[Mr Ringo]

 :FADE IN:

APRIL 19 2014

INT. RINGO MANUFACTURING – NIGHT

The camera fades in to the large office of James Orion Ringo and pans around the room and shows older, out-of-date furniture, different pictures on the walls, and an awkward color scheme. The large window on the right wall is covered by a dark red curtain and the lights from the Miami, Florida city night is barely creeping in the through the curtain and into the dark office. Above the large desk and the leather chair is a sign that reads, “Without Power, There is Nothing.” Sitting behind the desk is James O, wearing a white suit with a light blue shirt and a clementine colored tie. His salt and pepper is slicked backed and his face is slightly hidden by the large nose placed on top of it that holds his small bifocals. Sitting in front of him on his desk is nameplate that reads “JAMES O. RINGO”. Standing behind him in a black suit and a black shirt with an unbuttoned color is Ringo, folding his hands in front on him. One of his hands is bandaged up from where his father had stabbed him with a fork earlier that week.

Sitting in front of James O’s desk is an older Italian man dressed to the nines. Wearing a double-breasted, three-piece, pinstriped suit with a wide paisley tie and a white shirt. He sits nervously as two of James O’s henchmen flank him on either side. He removes his white pocket square from his jacket breath pocket and wipes the sweat from his brow as he clears his throat. His name is Enzo.

ENZO: Mr. Ringo…please…I…

James O chuckles a bit as he cuts off his guest.

JAMES O: Please, Enzo. There’s no reason to be nervous here. You are among friends. Continue…

He gestures his hand as if motioning Enzo to move on.

ENZO: Like I was saying…this economy has been very tough on my family’s business. We have been struggling these past few months. If there were any other way…

James O listens to the man across from him without changing his facial expressions. He pauses for what seems like an eternity before cracking a smile. He turns back to his son Ringo and makes sure he’s paying attention before turning back to Enzo.

JAMES O: Enzo…your family has been buying textiles from Ringo Manufacturing for thirty years…

Enzo interrupts him.

ENZO: Thirty four…

James O sneers at Enzo a bit for interrupting him.

JAMES O: Yes…thirty four. Why would you feel that after all that time, after the business you’ve done with my father, and me, that you couldn’t come to me? That you couldn’t come tell me about the troubles that you’ve been having. We could’ve helped, we’re always here for our partners, you know that. Don’t you?

Enzo gulps.

ENZO: Of course, Mr. Ringo.

James O holds his hand up, still smiling.

JAMES O: Enzo…please call me James.

Enzo gulps again.

ENZO: Of course, James. It’s just that…with all the trouble that we have had…I wanted to make sure for certain that we would not be able to meet our agreement before I came to you. I understand that you are a man that does not like to be disappointed.

James O lets out an uncomfortable laugh that seems forced. He turns back around to Ringo and slaps him on the arm, still laughing. He turns back to Enzo and holds out his arms before getting up out of his chair. He walks around the desk and sits on top of in front of Enzo, buttoning his expensive white suit jacket as he does. He leans forward and puts his hands on each of Enzo’s shoulders.

JAMES: You are a good man, Enzo Brazzini. And it means a lot to me that you came here today to tell me in person that you feel that your family has to go with a different supplier. Of course this is disappointing news but this is business, Enzo. Business is business. This is something that I’m trying to teach my knucklehead son.

James O points back to RINGO who is still awkwardly standing behind the desk with his hands folded, not moving.

JAMES O: Maybe one day your son can do business with my son and our families can once again enjoy the prosperity they once had. After all…family is everything. Please, have a drink.

James O reaches to his left and grabs a glass carafe  full of scotch. He pours it into the two open glasses next to the carafe before picking them both up. He hands one to Enzo and keeps the other for himself and raises it up to his now former business partner.

JAMES: To family…

Enzo raises his glass as well and both men take a sip.

ENZO: James, thank you. I must be heading back now as I have some business to attend to. I hope you will forgive me.

James O smiles at Enzo.

JAMES O: Of course, please, I’m sorry if I’m holding you up.

Both men stand up and shake hands. Enzo nods to Ringo who stills stands awkwardly still.

ENZO: Thank you again for understanding, James.

JAMES O: It’s just business, Enzo. Take care.

They watch as Enzo walks out of the office. James O nods to he is body guards and they both leave the room, and he turns to Ringo, pouring out the rest of his scotch as he does.

JAMES O: I never understood society’s fascination with liquor. Tastes like shit.

