This is patently false, of course. It is impossible to know what will occur in any given situation.
The trick is not to plan for every eventuality...but to act like whatever happens is exactly what you expected. That way, you never look surprised, which is the next best thing.
# # #
January 25, 2010. 2:53 am.
Chicago, Illinois.
Deacon Dale and Trevor Ratigan had not heard from their boss in weeks. They'd been given standing orders--'keep training, come to the shows'--but apart from that, nothing. No calls, no messages, not even an insult. Connors didn't have much for them at the shows, either. The most he'd say was, 'You know what to do,' and then he'd sequester himself in an unoccupied storage room until he was needed.
Trevor Ratigan had thought about the situation as much as he did most others--which is to say, not at all. Deacon, on the other hand, could not help but think back to their days in the World Wrestling Alliance.
In the fall of 2006, the Conspiracy--a group consisting of Connors, Dale, and Ratigan--took Old Line Wrestling by storm. Within months of their arrival, they had won the company's Trios Tag Team Titles. In Deacon Dale's fifteen years in the wrestling business, it was his first taste of championship gold. When OLW joined the Alliance, it put the Conspiracy on the fast track to the World Tag Team Championships. Dale and Ratigan won those belts as well, and held them for eight months, a record that still stands. A decade and a half of bad gimmicks and constant humiliation were left behind. Deacon Dale was on top of the mountain, and he owed it all to Wyatt Connors.
And in early 2008, when the ride suddenly ended and Deacon fell all the way back down to the bottom...he owed that to Wyatt Connors too.
'Ain't goin' through that again,' he muttered as he turned the wheel of his rental car; a dark red 2006 Chevy Malibu.
'Whazzat?' came the mumbled response from the passenger seat. Deacon cast a quick glance at his partner in crime, 'Rotten' T.J. Ratigan. The Bad Apple was half-asleep, his cheek adjoined to the window by a film of drool.
'Never mind.' Deacon made another turn, trying to pay more attention to the streets than to his thoughts.
Connors' behavior had become erratic in the later months of the Conspiracy's reign. He lost his temper easily, and often missed practice sessions. Of course, Dale never raised the issue--if life had taught him one thing, it was to keep his head down and his mouth shut. Then one night, the night of what should have been their fifth successful title defense, Wyatt disappeared. Dale and Ratigan only found out later what had happened; Connors had been given an obscene amount of money by WWA owner Victor Mandrake, in exchange for which he would leave the company and never return.
Deacon did not like to relive those events. But when his boss--the person whose whim determined his success or failure--was making a screaming headlong dive into madness, it was hard not to draw the comparison.
As the man formerly known as 'Judge Mental' pulled into the parking lot, Trevor started to rouse from sleep. 'Whuhbuscollusfr?'
'Wanna try that again?'
Trevor peeled his face away from the window and worked his jaw a few times. Once he was capable of human speech, he said, 'What did the boss call us for?'
'Planning, probably. Typical stuff.' This was an outright lie, of course. In fact, Wyatt had not called his lackeys at all. Deacon had come here not for orders, but for answers.
The problem with trying to get answers from Wyatt Connors is that you usually end up with more questions. Questions like, 'Why is he standing in a parking lot in Chicago...in January...at three in the morning...in shorts and a t-shirt?' Also, 'What is on fire...and why?'
This is why Deacon Dale is not the mastermind.
The Wise Guy did not even look up as the sedan pulled to a stop just a few feet away, nor did he give any notice when the doors opened and his flunkies piled out. Deacon pulled his Denver Broncos coat tightly around him and approached his shivering leader.
'Umm...what are you doing?'
Only then did Connors make note of the others' presence, which he did by sharply turning his head and casting a glare colder than the weather. 'I could ask you the same thing.'
'You called us for a meeting, douchecock,' Ratigan groused, still wiping the sleep from his eyes.
Connors almost looked confused, but years of training kept the expression from being clear. 'I did no such thing.'
'What?' T.J. wheeled on Deacon. 'But you said--'
'Not now,' Deacon interrupted. 'Wyatt...you're standing out here in the freezing goddamn cold, and something's on fire.'
'And?'
'And...I'm pretty sure that needs an explanation.'
'It needs us not standing out here the fucking cold for no reason when I could be at home trying to get laid, you cocksmoker,' T.J. piped in. In his frustration, he neglected to point out which of them was the cocksmoker, but it's not like either one was listening.
