The sound of relentless coughing echoes throughout the room as the camera fades in to see “Shorty” Devin Tyler sitting up in bed. He has an ice pack sitting on the top of his head, and his nose is almost as red as Rudolph’s, so much so that you may even say it glows. He hacks up and spits into a nearby receptacle before looking up. He sighs and shakes his head.
“What the hell, really? We gotta do this right now?”
“We are running out of time to do this. You only have a matter of hours to get this done, edited, and airing. You put it off long enough.”
The voice behind the camera is none other than Shorty’s friend, Kader Hasheem of Honor Wrestling. Shorty doesn’t look very happy as he takes the ice pack off of his head. He takes a drink of water to help suppress the cough before he starts to speak.
“I guess now the mystery is solved. I just won the match of my life, alongside Evie Baang, in the first round of the Blast From the Past Tournament. We should be celebrating loud and proud all week because of it. All over Twitter, bragging about it like others are doing. But we’ve been pretty silent, especially me. Is it because we have a lot of class? Are we just that confident that we don’t need to rub it into the faces of all of the haters out there? No. It’s none of that. And in case you’re a bunch of fucking morons who can’t see what’s going on, it’s because I’ve been sick.”
Shorty coughs again, leaning over to hold onto his ribs as he groans. He tries to stop himself with a slight drink of water, which works only momentarily.
“That’s right, I’ve been sick as a fucking dog, laid up in fucking bed, with a fever that only just broke this morning. Any lesser of a man, and I would have to put out a message to Evie, apologizing for not being able to continue in this match. But, contrary to popular belief, my size is not an indication of my manhood. I will be coming into this match, all guns ablazing. Even if only to spite everyone, to prove them all wrong, and to punish…”
Shorty adjusts himself in bed, pulling the covers up, clutching them tightly in his cold hands. He looks as if he’s ready to speak again, but instead he reaches over and grabs a tissue. He blows his nose into it and balls it up before throwing it into the trash can.
“I don't think it's a coincidence that I get sick as a motherfucker the second I step foot into this disgusting cesspool of disease known as Sin City. The land of hookers and middle aged Midwest tourists, I was bound to walk away with something. Doc says two days is plenty to get over it and be back in shape to wrestle.”
Shorty adjusts himself in bed as his chest rumbles before another bout of coughing. Once he catches his breath, he continues.
“When you look at the trash that they put Evie and myself up against this week, it makes me wonder. Take a look at Kira Phoenix. She likes to break the rules. I like people who go hard, but to bend the rules is despicable. And that's coming from someone who punches people in the dick. I can't respect that. You got talent, and if you weren't stuck with a scrub as a partner, you might be able to actually show it off. Of course, you aren't as talented as Evie, so there is that.”
Shorty takes another sip of water before continuing on.
“That brings us to you, Jon Dough. Mr. Golden Briefcase. All the potential in the world, and you are just destined to fall. It's like a theme for you. That's probably why you haven't cashed in your briefcase. You know that while you have it, you are still interesting. People care about you. Without it, they won't pay attention to you. Who could blame them when even your name is like a lame pun? A play on words that just falls flat, like your performance. Don't worry, Evie and I will go on to make you famous when we beat you and then go on to win this entire tournament. You get to be a footnote as the one who got beat by the winners of the tournament. Just like O’Malley and Roxi Johnson, and just like the next two teams that fall to us. You will see what I mean when Sunday rolls around and passes you by. You won't even see it coming, because I'm too quick for you. I might be 3 foot 11 inches, but by the end of Sunday, you will be on your back, looking up at me. I will be the last thing you see before you fade out for the three count. My size will not stop me from putting you down. Count on it. I will see you on Sunday. That's a wrap.”
With that, Shorty continues on with the coughing as he settles himself back into bed. He covers his mouth with a tissue as the camera cuts out.
