Part I: Fitting Together


When one comes to Las Vegas one expects to see all of the sights that are usually synonymous with the city of sin. The casinos, the shows, the dancers. Everyone wants a Las Vegas experience that they can only share with those who lived it, but for some things are a bit different. For some there comes the reality of actually living in the city. Having a home there means one has to have a different outlook on the city. It changes from a place of magic and wonder that will be left behind in a few days to a city like any other yet with it's own unique flavor and personality.

That reality is starting to set in for some who ply their trade for SCW wrestling. For nearly a year now Las Vegas is the city that second generation wrestler Blade Alexander calls home, and that's who we join now. However the city's adopted son isn't in some grand casino. He's not taking in a Wayne Newton show. Today we join the once again brunette Blade inside the Red Velvet Cafe where he's just gotten today's breakfast, an egg, bacon, and swiss bagel. Delicious and healthy.

Mercedes: I don't know what was so bad about the other place... The Alex is highly recommended. It's chef is world famous.

Blade: The problem is it's a pretentious excuse for a place to eat where you get a bunch of tiny things you can't pronounce that looked like you shouldn't eat all for the low price of about $200 a plate. Last time we tried it you remember what happened?

Clearly you can see that Blade isn't alone. He stands outside the eatery alongside his manager, Mercedes on a sunny fall in Vegas day.

Mercedes: Yeah, you wanted to go somewhere else because you were still hungry.

Blade: What did you expect? A seven course meal shouldn't fit in palm of your hand all at the same time. Here is good. It's real food, it's health and best of all, it's right around the corner.

Mercedes: I guess it is pretty good...

The athletic young lady is dressed in a stunning knee length black dress that transitions into a zebra stripe top under a short white denim jacket. Her hair is mostly blonde now, held loosely up in a bun with a shock of black hair in the front cascading down the right side of her face.

Mercedes: What's with the hair anyway? It's brown, it's blonde, it's brown again?

Blade: You know I went blonde for a while when I was teaming with Tyler. It was fine, but I don't need to impress anyone that way. It doesn't make me look like any more of a wrestler.

Mercedes: I always said your talent is your most marketable feature.

Blade: Not to mention my personality.

Mercedes: When it's not biting you in the ass.

Blade is wearing a black designer waistcoat over faded, naturally also designer jeans and a white button up Calvin Klein shirt.

Blade: Biting me? When has it ever bitten me in the ass?

Mercedes: Really?

She looks at Blade in appall.  

Mercedes: Are you the SCW Champion right now?

Blade: No.

He says somewhat begrudgingly.

Mercedes: No, you're not. You're not because you ran your mouth about this being your city and about how SCW was going to be your company.

Blade: You know what? Fuck that. Las Vegas is very much still my city. SCW is completely my company and for the past few weeks some people around here have seemed to loose sight of that. I came in and told each and every loser in SCW exactly what I thought of them and that created a stir, but for the past few weeks it's all been like water under the bridge. They're trying to lose me in the shuffle. That's why they've stuck me in this damned tag team tournament with big what's-his-name.

Mercedes: Casey Williams.

Blade: Whatever.

Mercedes: Hey, don't look a gift horse in the mouth here.

As she says that, the duo reaches the door to their apartment building, Blade opening the door for his manager, he's thinking over what she's said while they walk to the elevator and press the button for their floor.

Blade: Explain.

Mercedes: Well the way I see it, this partnership couldn't come at a better time for either of you. Casey had a tag team partner, but he got sent home. For weeks Casey's been all about winning titles in SCW, specifically the tag team title, but now thanks to Christian Underwood, he's an odd man out.

Blade: And?

Mercedes: You, on the other hand have also had issues with Christian Underwood.

Blade: And what would my issues with him be?

Mercedes: He was the one that brought in Rage. He was the one who signed Rage specifically to compete with you. He's gone out of his way to let these Seven Deadly Sin people bring in another member to SCW in exchange for putting you in their sights.

