Daddy Issues Part V
#NP "Where Will We Go" by Iamdynamite
Locale: Staggs Dungeon Training Facility; Las Vegas, NV
The music starts up before the picture comes into view. The drums and vocals lead us right into the inside of Staggs Dungeon where we see a line of students of all varieties, standing on the apron of a ring. Inside, we see Spike Staggs speaking inaudibly with one student, a tall, but lanky man in black gym shorts and a white t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, his dark hair in a modern day pompador, though it is slightly messy as he is down on one knee with his arm wrenched up in the air while Spike applies a small amount of pressure to his shoulder. His uncle, Erik Staggs, is seen standing by, though he is silently watching, occasionally nodding in approval. After a few moments of this, there is a sudden flash of sunlight that lasts only a few seconds before disappearing almost as fast as it had appeared. Spike looks right to the camera's direction, nodding his head before he lets up the hold. The student nods his head, mouthing a thankful sentiment to Spike before walking toward the group on the apron. The music fades out just a bit, as the murmur of the students is heard. Spike claps his hands together, his eyes returning briefly in the direction of the camera.
Spike: Great job, guys. Hit the showers, and pick up your schedules for next week. If you have any question, please direct them to Erik.
Spike remains stoic for a moment as the students get slightly louder, making their way to the ring steps. As their tennis shoes pound against them eagerly, Tim Staggs walks into the shot. He is wearing a gray t-shirt with red lettering, reading "#Nobody" underneath his unzipped black hoodie. He waits by the ring steps as a medium built blonde guy tosses a towel in Tim's face.
Guy: Wash it with Tide only, dude. I'll break out if you use the cheap shit.
Tim narrows his eyes as the sweating kid walks backward, waiting for some kind of response from Tim. He doesn't get what he's bargaining for as Tim rips the sweat soaked towel from his face and lashes out with it, whipping the kid in the face with it as he growls in anger.
Tim: I'M NOT A TOWEL BOY, FUCKER! I'm an SCW superstar!
Spike: Language!
Tim yanks the towel back as his eyes shoot over to his father, apologetically. The blonde kid sucks air through his teeth as he realizes his mistake. Spike shakes his head before walking over to Erik to speak inaudibly with him. Tim's eyes slowly make it back to the student, narrowing them as he lashes out with the towel three more times in the face before throwing it with all of his might at the student. Tim glares at him as he pulls the towel from his face, wrapping it around his neck as he heads back toward the locker room area of the facility. Tim continues to shoot daggers his way until he disappears into the Men's portion. As if it hadn't happened, Tim grins as he slides inside of the ring, under the bottom rope. He runs up to his dad, jogging in place as he waits just about a foot away from him.
Spike: ... Mendez has some real potential. I'd like to see him move up to the advanced class A.S.A.P.
Erik: Oh, I couldn't agree more. Being intermediate is only holding him back. I was thinking the same with Ms. North. She's not your typical celebrity child, she's got promise.
Spike reaches back, rubbing his neck as he clinches one eye, slowly shaking his head as he sort of groans softly.
Spike: Mmmmm... she's exactly where she needs to be right now. There's fuck all drive there.
Tim: Laaaanguaaaage...
Tim sneers playfully as he sends a few jabs into the air in front of him. Spike turns around, rolling his eyes, trying to pretend he's not impressed. Tim sticks his tongue out, chuckling before Spike wraps an arm around Tim's neck, pulling him down into a full on Headlock, ripping the headphones from Tim's ear, causing the music to go to a light murmur in the background.
Tim: Hey! Knock it off...! Child abuse laws were created for this very reason...
Spike: Awww, you're no fun.
Spike digs his knuckles into Tim's scalp, rubbing them in as he messes up his son's hair. Tim whines a little, hoping the child act might cause his father to let up some, but it is to no avail.
Spike: This isn't child abuse, it's training. Your lesson today? Get out of this Headlock.
Tim hauls off and punches his father right in the groin, causing his eyes to bug out. Erik chuckles hysterically as Spike falls to one knee. Tim uses this to shove his father's arm off of him. He pulls him in for an Armbar, which Spike can't break out of due to the immense pain resonating from his groin.
