Unbeknownst to some Joshua Breedlove has been on a crusade, a search even, stalking the halls.  But where he showed tireless tenacity early on, his particular gauntlet has drained the hope from his gaze and the pep from his step. 

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice. 

Maybe that’s why the man he’s seeking gets the jump on him.  But while Nate’s language is one of fists, elbows, and knees, he uses none of them. 

“Heard you were looking for me?”

The voice erupts, thunder across the desert, and Breedlove is so preoccupied with searching that he actually gets startled a bit.  Josh closes his eyes and winces, realizing Robideau got the drop on him, but his lips curl into a sneer and his fists clench before he takes action. He turns, stancing up, bending low, ready to dodge, counter, riposte–but Nate isn’t attacking him.  Isn’t rushing him.  He’s just leaning against a wall, idly checking whatever overpriced timepiece he’s chosen to wear today. 

Robideau: What, you thought I might rush you?  Smash your fucking face into the concrete?  Josh, that hurts. 

Chuckling, he slowly paces forward.

Robideau: Fact is, I don’t hunt wounded animals.  And brother, from where I’m sitting, you’re limping through the desert leaving a trail of blood that’s going to make it really easy for the carrion feeders to pick your bones clean.  No, you of most people should remember that I far, far prefer to dismantle the unworthy right in the middle of the ring, right where I can make sure the greatest number of people see what a fraud you are.  

Breedlove laughs.

Breedlove: Are you like, working on a wrestling fanfic, man? Do you even hear yourself? You’re gonna “smash my fucking face into the concrete”, bro? Talking about carrion feeders and bones to pick clean? Seriously? The “unworthy”? Are you okay in that muddled skull of yours, Nate? Look man, I’ll give you full credit that you had the wool pulled over my eyes at 199. Didn’t see it coming, but all of this? 

He motions to the show Nate is making of being nonchalant. 

Breedlove: This is you doing a Breedlove 2022 cosplay and doing it poorly while also trying to work in some like… Charlie Jay Hitchens or Isaac Entragian or something. It don’t fit. It makes you look like a big ol’ phony. What’s next dog, are you going to bring some wolves to the ring or make a show out of burying me alive? What even are you?

Robideau: This is success, Josh.  Fact is, the world passed you by while you were laid up for some reason or another–hard for me to recall the particulars–and now you’re a little obsolete.  When you left, I was struggling to find an identity and teaching classes out of a rathole in East Vegas.  Now I’m a wildly successful champion, I run the most state of the art facility in Nevada, and I’ve achieved more than I ever dreamed I could.  But you know what actually makes you mad about this?  It’s not that I don’t have an identity, or that I’m doing ‘cosplay’, or that you think I’m a phony. 

He leans in.  He’s smiling, but the smile contains a whole lot of ‘suck my dick’ subtext. 

Robideau: It’s that I’m happy.  I’m thriving.  And I’m happy with who I am, for me–not for you or anyone else’s approval. 

He scratches his chin, idly. 

Robideau: Okay, Breedlove.  Your turn.  Tell me about how my gym doesn’t compare to your empire or how much I’ve disappointed you.  Hell, swing on me.  Do something interesting.  

Breedlove ponders for a moment and then shrugs his shoulders.

Breedlove: You know how I know that you are and always will be playing from behind, Nate? Shit like this, right here. Why would I swing on you right here, when I can get eyes on the brand if I do it out there? Making a show out of conquering the “human meat grinder” Nate Robideau is way more lucrative for me than… just kicking your ass in a hallway.

The crowd pops as he acknowledges them and their entertainment.

Breedlove: I just– oh my god– it just dawned on me.

He slaps his hand to his forehead demonstratively. Almost mockingly.

Breedlove: You’re delusional. Like, not pretend delusional or faking it, but you’re actually off your rocker delusional. This makes SO MUCH MORE sense now. You’re calling yourself a champion while you hold no titles. You’re telling me you’re happy while you… lean against a wall waiting for me to give you the attention you crave… god, how did I miss this? It’s right here in front of me. It’s just…

He pauses for a moment.

Breedlove: God, this is actually really sad when you think about it. Am I bullying you and I didn’t even realize it? Gosh, I’m sorry if so.

He holds a singular hand up as he shifts his focus.

Breedlove: Nate, listen. I’m not going to sling mud about your “gym”. It’d be low hanging fruit and it’d be really disingenuous, because I don’t think about your “gym” at all. The talent you’re abusing? I worry for them. The “facility”? 

He laughs, smugly.

Breedlove: Don’t even know where it’s located.

Nate chuckles, shaking his head. 

Robideau: Well, you wouldn’t, would you? 

He cracks his neck. 

Robideau: But I don;t disagree with you, it makes so much more sense to do this in front of a crowd.  And we can have fun, you can give me your little verbal jabs, but I want one thing to be abundantly clear. 

Breedlove: Oh, yeah?  What’s that? 

Nate steps close, until they’re almost nose to nose.  The electricity in the air crackles, and Josh’s shoulders square up–he’s clearly not afraid, but his attention has been gotten.  When Nate speaks, it is with the low edge of threat on each word.  

Robideau: Call me a delusional psychotic.  Call my gym beneath your level of giving a shit.  Call me a bad person, call me a snake, call me a bloodthirsty savage–I can handle all of that and more.  Hell, I invite it.  Insult me!  You’re good at it, probably better than anyone I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing.  But call into question my commitment to my students again, and I’ll stop caring about what’s good for anyone’s ‘brand.’  Fast.  All of this shit, the accolades, the championships, the fame?  I’ll burn it to the ground without even blinking for them. 

This causes Breedlove to blink.  One get’s the sense he realizes that Blackhawk isn’t just blowing smoke.  Nate backs away, his disingenuous smile returning.  He raises a finger, as if he’s just had an idea. 

Robideau: Tell you what.  Since you’re so very concerned about the talent that you’ve been actively trying to poach from my camp, why don’t we be sporting?  You let the Johnson brothers prop your worthless ass up in a six man.  I’ll bring the future.  It’ll be a blast.  

Breedlove maintains eye contact with Nate, letting the challenge and the previous words hang in the air a bit. He finally smiles.

Breedlove: Heh. Found it. 

Nate doesn’t respond, Breedlove continues.

Breedlove: I think we’d love to wax the floor with your “gym”. Let’s say, Redemption? Then once done with that… one of us can go win the Redemption Rumble and really get a sense of what superiority looks like.

Nate smiles.  He reaches out a hand. 

Robideau: Sounds like a plan, asshole. 

Breedlove chuckles, looking at the hand.  He raises his as if he’s considering it, then waves him off. 

Breedlove: Not a chance.

They pass one another, no incident to report–though as they get some distance, they both end up looking over their shoulders at the other man.  It’d be hard to call the stares daggers, but one thing is abundantly clear: Nate Robideau and Josh Breedlove fucking hate one another.