Blade: And apart from both having beef with Underwood, how does that make this a perfect opportunity for Casey and myself.

Mercedes: This is exactly why I'm your manager. I'm the one who sees how all the pieces fit. Casey needs a partner to win the tag team titles. You can provide him with a partner, and given your track record in tag teams with Tyler Morton as the Cardinal Synners, you can pretty much guarantee him tag team gold.

Blade: And what do I get out of this deal?

Mercedes: You get some much needed muscle. Rage already cost you the SCW title. He's a big, seven foot crazy monster who just wants to beat people up, and do you know the best way to battle someone like that?

Blade: Fight fire with fire.

Mercedes: Now you're getting it. Casey takes care of Rage for you, you take care of the tag titles for Casey. Just like that, everyone benefits.

The elevator door finally opens and both disembark, headed down the hall towards their apartment.

Blade: There's only one bit that still troubles me...

Mercedes: What's that?

Blade: What is Christian Underwood's role in all this.

Mercedes: How do you mean?

Blade: What's he really got against Casey and I, and moreover, why is he pulling strings for the Seven Deadly Sins?

Mercedes looks pensively at her keys thinking over the question as we fade out.


Part 2: Re-ignition

We fade back in on Blade Alexander. This time instead of a casual day scene, he's doing it the way he does best. Behind him hangs the banner with a logo nearly a century old. The NWA logo. Along with that NWA banner hangs a more modern one, one more fitting our current situation and the promotion that's about to pay for what you're about to see, the SCW banner.

Blade: So let me get this straight. Rage doesn't like that I've gone out and said on TV about two months ago that Las Vegas is my fucking city. That's just tough shit isn't it you big dumb bastard? So far no one in SCW has been able to shut me up, let alone prove me wrong. Trust me on this you dumb shit, you wont. You hole merry band of Emo misfits wont either, but if you want to huff, puff, and spit on every microphone in SCW trying to start a war with me...

He smirks.

Blade: Well kid, I'll show you why you never start a war with an Alexander.

He paces back and forth a bit. He's not wearing a casual dress this time because it's all business. He's dressed in his all new ring attire.

Blade: But for now let me put aside the morons that are the Seven Deadly Sins. I'll get to them. For now let me get onto business at hand. The tag team titles. It was barely two weeks ago I threatened SCW and everyone in it that they'd pay a hefty fucking price if they dared team me up with anyone else. Luck for each and every one of you my manager is a pretty crafty slice of trim. If it weren't for her I'd lay out Casey, cripple the fucking Surf Boys and set this whole company on fire, and not in the can't get tickets because it's sold out kind of way. More like the looks like this fire was intentional, officer kind of burned down.

But my old man didn't raise no fool. He taught me well. He taught me that there are some battles you have to fight, and some battles you don't have to fight alone. So looks like old Casey is getting his wish. Sorry your other partner couldn't handle himself in social situations big man. He had that classic the drink after work becomes the drink before work, then it becomes the drink instead of work kind of thing going on, and until he can sort himself out, he's out of a job.

Why do they always call it battling 'personal demons' anyway? He's a drunken piece of shit that cares more about booze than he does anything else. Demons are usually ten feet tall and have horns and tentacles and shit. This is some roided up loser drowning himself in alcohol because he's come to the sad realization that he isn't worth fuck all. He was never going to cut it and you have to realize that with him as your partner you were going to amount to fuck all too. Better to find the nearest barbershop window and toss him through it and more on with your career.

Oh, and by the way, if you don't get that reference then quit now because you're not a professional wrestler and you never will be.

See Casey, in case you haven't figured it the fuck out by now, I don't want to be a threat in SCW, I am a threat.

I'm a threat to the people in charge, I'm a threat to the Seven Deadly Sins, I'm a threat to you, but most immediately I'm a threat to the Surf Boys...