Tim: Passed with flying colors, pops. Now, the student has become the teacher...
Tim snarls, taking things a little more serious than he probably should right now. Spike grunts as he slowly shakes the feeling off. He gets up to his hand, and his knees, a red tint to his face as he drops in a fast corkscrew motion, dragging Tim up and over onto his back. Spike holds onto the arm and twists.
Spike: There's a time and place for jokes, but let me clue you in to something, son... It's never inside of the ring.
Tim: But, Uncle Jamie always... rrrrrr... makes a joke inside of the ring, and he, ahhhh, almost became a World Champion in GXW...
Spike: What was the key word there? Almost? He almost became the World Champion there, but he couldn't focus.
Tim groans as he taps at his father's hand, feeling it out for a weakness. He's gotten too deep in his own head, as he growls once more in frustration, looking up angrily at his father.
Tim: Besides! You're the one who started this whole thing! And you became a World Heavyweight Champion five times over! Now, you're gonna...
Spike: ... Now, because of your mistake, you're going to learn another lesson. Bitch moves like that might help you out of a jam, but it's going to piss off your opponent, and more often than not, you're going to have bitten off more than you can chew.
Erik: He's got a point. I can count on one hand where such moves didn't come back and bite my left ass cheek, kiddo.
Out of respect more than anything, Tim reaches back and taps Spike's arm rapidly, giving up. Spike smiles almost proudly as he lets go of the hold. Tim rotates his arm slowly as he winces a bit. Spike holds a hand out toward Tim, helping him back to his feet.
Spike: That's one of the few lessons my father was able to teach me during his time on Earth. He was a wise man... He'd have been proud to see you standing in this ring.
Erik rolls his eyes, scoffing silently so not to rouse suspicion from Spike. Suddenly, "Bad Medicine" by Bon Jovi begins howling from an unknown source, causing everyone to look stunned. Spike bites at his upper lip, feeling a little embarrassed as he slowly reaches into the pocket of his red Tripp pants, retreiving his cell phone. He runs his finger across the screen, a redness on his cheeks as he slowly raises the phone to his ear.
Spike: Bonjour mon amour... Yeah, class let out a few minutes ago...
Spike holds his hand up as he paces across the ring, speaking in a low tone as Erik and Tim snicker at his choice of ringtones. Erik sighs as he looks off into the distance.
Erik: If you think that one was bad, you should have heard his for Roxanne... "Crazy Bitch" by Buckcherry, how fitting...
Erik suddenly looks as if he's seen a ghost as he shoots an apologetic look over to Tim, covering his mouth. He groans at his own mistake as Tim looks down at the ground. A depressed look crosses his face, however, he just shrugs his shoulders.
Tim: I wouldn't know. I haven't seen her in over ten years, so... Besides, she might have shat me out into this world, but Misty will always be my mother. And Vixen is the cool step mom, but... but... she... the redheaded devil who cursed me with the ginger... she's dead to me.
Erik: Actually... if you want to get technical, red hair is an extremely recessive gene, and will only show up in purity when two like genes match up. Lorraine... your grandmother, was mostly Irish, and she was a saint. If it makes you feel better, you most likely got it from her.
Tim nods his head, feeling a little better about it as he looks over to see Spike walking back toward them. He has a worried look on his face as he tucks his phone back into his pocket, looking from Erik to Tim.
Spike: I... I hate to bail, but Vixen says that Kit has a bit of a cough. There's no fever, but...
Tim: Just... go...
Tim shakes his head as he waves at Spike. Tim flashes a smile that is fairly transparent to everyone, except Spike, who is too caught up in his own worry. Erik holds a finger up, but Tim shakes his head.
Tim: It's fine, dad. Another time, I'm sure.
Spike wraps his arms around Tim, hugging him tightly for a second before pulling away. He places his hands on his son's shoulders and looks down into his eyes apologetically.
Spike: Are you sure, son?
Tim: Go, go, go! Uncle Erik is here, and I'm sure he'd be happy to train with me.
Erik: Yeah, Spike. I've got this one covered. Go take care of the little ones.
