Author's Note: This is... well, it's not a typical wrestling fanfiction story. Mostly because the wrestlers don't come in until the very end. But there is this person in my head that you'll meet, and he's been trying to talk for a long time. If this is not your thing, I understand. But if it is, I hope you enjoy it. There are other notes at the end.

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Roll Me Away

{o}-{o}-{o}

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My dad died two weeks after my 21st birthday, which told me that as usual, Dad got his own way. In fact, as far as I know, in the big things in life, there was only one time he didn't get his way, but I'll get to that later.

He didn't want to die on my 21st birthday. He also didn't want to die the day before or after. He never said that, but towards the end, when I was administering his "pain medication" he said several times that he was pretty sure our big plans for my 21st birthday weren't going to happen and that he was hoping he didn't ruin the day. I think he forced himself to stay alive for two weeks after my birthday, just so I wouldn't hook the two of them together. Which, of course means I always will.

Per his wishes, there was no funeral, memorial or otherwise. Despite dying of cancer, he managed to be fairly debt free, especially after I sold two of the motorcycles he built. No, my dad wasn't some Indian Larry, or Jesse James, but he could build great bikes. You just had to know him to get one, or at least that was the way it worked when he was alive. There were four custom motorcycles in the outbuilding/garage he used for building. One he had made for my mother, who I believe used it once before she left him. I was about ten back then, and I think Dad built it for her in a last ditch effort to save a dying marriage. It was a beautiful bike, the gas tank meticulously painted with several shades of blue paint, from a true, ocean blue, to a baby blue so light it was almost white. My father had put his heart and soul into that bike and he never sold it, even after Mom said she wanted nothing to do with it, that he could keep it. Even though I was young, I was Dad's helper, so I had a good idea how hard he'd worked on that bike.

Losing Mom had hurt a lot, but I think her not even wanting that bike hurt more.

The other bike was one he designed and built for the fuck of it, as he put it. He had just started his first round of chemo, and I think he understood this might be his last chance. It was a classic '70s chopper, right to the ape hanger handlebars, the high sissy bar in the back, and the elongated fork for the front wheel. It even had a vintage Harley shovelhead engine Dad and I took apart and rebuilt it. When it came to painting it, we both agreed, black with those classic, curvy, "Flames" in orange and yellow. It was a beautiful bike that looked like it had managed to roll off the showroom floor and right into the next century. I was so glad when one of Dad's friends bought it, because I knew Dad would appreciate his friend having it, and it was out of my sight. I had helped Dad with the build, and we'd enjoyed ourselves, but I wasn't stupid, I knew it would be his last bike. I didn't want the reminder.

Between the two bikes, I got enough money to pay off the expenses my father left behind. He was on medicare, which helped, and his biker friends had several fundraisers to help us out. I did offer to sell the bikes and give them the money for their trouble, but they were dead set against that. The house was already in my name, Dad did that when I turned eighteen. It was located in the center of nowhere, an area where dirt roads were king, but you could hear the freight trains rolling across the country several times a day. Sure, we had a couple acres of dirt so packed down and dead that even crabgrass refused to grow in it. It was the sort of place that would only appeal to a meth maker, but at least the taxes were cheap. He left me everything in the house, which wasn't much, and a few thousand dollars.

He also left me with a bunch of papers, neatly stored in one of those plastic portable file holders, and a mission.

I knew what was in the file holder, even if I hadn't read the papers. Dad and I had discussed it a lot before he started getting so sick that all he could do was stare at the ceiling and all I could do was hold his hand and "medicate" him.

"Why did you want to wait until you're dead before you tell him?" I'd asked.

"Because I don't want him to think he owes me anything," Dad said. "I was never part of his life."

"But he's got a right to know who you are!" I'd protested. And Dad just gave me one of his "I-know-better-than-you-do" smiles.

"I'm not at my best right now, Creed," he said. "Now is not the time to meet me. Besides, if he wants to get to know more about me, he can talk to you, you probably know me better than anyone else." The knowing smile changed to a genuine grin. "You can tell him what an asshole I was."

"All I have to do is tell him my full name and he'll know you were an asshole," I shot back. "Who names a kid Creedence?

"A man whose second favorite band is Creedence Clearwater Revival," he said, still grinning. His eyes were starting to get that hard glint they got whenever the pain started setting in. "Just be lucky I didn't name you after my most favorite."

"Bob isn't a bad name," I shrugged. We were in the living room, I was sitting in the chair he always sat in until he started getting sick. Now I sat in the chair and he lay on the sofa I used to always sit on. "Do you need some med?" I opened the drawer in the side table that separated us, ready to grab his works.

"I wouldn't have named you something as mundane as Bob," Dad countered. "I'd have named you Silver." He shook his head to the med offer. "I don't like you doing this for me."

"I don't recall asking you," I retorted. His "medicine" was a sore spot for both of us. Even though he was dying, thanks to tougher laws about opiates, his doctors refused to give him all the pain meds he needed. It probably didn't help that he was a recovering junkie. When the pain started getting really bad, and the stupid pills they gave him didn't even make a dent in the pain he was feeling, I called up a couple of his friends, also former junkies. They weren't using, but they still knew how to score. Yeah, I turned my father back into a practicing junkie, and I own that, but the mass hysteria about opiates needs to take its share of the blame. My dad was dying and he was in massive pain, and I'd do it again if I could. Maybe there is an addiction problem, but I think when you're dying and nothing is going to save you? Anything and everything that can stop the pain should be allowed.

