London. 4:51 PM Local time. Wednesday.

Outside of a building that looks like it could be an arena in it's own right stands an older, slightly dishevelled gentleman. He looks at what appears to be a Rolex watch and scans the parking lot one more time.

“Hey who the fuck are you guys? You guys that camera crew? You from that company?”

The camera shakes up and down, so the man straightens his tie and does up a button on his jacket to look a little less like he just walked out of a hurricane.

“Then by all means allow me to introduce myself. I'm Bob Mitchell, the manager and professional adviser of one Blade Alexander. He'd tell you all this himself, but he seems to be late. This is what happens kids, when you don't have someone to manage you.”

Just then a glass door to the right shoves open and out walks the man of the hour, Blade Alexander.

Bob: “Well where the fuck have you been?”

Blade: “Inside, in your office, you know... Like we agreed.”

Bob: “Agreed? What the Fuck?”

Blade: “In your office, I came from the gym.”

Bob looks at his phone to find a notification that reads 'Where are you??' then  looks at Blade who's still dressed in his gym clothes.

Bob: “Fine. Whatever. At least your keeping focused. Let's get inside it's shitty out here.”

And it is. It's London. It's hazy, it's grey, it sucks. And the wind is picking up. The group head back towards the door Blade came out of with Blade leading the way until Bob jumps ahead to hold the door. He only holds it for Blade though, and the cameraman must be quick to juggle the camera and catch the door before it cracks the lens.

The group continues down a short hallway until the reach the third door on the right, another glass door, this one emblazoned with Bob Mitchell Management on it. They all go through into a rather tiny space, where the cameraman is forced to stay in the doorway so there's enough space for everyone to remain comfortable in the office.

Bob: “Last week was a good start. A good reintroduction, let everyone remember who Blade Alexander is and why they've all been sleeping on you.”

Blade: “Doesn't hurt having a tag team partner that's capable of handling them self.”

Bob: “No, never hurts... Just makes your return all that more dangerous to everyone else who might get in the way. You back, not just for some little tournament, you're back to claim what's yours.”

Blade doesn't respond verbally, just sort of lets out a grunt and a nod as he slips into one of the two big green chairs in front of Bob's desk.

Bob: “Nice touch by the way with all that goth bullshit. I had a hell of a chuckle watching that shit, like how long can he keep that up. Pretty little intro there. You've been gone for years, like that time the big guy with the face paint disappeared and when he came back people thought it was a different guy. Like you've been gone, so who's coming back? Is it the same Blade that was here before? Not by a long shot. That Blade that was in SCW before was a younger, chip in his shoulder, emotional wreck. Don't get me wrong, you had the right idea but you let all those pathetic puppets run around and play their games. This time around no games.”

Blade: “Before it wasn't as much chip on my shoulder as I was bitter. More bitter than driven.”

Bob: “That's why you drifted further and further away. Till I found you. A cast aside diamond with a chip that I turned into a razor's edge that was sharpened by the finest competition this business has ever seen, and now we're bringing that edge back to SCW to cut loose the dead weight and forged it into something better than it's ever been capable of before.”

“And how appropriate that it's in the Blast from the Past tournament. You've come so far from SCW's past I sit and watch these attempts at promos these other SCW whatever-they're-called try to cut and they don't even seem to have any idea who you really are. They have no idea that you were the original Dark Horse of SCW. They have no idea that you championed the idea of professional wrestling in a company so in love with it's own image that it drove you out. They have no idea that SCW was all about putting those who ran it above those who worked in it, that it was so in love with itself that tuning into SCW every week was more like watching a real-life Tumblr blog that you could watch for months before you knew that the W in SCW was supposed to stand for Wrestling. The people that worked for it were more likely to put their own personal dramas, a weekly who's fucking who, on display rather than talk about their upcoming matches or opponents.”

Blade: “And that brings us to one Ms. Brittany Williams.”

Bob: “The SCW princess. The little girl who talks so much about what her father and her mother and her aunt and her step mother have done so much because she's not really done anything to set herself out of their legacy. She talks so much about what she's going to do, but when the time comes she just sits there and does nothing.”

Blade: “The princess who actually wears a crown and carries a sceptre and makes herself a character. She boasts about her families wrestling legacy when he family has never been anything but an embarrassment to the business. She's learned every lesson her family has had to teach extremely well. Drugs and personal identity issues are what she excels at. In the ring she's mediocrity at it's finest. But outside the ring she flip flops from week to week between drug addict to sexual identity issues to a wanna be actress, or is it musician? She claims to be focused on business but she's immediately betrayed by how much she brags about how good her family was and at the same time how awful they were. She in the same breath claims how great her mother was while saying the only thing she learned from her was dug problems.”

