. He missed that part of him… it hadn’t been around in months.
The stars were clear in the sky and the desert was calm in the night. It was Christmas Eve, a night that is meant to be spent with family and friends as you celebrate the birth of the man who would bring peace on earth. Moxley’s father was some John who paid to fuck his mom, his mother died of a heroin overdose when he was 15 years old, and his friends? Earlier this year, he didn’t have friends… he had brothers. Brothers who believed in justice and in putting aside their personal feelings and attitudes in pursuit of something bigger than themselves. Mox looked up at the north star that shined bright in the sky. That was the star that led the three wise men to the baby that had been born into a manger. Right now that star hung over a piece of shit bar where the only patrons were himself, a whore in her forties, and the rest of the derelicts who had nowhere to call home. There was no peace on earth. Never had been, never will be. Humanity lives and breathes conflict by its very existence. Mox was never a religious person. Why would a God create something so violent and so bloody and so pointless? Everything falls apart… and since it does, why bother? No friends, no family, no peace, and no brothers.
He was a different person then. He believed in something then. He had people who gave a damn about him. He remembered the feeling in his heart when Seth Rollins had found him in that hotel. No one had ever cared enough to find him when he went missing before. The Shield had been falling apart… honestly they had been falling apart for a while. Too many dominant personalities… too many differences in perspective… but he tried, damn it! He tried to make it work! He wanted nothing more than for the three of them to climb the ranks of wrestling and show the world that “Dean Ambrose” could be an honorable man.
Mox put the cigarette out on the bench beside him. Ghost stories. That’s all the Shield is anymore - an experiment that blew up, a theory that was disproven, and a predictable end to an unlikely story. Each man went into the Shield for their own reasons and, truth be known, Mox wasn’t entirely sure what his were. For a few years, Jon Moxley had been the most dangerous man in the independents. All of that… all the blood and accolades and accomplishments meant nothing. They were all pointless just like life is and, for a time, Jon Moxley had been okay with it. Then, one day, before a pay-per-view, he just didn’t feel like staying in that company anymore. There comes a point in a man’s life when he tires of the smell of his own blood. He gets bored with barbed white, glass, thumbtacks, tables, ladders, and steel chairs. For over almost 8 years, Jon Moxley had waged war on his own body and that company was glad to profit off of that.
The Shield, though? That was supposed to be something different. Roman Reigns and Seth Rollins had found him numb and wasted in Cincinnati when they pitched the idea to him. All he had to do was stay in control of himself and to believe in the Shield. He tried to… he really did. Out of all three members of the Shield, he was the one who wanted it the most. No one had ever chosen him for something. No one had ever looked at Jon Moxley and said he was good enough to be a part of something. So he did what he could. He toed the company line. He drank the kool-aid. He worked hard to keep his temper in check and to lift his brothers like they tried to lift him… but something always ate at him. As much as the Shield were trying to save him from his own self-destructive tendencies… those self-destructive tendencies made Jon Moxley into the man he was.
The alcohol hadn’t been as effective as he wanted it to be. The memories flooded his head. Memories of three brothers laughing and celebrating a victory together. Memories of belonging somewhere for once in his life. Maybe if he lit up a third cigarette, the bartender would make good on his threatening posture and beat the shit out of him? At least then he might feel something. Bracing himself on the cement wall that had been covered in graffiti, Mox retrieved another crumpled cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it up. As he did his cell phone buzzed. He had received a message from an old friend, a man he hadn’t seen in years, let alone spoke with. The message was long, but it ended in a question, “Are you ready to join EBWF?”
Jon Moxley: I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Jon Moxley felt good. Jon Moxley felt alive. Mox took another drag from the cigarette. It had been too long since he had destroyed something other than himself. Fuck that. He was done with the self-pitying and loathing and self-hatred. Jon Moxley was done being a victim of circumstance. It was time to go back to being the only version of him that felt right. The version that didn’t compromise himself “for the group” and the version that did shit because he wanted to.
Animals don’t second guess or doubt themselves, they just do what they do and are what they are, no pretense, no artifice. They don’t get wrapped up in rewards or punishments; they just deal with the consequences. That was what “Dean Ambrose” was missing. Even though they were the “hounds of justice”, Seth Rollins and Roman Reigns didn’t want Jon Moxley to be the hungry street dog that took him to the top of the wrestling world. No, they wanted a good soldier. They wanted the “wacky” guy who laughed along when people called him a “lunatic”... they wanted the guy who would pound fists with them and do everything for “justice.” There was no justice in this world.
Mox smiled as he pushed open the door that lead back inside the bar and took the biggest drag from the cigarette as he could muster. Inside, the bar was filling up as vagrants from the Vegas strip began to come in for some seasonal spirit. Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers “Christmas to Remember” was playing on the jukebox in a glorious contradiction of seasonal spirit and the bottom of the barrel of humanity.
Bartender: Hey, asshole! What did I tell you about that cigarette.