"I just hope you're being really careful. I just don't want you going to jail."

"I am careful," I said. And to get off the subject of drugs, I said, "So, thanks for dumping this on me."

My words were harsh, but my Dad knew me well enough to know that I wasn't really griping about having to carry out his mission. I was griping about him dying, but social protocol dictated it just wasn't right to bitch to the dying man about how pissed off you were that he was dying.

I often wish cancer was a guy, so I could kick him in the nuts, just so he'd understand how dirty he fights.

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It took two months after Dad died to straighten things out enough so I could do his final mission. I sold the bikes, paid off his medical bills, donated his body to science, per his wishes. Everything he had was left to me, but I still called my mom and my sister to see if they wanted any input. Mom was polite, but not friendly, then again, Mom and I haven't been friendly since I left her to live with Dad. She thought of it as "abandoning" her. I thought of it as going some place where I could accidentally leave the toilet seat up and not get screamed at for twenty minutes about how I was an inconsiderate jackass, "just like my father." Apparently, my sister didn't pick up any of Dad's nasty habits because she and our mom got along just fine.

I probably could have gone sooner, but I had to wait until the WWE was having a show in Nevada. I was hoping for Las Vegas, but I had to settle for Reno, which meant I had to spend some of the money Dad left me to do this, before I got to put one mile behind me. That was okay. He'd stashed a big enough chunk of cash that it wasn't a problem, so I still had plenty to make the trip.

The day before I took a ride on my bike, the bike my dad and I had built together when I was sixteen going on seventeen. Dad was with me and showed me everything, but he let me do all the work possible. It might be my favorite thing in the world, now that Dad was gone. She's a bobber, no front fender, hardly any back one either. Started with a Sportster Dad found cheap because it was an MCB50, and the guy had taken a spill on it, and his wife decided he wasn't going to ride anymore. He'd still kept it for another fifteen years, never using it, and my father had joked that he probably kept it in case the wife died. But, then they decided to move to Florida, and his wife just made him unload it fast and cheap. I don't know if MCB is a real term or just one my father and his friends came up with. It stands for Midlife Crisis Bike, usually bought by someone who never rode their entire life, or hadn't ridden since they were in their late teens to early '20s. The number just indicates about what decade the person was in when they bought it. Technically, we could have called my Sportster a MCB53, but usually it's just easier to narrow them down by the decade. When we were done cutting the excess off of it, getting a smaller tank, and switching the double seat out for a single mustang saddle, we painted it with pure root beer flake. No special designs, just that one color. My dad's friends teased me about the plain jane paint job, but I didn't care.

I rode down to the Spirited Heron, the bar my mother owned. It was the bar where she and my dad met, shortly after he got let go from the trucking company he worked for, because trucking companies have a tendency to frown on heroin users driving trucks. He'd gone clean, but nobody was going to risk him. Smart of them, since he and heroin would have an on-again off-again relationship until I was thirteen. He got clean for me, because he knew Mom would never tolerate him being a junkie and having custody of me, even if I am a vicious animal who does vile things like leave the seat up. He stayed clean too, until the pain from the cancer began to get stronger than the weak painkillers they gave him and I decided it was time for him to become a junkie again.

The Spirited Heron had been her parent's bar, and before that, her grandparents. Mom inherited it when her mother had died, which made sense since Mom had pretty much run the place since my grandparents got to be in their 60s. She had a few bartenders who worked there part time, but it was a rare night when you didn't see my mother there right at six at night and if you felt like staying until the last dog was hung, she'd leave about three in the morning.

I got there at about two in the afternoon, when I knew my sister would be there, and hopefully my mom wouldn't. It's a dive bar, far enough outside of town that my parents bought that house in the middle of nowhere so my mom wouldn't have a long commute. Sure, she inherited her parents house when my grandmother died, which was the only reason why she didn't fight dad for his house. She got to live in a lovely four bedroom, 2.5 bathroom, split level ranch in a decent neighborhood, but she had three times the commute to get to work. So did my sister, who still lived with her.

I parked my bike in the spot right next to the handicapped spot. It was a hot day, so I grabbed a piece of wood that was leaning against the building, and stuck it under my kickstand. There were several pieces of wood put there for just that purpose, a few were already in use by other bikers, deciding to get a head start on a long night of drinking. Hey, it's always five o'clock somewhere in the world, right?

I walked inside, the smell of cigarette smoke and stale beer hitting me, reminding me of our living room back in the days when Dad had parties. Yeah, there were laws against smoking in bars and restaurants, but unless my mom or sister were on a tear, people smoked in there anyway. The only thing the laws seemed to do was make my mother get rid of all the ashtrays, so people used table tops, glasses, and the floor to put out their smokes.

There were a group of bikers in the side area where the pool tables were, and a few of them were my father's friends so I waved. "Creed, wanna play?" one of them called out.

