September 22nd, 2013 – Jalousie, St. Lucia - 11:00 PM
[The camera fades in to a small dressing room, backstage at SCW’s Climax Control in St. Lucia. The room is covered in what looks like sand, a small makeshift beach bungalow converted in to a dressing room for Sin City’s talent as they are on their beach tour. There is a small vanity with a large black duffel bag thrown on top of it. Hanging over the chair is a dark blue suit and a white button down shirt. Across from the vanity is a dirty looking two-seat couch and small, faded table which looks like it is about to fall over as it has one leg that is nearly cracked in half. A large gust of wind blows through the room, blowing the half open newspaper on the table to the ground, as the door swings wide open in a hurry. In walks Drake, still in his gear, followed by his friend and trainer and Max. He storms in to the small room and in a fit of rage, shoves his duffel bag to the floor off of the vanity and then kicks the small table, officially breaking the thing in to pieces.]
Max: Jesus! Will you calm down already?
Drake: No I’m not gonna fucking calm down. I’m sick of this. I can’t even take a piss without these guys getting involved. And now I have to deal with Cyrus again? Are you kidding me?
Max: You gotta hang in there, kid.
Drake: Don’t tell me to hang in there. I’m done hanging in there. This guys want a war and now they’ve officially pissed me off. I’m not gonna stop until they are beaten and broken. I’m gonna start with that piece of trash King.
Max: What are you gonna do? You can’t go around attacking people.
Drake: Why not? That’s what they do. They don’t give a shit.
Max: That’s not you, D. We don’t do things like that. We’re better than that.
Drake: Are we? Are we really? Because I really don’t think that walking up behind Max Burke and beating his head in with a steel chair is all that beneath me. In fact, I might just go do that now. Him and his little nasty slut Ruby.
Max: What are you, crazy? You’re gonna hit a woman now? Look at yourself. This is what Mark Ward wants, D. You think he cares about Cyrus King or even Burke? He has them by his side just to tear you down and guess what? It’s working. You can’t let yourself fall down to that level.
[Drake turns to face the vanity and leans over the small wooden piece of furniture. He drops his face in to his hands and slowly rubs his eyes before peering up and looking at himself in the mirror. He looks over the small welt that is building up on his chin form Hot Stuff’s Red Hot superkick. He gazes over his new beard that is desperately trying to cover his scarred chin. He rubs his eyes one more time and then turns back around to his friend Max.]
Drake: You’re right.
Max: I know.
Drake: I don’t know what to do, Max. All I want is that SCW Heavyweight title. Ward’s never gonna let that happen if I don’t join him.
Barry: I wouldn’t be too sure about that.
[Max and Drake shoot their eyes over to Barry Goldstein, Drake’s agent, who is standing in the door way. Wearing a bright red sport coat and a white t-shirt underneath with dark jeans, he pushes in to the room with a bit of swag in his walk. He takes a hard puff on his big cigar and then runs his other hand through his slicked back dirty blonde hair.]
Barry: Ward isn’t the only owner of Sin City Wrestling. And he certainly isn’t the VP of Talent Relations and Head Booker who also happens to be an old friend who owes me a favor.
Max: What are you talking about?
[Barry takes another hard pull from his cigar and blows it in Max’s direction as Max waves hand, trying move the smoke away from his face.]
Barry: What I’m talking about is Drake’s position on the card for High Stakes III in Trinidad.
Drake: Ok…
Barry: My good buddy, Erik Staggs, has booked you in one of two matches. Either a Number One Contender match for the SCW Heavyweight title…or…
Drake: Or what?
Barry: …or…if Carter beats Goth next week…you will be headlining the show against the prodigal champ, Kevin Carter.
Max: You’re kidding…
Barry: No I am not kidding. I am that damn good. We should really talk about upping my percentage, Showtime.
Drake: We’ll see what happens. I want Max Burke next week.
Barry: Can’t do it.
Drake: Bullshit.
Barry: It’s the truth. They’re not letting it happen.
Drake: Then fine. Give me the overgrown jerk off with the long hair.
