Off The Chain Season 12 Episode 6

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Wave of the Future

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[Fade in to Josh Manning and Noah Lawrence -- collectively known as the Wave of the Future -- standing in front of a black Ascension banner.  Both are dressed very casually -- Manning in a red and black flannel shirt, dark grey Polo knit cap, and dark blue jeans and Lawrence in an all-black Atlanta Braves cap, an old Shai Hulud tee, and camo shorts.  Alongside them are Emilio Garces, of the all-white suit, Hawaiian shirt, and aviator sunglasses, as well as their Sexecutive Accountant Carrie Martini, decked out in a strappy black dress with various necklaces and bracelets accessorizing it.  As usual, the black leather attaché is in her hands.  Despite their victory, the Wave look rather distressed.  On the other hand, Garces is quite animated.]

GARCES:  Ohhh, how sweet it is, baby!  The Wave of the Future makes their debut on Ascension and guess what happened?  They come out victorious, just as I thought they would, baby!  C'mon, boys, why the long faces, huh?

MANNING:  Alright, Emili-bro, first of all?  Kirisagi?  Easy fuckin' pickings.  They might as well call us the Inglorious Basterds 'cause Noah and I batted in homeruns all the way outta Germany with their heads like we were Bear Jew twins, kid... and what does the SPW brass do?

[Garces looks a little confused.]

GARCES:  ... what?  What'd they do?

MANNING:  Despite our _definitive_ fucking victory, they keep us on the "B" show.

LAWRENCE:  That's right, dude.  While the "A" show -- y'know, Conquest? -- gets to go to lavish, tropical Glasgow, Scotland – home of William motherfuckin' Wallace and the amazing Gerard Butler, mind you -- where the hell do we get to go?

Serbia.

That's right, folks... Serbia!  Home of political turmoil, that shady bearded Eastern European dude from every other action movie, and foods that I can't even pronounce much less _eat_.  The only thing Serbia's got goin' for them is a sweet little basketball league.

MANNING:  Divac.

LAWRENCE:  Hell yeah, I love Divac.  But you know what I don't love?  Serbia.

GARCES:  You know what?  You guys are right.  I'mma get on this petition to put you guys on Conquest.  How 'bout that, huh?

MANNING:  Y'know what, Emil, don't even bother with that shit.  Y'know why?  Because tag teams in Shootfire Pro have been, unfortunately, given a bad name.  We're just gonna have to fight the good fight.  Me and my boy Noah are gonna stand in front of the tank of suck-dom right in the middle of Tienna-suck Square and say this:

We're not gonna take it.  No, we ain't gonna take it.  We're not gonna take it...

[Suddenly, it's become an emotional scene; Emilio is nodding emphatically, hand on chest.  Noah takes his hat off and puts it against his chest.  Carrie wipes away an invisible tear.]

MANNING:  ... Anymore.

LAWRENCE:  Wait, that was Twisted Sister.

MANNING:  Fuck you if you don't believe that Dee Snider was a poet.

[Lawrence shrugs.]

MANNING:  And _fuck you_, Asskick Nation, for having the gall to even _think_ of stepping into the ring with us believing that we're gonna be scared off by your exceptionally awesome tag team name.  I mean, shit, if it were up to me?  I'd make this a Tag Team Name match, stips being if we win, we get to be called Asskick Nation while you guys can carry the weight of _our_ glorious name --

GARCES:  Wave of the Future!

MANNING:  -- and probably never, ever, ever --

[Then Lawrence in his best Kanye West-"Diamonds From Sierra Leone"
impersonation.]

LAWRENCE:  Ever, ever?

MANNING:  -- Ever, EVER live up to it for the rest of your natural born Creatine-drinking, looking-up-Jennifer-Love-Hewitt-vidcaps-on-the-internet-and-masturbating-to- them shitty little lives.

[An awkward pause ensues as Manning takes a breath.]

LAWRENCE:  And you know what, boys?  You saw what we did to Kisiragi last week.  You saw the result.  What makes you think that you can combat our sheer talent and skill?  What do you have that makes you sooo damn special that even gives you a glimmer of hope?

The funny thing is this -- even if you win, you _lose_.  'Cause no matter what, we possess more talent in our pinky toes than you do in your entire bodies, Asskick Nation, and even if you do manage to pin one of us on the canvas one-two-three --

MANNING:  Which ain't gonna happen, so I don't even know why you're entertaining that thought.

LAWRENCE:  -- you're _still_ gonna get a beating and you're _still_ gonna look bad and you're _still_ never gonna get over.

MANNING:  That's a fact, Jack.

[Annoyed, Noah squints and shakes his head at Josh.]

LAWRENCE:  Yeah, okay, Mr. 1980's Southern Territories Professional Wrestler-cutting-a-shitty-promo.

MANNING:  If you shave, maybe I'll stop calling you "Jesus Christ" and quit asking you where your ho is.

[Thankfully, Garces cuts in as the cousins snarl at each other, Carrie Martini rolling her eyes in the background.]

GARCES:  Alright, that's enough, c'mon...

[Fade out as Garces tries to calm the bickering.]

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Asskick Nation

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[The scene opens upon two individuals seated upon a large metal crate in some sort of Arena backlot, side by side.  On the left, sporting a long gray duster, a black and blue-flame bowling shirt, black cargo pants with matching boots, and a pair of cheap sunglasses resting upon his forehead, is "The Street Samurai," Spade, a microphone in his hand.  On the right, wearing a designer leather jacket, gold dress shirt, a diamond studded platinum Rolex wrist watch, charcoal slacks, and expensive Italian leather Gucci shoes, is Leon Corella, also seated with a microphone in hand.  Leon looks to Spade.]

Leon-  You've got the issue, you can have the floor first....

[Spade shrugs and brings the microphone to his lips as Corella lowers his.]

Spade-  Thank you... 

[Spade's head lowers a bit, and he looks to the floor, strands of dark brown hair hanging in his face as the camera zooms in exclusively on him now.]

...I started wrestling when I was 16 years old, back when I was in high school.  I was this trash wrestling kid bouncing around on a trampoline with friends, pretending that I was performing for a crowd of millions, and imitating guys who are now considered great legends in the sport.  Those were my heroes growing up.  Within roughly a year, I found somebody to help me learn the fundamentals of professional wrestling.  His name was Greg Ferguson, of Ferguson Gyms. 

[His head tilts slightly to the left, a soft smile spreading across his face as fond memories wash upon the shores of his forebrain.]

With his training, I honed my style, even incorporating stuff from all the Hong Kong kung-fu flicks that I also loved watching and before long I was introduced to my first working gig.

[He chuckles softly, shaking his head.  He then looks away from the camera, towards his right.]

Honestly, I don't even think the company even had a name.  It was just a bunch of guys in a park working a fifteen foot ring for like a crowd of 10... 20 people maybe?  I did that for a few years, and then boom...  I got a call from Greg asking me if I wanted to make more than 50 bucks a show.  I said "Sure, sign me on!"  Next thing I know I'm a contracted wrestler making a thousand dollars an appearance in a company called SGWF.  That was good money for a guy just starting out at 21 years old.

[...A somber expression gradually appears on his face.  Spade pulls those shades from his forehead and hangs them in the collar of his shirt.]

What followed for the next 9 years could be considered a mixed package.  I don't know why, but I seem to have the lousiest track record with promotions.  Some of them closed or went bankrupt on me, others were terrible to it's talent, me included and I wound up walking on them.  At one point, and much to my shame, I got bitter and started demanding more than I was really worth as a name and just flat out told a couple company's to go to hell and quit when they didn't give me what I wanted.

[Spade wipes his nose and leans back, his head tilted back and his eyes to the ceiling.]

One in particular, and I hope I'm not censored for saying this, was NJWF back in 2007.  At the time I had a lot going on.  My father had passed away, I was having issues with my girlfriend at the time, I was flat burned out from everything that had lead up to that moment, and I looking for an excuse to back out.  It ended up being over some petty squabble, I don't even remember what it was about anymore, but It is on my list of top 10 Things I Regret doing.

[His head lowers and he leans forward, Spade looking into the eyes of the camera with his free hand held at a slightly angled knife's edge for emphasis.]

When I finally decided to come back to the sport in late 2008, wrestling a few independent venues here and there, I never expected to be welcomed back by any of the more noteworthy brands.  Hell, I expected SPW to laugh in my face for even asking them if I could sign on with my track record, but as the year turned from '08 to '09, I started getting phone calls from Marcus Davis, the owner of SOW.  Me and him talk off and on, hashing out details and such and on November 20th, 2009, I made my first appearance by goading this man into a fight.

[Spade motions towards Corella as the man chuckled off camera.]

What's sad is, even with the great start up, I had once again made a bad choice by signing on to SOW.  Don't get me wrong, Marcus Davis is a great wrestler and I've always enjoyed watching the man work a ring, but he is a lousy promoter.  The man would book shows, and then frequently delay them.  How the Arena's he booked were able to keep a window open for his company to appear was beyond me, but I kept at SOW and watched as opportunities passed me by time and again.  Opportunities that I could have used to further myself, my career, and make my life better in general...

[He clasps the microphone with both hands, rolling it between lengthened fingers as he pauses briefly....]

...I had my life on hold for this man each and every show until I realized 6 months into it, I've only been in 3 active matches on 5 shows and the SOW's latest show has the current record for longest delay at 2 months.  At one point, I tried to quit the company before it got to this far, but Davis is a persuasive guy.  Didn't help that he also played upon the guilt from my past fallout with NJWF, and a few of my past failings, briefly convincing me that I didn't have what it takes to make it in any promotion without his guidance.

[...Spade's jaw sets, and a frown paints itself across his face.]

Basically, Emotional blackmail, Ladies and Gentlemen.  Passive aggression at it's finest, and if it weren't for me talking with the man to my left here, I'd probably be on month four of waiting on SOW's March 18th's 2010 Sundown event to be held.

[The Camera snaps to Leon for a moment, as a smirk plays across his face...]

Corella-  Honestly, Spade, I don't see how you even lasted all five of those shows.  I would have been moving on to bigger, better, and more consistent fish myself.

[...It then snaps back to Spade.]

Spade-  I tried to give Marcus Davis every opportunity I could afford him, and finally, I went public and issued a Press Release declaring my intention to split from SOW.  A week later...

[Spade offers a smirk...]