"Nah," I said, knowing if I went over, I'd get caught in the "I'm sorry to hear about your dad" game, and being plied with drinks, because I'm now legal. Instead I headed over to the bar where my sister was wiping glasses. "Hey Janis." Yes, my sister was named after Janis Joplin. Apparently, for all they disagreed on, my parents agreed that naming children after favorite bands or singers was a good idea. That might have been the only thing my parents did agree on. Yeah, okay, there was a time when my parents were young and in love, but by the time I came along and could remember more than just to breathe, eat, and shit my diapers, they were barely going through the motions.

"Creed," she said, still polishing glasses, "What brings you here?"

No "hi," no, "how are you?" My sister and I don't hate each other. We probably even love each other, in that way that siblings always seem to do, even if they can't stand each other. Janis and my big problem is that we're divided on the Mom and Dad camp. She was happy to leave Dad when Mom did, I had to be dragged out of the house. She felt I betrayed Mom when I went to live with Dad. I felt she abandoned dad when she moved out with Mom, because she rarely bothered to see him, even when he got cancer, even when we knew it was a matter of weeks, she visited him once and pretended he wasn't dying. Dad wanted to discuss things with her, serious shit, but she wouldn't hear it. She acted like Dad had a bad cold and would bounce back any second, and as soon as she could, she blew out of there.

"I've got a trip to make," I said. If she wanted me to get to the point, I would. Sooner I was done, the sooner I was out of there. "I need a couple of favors from you."

"Gee, and here I thought you might be looking for a job," she said, shaking her head. That's another thing she and my mother side on, that I should come and work for the Spirited Heron, because it's a family business and amazingly, when it comes to labor, I'm family again. And I mean that in every way. She'll expect me to wash glasses, clean bathrooms, wait tables, jump behind the bar and work, and in return she'll give me a percentage of the tips from the night. Oh, sure, she'll probably pay the taxes on my house and pay the utilities, if she decides she doesn't want to try to force me to move in with her and my sister, but give me a steady paycheck? Not on your life, or at least not until I "prove" I can be "Depended on." My sister can be depended on and she draws a regular paycheck, shitty as it may be. I figure it would take ten years to show my mom I'm "dependable."

I wonder what my mom would do if she knew Dad trained me to tend bar? Yeah, he used to tend bar here, but the divorce ended that. So, Dad started working at another dive bar across town called The Horse's Bass (the name was a lot funnier in the '60s.) When he got sick, Dale the owner, let him bring me in and train him so I could cover his shifts when he was just too sick to do it. Was it legal? Nope, but nobody ever called us on it, not even the police that came in to drink after hours. They knew I didn't drink, that I was just trying to keep Dad and I going. I likely don't know how to make all those fancy drinks people keep coming up with in the big cities, but I can pull beer and make a Flaming Blue Jesus or even an Appletini if that's your thing. And if you can tell me what's in your fancy frou-frou drink, I can likely replicate it to your satisfaction. "I'm not ready to settle down into a steady job," I said. "I've got business to take care of first. Maybe when I'm done with that." I crossed my fingers behind my back.

"What kind of business?" Janis asked me, squinting at me. When I was eleven, I had a friend who had a massive crush on my sister, then seventeen and a senior in High School. He used to tell me how pretty she was, and I never quite got it, because, well, she's my sister. But I could sort of see what he saw in her. She's tall with very long, very straight, very dark hair and intense blue eyes. She's got what society will tell you is a good body, although I think it would help her to work out a bit more, build some meaty muscle on those skinny bones. Yeah, standing on your feet for a million hours a day is hard, but it's not really all that great in the excise department. Dad used to tell her she was welcome to use the gym at his place, which was really just a fancy name we had for another big outbuilding, this one filled with weights and tires and various other equipment Dad had scrounged from garage sales and trash piles. But, you could get a good workout in there, and I used it almost every day. I don't think my sister had ever set foot in the place. But, all that aside, when my sister squinted and her gaze got hard, she wasn't beautiful, she was hard and ugly, as if life had taken something beautiful out of her. She'd tell you it was my dad. I think it's living with Mom all the time.

"Business," I said, shrugging. "As in something I have to do that's my business."

The steel gaze continued, and then she gave an exasperated sigh. "Do not tell me you're going to try to go to wrestling school. Because if that is your fucking game, I refuse to do anything to help you."

"Gee, sis, I see we haven't sat down and had a heart to heart talk about our dreams and goals since, well, let's see, since Mom crushed yours and decided you should fuck your scholarship and work in her shitty bar instead," I said, "I haven't thought about being a wrestler since I was about twelve."

I crossed my fingers on the last part. I still wanted to be a wrestler. My dad had done some professional wrestling when I was younger. He never got any further than the local promotion that had shows at the armory on Saturdays, but I remember being a kid and going with him and just loving it. I loved the action and I loved the story lines. I loved watching my dad talking shit about whoever he was up against, a guy that often was also a friend, but not in the squared circle. He had to stop for awhile, because my mom wanted him to work at the bar on Saturdays, but he started again when they got divorced and did it for a few years. Some of my favorite memories of my dad and I were watching him wrestle. Until I was twelve or so, that's all I could talk about whenever the subject of What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up. At twelve, I started realizing people didn't take that goal very seriously, so I learned to just watch wrestling with my father and keep my mouth shut, but deep down, there was still a twelve year old kid in me who hoped that maybe, someday, I could become a wrestler. I'd just had to push it aside these last few years to help my dad. Dad had showed me stuff before he was unable to do much more than lie on the couch and I did my best to practice although practicing wrestling when you're alone isn't very easy. Part of me, the part that still liked to dream even wondered if this mission might lead to-

Nah, better not to think of things that were about as likely to happen as Mom and I suddenly seeing eye to eye.