Spike nods his head, muttering "Right..." before he walks to the ropes, quickly exiting. Tim keeps his smile plastered on his face as Spike snatches his gym bag off of the weight bench, slinging it over his shoulder. He looks back to Tim once more, as Tim and Erik wave with sweet smiles on their faces. Spike then jogs over to the door, quickly exiting the building as Tim's face quickly sours. Erik reaches his arm back, scratching nervously at his neck as Tim turns back toward him, stomping his foot angrily.
Tim: It's bullshit. I can't believe this is happening... again!
Erik: Well, for what it's worth, I'm sure Kit didn't purposely fake a cough to screw up your training session. Things happen.
Tim: Yeah, and guess who always has to let it slide off of their back to stop the constant shit slinging fest of the world? Me. Of course I'm not blaming a baby for it. It's just my shitty luck.
Erik folds his arms across his chest as he stares at Tim, throwing a minor tantrum. He purses his lips to avoid an inappropriate response, such as laughing. Once the urge has passed, Erik lifts one arm up, shaking his finger at Tim.
Erik: All of this cursing, though...
Tim goes to object, but Erik slightly closes one eye as he thinks it over, all while holding a hand up to stop Tim from talking.
Erik: Don't get me wrong, because... I mean, I love it, but... you used to pride yourself on clean language, up until...
Tim: Oh... you mean when I started The Nobodies? Yeah, Johnny showed me the beauty of peppering statements with profanity. Gives it a nice little kick sometimes. Do you know what else he taught me?
Erik: Just be careful what lessons you learn from that one, Tim. I'd like to avoid any more extended hospital visits from here on out, okay?
We move in to see the image of Tim Staggs, rushing into an emergency room with an oxygen mask strapped to his face, his eyes rolled back in a seizure as two techs and a doctor run alongside the gurney. The doctor shouts orders, though it is muffled from the ringing in Tim's ears. A nurse rushes up, handing a syringe to the doctor. Down the hall, we can see Spike Staggs violently arguing with a security guard, as Vixen tries her best to calm him down. Rage and fear is etched over Spike's face as he points, spit flying from his mouth as he shouts the only thing Tim can make out in his delirious state.
Spike: THAT'S MY FUCKING SON, MAN! THAT'S MY FUCKING BOY!
Tim's convulsing slows down some as his eyes wander around the new surroundings in utter confusion, not even blinking as they turn the corner into a room to stablize Tim.
In a daze, Tim takes a deep breath, coming back to reality, forcing a smile onto his face, nodding his head.
Tim: Gotcha... Thanks for reminding me, because I almost... almost... forgot about that.
Erik: Oh, really? Because I haven't. Your father and step mother haven't, and your little sister hasn't either. It took a lot of convincing to get her to believe it was an *air quotes* accident.
Erik closes his eyes, clinching the bridge of his nose for a moment before shaking his head, and the thoughts that had come along with the previous conversation. He takes a deep breath, calming himself down as he pulls the Staggs Dungeon pullover jacket from himself, revealing his somewhat chiseled frame.
Erik: You know what? We've got some work to do. You've got a match coming up in just two weeks, and you haven't been in action for a month now. How is the hand doing?
Tim holds up the taped up hand, wiggling his thumb with a wink and a click of the jaw. Erik claps his hands together, rubbing them with a smile.
Erik: Excellent. It's about time you got a serious win under your belt, and I've got a feeling your next challenge could be the one.
Tim: Well, they do say third time's the charm. I mean, it's not like they threw some knock off talents at me like they would have anyone else. I didn't get a Travis Nathaniel Andrews or an Old Skool for my debut match. No, I got Kain. And then the... heh... the entirety of the active Seven Deadly Sins members.
Erik: And you're welcome, kiddo. You're a damn Staggs. We have never, and will never, be handed a god damned thing. You can either buckle under that pressure, or you can own it like your father did.
Tim nods his head as he begins to pull his jacket off of himself, resting it on the top rope as he rolls the wrist connected to his taped hand. Something in his eyes calls bullshit, but he dare not speak it right now, not with the man who was responsible for his father's brutal side.