Barry: Cyrus King? I’m not letting that happen. There’s not gonna be any money in it. He’s like a jobber.
[Drake steps in close to Barry.]
Drake: Do I look like I give a rat’s ass about money right now, Barry? I want that piece of trash in the ring on Sunday and I’m gonna beat his unusually small head in.
Max: Small head?
Drake: You haven’t noticed?
Max: Noticed what?
Drake: His head. He’s got these ginormous shoulders and thick neck but then he’s got this tiny little head.
[Barry and Max start laughing.]
Drake: I’m serious. It’s tiny. There’s something wrong there.
[Drake cracks a smile as Barry and Max continue to laugh.]
Barry: Look, Showtime. You get in the ring with this guy and you lose, I can’t guarantee that title shot will stick around for High Stakes. That could seriously hurt your stock. And it doesn’t matter if he’s not that good, Hot Stuff and Max Burke will be right there. You know that.
Drake: I hope they are right there. You don’t get it. Either of you. I want their blood and I’m not gonna stop until I get it. From all of them.
[The camera focuses on the twisted smile that forms over Drake’s face before it fades out.]
“Cyrus King. Who are you? I mean really, who are you? I don’t know anything about you. I hear you’re a former marine. A man who fancies himself a military man. I guess that kind of makes sense. You see, a military man is a soldier, one who must follow orders. You can’t do anything on your own. You don’t have the presence of mind to make decisions on your own. That’s why you gravitated towards that piece of garbage JJ Dixon in ACW and that’s why you’re now under the thumb of an even bigger asshole. ‘Hot Stuff’ Mark Ward.
You strike me as someone who could probably make a name for himself here in Sin City Wrestling. Not much of a name but you might be able to secure a Roulette title shot at one point. Maybe. But you lack the ambition to think for yourself. Time and time again you react to the people around and find your rightful place in line. Rank and file.
It’s rather puzzling to me as to why these people even want you around in the first place. You’re a loser. You got your brains kicked in by a sixteen-year-old pro-wrestling wannabe. You couldn’t even hang with James Huntington Hawkes, what makes you think you’re gonna have a chance against the world’s greatest showstopper? I would imagine it’s a near certainty that you’ll have Max Burke and that wanker Ward in your corner on Sunday. It won’t matter as the only bowing down I’ll be doing is to the crowd after I kick your teeth in and make you pay for what you did to me. You’re first on the list Cyrus. That’s a bad place to be.”
September 27th, 2013 - Colony Club Gym, Barbados - 3:00 PM
[The camera fades in to the large, state of the art work out facility located at the Colony Club in Barbados. Working out on the rowing machine is Drake Green. He’s wearing white ‘Nike’ sneakers with black socks halfway up his ankles, black mesh shorts, and a white muscle shirt showing off his matching ‘Nautical Star’ tattoos on each shoulder. He listens to his iPod as he pulls back and forth on the rowing machine, sweating intensely. Mid-rep, someone touches Drake on the shoulder. He drops weights and turns around quickly, gearing up for a fight.
Standing in front of him is a rather large man. Wearing dark jeans and a skin-tight black tank top stands the six foot eight, 300-pound behemoth of man known as Rage. Drake sizes him up and then pulls one of his white earphones out and lets it dangle down as he wipes the sweat from his brow. He breathes heavy for a moment before letting out a small smile.]
Drake: Can I help you?
[Rage stares silently for a moment, his eyes piercing into Drake’s.]
Drake: Dude…what do you want?
Rage: I want to take Mark Ward’s head and squeeze it off of his body.
Drake: That makes two of us. Why are you telling me?
Rage: I saw what they did to you. I keep watching what they do to you. I can’t fucking take it anymore. I just want to run out there and beat them all down into the ground. Every last one of those motherfuckers.
Drake: Ok…
Rage: I saw you have a match against Cyrus King on Sunday.
Drake: Yeah, listen-
[Rage cuts him off.]
Rage: I’m gonna be there with you. If anyone of those pieces of shit gets involved I’m gonna tear their heads off and shove it down their necks.