"Very funny," Janis said, her eyes rolling upward in a 'Heaven Help me' gesture as she shook her head just to really drive the point home. "I don't mind working here. Mom has given me a lot more responsibility, I'm not just a bartender."

"Glad to hear it," I half lied. "Look, I've got shit I have to take care of, are you willing to help me or not?" Truth be told, what I wanted her to do was as much a favor to her as it was to me, but I didn't want to tell her that, I wanted to see if she'd actually even consider doing me any sort of favor before I let her know what it was.

She sighed, and I thought she was going to flat out refuse me, then she got a look in her eyes that wiped out that hard gaze and softened her face so she suddenly was the sister I could maybe see why my friend crushed on. Her voice suddenly got warm and maybe even a little concerned thrown into it. "Is this about Dad? Did Dad want you to do something with his ashes?"

Dad's body had gone to some cancer research place where it would be carved up and sliced up, in case it wanted to give up any secrets that might help towards discovering a cure. Yeah, once they were done, whatever was left would be cremated and the ashes sent to me, but I was warned that could take awhile. I'd told my sister I'd donated Dad's body, but of course, it wasn't important to her to remember.

I shrugged, and gave a small nod, refusing to meet her eyes. It was close enough to the truth, this mission was all about our dad. To Dad, what I was going to do was more important than the disposal of his ashes. He didn't give a flying fuck in a rolling donut about his ashes and he'd told me as much. "Scatter them between the bike shop and the gym if you want. Toss them in the BBQ and cook a steak with them mixed into the coals, flush them down the toilet, I don't give a shit," were his instructions.

"Oh, Creed," Janis said, and I saw a strange wetness in them. Was she actually getting teary eyed? Call the press, because my sister does not cry. "Dad expected way too much from you," she said. "You're barely twenty-one, he should have been caring for you, not you for him."

God, forgive me, but I wanted to slap her. Where was this attitude when I could have used some help from her or mom? They wouldn't even take him for his chemo treatments once in awhile. I had to keep Dad's ancient pick up truck running the best I could to get him there, or cage rides from his friends. Now that he was dead, and she never had to lift a finger to help, she could be all sympathetic. Poor me? Fuck her. I could feel my fist clenching under the bar, but I did my best to put the anger aside. If it would help me get what Dad wanted I'd do it. "Well," I muttered, hoping that suppressed anger would pass for grief. "He's gone now, and I'd like to honor his last request."

"I get it," she said, and I believed she thought she did get it. "What do you want from me?"

"I have to take Dad's bike for this," I said. "So, will you watch mine? That's the first request. The second is, are you willing to house sit? You'll have the place to yourself, it's all cleaned up from Dad, and it'll save on your commute time." I did not add it would also give her a chance to have a somewhat normal life for a few weeks, a life where Mom wouldn't be breathing down her neck all the time and she could have friends over if she wanted. Or, not, if she just wanted some privacy.

"You're going to let me ride your bike?" She looked surprised, which did not surprise me at all. I'm not known for letting people ride my bike, in fact, I'm known for not letting anyone even sit on my bike unless I know them really well and know they won't do anything to tip it. But, my sister can ride, and she's good at it. I would have offered her Mom's bike, but we both knew Mom would have freaked out, and I'm glad I got the money for it instead.

"Yeah," I said, shrugging. "I don't think you'll drop it or anything." I didn't have to say it, but she knew the bike and using the house was a combined deal, that I wasn't going to let her borrow the bike unless she was willing to stay in the house where she could park it in the garage/shop. I don't think Mom would refuse to let her borrow it from me, she's not that cold, but she likely would refuse to let Janis park it in the garage. Yeah, Mom's house is in a nice neighborhood, but sometimes those are the places where people go, knowing they're more likely to have the good stuff. A bike like mine, parked in a driveway, could prove to be a huge temptation.

She bit her lip. "The place is really clean?" I gave her that one, Dad wasn't the neatest person in the world, and I'd gotten pretty bad about housekeeping towards the end with Dad myself.

"Yeah, it's very clean," I said, and there was no need to finger cross on that one. I had given the whole place a complete cleaning when Dad died, scrubbing the walls, the floors, even renting one of those Rug Doctor machines and shampooing the carpets in the bedrooms. The house still smelled like Pine-sol and bleach. "You can use your old bedroom. I'd say you could use the master bedroom, but I got rid of Dad's mattress and I haven't replaced it."

"No, that's okay," she said quickly. "I'd feel weird sleeping in there anyway." She bit her lower lip and asked, "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning," I said. "If you don't take me up on the offer, I'll see if I can get Angelo to stay there." Angelo was a friend of Dad's who liked to buy old bikes for cheap and frankenbike them into something useful. Dad often let him use the shop if he wasn't working on a project himself. I knew Angelo would house sit in return for being allowed to use the garage, but Angelo was also about as crazy as a shithouse rat. I'd be afraid that he'd see my bike in there, and get the idea that my front fork, or my tank or whatever would look good on his latest bike.

