The brain is a complex organ. People still don’t know everything about it. You read stories about someone waking up from a coma speaking a language they’ve never even heard before. Sometimes, as wrong as it might sound, the best medicine can be a concussion.
That’s what happened to me, and that’s what I’m trying to do for the rest of the Sons of Anger. The outliers, guys on the fringes that simply show up, train, and leave. Those are the guys that are easy to help. I know, I was one of them. After a few days, when it became apparent that only 311 was being played in the gym, and that the thick fog of incense and weed smoke was going to be a constant, I did my best to disassociate from the rest of the group. I never bought into the upper echelon’s crystals-and-positivity crap, and I could tell there were a few others that thought like me.
Gordon Kuntz was one of them. I noticed he’d always be second out the door at the end of practice, right behind me. He might listen to dirt rock, but at least it was another band. He also gave me one hell of a challenge. After our match, I sought him out and asked if he wanted help clearing his head.
Now, I’ve finally got a true partner, one that isn’t my “spiritual match on the plane of energetic hues”, just a solid ally that’s got my back, just as I’ve got his. We’ve still got work to do, though. We’re going to need one more to challenge Rastaban and his two lieutenants for the Trios Titles. Baptiste might be trying to set himself up as a god, but I’ve got my eye on a King.
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