Off The Chain Season 12 Episode 7

(I was the small one. The weak one. I was the princess. The only child. 
I was the heritage. The lineage. Maybe some other day. Because today I’m 
almost on top of the world. Mommy washed her hands of me. Daddy turned 
his back. Left alone to my own devices and I like it that way. True I 
was he self proclaimed intellectual loner, but I’m getting used to 
having him in my life. It doesn’t even feel like a relationship. Is this 
what perfect feels like? I dgress. This tape on my hand makes anything 
remotely involving my love life, menial. I have ground to make up. A war 
to wage)
 
Orchid: I never left. I just stepped aside long enough to forge 
vulernable doubts in your petty minds. Especially you Wright. If you 
were hoping I had run, tucked my tail between my legs and whimpered off 
to my lovers arms, you were sadly mistaken. Despite the size, I have a 
lot of heart. A lot of fight. I’m a hard woman to keep down. This thing 
between you and me? Not over. It won’t be until your scare tactics and 
your dismissive tragedies cease. But before I set the torch aflame...I 
need to take a journey down a personal lane.”
 
Orchid: Erika. I used to look up to you. You taught me so many things. 
You helped me perfect my style. You tainted my mind with critical 
thinking and exact precision. Almost was never enough for you. When 
everyone else looked at me with tinted eyes, telling me that I was a 
fraud. Whe they judged me. Judged my decision to go pro. You stood by 
me. You instilled in me many lessons and parables. So to sit here and 
see you in his over emotional, dark and dreary state, makes me ashamed 
to know you.”
 
Orchid: What happened to you Erika? Where did you go wrong? You used 
tobe so proud, so prolific. You were a trail blazer, a super star, when 
did the bottom fall out? Better question is...what happened to us?”
 
(I exmained my hands. They were dirty. Bloody. My nails were chipped and 
dull. I was okay with that. I hung my head. She was my first true 
friend. Now...we didn’t reconize each other)
 
Orchid: We were best friends Erika. We were inseperable. Counter culture 
sisters, bonded by this business. You had my back and I had yours. No 
matter what. Then I moved to Paris. I walked away from the pro circuit 
for awhile. Focused on my side projects. Was it really that awful a 
thing to do Erika? I was facing a nervous break down. I wasn’t made of 
stone like you. I heard the rumors. You got mad at me all because I 
left. Told anyone who would listen that I sold out. That I lost my heart 
and smile. That hurt Erika. It hurt alot. I trusted you. I opened my 
heart and soul to you. I called you friend and then you just go and spit 
venom like that?”
 
“But I understood after awhile. This business was all you had. Your 
family had turned it’s back on you when you came clean. You were their 
biggest disappointment. I won’t out you here. No. I’m not like you. I 
will say this, I find it hard to not feel a hatred welling up inside of 
me. Especially after that stunt you pulled in the air port. You blew 
past me like I was invisable. Now here you are, broke down and pathetic 
and I want to gloat. I want to spit in your face like you spit in mine 
and laugh but, I don’t want to BE you. It took awhile, but eventually, I 
got over it. I went past it. I got on with my life. I stopped dialing 
six digits then changing my mind. I stopped writing the email then 
discarding the draft. Letting go of you was hard for me, you were the 
first best friend I ever had. I know how pathetic and sad that sounds, 
but when you spend the majority of your life in self alienation, away 
from the mainstream and rueing the very thought of social order, it 
really doesn’t seem all that bad.”
 
“I’m not mad anymore Erika, but I am disappointed. I no longer regret my 
decision to walk away for awhile. I see what has happened to you and 
it’s pathetic. You’re a former shadow of yourself. It’s almost 
depressing. To be frank, I don’t really expect much from you going into 
this match. You aren’t the wrestler you used to be. And thats sad....so 
I leave you to your self loathing and my thoughts shift...”
 
(I wasn’t a woman who was prone to such delicate things as jealousy, 
hatred nor was I quick to anger. And even slower to wrath. I was 
normally a calm and composed individual, which might explain why it blew 
peoples minds to see me in the ring. The gloves came off, the tape went 
on, and I went into a zone of pain. It even made my beau look at me in 
wonderment. From my first bloody match, to limping out and verbally 
blasting Poet, the so calledly most horrific woman in SPW. I was 
fearless. This was my pride and joy and nobody would stand in my way. I 
rose up, pacing in that ring, waiting impatiently for my sparring 
partner. I could feel that fire brewing inside of me)
 
Orchid: I’m not done with you by a long shot Poet. I may very well never 
will be and I’m okay with that. Because Quite honestly, I think you met 
your match in me. I have a saddistic and wicked side, but it lies 
dormant in my aresenal, just waiting for that right and perfect time. 
I’m a woman full of suprises. Meanwhile, you, are not. You’re pretty 
basic really. Just a horriby scarred little girl, hiding behind a mask 
and a buncha boogey man kinda schtick that eventually, if you’re 
brilliant, gets tired and old. These other broads may quiver and run in 
fear from you, but you already know that I will step toe to toe and 
knock you flat out. I don’t need scare tactics or politics. No slight of 
hand or tricks up my sleeve. You ALWAYS see me coming and you always see 
me go. Some people around here respect that, but when it comes to you, 
outside of your little world, you respect no one. You respect nothing. 
Not even that belt you keep chasing after. Which is why I still don’t 
think you deserve it. I don’t care how hard you work or how spooky you 
are, you’re a horrible human being that preys on the fears of others and 
you show absolutely no respect for your fellow wrestlers, not the fans 
and not that belt. You’re a disgrace to it. I think maybe, that’s why I 
don’t like you.”
 
“I was trained with devout respect for this game. I was trained with zen 
like flamboyancy. I’m a healthy human being with a sound mind and a deep 
rooted faith. What do YOU believe in Poet? Anything? I doubt it. What do 
you hold dear that isn’t worldly or frail? Probably nothing. I’m not 
gloating about my time in Japan, I could, but I won’t. I will say that, 
maybe the reason seeing my former best friend so wrapped up in gloom 
strikes me, is because of who she was and where she came from. She 
slipped. It all fell away, but what I went through. My training, my 
conditioning, it was life altering. When was the last time your life was 
altered in a positive way? The last time you made someone bleed?”
 
“It’s all about pain and destruction for you. That makes you a very sad 
individual. It really does. It’s women like you that make this business 
hard for pure professionals like me. You take this business and you warp 
it with your twisted views of the world, with your souless and heartless 
demeanor and you destroy everything that’s good and right. You make a 
mockery of the thrill of competition, because women like you have to 
blow up when the match doesn’t go your way. I’m not saying I’m right, or 
that I’m better then you, I’m just saying, your whole outlook on life, 
your whole personality? It sucks. Your persistant objective to hurt and 
maim, to control and destroy, gives me reason to persue you to the 
absolute ends of this earth and return our war path of hate and anger, 
three fold. I’m your karma Poet. Karma doesn’t go away. I promise.”
 
(Finally he slinks in. Owen in all his majesty. Who did you think I was 
going to spar with? This relationship is for good and bad. By bad I mean 
when I totally own him after a session and he says it was a “long day”. 
I watched him throw his bag aside and I started to stretch my legs.)
 
Orchid: One last thing Erika, do you remember when you said to me one 
night, “The death of the weak gives birth to the rise of the mighty”? I 
think I’ll die another day....
 
++end++

***********

Johnny Pain

***********

 V/O: It's apparent I'm becoming a threat to the SPW head honcho's or they wouldn't be booking me the way they are. God damn I love adversity!

[The camera would open on Johnny Pain. He's sitting on the hood of his 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air convertible, wearing a nice button up blue shirt with a pair of black slacks, matching socks and leather shoes. He also wears a smile on his face.]

Pain: So this week I wasn't booked on Conquest but Ascension, I guess they need a spike in their ratings because when I'm on TV, people tune in to watch. Everyone wants to see me taken down, and what better match to see me injured in than a table match! Next to a submission match, a table match is my best match, so I see this as another turn in my favor!

[Johnny crosses his arms that smile leaves his face for a moment, his demeanor switches to a more serious tone.]

Pain: Who in this match isn't out to get me? Montana, I unleashed some real punishment on him after he beat me one on one, Ray Ray, well he might be bitter because I walked away from Code of Honor, what a joke that was. Shaw, well he couldn't beat me straight up so he had to cheat to win, but he's on my team, not sure how that's going to work. Rich Patterson, not sure about him, but he might be jealous I'm more hated than he is. Finally we come to the Fusion Champion himself, Eddie Christian. I'm the biggest threat to his title and I'm damn sure he knows that. Why wouldn't he gun for me and try to put my ass through a table to soften me up before Wrestlebowl to make sure I didn't a one on one match with him? I would if I were in his position.

[Johnny pushes off the hood and stands, he turns and pulls a rag from his back pocket and buffs the car where he was sitting and steps towards the camera which zooms back a bit to get Johnny into the picture.]

Pain: So, it's a six man tag tables match, you don't really see many of those now-days, not even a tag team table match. So I have my work cut out for me, I have to keep my eye's on everybody, I don't trust anyone in this match, not even my teammates. Of course, you can guarantee that come hell or high water, I am putting someone through a table. Who will it be?

[Johnny shrugs.]

Pain: Well, that will just be left up to fate won't it?

[Johnny begins to laugh as that cynical smile creases back over his face, and the scene fades to black.]

***********

Castro Shaw

***********

Fade in from boring.

An undisclosed location in probably some place that doesn't really matter because this is a wrestling promo and really it could take place from the moon if there was enough in the CGI budget for us to trick you.  Fuck it.  This one is taking place from the moon.  Standing by, on the moon, is none other than the Love Blender himself, the Love Blender.  You know him by the name of Castro Shaw, your mother will continue to refer to him as the Love Blender, however.