He stops pacing and smiles.

Blade: Now boys... You didn't really think I was going to forget about you did you? You who are such the great tag team that neither one of you even knows what would pass as a wrestling hold? You who are such a dominant force that neither one of you could beat that fat heffer Misty in an arm wrestling contest? You who are such the cunning duo that neither one of you will know that you've been addressed at all?

Boys, do you even know you're supposed to be professional wrestlers? More importantly... Do either of you even own a surf board? I know you call yourselves the surf boys, but I think you guys meant the stoner boys. Hey look...

He points at the camera, then around at nothing really in particular.

Blade: I made a joke just like they did. Funny right? The one thing they are not are the comedy boys. Cowardly boys would have been better. Then you'd at least have the chance to live to fight another day, but now, you'll run headstrong into a battle you can't possibly win then have to face Casey and myself and well... Check with Maoi to see how people end up when they catch me on a bad day.

This is how it is... There could be a lot of things that this match will be, but this is the way it is. Casey and I don't have to like each other. Hell, we don't even have to respect each other, but Mercedes is right about one thing. The both of us are getting jerked around. Even Casey has to be smart enough to recognize that. We're both getting jerked around, but fate has put us in a position to help each other out with our respective problems. This isn't some big opportunity for the both of us to straighten everything out in one day. If I was going to give my tag team partner once bit of advice going into Climax Control, it's that you don't show your hand before the all the chips fall. That's practically a rule here in Vegas. We're going to kill the Surf Boys, but it's not because we can. It's certainly not because we have to. We're just going to end their careers because, well... It's a bit easier than not hurting people that useless. This week our match is more about learning to coexist and not step on each others toes so that when the time does come, things will go the way we want them to, and boy...

He smirks again at the prospect of a team comprised of himself and the deadly Casey Williams.

Blade: They are SO going to go our way.

Fade.

 Come to Parkside Villas, a nice apartment complex on the upscale side of Las Vegas. At the moment the sun is down and the lights from the villas shine of the pool creating a watery cascade of light in the foreground. From one of the buildings a figure emerges. While he is cast in shadow thanks to the lights behind him, the posture and walk of this man are unmistakable, this is Blade Alexander. He makes his way, shoving his keys into his pocket as he goes, to a limo which is waiting at the curbside. As he walks the camera rushes over to him, as he reaches the limo the camera turns to the door which opens to reveal the bright interior and none other than wrestling's finest manager, Mercedes sitting inside. She's dressed in a form-fit black business top with white sleeves and collar matched with a short black skirt which promises a glimpse at what it is intended to cover without ever delivering on that promise, but if you could manage to tear your eyes for a moment away from an area you're picturing mentally right now, you'd see she's also wearing shades, and more importantly, beside her on the seat rests the very briefcase from last week's Climax Control.

Mercedes: Hey.

Blade: Hey.

He steps into the limo, sitting across from her in the middle of the seat, and as she picks up the briefcase to slide over and let the camera in, we see he's wearing a black pinstripe suit with matching vest and mirrored aviator shades.

Mercedes: I've looked it over and it's pretty interesting.

Blade: How interesting?

Mercedes: Very interesting. Like we should hold on to this as an insurance policy for an eventuality kind of interesting.

Blade: Good. Keep it in a safe place.

Mercedes: Now what about the upcoming supercard?

Blade: I'm not worried, I'm just a bit pissed.

Mercedes: Pissed?

Blade: Ugh, how the fuck could I not be? Last week I had my hands on that Underwood. He was right where I wanted him, my grip was tightening around his neck. I was going to shut him up for good, then management, in their fucking perpetual protection of the great white bore, changed everything up at the last minute, made all of those crazy gimmick matches and instead of having the opportunity to pin him and move on, I had to settle for beating that idiot up in a Haunted House match. Now the kid is running his mouth like we're somehow even and I can't beat him and every other loser fucking self-esteem raising rhetoric he can think of to bolster his spirits after I embarrassed him. The part that pisses me off is that just as soon as they announced that I was finally going to shut that moron up for good, he got a stay of execution once again and at High Stakes, what was going to be me beating him senseless one on one has been changed to a tag team match where he's got that Hawaiian guy, and I have to be saddled with that football loser yet again.

