"Oh Hell no, ain't no way this crap is going to stand. I won that title fair and square and I'll be damned if I let a has-been like Gabriel Stevens steal it from me. But of course, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the conspiracy against me."
"You knew this would happen Gabriel. You just knew that by attacking Drake during my match at High Stakes IV, it would do wonders for catapulting you into a title match. Well just remember Gabriel, stealing the belt is easy. Holding on to it is going to be the hard part. Or have you forgotten what happened on December 18th of 2011?" --- Sean Jackson immediately after Inception.
Sean remained largely quiet after the title loss to Gabriel Stevens. He could understand it better had he been beaten for the belt, but to watch helplessly as Gabriel pinned Drake for the belt was too much to stomach.
After winning the SCW heavyweight title, Sean became an even bigger prick than normal. He flaunted his success, his money, flipping the bill for skyboxes in back to back shows for Bruce Hart and his wife Kimberly. He signed checks with ink from a $43,000 pen and road first class...
Now he was just another name on the roster, having to step into the ring against a non factor named Jon Dough. After flying economy all the way to Glasgow, Scotland...he was ready for the nightmare to be over. He couldn't understand how people could travel like this, in the middle row, between disgusting fat bodies that smelled of pickled pig feet and arm pits?
That might be acceptable for the low life pond scum that made up Drake Green's fanbase, but not for him. As far as he was concerned, that was suited better for the 40 watt club that seemed to be drawn to the other fraud of Sin City Wrestling...
That being Gabriel Stevens.
Had it not been for those two idiots, Sean Jackson would still be the heavyweight champion, and would have been segregated away from this collection of gutter trash that ebola rejects.
After enduring the real life version of animal farm, Sean could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. He knew that once the flight landed, it wouldn't take long to get to the terminal where he could leave this collection of whalephants and lard asses behind.
It had gotten so bad, that in mid flight, Sean couldn't take it anymore. He found himself changing from the tailor made dress shirt that he loved so much, to a loose fitting t-shirt that could easily be slipped over his nose and mouth. He wanted to look the part of a successful champion, but not at the expense of his own brain cells and sense of smell. But what he found even more amazing was the fact that none of these people could tell that Sean found them offensive. Did he need to introduce them to mouthwash and deodorant?
As soon as the flight came to a stop, he unbuckled his seat belt and prepared to stand. However, his balance was thrown off as Humpty Dumpty and the Pillsbury Doughboy quickly rose with the same thought in mind. The one in the aisle seat was able to stand with no problems, but it was the man to Sean's immediate right that gave him the most problems. As the sweat dripped from the man's arm pits, Sean leaned back as far as he could, holding his nose hard in the process. He wanted to stand, to get far away from the tub of lard that was now splashing all over him. But was completely unable to do so because of the inconsiderate son of a bitch who was now waddling in front of him.
Jackson: Oh for crying out loud, REALLY DUDE?
The guy shrugs as he makes his way between the seats, bumping into Sean with every step taken.
Jackson: You know, you're an inconsiderate prick. I hope you're rushing to get on a damn treadmill.
Pretending not to hear, the man finally gets into the aisle and makes his way towards the exit.
Jackson: Or maybe you're rushing your ass to a heart attack. Yeah that's it bitch, run along to that jelly doughnut so you can eat yourself to death....
As the man exits the flight, a stewardess walks up from behind and leans in close.
stewardess: Excuse me sir, but those comments aren't needed.
Rolling his eyes, he could really care less what the bitch thought.
Jackson: Ma'am, you just remember how to pass out the peanuts and pour the drinks, alright. Because anything outside of that, you're wasting perfectly good air and dumbing everyone else down.
stewardess: Well I never...
Insulted, she quickly turns on her heels and walks away.
Jackson: And hopefully you never will.
Gathering his belongings, he too quickly leaves the plane without giving her another thought. As far as he was concerned, she stuck her nose where it didn't belong and got what she deserved. But that was to be expected from the intransitive and vomitous masses that followed the Drake Green's and Gabriel Stevens' of the world. So, he didn't have a problem slamming them at every opportunity given.
As he makes his way up the jetway, Sean's thoughts switch ever so slightly to his opponent for Climax Control, that being a familiar foe in Jon Dough. Now that he was good and aggravated, it was a good time to think about drilling his knee through the back of someone's skull.
Jackson: I hope no one thinks I'm satisfied with this crap. That somehow destroying Jon Dough is going to replace losing the heavyweight title...
Sean shakes his head.
Jackson: A title that was taken from me because Drake decided to crack like a little bitch under the weight of expectations from a bunch of bottom feeders.
Almost at the end of the jetway, there are still people both in front and behind Sean, some of which are curious about this guy talking to himself and turn their attentions in his direction.
Jackson: Yeah, I called you a bunch of bottom feeders. What of it?
In today's crazy world, the ramblings of a 6'2 and 220 pound athlete isn't worthy of any further reactions. So they continue about their merry way, forgetting that he even existed. Which of course, is exactly the way that Sean Jackson likes it. Until Sunday night when he wants those same bottom feeders to plop down their hard earned money to boo him.
To boo him LOUDLY.
***************************************************
Within 30 minutes, Sean already had his luggage and was exiting the terminal. Without any rental agreements, he had no choice but to wait for the mule and cart express to take him to the Glasgow House. Yes the Glasgow House, considered by many to be the worst hotel in the city. Okay, maybe mule and cart was a little harsh, but in the grand scheme of things, the actual shuttle bus that did arrive wasn't much better. As Sean placed his bags into the compartment below, he couldn't help but notice how dirty it was. In some areas, he couldn't tell if the bottom was covered with mud or rust, so Sean tried his best to avoid them...failing miserably in the process.