Shaw is still looking good these days, his head shaved but starting to show a little bit of a dark fuzz, his face is chisled and his natural darker skin looking as good as ever.  He wears a pair of mirrored shades because he's a total prick and those are the types of people who wear those sunglasses.  He is wearing a black t-shirt which has the sleeves ripped off and has a graphic of a blender on it.

Remember, we're on the moon.]

CASTRO: A lot of people are sayin' to the main mang, hey main mang do you think you will be able to handle all those matches at Wrestlebowl?

'dats when I just look at them and shake my head and say tirate a un poso, bastardo.  Do you think 'dat the main mang can't handle being stuck in a match with a bunch of culeros like Johnny Pain and Colt Montana?  Two guys 'dat stepped into the ring wit me and got their asses handed to them.

Come on.

El Rey and Rich Patterson couldn't be picked out of a line-up by half of the retards who watch Conquest each week, think those guys stand a chance?         Cake walk, amigos, look it up.

[He pauses.]

CASTRO: As for the champ?  Someone's gotta hold onto the title, I guess.  Might as well have been the king of the short-bus window lickers, Eddie Christian, mang.  So, 'dat takes care of 'dat.

As for the rest, mang.  I hope these captains didn't actually draft these teams, I hope they didn't sit in some war room and make phone calls tryin' to draft these culeros.  Hey look, mang, I got Frostbite and on my team!

Holy crap.  Team down syndrome is formed.

[Again he pauses, probably needing some more air because we're still on the moon.]

CASTRO: So when the mouth breathin' neck beards who inhabit 'dat other show ask me 'dat stupid question you now understand what goes through my mind.  You now understand how much restraint I have to show not to kill'em all, mang.

Wrestlebowl?  I'm gonna fuck 'dat place up like oil in Gulf of Mexico, amigo.

[Shaw stops and turns his head towards the side.]

CASTRO: Uno, Dos, Tres.  Arriba!

[The three masked midget wrestlers suddenly appear, and they're not even wearing space suits.]

CASTRO: I jus' had a thought.  Lápiz!

[Uno holds up a pencil.]

CASTRO: Papel!

[Dos holds up a pad of paper.]

CASTRO: Hand them to Tres.

[Which they do.]

CASTRO: Write this down, first we steal a four hundred pound gorilla from the zoo, Dos you'll be in charge of 'dat one.  Uno, you can train the gorilla to fight... no wait, even better!

Scratch all of 'dat!  Dos instead, use the phone and order me some plane tickets, we're all headed to Toronto, Canada.

Yes, Toronto.

[They all look at each other confused.]

CASTRO: 'dats right!  The main mang is headed to Conqu...

[He pauses and starts to heave a little bit.]

CASTRO: Conque... hold on.  Get the bucket.

[Uno disappears as Castro fights back the urge to throw up.  He returns with a wastebasket.]

CASTRO: Conquest.

[No vomit.  Nothing.  The three masked midgets all give Castro an round of applause for finally making it through that word without puking all over the place.]

CASTRO: First, we need to get off the moon, amgios.

[With that, we fade to black.]

*************

Rich Patterson

*************

[Rich Patterson is backstage at the WHATEVER THE HELL ARENA, wearing a protective face mask as he uses spray paint on an unseen object.  After a few moments, he pauses to admire his handiwork and takes the mask off of his face, and turns toward the camera]

They say this stuff should be used in a well-ventilated area, as the effects of inhaling this stuff can range from feeling dizzy to needing a one-way ticket to the emergency room.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

[Patterson pulls the mask over his head, tossing it aside]

Others, meanwhile, believe that this stuff can be used as a cheap and easy way to get high, ignoring that they could do irreparable damage to their mind and body in doing so, because it sounded like the smartest idea at that moment in time or, just as likely, they find their reality to be so very, very boring.

If there’s one thing I can tell you about the concept of reality, it isn’t “overrated” as some sloganeering shit-for-brains might want to tell you in order to seem “cool” and shift a few thousand more units of merchandise to Bovine America.  No, the notion of reality is so very underrated, because nobody wants to admit to the reality of their daily lives, let alone the reality that their actions will come back to crucify them no matter how much they want to portray themselves as the victim.

[Patterson inhales a deep breath of the solvent-infused air]

That is the way they want to escape: Quickly.  Painlessly.  So easy, you wouldn’t realise you were doing it until somebody told you exactly what you were doing.  Rather than engage the mind or the spirit, the body is the tool for your life of denial.

Denial, like how James O’Conner wanted you all to believe that I’d target his wound because I’m “the bad guy”, rather than confess to himself and the world that he earned every last second of searing, burning, Godless agony that shot through his body when I exposed what was supposedly a weak point as something far greater – as a conduit for vengeance.  Right now, you can bet that he’s bitching and pissing that I left him broken, battered and bruised in the ring out of spite, because it’s so easy to paint your opponent in colours that suit the bullshit you’re spouting than it is to take responsibility.

Responsibility is a word that Eddie Christian doesn’t know the meaning of.

How often has he had the nerve to run his mouth about what I do without having the balls to be in the same arena as me?  How often has he and that steroidal whore friend of his interfered in my business?

No, neither of these are rhetorical questions – I am demanding an answer, because you know the answer to my question, but Christian doesn’t want you to say what it is out loud, in case it shatters the image he wants to project of himself.

Think back, Christian, to when those belts you claim to treasure left your grasp.  Did you lose them when those big bad enemies of yours ran down to the ring when you were preoccupied with other opponents, or did they do it right in front of you, to your face, and you did nothing?

That’s right, Christian, I know that you know the answer – YOU are the ones that have to resort to attacking your perceived threats from behind, YOU are those that want to sacrifice Team EGO to what you doubtless call “My Greater Good” when in the privacy of your own malignant arrogance, and YOU are the pair that are not carrying yourselves as fit and proper championship material.  Real champions don’t lose titles for weeks on end, Christian, and they certainly don’t have to resort to sneak attacks on their opposition on a weekly basis.

Unfortunately for you, Christian, there always comes a time where you have to pay for your delusions of worth, and you cannot manage the circumstances of when the Reaper is standing at your door bearing your name and a will of the coldest steel.  Rather than stall and delay the inevitable, Judgment Day came early, and you find yourself across the ring from me in the sort of match that I salivate at the thought of: A match where I don’t have to pretend to give a fuck about the Rules & Regulations, and instead focus on the task in hand – erasing the insignificant speck of his parent’s drunken fumble, and to do so at my leisure.

I’m aware that there’s another four people in the match, Christian, but they don’t figure in this little game of Fate; Shaw and Pain, whoever the hell you’re chucked together with, they’re merely bystanders that provide the sideshow for the moment of your impending destruction.

But I know you, Christian, and know that you cannot play by the rules, and have to have something tucked in your sleeve to make you look like the Big Man, even though you actually look like a cowardly piece of shit.  That’s why I have made preparations…

[Patterson indicates for the cameraman to come forward, and it pans to show a table wrapped in barbed wire, with “MONET” spray painted onto it]

Are you so arrogant that you thought this was for you, Christian?

I have all kinds of sick shit planned for you, but that’s because you deserve it – this, however, is something very different.  THIS, Christian, is not about a wrestling match, tables or no tables.  This is about making a statement, drawing a line in the sand that, if crossed, will turn out to be a chasm that you become trapped deep within.

Take this as a warning: If you want your partner to cover your sorry ass and do the dirty work you are clearly incapable of doing face-to-face with ANYONE, your Lord is my witness she will meet this specially-prepared gift with more force than you can imagine is humanly possible, and the only way you can consider her your partner is if they allow cripples to be wheeled in and out of the ring without it being considered outside interference.

Are we clear, Christian?

[Patterson pauses, his eyes piercing a deep hole into the lens of the camera]

Well, are we?

[FTB]

**************

Eddie Christian

**************

[Crash!]

[The sounds we hear are the waves of the Atlantic Ocean as they crash up against the formation of rock jetties that extends from the land out to the sea delineating several parts of the beach. The sun's heat beats down upon us as it's 93 degrees, and from the formation looking onto land you can see that several people are enjoying this weather as the beach is fairly populated. Standing tall in the background of the beach is the Wonder Wheel ferris wheel. Yes, we're in Coney Island, Brooklyn. The atmosphere of this place is very relaxing, we pan around and see the "Born Champion" Eddie Christian staring through his Marc Jacobs sunglasses out into the endless Atlantic. He wears an all white athletic fit polo, olive green cargo shorts, complete with a pair of all white nike air force one. The SPW Fusion championship rests across his left shoulder as he uses the same arm for supporting the weight of the title.]

Eddie: "The last time I was in the Big Apple, I was fighting in the blistering cold for this very title that I carry today. Charity Carnage 09.. I left NYC empty handed, and I return with what I had been chasing for since it's inception.

[Not removing his eyes from the horizon, he points to the Fusion title on his shoulder.]

Somethings in life do come full circle, and with that hard work and determination, will get you whatever goal you set after. I stand before you proof of that. I have been chasing this title since Ringu Faia.. and now I am champion.. it has been a dream come true for me.. it ended my almost year chase..but now I have to work harder.. very harder than before because this championship isn't just another accolade under the belt of Eddie Christian.. no, this belt dignifies something much more than that to me. It shows me that a local star out of a defunct Philadelphia wrestling league can swim with the big fish. The torch has been turned over and we're in a new era of Shootfire... the legacy that has been built with this company is incomparable, but it's time to add to it..further it.. I know what I have to do... I've laid out my plans at the start of the new year.. and at Ascension I start laying the foundation to my Shootfire legacy."

[a smile breaks his stern face.]