Tim: Then who am I facing this time? Don't tell me, you're going to teach me a lesson by throwing me in the ring with Sean Jackson? A Drake Green return match? What about Goth? Oh! Maybe all three, because, even though I obviously wouldn't win if all three were blindfolded and bound, it will... heh... it will teach me a... a lesson, right?
Erik: It is former champions. Multi-time champions even. Here...
Erik's eyes widen in shock at such an answer as he freezes in place. Erik walks over to his pullover, reaching into the pocket to pull out a piece of paper. He hands it to Tim, who cautiously unfolds it, skimming it carefully, dreading the thought of seeing his name, and his opponents. Finally, his eyes come to a stop and he drops his hand to his side, allowing the paper to dangle there for a moment. Erik awaits a reaction, any reaction at all, from anger to fear... well, almost any, as he is quite shocked when Tim bursts out into laughter. He holds his stomach as he balls up the paper and tosses it to the outside of the ring. He holds his hands up, readying himself for a tie up with Erik, who is still confused, as the scene fades out.
State of Affairs
#NP "Stand Up" by Trapt
Locale: In the air
"You wanna see a reaction? Well, here's your reaction."
The camera clicks on to see the inside of a small chartered jet. There was to be more people on this flight, but due to unforseen circumstances, Tim sits alone on the cozy jet, shy of an attendant, and the pilot in the cockpit. Tim looks around him, and we notice that there are hooded jackets draped over each empty seat. Tim looks to each and every one, as if naming them in his head. Finally, his eyes come to rest on the camera sitting in front of him.
Tim: Finally... I thought that light would never go off. Now, I get to broadcast to all of my adoring fans at home.
Tim leans in with a shit eating grin on his face as he waves to the camera.
Tim: HI MOM! HI DAD! HI VIXEN AND EDEN! HI random person who accidentally clicked my video instead of clicking J2H'S! There, I think I've covered all bases. Now, for the latter option... the ones who haven't already exed out of this promo...
Tim looks down to an invisible watch on his wrist, waiting as he holds his taped hand up, counting down. Five. Four. Three. Two, and... pointing to the camera, his smile return, as does his attention to the actual promo video.
Tim: ... now, you're in for a treat. If you've got two whole brain cells in that thick skull of yours, you... you're in for some serious truths here. Now, I'm fully prepared for this to go over everyone's heads, as all of my previous promos have. As a matter of fact, I think the only person that's actually watched one of mine was Kain.
Tim tries to rack his brain for any other possibility, but he can't seem to come up with another example. He shrugs his shoulders before returning his eyes to the camera.
Tim: So, it's no secret that I'm no good at this promo thing. Everyone expects me to be the second coming of my father, but I'm sorry to disappoint. I'm not. I don't know my biological mother very well either, but I'm pretty sure I'm nothing like her either. I'm Tim Staggs. I'm a Nobody. But, I have learned a thing or two about promos in the last nine months or so. I know there is supposed to be some obligitory trash talking on the opponent, or in this case, opponents. Trust me, there is plenty of that to come. These guys make it way too easy. But, there are a few things I'd like to address first.
Tim adjusts himself in his seat as he holds up his hand. The flight attendant walks over to him, and he holds his hand in front of his face, whispering something to the young, thin steward. He nods his head and walks to the back of the plane as Tim slowly looks back to the camera.
Tim: Thanks to the lovely *air quotes* Twitterverse... you know, that thing that so many wrestlers live on these days, tweeting pointless things all day, as if we needed a narration of every meaningless action performed in their day. Such as *ahem* "Today, I had a latte with Joe Blow and Suzy Snow before erupting into a violent orgy with Johnny Come Lately and..." Well, you get my point. It's like a bunch of horny teenagers getting laid for the first time. Anyway, thanks to the Twitterverse, I've been reminded of two very important topics, ones that have been neglected since I sliced my hand open a few weeks back.
The steward walks over toward Tim with his caddy, scooping ice into a plastic cup before pouring a caramel colored liquid into the glass. He hands it over to Tim, muttering a passing pleastantry before backing up the aisle of the dimly lit cabin. Tim takes a sip of the drink before placing it in the drink holder on the arm rest.
