We open in the immediate aftermath of Jack Kraven’s shocking double-timing of SCW world title challenger Spike Staggs. For those who are either not paying attention, or just plain stupid- what you missed was Spike inviting our world champion to the SCW show in Berlin, Germany, to give the Sin City crowd a showing of sportsmanship, in the name of building hype for SCW’s first ever chance at the NWA Title. What was meant to be a good-faith meeting of the two combatants, quickly devolved into carnage, as Kraven tricked his challenger into going for a handshake, only to be blasted from behind by an incognito Kai Kennedy. Ruthlessly beaten and humiliated, Staggs was doused in barbecue sauce as he lay unconscious in the middle of the six-sided ring. Kraven, as it turned out, was still enraged by an innocent prank masterminded and executed by Staggs’ brother Jamie, several months back at an NWA pay per view event.
(As the camera’s feed picks up, Jack is walking through the backstage area, the night of Climax Control, still dressed in the same jeans and t-shirt, and presumably immediately following his vicious assault on Mr. Staggs. As he passes by various dark-match talent and crew members, he’s quick to notice the icy daggers being stared into him by pretty much every individual he crosses.)
Jack Kraven: Psh. Go ahead and look, idiots. Don’t change nothin’.
(Jack continues to stride arrogantly down the service entrance hallway until finally arriving at the already-started black Lexus parked just at the edge of the sliding grate garage entrance. The driver steps out, dressed in full chauffer attire, black suit, white shirt, black tie, and a cute little hat; ready to take Jack’s luggage. Kraven waves him off as he reaches the vehicle’s trunk.)
Jack Kraven: Just pop the trunk.
German Chauffer with Cute Hat: Yah.
Jack Kraven: Danka.
(Ever the walking contradiction, Jack is perfectly genuine in his use of German manners. The driver gets back into the vehicle to press the trunk release, as Jack whimsically swings his duffle into the back of the SUV. Over the top of the back seat we can see the figure of a head, recognizable by those paying attention as that of Eric Fancourt’s. As Eric turns, his face becomes visible, chopped in half at the nose like Wilson from Home Improvement.)
Eric Fancourt: Hurry up. It’s late.
Jack Kraven: That time of the month?
(Jack smirks to himself, as he then walks sarcastically slow around to the passenger side of the vehicle, clicking the door handle excruciatingly, and deliberately just as slowly. Fancourt says nothing, and actually appears to be making it a point not to react in the slightest, realizing that would only serve to egg his boss on further. Jack notices the ruse has lost it’s charm, and finally sits, at regular speed, down into the vehicle. He gives the driver the slightest of nods, and suddenly they’re off. The view of the surrounding arena loading bay smoothly disappears behind us in the distance. Jack shifts uncomfortably, not a fan of the cloth upholstered seats. He turns to Fancourt and is about to speak, but then stops short as if thinking better of what he was about to say. He instead turns his attention to the driver.)
Jack Kraven: Shprecken ze English?
German Chauffer with Cute Hat: Yes, Mr. Kraven.
(Jack appears displeased.)
Jack Kraven: Right. The partition, please?
(The driver squints, confused. Apparently our English speaking German Chauffer is a few words shy of fluentness. Jack points more aggressively at the sliding, sound proof glass partition installed in this transport-version Lexus.)
Jack Kraven: Shut that, please? Thank you?
(Sensing that Jack is quickly losing his patience, the driver kicks his brain into overdrive, and makes sense of the request; quickly pressing the button to slide the partition closed. Jack’s first words spill out of him as if he’d been holding his breath the entire ride up to this point.)
Jack Kraven: Fucking Germany. Miserable fucking shit hole of a country.
(Eric, not phased by the bile, responds matter of factly.)
Eric Fancourt: You were about to say something, before you asked the driver to close the window.
Jack Kraven: Uhhh, yeah. That. Fucking Germany miserable fucking steaming pile of shit ass fuck of a country.
Eric Fancourt: Oh. I really, seriously do not get you sometimes.
Jack Kraven: How so?
Eric Fancourt: Why bother to check if he spoke English? Why care about closing the partition? You just got done yet again pulling a cheap skate move in front of an adoring crowd, instantly prompting them to turn on you as quickly as you turned on Staggs, you practically begged all the SCW crew to take a shot at you walking out of the arena, taunting and insulting them literally with every step you took, and yet you’re walking on egg shells to not offend this nobody-driver’s fatherland?
Jack Kraven: It’s like I’ve said, Fancky-old-pal, I’m a curmudgeonly, angry, elitist son of a bitch. I’ve got a chip permanently embedded into both shoulders, and I’ve got the looks and talent to inspire hatred among most men everywhere I go even without the slightest bit of attitude. If people are going to envy and hate me, I’m going to give them what they want. I’m going to play into that persona with every fiber of my being. And in so doing, get them riled up. And in so further doing, provoke them into behaving emotionally, instead of rationally. Staggs, the SCW fans, the roster, the crew…fuck all’em. They’re the enemy. They represent, at least this month anyway, the faction which seeks to take that which is mine. That which is mine both in title and in practice.