Mercedes: Well you weren't really with him before...

Blade: He still found a way to bring me down though.

He stares out the window at the lights flashing by as they drive.

Mercedes: You're brooding.

Blade: It's what I do. You would too given the situation.

Mercedes: Maybe.

Blade: No maybe about it. Think about it. This is a night where the SCW Championship is going to be decided. I'm going to make it through this tag match, I'm going into the gauntlet, and I'm going to walk out as the SCW Champion, but I fucking HATE to be forced to jump through these bullshit hoops. Not only do I have to suffer through a gauntlet with a bunch of losers who no one remembers, but I've got to face to wrestlers while I carry a retarded juice monkey on my back.

Mercedes: Don't tell me you're going soft, talking nice about Underwood and Maoi.

Blade: It's not soft. I don't like either of those morons. JT Underwood is the single most boring person in the history of the human race and I'm pretty sure Maoi is such a moron that he has to have his siblings around just to get his boots tied, but at least those two have some fucking respect for this sport. Underwood, like him or not, wants to be the best wrestler in the world and he works his ass off at it. Sure he's a complete disaster and even though he's got all his relatives trying to give him every fucking break possible in SCW but he keeps failing at every opportunity, but at least he tries.

Then you've got Maoi. Here's a guy out in Hawaii doing charity work like he's representing SCW when we don't even have TV there, but at least he tries. He's got a wrestling family. He wants to get in the ring and prove himself. At least that I can respect.

What I don't fucking respect is some sweaty 'roided up freak who was a complete failure at his dream in the NFL, shit the bed in the CFL yet STILL expects to just walk right the fuck into SCW and reign supreme over every one and every thing. The guy makes me sick to even see. There's no god-damned way he should ever be allowed into the same dressing room with the likes of an Alexander, but no, this complete failure and Surreal Life wannabe is somehow going to bring name recognition to SCW. What the fuck does Ward even see in this guy when he can't even get recognized in a gym. He's such a failure and embarrassment that the people who should know him wont admit to it for fear of ridicule from their friends and loved ones.

Mercedes: That's what I love about you. Opinionated about everything all the time. The perfect attitude for a pro-wrestler. You really shouldn't worry, you've got this all covered.

Blade: I'm never worried, I'm just excited.






Several hours later, maybe even the next day. This time we've got a big banner advertising SCW's first supercard: Climax Control: High Stakes. While the card obviously advertises the title matches, it also prominently features the undercard matches highlighting the tag team match between Blade Alexander with DJ Williams against JT Underwood and Maoi. Alexander and Underwood have their names in larger lettering and are the featured image while under them in small text are their respective partners names and images.

Blade: That's very telling isn't it?

Blade steps into view in front of the banner. He's still wearing the aviator shades from before, but this time they're coupled with a blue and black bandana, and instead of an upscale suit he's dressed far more casually in a Bad Religion t-shirt and faded jeans. He takes a sip of the water bottle he's carrying before he continues.

Blade: Take a good look at that poster. SCW really knows how to sell don't they? You look at that and some very telling things about the promotion jump out. They're selling the titles of course, but look at the match. They know who draws already in SCW. Sure the suits keep pushing Underwood and why not? They think that big tattooed douche bag of the month is their big hope for the future. Look at that dull, simpleton expression in that face. Look into those eyes. There's no one home. They love that. They can sell that. They can control that. He's theirs, lock stock and barrel. He's claimed to have success elsewhere, but without his family and his manages family to watch his back, his boring routine gets lost in the shuffle. What's so great, what's so different about him really? He lack any real emotion in his delivery and quite frankly, who could connect to that as a person?