Bob: “And what else would you expect from a kid? What she wants in life changes by the minute. She wants kids and to settle down with her little wifey and have twins with stupid names, and you ask me how I know all this? It's a small world princess, and people love to talk. Even the people closest to you. As hard as you want to fight for your little family's legacy, you know it's all a fucking joke. It's a lie you built on a house of cards to make it seem like you belong or fit in. You belong on the Young and the Restless. You fit in on General Hospital... Am I dating myself with these references?”

Blade: “Someone has to.”

Bob screws up his face in a way that says that the joke landed even if it wasn't completely appreciated.

Blade: “But you're not wrong. She's a relic from the past. She's proven time and time again in her short career that when the tough times comes, she goes. She talks about a match that she's still stuck on, even though she claims to be looking forward, that she lost. Might have been a double pin, but you have to beat a champion to be a champion in this business, unlike the short cuts her family taught her all about. The fact that my partner walked out still the champion says everything. Winners find a way to win. Losers like Brittany Williams complain about short notice, injuries, being cheated and everything else they can, and when they come back after they've run away from adversity they claim they've been screwed. No one's screwing you but your girlfriend, Brit. But this time next week after you and your partner find yourselves out of the tournament, you'll find another excuse. Another way it's somehow not your fault.”

Bob: “Funny that the little girl cut such a long promo detailing how many excuses she had for losing against your partner, then accused her of doing just that. She accused Ms. Lukas, who currently carries the SCW Bombshells World Championship where ever she goes, of having no accomplishments to her name. A two-time, reigning, defending champion. Little girl it's time for some serious life re-evaluation after Ms. Lukas forcibly removes those rose coloured glasses you've been wearing."

Blade: “I think it's Mrs. Lukas actually. She's a married woman. You know, respectable, dependable. The kind you can count on as a partner. Unlike other people in this tournament. But let's cover Kale Smith.”

Bob: “Kale Smith, SCW's resident McDreamy. Or is it McSteamy? I'm never sure which is which.”

Blade: “Given the way every woman and some of the guys in SCW swoon over him, probably McSteamy. Good guy from all accounts. Was in SCW before but drifted a bit until he found himself out of a job and in a gym. Now he's back, and what's really different? So he's a capable athlete and a great guy to get a beer with, but that doesn't make him SCW Championship material.”

Bob: “It makes him a tremendous force with big up-side potential. It makes him ones of those guys who has the look even if he doesn't have all the tools. It makes him the type of guy that people in business drool over because he's the kind of guy that young people drool over. You put his face on a billboard and people look at it and want to see more. You put that body in the ring and people want to see it. The good news for this guy is, they want to see it no matter what. People just want to love Kale so when it's all over on Monday and he and his partner are out of this tournament, people will still look at him.”

Blade: “He struggles with the idea of belonging. In a company that's had the same old cross-dresser sing the same old tired songs about cross-dressing for the better part of a decade, a guy who looks like he belongs in a comic book movie wonders if he belongs here. This is SCW, and for now, there's no better place you could be. This company has a long history of people who look like male models prancing around the ring in a bit of pretend graps because SCW has a long standing history of being about looks and character and not at all needing to be any good inside of a ring. That's what I was here to do. People in charge loved to make it painfully obvious time and time again that I served no purpose in SCW beyond making these people that had no business being in the business look a lot better than they really were. Not this time. This time a right a long standing wrong and take everything back from this company that it ever wanted me to give up. I don't have the time or desire to waste my career putting over surfer pretty boys who look good on a poster. It's going to take a LOT more than being a big guy and a decent athlete to beat me. I'm decades in the ring build on wrestling heritage, but unlike Brittany Williams I don't need to go on a long rant out of the side of my mouth talking about what my family has or hasn't done, this is only about what I'm going to do this Monday.”

“Relax Kale, let me be the first to tell you that you belong in SCW, and you have the potential to one day be great. But this isn't that day. This is the day you get into the ring with someone who isn't concerned with what you can do in other sports. This is the day you get into the ring with someone who isn't intimidated by what you can do in a bar fight. This is the day you get into the ring with someone who doesn't give a shit about how nice a guy you are or what shitty bands you know, or anything about your stupid friends. This is the day that's a rare treat for you. It's when you get in the ring with someone smaller, but much more experienced than you. Someone who isn't intimidated or impressed by you. Someone who isn't overlooking or dismissing you. You're stepping into the ring with someone with the ability to teach you and everyone else a lesson in wrestling humility. Someone far more skilled than you in this field of battle who's going to teach you something about the k killer instinct you're going to develop if you want to succeed.”