....Yeah, Davis didn't even see it until a full week had passed, I finally get that phone call I've been dreading from the guy.  He was furious of course, and took things to such a personal level that I had to laugh at him and hang up.  He told me that I will never succeed as a wrestler, of how he will never work with me again on any level, yada-yada-blah-blah, it's all very typical bullshit from an angry promoter losing good talent because of his own fuck ups.  What makes the whole thing even funnier is, this was the same guy that coached me coming back, telling me "Spade, don't take anything personal, let shit go, don't get too worked up."

[...He then leans forward further, getting face to face with the camera.]

Marcus Davis, I have only one thing to say to you.  You are an overworked hypocrite who needs to back off, take a vacation, and think about the choices you're making right now, before you find more things to regret at a later date.  I know you're in SPW, and now so am I, and if given the opportunity to work with you, I'd do it gladly.  I have no hard feelings.  I try my damndest to put the show before my personal feelings, and if you can't do that, you probably should pack your bags, go back to Tampa, Florida.

[Intensity burns in those dark brown eyes as he stares holes through the lens, his eyes rarely blinking...]

I have come to Shootfire Pro Wrestling for an opportunity to prove you wrong in every way I possibly can on a grand, national stage, Marky D.  I never claimed to be the greatest wrestler who ever lived, but I can do a hell of a lot better than some company that only works on a Monthly to Bi-Monthly basis.  I sold myself short by believing that crock about how I'd never make it without you.  It's those words, echoing in the back of my head that have lit a fire under my ass and are the driving force that's pushing me on to a higher level than I have ever been in my entire career....

[...He moved in even closer, his ass barely on the edge of the container, his face almost completely in the lens which fights to find a sharpened focus for the briefest of moments.]

....Not only do I have every intention of proving you wrong, Davis, but my end goal is to surpass you as a wrestler and as a human being.  I am better than you, Marc, and not because of any skill I possess or physical aptitude I have.  I am better than you because I'm not a hypocrite, and I will never refuse to work with any wrestler.  You could put me up against Spooky Doom, and I'd put the match before whatever dislike I may have for the guy.  I'm the wrestler that takes lemons, makes lemonade, and stirs in a little vodka to make the drink more than just a glass of lemonade.

[The camera pulls back once more to reveal Leon alongside Spade.  Leon couldn't stop smiling as he looked upon his tag partner.]

Leon-  Vodka and Lemonade?

[Quirking his brow, Spade looks to his left at Corella...]

Spade-  Problem?

[...Leon shakes his head, chuckling a bit, and holds a hand up in a dismissive gesture.]

Leon-  No no, no problem, Samurai.  You finished?

[Spade simply nods and slips his shades on, then leans back a bit, the microphone lowered.]

...and I thought I had baggage, phew.  So now we address the second question I'm sure that's on a lot of people's minds right now, namely, What in the hell is Leon Corella doing, sitting next to The Street Samurai, Spade, on an SPW show?

[That megawatt smile returns....]

Why the hell not?  When I faced Spade in SOW, I learned something about him, that he's not just some stupid looking, tattoo covered asshole like the rest of the stupid looking, tattoo covered assholes out there.  He actually CAN wrestle.  The man put me through my paces and even though I won that fight, I'd have to say that if his mind wasn't on his own issues with the SOW management, I think he would have put the pin on me instead.

[...The camera zooms in on Corella, cutting Spade out of the scene once more.]

As opponents, we had such a great chemistry that I couldn't help but wonder what kind of a tag team we'd make, and we actually got to showcase that a little in the show that proceeded our match.  Me and Spade tagged against Doug Foster and The Faction and we...

...Kicked...

...Their...

..Asses.

[For emphasis, Leon smacks the head of his microphone against his open palm, a sharp hiss and pop following in suit.  The smile slowly fades from his face...]

It was I who approached The Street Samurai, and I, who had suggested we come to the SPW.  Though my reasons for coming aren't quite as strong as Spade's, I assure that my desires and intentions are on the same page.

[...Corella's expression shifts to a much more serious tone.]

I have come here to prove my worth as a professional wrestler beyond the boasts of old, and to show everyone that I am fact, not fiction.  Just because I don't call myself Perfect anymore, doesn't mean I don't strive for the highest level of excellence.  No matter who we face as a team, or as singles competitors, one thing remains the same.  Me and The Samurai take matches to a whole new level each and every time we step into the ring.

[A wry grin spreads across his face.]

What better place to show the world that, then here, in the S.. P... W....

[Leon tosses the microphone down, and the camera pans back as he and Spade slip off the crate.  Spade adjusts his duster, and Corella does the same to his coat.  The two exchange a glance and then the two fire off a tandem superkick into the camera, the scene quickly cutting to static, then fading to black...]

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Castro Shaw

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[Fade on in to the otherside.

You have permission to wake up now, the main man is here and ready to go.  That's right it's none other than Castro Shaw.  Castro hasn't been seen in some time, but since we've last seen him he's shaved off his mullet of curly black hair and is going with a more sleek look right now.  He also has picked himself up some military fatigues off a rack at some point during his down time because he's wearing those along with a dark green military looking shirt.

With a sly smile on his face he speaks in his unique accent.]

CASTRO: Ascension, did you miss me?  I know you did, I know 'dat was you callin' the main mang at three o' clock in the mornin' tryin' just to hear to sound of my lovely voice.

I know.  I know.

A week without me, is like comin' down off of heroin.  You needed 'dat fix, you needed it so bad 'dat you felt like the world was comin' to an end, amigo.

[More smirk'ery from Shaw, yeah I just made that up.  Trademarked.]

CASTRO: But don't you worry, baby.  I listened to your voice messages, and I heard your cryin', I felt your tears... so, I'm gonna give you as much of me as you possibly could ever handle.  The Love Blender is here to make sure 'dat everythin' gets whipped up into a nice puree.

[What that means, nobody knows.]

CASTRO: But, I gotta admit I am a little hurt. I figured after all 'dat callin', all 'dat cryin' it would have read in the main event Castro Shaw in big bright flashin' red letters... maybe outlined in a nice accent color, mang.  But no. Instead it reads, Castro Shaw against Dirt Dog Unique Allah.

...near the bottom, no less.

[Castro shakes his head, his smile goes away for now.]

CASTRO: Dirt Dog Unique Allah... a legend in this business, don't get me wrong. But a man, who this business passed up a long long time ago, mang.  See, I might care a little bit more 'bout you if this was say nineteen ninety seven.  Hell, I might even be a little bit afraid pendejo if this was ten years ago,  I can admit 'dat.

...but it ain't.  It's two thousand and ten.  You haven't fuckin' mattered in ages, and I intend on keepin' it 'dat way, amigo.  It's hard to say what has been bombed more this last decade, you or Serbia.

[And that should just about piss everyone off.]

CASTRO:  Sure, you might have ripped it up in the legendary double eye... but there ain't many people who even remember, let alone care about 'dat shithole.  So maybe before the show we can go get a drink, and maybe reverse chokeslam some antelopes for a good some laughs, but I intend on continuing my rise to the top, amigo.

But come Ascension?  You're steppin' in the ring with the main mang, mang.  You're just gonna be another notch in the belt on my way to legend status.  I'm gonna dice you up and hit you puree style.

Uno. Dos. Tres.

[Just then the three little midgets appear for the first time all looking confused.]

CASTRO: No, mang.  I was like sayin' for the count... uno, dos, tres.  Like as a pinfall victory.

[They stand there looking, well they're wearing masks so you can't see the expression on their faces, but their body language suggests they're pissed about being disturbed.]

CASTRO: You know what I mean... go back to whatever it is you do when you're not hangin' 'round me.  In fact, how'd you guys even get here?  When the hell did I even hire you?

[The trio scatter as Shaw thinks about it.  It's probably lost to all time.  With that, we fade to black.]

 

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Dirt Dog Unique Allah

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V/O: Awww GODDAMMIT!  It feels like a thousand fire ants are behind my eyes!  Somebody please!  Stop the red!  Stop the red, muhfuhs!  Stop the red!

[Fade in:

We are in a hotel bathroom somewhere in Belgrade, Serbia.  From the looks of things it was once a fine hotel room.  Now?  Not so much.  There are many empty bottles spread all over the counter.  The bathtub is filled with melting ice.  The shower curtain is half pulled down.  A man lies sprawled against the tub, wrapped in a towel.  He is the Dirt Dog, Unique Allah and it is clear that the night before he has been partaking in the joys of Belgrade's Europe renowned nightlife.  It would be the fine, touristy thing to do if the man didn't hold himself out to be a world class professional wrestler (or at least get paid like one.)  Dirt Dog has certainly seen better days.  Hell, he's seen better months, years, decades, centuries and millennia.  But this is the Dirt Dog.  It's doubtful he'll ever be better.  It's doubtful he'll ever do better.  It's doubtful he even wants to.]

DDUA: Goddammit, what time is it?  They tell me I got a job to do, right?  Is that true, Mr. Cameraman?  Does Dirt Dog have a job to do?

[Is he talking insider language or is he really asking if he's employed?  You don't know.  I don't think he knows.]

DDUA: I mean, some dude named the "Love Blender" or something.  Like he's some kinda Dalmatian or something, right?  Some kind of mixed breed or some such.  I don't know.  I never like Dalmatians.  I don't like they eyes.  That and they pee standing up, right? 

[He peers through bleary, bloodshot eyes for some reaction from the camera man to tell him that he's on the right track.]

DDUA: What?  Dalmatians don't stand up to pee?  This muhfuh ain't toilet trained?  Goddamn, tell him, tell him, tell him I know the feelin' right about now.  But don't worry, I got some Depends (tm) for his ass!  Yeah, I got all that good ish for him.  And he won't have to thank me, neither.  I'll take my thanks in blood or something.

[Dirt Dog pauses, scratching behind his ear with his hand.  He stares at his yellowed toenails in deep contemplation.]

DDUA: Didn't I hit a man or something?  I thought I might have hit a movie star or was I dreaming?  I don't know for real and for honest.  I don't even think I care that much depending on how you really look at it.  You know, Marissa told me it was time to get my life back together.

[Dirt Dog looks around.]

DDUA: Sheeeeeit, don' look like much changed.  Alley in Brooklyn, hotel in Belgrade.  I don't know, I still gotta fight a muhfuh for food and whatnot. 

[The Dog rubs absently at his belly.]

DDUA: And my tummy is getting rumbly, HONEY!!!!

[He starts barking for almost no reason.]

DDUA: This dog needs a little bone.  And that bone got some Cuban spice on it?  I wonder if he knows Carmelita.  That little yella bone still owes me five bucks for that favor in Miami!

[The Dog jumps to his feet.]