The crowd turned to watch as the bartender round the bar in a hurry with his chest puffed out and his fists clenched. Jon mockingly pointed to himself and mouthed “who me?” as the big man got closer. Mox smiled as the bartender grabbed him by his t-shirt and jerked him closer to his face.
Bartender: I warned you, asshole.
Jon blew smoke into the man’s face and, as the bartender coughed, slammed his forehead into the man’s face. The bartender fell on his ass as blood poured out of his broken nose and Mox felt chills run through his body. Hearing the crunch of the man’s nose felt good. Mox felt good. The crowd murmured but Mox could keep them in place as he glared at them. In Barstow, on the outskirts of the City of Sin, people turned the other way in situations like these. “Christmas to Remember” continued to play as Mox kicked the man square in the chest with his boot and laughed. Still clutching his nose, the bartender wheezed as he tried to catch his breath through his mouth. Mox leaned over the counter and rummaged through his supplies.
Jon Moxley: You know, I think people never gave Dolly Parton enough credit. Yeah, she has an amusement park, and she’s known for the big blond hair and tits, but she could fucking sing, you know?
Mox stomped on the bartender’s hand as he tried to crawl away and smiled at the sound of cracking bones. Maybe he wasn’t so tired of blood, chairs, thumbtacks, glass, barbed wire, and the rest? Maybe he just needed a little vacation? The crowd were still trying to ignore the scene as they uncomfortably continued their own shady conversations and drinks. Mox pushed through all the lemons, limes, bitters, shakers, and all the other bar equipment but couldn’t find what he was looking for.
Jon Moxley: Christ, how do you not have a fork? Fuck, or at least an olive skewer?
The bartender was in too much pain to answer, not like Mox was particularly interested in what he had to say. This guy needed to be taught a lesson, just like the wrestling world needed to be taught a lesson. If you mess with Jon Moxley, you will be hurt very, very badly. With a sigh of relief, Jon Moxley found a plastic package from what looked like a takeout place that had a napkin, a packet of salt, a packet of pepper, and a plastic fork. Mox liked the metal one’s the best because you can sharpen them but plastic had its own fun to it. After ripping open the package and discarding the napkin, salt, and pepper, Mox grabbed the bartender by the chin and held his head up.
Jon Moxley: I don’t know your name, do I? Oh well, for all intents and purposes, your name is Lio Rush right now. Lio, you are about to find out, right in this moment… that when I decide I want to hurt someone; I make sure that they never EVER want to piss me off again. Do you understand, Mister Rush?
The bartender, looking up at Moxley, with his bloody nose and broken fingers nodded vigorously. Mox smiled and drove the prongs of the plastic fork as deep as he could right above the man’s right eyebrow. The other patrons in the bar winced as the bartender screamed and howled in pain. Not yet satisfied with his handiwork, Mox twisted the end of the fork until the prongs snapped off deep inside the man’s face. Jon had done a similar thing to a fellow high school student which led to his expulsion - it was an oldie but a goodie. Dropping the man with a thud to let him writhe in pain and claw at his face to dig the prongs out, Jon looked out into the crowd who watched with stunned silence. Looking down, Jon noticed his white t-shirt and hands were coated in the bartender’s red blood.
Jon Moxley: Drinks are on this asshole for the rest of the night.
Mox wiped his hands clean on his shirt and moved towards the door with a smile on his face. For the first time in years, he felt like himself. Too bad that would not save Lio from Jon Moxley when the time came. If that other company thought “Dean Ambrose” was the Most Dangerous Man on the roster then, just wait until they get a load of him when his contract expires next year and he was free to do what he wanted. Before leaving, Mox turned back to the other derelicts in the bar that were slowly beginning to step over to the still screaming bartender to get to the bar. There is no such thing as honor among thieves. These were Moxley’s people. He had been dumb to think he could ever be a respectable man. A lesson learned. A few more months and he would be a free man to join EBWF, until then he would tread water until he was free to do what he wanted. He would play nice for that other company. He would pretend to be “Dean Ambrose” until he didn’t have to hear that name ever again.
Jon Moxley: Are you listening to me Lio? I hope you see this shit. I really do. I'm sure some little bastard will repost this and tag you in it and all of that shit is good for you. You want to make a name for yourself, and seriously how much does the EBWF staff hate you? A make your name for yourself against Jon Fucking Moxley. Do you know what I’m going to do to you? DO YOU KNOW WHAT I'm FUCKING CAPABLE OF? Well, Mister Rush, if you do your homework then you know. If you don't know what I'm about then you're not going to know what's coming, shit. Maybe it's better that way. I know how dangerous I am, and I know this is where you are going to come to DIE. I'm going to drive you both to the BRINK of insanity. If you leave this match without a broken bone, or your skin in tact, then son of a bitch, that means I'm a failure. BUT I promise you, you both are going to REMEMBER THE NIGHT, you faced, JON F'N MOXLEY. See you soon, bitch.
Jon dropped the camera. Was Lio Rush ready for Jon Moxley?