'I'm not asking for the meaning of life, boss,' Deacon said. 'I just want to know where your head is at. The last time you went this crazy, we ended up unemployed in New York City.'
Connors gave an annoyed sigh. 'Fine. We should continue this conversation inside. This weather is intolerable.'
'I just fucking said--' Trevor whined, as the three of them made their way into the building that they called headquarters...and that Wyatt called home. A trip up the stairs eventually led them to the office of R.W. Chandler, the false name Connors used to keep away spying eyes. Connors quickly unlocked the door (yes, of course he locked it after going into the parking lot to set things on fire) and entered. As soon as all three men were in the room, Wyatt locked the door.
T.J. Ratigan peeled off his stocking cap and quickly made his way to the nearest heating vent, while Deacon Dale stood in the middle of the room. Instead of addressing his charges, Wyatt Connors disappeared into the back room which served as his sleeping quarters.
'The fuck's he doing?' Ratigan asked, holding his hands in front of the vent. 'He better not be knocking one out in there.'
'Nah,' Deacon replied. 'Probably escaping through a tunnel he's been digging for the last month.'
Neither turned out to be the case. Five minutes later, the Rainmaker emerged fully dressed--black suit, gray shirt, black shoes and socks. He was just finishing the knot in his dark red tie when he sat down behind his desk. 'Now then,' he said, as if he were conducting normal business. 'What do you want to know, Deacon?'
'For one thing...why is there a fire in the parking lot?'
'Yeah, you training to be a hobo or something?' Despite his repeated grievances, Trevor was interested in the matter as well.
'Destruction of clothing that may have been compromised.'
'Compromised?' Ratigan asked. 'Like, holes in the crotch?'
'As in, tampered with. It's what I wore on the last of your ridiculous alcoholic escapades.'
'The Wildcard?' Deacon asked. 'That was, what. Two months ago?'
'Three weeks later, I found something in the overcoat pocket.' He slowly opened the center drawer of his desk, retrieved a small item, and set it down on the desk's surface. It was a business card...or rather, a scrap of paper the size of a business card, as there was no actual printing on it. Wyatt turned it over, showing a phone number written on the other side: (510) 212-5519.
'So,' Wyatt said, as if this explained everything. 'Who do you suppose slipped that into my pocket--the inside pocket, might I add?'
Ratigan groaned. 'Oh, fucking hell. Not this again.'
Connors' face flashed red for a moment, but he quickly got his anger under control. 'Do not scoff at me, Trevor. I have spent the last month doing a security sweep of this office. I have checked for listening devices and signs of tampering. I have just finished setting fire to a rather nice overcoat and suit, because God only knows what Desade and her minions might have planted on them.'
Trevor took his attention away from the heat long enough to point a gloved finger at his employer. 'Every goddamn time something goes wrong, you blame her. Car needs repairs, Alex Pierce. Pizza's late, Alex Pierce. Download a virus while watching your favorite kind of fetish porn, Alex goddamn Pierce. I swear to fucking Jesus, Connors. If you say 'Alexandra Pierce,' I am going to murder you in the balls.'
'First of all, there is no reason why--'
'RIGHT IN THE BALLS.'
'--and second, do not interrupt me again,' Wyatt finished--somehow skipping over his first point in the process. 'Have I not made this point enough? This is not caution, it is not paranoia--it is fucking survival! There is an extensive list of people who would love to dispose of me, and I assure you, she is at the top of that list. I have no doubt she would kill me if given the chance...and I will. NOT. Give her that chance.'
The Scorpion stared down his younger charge, as if daring him to respond. And a comment did come...but not from Trevor.
'But...she had the chance.'
'Hmm?' Connors quickly looked at Deacon, ready to defend his ramblings against this new insolence.
'I mean, if she put that card in your pocket, why didn't she just stick a knife in your chest instead?'
'Witnesses,' Connors answered, perhaps a little too quickly. 'Besides, you know how she likes to toy with her enemies.'
Deacon nodded, attempting to be diplomatic. Still, he knew it was up to him to be the voice of reason, no matter how uncomfortable he was with the role. 'I'm just sayin'. Unless that thing is covered with anthrax or something, why would she give you a phone number?'
Connors turned away disdainfully. That little matter had been nagging at the back of his mind, but of course he wasn't about to say anything.