DDUA: Castro, you're gonna pay me back.  Yeah, you're gonna pay me back.  It's time for the Dog to eat and muhfuh, I'm pretty sure, I forgot my manners.

[Fade out before the insanity can go on any longer.]

  
   ***********

Nina Larue

***********

   [Fade in.]

[We find ourselves in Glasgow. Standing before us is the Gallery of Modern Art. The streets are busy but our attention is drawn to a lone patron, making her way up the stairs and to the gallery’s entrance. As the camera zooms closer, she is revealed as “The Goddess” Nina Larue.]

[Nina is clad in a black, Yves Saint Laurent trench coat, tied at the waist, and black heels. She also wears a pair of shades, a bag slung over her shoulder. Her black hair is pulled back and styled in a ponytail that falls past her shoulders. As she notes the camera’s presence, she stops and turns, facing it with a smile.]

Nina: I don’t think I have to tell you how extremely excited I am to be back inside of the ring and wrestling again. While I did enjoy having some down time to spend with my family, it was frustrating to find myself without any bookings, especially since there are so many goals still left for me to accomplish here in Shootfire Pro. Luckily, someone listened to my pleas and finally took pity on me.

[She lets out a small laugh, removing her shades and putting them in her bag.]

Nina: Now, I’m making my return to the ring and with a tremendous opportunity. After all, it isn’t every day that a wrestler finds themselves with a shot at their company’s biggest prize.

[Her expression soon becomes solemn.]

Nina: I know that my recent hiatus makes this opportunity fairly…suspect to many. After all, I’m sure that they can think of women that they feel are far more deserving. But if they truly took a look at what I’ve accomplished so far, they would see that this is far from an arbitrary move. My work speaks volumes and shows that this opportunity didn’t simply fall into my lap. I have more than earned it. And I look forward to making the most of it.

[She folds her arms across her chest.]

Nina: I’ve sat back and watched Heather Owens come into her own as a champion. And I have to admit that I have been impressed. She’s managed to maintain her hold, on that championship, in one of the most competitive and toughest divisions around. For that, she earns my kudos and respect. But, at Conquest, that may all come crashing down around her because she’s going to face her stiffest challenge yet.

I know that she’s had issues with my best friend, Tiffany, but I would hope that Ms. Owens, or at least her manager, is intelligent enough not to get us confused. Because, once you get past the same taste in couture, Tiffany and I couldn’t be more different when it comes to wrestling or how we conduct ourselves after that bell rings, especially now that she’s aligned herself with Young and Beautiful.

[Nina frowns slightly and lets out a small sigh.]

Nina: See, I don’t waste time with put-downs, tricks, or loopholes. Because I prefer to prove myself with my actions in the ring. And I would advice Ms. Owens to take serious note of that. Because she’s facing a different and much more lethal threat. Just look at how I spent my time away. I wasn’t frivolously shopping or at the spa.

[She makes a face, shaking her head.]

Nina: I increased my training time and dedicated myself to improving my craft, picking up new techniques from my trainers. Because my focus and goal, from day one, has been to become the women’s champion, and I have finally dedicated myself to finally making that dream into a reality. And now, as it stands before me, nearly so close that I can taste it, I will not give anything less than my absolute best.

So, I wish Ms. Owens good luck and I hope that she comes properly prepared to face me. Otherwise, that championship will find itself around my waist. And my dream will become her nightmare.

[Fade out.]

 

***********

Iris Galiver

***********

[Fade in to where Iris Galiver sits alone in a lit room. Gone are the dark, desolate rooms. This room is completely filled with sunlight, giving it a positive glow. Iris sits on the ground, as usual, with her back against the wall and feet up to her chest. Her old friend and dolly Rosie sits to the side. Iris still looks normal. Her skin is pale, but her overall color is still good. Her bright red hair is worn straight. She wears a pair of black cargo pants and a black tank top. Iris purses her lips before glancing at the doll beside her then into the camera.]

Iris Galiver: Rosie doesn't talk to me anymore. She doesn't tell me what's on her mind, or why she can't believe the absurdity of this upcoming match I am involved in. No, Rosie doesn't say anything at all. She just sort of sits there with the same look on her face. Should it really be any other way? You can see I am still adjusting. I'm not sure what to do with myself as I was thrown into this contest with all these other competitors I can hardly remember. Lindsey Page, I remember her. She's the reason this doll's head is sewn back on.

[Iris shakes her head slowly.]

Iris Galiver: Poor Rosie. She doesn't like the fact that I am teaming with Lindsey Page. Or at least, I gather that from her. Like I said, she doesn't talk to me anymore.

[Iris slightly smiles, showing just how normal she is anymore after her head injury.]

Iris Galiver: And then there's Erica Toughill. One of the toughest women around, no doubt. But did she see what I did in the ring against Angst a few months ago? Did she realize that why I may not be able to remember the terrible things I once did to people, I can still fly over that rope in a split second? That I can turn around, kick her in the gut and knock her into the mat face first? Well, she may want to remember that. But not this week. This week she's on my team. This week... we're two of the same.

[Iris sighs, her facial features turning into one of distaste as she addresses the next matter at hand.]

Iris Galiver: Poet Wright and Tiffany Lane, the women I've apparently always had a sour taste regarding. I can't sit here and say I do not respect them because I do. Sadly, that is as far as it goes. I do not plan on holding back during this match. I do not plan on acting nice and not wrestling to the utmost of my abilities. Because I am capable of winning, we've all seen that. I may no longer be capable of ripping off your head and eating your guts for dinner... or... wait a second... am I?

[A somewhat sly grin from the former Pretty, Pretty Princess.]

Iris Galiver: You'll never know, SPW. Because I'm apparently a loose cannon, about to go off at any time. So I heed warning to you and your team, Poet, Tiff, try not to hit me in the head too hard. I'd hate to see what happened if you did.

[Iris smiles then looks down to the ground as we fade out.]

 

 ***********

Poet Wright

***********

[Fade in:

This is not America, people.  This is Deponjia ... literally "landfill" in Serbian.  This is the filthiest hole in Belgrade, a slum built on a dump.  The baked clay houses don't have electricity.  There is little running water.  Everything we take for granted in North America is absent here.  There is little beauty to be found here.  Little regard for life.  Little reason for joy.  And this is why we find Poet Wright in the midst of the human wreckage.  She is dressed in her flowing black robes.  She cradles her mask in her arms.  She leans close to its mouth, listening to it speak as only she seems to be able to hear it.]

Poet: Didn't they learn from the last time?  Poet Wright and Tiffany Lane do not stand in the same ring unless they are opponents. 

[She pauses, listening.]

Poet: Yes, only the strong survive.  Like the poor people of this shanty.  They survive on will alone.  I like these people. 

[Her eyes dart crazily from side to side.]

Poet: They remind me of me.

[She pauses.]

Poet: Except for the bathing.

[Whatever expression she attempts vaguely resembles a smile.  Vaguely.]

Poet: They will survive and grow ... roses in the concrete.  I will survive despite my surroundings.  Despite the fact that SPW has seen fit not to grant me my rematch until Wrestlebowl.  Despite the fact that I am once again forced to team with my mortal enemy.  Tiffany, you will not survive this match.  Trust me, I will see to that.  Kerr, Tanner, you will.  Simple as that, because I declare it and many people may have
forgotten but I dictate everything that happens in women's wrestling.  I am still the Queen.  I am still the Champion, even if a usurper wears my crown.  I am the greatest of women's wrestlers and that faux-French hag will discover that at Wrestlebowl.  But the rest of you ....

[Poet's face wrenches with agony.  She raises her mask to her ear, listening to its words salve her.]

Poet: You're absolutely right.  There is nothing that will save Orchid and Toughill and Galiver and Page.  It's a shame Lindsey Page is on the opposite side.  I like her.  She's tough.  She's real.  She made a good partner.  But we're going to have to pin her.  Sorry, Lindsey.  The rest, I won't pretend that we've been best friends.  No, Iris Galiver, I
see you as a pale reflexion of me -- all madness and meaninglessness for nothing.  Erica Toughill, you don't possess an ounce of my strength and resolve.  And Orchid ... well, Orchid, I've already proved everything I need to against you.  You are not in my class.  You're barely at the level of Tiffany Lane. 

[Poet holds her head.  She starts rocking back and forth as if something is pushing at her brain from the inside.  Her eyes dart from side to side.  Her shoulders twitch and her face runs a gamut of grotesque spasmodic expressions.  Poet rides out the strange tics until she can face the camera again.  She very carefully places her mask of flesh and hair over her face and she seems to be finally soothed.]

Poet: I will survive.  And at Wrestlebowl I will triumph.  This is my world, bitches.  Mine!

[Fade out]

 

   *********** 

Tiffany Lane

***********

Voice: What the F!?!

[That, my friends, is our very own Tiffany Lane. The Blonde Bombshell is seated in the salon of stylist Jose Lopez. More specifically, in one of the plush VIP rooms. Tiffany is clad in a terry cloth robe, tied at the waist. Her blonde locks are pinned atop her head and her face is smeared with avocado. She sits back, legs crossed and glaring at the camera at what we can best determine is a scowl.]

Tiffany: Okay. I can understand it happening once. Mistakes can sadly happen. But twice!?!

[She shakes her head and lets out a derisive snort.]

Tiffany: That is completely and totally unacceptable!

[She folds her arms across her ample chest.]

Tiffany: And yes, I’m talking about the fact that I have to tag with Poet Wright yet _again_! Didn’t they get the memo last time!?! Me and that sick freak show don’t mix! How many times do I have to tell them? I’m class. Beauty. Sophistication. She’s a psychotic piece of trash that they dragged from the streets!

[She waves her well-manicured hand.]

Tiffany: She doesn’t even deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as someone of my stature, let alone on the same team as me!

[She sniffs.]

Tiffany: I almost decided to pull another vanishing act and let some other poor sap deal with her antics. But I soon realized that this match is too important to miss, even if it’s only on Ascension.

[Snap!]

Tiffany: After all, it features some of the key players in the women’s division. So, it’s a given that all eyes will be on this match and that the most successful of us could find ourselves in line for a shot at the women’s title, which has needed rescuing since Heather Owens got her fat, grubby paws on it. So, I’ve decided that I will grin, bear it, and deal with working with Poet, despite her still being two fries short of a Happy Meal.

[She sighs, crossing and uncrossing her legs.]

Tiffany: I might not like it, but it’s a necessary evil. At least for now.