What do any of those tattoos even mean JT? Don't try to tell me they have some sort of significance to you, it's just random tribal crap that you picked out of a book. Ask Maoi what they mean when you guys are getting ready for our match. Tell him the truth too, warrior, don't pussy out and try to tell him they mean courage or honor or any of that hollow bullshit you guys pretend to live by. Tell him honestly, what he thinks are some bad-ass symbols of his bad-ass courage are really just the scribblings of a retard.

And Maoi, really thanks for showing up moron. What's your deal? Your tattoos might actually mean something, but I'll be damned if it's anything more than 'pansy' or 'rapist', because you have rape face. Honestly. You have the face of someone who enjoys raping people. What was it you were saying the other day? I honestly can't remember because you're pretty fucking forgettable. Here's an idea, because you're such a loser, your partner is a loser, and my partner is a complete waste of meat-sack, why don't the three of you join up, bring all 957 of your so-called wrestling relatives and bring them all to High Stakes and actually make it a fair match? Sound good.

He starts to pace.

Blade: And while I'm on High Stakes, how about that partner of mine. He might show up, he might not. He could be to busy sweating in a gym. Him and JT both... Guys, seriously? The sweating gym promo? How very late 70's of you. Underwood, what's your excuse? DJ at least has the whole 'I'm a fucking idiot so I don't know what I'm doing' thing going for him, but you're supposed to be related to people in this business. You like to think you're good. You have a god-damned manager for christ sake. Don't do the gym promo any more, it's just... gross.

I will say I did quite enjoy the other week when DJ Williams did his whole thing though. Very poetic. Not his whole sweating on camera like a beast of burden and using the sort of douche-lingo you'd expect from Underwood. Not even his beefeater rant where he turned stereo-typical gym bully on a fat girl. What I thought was the most entertaining thing about something that really had no business being entertaining at all was how he went on and on about that girl not fitting in and how she shouldn't be there while the whole fucking time he had no idea that the whole rant was a perfect fucking metaphor for him in SCW.

He stops in the middle of the screen and looks into the camera again.

Blade: Seeing as how you've already proven that you don't know what a metaphor is JT Underwood, you can use the next few minutes to go play with your Lego in the corner. Build something nice.

Back to D-Block. Speaking of people who don't fit in, you need to take a good hard look in the mirror you fuck-stain. Look at yourself, then look at the other people around you, then look back at yourself again. Which of these things is not like the others? Which of these things just doesn't belong. Get fucking real, loser. You come here looking to get back into football? When has that EVER worked out well? I know, you thought with all your big bulgy muscles you could just walk into a wrestling ring, throw people around, and be king shit in Las Vegas. You've got your fucking reality check shit-stain and you're too stupid to even know it. You think you're as good at this as I am? Bitch please. I am wrestling.

Be a good stupid shit and listen to your little manager. Listen to him tell you the things you want to hear, not what you need to hear. That's why your career has come to this. You were kicked out of the NFL for being a low-life scum-sucking shitbag so you went to the CFL. You got yourself not only kicked out of the CFL but kicked out of the nicest country on earth because you were an untalented hack who wasn't fit to carry the memory of Doug Flutie's jock strap. If you don't know who that is then look it up.

So now you've come to SCW Williams and you've got a kiss ass sycophant manager who's going to make sure that not only will you never make it back to SCW, but your career is finally going to die right here, but he's probably too much of a panty-waisted loser to tell you that it's going to die because you had the audacity to ever think you belonged in the ring with me. A few weeks ago you proved it. You're so god-damned green that you don't know the difference between a wrist lock and a wrist watch. I knew more about this business before I could walk than you'll ever know. Don't come into High Stakes thinking you'll turn things around. Don't come in thinking you've got a chance to walk out champion. No one does. I'm walking out as champion, it's as simple as that. But before we even get that far I'm going to do the meanest thing I could ever think of doing to my opponents and the nicest thing possible to you, even though you wont know it.

