It was happening all over again. No matter what was done, or what was tried, he continued to fall into a vicious cycle. He would arrive in a new promotion, and proclaim to start this 'hunt' for success, and for glory, and for the chance to become the champion he's never been. Opportunity after opportunity would be given, and each time would constitute a failure, slowly and surely slipping away into obscurity, becoming just another name that was on the roster, rather then becoming 'the' name on the roster.
There had been only three promotions in his career where this hadn't happened, and two of them were long since closed down. The other he didn't want to return to. The entire purpose behind coming to new promotions such as Sin City Wrestling, was to break the cycle, to break free of his past reputation as the underdog under the glass ceiling, and break through it on his own.
Instead, he's floundered, desperately trying to reach that point where he can reach success, but each time it's been snatched from his grasp. The initial Roulette Battle Royal at the last supercard? Foiled by Bo Dreamwolf. The singles match against Goth, with a victory that could have catapulted him up in the rankings? Foiled. The tournament to determine the new #1 contender? Foiled, again.
It's almost enough to make a man fall into a depression. Oh wait....
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The city of St. John's, Newfoundland, in the 'Smith' household. One could be forgiven for thinking this was just the home of a regular person, not a semi-famous professional wrestler. The Smith couple preferred to keep their money saved for eventual retirement from the sport, rather then spend it on lavish things. At least, not spend it all the time. Inside the home, the living room is a disgraceful sight, as countless bottles of beer adorn the floor. On the couch, Adam Smith is seen, sitting upright, but with his eyes black as the night. On the TV, are tapes of some of his recent matches, or losses to be more specific. Most of them are included, but primarily his losses in SCW. The problem is, he hasn't had a single victory, and it bothered him immensely. He felt awful at what he was doing; his wife Christine entered a state of depression just like this during a period where she suffered little success in the ring. After talking her out of it, he was here doing the same. He had hit rock bottom, almost.
In the back of the room, stood his wife Christine, almost in tears. Next to her was their longtime friend, wrestling sensation Matt Matlock. His face wasn't really one of empathy, but rather disgust, looking at his friend and tag partner in such a state.
Matlock: Good grief. I knew this was going to happen eventually.
Christine: How could he do this though? After all I went through, h---
Matlock: We all deal with failure in different ways Christine. I left the sport for almost two years. Adam....he's taken to this. He lacks confidence.
Christine: So he needs to win a match?
Matlock: No, he needs something else. Adam! Adam you prick, get up!
Matlock walked over to where Adam was sitting, standing in front of the television. Adam looked up at his old friend, his eyes practically empty, like he wasn't even there. He looked back down, ashamed. Matt grabbed him and stood him upright.
Matlock: Outside. Now.
Jackal: Matt, don---
Matlock: I said outside! NOW!
Without further hesitation or protest, Adam "The Jackal" Smith led his friend outside, where Matlock shut and locked the door behind them. They walked out to the middle of the yard. It was late, and the sky was dark, but there was enough light that they could see each other.
Matlock: You remember when you & I first started? How bad we were?
Jackal: Yeah.
Matlock: You never had to resort to this, did you?
Jackal: .....No.
Matlock: How did we get better?
Jackal: After getting our asses kicked.
Matlock: Exactly. So, sorry.
Jackal: Sorry fo---
Matlock took a swing at his old friend, punching him square in the jaw. Matt knew how his old friend operated, and a fight would get the juices flowing again. But Smith didn't react, so Matlock punched him again. That did it, and Smith took a swing back. The two tussled, exchanging blows and rollling about in the yard. Eventually, Smith found himself on the ground helpless.
Matlock: You see? What the hell happened to The Jackal who could hand me MY ASS on any given day, huh? You want to know what happened? You're weak. You've let yourself get complacent, and you've forgotten your goals. You're the predator right, the goddamn predator of the wrestling world!
Jackal: Yeah...
Matlock: You're not acting like it! And at this rate, your ass is going to end up losing to those peons at London Brawling! You want to let some pussy like Bobby Cage or Old Skool get the better of you? You want that freak Tommy Skaggs to get the better of you?
Jackal: No...no I have to win.
Matlock helped his friend get up.
Matlock: Then remember who the fuck you are, clean your ass up, and you go to that pay per view and you FUCKING WIN! You get me? Stop with this goddamn drinking, get some sleep, stop focusing on how badly you've lost, and focus on kicking ass!
Jackal: Yessir!
Matlock: Sir?
Jackal: Fuck, I called you sir. I mean, jackass.
Matlock: Better.
Jackal: .....You hit hard.
Matlock: That's the point.
Jackal: Right....thanks Matt. I...I guess I needed that. But I don't think I can get over this that easily. I've.....well, I've kind of been doing this for a while. I've just been hiding it.
Matlock: You'll get through it man. But now, focus. London Brawling; Roulette Rules; ass kicking, got it?
Jackal: Got it.