Besides, that slag, Orchid, is on the opposite team and I’d love nothing more than to personally eliminate her. Now, I know everyone’s wondering why I attacked her. But I thought it would be obvious. She’s a wreck, from her jacked up hair cut to those bargain basement rags that she tries to pass off as clothing! And, as a card carrying member of Young and Beautiful, it’s my job to get rid of such horrid eyesores. I started with Nikki and Orchid is next.

Plus, it doesn’t hurt that she’s also a sleazy slut. She might have the fans fooled, which, honestly, isn’t very hard. But I can see right through her. She’s using this trumped up “relationship” of hers to sleep her way to the top. Oh, she can try to deny it until she’s blue in the face. But the proof is in the pudding. I mean, before she started spreading her legs for Owen…Jasmine…whoever, nobody even knew this girl’s name. Now, she’s weaseling her way into main events and high profile matches, despite her having zero talent? 

[She shakes her head again.]

Tiffany: Bitch, please! You’re just like Poet, Orchid, a shameless opportunist. Except she tried to use the sympathy of the fans, while you’ve tried to use what’s between your legs. But I eventually beat her down and left that fool bare and exposed. In fact, she still hasn’t quite recovered. And you’re next.

At Ascension, you’re going to run into a little Bad Luck.

[She winks.]

Tiffany: And there's nothing you can do to stop it. You’ll be left on your back alright. It just won’t be the way that you’re used to.

[The smirk returns.]

Tiffany: And for the rest of you silly bitches, I just hope that you've learned from my last few examples and know your places.  Because I'm not playing around anymore. I have sat aside for too long, while you no-talents have tried to pervert _my_ division. You either get out of my way or get mowed over!

[Fade to blonde.]

 

***********

Frostbite

***********

[As the scene opens up a heavy down pour, not a person in sight well if anybody had any sense whatsoever they would not be out in this type of weather, but we all know that there will be someone that is crazy enough to out and about in this type of weather. Speaking of the devil we see a young lady, roughly about in her early to mid 20's as she has her right hand over her head as she really believes that is going to keep her dry from this heavy rain. The young black haired lady wearing a white blouse as you can tell is soaked to the point where you can see the black bra that she has underneath. Her gray shorts are tightly fitting against her body because of the hard rain and she has on snow white sneakers. However the young lady is trying to walk as fast as she can, but it is hard when your white poodle is taking their sweat time as they slowly moving right along as if they not even paying any mind to the rain. The young lady as you can see just by the look on her face is getting quite ticked off at her dog, as she tugs on the dog as she tries to get the dog to hurry up so they can get home and get dried off.

A black car suddenly comes zooming back probably going a little too fast for this street, races right through as they zip right past the young lady and her dog and kick up lots of water and splashes it all over the young lady and her dog. Both already wet, as the young lady throws up a middle finger toward the person driving the car as they head on down the road probably not really knowing what they had just done. After getting splashed by that much about of water the dog decides to pick up some speed as the little poodle is actually dragging the young lady down the street. One has to wonder just how others are spending there day.

As our camera zoom out as we see the young lady and her dog flying down the street, our scene switches as we follow the rain coming down that much harder if that is possible as the rain beats up against the house of this window quite hard to the point that you really believe it just might break the window. As we move inside it is actually quite dark you wonder if anybody is home. We can't see our hands in front of our face. As we move through this home we are hoping not to bump into anything and knock something into the floor. We continue to hear the rain beat harder against the window, as we are worried about about trying to find some type of light. We finally spot some light at the end of the tunnel, as we move toward it.

As we get there, we must be in the living room or someone's home, but all they have on his a dimly lit lamp, a small little table lamp sitting on a brown end table. Right under the lamp is a bottle of water. We spin around and we see a light from a television as we turn around and watch what is on the tube. We notice that it just might be the local news, possible as they are showing the young man from Missouri who just recently won a lottery worth 200 million plus. Boy this young man will certainly have nothing else to worry about for the rest of his life, even though reports that he might continue to work. Got to give me a break on that one. But in the meantime we turn back around again as we see a young gentleman laying on a blue sofa with his eyes closed. The young man appears to have fallen asleep watching the news. The young man wearing a blue tank top as we can see a puffing scar on his right shoulder, with his veins appearing to about to pop out from that scar. And we also see from what light that we have, he has a scar going from his left elbow to his left wrist. He is wearing orange shorts, as we also see a scar on his left knee, maybe from surgery the scar is not something that had just happen recently.

We certainly hate to ruining anyone sleep after a hard day at work. But however since this young man is sleeping at we are a little thirsty we decide to reach over to the end table to grab the bottle of water. And as we reach for the water, another hand reaches for the water at the same time and grab it right from our hands, as it completely catches us by surprise. We make a slight turn as we see the young man that we thought was sleeping is not sitting up and taking a sip of water. The look in this person, cold and intense blue eyes pretty tells a story all of its own as he is probably saying to us right now...

"What in the hell are you doing grabbing my water."

Okay maybe this person is probably wondering as well.

"Why are you in my house?"

As the young man looks right into the camera it is none other than the "Cold Hearted Bastard" himself Frostbite.]

Frostbite: Ah I am so glad that you have decided to make yourselves at home. Do you come into your people's home and take whatever you want? Never mind I know why you are here in the first place.

[Frostbite reaches over to the end table and just taps on the light as he makes it a little bit brighter in the room.]

Frostbite: Look at that young man from Missouri. He won all that money. Man his life will change, can you imagine all those so called family and friends coming out from nowhere and wanted part of that money. You know it is going to happen. People you he went to school with will be calling him and telling that they were sorry for the bad things they said or did to him when he was in school. Possible ex-girlfriends might just give me a call and wanted to get back with him. In a way winning all of that money just might be a bad thing for him.

[Frostbite shakes his head.]

Frostbite: But then again here in SPW you have something of a chance in another month or so. Wrestlebowl as the winner not only gets a gold cup but a check for one million big ones. Please don't get me wrong, Frostbite has made his share of money in this business in the last six and a half years. Hell I could certainly just like that young man. I could take my money and run with it. But that is not what I am all about. You see I am about making a big time impact.

You know in the last one or so, your company has been recruiting me off and on again, whether it was AJ Black to Ms. Bevins because they certainly know what Frostbite brings to the table. And I have been always impressed with how this company treats its stars. And as I look around, I could certainly see Frostbite hanging around. But then again, I have other other business dealings elsewhere that doesn't allow me too much free time to come to this company on a regular bases. But when I heard about Wrestlebowl and a chance at a million bucks well I certainly found time in my business schedule to bring myself to SPW and try to win it all.

Sure I know with the format that SPW has. I must be put onto a team and my team must go out and win our matches and take it from there. Sure I am not a team captain, but that is not the important thing for me. Whoever decides to choose me and put me on there team they can rest assure that I will do my part to get them to that final showdown. Where I will beat them and win the cup and the money. But let me rest assure this isn't about the cup or the money, no this is about a much bigger picture.

[Frostbite decides to get up off the sofa.]

Frostbite: This is about going out and proving not only to SPW but to the wrestling world that I should be considered among the best around period. Because those so called wrestling experts believe that I haven't earned my spot. I think to myself.

What in the hell do I have to prove to be consider among the best around right now.

[You can tell by listening to Frostbite, the intensity is building in his voice. A man with so much rage and anger.]

Frostbite: Help me understand this much. A man that has been an eight time World Champion, doesn't get any respect. I have never been able to understand the wrestling world on that one. All I ever here is that Frostbite hasn't beaten anybody. And it gets under my skin. But then again it is certainly drives me to enter things such as Wrestlebowl to prove just how wrong everybody really is. I stated on Conquest that if I am to win the cup and the money. That I would put the money on the line against whoever wins the SPW World title. And I am a man of my word. I am sure even the new World Champion, would jump at a million bucks. You see I am using this chance to show everybody that I am that damn good.

But before I head into Wrestlebowl there is some business that I must take care of first.

[Frostbite lays back down on his sofa.]

Frostbite: I head to Conquest and step into the ring with Blake Covington. Blake I am not going to lie to you. I am not quite familiar with your abilities inside that ring. And I am sure you probably don't know too much about me as well. And in someway I am sure we are fighting it out as the team captains will be watching our match as they try and decide what member will be best for their team in the possibility of winning that million bucks. But Blake as I stated before there is a much bigger picture involved here. For me this isn't about who picks me. This is about winning respect plan and simple. Blake I bet that is all you want from time to time is for SPW fans and the locker room to respect you.

And Blake respect starts at Conquest when we step into that ring. My journey starts by beating you at Conquest. Because it wouldn't look good if I come in with all of this hype and lose to you on Conquest. Then my mission would be deemed a complete failure. But however if I walk right into Conquest and beat you, then the first step of my mission will be completed. Blake you will be taken to every limit that you just may have in your body. Frostbite is going to prove to you on that night, that I am indeed what I say I am. Simply, "Cold Hearted". I want those team captains to watch very closely because if you decide to pick me. You are going to emerge with a win at Wrestlebowl, but at the end of that night, you will come up short. When Frostbite smells, money or gold he usually gets what he wants.

[Frostbite closes his eyes.]

Frostbite: Blake, I hope you enjoy the ride that you are about to embark on. Blake you are just the first, and you certainly won't be the last. I am coming to Conquest to run you right over. Blake I bet at the end of our match as you look right into my cold, blue and intense eyes. You just might get the big overall picture.

The Mission is on, and you are just the very beginning of that. Blake, welcome my good man, to what I call my new mission.

"The Next Level."

[Frostbite let's out a sadistic laugh as the scene fades out.]

***********

Rich Patterson

***********

[Rich Patterson looks as if he’s been living out of a suitcase for a lot longer than is strictly necessary, or his antics at the last Ascension guaranteed he wouldn’t be getting his hotel’s laundry service after all.  Indeed, he is now at the bar of another hotel in another foreign land, this time Serbia gets the pleasure of his company for a few days…]

Rich: The past few days have been a real eye-opener.  You see, I always thought that stupidity was part of the American national psyche, where using your brain for anything other than answering how you like your coffee was going to get you a one-way trip to the internment camp of your choice.

But no, I discovered that the supposedly sophisticated Europeans – or, at the very least, the English – are just as stupid as that herd that wants to hide behind anonymity when they have the sheer gall to boo me.

You know what I’ve been seeing every time I switch on TV over here?  A seemingly endless parade of Brits bitching and whining and pissing about how they had to pay for a cab to drive all the way from Switzerland to the French coast in the vain hope they could get a ferry back home, because half of Europe was fucked up because of volcanic ash, and some dickhead’s bright idea that every flight should be grounded “just to be safe.”

