Instinct.

“Dank, sticky, unpleasant.”



Through the dimness of flickering fluorescent tube light from above, Mark “The Dragon” Cross appears centre-shot, perched on a dingy plastic chair that seemed almost reluctant to hold his weight. The scenery seems to match his description, right down to the cracked masonry and the flaking paint that become evident as we move into focus.



“This is an environment I am more than accustomed to. One that I chose, time and again, even after my stock had risen well past the point of needing to. Places like this, as raw as they are, they feel real, somehow.”



As we move in closer, we’re fleshed out with a little more context. Hair matted to his head with the sweat of combat, streaks of drying crimson across his chest, his arms…and as we study his unblemished face, we realise the spatters probably aren’t his own. Taped hands clasped in front, the tremble of adrenaline working out of his bloodstream near indistinguishable.



“There's something about long, successful careers…you start off young, cocky, and dumb, you feel like you’re invincible, and with youth on your side, you may just be able to survive your own arrogance for a while…then over the years, your skills improve, your experience develops, you work yourself into this zen-like state of ‘knowing’ because you think you understand the biz, you control the game, you feel like nothing can touch you, unless you want it to. That’s the point your body gives up on you, your knee explodes, and as it all comes crashing down, it finally dawns on you. That exact moment you lost perspective.”



A calloused finger traces against glossy tape, searching for a seam.



“You know how many guys in wrestling dream of escaping settings like this? Putting their body on the line every single night in the hope they can work in a building with fucking air conditioning just once in their life? Where the choice isn’t either a hot meal and the back seat of your car, or a night in a motel room on an empty stomach? Yet, I put myself here by choice. Every now and then, I like to remind myself I'm flesh, bone and mere fucking mortal. Sure I can afford a First Class ticket, but if it turns me as soft as that plush leather seat? Maybe I’ll save that for retirement.”



Mark looks down at the ground, shaking his head as a wry laugh escapes him.



“Fame can consume you, if you let it. You get so caught up in believing your own hype that you start to think of this combat sport in the same way as our fans do, as entertainment. We see our names up in lights and we start to believe that all that hard work we had to put in just to earn a seat at the table is just material for the prequel in one big blockbuster movie starring yours fucking truly. Strength Trials…Tribulations…All just clever marketing bullshit, right?”



With some perseverance, a nail works under the adhesive of the tape, and before our eyes, the wrappings begin to loosen.



“You know I tried to escape myself, escape all this? Dropped out of the industry, dropped off the radar, went radio-silent. I wanted peace, for one. I wanted freedom, for another, or at least I thought I did, but I missed the whole point. I missed the thing that kept me alive this whole time. Instinct. Instinct is fucking everything, because the world may not be as dangerous as it once was when we were cavemen, but it will chew you up and it’ll spit you right back out if you’re not careful. The easier life seems to be, the more you let your guard down? The more the demons come for you. I suppressed my instinct, for a while. I buried it deep, under lock and key, told myself I was OK with losing a part of myself if I step out of the limelight and for a while? I did it. I owned it. I lived that half-life. I became the type of guy who wouldn’t sign up for the Strength Trials in the first place. No…worse…I became the kind of guy that would have ACCEPTED not being drafted.”



As the tape continues to unravel, Mark’s left hand eventually becomes free, the wrappings falling to the ground at his bare feet.



“I’ve learned a lot about myself, this past year, about what makes me tick. I’ve realised just how dangerous it is, if I try to disguise my true nature…”



We cut away to the Tokyo Dome in Japan…the camera panning around in a full circuit of a 65,000+ capacity crowd engaged in a chant of “DO-RA-GON…DO-RA-GON…” the noise raising the roof, clipping the dials as focus returns to the ring. Mark “The Dragon” Cross stands in the centre of it, newly crowned as the Pro Wrestling JAPAN Exculted Grand Champion, the belt held aloft as his voice comes in as narration.



“I was the foreigner, trying to play them at their own game. They had words for us in Japan. I was a ‘gaijin’, an outsider, and it took a whole Spring Tour for them to understand me, to accept me. Here, I was no different…”



The scene is replaced by a makeshift Muay Thai ring in a Night Bazaar in Chiang Mai, Thailand…a kind of mish-mash of market traders and food stalls, a crowd of maybe 40 or 50 fans surrounding the ring on whatever mis-matched chairs happened to be at hand.



“Foreign Muay Thai fighters are restricted to a maximum purse of $60 in their first professional fight. Of course it wasn’t about the money for me. It never was, that gave me a kind of extra power. I needed it, I craved it.”



In one corner of the ring stands Mark, watching on as his opponent for the night performs the traditional Ram Muay, or boxing dance. The multi-time wrestling World champion is showered in water, poured from a dented metal cup.