Eddie: "I'm prepared, and I hope you 5 are too. A 6 man tag team tables match is serious, especially before Wrestlebowl where almost all of us have multiple matches that night anyway, especially me with two title defenses. But hey, this is the path that we chose.. And while each of you may look at this match and see it as a possible momentum booster for you leading into the PPV.. I look at it entirely differently. Tonight i see an opportunity for us to demonstrate the heart, hard work, and show off how dedicated we are to our craft and the dreams that we chase. And in doing such, I too will show you why I am the reigning SPW Fusion champion..

[He finally breaks his stare from the horizon.]

Are you ready? Colt, El Rey, Johnny Pain, Patterson, and Castro.. the world is watchin. They are ready to see which one of you possess the capabilities to replace Shayne Grissom.. they want to see which one of you can compete to the same caliber as him.. and possibly pose an equal if not greater threat than he did to my championship.."

[He brings the sunglasses to the tip of his nose, letting those deep brown eyes look at us directly for the first time.]

Eddie: "I've been in the ring with both El Rey and Colt. The two of them are good wrestlers, very fast paced and innovative. I personally don't think this match could've been booked any better because the dynamic of our team is uncanny. I respect both of those guys and what they've done in their careers, which is why I chose them when I decided to use the Boneyard brawl as the deciding factor to who gets to challenge me. I know the two of them can hang.. and they're about theirs when it comes to getting busy in the ring. And tonight the world will watch the three of us make our statements as we put Johnny Pain, Patterson, and little Tony Montana through tables..

[He nods approvingly]

They will watch as the three of you are dissected in NYC and exposed for your lies, thievery, and cheap game. Johnny Pain has finally realized that his career has been nothing but short of laughable, now he's decided to take this bad ass route in life and call out Eddie Christian every time he's in front of a camera. He says he's beaten me multiple times, yet he's thirsty for my attention.. he even went as far as going to Samantha Bevins. Why Johnny? For a man who's mopped the floor with me on multiple occassions, what point do you have to prove by doing it again? Why not find another target that can pose a threat to you since obviously I don't? It's because you're delusional Johnny. You're fabricating stories to build some false ego, so everyone will stop laughing at you.. so your career can actually mean something. You need so me sense of security.. a sense of belonging.."

[He chuckles in disgust.]

Eddie: "Sorry Johnny. I hate to inform you.. but you're just a washed-up never was. You're forgotten, stop trying to get shine off Eddie Christian.. because you've never beaten me in a one on one match or any match for that matter. And that trend is not going to start tonight either. Not by you and you're buddies. Castro Shaw, SPW's resident version of Tony Montana.. to say you're anything short of average would be an understatement. Actually, I kinda like you.. keyword there is kinda.. you've taken the Ascension brand by storm.. and caused a little small ripple for yourself. Now you think you're ready to step up and challenge Eddie Christian? I don't have any problems with that.. that's why I chose for you to take part in the Boneyard brawl. I wanna see how determined you are.. I want to see if you're actions back up that cocky little mouth of yours when the pressure is up against you. I wanna see how long it's gonna take for you to crack and go crawling back under that rock in Miami. And if I had to guess just by looking at you? I'd say you wouldn't even make it Wrestlebowl.

[He removes the Fusion title and shoves it into the camera.]

This is what it's about Castro... this is what you want a shot at, right? Prove your worth Castro.. now is your time. You're sick of playing with the little boys? Earn your shot, earn your keep. Do you have what it takes esse? Or are you just another buster who's all mouth? What are you willing to sacrifice for this title homie? Because that's what it's all about.. sacrifice. Show me what you got little man."

[He removes the title from the camera screen and you can see that he's broken a small sweat.. he places the title back on his shoulder.]

Eddie: "But I guess you guys should feel good, after all Rich Patterson is on your team.. the very man who has alluded me for the past couple of weeks, him and his thieving clan of bitches.. they steal what they cannot win. They ambush what they cannot beat. Patterson is the culprit of why Monet and I are on this wild goose chase to get our titles back. He cannot simply keep his hands to himself, and tonight at a Ascension is the first time that Patterson and I will step in the ring against each other since that incident. So Rich, what's your game plan for tonight? You're gonna attack me backstage again? Because that's how you and your groupies roll. Rich to be honest, of all the challengers you're possibly sitting in the best possible situation. You're vying for a shot at me twice.. you have a valid opportunity to take both my titles in one night. Oh snap, sounds like a real good idea for you to try to achieve... and I know that you and your gang have been discussing this amongst yourselves.

[He snaps his fingers.]

But snap back to reality Rich.. because that's not going to happen. Not now, not at Wrestlebowl..and it couldn't make me any more happier than to mop the floor with you twice in one night. I would say that your greed is going to end up being your downfall, but you pretty much have nowhere else to fall to. You're at the bottom, you can barely walk, let alone crawl out of the SPW gates.. you were shown quickly that this is a different playground than what you played with in ICWF. Bad Luck? What a feeble attempt and two struggling wrestlers uniting because they are too weak to stand on their own in this com pany. Unlike the other morons Rich, it's my goal to make sure that you're the one stretchered out of New York City. Your fate was sealed the moment you didn't back out of the Boneyard Brawl when I selected you to participate. You're gonna drown Rich, and you're gonna drown fast. I would tell you good luck, but after i kick you.. you'll just be back to your usual routine..  counting the lights on the arena roof."

[Eddie turns his body and begins to walk back to the shore, with his back turned he stops and looks back at us.]

Eddie: "Tonight is only the beginning.. I hope you're ready, because the Fusion champion is coming to wreck havoc to anyone that stands in his way and in doing so.. we will all leave New York City knowing that Eddie Christian is exactly what he say he is. Stack your cookies up, because they're about to crumble."

[He continues on his path to shore as we fade to black]

**********

Deathknell

**********

[We open with an almost pitch black scene, the sound of chains rattling as if something were struggling in shackles, accompanied by heavy, labored breathing.  One could almost make out a dim silhouette of a hulking, horned figure, faint light dimly gleaming off the side of a metal helmet.  Suddenly a pair of tiny, glowing red dots appear right where the head of the figure "might" be.  A most definitely male voice sounds, deep and heavy, as if coming up from the bowels of hell itself.]

Voice-  Another soul... weak...  FILLED with FEAR...  it calls!!

[He growls, fighting against the chains...]

....At Conquest... I rise again...  rise to feed...  to conquer... destroy...  DEVOUR!!!



I...



...Am...



DDDEEEAAAATTTTTHHHHHH KKKKNNNNNNEEEEELLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!

[We hear the sound of chains explosively snapping and clattering to the floor as a hellish roar sounds out!  The figure steps out beneath an overhead light, revealing the nightmare that is Death Knell, clad in full armor and furs, those glowing red eyes staring out from within the confines of that viking helmet.]

*****

Gyth

*****

[The scene opens upon one smug looking G-Man decked out in a classic style black leather jacket, matching pants and belt, boots, fingerless gloves, a dark blue tank-top, and a silver chain with a pair of dog tags around his neck.  We find him standing before a wall covered by an SPW Banner with his thumbs hooked in his belt.]

Gyth-  Well Johnny Boy, ya' may have won tha' match against me, but it wasn't exactly on tha' terms you wanted, was it?

[The G-Man snickers.]

You know, I wonder why people constantly make tha' mistake of underestimating me.  It's not like I walk into every match goin' "Oh you're a short fuck, I'll beat you easy!"  I look the other guy over, give a proper threat assessment, step up, and fuck 'em up accordingly.

[Gyth's crosses his arms over his chest, his head tilting back ever so slightly.]

...Most big guys like me would say ya' got lucky, Pain, but I actually applaud you for your fast thinkin' because otherwise, we both know what came next, and that you weren't gettin' back up from it.  Let's be honest here, you were lookin' for what you thought was an easy way to boost your ego and make people notice you again and say "Hey... Johnny's still got it!"

[He shakes his head, offering up yet another snicker.]

Though I'm a little insulted that you think so little of me, mate, I can't say as I blame you for wantin' to make a big impression.  Nothin' says badass like takin' down a guy who's almost 7 foot tall, covered in a shitloada' scars, and is known to be a violent, evil son of a bitch when pushed.

[Gyth sighs softly, shaking his head and leans against that banner covered wall, one leg crossed over the other.]

...and now I've gone from a full course meal, ta' bein' thrown snacks in tha' form of some guy named Drake Fantasy.  Kid, ya' name screams to me one of two things.  You're either tha' biggest queer ever ta' set foot in a wrestlin' ring, or you are a really huge fan of Ricardo Mantobahn.  Seein' as you're a bit young to know anythin' about a little TV show called Fantasy Island, I'm leanin' towards you preferrin' tube steak ta' fish fillet.

[He smirks.]

Drake, you better hope you have tha' wrestling chops ta' back up that stupid name, because it's gonna' be a long and excruciating night for you kid.  I've done far worse to far better wrestlers than you for lesser offenses than having a stupid name.  Now go make peace with God, the Devil, or whatever the fuck you choose to worship, because at Conquest, the Fantasy is over, and I'm bringing reality crashin' down on you're fuckin' head.

[A frown decorates his face and he looks off for a moment from the camera.  He's silent for several seconds, stroking his chin with an upturned thumb and index finger, as if in deep contemplation]

Mr. Caine, I know you think I should be grateful for what I've been granted here, and the opportunity to even be in a wrestlin' ring again, but I can't help but feel a bit... underwhelmed by what I've been presented with.  First....

[...His arms still crossed, he holds up a finger, counting off each of his points as he addresses them.]

...Ya' don't even use me or even advertise me in the slightest.  Second, ya' don't book me for a match until Johnny Pain whines about being unappreciated, completely ignoring the threat I presented on a public forum.  Third and final, when you do book me, it's against easy prey.  This Drake Fantasy kid has no fuckin' clue what you've signed him up for and it actually bothers me that you'd take a green kid and throw him at a guy who has a history that involves torture, burning, bodily mutilation, broken bones, crucifixions, and career endings.

