The day before yet another episode of Climax Control, a video goes up on the Sin City Wrestling website. Entitled 'The REAL Dying Breed', its thumbnail features two dapper young men sitting at what appears to be the counter at an upscale bar or nightclub. Once viewers press the 'Play' button, it becomes apparent that that is indeed the case, although the video is clearly being taped before rush hour begins.
As the scene opens, one of the two youths - the better-built one, with slicked-back blond hair and clad in a clearly expensive blazer over a dress shirt - is whispering something in the ear of a voluptuous brunette; by his side, his leaner partner, also dressed in expensive designer clothes adhering to a 'smart casual' style, watches and laughs as the girl slaps his friend and stalks indignantly away.
'You clearly laid on the charm with that one, didn't you, mate?'
'It is as I always say, Nige', the man sighs, turning to his partner with an expression of false resignation. 'You simply can't win them all.'
Then, as if noticing the camera for the first time, he starts. A moment later, a smirk crosses his lips.
'Why, hello there! How perfectly sociable of you to have joined us! I do not believe we have been formally introduced. I am Rupert Royston-Fellowes. This is my associate, Nigel Kensington III. Together, we are the Best of British.'
The man wiggles a finger back and forth between himself and his partner before continuing:
'What is that you say? You have never heard of us? Well, of course you haven't! You are Americans, after all, are you not? You make up for with stupidity what you lack in awareness and sophistication.'
A dry, smug chuckle escapes the youth's lips at this point before he continues:
'Allow us to enlighten you. Not only are we the cream of the crop of British professional grappling, and the future of the sport when it comes to tag teams, we are also successful, rich, well-appointed and indecently handsome.'
Rupert widens his smirk, one that has either made dozens of girls fall at his feet or had the opposite effect. With that firmly in place once again, he continues:
'Now, normally, I would not set foot on a cesspool of crassness such as the United States...well, other than to visit certain acquaintances of mine in Manhattan penthouses and in Hollywood. You can thank the Kensington family for the privilege of seeing me in action.'
He jerks a thumb towards Nigel, who nods, smiling slightly, but still says nothing.
'You see, my associate here, along with his cousin, the lovely Katherine, have convinced me to give this Sin City place a whirl. Katherine in particular had nothing but kind words for the place and the people working in it. Now, I am aware that Katie is prone to flights of fancy, and tends to find everything even slightly above acceptable level charmingly delightful; even still, I thought it might be good fun to take a little holiday overseas and show the classless, base, boorish Yanks how Chelsea boys fare in the ring. Besides...I shall be able to wine and dine the lovely Delia.'
Here, Rupert's smirk becomes almost tender for a moment, before being replaced with an exaggerated grimace:
'However...it does seem as though we have started things off on the wrong foot, does it not? Dear o dear!'
Nigel chuckles, but his partner does not seem amused:
'You see, instead of finding suitable competition for us to face on our debut, this Sin City Wrestling trots out an absolute joke. I realise they may want to grant us an easy victory as a welcome package, but the way they went about it is borderline insulting!'
Here, for the first time, the 'silent partner' pipes up:
'At least their name is accurate...'
This makes Rupert laugh, in spite of himself:
'...yes, at least there is that!'
Then, turning back to the camera:
'You see, these two...I hasten to call them gentlemen...are indeed a 'dying' breed. As in, they may literally be dying. For you see, having acquired the services of two toned young gentlemen such as ourselves, Sin City Wrestling saw fit to pit said young gentlemen against an aging, out-of-shape troglodyte and the man responsible for training him!?'
A gasped chuckle of disbelief escapes the youngster's lips as he continues, getting progressively more and more agitated:
'Is this some sort of jape? Is this really the best you can muster in terms of male tag-team grappling, Sin City? Team Geezer? The Old-Timers? Statler and Waldorf? Honestly? Was there absolutely no one else who might have given our debut a little...dignity?'
The young man pauses, collecting himself a moment before continuing, with a sneer:
'Still, if we must face these boors, I suppose I might dispense some advice. And Mr. Garcia, Mr. Darrell, if you are listening to this, turn your speakers up, as I loathe to have to repeat myself.'
Rupert leans in closer to the camera and proceeds:
'First things first. Andrew, how about a little exercise, to get rid of that belly? My personal trainer, Traci, is absolutely wonderful! I could have a word, if you'd like...? Oh, but what am I saying, you could never in your life hope to afford her services!'
The blond youth has another private chuckle:
'Simply locate whatever the low-income alternative to Traci is - most likely some overweight sixty-year-old who plays for the other team - and for goodness's sake stop being an embarrassment to everyone who is forced to work alongside you!'
Another brief pause, then:
'As far as you are concerned, Mr. Darrell, I shall refrain from further comments. I was taught by my father to respect the elderly.'
The youth stops for another beat, then concludes:
'And as for the management of Sin City Wrestling...I suppose I may be persuaded to forgive your poor judgement, seeing as this is our first appearance and you were not to know. I do expect, however, that you will raise the standard of competition in upcoming weeks. At the risk of seeing your entire tag team division thoroughly humiliated. For you see, we are the real 'dying breed'...a dying breed of fully-rounded, purely skilled athlete. And commencing this Sunday...we shall be demonstrating as much to the Sin City viewership at large.'
Here, Nigel cuts across, driving a shoulder lightly into Rupert's chest as he gazes somewhere off-frame:
'Rupert...!'
'I'm talking, Nigel!', his partner snaps irritably. Nigel, however, insists, nudging the blond youngster yet again:
'No...Rupert...!'
'WHAT?' Rupert snaps, most undignifiedly, before following Nigel's line of sight. What he sees there immediately causes him to change his attitude, eagerly rising from the stool he had been sitting in and forgetting his drink. As he begins to stand, however, he notices the camera crew - presumably hired by himself - still standing there, and waves them off with a dismissive wave of the hand:
'Run along! Shoo! Off you go!'
With this, the dashing but cocky wrestling superstar hastens forward towards whatever awaits him off-frame, as the video abruptly ends.