Bob: “That's the real difference this week. There's been so much chatter about how even this match up is. About these two eager youngsters desperate to prove themselves against the successful young veterans. They talk about how evenly matched and how much of a challenge this is, but the reality is this match is about two kids very much out of their depths who talk about their big dreams all the while showing no real commitment to them have to match up against two very talented, determined, experienced individuals who are killers in that ring who will stop at nothing and are solely focused on their goals. This match-up is really about this nice guy who kind of likes this wrestling thing teamed up with a young girl compelled by her family history to take up wrestling even though time and time again she shows her heart isn't really in it facing off against two other people with history of success bred out of an intense obsession with this business who prove time and time again that not only are they destined for greatness, but they wont accept anything less than being champions in this business because this is their first and only true love.”

“So watch Monday. Tune into Climax Control and the next round of the Blast from the Past tournament and experience what it's like when two well meaning, talented in their own right face off against a team that's nothing short of exceptional. And watch those exceptional people show the rest of you poor, average fools what it's like to talk such a great game only to have themselves exposed as talk. A great potential future that will go unrealized in the face of a dreaded, beautiful, exceptional present.”

Black.

 Phoenix, Arizona. Wednesday.



There's some gym on a compound in Scotsdale that an old wrestler owns. Back in the late 90's is was a hip spot for the best and brightest up and comers in the world of professional wrestling to go to train, sharpen their skills and break through to the top of the business. These days it doesn't get a lot of use. As a wrestling school it's fallen into disuse and has closed it's doors. Only a small group of people ever show up here now. A small group of guys who were once known as Youngblood, now all retired sometimes drop by here to remember the 'Good Ol Days' or for a select few to actually put in a workout and stay in shape. The owner, a former multi-time World Champion in his own right still lives in the adjacent mansion and keeps the gym in good working order. Other than those few, there is only one other that still uses the gym known as the Youngblood Compound.

Blade Alexander sits on a bench in the old gym, elbows resting on his thighs, sights set squarely on the ground. In the background can be see a ring from the now defunct London based IIW. Blade seems oblivious to the world around him and the camera in his face until a familiar hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

Voice: What are you lost in this time, son?

Blade looks up to see the face of his father, former wrestling superstar Zavier Alexander, who takes a seat beside him on the bench.

Zavier: You seem rather sullen for a guy with a championship match in a couple days.

Blade: Not like it's that big of a deal, it's the SCW Championship.

Zavier: A Championship is still a championship.

Blade: Not in SCW where everything is made up on the fly and the titles are meaningless.

The elder Alexander shakes his head and gives a stiff slap to the back of his son's head.

Blade: What's the big deal!

Zavier: Haven't you learned better than that by now? There are NO meaningless Championships, just meaningless champions.

Blade: Yeah well in that respect I'm facing the king of them all.

Zavier: That may be true, but he's still the champion and until someone better comes along and beats him then it's going to look like he's the best that company has to offer. Despite what anyone says to the contrary, on the surface just by having that belt, it looks like Spike Staggs is the best in SCW.

Blade: Looks are very fucking deceiving. The last time he had the best match on the card he was in the ring against me. The last time he was relevant was when he was talking about me.

Zavier: All that is well and good to get upset about, but every time you get in that ring against him, and his title is on the line and you don't care about it then he exploits that, beats you and looks all the better for it. You have to stop that from happening. Even if you think that title means nothing...

Blade: I KNOW it means nothing.

Zavier: Doesn't matter what it means to you. All that matters is what it means to him. He puts all the importance in the world in that thing. It's his most prized possession. I know he'll says it's his woman or his kids or whatever, but I know you can see through that. It's that belt that matters to him. Take it and he breaks. Break him and the world is yours.

Blade: It's still just so hard to get into winning the title knowing that it's importance will be squandered. I've been in SCW long enough to know. I could win that thing but each and every week all we'll see on TV is Spike Staggs and his ever changing circus. Mark Ward's ego continues unchecked out of control, Christian does something stupid to make SCW look like it's still the bush leagues and Erik walks around in a suit trying to convince people that he's boss too.

Zavier: That only happens if you let it. Take the title and stop it. It's that easy. A wrestling promotion's most prized possession is it's champion. Stop letting people think its Spike. Letting him get away with all he does has led to the worst product that company has ever put out. Now he's got a shot at the NWA World Title too? Is that the sort of legacy that wrestling should have?

Blade: Over my dead body.

Zavier: That's my point, son. That's the way you should be feeling about it. Stop sitting back feeling apathetic towards it all. Sure you're doing great in ACW. You even are breaking into WCCW, but every time those guys see you, regardless of where you come from, they're going to think of you as an SCW guy, and as long as Spike Staggs is champion they're going to think of you as second best to him. You can wrestle circles around that kid, we both know you can. But you can also talk circles around him. Don't hold back. Don't just poke fun and go the easy route like you did last time. Cut him to bits. Show those SCW fuckheads what wrestling is all about. Win this match before you even step foot in a ring.