[He lowers that hand down, uncrossing his arms from his chest only to place them behind his back, gripped at the wrist.  Gyth lowers his head and takes two steps forward.]

For my entire wrestlin' career, I've done alot of terrible things... Never once did I say I was sorry for doin' 'em.

[His head raises and with a steely gaze, he looks into the camera with a straight faced expression.]

I won't be sorry when this kid's layin' on his back, wonderin' why he can't feel his legs either.  You see, in wrestlin', it's about survival of tha' fittest.  There's nothin' personal about it, nothin' ta' feel ashamed of.  You do what you must by whatever means you have at your disposal.  Doesn't make ya' popular, just makes you better.

[The briefest of pauses.]

This kid has the misfortune of standing across the ring from me, and I bet dollars ta' donuts that he didn't even want ta' face me, and not with the same general disdain and contempt shared by many of the SPW Veterans and High Rollers that fill the locker room, but because he knows that a man like me, will mutilate a boy like him.

[He sighs softly and shrugs his shoulders, tilting his head slightly to the right, as if regarding someone on the other side of the lens...]

Ah well, who cares as long as you can sleep well at night, eh "Mister" Caine?  Guess we'll find out in a couple days.  Hopefully you're conscience won't be too much of a hangup.  I'll try not ta' stain the canvas too bad...  Gotta' keep it clean for tha' next match afterall.

[With a snicker, Gyth steps off camera, the scene quickly fading to black.]

*************

Asskick Nation

*************

[The scene opens inside a studio apartment, it's massive bay windows overlooking what appeared to be uptown Providence, Rhode Island.  The sun shines with an orange and violet hue over the city line, giving the view a beautiful artistic view that many a photographer would love to capture.  Before those bay windows is a large wrestling ring inhabited by "The Street Samurai" Spade, and Leon Corella, better known to SPW as Ass Kick Nation.  The two were in full ring gear, drenched in sweat, and appearently in the midst of a solid workout routine.]

Spade-  You've gotta' be more flexible in the ring, Leon.  The Pankration is a solid wrestling style, but you're stuck in the traditional...

[Suddenly Leon lunges forward, the two locking up in a collar elbow tie up.  Leon quickly pulls Spade into a high armbar, which Spade naturally backflips in place and whips Leon to the canvas with a fast arm drag.  Slapping the mat, Leon hops to his feet and moves in quickly on the Samurai.  Spade goes for a mid front kick, which Leon catches in his hand.  Corella's eyes widen as he knows what's coming next.  Ducking his head down, he narrowly avoids the incoming enziguri kick.  Before Spade can even try the back kick enziguri follow up, Leon releases that held foot, and kicks his standing leg out from under him!  To keep from falling face first on the mat, Spade tucks and rolls into the ropes, grabbing onto them and looking over his shoulder at Corella with a bit of a grin.]

Corella-  I saw that coming didn't I?  You can be flashy all you want, but against an opponent who has had it all thrown in his face, who has had victory stolen from him using such tactics time and again, it means little....

Spade-  I think that's enough exercise for one day.  Think we're ready for Team Kisarigi?

[Corella shrugs his shoulders and leans against the nearby ropes, an assistant off camera tossing him and Spade white towels.]

Corella-  I don't think much of Ono Hezonfaia, and he has a different guy named Kisarigi with him each week, and that person always gets injured.  You're big on that Japanese stuff, what's Kisarigi mean?  "Man who breaks bones?"

[The man chuckled, Spade smirking at him in return.]

Spade-  Don't know really, I'll have to look it up.  I wouldn't underestimate Ono, Leon.  He has alot more in common with me than you...

Corella-  Oh so He's all flash and trash too?

[Leon shoots Spade a wry grin, the Samurai offering up a dismissive chuckle.]

Spade-  No no, As in he's very fast and quick with his hands and feet.  You're fast for a guy with your muscle mass, but Ono is going to dance circles around you.

Corella-  Wouldn't be the first time I've had to take lumps and wait for some little bastard to make a mistake so that I can bend him up into a human pretzel.

[Corella rubs that towel across his face, head, and neck now, wiping away the sweat.  Spade dabs his forehead and slings his towel over his shoulder.]

Spade-  Just don't take him lightly.  You remember what happened everytime you made the mistake of underestimating me...

[Leon's brow furrows and his jaw sets...]

Corella-  ...I remember...

[Spade walks over to Leon and pats his shoulder.]

Spade-  Good, don't let history repeat itself.

[The two exit the ring and proceed over towards a fridge.  Corella reaches inside, pulling out two bottles of Foster's Beer.  He tosses one to Spade, along with a bottle opener.  The two pop the tops off and Leon takes a hearty swig.]

Corella-  What about this Marcus Davis thing?  Going to pursue it any further?

[For several seconds, Spade stares at that cold beer in his hand and then takes a quick gulp from it.]

Spade-  Depends on whether or not he proves me right.  If he doesn't even make a passing mention at what I said about him on the last "Off the Chain" release, then I'm right.  If he does make a response, then there is a chance for him to redeem himself.  It all would depend on how politically minded he is.

[Corella smirked, tipping his bottle towards Spade.]

Corella-  I know if I were in his shoes, right now...  I'd have chewed you up one side and down the other for even daring to say I'm a hypocrite.  There'd be some build up, maybe a little backstage intrigue, but eventually it'd end in the ring with the two of us settling the dispute in proper, wrestling fashion.

[The Street Samurai chuckled, and took another swallow of beer.]

Spade-  I somehow doubt it.  Marcus proved to me that his cousin, or brother... whatever Andrew is to him...  is more of a professional than he is.  If he does something, great.  Wonderful even.  If he doesn't?

[Settling down in a nearby lounge seat, Spade leans back.  Corella takes a hit from his bottle of Foster's.]

Spade-  ...Too bad.  A missed opportunity for him and I have my case made by complete silence.

Corella-  But you have to wonder how things will go down if he does do something, and he somehow manages to make a fool out of you in the process.  It has happened before, to the both of us.  I'm no backstage politician, and you are the anti-christ of backstage politics.

[Spade smirks and downs the remainder of his beer, tossing it into a nearby trash can.]

Spade-  Actually I think you're the Anti-Christ of backstage politics...  You've tried to settle more disputes with a sledgehammer and large doses of profanity than just about anyone else I've ever known.

[Corella shrugs his shoulders and leans against the counter beside the fridge, setting his beer down beside him.  He then crosses his arms over his chest.]

Corella-  Well it's much more efficient than bleeding my heart out in the ring, or whining to the boss like every other weak son of a bitch does.  Ooooooo...

[Corella's voice hightens to a mocking pitch of the average, whiney wrestler.]

Corella-  "He said nasty things about me!  Boo-hoo-hoo!  Give me a match!  Boo-hoo-hoo!"  Fuck that.  Give him one offer and if he doesn't accept, then just cave the fucker's skull in and be done with it I say.  Bosses don't listen to whiners and complainers, they pay attention to people who show initiative... people who are proactive.

[Spade chuckles and shakes his head.]

Spade-  I say tomatoe and you say dynamite...  It's a miracle we function at all as a team.

[Corella smirks at Spade, uncrossing his arms and pushing himself away from the counter.]

Corella-  We function because I'm an asshole, and you're a saint.  I do the heavy lifting, and you steal the show.  That's how a proper team should be, now I'm going to hit the showers.

[Spade nods his head.]

Spade-  I think I'll head on out.  Nice work out.  Remember what I said Leon, don't underestimate Ono Hezonfaia and team Kisarigi.

[Leon heads towards a door behind the couch, stopping to look over his shoulder to Spade.]

Corella-  Just so long as you remember not to overestimate them either.  As my grandfather is fond of saying, don't use a Full House when a pair of twos will suffice.

[He then opens the door and steps through it, the scene quickly fading to black.]

************

Tiffany Lane

************

[The scene opens aboard a private plane, en route to Canada. Aboard the luxury vehicle is none other than Tiffany Lane. The Blonde Bombshell is clad in a black, fringed, Diane von Furstenberg T-shirt dress and strappy, Gladiator-type heels. Her blonde hair is draped over her shoulder, diamonds glittering at her wrist. Shapely legs crossed, the young woman sips from a flute of champagne, clearly enjoying the Young and Beautiful life. As the camera nears, she flashes a grin.]

Tiffany: Well, last Ascension went just as I expected. I singlehandedly led my team to victory against Orchid and her crew of sick, sad no-talents. I was even able to keep that filthy animal, Poet, on her leash and in check long enough, so that she played her part too.

[Tiffany lets out a small laugh, setting her champagne flute aside.]

Tiffany: I left those silly girls shell-shocked and with the understanding that screwing with Tiffany Lane can be bad for your career. As usual.

[Her grin becomes a full-on smirk now.]

Tiffany: Of course, there’s always at least one idiot in the bunch, who doesn’t quite get the message the first time, and needs it drilled into her head all over again. This time, the idiot is someone that I’m quite familiar with: Lindsey Page.

[Tiffany makes a show of rolling her eyes and letting out an exaggerated sigh.]

Tiffany: Oh, Lindsey. I honestly shouldn’t be surprised that you’re the fool still trying to test herself against the Queen. I can remember the last time you were here. You were walking around like the so-called savior of women’s wrestling, flat chest all poked out, talking down about women like me. You were saying how we were poison to the profession that you hold so dear and that you were going to eradicate all of us, me, in particular.

Except, when we finally did wrestle one another, I beat you down and left you humiliated. After that, you were never quite the same again. Oh, sure. You looked the same. Even talked the same. But you were dead inside. And the proof is in the pudding. You choked against Marissa Monet, when it really mattered, and then ran your ass out of Shootfire for greener, less talented pastures. 

