Taran Dover got to use “Sirius” for his entrance.

That made me angry. I'd requested the same song for my entrance. Twice. The first occasion, ten years prior, was my surprising and entirely unwelcome appearance in the World Blox Elite finals. At twenty two years old, I'd been victim to a narrative constructed by the commentary team. I was too young to make it so far yet somehow, I had made it.

WBE had just lost their previous drawing card the year before and looking back, I can see how they might have been a little leery. Bob Bartel was a franchise player. He was their beloved veteran Builder. He'd died suddenly at the age of fifty one.

What made it truly difficult was that he took his wife and all six of his sons along too. The pressure of Building had caused something to pop inside his brain. Eight people dead; an entire family. In his ever-eliptical wordsmithery, Bob made it clear that the WBE had put the shotgun in his hands and their expectactions loaded all eight bullets. It was a mess.

The WBE and it's Building Community were shocked and horrified at the act. Most of us, myself at the head of the line, weren't surprised at all. When he didn't have his agent, publicist, and full support of the WBE at his disposal, Bob Bartel wasn't the hero he'd been made out to be.

Bob Bartel was great with Blox. He hadn't ever had to learn anything other than that. His wife and kids knew first hand how “Blox Bartel”, the smiling and clean cut Good Guy, was a marketing gimmick. A very successful gimmick but very different from Bob Bartel, the man.

He drank too much, not that I could ever hold judgment on that. Gambled too much, another vice I couldn't pretend to be above. Had sex with strippers, which I want to judge him for but it's not as though I had any high ground. But when it came out that he drugged them if they resisted his advances, I judged him in an instant. “Blox Bartel” never had to learn that no really did mean no.

I may have had to beg for sex but I certainly never forced it. That was my line in the sand. When Bob Bartel crossed that line, there wasn't anything the WBE could do. The aftermath was a nightmare for everyone involved.

After the mess with Bob Bartel, Building came under scrutiny. The hammer fell and we suddenly had to live as cleanly as the Towers we built. Drug tests were mandatory and there was zero tolerance. Alcohol and tobacco were still fine, however.

The scrutiny was all the WBE could come up with. They needed an answer. Even if this desperate answer were the equivalent of laser eye surgery performed with a dull flathead screwdriver. It may have blinded people but it got the job done. It would surely help avoid a repeat of the “Bob Bartel Incident”.

Besides, as they said repeatedly, Bob would have wanted to prevent others from ending up like him. Their golden boy needed to be remembered as the man he was instead of the psychopath he “became”. The new rules promised it.

Under these new rules, I learned that you can in fact get so drunk that you can't remember the night before. I never knew that blacking out was a real thing. I never knew that the phrase “I just need a quick five hundred grand” could come out of my mouth. Under these new rules, I gained a lot of introspection. The new rules would surely find the WBE another Builder with stronger, more robust character.

For years, Bob had been the model of strong and robust. He was the perfect Builder in the eyes of the WBE “cabal”. The group that made the rules. They also found ways to make sure certain Bulders ended up in their properly designated positions. After the “Bob Bartel Incident”, The Cabal had a void. The Cabal found themselves in need of a new “Face” that they could market.

My face certainly wasn't what they wanted to see. They didn't think my Face was going to sell tickets. I didn't disagree with them on that issue because going bald at eighteen isn't a sharp look. My Face being judged didn't bother me so much. What did bother me was how my Face took priority above my Hands. They didn't like my Hands either, which I understood. To a point.

My hands are small. They have a benign tremor. At first glance, my hands look weak. My handshake has taken an uncountable number of people by surprise. Small as they are, my hands are strong.

My Hands are cast fucking iron.

Dexterity as a skill is undervalued in the Blox Community. Were Blox The Beatles in the world of competitive physiokinesthetic skill games, dexterity would be George Harrison. You can make songs without it, but they don't sound nearly as great. The WBE needs dexterity to build it's Towers into the monolyths that bring in money. Dexterity builds monolyths on it's own.

When I built Towers on my own, they sang “My Sweet Lord”.

After my second DUI, the WBE didn't want to hear anymore of my music. The six positive drug tests I'd already been popped for weren't any help. In my defense, the first one was for cocaine and adderall. The next five were for marijuana.

My Towers didn't need the WBE. They were already monolyths.

Even if they were built with knock-off cheap material for a smaller payday on the dreaded Boxx circuit. Boxx was the imitation league compared to WBE and everyone knew it. Boxx was where the young guys got to practice and the old guys swallowed their pride. To me, it was a place to build Towers.

I was the only one who didn't act like it was just a way to stay competitive until the WBE called me up or called me back. I didn't care what the WBE thought of me and it showed. My zen attitude wasn't enough to turn Boxx into a viable contender but coupled with my dexterity, it allowed me to build a following. While working for Boxx, I became something of a cult classic.

I liked to think of it as “The Joy of Building”.