"Do you really want Angelo in the house?"

"Hell no," I admitted. "Dad may have trusted him, but that was Dad." I grinned. "So, are you gonna help your brother out?"

"Yeah," she said. "I'll do it."

"Good." I reached into my pocket and pulled out the spare set of keys to my bike and what used to be Dad's keys to the house and outbuildings. I'd put them on a Harley Davidson key chain my father had lying around. "Enjoy the house. Take good care of my bike."

"I will," she said, and I knew she meant it.

.

I drove home and went over Dad's bike, just to make sure it was in good condition. He'd made the frame using the pipe bender he had. He'd gotten his hands on a trashed out Indian Roadmaster that he picked a few things off of that were salvageable, but mostly, it was the engine he wanted. Despite having been in an accident, the engine managed to survive with minimal damage. Dad and I had stripped that engine down and rebuilt it so it might as well have been new.

Dad's bike was not really a chopper, it was more of a touring bike, and I'd teased him about being an old man when he'd built it. Now, I was grateful he had, Reno was over 2000 miles away and I knew that the softer suspension and well padded seat would be a blessing. Even though I had some time, so I wouldn't have to rush to get there, it still was going to be a lot of riding. Dad had built this bike for my 18th birthday, where the two of us went on a road trip, just going wherever the road took us for a week. So, the bike had saddlebags and a medium sized back bar that we had used to bungee cord our sleeping bags. I had loved it, and we'd taken trips on my 19th and 20th birthday, this time for two weeks.

For my 21st birthday, we were going to go across the country. Take a good three months and try to see as much as we could, while stopping to enjoy what we wanted. I'd made a list of crazy tourist attractions we were going to see and we laughed about it, visiting the worlds largest ball of twine, the "cathouse" where there were real cats who could do amazing thing, according to the website. Dad and I spent a lot of hours when he was in treatments talking about how crazy it would be.

Then, he just got worn out from the treatments and decided to let the cancer take him. Dad pretended he'd be able to take the trip, but it became obvious pretty fast that he couldn't. We still talked like it would happen. I think I was doing it for him and he was doing it for me.

The bike checked out great. I loaded it down for the trip, and went to the house.

My sister showed up after work, bringing her car and some clothing she must have gone home for. She stashed her clothes in her old room, which hadn't changed at all since she and our mom had lived here.

We didn't argue, we didn't really talk much. I ordered a large pizza from a terrible pizza place that's only redeeming feature is that they'll actually deliver to this godforsaken place. Janis and I ate it while watching TV, her on the couch, me in the chair that used to be dad's. We kept our conversation to trivial things, like what we were watching on TV.

.

Janis was asleep when I woke up the next day, before the sun had risen. I stayed quiet to let her sleep. I didn't even bother with coffee. I'd stop on the road for breakfast and have some then. I was eager to get started.

.

I gave myself plenty of time to take the trip, and I took advantage of that. I rolled slow and stopped a lot. Not at any of the silly tourist traps my father and I planned on going to. I wasn't ready for that. Instead I took back roads and stopped at places where the scenery was beautiful. My dad was a sucker for mom and pop motor courts. You know the places, they often have a few rooms, and then small cabins. My dad always loved staying in those cabins. There aren't many around anymore, but every one I saw, I stopped at, the more run down looking the better. If they had a porch, I'd sit on it, just like my dad and I would have done. At one of them, a black swallowtail butterfly kept fluttering about me, almost to the point of annoyance. I would wave it away and it would disappear for a few seconds then flutter right back.

Then I remembered something one of dad's friends told me, some ancient belief that people who died could come back as butterflies and certain birds to check on their loved ones. The butterfly started fluttering about me again and even though I don't believe in that type of foolishness, I could help it. "Dad," I whispered, "Is that you?"

Strangely enough, the butterfly stopped being annoying and lighted on the backrest of the rocking chair next to mine. He stayed a couple hours, sometimes flying for a bit, then landing right back on the chair. "Okay," I said, still feeling silly, but figuring what the heck. I was only 21, I didn't know everything about this world. "If that is you, dad, it's good to see you. You can see, I'm on the way to do what you wanted." And before I could help myself, I swallowed hard and in a slightly trembling voice, told the butterfly I missed him.

The butterfly flew off the chair and landed on my hand, where it sat for a good five minutes before going to the back of the chair again.

I slept really good that night.

.

I stopped into a bar in Wyoming on a Monday night, and they had RAW on the TV, so I ended up staying for a few beers and an absolutely horrible, greasy, delicious hamburger with fries cooked in oil that had probably been there on the day I was born. While I was eating my burger, a woman struck up a conversation with me. She turned out to be a wrestling fan and I thought about telling her my mission, but at the last moment, I changed my mind. It was still too private and personal for me. But, as it turned out, all I needed to do was to be into wrestling. When RAW was over and we left the bar, she ended up hoping on my bike. She rode with me until I was about to leave Utah to head into Nevada. She was twenty eight and when she found out I was just 21, she teased me and joked that she felt like a cougar. She was a great woman and we had a lot of fun. I did end up telling her that I had always wanted to be a wrestler. I waited for her to roll her eyes, because even wrestling fans sometimes get this notion that it's weird to want to be a wrestler, that wrestling was for watching only. But, she looked me over thoughtfully and said I'd make a good cruiser weight.