You managed a little minor celebrity, in that other place, and it’s quite obviously gone to your head and made you forget your proper place. Otherwise, you would have known better than to sign a singles contract to face me. Perhaps, you think you’ve improved since our last match and that you’re now in a better position to challenge me.

[She shrugs.]

Tiffany: All I know is that you didn’t seem all that impressive at Ascension, when you were tapping out for your life. Even with a monster like Iris Galiver in your corner, you still couldn’t pull the win.

[She shakes her head, giving a toss of her blonde mane.]

Tiffany: Does that sound like the type of woman that can give the SPW standard bearer a run for her money? Even that has been, Broussard, knows that you’re in over your head and, if he were a real friend, would have tried to talk your dumb ass out of it. But if you want to insist on wrestling me, that’s perfectly fine. After all, I never tire of slapping a silly bitch. Just ask Orchid.

[Tiffany grins again.]

Tiffany: Plus, I’m on a mission, Lindsey. See, I’m here to take back what’s mine from around the waist of my best friend. And I won’t have that sidetracked by anyone. So, any woman dumb enough to get in my way is getting mowed the [bleep] over. Simple as that. So, you can come to the ring with your teeny, tiny sports bra and running that big mouth all you want. Because, in the end, the results will be the same. I’ll have left you broken down and beaten. Because if you thought that last match left you depressed, you haven’t seen anything yet. I wasn’t nearly as big of a bitch then as I am now.

[Her grin widens.]

Tiffany: There’s one silver lining at least. I hear they’re hiring in Jersey.

[Fade to blonde.]

***********

Dave Pietka

***********

[Music is blaring inside an apartment, and the sounds of a tumble dryer somehow compliment the percussion. Japanese lyrics start to accompany the music, along with the sounds of someone singing along with them.... a masculine voice, though it seems like it's harmonizing in most places rather than attempting to sing along with actual lyrics.]

[BZZZZT!]

[The tumble dryer stops, and someone steps out of the adjacent room with a laundry hamper in their arms... "Heavy Mental" Dave Pietka? Dressed in what looks like a pair of drawstring pants and a gray tank-top, he opens up the dryer and scoops the clothes into the hamper... and then looks over in the direction of the camera.]

D. Pietka: Shit... I thought you guys wouldn't be here for another hour or so.

[Shrugging, he continues to tend to his laundry.]

D. Pietka: Well, come on it. S'long as you're here, we may as well get this out of the way. Nothing I have to say is really THAT important today, so I may as well say it now.

Hell, it feels so unimportant, I kinda feel over-dressed for it... but I digress.

[Closing the dryer, he walks back into the room he walked out of, and the music dies out before the cameraman walks in. Sometimes, I wonder if Pietka has a cameraman on-call twenty-four hours a day, considering some of the situations we've seen him in, but anyway... the room just looks like a simple bedroom; a dresser, a bed, a bookcase filled with DVDs, a desk with a computer on it, and a lot of hats on the wall. Pietka tosses the clothes in the hamper onto the bed and starts to sort them.]

D. Pietka: You know, something about last week seemed funny. I mean, I think it was. It just struck me as that weird kind of hilarious, where you can't really laugh at it until you see the replay.

[Pietka tosses a few socks to the corner of the bed in an absent-minded fashion, and starts going through t-shirts... and yeah, we've all seen these t-shirts before. The wonderful "self-promoting" kind that he puts up for sale in the Shootfire Shop.]

D. Pietka: Marcus Davis went out of his way to say that I was pigeon-holing him into some pre-set archtype, saying that he's absolutely NOTHING like the "honor-bound" fuck-wits that came before him, that he does it for the sake of the fans, and then what does he do?

...he proves me right.

[He glances over at the camera, to see if the folks at home are following him on this soon-to-be tangent, and then he continues as he starts folding up a few shirts.]

D. Pietka: After Chad Allen decided to come out and try to be the biggest asshole, which is pretty much all he's relegated himself to doing now, Marcus Davis comes right over, puts me in position for the most over-glorified neckbreaker in the history of professional barbarism, and then lets me down... adding some additional punctuation by saying how 'close' I was to getting my head smashed in. How's that for mercy, kiddies?

*mocking tone* "I can crush you at any time, so long as a clownie-faced psycho-simp knocks you all fuzzy... but I won't, because I'm just that much better than you!"

Oh yeah, Marcus... so fucking honorable, you are.

[A light-hearted chuckle escapes Pietka lips.]

D. Pietka: Seriously, are we still bitter over being AJ Black's "Good Faith Payment?" Maybe a little sore still, losing to me in that tournament. Or maybe... and this is me coming straight out of left field here... maybe you're just a little pissed that I beat you on your own level. No chairs... no pulled tights... yeah, I kicked you in the cubes, but I do that to everyone... but I legit beat you, one-two-three, and it burns you up something fierce.

Just one more notch in the belt for this "Soaking-Wet One-Seventy-Fiver," eh?

[Shaking his head, Pietka continues to go through his clothing, as if this entire monologue seems meaningless to him... and what's to say, maybe it really is.]

D. Pietka: You know, I'm gonna stop with him for now... after all, I've said just about all I care to on that subject, and I know I'll speak about it more when it matters... but for now, Marcus Davis doesn't matter. While he tinkers around in Canada, I'm gonna be living it up in New York City.

[Stopping for a moment, Pietka looks up wistfully, remembering past-events in his head.]

D. Pietka: New York City, eh? Last time I was there, I remember putting someone else into their place rather harshly, but that's a relegation for another time.

[...or out-loud. He focuses his attention back to his laundry...]

D. Pietka: Anyway, New York City... another exciting episode of Ascension... against Whisper.

[...and then looks away again. Geez, the guy can't make up his mind, can he?]

D: Pietka: ...who?

[Pietka shrugs, almost remorsefully.]

D. Pietka: Sorry, mate. It's just a classic case, really. You haven't done anything to get my attention, but don't feel bad. Seriously, don't. It really does take quite a bit to gather my attention sometimes. For starters, you're off playing in that Wrestlebowl Cup. Noble, sure enough... but still, it's nowhere near what I'm doing. Sure, the folks in the seats and the folks at home will see you, but I'm the one who got their asses into the bleachers and got them to pay fifty bucks so they didn't have to pay twelve bucks for a hot dog and a cup of beer... ten bucks, if you wanna drink soda.

Still, Whisper... you're not a blip on my radar. This is nothing more than an exhibition, and I'm fine with that. I don't mind having a little meaningless tussle with you, because it sounds fun. It sounds like a great stress reliever, and I wanna get as much stress as I can worked out before Wrestlebowl.

I've got big plans there, and I need to be sharper than normal.

So, sad to say, Whisper... that kind of makes you a whetstone, doesn't it?

[Pietka goes back to folding his laundry, taking on an oblivious demeanor to the camera standing right next to him. As he goes through self-promoting t-shirt after self-promoting t-shirt, he doesn't look back to the camera, as if he's trying to will it away...]

D. Pietka: What do you want me to say, kiddies? I know Wrestlebowl's important, yeah, but there's a time to talk about that, and it's not now. I have plenty to say about Marcus, Chaddy, and Andy... but that can wait for another time.

For now, I got a bit of laundry to finish doing.

Oh yeah, plenty exciting, isn't it?

[Pietka glances at the camera, and then rolls his eyes.]

D. Pietka: Seriously, though... I don't got anything else. I told you none of this was important, didn't I? So, go on. Get out of here!

[Fade.]

***********

Poet Wright

***********

[Fade in:

Canal Street is bustling today.  The crowded commercial district, stuffed to the brim with cheap open storefronts, street vendors, banks and jewelry shops.  Hundreds of thousands of tourists and local New Yorkers pack the open-air food stalls and bare-bones stores, looking for good deals on perfume, purses, hardware, and industrial plastics at very low prices.  Everyone knows these grey market goods are counterfeit, but the allure is impossible to resist.  Here you can get the knockoffs at cut rate prices, the DVDs and CDs of movies and music yet to be released.  Here, Poet Wright sits at a blanket spread out on the sidewalk.  She has several replica Shootfire Pro Wrestling Women's Titles.  She oversees her stall, wrapped in her black robes.  Her mask sits next to her, leering out at the people.  She cradles a title belt in her hands, her black-painted lips are split wide to as she polishes it with her sleeve.]

Poet: Nina Larue, you remind me a lot of Canal Street.  On the outside you look pretty and good, but you're just a cheap knock off.  You were the first to get to the lame duck, Heather Owens, and you stole my title.  So you get to call yourself a champion, but you know you're not.  And you know that at Wrestlebowl it all comes to an end. 

[Poet leans to the side a moment, an ear cocked to her carved wooden mask adorned with traces of blood and locks of hair from her victims.]

Poet: That is wise counsel.  I thank you.

[She turns back to the camera, addressing the audience once more.]

Poet: You are Tiffany's friend.  At least you were.  That makes our match so much the sweeter, Nina.  It must be stabbing her through the heart to see you with the belt, knowing that she wants it so badly.  And she knows that I will take it first.  The first four time SPW champion.  The history, the legacy they will be mine.  And you, well, maybe they will sell a souvenir or two around here to lament your passing as the worst and briefest champion to ever hold that belt.

[She grins unpleasantly at the thought.]

Poet: Right up the road, at the real centre of New York fashion, sits Madison Square Gardens.  The Home of the Knicks, the Rangers, real athletes.  This is the hub of the North American wrestling world.  And Nina Larue, I will be having my own private party in Madison Square Gardens at Ascension as I take on Erika Sato and Orchid.  Those poor old flowers don't stand a chance.  I have finally been recognised by the likes of the Power Structure for what I have always known.  I am beautiful.  I am wonderful.  And I do deserve luxury.  I do deserve that title.  And my friend ....