Blade: It's not so easy.

Zavier: Don't give me that shit! It is for you! Look at last week. You buried that guy Frost. You didn't fuck about just talking trash about his titles or his partner, you got right to the heart of the matter. You put him in his place, you cut right to the heart of things. Before he faced you he was a mysterious enigma taking SCW by storm. Now he's just a coward in a mask. You beat him in your promo so badly when it came time for the match he was already done. That's what you have to do to Spike. That's what you have to do to save SCW, and believe me, it needs saving. You know Spike can't do it, hes a failure. Get yourself together. Do you, don't let their bullshit bring you down to their level. Give SCW the champion it needs. It's been a long time coming.

Fade.


Laughlin, Nevada. Thursday.


Inside the Edgewater hotel now are numerous business people and ambitious gamblers all going about their lives. In the background though there's a buzz in the air about the upcoming Climax Control event from SCW. Nearby there is a banner advertising the event and the full card (subject to change). And there, standing in front of, looking up at the banner is challenger to the SCW Championship, Blade Alexander.

“I've thought quite a bit on my father's words over the last twenty-four hours. Be the champion SCW needs. Kind of heavy handed in it's Dark Knight sort of way, but it might ring true nonetheless. Take a look at this undercard for instance.”

He points to the section of the light up poster board featuring the Blast From The Past tournament.

“Here we have this tournament. Mixed tag. Not too shabby in it's own right, but Blast from the Past? What the fuck is that on about? Maybe Christian Underwood is living in a parallel reality, but I don't ever remember Mildred Burke making the hot tag to Frank Gotch. It's fucking ridiculous. You want a mixed tag match tourney find, you want wild card partners, cool, but don't label it after something it's clearly not. Blast from the fucking Past. That's hilarious. The whole SCW is a blast from the fucking past.”

Not for nothing Blade's proficient use of expletives have started to draw some looks from some of the hotel's other guests and they're bringing it to the attention of hotel staff.

“Antiquated rules barring guys from fighting women. A special championship that mocks the hardcore foundations of the sport held by a guy not even old enough to drink. Trannys, crossdressers... Congratulations SCW you've succeeded in dragging professional wrestling back to its' circus roots. But you think it all makes up for it because you can do the circus bigger and grander than it has ever been done before, but that's not the way it works, it just makes us look WORSE.”

“Maybe that's what you're trying to do though. Maybe you're going to chalk up lat Sunday's disaster of a show to Super Bowl Sunday, feel you're validated and keep SCW heading down it's toilet. If that's what you want, fine. But there's just one problem, not all of us are willing to go peacefully.”

“You want to drag us down you'll have to do it kicking and screaming. Some of us are fed up with it all and we're to the point where fighting back seems like a pretty good option.”

He looks up again, seeing his face across from that of Spike Staggs, who has the phrase SCW Champion underneath his portrait.

“Right there is where the problem starts. Having that buffoon as the face of our company. No wonder we're a circus promotion, the monkey-boy is our leader. That's a fucking joke in itself.”

In the background a rather uppity looking man with a pencil thin moustache and thinning hair wearing a blazer with the hotel's logo starts to make his way over.

“Dance monkey, dance. Drown SCW in your monkey shit! Go ahead boy, hurl your verbal feces at everyone who can hear you!”

Just then the man arrives, tugging on the sleeve of Blade's jacket.

Hotel Guy: Excuse Monsieur, but your language is not fit for this hotel, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.

Blade: Excuse me, you John Walters looking gestapo, cram it and get back behind your desk. I have a room here.

Hotel Guy: That is all well Monsieur, but at least try not to profane while in our lobby some of our other guests are starting to complain...

Blade: Some of your guests are starting to complain about your phony french accent too but you seem to be keep that up anyway.

Hotel Guy: Well I never!

Blade: Had a french lesson in your life? It shows. Beat it Jeeves.

Hotel Jeeves: Monsieur!

Blade: Hey, I warned you about that!

Hotel Jeeves: Sir! At least try to keep your cursing to a minimum!

Blade: Yeah? Whatever. Beat it.

Blade waves his hands sending the uptight hotel receptionist scurrying off.

“That was rude. Now where was I?”

He looks up at the sign again, seeing the giant back-lit picture of Spike Staggs.