Tim: The first topic... it seems there has been a misunderstanding in the nature of The Nobodies. See, I thought there was only one obvious, clear cut founding principle amongst the three faces, and those in the shadows, awaiting their time to discover their purpose. I guess such things should be discussed, instead of one assuming its... heh... common sense... Johnny and I aren't best friends, but we are friends nonetheless. I know that I can count on Johnny to have my back under any circumstance. I'm pretty sure he feels the same way with me. We occasionally hang out behind the scenes. I sort of broke him into the business even. There is a sort of brotherhood there. Do you see where I'm going with this?
Tim reaches over to his left, pulling one of the hoods back to reveal a picture of Johnny Tsunami tucked inside of it. He presses the hood against the seat, so to let it rest there while keeping the picture in plain view. After pausing for a second, he turns to his right and does the same with the jacket, revealing a picture of Kris Halich. Tim stares at it for a second a momentary look of contempt in his eyes, until he forces it out, and looks back to the camera with kind eyes.
Tim: Then, we have Kris Halich. Or, Halc as so many are referring to him these days... well, always apparently. Your SCW Internet Champion! That lovable guy who thinks it's a token to be a Nobody. It's just an edgy tune by Marilyn Manson to him, it would seem. It's not an excuse to sulk around like a baby when you fail, and keep yourself humble when you succeed. It's a lifestyle, man.
Tim tangles his fingers in his red hair as he groans in displeasure. He slowly shakes his head from side to side, as the real emotion comes to his face; betrayal.
Tim: This last week was almost unreal. An unofficial invite into the group extended to Amy Marshall. It's cool, despite her success, so many people look down on her. It's kind of like a female version of you, only... you know... edgy and interesting. But, then...
Tim tries to play off the next words as if he believes them to be a joke, despite the obvious fact that he doesn't. He chuckles in exasperation before continuing, shaking his finger at the camera.
Tim: Hang on, I need a second here... Okay, so then, you extend the invite to Jessie Salco? Really? I mean, in all fairness, she is perfect for the Nobodies. No one ever takes her seriously. She's never had a title reign last longer than a couple weeks. In simpleton terms, she suuuucks... But, being a Nobody doesn't mean that you suck. It means that you own the fact that you suck. I mean, I couldn't fight my way out of a soggy paper bag, but Ms. Salco thinks her shit doesn't stink. She thinks she's the best thing since the iPod was created. Plus, she's like my mortal enemy. Why don't I invite a fat balloon of smack into the Nobodies, Kris? Granted, it would still get more wins than Jessie Salco, but still. How would that make you feel?
Tim takes his remaining hand from his hair and rests it on the arm rest while reaching over to his cup, taking another sip from it to satiate his drying lips.
Tim: No, but seriously Kris. You're... you're a funny guy
Tim tries to make himself laugh, but it almost comes out as creepy and unstable rather than even remotely convincing.
Tim: "If you don't want to choke him, then you probably haven't met him yet." Haha! Yep! That's me! An annoying ginger kid who inspires murderous thoughts from the most saintly of people! But, it's okay. It just means that we're simply business associates with creative differences. I get it, and it's cool. Suck up to Jessie to get in Amy's pants. It's pathetic, but it's fine brother. I mean "friend". No, that's not right either... You... guy? Yeah...
Tim clinches one eye closed as he balls up his fist, giving the air a friendly punch before taking a deep breath. He looks around to see the next hooded jacket across the aisle. He stands up and walks over to it and he lifts his jacket hood up to reveal a picture of Kris' Bombshell counterpart, Bombshell Internet Champion Roxi Johnson.
Tim: You see, I said some things the other day that have drawn a lot of heat. The main one was when I stated to scwrestling.net that Roxi Johnson needs to be taken down a few notches at Into the Void 4. Perhaps I said that in haste? People were so shocked to hear this. I mean, genuinely shocked. Between the three of us, I was shocked too. I mean, I didn't mean for something like that to come out. I didn't even realize I held any amount of disdain for someone I've never spoken a word to until confronted with the comment. I mean, I guess I should, I don't know... apologize? Is that what people do when they don't mean something in this business?