While Connors was mulling over that question, Deacon hit him with another. 'Do you remember who did it?'
'Of course I do,' the Scorpion answered as he feverishly searched his memory banks. He went over every conversation, face, moment of physical contact. The details were hazy, thanks to time and alcohol consumption, but he did end up with a few likely candidates. There was the woman he thought was Alex--the woman he accused of being Alex, more accurately. He hadn't completely ruled her out, no matter how confused and offended she got. The bartender was a possibility; he knew that she'd brought on a new male protege in recent months. And as they were leaving, he could have sworn he was brushed by a small woman in a blue t-shirt and ridiculous hair. He hadn't thought much of it, which was strange and worrisome, although he was lost in his own thoughts at the time.
Deacon continued, 'OK, you remember. What did they look like? Could it have been Pierce, or any of her people?'
Wyatt snapped, 'Who else would--' but cut himself off. Deacon was only being a faithful goon; it wasn't fair to bite his head off...not that that ever stopped him before. But as he thought about it, he realized there was something very familiar about the woman who had brushed against him. Far too short to be Pierce or Shaw...too skinny for Devonshire. Can't be Lauren; she's dead. Wasn't an unintelligible lump of flesh, so it couldn't have been Ashe... 'Hrm. None of the usual suspects, I don't think.'
Wyatt mulled the matter over, and idly picked up the business card. Now that he was thinking objectively, he realized that it, too, was wrong for Pierce. Alex had extremely precise handwriting...so much that you could still see signs of rigidness in her attempts at forgery. Who, then? That Proctor girl? Campbell...no, of course not. And who else wrote their fives like that...
No. No, it couldn't be.
'You have to go.'
Deacon's face grew a quizzical expression. 'What? But we just--'
'Find a hotel, get some rest,' Wyatt said forcefully. 'We'll be flying to Edmonton in two days; I'll have the accommodations lined up by then. We can discuss strategy once we get there...but right now, I need you both to leave.'
'Fuck's sake,' Ratigan grumbled. 'First you want us here, then you don't, then you want us in Canada...I liked you better when you never told us anything.' He stuffed his head back into a stocking cap and headed for the door. Deacon was a few steps behind, but stopped and turned to face Wyatt.
'You all right?'
Connors waved him off, his mind clearly on other matters. Deacon nodded and followed his associate out of the office.
As soon as the door closed, Wyatt Connors opened the desk's drawers and began rifling madly. After a few minutes, he found what he was looking for. A small piece of card stock, the same size as the one on the desk. Once upon a time they had been the same color as well--light slate gray--but a few years of poor storage had discolored the one just rescued from the desk. He set them both side by side, and suddenly the picture became clear.
The phone number was different on the new one, but the scrawl was the same. The fives were a perfect match--the way the top line angled sharply upward, and the sweeping curve that made the number almost twice as large as the others.
With those clues in place, he pieced together the rest. That woman with the long braids...and the boots. Can't believe I didn't notice the boots. There was no mistake.
Over the years, many people had reached out a hand to Wyatt Connors. Most of the time, it was to punch him. Others, it was to ask for a handout. The rest, it was to stab him in the back.
Only once had someone reached out to him with an offer to help.
And of course, he'd betrayed her like he had all the others.
# # #
October 28, 2004. 1:15 pm.
Los Angeles, California.
The National Wrestling Council was dead.
It had died officially months before, of course. That story was well known to the wrestling world: how Alexandra Pierce, Hunter Sabuani, and Wyatt Connors had positioned themselves as defenders of the dream, and how they brought that dream to a crashing end in Las Vegas. A plan several years in the making had paid off beyond even their imaginations...and the final moment of the once-proud organization was that pack of turncoats gloating over its corpse.
Others had made a noble effort to keep the dream alive, but their efforts proved fruitless. Premiere Wrestling Entertainment was swallowed up, AXIOM was folded into Seventh Circle Wrestling, and then SCW closed its doors. Finally, the Diamond Wrestling Syndicate collapsed under its own weight, leaving none to bear the standard of the old Council.
Not that it mattered to Wyatt Connors, though. As they say, there is no rest for the wicked...and he was more wicked than most. With his wrestling career on hold, he'd taken an active management position within CSP Limited, owners of the NWC and all its properties...which included a rather extensive tape library.