Uh huh, let me ask one question: Have you people ever heard of trains?  I believe they’ve been in existence for a couple of hundred years, and you can get on one in Switzerland and go all the way to northern France, only having to change once the whole journey.  Hell, that’s how I got from Germany to whichever part of Yugoslavia this hotel’s in this week.

Wait, there’s more questions: Have you ever heard that there’s more than one ferry terminal that can get you back to England ?  Were you aware all these other terminals were practically deserted?

This, you see, is why people are stupid: They don’t think, they just have one set pattern they all follow like some badly-dressed, slight-overweight, drunk and sunburnt ants.  And they blame everyone else for their own narrow-focus ignorance.  And if that doesn’t make you homesick for the good ol’ USofBrainDeath, what in the hell would.

[Patterson slowly draws his breath, running his tongue over his teeth for a second]

There’s other reasons I’m feeling a little, shall we say, “opinionated” this evening, though.

I bet the monkey sat in front of the dartboard whose responsible for throwing these shows together without crime or reason thought “Patterson vs. O’Conner, that’ll put some butts on seats” and returned to their diet of coffee, cigarettes, and internet pornography for another week.  Of course they would, it’s something to do until their handler rewards them with a banana and pats them on the head for almost acting like a member of the human race.

Our unevolved cousin missed one thing: James O’Conner is the dumb prick who not only thought he had the right – no, the PRIVILEGE – to gatecrash my shot at the Fusion title, but he pissed it away to the point Old Bastard Baldwin fell on top of him when his heart gave out and took the loss.  And because they forgot that, they forgot that I have a damn good reason to make him think a mere stabbing won’t be the worst thing to happen to him in an SPW ring.

You see, O’Conner, I do remember things that need to be avenged, things like an arrogant piece of shit costing me a title that I deserved because I have to share a locker room with some of the lowest filth that humanity can vomit, and see them get the breaks that I earned.  Things like having you try to steal my spotlight and my title, and instead showing yourself up as a whole lot of hot air that couldn’t deliver on something you weren’t asked to bring in the first goddamn place.

I said it at the time, and I’ll remind you right here – your initials spell “JOKE”, and that is all you were before you wanted in on my inauguration, and ever since there’s always been somebody just outside your field of vision laughing at you, because they’re in on the joke: They know that you can’t avoid me forever, and when the time comes that you and I cross paths and you have no excuse for running away, you will be dragged down from your pedestal, and savaged by those who pulled you down to earth.

The time for masturbating your ego is at an end, O’Conner, because you can’t say I’m attacking you for no reason, you can’t say I’m interfering in your business, because right now I AM YOUR BUSINESS.

Soon it will become very clear to you that you should’ve shoved your title shot up your ass instead of interfere in my destiny, as I will make you wish that you were what I left of Shayne Grissom by the time I take mercy on those watching the butchery, and end it.  Not because I take pity on you, not because somebody on commentary is screaming that I’ve gone “too far”, but because I don’t want to be responsible for a generation of Rich Pattersons to be born on that night in Belgrade as they watch in awe at the first atrocity on their soil they won’t have to accept responsibility for.  After all, the blood will be on MY hands, not theirs.

Until the match, O’Conner, I bid you a healthy and productive life.  Because when I’m through taking my pound of flesh from those who have wronged me, you won’t be having either of them.

[FTB]

    **********

James O’Connor

***********

[Fade in to the locker room backstage at the Belgrade Arena.  Sitting on a steel folding chair, dressed in his ring attire, is "Cunning" James O'Connor.  His leg is still wrapped from the stab wound inflicted by Spooky Doom and his metal spike, which JOC holds in his hands as he speaks.]

JOC: It seems like people can't stop asking me about last week's Ascension match with Spooky Doom.  The question that come up most often is, "How's the leg?"  Yes, the wound hurts like a bitch, but I'm still fighting this week.  You know, I think I should almost feel honored to have a disciple of Steve Greedy stab me in the leg, though I am a little hurt that no flaming dollar bills were involved. 

[He shakes his head with a chuckle.]

JOC: Of course, I have no idea if that was really your doing or not, Greedy, since you didn't bother to show up in Dortmund.  People were talking about that too.  You know you're a legend when people seem to be this interested in where you aren't and what you didn't do.  Yet after that big show you put on in New Hampshire you couldn't be bothered to be present for the response?  I guess that's what you meant by giving me an opportunity to show that I was "creative."  Mission accomplished, I guess - you have my challenge, yet another Power Structure member forced to tap out, and a prize free agent who would have done the same if he were unarmed.

[A smirk.]

JOC: Which reminds me, a message for Spooky Doom.  People didn't care when you stabbed me because you didn't finish the job and because I was man enough to rip your spike out of my leg...

[He displays it for the camera.]

JOC: ...and use it against you.  Greedy was decimated by his attack, while I'm still standing.  But hey, you want to make yourself feel better knowing that I had you beat in the center of the ring?  Feel free. Whatever helps you sleep at night.  Just know that the time will come for us to stand face to face in that ring again, and when that happens, all the weapons and backup in the world won't prevent me from making you tap, nap, or snap.

[The smirk drops.]

JOC: Which brings me to the last thing people have asked me about - Rich Patterson.  How will you go up against the Bad Seed with that stab wound?  He's a man who knows how to inflict pain, to do whatever it takes to gain an advantage and win.  How do you walk into a match with that kind of a man with such a clearly marked bulls-eye?

[He twirls the spike in his hand, staring at it a moment before continuing.]

JOC: The only way I know how.

[James stands.  He does so a little gingerly, but without too much trouble.  He shows no other outward sign of pain.]

JOC: Head on.  I've beaten your partner, I took you out during the Charity Carnage Rumble, and I survived against you in the Fusion title match.  So come at me with everything you have.  You want to rip my leg off?  Come and get it.  Bring Chance, bring the Power Structure, bring every dirty trick you have.  You're going to need them...all of them.  You don't have the skill to beat me straight up, Rich.  Your only chance is to prove that you have...

...THE CUNNING!

[James walks off camera, head held high.  Fade out.]

***********

Quinn Scott

***********

"I bet he thinks he's winning."

[The scene opens up on the second-floor patio of the Parkland Mansion of Quinn Scott, who has been conspicuous with his silence since the incident. Dressed in what seems to be a very loose-fitting pair of pants, and not much else, he simply stares blankly out into the abyssal night, completely black and void of star- or moonlight. The only real light comes from the room behind him, the light coming through the various glass panes on the doors, and the cherry from his cigarette.]

"I would have liked to have done a lot of things after that. I wanted to hunt them all down, and bash their pretty little heads in one at a time, but Charles refused to even let me out of the house, I came home in such a bad state. Something about a bad reaction to the sedative that they used, and the beating I got. Who knew that drugs that were designed to dull pain would end up getting me more of it."

[The tip of his cigarette illuminates and shortens as Quinn takes a long drag, and after a moment, smoke billows from his nostrils. Still no movement from him. Not even so much as a single step or a sway or anything... he's perfectly still.]

"I would have found Marsh first, got him from behind, and then stashed him somewhere. A boiler room, an electrical closet, a concession stand... anywhere that there was room for a sack like him. Then, I would have gotten that boyfriend of his, Covington. Knock his sorry flesh around for a bit, and then drag him to see Marsh, and then force-feed him a length of PVC... long ways. Someone here always remarked about making a necklace out of someone's teeth. Seems like a good idea. Maybe I can save that for another time. The guy who mentioned it probably won't mind, since he hasn't done it yet."

[Another illumination from his cigarette, another expulsion of smoke. Behind him, we can see someone walking around in the room, pacing... and at a rather uneasy speed, too.]

"Then I'd find his sister. That EMT bitch that drugged me, after I dismantled another waste of carbon. Stick a needle in my arm and hope I'd die? No, not Marsh. He lacks the intelligence and the balls to do that sort of thing. I'd take my time with her. Whatever I can think of, just do it slowly. He may not sweat much over Covington eating pipe and molars, but maybe he'll drip a bead or two when it comes to his darling sister... and then there's Marsh."

Quinn: *out-loud* What could I possibly do to Marsh?

[Finally, Quinn moves, but it's not a drastic movement. His right hand comes up and scratches his chin, almost pensively, and a snort comes from his nose as he shakes his head... almost bemusedly.]

"Maybe... just maybe, I'll do something that will make me look merciful. Maybe I'll do nothing to him at all. Bash the ever-living fuck out of his minions and his sister, force him to watch it all, and then leave him be, minus that initial little blow. Leave him relatively unscathed. I could do all that. I can do worse than that. It's tempting... sorely tempting."

[He turns around slowly and starts walking towards the doors behind him.]

"Maybe, I should let it be. After all, it's what Marsh wants. He wants me to come at him. He wants me to run head-long, not even think about it. Could ignore him, easily, too."

[The cigarette gets shorter, ash falls to the ground, as Quinn's hands reach for the door handles.]

"But hey, if he can drug me, put me in a severe state for weeks, and get away with it... I should be able to murder his underlings just as cleanly."

[He turns the knobs.]

"So fuck it."

[Opening the doors, he walks in. Inside the room is Serena Black, dressed in a fashionable, yet non-descript, T-Shirt and designer jeans. She immediately turns to look at Quinn as he walks in, the cigarette between his lips almost down to the filter, and steps towards him. Also in the room is Charles, Quinn's butler. He hurriedly walks towards Quinn, holding out an ash tray, and holds it beneath Quinn's lips. As Quinn speaks again, the cigarette falls from his mouth and into the tray.]

Quinn: Marsh has his war.

[Serena's eyes go wide and her hand goes to her forehead. Apparently that was NOT what she wanted to hear. She walks over to a nearby couch and sits down, shaking her head. But Quinn? The corners of his lips manipulate themselves into something we seldom see from him... something that would actually cause anyone to worry greatly upon seeing it...

...he's smiling.]

Quinn: But his war will be my terms.

[Serena looks up, and upon seeing the smile on Quinn's face, seems to relax a little... but none of the apprehension leaves her face. Quinn turns his head to Charles.]

Quinn: Call Jerry. Give him the particulars, have him start getting things we talked about together. Tell him he has to work fast, because we don't have too much time to take advantage of it. Afterwards, call Renzo to tell him we're cancelling for a while, call Dave to see who he can recommend, and call Vincent to... well, he'll already know why we're calling.

Charles: Yes, sir.

[Serena stands up and walks over to Quinn, who has already pulled out another cigarette and placed it between his lips.]

Serena: Your terms?

Quinn: Glad to see your hearing's still good.