I'm going to tag you into our match. I'm going to tag you in and I'm going to leave you there. I'm going to let Maoi and Underwood do their worst. I'm going to let them build up their confidence bit by bit by destroying you so utterly that you get on your knees and you fucking BEG like the dog you are to tag out. Then I'm going to do it. I'm going to tag in and I'm going to mount the heroic comeback, and right when I have them where I want them I'm going to pull the rug out from underneath you. I'm going to tag you back in Williams, and I'm going to stand there on the apron with a look of haughty derision on my face as you blunder through what you consider to be a finishing move, only to have it reverse by our opponents and get yourself pinned.

Then when the Gauntlet comes and you step into that ring I'm going to show you and everyone else, including that JT Underwood what a real wrestling legacy is and become the first SCW Champion.

He slowly slides his big shades up, resting them on his head.

Blade: I'd like to say it'll end there but that's not all is it? I was promised the one thing that's been sorely lacking so far in SCW and that's competition. I was promised a big time signing of someone who's supposed to be oh-so-good coming to High Stakes to address me personally. Well this had better be good. There's nothing I hate more than to be promised the world, to have so much built up only to be sorely disappointed in the end. When SCW management finally promises to bring in someone with some name brand recognition to face me, they better deliver. Ask around. This city knows what's what. Ask the fans before the next show what happens when I'm promised something and it's not delivered. Ask what happens when self-proclaimed big names step into the ring to face me. Short drop, bad landing.

But you know what boggles my mind the most? You know what I find the most burning indictment of the collective intelligence in SCW yet? There isn't a single one of you that has asked the big question, the real burning question in SCW today. None of you has had the brain cells to rub together and wonder... What's in the case?

He bends over and picks up the briefcase that was in the limo earlier, the same briefcase he walked out of Climax Control with.

Blade: Do none of you idiots seriously not get it? This is professional fucking wrestling. When is a briefcase just a briefcase? Never, that's when. The burning question that everyone in SCW should be asking themselves and each other right now isn't who's going to be the champ, that one is too obvious. The rest of you really need to start wondering... What's in the case?

Fade.

 Las Vegas. City of Sin.

In a city that never sleeps there's an apartment that never rests. Blade Alexander calls that apartment home. It's what you're looking at now.

The bathroom door, an uninteresting white door on it's own cracks open pouring forth steam and the blindingly sanitary white light of the bathroom. In stark contrast to the white of the bathroom steps a curvy shadow. The form is immediately identifiable as unquantifiable feminine sexuality. Her hips swaying as she steps out of the bathroom speak so loudly no words are needed. You know what they're saying. They say, “The beast inside of me is gonna get ya.”

The light begins to adjust. You can see her smile, her sultry brown eyes that draw you in like warm deep pools you could get lost in. You come closer, she grins. Her grin is stunningly coy, sexual. It's draws you in because you are weak, the huntress already has you, her prey. You come willingly, but she's a devil in a beautiful disguise. Her soft velvet lips make promises of heaven, but only deliver a wicked cruelty that would draw you in and tear your throat out for her own amusement. She knows this, just as she knows you can't resist. She smiles.

Mercedes: “Oh, how delightful, visitors. You should have rang, I would have gotten decent.”

The camera drinks her up. Starting with perfect ivory toes spread on the lush carpeting, up the long smooth legs, two perfectly formed pedestals fit for carrying a goddess, we find they only stop once we reach the edge of her towel, a valiant little white thing that tries it's best to cover the promise of womanhood underneath that you'd die to see, and were there a strong breeze you certainly would. But alas, you can only picture in your mind's eye like an adolescent what beauty may be concealed within. Still you look up. The camera's eye is yours, leading you up to the top of the towel where you see it's struggle to contain the ample cleavage you hope would win the battle and burst forth. It doesn't stop there though as you once again gaze up a slender neck that invites you in to the she-wolf's mouth once more.

