The End: Part I
“Injuries may be forgiven, but not forgotten.” –Aesop
April 11th, 2016 – St. Joseph’s Hospital - Phoenix, AZ – 2:30 AM
[The camera fades in to a small, square hospital room. The walls are covered white tiles and the ground is as shiny as a diamond in the sun. Sitting on a gurney, with his head hung in his hands is former three time SCW World Heavyweight Champion Drake Green. His face is bruised and bandaged and his arm in his a heavy black canvas sling. In walks a scruffy looking emergency room doctor, wearing dark blue scrubs and a pair of black crocs. His face is buried in his chart.]
Doc: Um…Mr. Green?
[Drake slowly lifts up his head and stares up at the doctor. The practitioner, who is probably just a few years removed from medical school has a sudden realization about who is sitting just a few feet in front of him and a giant smile runs across his face.]
Doc: I didn’t….I mean….you’re Drake Green….
[Drake rolls his eyes, which causes him some obvious discomfort.]
Drake: Yeah…that’s me.
Doc: My kid is just like…the biggest fan. Can I get a quick pic?
[Before Drake can answer, the doctor leans in and snaps a selfie with his cell phone. The flash hurts Drake’s eyes but the doctor doesn’t seem to notice or care.]
Doc: So…what brings you in Drake?
[Drake stares at him with a look that screams ‘Are you kidding me?’.]
Doc: Oh…right.
Drake: Just tell me if I’m gonna need more pain killers….I’d really like some more pain killers.
Doc: Well I can definitely get you some more of those. I’d recommend seeing your surgeon as soon as you can…as he’s more familiar with your history.
Drake: I need fucking surgery again?
Doc: No, no. That’s not what I’m saying. I mean…you might…I really don’t know.
Drake: Ok…well what do you know?
Doc: Umm…
[He stares at his clipboard.]
Doc: Your eye socket is fractured.
[Drake stands up.]
Drake: Are you fucking kidding me?
[The doctor jumps back.]
Drake: Fractured?
Doc: Well…it’s a small one. And should heal on it’s own.
Drake: This night is just getting worse.
[Drake hears a commotion coming from the hallway. Both men turn around to see a well-dressed man pushing through a nurse and an orderly. He’s wearing a black pin stripe suite, white shirt, and bright pink tie. His dirty blonde hair is slack back and he’s wearing a pair of Gucci sunglasses.]
Drake: Barry?
[His agent Barry Goldstein gets stuck behind an old lady in wheel chair.]
Barry: Oh for fuck’s sake…move it Bea Arthur.
[Drake can’t help but laugh as the woman is horrified. Barry shoves his way into Drake’s small, curtained off room. He dusts off his shoulders and then slips off his Gucci sunglasses. He takes a look at Drake’s face and then gets a look of disgust on his.]
Barry: What the fuck? I leave you alone for one night and you get yourself all busted up?
Drake: It’s ok.
Barry: Ok? I just sold Warner Brothers that everything is “A” ok. How are we gonna pass this one off?
Drake: Ummm...pretend it never happened?
Barry: It was just on live television…on the biggest show of the year. I’m pretty sure the whole fucking world was watching.
Drake: Well don’t worry. Doc over here says I don’t need surgery on my arm.
Doc: Well technically I said-
[Drake interrupts him with a nasty look.]
Doc: That’s right. No surgery…just a fractured eye socket.
Barry: A what?
Doc: A fractured-
[Drake interrupts him again.]
Drake: Can you just leave?
Doc: Sure thing.
[The doctor humbly leaves the room, closing the curtain behind him. Barry patiently waits for him to leave before turning back to Drake.]
Barry: This has to end here, D. You cannot retaliate.
Drake: Retaliate? I’m gonna fucking bury that spineless piece of shit. Him and fucking Mark Ward…once and for all.
Barry: No, Showtime. You’re gonna heal up and we’re gonna parade you in front of the studio and make tons of monies. Look at what this shit is doing to you, Champ.
Drake: No..you don’t understand…he’s fucking dead, Barry.
Barry: Fine. But you better fucking wait until after we get this thing signed with the studio. Just hold off until June.
Drake: No fucking way, Barry. I’m sorry…but I just don’t give a shit about Jack fucking Hammer right now.
Barry: Well thank god one of us does. Look…just give me until June.
Drake: You have until June 5th…because no matter what you, Warner Brothers, or a doctor says…I’m getting into the ring and kicking the fucking shit out of Travis Nathaniel Andrews all over Tokyo…and I’m not gonna stop until I have his blood.
You fucked up, Travis. I mean you really fucked up. You had everything going for you. We were a team. You and I, once this arm was healed, could’ve taken this whole fucking place by storm. But instead you took the easy way out. I can’t say that I blame you. I made that decision…once. And look where it got me? I should’ve seen what Mark Ward was up to. I should’ve known I was just a pawn in his little game. Now I’m left to pick up the pieces of my career and my life. But unlucky for you, those pieces lead me right to your door step.”
“I had such high hopes for you Travis. I saw a young cocky version of myself in you. I saw a kid that had a ton of fucking talent and a head bigger than any room he was in. An untapped amount of ability and an ego even bigger. That was me ten years ago, kid. I was you. It’s like looking in a fucking mirror, man. But the truth is, the truth is that none of that matters any more. Now it’s just me and some piece of shit that tried to end my career. No rules…no one to stop the utter beating I’m about to give you. I tip my hat to your tactics. You’re very good about attacking me from behind. Shame on me for falling for it…twice. But this time you won’t have that advantage. You want have the chance to attack me from behind. You’ll have to stand in front of me, face to face, and show me what you really got. I may not be one hundred percent kid. I may not be the performer I was a year ago…but now I’ve got something that I’ve been missing for a while. Fire. Anger. Rage. You’ve poked a sleeping giant, kid, and now it’s time to suck it up and face the music.”