Eric Fancourt: The belt?
Jack Kraven: Yes, in title. But more so than that, the distinction of being what everybody else in this business wants to be. Number one. The guy with the permanent bullseye following me around wherever I go. I don’t resent being a marked man. It’s what you sign up for when you take on the challenge of being the World’s Champion. But making the conscious choice to not resent the position I’m in, and feeling obligated to make goody-goody friendy friend with every would-be challenger to my crown are two ENTIRELY different things. Spike Staggs is a nothing. He’s a fucking ant. The problem, is that the fans are all little ants too. And whether you’re a wasp, a tiger, or a tyrannosaurus rex, all predators in their own right, none of them can withstand the might of a well organized swarm. Never underestimate the power of the hoard, Eric.
Eric Fancourt: I still don’t understand, what does any of that have to do with riling up the SCW fans, the crews, and going a mile out of your way to protect the delicate sensibilities of your driver?
Jack Kraven: The hoard is what it is, Eric. I can’t stop that. I’m going into enemy territory, taking on one of the most popular guys on the roster. He’s loved by the fans, he’s respected by his coworkers. That’s that. I can’t do anything about it. This match isn’t Jack Kraven versus Spike Staggs. It’s Jack Kraven versus SCW. So I have two choices, I can go in there at face value, shake the ass hole’s hand like he wanted, play nice, and basically go into the match with a huge disadvantage- being zero crowd support, hostility from every single SCW wrestler and crewmember all around me, and zero psychological advantage. OR! I could do what I did. Get them all so euphoric thinking this was going to be a battle of sportsmanship. Pretend like I wasn’t still offended as FUCK over the bullshit stunt Spike’s shitpile younger brother pulled on me back at Wrestlebowl while my infant fucking daughter’s life hung in the balance. Get everybody lulled into a nice, cozy, little sense of false security…and then BAM. Out comes Kennedy. Out comes the chair. In the SNAP OF A FINGER- that euphoria, gone. The security, vanished. It’s jarring. It’s how you fuck people up, Eric. It’s how you gain the edge, even when you’re talented enough to not need one. You strike first. You strike HARD. You make sure they know, and know for damn sure, that NOBODY fucks with Jack Kraven and goes unpunished. And I don’t care if it’s you, your brother, your mom, or your Uncle Stinky Staggs who came up with the stunt- a Staggs embarrassed the World Champion, so a Staggs is going to pay the price. And the way I see it, any Staggs will do. Especially since this particular scab is lining himself up to take a shot at MY championship. Yeah, he’ll have the fan support, but last time I checked, I’ve been doing just fine without it. Fuck’em. Let them cheer. What’s important to me is that they hate me, more than they even love Staggs. My game is strong. My head is right. No amount of boos, or screams, or nasty signs in the crowd are going to make a fuck’s bit of difference when I’m doing my thing. I’d rather they pour every last little bit of their precious energy hating my every breath, than I would them cheering and pumping up their home-fed-hero. Negative attention affects me a lot less than positive attention could potentially affect him. So I have to do everything in my power to draw the wrath of the swarm, Eric.
Eric Fancourt: And the driver?
Jack Kraven: Fuck the driver. But as I’ve always maintained, there’s no need to go out of my way to shit on a guy who’s got nothing to do with any of this. He’s out here at midnight humpin’ in a shitty cloth upholstered SUV driving spoiled celebrities and athletes to and from their hotels. The poor guy’s probably divorced, has child support to pay, and the last thing he needs is me bitching about how shitty a country he’s unfortunate enough to have been born in. If he were in the crowd? If he’d been wearing a Spike Staggs t-shirt underneath his cute little chauffer’s uniform? Sure, I’d probably make it a point to tell him to go fuck himself. I’d tell him in no uncertain terms that his country is a steaming pile of formerly fascist occupied elephant shit, and that he and his SCW-loving family could feel free to die. BUT…that’s not the case. The guy is just doing his job, and if I’m going to bitch about him and his native land, my mother at least raised me well enough to have the common decency to do it behind his back.
Eric Fancourt: Your logic is dizzying sometimes, man. I’m glad I don’t live in your head.
Jack Kraven: Hey, say whatever you want about any of it. My thoughts, my actions, my strategies…I grant you it can be a little convoluted at times. BUT, there’s one thing you, or Spike Staggs, or anybody else can argue.
Eric Fancourt: And what’s that?
(Jack unbuckles his seatbelt, and reaches up and over the back seat, reaching into the duffle bag and pulling out the NWA World Championship title belt. Flopping back down into his seat with the belt in his lap, he responds:)
Jack Kraven: My way fucking works.
(Eric says nothing, knowing immediately that Jack is absolutely right. Jack, sensing the conversation has been ended, emphatically, turns his head to the tinted windows to watch the sights pass by, as the scene fades to black…)