Drake: Look man, I appreciate it. But I don’t know you and I don’t need your help.
[Rage leans in closer to Drake.]
Rage: Looks like you do to me. Aren’t you sick of getting your ass kicked every week? I’m sure as hell sick of watching it.
[Drake stands up.]
Drake: You’re really starting to piss me off.
Rage: I’m always pissed off. I’m pissed off watching Mark Ward and his group of assholes get away with whatever they want all the time. Aren’t you ready to make a stand? Aren’t you ready to fight back and let these motherfuckers know that you’re not gonna take it anymore?
[Drake stands there and thinks for a moment.]
Drake: It’s not that simple. If I keep fighting back, Ward is just gonna make it that much worse. He’s not gonna stop coming after me. He won’t give up.
Rage: And you will?
[He lets out a sigh.]
Drake: No. Never.
Rage: That’s what I thought.
Drake: Why are you doing this?
Rage: Because I absolutely fucking hate Mark Ward and I want to piss him off.
Drake: I know what you mean.
[Rage holds his hand out to Drake.]
Rage: Let’s get these sons of bitches…
[Drake grabs Rage’s hand the two men shake each other’s hands.]
Drake: I’ll see you on Sunday.
Rage: Yes. Yes you will.
[Rage walks off and out of the gym. Just as he does, Max walks over, wearing his near patented Adidas tracksuit.]
Max: What the hell was that all about?
Drake: He wants to help me.
Max: Help you with what?
Drake: Help me kick the crap out of Mark Ward and his supremacists.
Max: Do you trust him?
Drake: No, not really.
Max: So what are you gonna do?
Drake: I’m gonna let him help. What’s the worst that can happen, I get my ass kicked again?
[Max smiles.]
Max: That’s true.
Drake: The way I see it, Mark Ward needs to feel like he lost at least once. If the big guy helps out in that department, then we all win.
Max: I hope you know what you’re doing.
Drake: Time will tell. In the meantime, we’ll at least get to see Hot Stuff sweat. If only for a moment. Besides, that’s one large very angry man. I’d rather have him on my side than not.
Max: I agree. Come on, let’s get out of here. That beach is calling my name.
Drake: You go on. I’m gonna hit the weights for a little while longer.
Max: Alright, kid. I’ll see ya in a bit.
[Max leaves the weight room as Drake fixes his earphone back in to his ear and then sits back down on the rowing machine. He picks up the handles again and the scene fades out.]
Loser. That’s the word that keeps coming to mind when I think of you, Cyrus King. I like the fact that you believe that you belong in the ring with me. That you think you can compete. Your delusions I’m more comical than your undersized head. You call yourself the King. That’s a fucking joke. You can’t even hold a candle to me. The power of the people is more than you can handle.
I’m done. I’m done laying in waiting for Hot Stuff and his cronies to come out and beat me down. I’m done taking it from him and people like you, Cyrus. You think you mean something? You’re barely hired muscle because Mark Ward doesn’t have the balls to get in the ring with me himself. He’d rather have you and your piece of trash, counterpart Max Burke do his work for him. But the truth is, if either one of you hade the balls to attack me from the front, rather than behind, neither of you would stand a chance. And you know it. That’s why you continually cheap shot me from behind and why it takes two and three of you to keep me down. That all changes Sunday.
Sunday I fight back. Sunday starts my revolution. I’m gonna start with you, Cyrus King, and I’m not gonna stop until Mark Ward himself kneels down at my feet and begs for forgiveness. I’m not gonna stop until each and every one of you knows the pain that you’ve been forcing upon me these past few weeks. You’re gonna wish you never agreed to join his sorry ass. From now on, no more Mr. Nice Guy. I’m gonna punish you on Sunday. I’m gonna punish Max Burke and his skank Ruby, I’m gonna punish that dirty slut Tessa Flannigan, and finally…when the time is right…I’m gonna punish ‘Hot Stuff’ Mark Ward.
The people need their savior, and on Sunday, he’s finally gonna get his.”
[End feed…]