[She reaches up to take mask and cradle it against her bosom.]

Poet: Well, she's been dying to be decorated again. 

[There's that horrifically scarred smile once again.]

Poet: Erika, Orchid, I have known you both for some time and watched you in the ring.  You two would make fine challengers to me when I regain my title.  You would make fine sport.  Just good enough to pose a threat but not good enough to take my title.  The sort of sport hunting foxes might make.  At Madison Square Gardens you will get a taste of the future.  The greatest wrestler of this generation is here.  The greatest wrestler of this generation is I.  I am destined and deserving of the luxury, the power and the glory that the Women's World Championship delivers.  It will be my glory.  I will silence all my enemies.  I am the power.  And I am going to rain down my destiny upon you.  I am going to win and I am going to Wrestlebowl to become the greatest there ever was.

[Poet leans in to listen to her mask as if it were her baby.]

Poet: Yes, you will have blood.  I promise.

[Fade out.]

*************

Erica Toughill

*************

[Cut backstage. No fancy backdrop, just Erica Toughill in her warm-up gear, black hair in two braided pigtails, the Women's Hardcore belt over he shoulder. She shifts from foot to foot, agitated.]

"Tonight... I've got you, Kaycee. You and I, we've both been beaten around by this meat grinder that is wrestling. You're Red Irish and I'm Black Irish. We both strive for a higher ideal in women's wrestling. Me by dropping chicks dumb enough to underestimate me on their heads. And you by copying all the sweet moves in 'SPW Conquest' for the PS3."

[Toughill snickers joylessly.]

"But at the end of the day, you took the same path I did, about four years later than I did. We sweat. We suffered. You and I, we sacrificed ourselves to build women's wrestling on our backs. So you see, I should be proud to stand in that ring and defend my belt against you, Kaycee."

[Another short snicker, and then the other shoe drops.]

"But you see, I'm not! You and I, we step into that ring and everyone along the rails sits with their hands folded. 'Go on,' they say, 'entertain us!' I can hardly get out of bed every morning without a knee or an elbow shrieking in pain and it's 'Power Structure' this and 'Samantha Bevins' that around here. So for me, I've got to start making my own opportunities in Shootfire Pro. And with Iris Galliver's transition from Pretty Pretty Princess to Normal Normal Person..."

[She shrugs.]

"That fire that drove me to cast off that shadow just sort of disappeared on it's own, and I've just been feeling empty and useless lately. You see, some people in SPW have no business in the wrestling industry because they're too lazy or stupid to make it in the real world. So they pretend to be jetsetting genius ice princesses from Quebec like Owens. Or voodoo queen by day, mixed martial artist by night like Poet. Or the protagonist of 'Mirror's Edge' like Sato. Or wealthy and free from syphilis, like Larue. Or they pretend to be me, like Grace Kerr. Why you'd ever want to be a ripoff of *me*? Because when all of you go home at night, you've got something else there for you. You're in SPW because you're too lazy and weak to do anything outside SPW. I'm here because it's what I'm built for. You'll never see me in a Goddess shoot."

[The scowl on her face as she says the last sentence is quite palpable.]

"And no one in this locker room has given me a war that will make me happy. Kaycee, if you're not able to feel that hate, that bitterness that drives me, then I need an outlet for this misery that I'm feeling right now. Please... do *not* make me leave you half for dead. Hail to the Queen, baby."

[A-a-a-a-a-a-nd exit!]

***********

Quinn Scott

***********

[The scene opens up on a rather large study; two floors with large bookshelves filled with tomes of many types and sizes, several chairs for reading, a large desk for other work, a fireplace, and a large portrait of an older gentleman. The desk is already filled with dozens of books, stacked high, with someone fingering through them and scores of paperwork, jotting down notes. White-haired, clean-shaven, bespectled, and studious... he is completely oblivious to everything else around him... except when someone else approaches him from behind. Loose pants, a tight shirt, and dull, sunken-in, gray eyes...

...Quinn Scott...

His hair is tied back, which seems to be a little odd for this setting, since some would think this is inside of his Parkland home. He leans in over the other gentleman's shoulder, listening as he speaks, though we hear nothing. As the two speak to one another, the audio doesn't come through at all. The white-haired gentleman starts going through the paperwork, showing certain parts of it to Scott, and he seems to go through it all intently.]

"Where's the logic? That's all she was asking me the whole way back from Scotland. Actually, it was more like, "What the fuck were you thinking, Quinn," than anything else. She's just a little upset that I'm still not telling her everything. She's a good kid, but she's also in a position to be used by Marsh. She can be threatened by him still, and the less she knows, the better off she is."

"She's brilliant... she gets things done quickly... and she wants to lead me to success, but in this case, she can't. Right now, she's nothing but a useful liability. Unfortunate, but after everything gets finished, she won't be. At least, that's what I'm aiming for."

[The conversation between the two seems to come to a head, as Scott appears to be nodding in agreement as he walks away from the white-haired gentleman, letting him return to his work. Ascending a spiral staircase to the next floor, Quinn's gaze falls on the large portrait over the fireplace... but it doesn't stay there long, shifting away once he reaches the second floor.]

"Blake Covington's probably asking himself about my angle, too. The gears are turning, and he's already come to one possible conclusion; "He's not winning the Wrestlebowl Cup." That might not be entirely accurate, but one aspect it... his winning the Wrestlebowl Cup is now completely dependant on me. He either wins it or loses it because of me, and if that seems like a bit of an enigma, that's because it's supposed to be."

[Quinn starts to walk down the aisle, heading to a set of double-doors. Opening them, he steps into a larger hallway. As he makes his way through, another older gentlemen in a suit approaches him; Charles, his butler. Quinn stops as Charles starts speaking to him and handing him a few slips of paper, and again, we hear no audio.]

"And Nathan Gyth and Daniel Broussard? How do they fit into this? After all, these are two dangerous men in their own right, and I appear to have made them pawns in my own game, haven't I? Maybe not. Broussard appears to be enlisted in dealing with Covington, too... and Gyth wants to regain a reputation of being a ruthless, merciless, pitiless fighter. I see no reason why their aims can't be achieved under my terms."

"And who's to say? Perhaps my grudge with Covington's already been settled. I made him out to be a message to Marsh, and he served his purpose... but what of Covington's faith in Marsh now? Covington was made an example of Marsh's name, but I never planned for Marsh to be there... that meant he could have stopped me... but he didn't. He simply let Blake take it all. I appeared, Marsh bailed, and on his way out, he threw Blake Covington under my bus."

[Quinn looks through the slips, and something catches his eye. He seems to disagree with something, as he holds one slip up towards Charles, who takes it in his hand. A few more words from Charles, and the butler departs. Quinn, however, stands there for a moment, going through the remaining documents.]

"Nobody understand what I'm trying to do... and that's fine by me. I don't want anyone to understand, I want them to keep guessing... especially Marsh."

[Quinn walks down the hallway a little quicker now. Approaching another door, he opens it and steps into a rather plain looking office. A simple desk with a phone, computer, and printer/scanner/FAX machine, along with a couple of window for light and some chairs for others. Sitting down behind the desk, Quinn picks up the phone and starts dialing numbers.]

"Arm's Length is what I said, and Arm's Length is what I meant. I won't have to come a step closer to destroy you, Marsh. I won't have to lay so much as a finger on your well-tailored suit or your soft and moisturized flesh. I won't have to bruise your body to destroy your spirit. I will make you regret your actions, and I will make you wish that your suffering was as quick and poignant as Frost's was."

[Quinn's lips begin to move quickly, but widely. Shouting, it would seem, to whomever is on the other end of the line. He doesn't seem angry or upset, just oddly motivated.]

"Marcus Davis... you've been thrown at me for reasons beyond my knowledge, or my scope of caring. Doesn't surprise you, does it? I can imagine your mind-set through, especially after being made to eat certain words last week. You're probably looking to boost yourself up a little, and probably think that a few rounds with the Self-Aware Training Dummy is the best course of action."

"A lot of people think that, but a small bit of warning... you're probably not gonna get the satisfaction. At least, not the way you want it. Anyone who's associated with Marsh has a very simple mind-set, and I'm not so foolish to think that Covington won't be coming down to knock me around a little."

[After some more apparent yelling, the phone comes down on the receiver, and Quinn gets up from behind the desk and walks out of the office. As he walks down the hallway, he seems a little less agitated, like he did hear something on the phone that he wanted to... but why the yelling, then? A quick turn to the right, and he walks into another office-looking room... with Serena Black sitting on the couch, watching Quinn come in. The two of them share a quick glance with one another before Quinn sits down and starts talking.]

"That isn't to say I'm not looking forward to this. A chance to kick an already downed man? A Championship Hopeful? I had the chance once to keep Andrew Davis from his attempt at the SPW Championship, and I failed there. Now, I have another chance, albiet differing circumstances. I get to make a contender look weaker, like he doesn't belong. Yes, you lost to another contender, but you also went out of your way beforehand to say you were better than him and he ended up getting the better of you. Tell me... was the crow as tasty as you thought it would be?"

[The look on Serena's face is almost incredulous, and she's shaking her head in what appears to be disbelief. She starts talking, making wild hand gestures, but Scott doesn't seem that affected by it. He speaks again, but Serena doesn't stop shaking her head.]

"I look forward to the chance to make you look even worse, Marcus... but that's secondary. You really don't matter to me in the long run. I have other, greater, things that need my attention... like the complete dismantling of Jeffery Dylan Marsh. The world can laugh all they like... but no one is untouchable, and even God makes mistakes. If you don't believe me, then I suggest you take a long look in a mirror, next time you get a chance to."