He walks back around his desk and sits down.

JAMES O: Well, James. That’s what it’s like to lose twenty million dollars a year. I hope you learned something. Have a seat.

Ringo walks around the table and sits in front of his father.

RINGO: Business is just business, it’s ok to let partners go.

SLAM!

James O slams his fist on his oak desk.

JAMES O: Have you paying attention to anything? This man just cost us twenty fucking million dollars because he thought he could get some cheap shit from Mexico or Cuba or wherever the fuck he’s getting it from.

RINGO: But you said…

JAMES O: I know what I said, James.

He stands up, his hands pressed against his desk, and leans over toward his son.

JAMES O: Do you know what happens when we lose face like that?

Ringo shakes his head from side to side.

JAMES O: We lose power, James. And what is more important than all the money in this crappy world of ours.

RINGO: Power.

JAMES O: That’s right. And what happens when we have all the power, James? The whole world listens to us. The whole world kneels before us. Never forget that, James. That is the most important lesson of all. They all must kneel.

James O steps away from his desk and walks toward the window. He stares out to the bright Miami afternoon sky and lets out a deep breath. He turns back to RINGO.

JAMES O: And they will James…if I have to die trying…they will all kneel to a Ringo.

:FADE OUT:


:FADE IN:

APRIL 24 2014

EXT. MIAMI COFFEE HOUSE – DAY

The scene backs in outside of a coffee shop. Through the front window we can see Chloe, with a white short-sleeved collared shirt and black pants, serving coffee to a young couple sitting at a table in front of the window. She smiles  a bit as she talks to them, brushing her blonde hair behind her ear. The camera zooms out a bit to show man, standing outside, watching her. He stands tall in a black suit, with a black shirt, and slicked back black hair. His dark features glisten in a pretty yet somewhat frightful way in the hot Miami son. As the camera zooms out even further we see that it is Ringo. He leans forward and taps on the glass to get her attention. She looks up and her eyes widen when she sees him. She gasps a bit before clenching her lips and shaking her head side to side a bit. She politely excuses herself and leaves the table, walking around and pushing open the front door where Ringo meets her.

RINGO: Hi…

She brushes past him, walking briskly around to the side of the sea foam green building. She gets to near the back of the building, by two large dumpsters, and turns back to him.

CHLOE: What are you doing here?

RINGO: I felt bad how things ended last time we spoke, at the diner.

CHLOE: Yeah, well I don’t. I told you not to talk to me anymore.

RINGO: I know but…

CHLOE: There are no buts, ok. I can’t do this.

She throws her arms up in the air and goes to walk passed him but he takes a step forward getting in her way. She stops and looks up into his vulnerable brown eyes.

CHLOE: James…

He puts his hand on her shoulder and steps a bit closer again.

RINGO: I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t know what it is but…I can’t get your eyes out of my head.

She closes her eyes a bit and lets out a long, soft sigh. She looks up at him and a tear wells up in her right eye. It slowly drips out and Ringo is quick to wipe it away with his index finger.

RINGO: Hey…I’m sorry.

She shakes her, taking a step back, and dries her own eyes. She runs them ferociously for a second with both hands and then looks at Ringo again, her cheeks and her eyes both red. She lets out another sigh.

CHLOE: I don’t know how to tell you this James, but…I can’t do this. I can’t be your friend after knowing who your father is.

He takes a step back and a light flash of anger comes over his face before he quickly washes it away. He cocks his head as if he’s confused and then takes the step forward again.

RINGO: What is it about my father that you think is so bad? I know he’s a tough business man and he has a bad reputation but he’s my father, Chloe. He’s not some evil human being.

CHLOE: That’s the problem, James. He is. Take a look around here.

She walks past him and steps out towards the street. She points at the decaying buildings, the drug dealers standing on the corner, and the gangs of Cuban and Haitian immigrants walking each side of the busy main road.

CHLOE: Your father’s “company” pumps millions of dollars worth of illegal drugs into our city. He pillages our community down here as he drinks his Cristal and drives around in his Mercedes Benz. Our community was once proud…and now the few decent residents we have left don’t have the strength to stand up to him because they are afraid, James. They are afraid just like I am afraid and I’m sorry but you’re part of the problem.

He tries to cut her off.

RINGO: I’m not…

CHLOE: Yes, James, you are. That two thousand dollar suit you’re wearing and those alligator shoes you strut in, where do you think that money comes from?

