When you think about the life of a professional wrestler on the road, certain images leap to mind. You drive in shifts at all hours of the night to squeeze out another booking, just so you can earn another paycheck. You eat what you can afford, and if that means three days in a row of ramen noodles, so be it. You tell yourself it'll be better when you get to the top tier level, when you get to headline the card. Because then the company will fly you around on a private jet and put you up at a fancy hotel. That's why you push so hard, because you want to justify that kind of attention. That's why you take stupid chances; that's why you risk pissing off people who are just as eager to hold onto their spot as you are to take it. They don't want to lose out and slide down to the back of the line. I mean, can you really see Clinton Sage staying at a Holiday Inn?

Unfortunately, some people never start here, on the road, in the middle of fucking nowhere swilling from bottles of milk they pull out of a beaten-up cooler.

It's a shame, too; it might do them some good.

0.2 - Mandatory Quote-Type Thing

'Why be a man when you can be a success?' -- Bertolt Brecht.

0.3 - Not What They Were Expecting

Some people started here, instead.

Welcome to the garden patio of the O.Henry Hotel in Greensboro, North Carolina. Another edition of FUSE's UPROAR! had just taken place up the road at the Coliseum, and the wrestling press was all abuzz about the events that they'd witnessed. News stories were being filed with websites throughout the country, detailing all the various backstage rumors and news and opinions, and then the media packed up and checked out of their hotels.

At least, that's the way it usually went. But when word came down that a representative from FUSE had requested use of the O.Henry's patio, well, that kind of gossip, it got around to these folk in a hurry. Anyone who hadn't already gotten out of town made their way over. The Henry is one of Greensboro's nicer hotels, locally owned and operated, the only four-star hotel in the area that's not run by one of the major travel corporations.

The patio itself, like the rest of the property, radiated that cozy, homey feel, even with the steel chairs and marble-topped tables moved aside to make room for a dozen or so reporters milling around aimlessly, waiting for something to happen. None of them had seen Smitty T. Duluth or any of his staff members. All there was that let them know they hadn't been punk'd was a darkly stained wooden podium with a microphone set atop it, as if a professor were about go give a speech.

Irritation set in quickly; wrestling journalists are not known for their patience for, well, anything at all.

The white curtains inside parted, the door at the back of the patio opening just barely. A woman stepped out, smartly dressed in a charcoal pantsuit, her black hair piled high on her head and held there by a silver-gray coil. Her lapel was pierced with a FUSE nametag, though there wasn't a name beneath the logo. A roll of simple white paper was clutched in one finely French manicured hand. She moved briskly to the podium, brushing her hands across her hips in agitation. She rapped a finger against the microphone, starting a little as a low 'THWUMP' sound echoed through the patio.

'Ahem,' she said, clearing her throat. 'Since the boss apparently won't be coming, I suppose we'd better get started so we can all head down to Columbus. If you'll all take your -- oh, man, we don't have enough chairs. I'm so sorry.'

A few grunts of acknowledgement came from the throng of reporters; one of them (a thin, wiry man with an old-fashioned yellow notepad) even smiled a little.

The dark-haired woman carefully unfurled the papers atop the platform. 'My name is MacKenzie Malone,' the woman continued. 'As you know, we here at FUSE are always looking for that next great wrestling talent, someone who will bring our great fans the tremendous action that they've become accustomed to seeing. It's this remarkable dedication to scouting talent that has brought us such great finds as Carson Riley, Malachi, and even Prince Pride.'

She glanced up, green eyes glittering over the rims of her glasses, as she continued; the script was no longer necessary. Her earnestness had piqued the curiosity of the jaded wrestling smart-mark media. 'It's in this great tradition that FUSE is proud to introduce the newest signee to our fine wrestling family. He brings with him a lineage of excellence that extends beyond just the wrestling ring, and I am proud to call him a close personal friend.

'Ladies -- well, gentlemen. I give you 'The Hollywood Hellion' Duncan Drake.'

This was probably where most of these introductions were full people leaping to their feet in shock and awe as FUSE introduced a phenomenal wrestling talent, possibly stolen from another of the federations that popped up like weeds around the country.

This was not one of those times. As MacKenzie provided a golf clap and both doors into the fancy hotel were pulled open by the staff, the reporters present were silent. Oh, they knew the name Duncan Drake, sure, but not as a wrestler. This was someone who was famous for... well, no one was really sure why he was famous -- for being famous, probably. There were mutters among the gathered, half-heard hopes this was some kind of practical joke.

Then he stepped out into the patio, live and in living color. Duncan F'in Drake, in pleated slacks, a half-buttoned red shirt and a white sports coat, with his $300 Oakley sunglasses and his goddamn smirk.

Four of the reporters walked right out of the press conference right then and there. One of them called STD's offices to complain about being jerked around. Piss and vinegar would be spread across forums for the next week about the hiring.

Duncan stepped right up to the podium, pulling off his shades with a snap of the wrist and tossing them haphazardly onto the hardwood top. And the grin, it did not stop spreading until his ears were in danger.