"If you're not afraid of heights and have the chops, you'd make a good high flier," she added. "You should go to one of those wrestling schools."

Even though I knew our relationship wasn't going to last, I think I fell a little bit in love with her, just for taking me seriously.

When I left her near the Nevada border, I gave her two hundred dollars from my Dad's funding for this mission. I was pretty sure I could spare it, and maybe it was that stupid butterfly making me all weird, but I wondered if Dad had put that woman in my path to tell me it was okay to go for my dream?

.

I got to Reno on Sunday, which fit into my plans perfectly. I took my dad's bike to one of those "wash it yourself" car washes and cleaned off all the road dust and polished her up so she was looking showroom new. I got a room at a cheap hotel and stashed my stuff there. The only thing I put in the saddle bags was the plastic folder with all the papers.

My last stop was at a store, where I bought a Samsung Tracfone. I paid for a year service plan and added some text and phone minutes. I knew I might be throwing away money, but, then again, maybe I wasn't.

I headed down to the arena. I'd gotten some sleep at the hotel room, so I just parked in the back and waited.

There was a concert going on in the arena last night. I waited until the concert was over and the stage was being torn down and packed up. Then, I rolled in the parking lot.

Being an unstable junkie, Dad had found a lot of ways to make cash and one he taught me was being general roadie. Any type of traveling entertainment was usually a rushed affair. You got to a new location, and you only had so much time to set up a huge show. Yes, roadies who specialized were usually permanent members of the road crew, but the grunts., the ones that did the hauling and lifting, that taped down the wires, or ran for coffee, they were the drifters, the lowest of the low, and always needed.

I found a safe place to park my bike and looked for someone who was in charge, or at least could get to someone in charge. Within an hour, I was working.

I made it a point to work as hard and fast as I could. I wasn't the only person who'd gotten a quick job, but I was determined to be the best. While other guys would go outside to haul stuff in and decide to have a smoke first, I just kept my head down and worked. I got a few dirty looks from the other temps who thought I was a suck up, but I didn't care, I wasn't there to make friends.

About an hour before the music folks rolled out, the road crew for the WWE rolled in and I was able to seamlessly transfer from working for the band, to working for the WWE. I worked just as hard for the WWE, mostly lugging crap in and giving it to the right people. Lighting equipment, sound equipment, so on and so forth. I helped set up a couple "offices" where promos would be filmed and I did my best to act aloof, as if I didn't care at all about wrestling or wrestlers, I just wanted to earn some cash.

I worked all night and into the next day. I saw other people start rolling in, production crews, the catering company and other folks whose job was to make things work so the talent could do their jobs. I pretended that none of this mattered at all, while inside of me, that kid I used to be was fascinated and wanted to run around and jump up and down, all excited.

My plan was to collect the money I was promised (Cash, of course) and then, as I was going to leave, pretend to remember that I'd left my jacket inside, and run to get it, but instead of leaving, find a place where I could hide until the talent arrived. Hopefully, I'd be able to go about unnoticed until I found who I was looking for.

When it got about eleven, I was told to take a break. I tried to protest, I was told that I'd worked my ass off, and I deserved a half hour or so to rest. "When you get back, we'll only have about an hour, and then we'll pay you and you can go. You're good, kid, if you want to come back tomorrow night, after they film Smackdown, we could use you."

That was my back up plan, to come down here the next night, after the show, and see if I could find someone willing to help me, but I sure was hoping it wouldn't come to that, because it was a long shot, and I didn't know what I'd do if I couldn't do this.

So, I thanked the guy, and went out to the bike with a can of Coke I'd bought from a vending machine. Half and hour to kill. I pulled the folder with the papers from the saddlebags and stared at them. I had promised my dad I wouldn't read them. He'd told me the story and he thought they weren't mine to read. I had respected that while he was alive, I respected it while on this trip, but now I realized if I didn't read it now, I might never get the chance.

And I had a right to know.

So, I pulled out the papers and found a bunch of letters, neatly organized. At first there were just responses to letters my father had sent, then, later, there were copies of the letters my father had written, made with carbon paper, stapled to the responses.

And, there were pictures. Not many, but a few. A woman who wasn't my mother, this was all before my mother. Holding a little boy who was now older than I was. And worked for the WWE. Shit, he didn't let the grass grow under his feet like I have.

I knew I wouldn't have time to read all the letters, so I started skimming them.

Kyle,

I know you want to be part of his life, but I can't trust you. You're a user and you're not making any effort to clean up.

The theme was the same. Over and over again, my Dad was told that yes, the little boy in the pictures was his son, but no, he would never be allowed to be part of his life. When I got to the letters where Dad had copies of his own letters, I saw the theme from both sides. Dad wanted to be part of his son's life. The woman didn't trust him. She'd gotten clean, she wasn't going to risk her son. She wasn't asking for child support, she just wanted to be left alone.

Dad made a choice once. His son or drugs. He picked drugs. Dad made a choice once. His son or drugs. He picked me.