RINGO: We own a manufacturing company, Chloe, we’re not…gangsters for God’s sake.

She stares at him and nods his her head a bit. Her blue eyes now filled with tears.

CHLOE: Tell that to my dead brother….

She cocks her head sideways as Ringo looks away.

CHLOE: Tell that to his three year old son who I have tell every night that his father isn’t coming home. This is the real world, James…not some wrestling ring in Las Vegas.

He rolls his eyes in a bit of embarrassment as she walks quickly up to him and stands just inches away from him. She leans her head in and the volume of her voice gets down to just above a whisper.

CHLOE: Yeah, I know all about “REAL MONEY” Jimmy Ringo, ok? While you were off playing Hulk Hogan I was putting my baby brother in the ground. So when you go home and you have dinner around that big fancy table, I want you to ask your father what it is that he’s not telling you because if you really don’t know…if you truly have no clue…then I take pity on you.

RINGO: I…

CHLOE: Goodbye, James.

She pushes past him and walks around the corner. He hesitates for a moment but then decides to go after her but by the time he gets to the edge of the building he hears the door close to the front of the coffee shop. He hangs his head for a moment but then turns around and walks down the street. He looks over the decaying buildings that Chloe pointed out and shakes his head a bit. Two small Latino kids run past him, both wearing white bandanas tied around there heads, playing with fake guns. He shakes his head again. He gets to the corner and sees a group of men, wearing white bandanas on their heads and white tank tops across the street. Half of them are leaning up against a six foot cement wall facing him while the rest have their backs in his direction. He looks over them all, four men, all wearing identical clothing. The only identifying factor between any of them is the small nickel plated pistol that is sticking out of the front of the man in the center of the pack’s waistband. Again the children run by him playing with their fake guns. Ringo’s blank expression turns downward, almost sinister. He turns to his left and walks across the street to the pack of neighborhood drug dealers. As he gets closer, the man with the gun in his waistband notices him coming.

DEALER: Hey whatchyou walkin so fas’ for meng?

Without hesitation, Ringo walks through the group. He grabs the man with the gun by the throat with his right hand and pushes him back against the wall. On instinct, with his left hand, he grabs the gun out of the dealer’s waistband. Still holding on to the guy’s throat, he slams the butt of the gun into the nose of the man directly to his left, knocking him unconscious.

SMACK!

Out of the corner of his right eye, he sees the third dealer coming in to attack. Ringo lets go of the man’s throat and then smashes his right elbow into the third dealers nose. He immediately, again on instinct, takes the butt of the gun and cracks the man in the jaw with his left hand, knocking him and a few of his teeth down to the pavement. He doesn’t see the fourth man coming in.

CRACK!

He gets blasted in the middle of his left cheek, knocking him over and sending the nickel plated gun skidding across the sidewalk. He balances himself on his hands and then turns, upper-cutting the fourth man numerous times in the gut before grabbing him by the back of the head and kneeing him right in the nose, knocking him down and out to the pavement. Just as the man falls, Ringo catches a sound coming from behind him.

CLICK-CLICK!

He turns to the first man, his gun now returned, holding up his weapon and pointing it right at Ringo. JN lets out a few breaths before finally giving in.

RINGO: Do it.

DEALER: Meng I’ll fucking shoot yo crazy ass.

RINGO: I said do it.

He walks closer to the dealer and the man begins to shake. Ringo’s sigh turns back toward a twisted grimace when he sees the man’s weakness and he grabs the gun, pulling it barrel first into his forehead.

RINGO: I said shoot…me…

The scared dealer lets go of the grip on his gun and steps back a few steps until bumping into the cement wall.

RINGO: Get on your knees.

DEALER: I got a family…please…

RINGO: I said KNEEL BEFORE ME…

The man, frightened, gets down on his knees and shuts his eyes. He starts mumbling under his breath and Ringo takes a step closer to him. He dusts off his expensive black suit and looks at the gun in his hand. He hears a commotion behind and he turns to see what’s going on. There are about a hundred people on the sidewalks, watching him. Leading the pack, is Chloe. The two make eye contact before Ringo turns back to the man. With all his might, screaming as he does, he kicks the man in the face, driving him into the cement wall.

:CUT TO BLACK:


:FADE IN:

APRIL 24 2014

EXT. MIAMI STREETS – NIGHT

The camera fades back in to see Ringo, bruised on his cheek, walking on a sidewalk on an empty road. He rubs his left hand where a band-aid sits, covering the holes from his father’s fork. As he walks down the road a large Mercedes-Benz sedan pulls up behind him. As it gets close, the rear window rolls down and James O pokes his head out.