She rests, one arm slide up the door frame, letting you gaze upon that which you can only dream to touch.

Mercedes: “Getting a good look are you? That's fine. Just ask yourself though, if this is the business end, just imagine what the goods really look like.

And right now you are. You're looking at that towel, wishing it away. Good luck.

Unfortunately for you, on this occasion you wont be getting the chance to see the object of your desire. The camera is force-ably pulled away from the dangerous siren and around to the man that is the more pressing concern for every other member of the SCW roster. Blade Alexander.

Blade: “The city of fucking sin. You got that god-damned right, and it hasn't seen a thing yet.”

The icy blue glaciers that are Blade Alexander's eyes burn a hole through the camera into every heart that sits beyond. His hair is slicked back, and he's dressed in a smart, three button pin stripe vest over a white dress shirt. The sleeves rolled up on his forearms and open collar give a little glimpse at the canvas for the famed tattoo parlors of Las Vegas that his body has become.

Blade: “In case you hadn't noticed over the last 9 months or so, but this is my city. That pen pusher Mark Ward wants to roll into my city and claim it doesn't know me? He's got a serious fucking wake up coming. You think you can just stroll into my city with your muscles from a bottle and east-enders London accent and tell me how things roll in Vegas? Get the fuck with it.

He pushes the camera back, almost sending the cameraman over a chair, but giving everyone at home a look at the dress pants that he (Blade) is wearing, which do match his vest. Fortunately for his bank account the camera man is able to right himself and just sit in the chair instead of dropping the camera.

Blade: “SinCity Wrestling. That's a pretty good joke too isn't it? Something that's claiming to be a wrestling company but is just filled up with a lot of self-absorbed cliches. Therapists, children... It's a big fucking joke on SCW TV. This isn't Second City ladies, this is the fucking Sin City and it's about time each and every one of you get introduced to it.”

“You might all be used to all that prancing around, posturing, pretending to be wrestlers, but wake the fuck up! This is Las-fucking-Vegas! This is where wrestling still lives.”

Getting heated, Blade grabs the camera and jerks it closer to him, pulling the cameraman back to his feet.

Blade: “Gone are the days of dealing with your piss ant personal problems on TV. No one gives a shit about your girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, wives, cousins, sons, daughters or your neighbors dog's favorite bone. If you're not concentrating on what you've got to do in the ring the get the fuck off TV because you're boring the shit out of everyone.”

“Take a look at this...”

He turns and steps over to the window, pulling back the blinds to reveal a sweeping view of Las Vegas at night. Though it's late, the city is alive with activity. Lights of every sort buzzing an electronic siren song luring the wayward into any imaginable sin paint a neon pastiche that Blade gazes out upon.

Blade: “If you think that some pseudo-drama is going to cut it in this city then you've come to the wrong place. You bring your weakness, your self-doubt, your flaws to SCW, to my Sin City then you better be prepared to leave on a stretcher.”

He turns back to face the camera again.

Blade: “I'm talking directly to you JT Underwood. You come into SCW with your sob story, weeping over your mother's grave, sobbing out about how you're going to be a man and prove your worth. Please bitch, stop wasting our time. I can tell you your worth now, and it's nothing. You're a punk bitch and I don't even know you yet. But, I do know that you run from trouble. You're running from Florida because your past is dragging you down. Like that ever fucking helps.”

“I thought about things a bit. I put some extensive thought into how I was going to introduce myself to these muppets posing as wrestlers in SCW. You know what came to mind first Underwoood? I thought of flying down to Florida, visiting that sad little cemetery, smelling those roses you left for your dearly departed old momma... Then tossing that cheap ass supermarket bought shit on your mother's final resting place. Standing there legs apart, whipping out my peacemaker, pissing all over those fake posies, soaking that tombstone in a thick heady stream of my morning piss, then taking some sort of power tool and defacing her epitaph.”