“He never saw it coming. How could he? My gym name, Dragon’s Lair Muay Thai? Made up, borrowed from the two wrestling gyms I owned back in the States. This was new territory. The trainer, who’d wrapped my hands, and put in my gum shield? Nothing more than a local, a fan, desperate for a payday and a free ticket to the show. The Chinese dragon tattoo that wrapped around my left arm and shoulder was a throwback to the man I once was, the one that came alive when I was in front of a crowd, in front of a camera. I was a champion, a Hall of Famer, a natural born winner…”



As the dance comes to an end, the Ring Announcer steps to the centre, announcing the two fighters in his native Thai.



“...except here, nobody knew. I was Mark, the fighter from England. It was as close to anonymity as I was going to get. Nobody here chanted my name. Nobody here wore my t-shirt. Nobody had their poster on my wall. I was the unknown commodity. Was, being the operative word. I think he knew, the moment I wore that first kick to the head.”



We cut to the start of the fight. Cross moves forward tentatively behind guard, as if to feel out his opponent. The Thai fighter, looking to assert his position early, connects with a high roundhouse kick to the side of Mark’s head, obstructed from view by his own high hands.



“Something changed in me. Instinct immediately replaced conscious thought. Once baby blue eyes burned blood red.”



The kick seemed to rock Cross for a second, but he was undeterred, suddenly bounding forward with two quick strides that sent his opponent backpedalling, headed for the ropes. The Thai opponent fired off jabs in quick succession, trying to maintain distance control. The thump-thump of a heartbeat rumbling over pounding leather, Mark’s forearms taking shot after shot as he kept moving forward, undeterred.



“I was so close I could almost feel his breath against my skin, eyes growing wider at the realisation I wasn’t backing off.”



Seemingly ignoring the onslaught, Mark drew back an arm, connecting a strong overhand left that blew through the Thai fighter’s guard.



“Then I didn't stop.”



Now trying to protect his face, Mark found breathing room. We see the action in slow motion as an uppercut lands, beads of sweat flying, a gumshield knocked free, and we see it roll end-over-end through the air and over the top rope.



“Not when the bell rung. Not when the referee tried to pull me away…”



Still in slow motion, we see the Dragon face-on, fists, forearms, elbows, raining down on a now decked opponent, only the top of their head visible in the shot. The referee’s attempt to get in between is merely shrugged aside. From a distance, the Thai fighter’s corner men slip under the ropes and enter the ring, running to try and get their man free of the onslaught.



“I was possessed. I was relentless. I was a killer. I'd long since been quoted as saying I respected the hell out of boxers, out of Mixed Martial Arts. I'd often said that what they did, the raw brutality, the conditioning? It made us pro wrestlers look weak in comparison. I doubted I'd ever make that move across, but I definitely borrowed some of their training methods for myself. I questioned whether I was willing to put my body on the line that way, too much to risk…Yet, here I was. I'd stopped giving a fuck about self preservation…and it turned out it didn’t matter. I’d missed the key point of it all.”



We cut back to the backstage area, Mark perched on his plastic chair. By now, he’d freed his right hand from strapping, which was now clutching a blood-soaked towel.



“I made a fatal mistake, a decade ago. I decided I wasn’t going to be wrestling by the time I’d hit age forty. Back then it was so far away, so many things could change. I didn’t understand why I did…this. When I moved from pro football to wrestling? The Dragon was just a stupid name. I liked dragons, I had a tattoo of one, it sounded menacing, so why not? What I didn’t realise…is just how real that moniker was. When it comes to a fight or flight response? That’s when The Dragon surfaces…and that’s why I can’t quit until IT is ready to I need the danger. It fuels the best part of me.



I’m not going to play the game, this time around, it doesn’t feel appropriate. See, if the TRIAD were your garden variety promotion, this roster would have been one of the greatest single collection of competitors in a generation, right? It’d turn into one giant pissing contest, hey person X is great and all, but here’s why I’m better. I can tell you all about how I’ve beaten Raven…Knox…Lachlan before, why I belong here, but this is more than clever marketing. This is a real Trial”



The camera zooms in on Mark, staring intently into the lens.



“I made a mistake, believing I could walk away from something that makes me feel so alive. Three owners made a mistake in choosing not to draft me. Mistakes were made, and that's okay. Mistakes can always be fixed. Stories can always be set straight. After all, I made a career out of one thing, perhaps more than winning itself, and it’s something that gives me an immeasurable amount of pleasure."


With a mix of discomfort and frustration, Cross reaches across himself, dislodging something from his elbow. He tosses the object onto the ground at the feet of the cameraman, who tracks it. The impact of biological material on concrete in our ears as the tooth comes into focus, bouncing a couple of times, before lying prone.



“Proving people wrong.”



The image fades..