Serena: What have you got planned, exactly?

Quinn: Something.

Serena: Something?

Quinn: There's that amazing hearing again.

Serena: You're going to go to war with Jeffery Dylan Marsh, one of the higher-ups in Shootfire Pro Wrestling, and someone who could probably fire you with a simple pen-stroke, and all you're gonna say is that you're planning "Something?"

Quinn: You'll find out when everyone else does, Serena.

Serena: I'm your MANAGER, Quinn! I SHOULD be finding this out NOW!

[Quinn's dull grey eyes fall flatly on Serena, and they're throwing her a rather uncommonly sharp gaze. His smile from before has vaporized, and all he does as he stares straight into his Manager's now-frightened eyes, is light his cigarette and exhale the first puff of smoke.]

Quinn: I'm playing this one close to the chest, Serena. Charles knows the particulars, and that's what's important right now. Marsh had me drugged and beaten to try and prove something, but he still failed.

Serena: He laid you out for nearly a month, Quinn.

Quinn: And thank you for the lovely reminder, but that wasn't what he was trying to prove. He was trying to show that he could break anyone's spirit.

Serena: And here you are, apparently planning his downfall from your own little bunker. So yeah, he didn't prove his point. You're still around and about to strike back.

Quinn: That's not why or how he didn't prove his point.

[That takes Serena back a little, and she looks a little confused.]

Serena: Ok, then how?

[Quinn turns on his heel.]

Quinn: You'll find out when everyone else does, Serena.

[He starts walking back outside, and begins to close the doors behind him.]

Serena: Hey, HEY! Your match! We still have to talk about that four-way at Conquest! GET BACK IN HERE, SCOTT!

[The doors close with a click, and Serena angrily rushes the door.]

Serena: It isn't considered smart to simply write-off a fight against Spooky Doom, Whisper, and Ono Hezonfaia, Quinn... well, maybe Ono, but stil- WHAT THE HELL?

[As Serena tries to open the doors, they won't budge. The knobs turn, but the doors don't move. Quinn just stares at Serena over his shoulder for a moment before looks back to the night sky, billows of smoke floating upwards.]

Serena: OOOOOOH! Someday, Scott, I'm not gonna bother to deal with your insipid little games anymore, and I'm gonna walk. YOU HEAR ME! ONE DAY, I'M JUST GONNA WALK!

[Of course, Quinn doesn't acknowledge or respond. He just stares into the sky, his arms folded across his chest again.]

"You're getting what you want, Marsh... and I assure you, you're gonna fucking regret it."

[The cigarette illuminates, and the smoke spews from his nostrils once more before we fade to black.]

 

*********** 

Spooky Doom

***********

"Whomever leads his Wrestlebowl team to victory... will be the one who leads SPW into the future!"

[In walks Spooky Doom. The masked Grim Avenger of Lucha Libre turned Evil Dead of the ring. Now sporting a jawless green skull mask underneath a spiked hood, the Dead Kid amps it up with lime-green feather boas around his shoulders and new safety pads across his limbs. Followed by former SPW world champion Steve Greedy, Spooky sets out to prove himself as the greatest investment "the Rich One" ever made in his entire career as he picks up the mic once more.]

Doom: Hi, I'm Spooky Doom. You might remember me from such matches as the Boneyard Brawl in which yours truly ended up being the single most destructive force never to get acknowledged by SPW, or the guy who exposed Jakob Volga and Derek Weaver for the overhyped fatasses that they were or more recently, inflicting what might very well be permanent injury upon the poor Irish person of one James O'Connor... Well I'm here tonight to talk to you about something truly special, namely THE WRESTLEBOWL CUP.

[It's a proud Steve Greedy that pats the back of the self-styled lil' horror of lucha libre, as the "Evil Dead" Spooky Doom punctuates his speech with elaborate hand gestures to ensure his comprehension towards the masses.]

Doom: Who is going to win the Wrestlebowl Cup?? I'm asking you; I don't know! It's a pretty important event, with a rich and storied tradition that I'm sure someone is gonna fill me in on sooner or later! More importantly, there's the prize; being the Wrestlebowl champion, being the Cup winner, representing wrestling as it's very best to a group of *GODDAMN DOOMKOPFS* who couldn't appreciate my talent if I saved their asses from the fire, something I did time and time again... But I digress and rant.

See, as long as we're all speculating here, does ANYONE want to bank on the misfits from DCWL or the SOW rejects? The feeder leagues and the easily replaceable puro athletes? Now I know you guys have absolutely *ZERO EYE FOR QUALITY* here, but I beg you: make an effort. My point? On May 3rd, at the Hampden Park in Glasgow... When you see the Wrestlebowl team captains face each other at Conquest, you will be witnessing the DESTINY of Shootfire Pro Wrestling made manifest. Buy your tickets post-haste.

[The infernal duo have nothing but spite, anger and scorn for their foes as four faces appear on screen, aligned all in a row so that we may all see the contenders for the Team Captains match. Spooky Doom flamboyantly throws a feather boa around his shoulder as he continues his speech.]

Doom: I am in no way exaggerating when I say that the future of pro-wrestling revolves upon the Team Captain's match live on Monday night in Glasgow. And it stars Whisper, Quinn Scott, ONO HEZONFAIA and Spooky Doom. Duck, duck, duck, goose. One of these is not like the others one of these just doesn't belong can you tell which one's not like the others by the time I finish this- BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNT, IT'S SPOOKY DOOM YOU MORONIC DOOMKOPFS!!!!!! I'm surrounded by mediocrity and it's a very INSULT to my abilities that I be associated with such mistakes of nature!

[With each of the three other faces getting their proper attention in turn, Spooky Doom slowly walks us through the list of challengers for Conquest. Footage of each wrestlers’ accomplishments help present a better image of the situation.]

We have Whisper, right? What is he? Some goddamn ninja luchador? Does he split into four and start climbing the turnbuckles to do a four-post massacre like in that Ready to Rumble movie? Because that must be the worst gimmick... OF ALL TIME!!! Stop trying to be original, stop making up brand new stuff for wrestling because new stuff is STUPID!!! Not that others will try to do awesome stuff for themselves, NO! We will simply stand there and call you a lameass and that your ideas are lame while I'm gonna win, SO THERE!

Then there's Quinn Scott, the guy who doesn't care. Great kid, but he'll need something to differentiate himself from everyone else in SPW. So listen here, "Quincy": I am motivated you creepy emo bastard, motivated to crush you like the insignificant spec that you are. I have nothing to fear from you because I have resigned myself to pain ever since deciding to take over my uncle's reins as a Grim Reaper-like being, now STEP OFF.

As for ONO HEZONFAIA? No. Just no. Curse you and your shiny pants, ONO. I've heard of your otherworldly ability to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, but the only thing you'll be snatching from defeat will be more defeat! The truth? While we're all fighting amongst ourselves, I cannot afford to have someone so outrageously *SILLY* as you have any hope of winning at Wrestlebowl. I mean, if you win, things are gonna get so bad I half expect the Liberty Bell March to open up Conquest as someone tries to brain me with a dead parrot!

[Far away, on a deserted island... Camera finds an aged castaway struggling against thirst as he crawls along the sandy beaches. A wide shot reveals just how lonely this man is, desperately alone against the vastness of the unknown. His hair is white, his skin sags from malnutrition but still he fights on! The camera approaches, offering a close-up of his misshapen face as the old man begins to speak.]

Old man: It's...

[Back to Spooky Doom.]

Doom: NOT GONNA HAPPEN! This is the match that pits those who'll lead SPW into Wrestlebowl against each other, and I cannot afford such an important victory to fall into the hands of... DOOMKOPFS!!! When the draft comes, you will find the "Evil Dead" Spooky Doom surrounded by the meanest, nastiest fighters in wrestling... and they will follow me because they'll know they are following the strongest team leader this world has ever encountered. And *WHEN* I and mine emerge victorious from the Wrestlebowl Cup, Shootfire Pro Wrestling will have just the champions that they deserve!!! JIGOKU NO DANTODAI, MY LITTLE SOULS! HELL'S GUILLOTINE AWAITS!

[A bone chilling laughter erupts from the jawless skull mask of Spooky Doom, soon echoed by manager Steve Greedy! The camera slowly fades out as the two keep on plotting their perfect Wrestlebowl victory, which starts out at Conquest.]

***********

Dave Pietka

***********

[The set-up is nothing grand. It's an near-empty room, with a screen set up, a slide projector right in front of it, and a single chair. Against the wall, over by the light switch, stands "Heavy Mental" Dave Pietka. That's right, kiddies. It looks like he's keeping things a trifle minimalist today, as he simply leans up against the wall and doesn't even look directly into the camera.]

[Yup... it's gonna be one of _those._]

D. Pietka: In consideration for what will probably be the second time I can recall dealing with Marcus Davis inside of a ring, at least with there being a match involved, I'd like to take a bit of a retrospective look at my time in dealing with "The Dream." Oh, yes, we all know him as the "Honor" bound individual, scarily skating down a path sculpted by a former SPW Champion... and said former Champion ended up getting a boot in their ass from yours truly because they went down said path, but I digress.

[Pietka hits the switch and the lights in the room go out, except for that one annoying security light... y'know, the one that never turns out, no matter how many switches you hit. Annoying as hell. Anyway, he walks over to the slide projector and turns it on, and a slide reading "Past Endeavors" shows up... and yes, the "Past Endeavors" is written crudely in crayon.]

D. Pietka: Now, this may seem odd to a few of you, as I've gone on record saying that I really don't like to dwell in the past. I'm big on the whole "What have you done LATELY" thing, and could care less about things done elsewhere... but, this is Marcus Davis we are talking about, a man who seems to dwell in places that no one, particularly me, care about, and I figured I'd take a stab as being in his position.

That, or I'm justifying going through aspects of my own past to satisfy my incredible boredom. So, let's begin.

[He sits down and grabs the remote for the projector, and with a little bit of noise on the projector's part, a promo picture of Marcus Davis shows up... typical SPW fare. You could probably get this same picture with an autograph on it from the SPW Store.]

D. Pietka: The first moment I actually remember caring about the existence of Marcus Davis happened shortly after my Championship was stolen from me, and while I was eager to regain my stolen property, I was more eager to wrap my hands around the neck of the dead man who was responsible for the theft. In walks my encounter with Marcus Davis, as he was a "Token of Good Will" to the failed attempts to procure said dead man.