Tim looks around to all of the hoodies, those revealed, and those not. When no answer comes, he looks back to the steward, who shrugs his shoulders, speaking in an almost mousy tone, obviously a bit camera shy.
Steward: I, um... I mean, I think you probably would. That's how it works in the real world any way. Yeah...
Tim takes this into careful consideration, nodding his head as he walks around behind the seat. He rests his arms on it as he leans down, hovering just over Roxi's picture.
Tim: You're probably right. The time I accidentally bumped into a customer at the bistro I worked at, I apologized, because I really didn't mean to make them spill a few drops of their soup on the table, or to cause them a momentary discomfort. Or, that time I told Misty I hated her when she walked out on my dad. I could never hate the woman who raised me. Yeah, it sucked, but time heals, and I apologized a million times for saying that. And, when I said that Roxi Johnson needed to be taken down a few notches, I apologized, because I didn't mean it.
Tim nods his head as he leans down to the picture, raising an eyebrow in confusion. He cups his hand to his ear as if he wants to make sure he's heard the picture correctly.
Tim: What's that? I... I didn't apologize? Really? Well, if I didn't apologize, then what? Are you saying I actually feel that way? You're damn right I do! Roxi Johnson needs to be taken down about a thousand notches, nay, a million!
Tim holds his hand in the air as if making a very important, serious announcement. After pausing for a moment, Tim stares down at the photo in contempt before slowly looking back to the camera.
Tim: On a serious note, this woman is as fake as her wife's breasts... and probably hers for that matter. She claims to be a super hero. Her and her wife walk around with this Holier Than Thou attitude, because they... haha... they save people. Of course, that is when they aren't on Twitter picking up women to sleep with, and rubbing it in everyone's faces who gives enough of a shit to read it. They are worse than Amanda Cortez, and that speaks volumes! I mean, between saving the world, and the copious amounts of crotch they are diving in to, when do they ever sleep?! I mean, one of those has to slow down sometimes, doesn't it?
Tim looks down to the picture as if expecting a response from it, jesting of course. After a moment he shakes his head in disgust as he looks back to the camera.
Tim: Story time. I'll be quick, I promise. One night, there was a Twitter crusade against Liz Smalls. Wait, that could be every night for the last two years... It was one August day last year. Anyway, the Superhero Brigade was suspiciously quiet. They must have been after a piece that was playing coy, hard to get... Superheroes deserve their fun time, right? Maybe not so much of the throwing it in our faces, but still... Anyhow, there was this kid who happened on Twitter, a wrestling fan who was just ecstatic to be able to talk to so many of the stars he admired and looked up to.
Steward: You're... you're talking about yourself, right?
Tim shoots an evil glare back to the steward before balling his fist up and swinging it in his general direction, though clear across the plane at the time, posing no real threat.
Tim: Thanks for that Brandon! Because it's not like I was having a moment there! It's not like I was trying to build suspense in a poetic twist or anything! Jesus! ... Yeah, I got on to Twitter, and I tried making friends with people, trying to be objective, and I stumbled upon Liz Smalls. Her and the rest of the then Mean Girls started harrassing me, calling me all sorts of names, making me feel small. Yeah, most people would probably brush something like that off, but I had never encountered something like that before. They drove me to something I wasn't proud of. They put me in a dark place. They approached me later on and smoothed it over. No hard feelings there... well, none stemming from that incident. However, the one person who makes a daily promise to the world, to always be there for them... the ray of hope in this bleak world...
Brandon (Steward): You mean Roxi Johnson, right?
Tim: Don't you have a job to do, Brandon?! Get me a packet of peanuts or something instead of ruining my moments!!!
Tim almost shrieks this at the end before slapping his forehead. He closes his eyes, taking a few breaths as Brandon turns around to walk out of the cabin. Tim shoots his wicked glare back to the camera.
Tim: Roxi Johnson couldn't be bothered to stop them from driving me to do something I wouldn't normally have done. She couldn't have said one word, or showed that she cared enough to shut out the darkness they were bringing to my world that night. She's a fraud. She can Twitter sex all day, every day, but she...