“Right, that guy. The guy who called himself the most noble champion in SCW history. Because there's a lot of nobility in calling out someone who you know doesn't care about your title. Right. Because there's nobility in giving a title shot to your friend when you know he's worked for it, then after it gets ruined by guys you ran your mouth off to, you don't bother giving him a rematch because well, he was about to beat you for that title. Then you get upset when he gets fed up with your shit. Noble”

“Or maybe dogging a rematch with the guy you beat for that title is noble? Or it's that everyone trash talks you and you remain clueless as to why, that makes you noble. Like a baboon. Or wait, maybe Spike, your nobility lies in you spoofing me and in your scathing parody revealing your own obvious flaws, that's your nobility? Right?”

“Or maybe it's just that you can't recognize what's obvious to everyone else.”

He turns away from the poster to face the camera.

“You suck Spike Staggs. It's really just that simple. You claim I'm a douche just because I say things that make people upset. I'm supposed to get upset that you think that way, but mostly I kinda just feel bad for you. Other people's opinions on what I say don't really effect me that what. I say the truth. Most people can't handle or don't want to face that. There's nothing more to it than that.”

“You say I only say those things to get noticed, because I don't have a storyline. That's the moment at which everyone left who had respect for you lost it, not that you'd recognize that. A storyline Spike. No, I don't have one. I have life. I have reality. I don't fuck various bombshells because I actually have a life. If I did have a relationship with any one of them you and the masses would never know because it's a fucking relationship stupid, not a storyline. I don't need to exploit getting sex for people to have interest in me. I can just cut a promo on TV and say what I think and have people more engaged that all you and your drama ever could. That's why you challenged me a few weeks ago. You're jealous that I don't have to live my life like a soap opera to get attention.”

“And the worst thing you did was ADMIT that's what you do. You said it yourself, Spike, storyline, never before has one word been so damning to someone's life and career. I don't have a storyline, but obviously you do. That's what you think of Vixen. She's just the latest of the stupid women you've been able to find in your life that think you have real feelings for them when all along you only think of her as a storyline. And it's not the first time you've done this. How many women do you have kids with? How many women thought you'd settle down with them after they popped out one of your bastards. You're such a shallow ass-hat that you probably went along with the whole having kids thing because you figured it would make you a more interesting character!”

“That's how you think of yourself isn't it? You're not a person, your a fucking character! I'm not some character, Spike. I'm a person. And even after all the trash I talk I think more highly of other people that I'm not going to go having kids and dragging other people's emotions through the mud just to make myself a more interesting character. That's why you're losing your grip on reality Spike. You've gone through such pains dragging all your life out in front of the camera that you've become nothing more than a character. You've ruined every relationship you've had because you don't know where to draw the line. You think everything that happens in your life is great fodder for cutting a promo for SCW.”

“It sure as hell is enough to make you the poster boy for SCW. Why the hell not right? If you're going to live it all out on the screen let's put this guy on every picture. It's like SCW is the Trueman Show featuring Spike Staggs. But what has that done to you personal? It's blown up ever single relationship you've ever had. It's why you're on your third version of NXT already.”

“Sooner or later Spike, those around you start to figure out what you really think of them. Sooner or later they catch on that to you, people are just characters and their lives are just your storylines to follow along in until people don't feel for them anymore or your character needs 'spicing up'. And then you wonder why people turn on you. You wonder why no one respects you despite your accomplishments. It's because to you this whole thing is just a fucking game. You may have the masses cheering for you now, but you're no shallower than you ever have been.”

“You claimed you started NXT to further the careers of young people in SCW, but the only benefit has come once they find out that you're really only in it for yourself and they stab you in the back. Face facts Spike, the only reason reason why you bitch and moan about it is because they did to you what you were going to do to them. You're just pissed they got the drop on you.”

He looks up at the illuminated poster again where you can see part of the SCW Championship belt resting over the shoulder of Spike.

“And now you really think that next time they print one of these up you're going to be a double champion? You think someone like you is talented enough to come away a double champion? You're not even making it to WrestleClassic as the SCW Champion, Spike! It's time you woke the fuck up and smelled the roses! Better than that, it's time I woke the fuck up and started putting people like you in your place!”

“You feed on apathy, you feed on opportunity to claim titles when champions are weak and people aren't looking. You think Nick Jones was stronger when he faced you? Face facts, stupid! Nick needed Mark and everyone else around him by the time you faced him! When I faced Nick he was strong enough to stand on his own.”

“Then you have the audacity to make it seem like Climax Control wasn't good enough for you to show up? For YOU? You're epic half-assery as champion is EXACTLY what put SCW in the place it is now! You think you can really lead this company on the two tours it wants to go on this year? You can't even lead a group of five people without them imploding. You can't lead the entire NWA, it's not in you Spike. You were LUCKY when you won the NWA World Title and everyone in the world knows it!”