[A push of a button and a little more noise from the projector, and we see Dave Pietka standing atop a prone and bleeding Marcus Davis. Pietka's trademarked chair scissoring Davis' leg, a steel-barbed broomstick raised in the air, and Katie Smith shielding Davis from any more with her body.]

D. Pietka: The first stain on my yellow jersey, so to speak. Anyway, after that, he ended up scurrying away to Japan or somewhere that people actually cared to remember his name, I really wasn't paying attention.

[The slide changes, and we see both men standing in another ring, though not an SPW ring. We can't tell where, since the green logo has been blurred out in the picture... no, it's not post-production censorship, kiddies, the picture's just been altered.]

D. Pietka: Then, when I went on vacation, I ran into Marcus Davis again, and we ended up having to deal with each other for some kind of tournament or something. He spouted his mouth about me being too quiet, only really being around to collect a paycheck, blah-blah-blah... although...

[The next slide shows the kinda-famous "Voodoo Tour Bus" that we sometimes see, and Pietka lets out a chuckle.]

D. Pietka: I must admit, his comments did encourage me to splurge just a little...

[A quick "Whirr-Click" from the machine, and we see Pietka on top of a prone Marcus Davis... granted, Pietka's feet are on the ropes to keep him from kicking-out, but we're sure that's just Davis' fault and not the Ref's.]

D. Pietka: Especially after I humiliated him. He went on to curtain-jerk, I went on to win said tournament. Yes... publically spanked his sorry self after his comments, warning me not to underestimate him. Not too take him lightly...

[WHIRR-CLICK! And up comes a shot of Davis during his interview with Jack Sharp.]

D. Pietka: Which seems to be the only words that can pour out from this bastard's mouth, but he doesn't seem to be too worried about underestimating his opponents... or maybe overestimating them, I neither know or care. Half the time, I really get too bored with him to pay attention.

Well... that's not entirely true. There were a couple of things he uttered that piqued my interest, if only fleetingly.

[With a push of a button, the slide projector turns off and the lights come back on. Pietka gets out of the chair and goes back to the wall he was leaning on before, not even looking at the camera, bringing his hand up to his chin and letting it rest there pensively.]

D. Pietka: I'll touch on the second thing he said first, and that's saying I started a war with him... and I'll be honest, I couldn't stop laughing for a while. Yes, while I decided to acquiesce to AJ Black's request and bludgeon the high holy shit out of him for a chance at proper vengeance, it weren't anything personal. I wanted something, and Marcus Davis was the coin I needed to buy it... even if I ended up getting cheated... repeatedly.

The fact is that I didn't start a war with Marcus Davis. Marcus Davis needed some manner of motivation, something to focus his efforts on. So, like we said there were bombs or some shit like that in Iraq, Marcus Davis decided to invent a war with Your Ol' Pal Voodoo.

Now, it isn't the fact that there's apparently a war on that amuses me. Especially since it wasn't ratified in my Congress yet, which is probably why we don't acknowledge it. What made me chuckle was the fact that Marcus Davis thinks he can go to war with me.

[Pietka shoots the camera a sideways glance.]

D. Pietka: Me.

[As if he thinks that the cameraman and the folks at home are in disbelief, he looks at the camera and points to himself vigorously.]

D. Pietka: Yes, ME!

[After the vigorous pointing, He goes back to staring off again, rolling his shoulders a little to get himself more situated against that 'comfy'-looking wall.]

D. Pietka: Most people don't seem to want to admit it, but it's a proven fact that you need at least TWO OTHERS at your back to even properly fuck with me. The Aristocracy... Black Sunday... The Family... Anywhere from three to five folks, looking to make trouble with Your Ol' Pal Voodoo, and look how all that ended up.

The Aristocracy fell on its face each time, I did things to Black Sunday that went beyond humiliating, and The Family... well, let's just say I revoked Chaddy's 'God' status... but there's a small, base, and primitive difference between those groups and Marcus Davis... and that difference is that they were men.

[He holds a hand up to the camera, shaking his head gently.]

D. Pietka: No, that isn't a knock on Marcus Davis' masculinity. They were men, as in the plural of man. They were several, as in the complete opposite of 'just one.' Men went to war with me... and they failed. No matter whatever end they came to, no matter whatever fates they met, they still failed. A man does not go to war against me.

[His hand comes up slightly higher and he shakes his head again, before lowering it and going back to his 'pensive' pose.]

D. Pietka: No, that isn't a knock on Marcus Davis, either. No ONE MAN can go to war on me. I'm Dave Fuckin' Pietka, creator of the Tour de Fuckin' Carnage. I went to war against the WHOLE of SPW, and for all intents and purposes... I succeeded. Yeah, Andrew Davis knocked me away for a while, but even Jesus had his Judas.

[A quick snort escapes Pietka's nose that sounds like a chuckle.]

D. Pietka: The point is, only one person thinks that there's some great Pietka-Davis war and that one person is Marcus Davis. Hell, I'm not even at war with Andrew Davis, slimy coattail-ridin' simp he is. Hell, that's his defining quality! The only guy I've ever come close to being in a 'war' with was Sabbath, and I STILL came out on top of that fucker! I'm not at war with Marcus Davis, he's at war with himself. Still, it's funny. It's funny that Marcus Davis thinks he's not only at war with me... but that he can win.

Be realistic. If a group of flesh-bags can't get the best of Your Ol' Pal Voodoo... what hope does ONE have?

[Pietka shrugs and sighs.]

D. Pietka: Y'know what, it's not even funny anymore.

[He shakes his head sorrowfully, and then leans it back against the wall.]

D. Pietka: And then there was the earlier comment. That he changed.

[Again, Pietka shakes his head.]

D. Pietka: To which I say, no. No, he hasn't.

Marcus Davis is still the same self-important simp I care to remember him as. Technical skill and ability? Oh, hell yeah. Dude's plenty fuckin' skilled. I have never thought otherwise in my entire career, but he's still on and on about being underestimated when there really isn't that much to estimate.

Ideally, it's a new Marcus... maybe. But physically? In the ring? No, you're the same guy. I can judge a man by his ideals, sure enough. Well, not enough to cloud reason. I know that if I ain't prepared for Marcus, he could kick my ass proper, but there's something I've noted about people with his ideal set... and that's that they always find ways around them.

[Pietka finally looks at the camera, looking straight through the lens to whoever's watching... and Marcus Davis should be amongst them.]

D. Pietka: I knew a man who thought like you. Who wanted to change wrestling to what they thought it should be. Hell, I knew three, through only two were brave enough and courageous enough to even think about fighting me. They thought things were going south in SPW and they were gonna change it. Like Darkseid in the DC Universe, they were looking for the Anti-Shootfire Equation and they were gonna use it to rebuild Shootfire in their own image.

Problem was, they compromised their own ideals before even getting through the door. While they preached about making people act by their code of honor... which should sound eerily familiar, Marcus... they were going their own way and doing as they pleased. They betrayed themselves... and they were exposed... and I was the one who did it.

[Slowly, like it normally does around the time he's getting to a juicy little nugget of info, a smile spreads on his lips... and it's not a happy one.]

D. Pietka: I ripped the only thing that gave their precious 'honor' any swing here from them, and I smeared a dozen rotten eggs in their face as I did it... and yet, I got no praise. I was given no thanks. People in the back were bitter, and they showed their elation after my Championship was stolen, thanks to one of them.

That's why I don't give a shit about folks like you, Marcus. You assholes don't know what you're talking about, and you never will.

You're just looking for justification, nothing more... and that makes you a sad and pathetic man.

[Pietka shakes his head, his smile fading away and his eyes reflecting a look of disdain in them.]

D. Pietka: Truly, Marcus... I pity you.

But you haven't changed... and there's no war.

Ascension, there'll just be you and me. The outcome? I could care less about it. Wrestlebowl? I get my belt back... and I'll be damned that, if it gets stolen again, that you get to be the one to benefit from the theft.

I'd sooner apologize for the Tour, you self-righteous twat.

[Pietka stares into the camera, the disdain in his eyes forming into disgust. Without much preamble, he gets off the wall and walks away.]

D. Pietka: Fuck this... I'm done talking.

[He walks towards a nearby door and kicks it open, walking through it before it has a chance to smack him for his insolence. Fade.]

***********

Andrew Davis

*********** 

[The rolling hills of Scotland.  Pulling back, the camera reveals a stool, standing apart from its luscious surroundings.  Andrew Davis walks into frame, taking a seat on the stool.  Dressed in his standard fashion, he removes his D&G sunglasses and slides them into his breast pocket.  He runs a hand through his hair, gently tussled by the breeze.]

Davis:  After last Conquest, where I was pinned by Marissa Monet, you wouldn’t believe the amount of digital communications I received.  The people of the world were worried about Andrew Davis.  The general consensus was that losing to Marissa Monet was an event so traumatic, so life-altering, that the only course was for me to commit seppuku and cut open my rock hard abs.

[Andrew smiles and stands up.]

Davis: I assure you, fans, that there are worse things in the world than losing than Marissa Monet.  In fact, I feel no worse for wear.  My heart does not hang heavy.  The reason for my good will, you ask?

Andrew Davis doesn’t do gimmick matches.

Obviously, I compete in them, but it is not my forte.  Usain Bolt may be the fastest man on the planet, but put him in a mile run and his chances plummet.  Similarly, put me in a one on one match for a World Title, and I don’t lose.  Make it a tag team, or lumberjack, or James O’Connor horseshit special, and my odds drop.

Which is fine with me.

Marissa Monet pinning me does nothing to my public persona.  I am not looked down upon, nor am I pitied.  Because she grabbed a pin during a lumberjack match.  If LeBron James has a hand tied behind his back, is it a tragedy if he loses?  If the New York Yankees lose one game to the lowly Baltimore Orioles, is that a sign that the apocalypse is upon us?

No.

Did I lose any sleep after losing to Eddie Christian’s lesser half?  Am I going to act like Shayne Grissom, cry and stomp my feet, beg for my release like an infant because life isn’t fair?

No.

[Andrew takes a seat back on the stool.]

Davis: I know that there are some voices out there who proclaimed that this is exactly what I needed.  Losing to the Shark would refocus me, bring me to a matchless plain of existence.  I believe that I heard the term, “back to reality.”  I like that.  Back to reality.  Let me, for a moment, take you back to reality.

[Andrew snaps his fingers, and the rolling Scottish hills disappear.  Andrew sits in front of a white background, the stool the only remaining piece of the previous vision.  He smiles.]