Tim closes his eyes once more as the hurtful emotion radiates from him. He wipes away what is likely tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Taking another deep breath, he looks up to the cabin ceiling until he has recomposed himself.
Tim: You idiots might be dumb enough to buy into it because a pretty girl puts on a spandex suit, cape, and mask and appears at Comic Con's across the country, but it's clear that it's just for show. She's no more real than Batman, Spiderman, Superman, The Avengers, or any other comic book superhero. And her wife is even worse. I should go on about that, but we expect the deceit from Kiera, but we expect Roxi to be the kind soul she claims to be, even after her hiccup with Cyrus. I'm not buying it, and that is exactly why I want to see her perish. There is no light in this world. There are just different levels of darkness. That's the only positive thing I can say about Roxi Johnson. That's exactly why I hope with every fiber of my being that Amy Marshall kicks her ass, embarrasses her, and takes that title away from her in two weeks time.
Tim looks down at the page and dusts his hands as if wiping them clean of Roxi. He lowers the hood so not to have to look at her any longer. He moves along to the next two jackets, placing a hand on each shoulder before lifting up the hood of the jacket to his right, revealing the picture of Casey Williams.
Tim: I'm not sure which of my opponents is the bigger joke here, honestly. Casey is an embarrassment in everything he does. He joined my father's stable, New X-Tremes, as one of the founding members more or less. He had made a mockery of his size by falling to almost every opponent. My father trained him, and he still sucked. He won a match here and there, so it wasn't all for naught, but he never could maintain any real source of talent, even being trained by a multi-time champion like my father.
Tim pats the shoulder of the jacket representing Casey playfully, as if implying that he's kidding around, when he's being more than just a little serious.
Tim: Casey Williams is an idiot of the highest order. He was a tag champion with Jordan Williams, a legend in this sport, and yet he couldn't manage to hang on to those belts for too long. He was then able to win the Roulette Championship from Primetime Matthew Kennedy, but he couldn't hold onto that for long either. He then topped his own stupidity when he turned his back on my dad, and the stable to go out on his own. He fades in and out of obscurity a few times before Simon Jones sent him packing in a Loser Leaves Town kind of match. Somehow, he found his way back, managing Dying Breed... haha, what a joke. They sucked worse than he did. Yeah, somehow that's possible! Crazy, but true. Well, anyway, he's suddenly back with a surprising win over Old Skool or whoever it was. No one really cares, but yeah...
Tim snickers, feeling a bit of relief at Casey's expense.
Tim: I'm surprised Casey didn't try to latch onto Mark Ward's nuts again. Or, tug on Sean Jackson's coattails. I mean, there's plenty of people here who are worth latching on to in order to rise back to the top, where he will flounder when he breaks free from them. The truth is that he belongs with us, but I don't think a second Staggs family member feels like having Casey leeching off of any success they might one day get. My family has done enough for Casey, and I don't feel like I owe him anything. But, as I was saying, there are plenty of options for nut sucking, but Casey picks the biggest douche bag in Sin City Wrestling since Giani Di Luca left the active roster? Seriously? Like, this isn't some kind of joke where he cozies up to him, and then dig a knife in his back like he does with everyone he holds close to him in this business? I mean, come on. Casey is going to probably just call me a whiny bitch in fifty different ways, wasting our time and intelligence trying to make sense of his babbling. He's predictable. If he's not going to knife his partner, then his partner will knife him eventually. Isn't that right, James?
Tim leans over to his left, pulling back the hood of the jacket to reveal a picture of J2H. He snickers and then juts his thumbs at the picture.
Tim: The artist formally known as James Huntington-Hawkes... the third. Whenever I get down in regards to my less than stellar record in SCW, I think to myself "At least I'm not as pathetic as this guy." I mean, I won a couple matches in the minor leagues, but this guy was the laughing stock of SCW way back when. I mean, my father once bent him over his knee and whooped his ass in the middle of the ring. This guy was the comic relief. Though, I'm conflicted, because he at least had a role, while I am nothing. I mean, this guy could have won the World Heavyweight title, and still, no one would take him seriously. Instead, he rode Giani Di Luca's nutsack through a successful Tag Team Championship reign. He cheated his way to a long Roulette Championship reign, many successful defenses due in part to Giani as well. So, while James remains the laughing stock of the locker room, I get to lurk in the shadows. I'm not even a thought to most people, but that just means, when I do have my moment, people will be floored in shock and awe. If James has one, it just makes his opponent look bad, and gets him laughed at even more.