In the seven months since the NWC's closer, there had already been four major DVD releases, with one more planned for the year and a full dozen for 2005. Greatest World Champions and the re-release of GCW's Burning of Atlanta had hit the top of the sales charts, and History of the J-Crown made a very strong showing. Sales for Return to Purgatory were weak, but that was to be expected...a lot of people had bad memories attached to that show. They had high hopes for their latest project, Best of Civil War.
The effort to boost the market share for NWC home video releases had been a point of contention among CSP's management. Pierce was hesitant, stating that the point of closing down the NWC was so that it would die and be forgotten. But as Connors was quick to point out, nostalgia was at an all time high, and they could make an obscene amount of money by capitalizing on it. Besides, there was a certain pleasure in knowing that every dollar spent out of love for the Council was lining the pockets of those who destroyed it. With that in mind, Wyatt Connors had lobbied for, and received, creative control over the home video division of CSP Limited.
His performance had been very profitable for the company, and he also had great opportunity for personal satisfaction...by warping the history of the Council itself. When Connors thought about how, within a few years, these DVDs would be considered the definitive history, it was all he could do to stifle his laughter. It was like the old saying--a phrase, in fact, that was the first thing to appear on the screen for the Return to Purgatory DVD.
'History is written by the winners.'
On this particular afternoon, the biggest winner of them all was just returning from a short lunch. Connors entered the video editing bay and sat down, placing a medium-sized stack of letters on the counter. There was a long afternoon ahead, as they were going to put the finishing touches on the Civil War release. They had to double check the audio levels and synchronization, watch the graphics for spelling errors, and most importantly, make sure all references to 'The Foundation' Tony Pride had been removed. None of that could start until the technicians returned from their break, which gave Wyatt a few minutes of peace while he checked his mail.
Most of it was the standard fare...internal memos about Casual Friday and Interpersonal Conduct in the Workplace; financial reports concerning sales and expenditures. In the middle of the pile, though, there was something slightly out of the ordinary; a slate gray envelope with his name written across the front. He regarded it with slight interest, but figured it to be either a wedding invitation or someone's attempt at clever advertising. Wyatt dropped the envelope into the circular file, along with some duplicate sales charts and the notice for Helen Traxler's 40th birthday party. Just after he'd finished with the mail, the techs returned. They engaged in a few minutes of small talk, and then got down to the business of ensuring the world at large would never remember What's Causing All This.
The next day, the envelope was in with Wyatt's mail again. He found it underneath an issue of Better Homes & Gardens, which he did not order. He looked at the envelope again, and noted that his name was now underlined with red marker. His curiosity roused, Connors opened it and inspected the contents: a business card, the same color as the envelope. It was blank on one side, but the other displayed a handwritten phone number: (424) 515-2921.
Wyatt scoffed aloud. Obviously a ham-fisted attempt at sparking an office romance, he thought. He had neither the time nor the inclination to pursue such a relationship--at least, not with anyone who worked here--and tossed both card and envelope in the garbage yet again.
It was back the next day, waiting on top of Wyatt's desk. Connors looked at it suspiciously. There was no mail service today--it was Saturday, after all--and there were only a handful of people in the entire building. Yet, someone had come in unnoticed and, for a third time, made sure this envelope found its way to the Wise Guy. Upon inspection, he found his name still scrawled across the front--now with two red underlines. Opening the envelope showed its contents to be one business card with a phone number. He did notice that someone had written a message on the underside of the flap--an arrow pointing toward the card, and the words 'CALL, DUMMY.'
Loathe as he was to take orders from inanimate objects, he knew that this issue had to be resolved. Once he had finished the day's paperwork, Wyatt Connors took a series of cab and bus rides that eventually led him to a payphone somewhere in Echo Park. Once there, he punched in the code from a pre-paid calling card, and then dialed the mysterious number.
The answer came after three rings. 'Yello.'
Wyatt frowned. 'I don't suppose you have anyone who can properly answer a telephone.'
The voice on the other hand let out a slightly shrill laugh. ''Bout time you called, Chief.'
'To whom am I speaking?'
'Heh. Fancy talkin' there, pally. You'll find out whom in a short.'
'This is Gideon, isn't it? I told you to lay off the helium; you'll give yourself a headache.'
'Funny guy. Listen, where are you at? Got some parlay-voo, if y'get me.'
'I'm sure I don't,' Wyatt barked. 'I also don't have time for your games, so if you'll kindly get to the point...'