Davis: Let me introduce you to reality.  If Shootfire Pro is a hurricane, I am at the eye of the storm, constant, unaffected, untouched.  There are three men in Shootfire today who have won the World Title: Sammy Knight, Dave Pietka, and Steve Greedy.  Each have carried the belt once.  The Age of Andrew Davis has consisted of a record breaking three title reigns.  That is inarguable.  That is impossible to deny.

Andrew Davis, in reality, is the great wrestler in the world today.  In reality, AD3 has held Shootfire’s prize more often and longer than any other, period.

[Andrew starts walking to the left, away from the stool, past a fan (the fake wind from earlier) and continues speaking, white nothingness continuing.]

Davis: This upcoming Conquest, the go home show before Wrestlebowl, I step into the ring, side by side with Sammy Knight.  Now, by all rights, I should immediately hit him with a Headshot and walk away, leaving him to the dogs.  After all, he was one of the many, many people involved in having the Shootfire World Championship temporarily removed from my waist.

I should be pissed.  I should want revenge.  But I have to say, I am far more intrigued by this change in his personality.

[Andrew pauses.]

Davis: For more than a year, I battled this man.  At two pay per views, we caused the world to stop spinning and sit and stare.  Once, I walked in the challenger and out the champion.  Once, I walked in the champion and walked out with the belt still around my waist.  The whole time, Sammy Knight was doing his Shootfire’s Superhero routine, rescuing kittens from trees and helping Vile “Vince” Viper cross the street.

I implored him, begged him, pleaded with him to drop the façade.  Enough with the do-goodery.  Stop thinking about what your fans will think of your actions.  Embrace yourself, and they will embrace you for your authenticity.

Sammy Knight has the potential to be the greatest wrestler in the world.  He also has the potential to be a role model.  He can’t be both.

And look at him now.  Last week, he appeared out of nowhere and attacked Jakob Volga.  Why did he do this?  What was his motivation?  Silence was his response, which is the ultimate “Fuck you.”  And I couldn’t be prouder.

Can you imagine the potential of this Sammy Knight, the new Sammy Knight?  A man who doesn’t care, who doesn’t give a shit, who isn’t controlled by management or the whims of the children in the audience, children who desperately are looking for guidance after their parents have failed them time and time again?

[Andrew pauses, enjoying the endless possibilities of this situation.]

“Heartless” Jakob Volga and “Jester” Chad Allen?  A neanderthal from Cleveland and a clown from Hell have nothing on the Lightweight Legend and an unhinged Sammy Knight.  Will we win?  How could anything else be possible?

[Andrew smiles, snaps his fingers, and Scotland reappears behind him.]

Davis: In reality, the team of Davis & Knight is the best in the world.  Without question.  Without doubt.  Without equal.

[Andrew slides on his sunglasses and walks out of frame, the camera zooming into the Scottish Highlands.  Fade to black.]

***********

   Sammy Knight

***********

[Sunrise.]

[The gentle sounds of waves crashing against the morning sand tease your ear drums.]

*WHOOSH*

*WHOOSH*

*WHOOSH*

[As the sun slowly peeks over the horizon, ready to shine down on a bright April day in Southern California, the beach is practically empty.  Except for a few seagulls desperately diving and pecking for a morning meal, the only other thing on the beach today is not really a thing at all.

It’s a man.

Standing where a set of footprints in the stand stop is Sammy Knight. The survivor of a recent shooting is standing barefoot with a pair of khaki cargo shorts, a tight white wife-beater and a pair of Aviator style sunglasses.

Somehow he looks different.

Maybe it’s his physique as Knight appears to be in even better shape then previously.  The wife-beater barely contains his muscular build. Perhaps it’s the neatly trimmed black beard that carefully navigates the curves of his acute jaw structure.  Then again, it could be the peace that appears to blanket him.

Regardless, he’s here.  This morning.  Alone.  Overlooking the great Pacific Ocean on the eve of his return to a Shootfire ring, Knight thoughtfully begins to open his mouth.]

KNIGHT:  Perspective.

[He pauses, looking out on the magnificently shining ocean spectacle.]

KNIGHT:  It’s the subjective evaluation of relative significance.

[Another pause.]

KNIGHT:  Or in simpler terms, a point of view.

[Knight turns towards the camera, his face colored with calmness.]

KNIGHT:  A lot has happened to me in these past six months.

[You can almost see Knight mentally recounting the months.]

KNIGHT:  Circumstances that have caused me to truly re-evaluate my priorities, my life, and consequently my place within this company.  I was tired.  Tired of being shackled to a system of morals that I didn’t always agree with.  Tired of being anchored to an image that didn’t always fit me.  Tired of being enslaved to a company that when push came to shove saw me as nothing more than a field nigga helping them sell their version of post-antebellum cotton.

[No anger, hate or malevolence can be detected in the carefully chosen words of the superstar.]

KNIGHT:  But you see, it took tragedy for me to see truth.  Life is funny like that.  Constricted to the hospital room while trying to recover after multiple 16-hour surgery sessions, I should’ve been happy; grateful for the gift of a steady heartbeat.  Elated for another chance at life.

But I wasn’t.

Not one bit.

Because I was angry.  And not at the lil nigga who pulled the trigger on me and my son.  But at the supposed family that turned their back on me.

At SPW.

[Knight leans over and after rummaging through the sand momentarily, picks up a smooth rock and looks down at it, fidgeting with it in his hand.]

KNIGHT:  Yet one morning, after deep prayer, I realized that I wasn’t angry.  I was hurt.  Sad.  I felt abandoned.  Left to rot at a California hospital because the great wrestling company and the majority of its locker room wanted nothing to do with a gangster.

Because that’s how I was painted by all too many of you.

Painted with the brush that said ‘he deserved that.’

[Knight turns towards the rolling ocean and throws the rock towards it.  A small splash ensures.]

KNIGHT:  To you, I wasn’t the Sammy Knight who had the longest championship reign in the company’s elite history.  I wasn’t the same person who valiantly stood-up and defended Shootfire against the Invaders at the expense of that very same championship.  I wasn’t the same locker room influence who shed blood time and time again for anything that had to do with the SPW flag.  I was none of those anymore.

I was simply a statistic.  Another nigga from the streets who probably got what he deserved.  And in turn, I was painted as a cancer.  A headache soon to be forgotten.

[The words candidly flow smoothly off of Knight’s tongue.]

KNIGHT:  Accolades, respect and past handshakes made nothing.  Because for that moment, while my life laid in the balance, Shootfire found an opening.  And in turn, I truly learned that it ain’t always in what _WAS_ said, but in what _WASN’T_ said.  Not in what _WAS_ done but in what _WASN’T_ done.

[He takes off his glasses, carefully hanging them from the collar of his tank top.  The honesty in Knight’s eyes pierce the camera:  he truly believes in what he’s saying.]

KNIGHT:  Shootfire made it very clear where they stood.  Sure they issued their little corporate statement.  One of those pre-written cookie-cutter responses strait from a Rolodex of ‘corporate emergencies.’  But that was it.  Nothing more.  Not for myself.  Not for my family.  Nothing.

And as a result I saw right through it.

Good riddance.

Good motherfuckin’ riddance.

[He nods his head slightly.]

KNIGHT:  You see, massa’ wasn’t happy with me at that time.  I wasn’t being a good little boy.  I disrupted the Davis-Viper match.  I caused them to change up their whole championship program for Wrestle Bowl.

[Knight points to himself.]

KNIGHT:  Yes me.  I did that.  Because I wanted to.  Because I could.

So they were happy to see me gone.  And now?

[He lets out a small breath of a chuckle.]

KNIGHT:  They’re scared shitless.  Because the chicken is coming home to roost.

[A stare of intensity.]

KNIGHT:  Because they have _NO_ idea of what Sammy Knight is going to do.  And that’s exactly why they’ve booked me in this handicap match.

[Knight quickly follows up.]

KNIGHT:  Yes I know that it’s technically a tag match but again, the wool is gone and I see this match for exactly what it is.

The plantation owner extracting revenge on its wild buck.

[He starts slowly walking down the shoreline.]

KNIGHT:  Why else would they put me in the same ring against Chad Allen and Jacob Volga?  And out of _EVERY_ name in the locker room, why would they choose Andrew Davis to be my “teammate?”

[A hint of sarcasm ends his sentence.]

KNIGHT:  They want me to fail.  Expect me to fail.  _NEED_ me to fail. You see, I’ve been cleared to wrestle for the past two Conquests, but I’ve gotten the runaround.

The ‘not yet Sammy.’

The God-damned middle finger.

So I took my return into my own hands, and _RIGHT_ upside the head of the Heartless Tinman himself.

They’re not ready for _THIS_ Sammy Knight.

[He pauses to gather his thoughts on the upcoming match.]

KNIGHT:  Andrew, I truly don’t have shit to say to you.  You’re insignificant to me right now.

Bigger fish.

Bigger threat.

Better payoff.  You do you.  I do me.  Period.

[Again, deadpan honesty.]

KNIGHT:  Allen?

[He shakes his head.]

KNIGHT:  You know all about sacrificial lambs.  So if I were you, I’d act as a revolving door to the coward who is your tag partner.  You’re smart enough to know that you ain’t my target.  In fact, your eyes are on the individual who will happen to be in my corner.  Devil or not, here’s a deal for you:

[He again peers directly into the camera.]

KNIGHT:  You can have my deadweight and I’ll have yours.

[Beat.]

KNIGHT:  Deal?

[He continues.]

KNIGHT:  If not.  It ain’t nothin’.  I’ve faced the barrel of a gun and refused to back down.  You think I’m going to heed to any threat of yours?

[Knight looks at the camera, feigning a quizzical look.]

KNIGHT:  He will feel my wrath.  The question is will you as well.

[He pauses, turning his back to the camera.]

KNIGHT:  And that you, is Jakob.

[He shakes his head.]

KNIGHT:  Friend or foe, it doesn’t ever matter does it.  You’re nothing more than a false idol of diligence and promise.  You obviously like to think that you’re invincible, and that you simply have no limitations. And when you’re the chosen bankroller of the plantation powers that run this federation, you’ve grown to believe that you’re invincible.  And I don’t necessarily blame you.

But you see Jakob, I know just how fragile your bones truly are.

And come Conquest, your closet’s skeleton will be revealed.  And not only will the entire world revel in its bright yellow color, but they will also see how brittle your soul truly is.

[As Knight turns to the camera, a certain flare fills his eyes with a loud passion.]

KNIGHT:  And then, nobody will pity what I eventually do to you.

[A loud crashing is heard as a sudden wave crashes hard on a set a rocks behind him.]

KNIGHT:  Nobody.

[Fade to black.]