JAMES O: I’ve been looking for you…

RINGO: I’m shocked.

JAMES O: Get in.

The car stops and so does Ringo. He turns to see his father’s smiling face and he nods. He walks around the other side of the car and gets into the back with James O. The car starts moving again as soon as he closes the door.

JAMES O: Eventful day?

RINGO: Wasn’t it you who said don’t waste time answering questions you already knew the answer to?

James O laughs.

JAMES O: It’s good to know you pay attention to me.

RINGO: Sometimes.

He laughs again at his son. He pulls out an ice pack and tosses it to his Ringo.

JAMES O: Put this on your face, you’re beginning to swell.

Ringo grabs the ice pack and applies to it to his left cheek. He stares at his father, his twisted grimace still there.

RINGO: I wanna know the truth.

JAMES O: What are you talking about?

RINGO: Who are you?

JAMES O: Stop this nonsense. You’ve been listening to the tabloids again, James.

With all his might, Ringo throws the ice pack against the rear window, shattering it.

JAMES O: What the…

RINGO: I said tell me!

JAMES O: There’s nothing to tell you, child! I’m an industrial capitalist that the media likes to make stories up about flying cocaine in over night with Pablo fucking Escobar.

He wipes glass off of his coat.

JAMES O: You’re gonna pay for that. Now keep your mouth shut, there’s something I want to listen to on the radio.

Ringo sits back in his seat, angry and still a bit confused, as James O reaches forward and turns up the radio in the backseat. A news reporter gets on the air…

“The latest news in the story of a missing Miami business man is tragic. Sixty seven year old Enzo Brazzini was found dead in a dumpster outside of a Motel 6 in Ft. Lauderdale in what is an apparent car jacking gone awry. Mr Brazz-“

James O shuts the radio and leans back in his seat. Ringo begins to breath heavily as he watches his dad take out a newspaper and begin to read the ‘Business’ section.

James O: It’s a shame what happened to Enzo. People are such animals sometimes, James. And for what…

He turns to his son.

James O: A car?

He shakes his head as he looks back at his paper. Ringo turns his straight forward and takes a few deep breaths…he shuts his eyes…

:CUT TO BLACK:


:FADE IN:

SEPTEMBER 5TH 2014

INT. UNDISCLOSED LOCATION – NIGHT

The scene fades in what looks like the backroom of a restaurant a bar. The room is dark, dimly lit, with a bit of a red glow to it. Wine bottle line the walls of the small room that has one table in the center of it draped with a dark plum table cloth. Sitting at the table, facing the curtain entrance to the room is Ringo. His hair is a bit longer then when we saw him last, his face a bit hardened. He sits with his legs crossed in his black suit, with a black button up on underneath the collar unbuttoned. His chrome cufflinks glisten in the dim light of the dark room as he looks at the scar of four small holes in left hand. He looks up when he sees the curtain open. In walks a young brunette, presumably the hostess of wherever they are followed by two familiar looking men. The first is wearing a black suit as well only his button up shirt is white. His cocky smile and boyish look is recognizable as the former James Huntington Hawkes III…J2H. Behind him walks in a large man, wearing a Gucci t-shirt and white jean shorts. His giant Cross hanging from his neck brightens up the room all on it’s own, which is particularly good given the dark sunglasses the man is wearing. He is recognizable as well as former SCW Heavyweight Champion Giani di Luca. Ringo stands up as the men enter the room.

RINGO: J…

He extends his hand for J2H and they both shake. He then turns to Giani and holds out his arms and smiles.

RINGO: The television star himself. James Nathaniel Ringo…

Ringo holds out his arm toward Giani for him to take it. Di Luca stares at him a for a moment before finally shaking hands with Ringo.

RINGO: Please, have a seat.

He turns to the hostess.

RINGO: Lease us.

He turns back toward J2H and Giani and they all sit down as the hostess leaves the room, closing the curtain behind her.

RINGO: So…I’m glad you changed your mind, Giani.

GIANI: I didn’t change nothing yet, dawg. Just that my boy here said you was legit and that I should hear you out.

RINGO: What do you think?

GIANI: I don’t got time for this, dawg. Let’s bounce J…

As Giani stands up, Ringo interrupts him.

RINGO: Sit down.

