When Tom Sawyer went home after his disheartening loss in the FIST of Defiance match, he had a lot of thinking to do. He had some tapes to watch, and some research to do. So, he had his bike shipped for him, hopped a redeye and went home. He wasn't going to let a little thing like a three-man asskicking keep him down.

Still. When he got home, he had a doctor check him out, figure his sitch out for him, and followed the doctor's orders for a few days while researching the OLW Trios Titles. Finding out the details of their eventual fate wasn't easy. They had been decided in a match on an unaired show, after all.

But all the while... While Tom was watching old OLW, reliving some of his formerly favorite memories, something was tugging at his mind. Not just the fact that two of his formerly favorite wrestlers turned out to be selfish blackhearts. Not just the fact that he had gotten Untouchadriver'd twice, Truly Untouchadriver'd once, and he was almost 100% positive it'd happen again.

That something sat in a locked steel box in his closet, hidden from the world underneath his complete collection of Atlantic Championship Wrestling trading cards. Wrapped in a piece of soft-as-silk(because it was silk) cloth, inside a nondescript shoebox that nobody would think to look inside.

That something was calling to Tom. Inexorably pulling his attention away from the tapetrading forum he had been on for over a decade now. Reminding him of its power. Back when Tom had stepped away from his one true home to try and show the WWA what DEFIANCE was all about. Back during the Independence Day Rumble. And more relevantly... Back during the Aggro Crag 2.

He could swear he heard it calling his name.

"Tom...", it called, with that alluring, gravel-on-blacktop voice. "Take me and you'll never have to worry about being outnumbered ever again..."

Tom squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. A concussion, sleep deprivation and disappointment messed with you.

"Tom...", it continued to call. Like in the old cartoons, when the aroma of a pie would reach out and lift a hobo into the air by his nose. "Take me and you'll have the power to stand up to the bullies... The energy to fight off anyone..."

Tom leaned back in his chair. The hell, he thought. He stood up, eyes scanning over the posters and clippings and promotional pictures that wallpapered his bedroom. He needed some sleep. So, Tom padded out of his bedroom, quietly pushing open the door to the hallway. In his footie pajamas, Tom wandered over to the bathroom.

He closed the door, trying not to wake Lucas up. The house wasn't that small, not since the addition had been put on and his parents moved down into that part of the house. But still, Lucas had spent the day working in the Sawyer family roadside diner, and it was discourteous to wake him.

Looking blearily into the mirror, Tom stared at his reflection for a moment, before turning the water on. He splashed a few cupped handfuls of warm water onto his face before grabbing the bar of soap out of its dish. He lathered up his hands, then brought 'em up to wash his fa-

OH JESUS WHAT WAS THAT

Tom jumped back, spinning around. There had been somebody behind him a moment ago. The shape of a person looming behind him... With soapy lather dripping off his hands, Tom's weary brain got the ol' flywheel up to speed. That had been a man in yellow and orange, wearing a cowboy hat.

Tom shook his head sadly, turned back to face the sink, and began to scrub his soapy hands over his face. He was overtired and needed to sleep. He was seeing things. Hearing things. His brain was telling his consciousness that which his subconscious wanted the most. Of COURSE he'd like help from the greatest man ever to lace 'em up.

There were multiple problems with the idea, not the least of which being said man's death. Tom washed his hands clean of the suds, then began to splash water onto his face to rinse the suds from his visage. Blindly, he groped for a towel.

No. That wasn't a leather jacket hanging from the towel-rack, festooned with streamers. IT. WAS. A. TOWEL.

Tom sighed, patting his face dry with the terrycloth towel, and hung the thing back up. Then, he padded back down the hall to his room. Closing the door behind, he went to his computer, closed the internet browser, told the thing to shut off, and let it get to the point he could turn off the monitor.

Tommy Boy glanced to his bed... Looked to his closet. He couldn't use it again. The last time, he had ended up almost frying his brain like an egg. His body couldn't take the stress and began eating itself from the inside out. His fingernails had popped off like Pringles. His hair had fallen out in clumps. His skin had cracked and split in random places. His eyes had begun to weep tears of blood for no discernible reason.

But... He had managed to fight off all comers, from Spooky people to Armaan. He had hung with Jaymz Watkins, the man who ended the Trendkiller. He had been an impact player.

Before Tom knew what he was even doing, he was standing in his closet, his shrine to the '80s to his left, the shoebox open, the section of cards D through Q taken carefully out. The little metal box was in the palm of his hand, the top opened... The piece of silk was all that stood between Tom and madness. Perfection. Glory. Power.

"No.", Tom said firmly. "I'm not gonna use you again. You almost killed me."

So... Why, then, did Tom stick the metal box into his backpack and leave it there?
 

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