“I thought of it, but you know what? Sometimes even I have a heart. I thought of doing all of that just because I could, but then I thought that it would be a lot like punching some retarded kid in the face. Let's face it JT, you have it hard enough in life don't you. Walking around with your little iPod nano, in your two sizes too small jacket, your silly Affliction shirt... You look like you just won a douche bag of the year award. What did your parents die of anyway? Shame? You failed them as a son, you're failing yourself as a human being, and your less than a week away from failing SCW as a wrestler.”

“And while we're on reasons you should be euthanized,  what is with all the belly aching about some other place you worked? I mean fucking really, JT. You want people to applaud the fact that you're a quitter? Or maybe you think you're some kind of folk hero because you ran from a girl. It's pathetic. If I had your track record I'd probably start wearing a mask in the ring to save friends and family the shame of having the world see what an embarrassment to the human race you are.”

“You agreed to the terms of your released.”

He laughs a deep hardy laugh.

Blade: “That's fucking rich! I'll have to remember that one. You fucking ran away because some girl came back and had a match against you. So what if you didn't like it? It's called paying dues and management having respect for your ability. If you were half the man you imagine yourself to be then someone might have the same sort of respect for you. She was a former champion who fought to earn her spot and when she came back management respected that, it's that simple. But no, to you that means something has to be up and there are backstage forces conspiring against you and it's some political backstabbing scheme to remove you as champion. The sad part is, that conspiracy theory actually has some weight to it because the thought of you actually having the skill and ability to be champion of anything is fucking mind boggling.”

“I could easily go on and on about how little chance to be a star in SCW JT Underwood has, but it doesn't stop there...”

“D-Block? Is that it? Don't I know that guy? Haven't I seen him in the CFL before?”

Mercedes: “You've actually seen him play?”

Blade gives her a look that suggests that sanity may be slipping away from her.

Blade: “No body actually watches the CFL! I had a room mate in university that played there for like ten years, and to this day, I've never seen a single play he's been involved in.”

“Come on DJ... You can't make it in football's asshole then you've got no business being in my ring.”

He shakes his head.

Blade: “This is pathetic. One guy looks like a UFC reject, the other guy actually is a CFL reject. Fuck... Come on Ward... You listening to me? Give me some fucking wrestlers. Don't throw this weak ass shit at me and try to make a company. So what if your brother is managing one of them. Tell your brother if he wants to be a successful wrestling manager then he should go out and find someone who actually wants to wrestle. This isn't 1980, the football player failed as a football player. Professional wrestling isn't going to be some fall back safe career for some grid iron wash out. That overblown steroid junkie is going to get cast off right along side your brother's boy.”

“I played Mr. Niceguy this week and you're welcome for that, but by the time Climax Control rolls around? All bets are off.”

“Oh and JT, I know you're trying to get under my skin with that whole daddy's approval thing, and I know because you don't have a dad and all that you don't understand, but my dad was more than happy that I went to university and got a degree. For him everything else is just icing on the cake. So talk all you want, but you're just a sad little boy trying to overcompensate for your own short comings, using your manage as a surrogate father figure. You're sad, pathetic, and a loser. Do yourself a fucking favor. Go back to Florida, get your life sorted and deal with your shit.”

“After Climax Control when you find yourself laying in the gutter that is your life once again, looking up at the lights, seeing my hand raised in victory, for once in your pathetic life just ask yourself if maybe there isn't really some backstage political scheme conspiring against you, and if maybe instead it's just you. It's your own lack of talent, your own lack of ability that keeps serving you up the losing end of life.”

“And as for the rest of you...”

He grabs the camera and forces it to take a shot out of the window once again.

Blade: “This is Las Vegas. This is my city. SCW is my promotion, and what happens in Vegas is going to be known everywhere.”

Fade.