GIANI: What the fuck? Who does this cat think he is bruh? You ever talk…

As Giani gets up set, Ringo picks a black canvas bag up off the floor and unzips before dumping the contents onto the table. Giani’s eyes light up when he sees that what Ringo is dumping on to the table is rolls of one hundred dollar bills.

GIANI: Oh shit, dawg.

J2H: I told you, bro.

RINGO: That’s one hundred thousand dollars, Giani…and it’s all yours…

GIANI: You for real, Jimmy?

RINGO: I prefer Mr. Ringo and yes, Giani, I am for real. All you have to do is help me with a problem.

GIANI: Must be a big problem.

RINGO: The problem I have, Giani, is bigger than you probably know.

He stands up and starts pacing around the room as he sells Giani on his vision.

RINGO: You see, my problem isn’t a problem…not yet anyway. My problem is anticipation. I have a goal. One day I’ll share it with each of you but for now, all you need to know is that I want to cause as much unrest, as much havoc as possible in the one place we all have in common…Sin City Wrestling.

GIANI: What’s the catch? What’s the money for?

RINGO: Anarchy, Mr. Di Luca. The first step is anarchy. That’s the only way to start an implosion.

GIANI: But what’s the point, bro? I ain’t seeing the big picture, dawg.

RINGO: The big picture is that at the end of all of this, the end our journey together…you’re a very rich man.

GIANI: You know who you’re talking to? I’m rich as a mother fucker, dawg. I don’t-

Again Ringo interrupts him.

RINGO: Are you? Was that not your credit card that was declined a few weeks ago at Nordstrom’s?

A nervous look comes over his face.

RINGO: Don’t worry, Gi. You’ll never have to deal with that again. None of us will.

He sits back down.

RINGO: For too long you have been pushed aside for the likes of Simon Jones and Drake Green. You are the prize jewel of Sin City Wrestling. No one comes before you…no one, Giani.

Giani: But I still don’t…

RINGO: Anarchy, Mr. Di Luca. First we ruin them from within. We make their titles useless and meaningless. We’ll start with the roulette title and then eventually they’ll be dumb enough to make us number one contender’s for the tag team championships. And eventually…

Ringo leans forward.

RINGO:…eventually I want to see the whole place burn. But if you’re to join me on this quest…if you’re to become part of this movement…you’ll have to make only one commitment.

GIANI: Oh yea, what’s that, dawg?

RINGO: That our mission is paramount…our goal to stand over a fallen Sin City Wrestling becomes more important than anything else…including us.

He stands up and buttons his jacket.

RINGO: Think about it…keep the money.

He goes to walk out of the room and as he moves the curtain to leave, he turns back to Giani and J2H.

RINGO: Together we can accomplish anything, gentlemen. But alone…well…we saw how that worked out.

He confidently leaves the room as Giani stands up and starts to collect the cash.

:FADE OUT:



The Personal Diary of James Nathaniel Ringo


December 4th, 2014


The plan moves forward. The pieces have begun to fall and align themselves in the way they were predicted to. I always knew there would be someone to stand up and call ‘bluff’. There would be someone that needed to be sacrificed for the greater good in order for the world to take us seriously. There would be someone who was not intentionally targeted that would have to fall in order for certain things to come to light. I was waiting, watching, and hoping for someone to stand in my way so they could be dealt with in a humiliating public display of power and dominance. Caleb Houston has decided it would be wise to step in our path. He and JT Midas have done all that they can to try and intimidate and challenge us. They’re not worth it. Nothing about them is worth it. Unfortunately, that other worthless piece of trash Christian Underwood decided to once again over step his authority and force us into a match with two inferior opponents, he is trying to prove to us that he can control us. That sad part of this is it will come at the sacrifice of two of his newest stars.  

I don’t pretend to be something that I’m not. I don’t need to use the words “hard” or “bad” to describe myself. I don’t need to go on camera and call out half of the roster in order to try and prove to everyone what I am. I don’t do what I do to protect or develop an image. I don’t need to incessantly tweet to remind people that I exist or to constantly call attention to myself. I don’t have to ask myself a thousand questions and try to pretend people are actually interested in me, because I don’t give a fuck if they are. I don’t need to do any of that because what I am…what I do…is more important than that. I am not in the business of writing love stories with my brothers in Power.  I find it utterly repugnant when I log onto my social media outlet to promote my business, and I see two men professing their fake love for one another.  It is because of these people, and I use this term very loosely, that I can’t expect reputable viewers to take me seriously.  At least I know how to translate my mission statement each time I enter the ring.  Between the asinine brown nosing of sub par wrestlers such as the ultimate embarrassment, Liz Smalls, the repetitive cries for attention to feed into their own need for validation through others, and the love letters they write one another in one hundred and forty characters or less, I can’t even take this useful business tool seriously any longer.  And speaking of these desperate love notes, how am I expected to take these two ass clowns serious when they sum their love for one another up with “bae”?  I am not the type of individual who would call another man, or anyone else for that matter “bae”.  And no, it’s not because I’m too cool for fucking school, but it is because I have a fucking brain.  