'I know what you're thinking,' Drake said. 'You're thinking, 'Dunkster, they oughta just FedEx you those title belts right now. All three of 'em.' I know, right? Next question.'

The wiry man who'd smiled earlier rose to his feet, holding his pen aloft. 'Henry Bartlett, welovewrestling.com. Forgive me, but do you actually have any wrestling experience?'

'Bah,' Drake waves his hand. 'I didn't have any experience in the pharmacology industry, and look where it got me. Totally rich, right?'

'Your father got you that job, did he not?' Bartlett asked. 'And the majority of the pharmacology expertise you've shown is your propensity for its use.'

'What's propensity mean?' Duncan shrugs. 'Hey, buddy, it's not my fault if the girls like me, okay? Next question.'

The next reporter who stood was one of those sullen types. The ones you'd imagine banging away at his keyboard, bitching about 'continuity' and 'workrate' at four in the morning. 'Scott Spite,' he said. 'What will you people say to those people who're gonna say this is a fuckin' joke? That you're gonna be some sideshow freak who's here because Smitty's lookin' for mainstream media attention and because Americans like watching douchebags get beat up? That any time spent with your face on it is a waste of time that should be spent airing real goddamn professional wrestlers?'

Drake's smile in the face of the man's vitriol was easy, relaxed. 'It's easy. I -- '

The lady with the FUSE nametag who introduced him, MacKenzie, slid in beside Drake, her smile polite but a good deal cooler. 'If you'll excuse me, Mr. Drake, I'd like to field this. On behalf of the federation.'

Duncan's smile sharpened. He suppressed a chuckle. ''Course. Daddy always said I should never argue with a pretty lady.' He twisted to the side.

MacKenzie's nervousness had faded completely. 'FUSE is very proud to welcome Mr. Drake to our family. We believe in his dedication to the sport.'

'Hear that? I've got dedication!' Drake chimed in.

'We believe he will be a valuable member of our community in the months and years to come.'

'Valuable member of the community!' Duncan gestured at the lady as she pulled the microphone free from the claw that held it to the podium. He pointed at the wiry guy. 'Write that one down.'

MacKenzie stepped around the stand, smiling thinly at the reporter, all badass in his Avenged Sevenfold t-shirt, striding towards Mr. Spite. 'And we also ask that the fans remember one critically important thing about this business.'

'And that would be?' Spite folded his arms over the winged skull across his chest. 'Who are you, anyway? I've never seen you anywhere.'

The dark-haired woman stopped in front of the blogger; in her heels, she was a couple inches taller than he was. 'It's simple, really. We here at FUSE believe that wrestling is professional sports' version of the American Dream. Where one man, no matter his background, can find a way to claw his way to success, based on one simple, unadulterated factor. And do you know what that is, Scott?'

'In FUSE?' Spite responded to a question with a question, his brows knitting behind his glasses. Time for a quip, doubtless. 'Success comes from two things. Getting in tight with the boss, and by that, I mean the Affl --'

He was cut off by a strangled moan from the back of his own throat. MacKenzie had lifted her knee sharply, smartly, and speedily into the lower, lower abdomen of the journalist. He crumpled over her leg. Drake found his way behind the woman, who was unfastening the buttons of her sportsjacket. She held the microphone above her head; Drake ran his hand gently up her arm as he guided it to his mouth.

'Because it's the only game in town where you can set the other team up so bad, it makes their head spin,' he said, his grin a vicious slash across his face. A half-dozen digital camcorders caught the moment. 'It's not about wrestling acumen or actual talent. It's about being smarter than the other guy, and if that's the case, then I've already won, bucko.

'They just don't know it yet.'

0.4 - The Butterfly Effect

Footage from the press conference had made its way to the Internet by that afternoon. By the evening, it found its way onto YouTube. The most-watched version of the altercation was a side view of MacKenzie, shot from the left, FUSE nametag shining in the morning sun as she brutally kneed the scrawny reporter below the belt. In vivid detail, it caught him going from smug superiority to a delicious mélange of surprise, pain, and humiliation. He crumples over the dark-haired woman's knee and slides to the patio floor as Duncan Drake steps in behind her.

Some people found the tape to be funny; it wasn't an hour after its release before the incident was set to music and put on a loop. Others... not so much. FUSE's switchboard lit up with complaints. It was one thing for professional wrestlers to beat each other up -- they were trained for it, and, moreover, they get paid to do it. But for a non-wrestler to be assaulted? That got the Concerned Citizens' Panties in a wad. That they'd hired a revolving door rehabber like Duncan Drake just added fuel to the fire. And that a FUSE staffer (and that's what the media saw, no matter how loud the hasty denials that came that MacKenzie Malone was not actually employed on the FUSE staff, and was, in fact, to be Drake's valet) was the one who struck a civilian (even an asshole Internet opinion jockey like Scott Spite)? Can you say 'media feeding frenzy'? Thought you could.

When a butterfly flaps its wings in Missouri, a typhoon forms in Asia.

When a video hits the web, depicting some Internet pink getting kneed in the balls in Columbus, a media firestorm bears down on FUSE in -- well, in Missouri.

Life's cyclical that way.