'Never mind, there y'are.'
The connection broke, prompting a slight nervous reaction from the Wise Guy. Just as he turned around, a blue van pulled up to the curb next to him. The door slid open, and a voice from inside said, 'C'mon in. I got candy.'
Connors peered into the vehicle, but couldn't make out any shapes, let alone faces. 'No.'
'Don't be a pussy, Connors. Get in here.'
'I hardly think so. What makes you believe I'd get into a dark vehicle with a total stranger?'
The person inside the van let out a heavy sigh. 'Y'gotta be difficult? Fine. But you ain't quite right about the 'total stranger' part.' After a bit of shuffling, the speaker emerged from the open door.
She was short--much shorter than Connors--although the difference in height was offset somewhat by her thick, heavy boots. She wore her hair in long braids that reached down to the back of her black t-shirt. Her face was accentuated by a wide nose and a strange smile. A man might call her attractive, but only if you got him drunk and broke his glasses first.
'Hiya,' she said.
'I...know you, don't I?' Connors asked.
'Yeah, we met. Couple years back, when you stole Bubba's title.'
Realization dawned, and a smirk spread across his lips. 'Miss Sicarii, I presume.'
Cecilia Sicarii bowed her head slightly and grinned. 'Atcher service. Now get in the goddamn van.'
'Not before I know what this is about.'
'About?' The woman known as 'The Rat' shook her head. 'It's about you bein' in a hell of a lot of trouble.'
'Really. What kind of trouble?' Wyatt was almost amused by the conversation...the whole thing reeked of a con, yet she refused to give it up.
'The get-yourself-dead kind. You got the first clue of what kind of people you're mixed up with?'
'I've been working with them for some time, so yes, I'd say I do,' he answered coolly. 'Now, if you've got nothing else, I'd like to go about my business.'
Cecilia's eyes flashed with anger. 'You are thicker'n a shit milkshake, you know that? If you had half the brains you say, you'da run screaming for the hills by now.'
Wyatt smiled. He knew her scheme was unraveling quickly, and felt the need to flaunt it. 'I appreciate your concern, Miss Sicarii. But I tell you what...I won't go meddling in your aff--wrkk!'
Unfortunately, he flaunted a little too close. She snaked an arm out, grabbed him by the shirt, and pulled him inside the van with deceptive strength. Before Connors even knew what was going on, Cecilia had closed the door and scrambled back into the driver's seat. The van was in motion by the time Wyatt reached the door handle.
'Ah-ah. Keep yer arms an' head inside the ride at all times. Now, you ready to listen?'
'I don't have much choice, do I?' Connors snarled.
'Good boy. Now let me tell you a little bit about your boss, Alex Pierce.'
'Associate,' he corrected, but that only got a laugh.
'You wish. Look, Connors. You're a turd of a man. Whatever happens to you, you probably got it comin'. Hate to say it, but it's true.'
Wyatt had a sour look on his face, but that was more due to his captivity than Cecilia's speech. He heard that speech a lot.
'Point is,' she continued, 'you should at least know what you're in for. You ever hear of the Order of St. Julian--an' if you say anything about a ham on rye, I'll brain ya with a tire iron.'
'Wouldn't dream of it. And no, I have never heard of this 'Order.''
'Well, now.' She flashed a grin at him that was full of teeth and devoid of humor. 'Ain't you in for a story.'
Three hours later, Cecilia parked the van near a bus stop in Westlake. It wasn't anywhere close to where Connors worked or slept, but the LA public transportation system would take him the rest of the way.
'You can go now,' Sicarii said. 'Go back to sellin' your DVDs and counting down the days until someone kills you in your sleep.'
'It sound so appealing when you put it like that,' Connors answered, his voice thick with sarcasm. He pulled the door open and stepped back out into the world. A world that wasn't quite the same as the one he knew before he got into that van. He wasn't sure he believed Cecilia's story--a lot of it stunk of bullshit, and the rest had to at least be exaggerated--but part of him wondered if it might be true. And he knew as well as anyone that once you sold part of a mind on something, the rest was sure to follow.
'See ya 'round, Chief,' the Rat called from inside the vehicle, and reached for the door.
Just before she closed it, Wyatt spoke, with his back still turned toward her. 'Hold on.'
'Yeah?'