[Serena keeps talking, almost as if she's trying to talk Quinn out of whatever he's planning to do, but we really don't know. All we see is Quinn reaching out and taking her hand in his, and this silences Serena. Glancing at their joined hands for a moment before looking straight into Scott's eyes. We see Quinn speak, and while we don't hear him say it, many of us have been in situations where we have heard it, and have memorized the movements the lips make when these words are uttered...

..."Trust me."]

"The world will think me petty... Shootfire might think me small-minded... but in the end, Marsh will feel pain greater than anything I could physically do to anyone here. Like I said. His war... my terms."

[We fade on Serena and Quinn just looking at one another before we fade out.]

*************

Andrew Davis

*************

[It is a dark and stormy night in Glasgow, Scotland.  Safely inside a gothic catholic church, lightning cracks outside the rain battered windows.  The front doors creak open and a man steps inside, his face awash in shadows.  He glances around the church, unfamiliar with his surroundings, until he spots the confessional.  With purpose, he crosses the candlelit room, approaching his final destination.  He opens the door, his face still unreadable, unknowable, and he sits, waiting.  The small door dividing the rooms of the holy and the sinner slides open, leaving the shadowed figure one step closer to God.]

Man: Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.  It has been… um… forever since my last confession.

[A Scottish brogue emanates from the room of the priest.]

Priest: Are you a Catholic, my son?

Man: I would consider myself a free agent.

Priest: So you’re not Catholic?

Man: I’m not, not Catholic.

[Awkward pause.]

Priest: Okay, my son.  Tell me what is troubling you.

Man: Father, I’m known for being an evil man.  A famous sinner amongst sinners, if you will.

Priest: Are you possessed by the devil?

Man: That would explain a great deal, but no, the only thing controlling me, Father, is me.  Professionally, I am the top bad guy in the world, but this very night, here in Glasgow, something happened.  Something that may change the balance of good and evil forever.

Priest: Tell me, my son, was has occurred?

Man: Father, I’ll tell you.  This very evening, hooligans were attacking one of my greatest enemies, and I defended him.  And the people cheered me.  Oh, how the people cheered.

Priest: And how is this bad, my son?

Man: I have a reputation to uphold, my name is associated with heelness…

Priest: Are you a terrifying foot doctor?

[An even more awkward pause.]

Man: What?  No, heel meaning bad, not a part of the foot.  Anyway, before I was interrupted, the people cheered me, which they weren’t supposed to do, and I… I…

Priest: Tell me.  I am here for you.

Man: I liked it.  I really, really liked it. God help me!

[A flash of lightning bursts across the proceedings, and the face of the penitent man is revealed to be, unquestionably, Andrew Davis.  Davis looks at the camera and gasps, covering his face, like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  The light stays on his face, far longer than a lightning bolt should last.  Andrew peeks around his arm, one eye, then two, then a nose, finally a sly grin.]

Davis: C’mon, you almost bought that, didn’t you?

[The camera pulls back into the center of the church.  Andrew steps out dramatically, the lighting changing to flatter him as only professionally manufactured light can.]

Davis: Were you waiting for that?  The big moment where I realized that I had been wrong, always been wrong, and I finally had come to my senses.  I think that you did, Shootfire Pro.  I hate to tell you this, but what just happened is fictional.  The Priest?

[The Priest steps out of the confessional.]

Davis: He’s a local actor.  You might recognize him from the movie “Stardust.”  I’m told that he was quite good.

[The Priest gives a quick wave then is escorted off set by a young man wearing a headset and a radio.  Andrew turns back to the camera.]

Davis: Did I save Sammy Knight at Conquest?  I suppose.  I assure you that it was only incidental.  JDM Superstar, who must moonlight as Catwoman and is clearly on his ninth life, said earlier in the evening that Sammy Knight was the top guy in Shootfire. “The man to beat.”

Did you just get here on a time machine, JDM?  Did the flux capacitor get all knocked to shit?  Because the last time I checked, Andrew Davis is better than Sammy Knight, better than you, better than everyone.  If I saved Sammy Knight at Conquest, it was certainly because I wanted to feed you to the Loch Ness Monster, not rescue one of the men responsible for the disappearance of my title.

[Andrew walks towards the front of the church, the light shifting to highlight his face.]

Davis: Shootfire faithful, I know that it felt cathartic to cheer for me.  I know that it was a big deal.  It was an emotion that you’ve been fighting, a lump in your throat that you couldn’t let out for fear of being mocked, for being different.  You kept waiting for me to change, wait for Andrew Davis to put on the white hat and ride off into the sunset, helping the townsfolk and putting a stop to bandits and cattle rustlers.

[Andrew stops at the front of the church, turning towards the camera, continuing his sermon.]

Davis: I’m not the one that is changing.  It is your perspective of me that is changing.  This is the movie “Clueless,” you are Alicia Silverstone, and I am a handsomer Paul Rudd.  You love me, you’ve always loved me, and you always will love me.  It’s only now that you’re beginning to realize it.

Don’t be afraid to cheer AD3, the Lightweight Legend, the Hollywood Hero, Shootfire’s Savior.  Don’t be afraid to be excited when “Flashing Lights” echoes throughout the arena.  Don’t hesitate to shriek when Andrew Davis’ eye fall upon you.

And don’t be afraid of big, bad, evil clowns.  Because when the top wrestlers in the world close their eyes, they don’t have nightmares about clowns.  Knight, Volga, Pietka, the lesser Davis, even the Jester himself, they are kept awake at night by nightmares about the Age of Andrew Davis.

[Andrew smiles.  A side door opens inside the church.  Strangely, the sun is out.  Andrew walks out the door, and it closes without him.  Fade to black.]

*************

Spooky Doom

*************

[Live from New York, it's Spooky Doom!]

Doom: Gotta say, I've done quite a bit in my illustrious career, racked up a whole lot of belts to my name, but NEVER have I achieved anything close to *THIS*! I'm tellin' ya, *THIS* is when you know you've ARRIVED in this industry!

[From the masked face of the Undead Superstar, the camera pans a full 180 to focus upon the object of the "Evil Dead" Spooky Doom's reverence... The world's most famous arena, the venerable theatre of sports, Madison Square Garden! Pan up to the top of the marquee: "SAMMY KNIGHT VS SPOOKY DOOM" in colored lights as we pan back to Doom, smug look on his face and overstuffed chili dog in his hand. Because even the GRIMEST of Grim Reaper-like luchador thingies must sample of the Big Apple cuisine when it is available to him.]

Doom: MAIN EVENTING AT THE GARDEN!!! Let the Conquest Doomkopfs say what they will about Ascension being the B show, they're all stuck in Canuckistan licking freeze-dried eskimos inside the Igloodome while the Grim Avenger of Lucha Libre wrestles main attraction at the grandest stage of them all, fighting SPW's most venerated hero, the man who single-handedly carried the company on his shoulders, the workhorse that would not quit...

well except that...

[The Evil Dead furrows his brow in a mock manner. A most necessary pantomime considering how the skull mask covers the near-entirety of his face. Then there's the spiked hood over his head that quite literally covers what brow would show. In any case, the Spooky Doom just couldn't say all that he just said without a big "but" at the end.]

Doom: None of this ain't even remotely true. Specifically, the part where I start talking about you, Sammy Knight. Oh Sammy, Sammy, Sammy... it's like a wise band called System of A Down once said: shame on an N-word who try to run game on an N-word. When I hear you whine about how the Shootfire family turned on you or that they lost faith in you or that only NOW are you finally free to do what you always wanted to do; you, my N-word, are trying to run game on this N-word right here, N-word.

[Much eye-rolling occurs from the wandering fans dwelling in the city, but Spooky doesn't mind. Because he's already that much peeved at his opponent of the night treating him like an N-word. More exposition follows.]

Doom: Sammy, you're going to have to get it through your thick skull that you are not the hero, you are a *performer*. Same as I: a very devastating athlete with many exceptional talents... But a hero you are not. Nor a savior, or a role model, not the end all be all of what Shootfire Pro can offer... just an N-word. So when I listened to you whine and cry last OTC about "being all shackled up to some system of morals" or losing some manner of "trust" you had built up backstage, all I wanted to do was puke.

[In all fairness, that gross chili dog Spooky is holding would make anyone puke.]

Doom: Oh, N-word! I never believed a single word you said back when you were playing hero in the first place!!! And now you're trying to turn yourself into something special because you've suddenly dropped all pretense of heroism and are now running as your "true self"? N-word be trippin' and allow me to reiterate: you are running games on N-words worldwide with your shizzle! Do people still say shizzle? Help a N-word out. Regardless: SHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAME!!!

[He yells out, pointing an accusatory mustard and beef stew covered finger.]

Doom: You can't fool the Reaper. You don't wear such a flimsy mask in front of a luchador. WE ARE **ALL** HORRIBLE EGO-DRIVEN MONSTROCITIES LIVING ONLY TO SUCK EVERYTHING THIS BUSINESS PROVIDES FOR OUR OWN SELFISH BENEFIT. Why'd you think we in the family seek the souls of wrestlers in the first place? That's right, wrestlers are the scummiest assholes in the universe; ergo, the need for Grim Reapers to enter the ring and make things right in the only appropriate manner. By which I mean, chopping head's off. Jigoku No Dantodai, the Hell's Guillotine: the only good thing in all of wrestling, the great equalizer that sets everything right!

See, at least I can be honest about myself and what I want from SPW. I am forthright in my quest to grab each and every title this federation might possess, always was, always has been. So for all your muscles Sammy, I will be the stronger spook for I will not be broken by this company! I will fight with truth in my words and honor in my heart, refusing to engage in such duplicitous stratagems as passing myself off as a hero or even anything remotely close to "good"!!!

I'm giving all you Doomkopfs everything that you deserve!

