The two pills rest comfortably in his right hand, nearly weightless. He looks into the mirror and doesn't see the same person he once did. Before, there was a handsome face there, clean shaved, and pristine. Now though, his eyes are blood shot, the lower half of his face covered in facial hair. His once luscious hair is now matted and unkempt. A mere shell of his former self.

In his left hand is a glass filled to the brim with an amber hued liquid. Neither of his hands tremble, but his soul does. Looking back in the mirror is an unfamiliar and downright foreign face. It irks him truthfully. Yet, it doesn't quite register in his brain. Things never did translate correctly for him unlike most people. In the blink of an eye, he tosses the two pills into his mouth, takes a long sip from the glass, and snaps his head back.

He can feel the pills and the alcohol mix in his mouth and slide along his trachea. It glides down effortlessly, and hits his intestines without a hitch. Slowly, he returns his head to its natural position, and looks at himself again in the mirror. Two months ago, all of the therapy he had done on his injured knee had backfired on him. Hours after the tendons in his knee snapped he was rushed into surgery. Since then he hadn't been able to recover. This is one setback he can’t overcome.

He licks his lips slowly and sensually before he puts the glass back to his lips. Malachi slowly drinks from the glass as his eyes close and lets the liquor take him away from this place. As he finishes his drink though and opens his eyes, he sees that he's in the same rut that he's been in for months. It just angers him more than anything. He can feel the glass in his left hand and just allows his hand to constrict around it with each passing second until it can't squeeze any further.

The look in his eyes just deepens with rage as he vehemently hates the man looking back at him.

'GO AWAY!' he yells at the top of his lungs, spit flying violently from his mouth. In one fluid motion, he pulls back his left arm and flings the glass at the mirror, shattering both into thousands of pieces. At first, the noise is endless. The debris flies everywhere and he just stands there, unfazed by it all.

Shards soar by him yet never graze him. He stands there calm and confident as the pieces fall beside him as if that’s their rightful place. After a few seconds, he turns around and walks away, feeling the alcohol and drugs mixing violently in his system. As he takes a few steps, he can hear the doorbell ring. His eyes slowly narrow as he looks at his bedroom door and debates answering it. The thoughts swirl in his mind before he grips at his cane and starts moving towards the bedroom door.

The Offer
August 1st, 2007

It rings again and Malachi continues to limp over to the door, wishing that the incessant and annoying noise would just cease. As he reaches the door, he brushes the hair out of his face and glances through the peep hole. A man stands there, dressed in a business suit. A man that he's never seen before. His hand wraps around the doorknob and contemplates just walking away, but decides against it as he opens the door.

Malachi doesn't even hesitate, 'Who're you?' The man turns towards Malachi and seems a little surprised at either the appearance of Malachi or the brevity of his words. Or possibly both. He straightens his suit as he walks up to Malachi and extends his hand. Malachi just looks at it and then back at the man.

'Smitty T. Duluth, nice to meet you, sir,' the man speaks with confidence and his hand still extended. Malachi looks at the man and back down at the hand, refusing to shake it, and wondering why the man hasn't figured that part out yet. After a few more moments, the man finally lowers his hand and places both of them inside of his pockets.

'Who're you?' Malachi asks again, obviously not satisfied with the previous answer.

'I'm the CEO of FUSE. Surely, you've heard of us?' he asks and by the look in Malachi's face, he's not going to be happy with the answer.

'No,' Malachi replies sternly, sticking with the whole brevity thing. Smitty frowns at this bit of news as he looks down at his shoes. A few seconds pass before Smitty looks back up at Malachi and nods his head.

'Can I come in then?' Smitty asks, but Malachi's face doesn't change. For Smitty, this isn't the Malachi remembers. The beard is really a surprise for him and the overall appearance and look of Malachi isn’t what he expected to be honest. Yet, he knows inside, deep inside, of this man there is the great wrestler that he had seen before.

'No,' Malachi answers in the same kind of tone.

'Well, then, I want to offer you a position, a wrestling position with FUSE. You've got the makings of a great champion, I'm telling ya!' Smitty says, rather eagerly. He then hands Malachi a business card to show that this is indeed legit. Malachi hesitates before taking the card and glances at it briefly. Then, his blood shot eyes look back up at Smitty.

'No,' he says before slamming the door in Smitty's face.

The Night Of
October 12th, 2007

Across the room leans the mahogany cane he's had to use for the past ten months. His eyes are fixated upon it, remembering everything that has happened over the months, and knowing he has grown from it. He exhales slowly as he stands up and can feel the strength in his once injured knee. The fact that he would now be able to wrestle again is something that he's happy about.

He can hear the crowd inside of the arena and knows how it's going to be when he walks out there again. The hatred is going to fly in his face.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

He glances over at the door as it opens up and in walks Duluth, a smile on his face.

'Ready to go out there?' he asks him and Malachi nods his head. In the few conversations that the two have had, Smitty has come to learn that Malachi isn't one to show his feelings or emotions. It's part of what makes Malachi both unique and mysterious.

'You know they're gonna hate you, right?' Smitty asks, remembering the last time that Malachi had stepped into a wrestling ring.

'Yeah,' he says before standing up and walking across the room. No limp, no pain.

'I'm counting on it.'

Black.