'What if I'm not interested in the 'dying in my sleep' thing. Do you have a better option?'
'We'll be in touch.'
The door slammed, and the van drove away. Wyatt Connors took an even more circuitous route than normal, and arrived at his living quarters two and a half hours later.
There, he discovered the perfect defense against dying in your sleep.
Insomnia.
# # #
January 27, 2010. 10:15 pm.
Edmonton, Alberta, Canada.
The trip to the Great White North had been a little more eventful than Wyatt Connors would have liked. The plane had mechanical problems before takeoff. At least three toddlers spent the whole flight making noises like air raid sirens. And no matter how many times Wyatt told him so, Trevor Ratigan would not believe that when a comely customs agent asked if you had anything to declare, the proper response was not 'You've got great tits.' Tack on another lengthy delay for a cavity search, and they were more than three hours behind schedule when they finally checked in at the Westin Edmonton.
Connors spent most of the trip trying to distract himself from the phone number he'd received, but found it almost impossible. The same set of questions kept running through his brain, and showed no signs of stopping. What does she want? Where has she been all this time? Why the secrecy? One or two other thoughts mixed in with those questions, but they were thoughts he wouldn't admit to anyone...even himself.
A short elevator ride (that felt like an hour because T.J. Ratigan was in there with him) brought Connors and his minions to the eleventh floor. From there, it was a quick walk to their rooms--1117 for Deacon Dale and T.J. Ratigan; 1119 for Connors. Upon entering, Connors' lips took on a faint smile. He normally didn't splurge on hotel rooms, instead choosing low-profile and cost over quality...but with the way the last few weeks had gone, Wyatt felt that a good night's sleep on a large, comfortable bed was just what he needed.
He deposited his rolling luggage by the door--he only ever took one bag; he wouldn't dare check anything--and turned toward the king-sized bed. The blankets looked warm, the pillows soft, and the mint--
That's not a mint, he thought, and felt a bit silly for it being the first thing that came to mind. A moment later, he was far too busy being mortified.
Someone has been in here. Someone has been in here.
SOMEONE HAS BEEN--
Slowly, he backed away, his eyes fixed to the object that lied on his pillow. As soon as he reached the door, he darted into the hallway and immediately started banging on the door to Room 1117.
Deacon opened the door and before he could even say a word, Connors darted into the room. Deacon turned to ask what was happening, but Wyatt was no longer behind him; he'd already taken a defensive position between the far wall and the bed.
'I don't even want to know, do I?' he grumbled.
'We're not safe here,' Wyatt snapped, his mouth going a mile a minute (and only half as fast as his heart.) 'Where's Trevor?'
'He's taking a shit!' called a voice from the bathroom.
'Well, pinch it off and let's go! They've found us!'
'Whoa. Who's 'they?' What the fuck is going on?' Deacon asked. He was in no mood to put up with any sort of crazy, but someone had to do it.
Connors tossed his keycard at Deacon, who let it bounce off his chest. 'Go look for yourself. But don't say I didn't warn you!'
Deacon Dale shook his head, picked up the card, and went next door. He looked the room over for a minute before he found what was out of place. He approached the bed and picked up the item that had caused Connors so much stress. It appeared to be an ordinary plastic case, with an ordinary disc inside. He took it back to the other room, where Connors and Ratigan were waiting. Wyatt was still crouched in his hiding spot.
'I think it's a DVD,' Deacon said.
'You got complimentary porn?' T.J. asked. 'Score!'
'I don't think it's that kind of DVD,' Dale replied. 'You bring that portable player you got for Christmas, Teej?'
'Think so.' Trevor rummaged around in one of his bags and pulled out a few DVD cases--Clit Eastwood's Dirty & Hairy, Muffbusters, All-Star Lesbian Extravaganza, and The American President--before retrieving a small portable DVD player. 'Here we go. Lemme just get this set up...'
While Ratigan got the player set up, Deacon removed the disc from its case. Deacon popped the disc into the machine as soon as it was ready, and before long, the screen was filled with a very familiar face.
'I must confess myself to be a bit of a closet fan.'
Lane Stevens.
Suffice to say, Connors wouldn't have to worry about getting killed in his sleep tonight, either.
# # #
It could be said that fear is man's greatest enemy. When in the clutches of panic, a man will think only of staying alive...and in the process, break the rules that ensure his survival.
Rules such as, 'Do not lose your head.'