Once again, Tim chuckles at this thought, shaking his head as he leans down next to the picture. Despite this, he maintains eye contact with the camera, but acts as if he's whispering something to James.
Tim: I mean, this guy is trained by Austin Parker, one of the guys who trained my father. That guy is no joke. My father told me that Austin helped him round out his skill set, and credits Austin for being the one person to make him legit along with our lovely boss, Mark Ward Junior. "Hot Stuff" to most. So, I should probably be cleaning the crap from my underwear right about now, but the truth of the matter is that, not even Austin Parker could save this walking punchline. The most interesting thing about him is that he was once married to Melody Grace, and didn't realize his marriage certificate was drawn by Despayre... in crayon... until months later when she'd made off with a huge chunk of his money. His identifier in wrestling is "the Brat Prince" or "the rich kid". I tried to research this guy, but watching his matches was like watching Happy Gilmore for the first time... freaking hysterical!
Tim holds onto his stomach for emphasis as he belts out laughter. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Tim recomposes himself as he leans up a bit.
Tim: It's sad when you get laughed at by a Nobody, but if there were ever a team that deserved it, it would be these two. I give it about two months before it implodes upon itself. Now, some might be wondering why I would feel this way, yet claim to scwrestling.net that they will defeat Johnny and I. It isn't because I lack faith in my tag partners skills. It isn't because I doubt myself, as many people probably think. What ever could it be, then?
Tim walks from behind the seat, making his way to his original seat to pick up his cup once more. He takes a sip from his glass as Brandon peeks out from behind the steward's station, opening his mouth to speak. However, Tim holds his hand out, silencing him and causing him to withdrawl back behind the curtain slowly like a turtle. Tim sets his drink down before making himself comfortable.
Tim: You see, much like my last match against the Seven Deadly Sins... this team is somehow marketable. I know, it speaks volumes about wrestling fans, but you've got a rich kid with attitude, and some dumb muscle to back him up. That's compelling! It's edgy! It's... been done before, but what hasn't right? Originality left the building decades ago. But, Mark Ward knows how to sniff out dollars, euros, Chuck E. Cheese tokens... whatever type of currency he can get his hands on. He smells money in this team, and he's setting them up for big things. He needs to throw a could boneheads underneath the bus, but the Surf Boys were just in action last week, and they lost to a couple talentless assholes, so no one would bat an eyelash if they lost to "C-Dubz" and J2H. No, they are pulling out the premier jobbers for this one! Fwew! Boy, do we know how to sell a loss. I mean, we act like we don't care, but we fight to win each and every time we're booked. So, when we lose to people because of a slow count, or a blind eye from the referee *shrugs* it's all part of the business, and hey, they beat some guy with great hair, and a third generation wrestler, so hey! They must be good, right? Mark Ward could sell sand to an Arab, so why not sell shit to his audiences? That's exactly what he's going to do, and that is why I'm going on record as saying that this conspiracy theory will give us another mark in the L column. I will maintain my defeated streak for another show. I guarantee you this.
Brandon: Your first in flight meal is ready, and it's getting cold, so...
Tim looks back to see Brandon poking his head through the curtains once again. He groans, rolling his eyes as he pulls down his tray table. Brandon takes this as his cue to come out with his cart once more as Tim looks back to the camera for just a moment.
Tim: I hope you two are ready to earn this victory, because Johnny and I won't be taking it lightly on you guys. It's time to put up or shut up. If you guys are ready to be taken seriously, then you'll have to bring all you've got, or else you will reamin the laughing stock of Sin City Wrestling. See you in 9 days, boys...
Tim salutes the camera sarcastically as Brandon sets the hot tray down in front of time, lifting the placing steam cover off of the mediocre food. Tim raises an eyebrow as he lifts a fork to poke at the food, and the scene fades out... TO BLACK!