“You want us all to think you're that fucking good, but we've already woken up to the fact that you're just not that good. Your friends in NXT let you abuse them for months before they left. Soon you'll probably end up knocking up Vixen then leaving her for someone younger and hotter the way you always do and Spike Staggs will have more bastard children and more evil exs to his name. Good for you Spike, but NONE of it makes you the person you think you are in your head!”

“Instead Spike, why don't you do what you always do. Come on TV with your little promo about your women and your kids and your friends all turning on you. Whine about respect the way you always fucking do and you sit their and wallow in despair over how everyone leaves you no matter how well you do. Then ignore everything I say and do because I'm not a 'character' and I don't have a 'storyline' and dismiss me as a bore because I'm just out here telling you the things you're too fucking scared to hear and too afraid to tell yourself even though each and every one of them are true. You around you spike when all you have is your shiny gold belt and realize for the first time in your fucking life that winning titles and selling t-shirts doesn't translate to love and respect the way you think it does. You're a fucking sell out Spike because once upon a time you were a lot like me, but then one day you sold yourself out all for the adulation of a bunch of people that need to be told what they like because their too stupid to decide for themselves.”

“When you were on my side of the fence you set yourself up a bunch of rules that you thought were how that side operated, but now that you're over there living that way you're all sad because you've found out that's not how it works. People don't actually like when you treat them like shit all for the sake of making your life interesting, Spike. All they care is that you treat them the way you feel about them. You talk trash about how I treat the bombshells. I trash talk them because one day if people like you don't kill it first, SCW is going to grow and the girls and guys are really going to mix it up in the ring. I'm looking forward to it. That's why I do what I do. You can say anything you want, but you put your life on film buddy, and every time you do the world sees what you really think of women. You treat them like gold when they're young and hot but the minute after they've pushed out a few of your kids and the weight of life with a piece of shit like you starts to wear them down and it shows then you kick them to the curb, call them a crazy bitch and move on.”

“You're the fucking crazy one Spike, and the cracks are starting to show. You think you're going to wind up a double champion, but you're going to look like a fucking idiot when you walk into WrestleClassic, already broken and title-less. My dad was right, Spike. It's about time I get off the bench and back into the game. On the very first Climax Control I set a bar so god-damned high that losers like you could never reach it. Ever since then it's just been getting lower and lower till now when it's just wallowing in the muck of avarice. Now things are so low thanks to self-centered assholes like you Spike that a place like SCW, which should be a giant global company by now, is going to wither and die unless someone saves it. You've been champion long enough. You're part of the problem. It's time to cut out the cancer.

Cut.

 “It's not an easy thing sometimes, being in demand.”

Blade Alexander stands, straightening out his tie.

“But I doubt most of you would have the experience of trying to wrestle a five star match with a former NWA World Champion, then hop on a plane, fly across the country to only a few hours later face someone else who thinks he's a World Champion, or that any title he's held in the past makes him one.”

It's early evening and the blinds are open. The SCA turned ACW star could look out into the night, but mostly he'd just see the apartment building across the parking lot from his own.

“I know Thatcher Rex thinks of himself as some great ring general with years of experience under his belt, but face it, no one in SCW cares about any of that. You didn't do it in SCW, you didn't do it in NWA, so why bother doing it at all?”

“The only people around here, and I'm telling you this Thatcher because you're new and I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt here, the only people that brag about the past are those broken down old losers in Mark Ward's little male escort club. That's seriously it. Not even Spike Staggs brags about the past and that's astounding given his eternal struggle to seem relevant on any level.”

“But I digress. If you come into SCW thinking you're going to get some amount of respect for what you've done in the past you're sadly mistaken. You needed to just get over it. You're in SCW now and that's all that matters.”

He picks up the jacket that matches the rest of his black Italian made suit from the back of his chair.

“And don't think that I'm going to be one of those guys that's taking you for granted. I saw what you did at New Year Rising. It wasn't you earning the number one contender status to the Roulette Title that impressed me. They give anyone in their first couple matches here that chance. It's not even that you're probably going to win the title when you get your shot. The champion is a child. You taking the belt from that kid is literally taking candy from a baby.”

“What impressed me is the ease at which you did so. Granted you've not really faced anyone of note so far in SCW, but in doing so you showed people that they were really no one of note.”

“But now you face me, and to be honest, with me you never know what the fuck you'll be getting. Am I going to be pissed off about something? Probably not, I don't even know you. Am I going to be angry? Not likely but who knows really. What you are getting is the best fucking performer SCW has, someone who's been at the very top of SCW since day one, and someone who has already wrestled once hours earlier against a legitimate legend and has spent hours on a plane directly thereafter. That's what you'll be getting.”

“So now the real questions, Rex.”

He smirks.