[A sauerkraut-choked laughter rings throughout the streets of New York as the Spooky Doom revels in his words. Bits of chili spices and mustard spits out from his unhinged mask of villainy until the Deadkid can regain his composure.]

Doom: Oh indeed, if you thought people were gunnin' for your spot before, you ain't seen nothin' yet! Because I don't know who you made friends or brotherhoods with in the past, but it sure wasn't with me; Mr. I-don't-care-when-you're-unfairly-booted-from-team-SPW-at-Iconoclasm, last name Oh-and-you-won't-get-a-main-event-PPV-paycheck-either-because-I'm-too-scared-to-oppose-Doomkopf-Barry-Baldwin!!!

Goddamn hypocrite. Stand up for others before complaining about how others won't stand up for you.

No wait, let me make this perfectly clear for you Sammy: the only reason JDM hired that fatty McFat-Fat fatass "Heartless" Jakob Volga to take you out was because I was already hired by Steve Greedy to remove another obnoxious hero in the first place!!! Speaking of which, you might be wonderin' where ol' Greedmeister has been during this interview: quite simply the old coot plum got tired of appearing in these video just for the odd evil cackle and decided to spend his time a lil' more constructively...

[There's a mischievous smile that crosses the Deadkid's lips.]

Doom: That's right Doomkopf, I'm a dangerous undead now. People might've made fun of spastic ol' Spooky Doom before but now I command an army- Nay, a LEGION OF DOOM that obeys my command! Steve is rockin' out with Johnny Pain, Frostbite and the Street Samurai Spade; building alliances stronger then any ridiculous claims of "friendship" you could've claimed in the past. Meanwhile, I'll be waiting for YOU, planning your inevitable demise at the hands of the Jigoku No Dantodai, the Hell's Guillotine which only I master! Together, Spooky Doom and his Legion of Doom...

We comin' for you, N-word!!!!

[Remains of chili dog splattered everywhere, the Spooky Doom judges he has made his point sufficiently well. We fade out to...]

*************

Sammy Knight

*************

*WHOOSH*

[The sound of a train passing by is also accompanied by the feeling of
air rushing against your face, causing scattered remnants of paper on
the group to rustle and dance against the ground. Thousands of feet
quickly trample over the misplaced papers and scraps of trash.]

*WHOOSH*

[Another train passes by in the opposite direction. Busy. After all,
you find yourself dead in the middle of Pennsylvania Station in New
York City. The station, more commonly referenced as Penn Station, is
the busiest train station in North America. The train station not only
operates a light rail system that runs in between Boston, Massachusetts
in the North and Washington D.C. in the South, but also serves as a hub
for the New York City Subway system.]

*WHOOSH*

[The camera man seemingly wanders aimlessly through the station,
looking for something or someone that is familiar. Amongst the
seemingly thousands of people hustling and bustling throughout the Big
Apple, people from all walks of life are noticeable. Business people.
Students. Tourists. Men. Women. Old. Young. And everything in between.
Suddenly someone catches the camera's eye as the cameraman's pace
speeds up. The camera walks towards a back wall where a man in a
tattered suit of sorts is nonchalantly leaning against the wall. His
gray suit, presumably once immaculate and impressive, is now
off-colored, torn, and forgettable. The man looks worn and beaten
himself, out-of-shape and disconnected to the reality that continues to
pass back and forth in front of him.]

*WHOOSH*

[The man clutches a leash of sorts; and connected to that leash is a
tan colored chihuahua that appears to be malnourished. The canine, who
growls viciously as the cameraman walks near is adorned with a small
bell attached to a collar. The bell dings annoyingly with even the
slightest movement of the dog's active mouth. Additionally, the owner
has placed what appears to be a green skulled mask over the dogs face,
creating a truly odd image. As the camera finally comes to a stop, you
overhear a familiar voice.]

"The great Ethiopian and Greek slave Aesop once told a story of a
mischievous dog."

*WHOOSH*

"Once upon time there lived a man. This could have been any man. Maybe
he was member of Parliament. Or a small farmer. Hell, he could have
even been a man in the business of entertainment promotion. Regardless
of what this man did, this man had a pet who just so happened to be of
the canine persuasion. Now this dog wasn't just any old dog. Not at
all. This small, raggedy being was nothing more than an annoyance.

A nuisance.

A pest.

This was the type of dog who refused to mind his own business. The type
of dog who would ruin the gardens of other people's yards. The type of
dog who would bark at any form of movement be it fellow animal, a
person, or a leaf on the ground. But this wasn't the dog's greatest
sin.

Not at all.

For this dog's worst behavior was rooted in deception. The dog would
sneak upon the heels of unsuspecting people and bite them without
notice. Needless to say, this did not go over well with his neighbors
and community alike. This dog was a true pain to any person it came
across and as a result, the owner was at his wits end with the dog. His
dog was costing him friends. Costing him his reputation. Costing him
business. He simply didn't know what to do. "

*WHOOSH*

"So the man decided that he would tie a bell around the neck of his
dog. A bell whose ringing would alarm people when he was near,
therefore preventing him from biting them. The dog's bell now announced
his presence wherever he went."

*WHOOSH*

"But you see, the dog didn't quite get it."

[Pause.]

"Not one bit."

[Another pause.]

"Thinking that this bell was a mark of distinction rather than shame,
this little dog wore this bell with pride. Dinging with every step, he
foolishly paraded around his neighborhood, turning up his nose at
others, filled with nothing but vanity. That was until one day the dog
met an old hound. And this old hound said to the little dog, 'Why do
you make such an ass of yourself? That bell that binds you is not a
result of merit, but on the contrary a mark of disgrace, a public
notice to all men to avoid you as an ill mannered dog.'"

*WHOOSH*

[The camera slightly zooms back, enlarging the frame to reveal another
individual standing to the right of the earlier described couple.
Shootfire's own, Sammy Knight. Wearing an outfit indicative of the hot
Memorial Day weekend weather, Knight stares with empathy towards the
owner and his dog. As he takes one more glance, he steps forward and
looks directly into the camera.]

KNIGHT: Sometimes those who achieve notoriety often mistake it for
fame.

[Pause.]

KNIGHT: And there's a huge difference.

[Pause.]

KNIGHT: You see, I know first hand. Growing up, it was notoriety that I
chased, mistaking it for fame. I took shortcuts. I did whatever it took
to get money. To get respect. To get recognized.

And I thought I was famous. But I was wrong. I was only notorious.

And well, if I had to do it all over again, I'd aim for the former. You
can have the latter.

[Knight points down to the man and his dog.]

KNIGHT: And Spook, right now, that's exactly what you've taken. Protest
as much as you want. I don't care. Justify it however you want. I see
the truth. You see, you don't fool me _ONE_ bit. You tried it your way.
You tried to climb the ladder in this federation _YOUR_ way and you
failed. And if you ask me, you did it to yourself.

[He nods in an assertive fashion.]

KNIGHT: You see, I always knew you wanted to get to the top. Hell, your
past accolades speak for themselves. In your career you've been able to
do it your way and succeed.

Time and time again.

But not here. Not in Shootfire. Your biting at the heels got old;
played out if you will. And as a result, you left. You gave it _YOUR_
best and you failed.  Some might even say that you fell victim to
self-sacrifice.  You see, you didn't want to play the game like the
rest of the SPW Superstars and you felt slighted.  You felt that you
couldn't get a fair shake.  You didn't agree with the alleged politics.
So you left and the the door to this promotion was closed.

[Knight takes a few steps forward.]

KNIGHT: Or was it?

[Knight makes a puzzled look.]

KNIGHT: Because at that moment Spook, a lot of people gained respect
for you.  You believed what you believed and you left on account of
those beliefs.  You see that's integrity.  You had your principals that
you refused to budge on and you bounced.  That's noble.  That's
honorable.  And that _WAS_ you.  But it sure as hell ain't anymore.

So what happened?

[Knight shakes his head.]

KNIGHT:  You sold the fuck out.  _THAT'S_ what happened Spooky.  Your
greed and desire for the limelight haunted you.  It haunted you because
you never achieved it in SPW.  And you wanted it.  Badly at that.  So
when the legendary Steve Greedy and Shootfire called you up and gave
you a shiny little bell, a small support network, and an opportunity
for a second chance, what did you do?

You snatched that shit up quick.

[Earnest disappointment creeps across Knight's face.]

KNIGHT:  But you failed to see what you've lost in the process. You're
just too damn blind to see it for what it really is.

Your 'uncle' would be ashamed.

Your Lil Reapers already are.

So as you play your new brand of rock and roll, you're in no place to
take a soul. Spook, it's time for you to find yours.

[Knight shakes his head.]

KNIGHT: Because you've lost it. Sold it. Exchanged it for a bell.  And
if you think for one moment that Steve Greedy and your other 'allies'
give a fuck about Spooky Doom, then you're highly mistaken.

You're being used.

Just as you were before.

But this time you don't even know it.

[Knight shrugs his shoulders slightly.]

KNIGHT:  You see Spook, the joke is on you.  And the funny part is that
_YOU'RE_ the comedian.  And when it is all said and done, you will
eventually see the truth.  Whether it happens at Wrestlebowl when
Jimmy-O destroys you, or that date when Greedy decides that you are
expendable, it doesn't matter.  The revelation will be the same.

It's that _YOU_ are a fraud.  A fraud of fame.

A lame-duck pawn tainted by a notoriety that strikes fear into the
hearts of no one.

[Again, honesty from the visage of Knight.]

KNIGHT: And when you step into the ring at Ascension against Sammy
Knight, I can promise you one thing...

[Beat.]

KNIGHT:...my soul, unlike yours, ain't for sale.

[A small smirk.]

KNIGHT: And you? You need a motherfuckin' refund.

[Beat.]

KNIGHT: I hope you saved your receipt.

*WHOOSH*

[Fade to black.]