Shaking his head, he quickly came to the realization that there was no way in hell he would be able to maintain this poor man's way. This rubbing of elbows with the bottom feeders just wasn't going to cut it.
Jackson: No...no...no. There's no way I'm spending the next week like this.
Sean steps back and looks toward the driver.
Jackson: Bro, please tell me that the Glasgow House isn't ate up like this damn shuttle bus is. Please tell me that I'm in a bad freaking dream and that I'm going to wake up any minute now in a 5 Star hotel called...
driver: Aye laddie, ye will wake up in a fife staurn hotel alrecht. Efter ye bevvy lots ay swally.
Okay, this confuses the hell out of Mr. Jackson.
Jackson: Wait? what?
driver: Ah said hop in laddie. I'll tak' ye tae yer hotel.
Jackson: What?
driver: Jist gie in.
Taking a deep breath, Sean has serious reservations about going any further. With the way this guy sounds, he's already a few pints into the keg and looking for more. The idea of dying in a fiery crash or submerged under water definitely wasn't his cup of tea...but neither was getting mugged by some outdated William Wallace wannabees.
driver: Dae ye want tae be left haur?
As he starts to close the door, Sean has no choice but to hop in. As he does, he sits down in the first seat and the shuttle slightly lurches forward. As his eyes close, Sean attempts to calm down by getting his emotions in check. Yes he's upset, yes he believes that he was screwed over, but now he was in a place where people got crazy stupid...way before they even started drinking.
driver: Sae ur haur oan business?
Jackson: Huh?
driver: Business or pleasure?
Sean sighs. All he wants is to be left alone.
Jackson: Business.
driver: Whit kin' ay business?
Jackson: I'm a professional wrestler.
The driver's face lights up. What a wonderful topic to talk about, especially with Scotland's own Robert Whiteford participating in the UFC.
driver: Wrestlin' huh? tay bad ye dornt pure dae it in th' UFC. Rabbie Whiteford wood gei ye a serioos rin fur yer bunsens (money).
Sean didn't understand all the driver said, but knew enough to figure out that this guy seriously believed that some person named Whiteford could hang with him in the ring. So Sean simply smiled and shrugged.
Jackson: Look, I don't mean to sound disrespectful, especially since you're driving and all. But I'm pretty sure you aren't being paid to talk, so if you don't mind...I would really love to get to the hotel in one piece.
The driver waves his hand and not another word is spoken for the rest of the trip.
Finally Sean thought to himself. There was the piece and quiet that he longed for, that he wanted ever since stepping off of that god forsaken flight and into this god forsaken country. This is what he envisioned for the week, just sitting in his top floor suite and enjoying room ser....
Top floor suite?
Room service?
Hey dumbass, you aren't the champion anymore. Remember?
Jackson: FUCK!!!!
The loud scream startles the driver as the shuttle bus almost swerves off the road. However, he resists the urge to engage Sean with any further attempts at a conversation. It was probably for the best as the night was about to get worse, much MUCH worse.
****************************************************
The rest of the trip was uneventful, as was the process of checking into the Glasgow House itself. However, stepping into the room was anything but uneventful. The hallways were filled with the very definition of bottom feeders, the kind of people that would latch on to lovable losers like Drake Green because like him...they were liars, cheats, and frauds too.
The room was even worse due to the broken shower head, the heater being broken, and the glass mirror being broken. But even worse was the fact that half the lights didn't work, which would become the biggest issue of them all. Disgusted, Sean tossed his bags on the floor before sitting down on a very rickety wooden chair.
Jackson: Screw this, I'm done.
Reaching into his wallet, Sean makes his way over to the bed and grabs the phone.
Jackson: I'm not going to stay here for one more minute.
Because the room is partially dark, he tries to turn the lamp on, but to no avail.
Jackson: You've got to be kidding me...
As he continues to flip the switch on and off, his eyes are following the electrical chord from the lamp to the wall. Seeing that it's connected, the frustration level jumps higher.
Jackson: Jesus, don't tell me you're a freaking Drake Green bottom feeder too. I can't believe that you would choose a man whore and a has been over a talented superstar like myself. Well...
As he reaches for the chord, his own words distract from the exposed wire on the under side of the chord.
Jackson: That's not a problem because if I can't seriously fuck up Gabriel to get my title back this Sunday, then I'm going to take all my frustrations out on that fucker Jon Dough because I...
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Accidentally grabbing the exposed chord, Sean is given a jolt, sending him off the bed and onto the floor. After a few moments, he stirs and his eyes open.
Jackson: Wow, that hurt...
Shaking his hand, Sean tries to get the tingling to stop as he leans against the bedpost. The whole thing lasted a split second, but it was enough to shake him up. After regaining his composure, he manages to crawl over the bed in order to grab the room phone.
Jackson: Yes ma'am, this is Mr. Jackson in room 13. I was just wondering if there was any way that I could switch rooms.
Whoa, wait a minute. Was Sean Jackson actually being nice to someone?
Hmm.
Jackson: Thank you ma'am, that's much appreciated.
As Sean hangs the phone up, he has a smile on his face.
Jackson: Now that was nice of her, and I didn't even have to beg. Now then, where was I?
For a split second, Sean ponders his own question before it finally comes back to him.
Jackson: Oh yes, Jon Dough. One helluva competitor that I simply can't underestimate. I had better be on my game or he's going to....
Without warning, Sean's body begins to shake as if he's being shocked again. For a split second his eyes roll back before coming back to normal. As if nothing happened...
Jackson: Get his ass kicked, no doubt about it.
Fade.