“Just what Blade Alexander are you going to get? Am I going to be worn out from my other match? Is jet lag going to take it's toll? Am I going to be beaten and worn out? Am I going coming into the match with the momentum of having beaten a former World Champion or am I going to be pissed about losing. Am I going to be tired and worn out and just want to get back home again or am I going to be short-tempered and pissed off from the day? Double booking is a giant hassle Thatcher, I can tell you that now.”

“And even at their best have you ever heard of someone so in demand that they've travelled across the country in a single day just to do a double shot? A few hours up the highway, sure... But I'm going from Nova Scotia to Nevada. The thing you have to ask yourself Rex is what are you going to get? Blade on the back half of a double shot, is my tank going to be empty or will I just barely have time to warm up?”

He grabs his bag, packed and ready to go.

“Tyrant King, that's the name you've given yourself right? I like that but... You see Thatcher, sooner or later every reign ends. Is your reign going to end before it begins or do you think it's just starting? You like to think of yourself as a wiley veteran though, so I guess that puts you on the back slope. Not a place you want to be against a guy who angry and bored and just looking to move into an NWA title match. Knock off a former NWA World Champion then take out the number one contender to an SCW title all in the matter of about 5 hours? Thanks, I think I will.”

He turns off the lights and steps out the door.

Black.

 Outside of the Men's Room at the Knights of Columbus hall in San Bernardino, California shortly after Climax Control ends we find buxom SCW reporter Pussy Willow banging on the door...

PW: Blade! Blade Alexander, I know you're in there!

Still dressed in a white sequin gown with a camera in tow she pounds on the door.

PW: I know he's in here... I saw him go in there a few minutes ago... Blade! Blade! Do you have anything to say to the SCW fans?

Suddenly the door is pulled open and Pussy Willow, who had been banging on it almost loses her balance and falls into the grasp of Blade Alexander, head freshly shaved, still dressed in most of his wrestling gear.

BA: What? What is it? What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy in here!

He has a handful of Pussy Willow's hair and as she tries to free herself she keeps asking questions.

PW: Blade, whats been going on? What about your match tonight? Goth turned on you and left you at the mercy of Sinful Obsession...

Blade pushes her back against the wall.

BA: Yeah, so what if he did, huh? A few weeks ago I did pretty much the same to someone else. One good turn, right? I didn't want the Tag Titles anyway...

PW: What about last week against Spike Staggs?

BA: What about Spike?

He pulls her hair back so she can finally look him in the eyes.

BA: I took everything Spike had... He had to give everything just to barely beat me. Barely. If we had to do it again he knows just like I know, just like everyone knows that he'd never again beat me in a million years.

PW: What happened to your hair?

BA: My what? You wanted to talk about Spike, why do you want to talk about hair now?

PW: It's gone Blade, it's all gone...

He runs his free hand over his head.

BA: Yeah so? So maybe I didn't want to be a bleach blonde anymore. Don't you ever get tired of it? Don't you ever get tired of going town to town trying to find some place to dye your hair, all your hotel rooms always smelling of peroxide? I guess you probably get off on it though right?

PW: I...

BA: Hey I got a question for you, your tits real?

He smirks and she resumes her struggles to get her hair out of Blade's hand.

BA: Hey, calm down! It's just a question, right? You want me to answer all of yours then why can't you answer some of mine?

PW: I'm not the one...

BA: The one who what? Is on a losing streak? Go ahead, say it! I'm not the one who was blatantly overlooked in the NWA rankings again? Go ahead, you can say it! Go on!

He finally pushes her back, hard against the wall and lets go of her hair, but as she tries to turn and run away Blade grabs her in a headlock.

BA: You know blondie, there's only so much you can put up with. So much they can take before they go ahead and push you to far. I've been pushed too far you know. They've taken my voice and muted it. They've taken my wrestling and watered it down. They've taken my identity and tried to bury it. Some things don't stay buried, bitch. Some things don't stay down.

He lets go of her and pushes her away.

BA: You came looking, but didn't like what you found huh? I tried to play it there way, but the funny thing is, everyone would still look at the clowns, the suits, the cross-dressers, the freaks and the frauds even when I had the blood of the champion on my hands. It's time everyone else started to noticed just how deep the sharpest edge can cut.

Fade.

 Empty room. Not totally empty maybe, but it's pretty bare. Uninteresting walls, plain floor, one light.

Chair in the middle, the light is on.

“What do you want me to do here?”

In walks Blade Alexander.

“I don't know what you're expecting here. Like what, you want some diary thing or some skit where we pull pranks or maybe you want to come into my personal life and want to like... I don't know... You want a closer look at who I am... You want to know Blade Alexander?...”

He steps into frame, already dressed in his wrestling attire. Black and white boots, knee pads, rusty red color trunks. The whole package.