I couldn't read anymore, it was making me dizzy and I needed time to digest it. I put the papers back into the folder and held it, drinking my coke.

That's when I saw the black SUV pull into the parking lot and head for the garage. Someone important showing up early, but as the vehicle turned to enter the garage, one of the windows was open and I saw inside.

My half brother.

Without even thinking about it, I grabbed the folder and ran in the direction of the SUV, making it into the garage before the door rolled shut. The car stopped, the door opened and when he got out, I did what might be the stupidest thing I'd ever done, I tried to run up to him.

I was almost there, when security came out of nowhere, and grabbed me. Thinking about it now, I think they were doing their job, but I was so close to my goal, that I started going, "I just have to give him something!"

I had opened the folder and tucked something inside my jacket earlier, which was good, because security took that folder away from me really fast. "Dean!" I shouted. "Please, I just need to give you something!"

He didn't look scared, he looked a little curious. He was probably more used to folks asking him for something. But, security wasn't going to let him ask any questions, they started hustling him away.

His friends got out, Roman Reigns and Seth Rollins. Security was sticking close, but not as close. I was still being held back, I think they were debating if the cops should arrest me. I looked at Roman. "Please, dude, I just want to give him an envelope, help me! It's something he'll want, I swear to god!"

Dean was already out of sight and Roman turned to follow.

I'd blown it. I was going to end up in jail. "I'll leave," I told security. "Escort me outside and I'll leave and never come back. I've got a ticket in my wallet for the show tonight, you can take it from me. I swear to god, I don't want to hurt him, that's the last thing I want. I just want to give him something." I was babbling and I didn't care. Tears were falling down my face, I was convinced I'd blown everything my father wanted and I was so upset with me and how badly I'd botched everything. "My dad is dead, and this was his last request."

Both Seth and Dean were out of sight and likely out of earshot, but Roman wasn't. He paused and looked back at me. "It's just paper, kid?"

I nodded. "You can look at it before you give it to him and if you feel he shouldn't have it, then don't give it to him!" My hands were still behind my back and security was trying to subdue me. "The envelope is right inside my jacket!"

Roman drew in a deep breath, looking as if he already regretted what he was going to do. Security was still trying to hustle him off, but he motioned for them to stop. He looked at one of them, "Get the papers. I don't know who this kid is, but it's just papers."

The security guard looked irritated, but came over. He opened the front of my dad's leather jacket, that I had worn on this whole trip, and pulled out the envelope I had there. The flap wasn't sealed and he opened it and looked inside. When he saw it was just a piece of paper, nothing else, no weird dust either, he pulled it out, looked at it, stared at me, flipped it over, read the back, then stared at me some more. "Give it to him!" I insisted.

The guard walked over and handed Roman the piece of paper. Roman looked at it, then his eyes widened and he started staring at me. "What is this?"

"The title," I said, and I felt the tears starting to come to my eyes. "To my, I mean, our dad's bike. He's dead, but he wanted Dean to have it."

Now Roman was curious and he walked over to me, security still flanking him, but not stopping him. "Let him go," he ordered. He looked at me. "Dean doesn't know who his father is."

"I do!" I said, hoping he would hear the sincerity in my voice, "Because he was my father too!" I nodded my head in the direction of the file folder the guard had been looking through. "The whole story is there. Along with a freight ticket so he can get the bike shipped to Vegas. Please! This is my Dad's one dying wish."

Roman held his hand out to the guard with the folder. Since he had checked it and found it to really contain nothing but papers, he handed it to Roman. Roman looked through it, seeing the bundle of letters, the pictures, the paperwork transferring the bike to Dean Ambrose, the freight ticket I'd bought, and a picture of the bike itself. He looked at the photos of Dean and his mother when Dean was just a baby and then a toddler, and his eyes widened. They widened even further when he saw the picture of my Dad's bike and realized it wasn't some piece of crap. "I have to show this to Dean," he said.

I nodded. "I know it's confusing, I know it's weird, I know all of that, but it's all true, too. Read the letters, they tell the story. But I have to know if he's going to take the bike. My dad wanted him to. Please."

Roman looked at the guards who had let me go, but were awful close, ready to pounce on me. "I have to talk to Dean about this. Let him go out to the bike." He looked at me. "Wait by the bike, someone will come out and tell you what's up soon enough."

I nodded, the tears falling down my face, and I didn't know if they were grief or relief, but I had a feeling they were both. "Thank you!"

.

I went out and sat quietly on my Dad's bike and waited. I figured someone from security would come out, but instead, I saw Dean himself come out. He must have thrown off security, because he looked for all the world like he was sneaking out of there. He saw me and hurried over. "What the fuck is going on?" he demanded.

I got off the bike so he could see all of it. "This is my dad's bike, well our dad's bike. I helped him build it, and it's all custom. He loved this bike and it was the last bike he'd ever make for himself, the last he would ever own and he wanted you to have it. All the paperwork is legit. It's your bike, if you want it."

He stared at me. "You're my half brother?"

I nodded.

"How do I know your dad wasn't just a delusional psycho?"

"You haven't read the letters yet," I said. "But, he was. He wouldn't contact you when he was alive, especially when you became famous. He felt you'd think he was just coming out of the woodwork to try to take advantage of you. Your mom wouldn't let him be part of your life because my dad was a user and she didn't want you around that."

