I must have stood knocking for at least twenty minutes.  I yelled at the top of my lungs for my wife to come out and unlock the door.  All to no avail.  She was either sound asleep or undoubtedly ignoring my calls and demands to see her.  

I was so desperate to see her, to feel her embrace, at any price.  I was prepared to quit immediately only to feel her lips upon mine once again, and to know that she still loved me.

I paced to and fro, my hands unsure what to do.  I leaned up against the front door and rapped on it as loud as I could.  I couldn't take any more though.  My head leaned against the door as tears streamed down my face in a torrent.  My hands scratched against the solid oak door, in some vain hope that doing so would some how release this torment and open to unbridled love once more.

It was not to be.  I slid my body down the front door, and sat down on the doorstep, my eyes nearly aching, red, beaten, tired.  

I'm not sure how much time elapsed, until I finally wiped my eyes dry.  My head was still a swirl of what had materialized that night at the arena.

Of all things that I was contemplating, I knew one thing was true: judgment was nigh.  And I was the minion of Fate who was decide what was to become of my career, my life, my love.

The judgment was not to be made at haste.  I abandoned my previous notions while enraptured by emotion, and thought that a much more balanced and logical decision was needed.

All the struggle I've been through, attempting to obliterate the image of "Bobby Goodlife."  I've risked my name, my family, my title, my respectability to do what I do.  But I love it.  And I cannot believe that in her heart, that Stephanie would truly abandon me forever if I decided to stay in the ring.  That would not be the woman I married if it would be so.  

Uncertainty was Fate's bitch, however.  Her trump card.  Goddamn.

I soon realized the futility of debating my future on a cold door step in Lincoln.  The decision could not be made it here.  I must home to England.

Scene III: Wessex, England - Ancestral Estate of Robert Lancaster II - Tuesday, April 8, 2003

Five days in Wessex had lead me to nowhere but confusion and uncertainty, which still abounded.  I had called Seamus and let him know my status, and informed him that I would return to the United States via the Concorde for Friday.

It was past midnight in Wessex, and I was watching the live broadcast of Wildfire from Lincoln.  Ripper Longshanks and his minions had finished obliterating Jonny Five and Eric Chavez.  I sat back and thought that someday I would get my hands on that son of a bitch and tear up the fiction that was the Book of Ripper, and banish him to the annals of history, only to wallow in his pitiful darkness, tormented day and night, forever and ever.  

Savoring his victory, he uttered contemptuous words, slighting myself and Adam X and his Authority.  He pompously declared that Darkness would be all that remained after his squad of thugs and children were through with us.

The fool.

Or...

Scene IV: Lincoln, NE - Friday, April 11, 2003

Here I sit, awaiting Seamus and a camera crew, which we had arranged to meet us here, in this pathetic excuse for a gentleman's club.

I sit here sipping whiskey, looking at my watch every so often, wondering where Seamus had gotten to.  In the meantime, I focus my attention on a vivacious Asian girl, who was quite well endowed, falsely or otherwise - she certainly provided an appropriate distraction from the diversions of the angst ridden mind.

I felt myself continuing to slip.  What I could do to stop this slide into the Depths...God only knows.  And only He can help.

The girl had finished her performance and was ready to head to the back when I whistled at her.  She turned her head, and I beckoned to her with a crooked finger, pulling her over.  I withdrew a $100 bill from my wallet, and nodded my head at the private lounges.  She smirked, with the glint of lust more than obvious in my eyes.  I stood up, straightening my sports coat and entered the lounge, waiting for her to return.

I sipped on my whiskey, tapping my foot.  Christ I can't believe I'm doing this...but to hell with it...enjoy it.

After a moment she emerged, wearing a lethal satin lilac bra and panty combination, complimented with a garter belt and stockings.  

I could think of no better way to prepare myself against a team dubbed "SeX."

She coyly took my $100 bill and whispered for me to hold her thong open so that she could slip it in.  I gladly obliged.  

For the next ten minutes she gladly obliged as well.  I emerged from the lounge and took my seat back near the performing area. Finally Seamus appeared, followed by the camera crew.  I ordered a bottle of Bushmills for the two of us, as I greeted my partner, who, hopefully in three days, would be one half of the CAL World Tag Team champions.

I knew tomfoolery would surely emerge when you mix two Brits and large quantities of scotch.  

We sat and reminded ourselves what was at stake during our match, and we fed on our mutual dislike and contempt for SeX's lax attitude towards the match.  Seamus told me though that he had a few things with him that would more than make up for their silliness.

I grinned happily.  

Now was not the time to consider my judgment.  The time at hand was to discuss and plot annihilation, destruction, and of course, enjoy the devilish company of the ladies of the night.  

And why not.

As I have said -

If I am going to Hell.

I am taking them - SeX - with me.