I would never profess love to someone in such a lazy manner.  I don’t believe in speaking lazily, because that is a sign that what you are saying lacks any importance.  It is at this point that I can no longer take someone who says or types “bae” as anyone worth my time.  I would not expect those who are as uncultured as Players Club to look beyond the latest trendy atrocity to the English language for it’s true meaning.  When Caleb Houston caresses his blushing boyfriend, and whispers that sweet nothing into his ear, he is not calling him a prize.  He is not calling him something worth holding on to.  He’s calling him shit.  That’s right.  The word literally means “shit” in the Dutch language.  Actual… human… feces.  He is insulting him, and what is even more depressing is the fact that JT swoons in response.  He’s flattered that Caleb thinks of him as disposable human waste.  And yet, I am expected to take these two seriously?  I’m expected to take them as a threat?  It is my job to do so, yes, but I simply cannot.  I am already looking ahead to the next hurdle, because these two clearly lack common sense, and they have an even greater deficit of intelligence.  This showed the moment these two dick smackers challenged us on Twitter.  It showed when they lacked the testicular fortitude to challenge us face-to-face, when they instead insulted us with homophobic insults which they now cry foul when we say it about them. They mock me, saying I have abnormally large head, as juvenile as that sounds.  They walked into our yard, and they decided that they wanted to attack the nearest group with accomplishments and future promises galore.  In this world, it is dog eat dog, and they looked at us as three course meal.  They want to make a statement, but that will go by the wayside as Giani and I are tearing out their entrails, and dragging them across the ring.  Only by sheer luck could they ever survive an encounter with us.  The way they talk, one would think that they have some sort of statement to make.  Their wish is unclear, because of their unintelligent speech patterns and inability to make a meaningful statement, but the end result?  The statement that they will be making?  It will be getting planted on their fucking backs, and sent packing back to their Penthouse suite, protected from the dangers that linger in the outside world.  The dangers known as Power Play.

For some reason Caleb feels like he needs to prove something to me. I will give him credit, I finally know his name. But the sad part about all of this is that he has nothing to gain by getting into the ring with me, nothing at all. He can pin me in the center of the ring or make me pass out, it will not matter. No matter what the outcome, win or loss, it will not stop my plan. My vision for SCW will come to fruition no matter what my win loss record is. I’m not threatened by him or his “bae” JT Midas. The two of them are complete representations of everything that I’m not. They’re reckless, uncontrolled, and delusional beyond all sorts of proportional beliefs. They think they matter. They talk as if smoking marijuana and getting drunk on a Tuesday afternoon is done with a purpose. They’re such a good friends that they pretend like they’re dating, which is weak. Their abnormal connection hurts one another and they’re too blind to see it. They’re weak. Their reliance on substance abuse makes them weaker and even more pathetic. They lack control. They don’t know how to shut their secondary school level mouths and plot and plan on how to react. Instead they react in such a knee jerking way that it’s laughable. “Hey you’re the heavyweight champion Sean Jackson, so I’m gonna come out here and say stuff about you because it’s my second day on the job.” Pathetic. Earn something. PROVE SOMETHING TO ME. They lack focus. They don’t know which direction they want to go in. They attack one group, insult another incessantly in their promos and on twitter, and then request a match, with all people James Nathaniel Ringo and Giani Di Luca. This brings me back to their intolerable level of immaturity and their strategy of throwing darts at a board and hoping something sticks. They remind me of a middle child. One lost behind the one who currently achieves and the one with all of the promise and innocence. But most importantly, they lack the power to take control of themselves and their situation. They beg for this, and they beg for that. If they really wanted to make a statement they wouldn’t have attacked the weakest member of a group and they wouldn’t have run to the bosses and requested a match with me. If Caleb really had any fight in him, if JT really had any manhood in him, we all would’ve seen it already. We wouldn’t be laughing at them. But alas, we are…