He snorted, but he was also staring at the bike, appreciating how beautiful it was. It was hard not to fall in love with that bike. "Mom didn't stay clean herself," he said. "She started using again when I was three." He shook his head, then hastily added, "She's clean now and doing really good."

"Then ask her, if you think I'm making any of this up," I said. "Read the letters, and ask her, if you're still skeptical."

"I'll do that," he said slowly. "Shit, I'd asked Mom about my father before, and she always played that she couldn't remember. She lied."

"She didn't want you to get involved with an addict," I defended his mother, and I wasn't sure why. "You can't blame her. But, Dad did care. He wanted to be part of your life, but he was messed up then."

"Was he messed up when he had you?"

I shrugged. "He had an on again off again affair with heroin that lasted until I was twelve. Mom and I weren't getting along, and I wanted to live with him. Mom said I could, if Dad could stay clean for a year and he did."

"Did he stay clean?" His head was tipped to one side, and he was tapping his fingers along his collar bone. I recognized the gesture, it wasn't something I did, but my father did whenever he was nervous.

I nodded. "My mom made him get tested every three months until I was eighteen. He never touched any drugs until he-" I stopped, and decided now was not the time to tell him I had made him a junkie again. "He got cancer. It got bad," was all I said.

He stared at me, eyes narrowed, studying me carefully, then slowly nodded and I had a feeling he knew what I'd done and why I'd done it. "I'm sorry you lost him," he said, "you loved him a lot, didn't you?"

I nodded. "He wasn't perfect, a lot of folks would probably say he was a shitty dad, but he wasn't." I could feel those fucking tears prickling the corners of my eyes again. "I loved him more than any person on this earth," I said, before I could stop myself. "And all he wanted was for me to give you this bike and the papers. I could have just not done it, but I couldn't do that to him."

He nodded, and I could see the sympathy in his eyes. "I don't have much time," he admitted. "Security is going to be looking for me, and they'll be pissed I came out here without them. But I have a lot of questions."

"I know," I said. "And, under the seat, where the tools are, there's a burner phone. A Tracfone. It's good for a year. My number is in it. You can contact me anytime. You won't have to give me your number. You can text me too."

He stared at the bike again and looked at me, shaking his head. "I wish I knew how to ride."

Through the tears that were still blurring my vision, I smiled. "You'll learn," I said. "It's not hard. And you'll love it. You're related to him, you have to love it, it's in our blood."

.

I left shortly after that, but I found a quiet corner and watched as he got someone to get the bike into the parking garage in the arena where it would be safe. I knew he'd keep it. He'd get the freight company to get it to Las Vegas and he'd keep it and he'd learn to ride.

I'd wanted to tell him that Dad had been a wrestler, I wanted to tell him how much I admired him and how much I wanted to be a wrestler, but I knew that wasn't the time. I didn't know if the time would ever come. He might decide to keep the bike, and that was it. He might not want the burden of a half brother, and I couldn't blame him. He'd made a good life for himself without me or my father. He didn't need me complicating his life.

I still had the ticket to RAW in my pocket, but suddenly, all I wanted to do was go back to the hotel to sleep. Keep it, I told myself. You can burn it and mix it with Dad's ashes when you get them. Let him know you accomplished the goal.

.

I woke up the next day feeling hungover, even though I hadn't drank. I took a long shower and checked out of the room. I had my stuff with me and the bus station wasn't far. It would be a long ride home on a bus, but that was okay, I could probably use the time to think.

He's not going to call, I told myself, as I walked.

I got to the bus station and bought a ticket. I had about an hour before the bus left, so I bought some coffee and sat down. It felt weird to be wearing Dad's jacket, but not to be riding. I had debated on if I should give Dean the jacket, but at the last moment, I knew I couldn't do it. Dad hadn't said anything about the jacket, so I had the right to keep it. Had he told me to give it to Dean, I would have.

And while I sat there, waiting for the bus, I started to feel better. I began to accept that Dean wouldn't call me, but that was all right. I'd done the only thing that mattered. He had the bike now, my father could rest in peace.

When the bus came, I headed out to board and as I was waiting to give the driver my gear to stash, a black swallowtail butterfly began fluttering around me. "I get it, Dad," I said softly, shaking my head at the butterfly. "And you're welcome."

As I boarded the bus, my phone began to ring. I pulled it out of my pocket and looked at who was calling, expecting it to be one of Dad's friends or maybe the girl I'd traveled with, I'd given her my number.

The caller ID said "Brother." The name I'd programmed my phone to identify the Tracfone.

I hit the "Answer" button and put the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

Author's notes: So, Creed has been running around in my head for awhile. I don't know how he got there, but he's been there, whispering to me. Telling me he wanted his time.

I like him. I might want to write something where he and Dean get a chance to do some riding together. I'm just trying to figure out of he belongs in my "main" world (Where Dean is with Cinnamon) or another world.

Thank you to anyone who made it this far, for indulging me in this flight of fancy. I really do appreciate it and hope you didn't find it too awful. Although, you made it to the end, that has to mean something!

Feel free to leave me a review if you want. If you don't, that's cool too.