“You already know me personally! You already see everything I have to show you!”

“So maybe I don't wake up next to some bombshell... I had a valet once, but that didn't work out... Maybe I don't hang out with friends and family, I don't go have frozen yogurt on the corner with some cashier from Target because I don't care about any of that. I don't care about all of that. It's not me. You get the other guys if you you want reality TV alright? Wrestling is my reality. I'm fake when I'm walking down the street. I'm not me when I'm waking up in my own bed. I'm only me, I'm only myself when I walk down to a wrestling ring. That's when I wake up. When I'm standing in a ring, when I tie up, that's me. That's the real me.”

“And now you want me to come out here and be something else? Fine.”

He sits down in the chair and stares into the camera.

“Hi. I'm Blade Alexander. I have a match coming up at High Stakes II for the SCW Tag Team Championships. It's against Sinful Obsession. They're a great team. It's going to be a hard match. I hope I win. I'm teaming with DJ Williams. He's pretty good. I think we have a good shot.”

“You believe any of that, cause I didn't. None of that is true. Yeah, ok... There's that match. DJ is supposed to, but nobody thinks he will. Fucking Sinful Obsession want to lay a guilt trip on him. I don't care though. If he doesn't show up, that's fine. So I can't depend on him. So what. I can't depend on anyone. That's the story of my fucking life. I'm used to it.”

“My dad, he was a great wrestler. I should have been able to depend on my old man right? But he was never really there when I was growing up. My strongest memories of my dad were him walking out on us. My mom and me. That was it. She was all I had, but cosmic irony, or maybe it's justice... The only person in my life I could ever depend on, she died. Taught me how to be on my own though, so that's good.”

“I had a tag team partner once. Tyler Morton. We made a pretty good team. We didn't talk much though. We just did our thing. I haven't talked to him in like, 2 years.”

“Then there's that valet. She split. So that's Blade Alexander's story in a nutshell. It's pretty fucking funny though if you think about it for a minute. Give a tag team title shot to the biggest loaner you employ, a guy who's done nothing to deserve it, and then, to top it all off... Team him up with a guy who's trying harder to quit then he ever tried to succeed.”

“Tag Team titles too... I can't think of anything that means less. First I thought it was me, but then they make this match and the only ones that are making a deal out of it are the child and that other guy... That guy with the mascara that hold's what's-her-name's purse. They still puff their chests up like anyone cares about them. That's funny. SCW is full of funny lately.”

“Maybe it's just me right, but it used to be, I think, that people with possessions, people like Sinful Obsession were targets. People from all walks of life would hunt them down. People would try and get them. People would want them, but no one does. No one wants their belts. People barely know they have belts. Those guys do all this stuff like their going to win and dominate and be champions, but yeah ok... They have gold belts, but no one cares. I don't want them, I didn't come for them, I was just put into the match where the belts were on the line so there's some incentive for a guy like DJ to show up, but shows what they know. DJ's not going to show up. He doesn't even care. Neither do I.”

He stands up again.

“You would think without the promise of anything meaningful I wouldn't even bother showing up.”

He picks up the chair, folding it.

“But I am going to show up. I'm coming. It's not because I think I have a chance to win the match, I could care less about that. I could out-wrestle either of those guys and they know it. I could out-wrestle both of them at the same time, but I don't want their titles. So why bother?”

“A few days ago that Gabriel, and I honestly had to look that up, had some, uh... Harsh words for me. I seriously didn't even remember his name, I just thought of him as long haired guy. But let's get to some things he said.”

“He said I haven't been the same since my return. True. He said stuff about main eventing and all that before. First off, fuck you Gabriel. Judgmental prick. So I just walked away, so what? I let down the fans... Yes I did because for months they had to put up with bullshit like you and pretend they cared. Second, fuck them. I had my own reasons for leaving. What matches I was about to or not about to have are none of your concern, just like the reasons why I left. Though they included but weren't limited to the fact that I was just going through the motions. Sure I was main eventing, but that was as much because people like you are shitty and I can out-wrestle you in my sleep as it is that I'm so good.”

“Duh, I'm not the same as when I left. I've grown. I wouldn't expect you to recognize that though. You've remained the same and become stagnant when I was gone. You're in a tag team you think people care about with a child. You don't even recognize what wrestling is anymore much less be good at it.”

“You think I've been away losing my edge, but you couldn't be more wrong pal. You accuse me of acting like I've come back and I'm owed something by SCW and that I think they should be giving me something. Well, for one they do owe me. I had the good graces to come back here and elevate the likes of you again, and that's pretty fucking remarkable of someone of my talent level, wasting time on you. But hey, what do I know, I'm a sucker for a born loser.”

“My problem with you though, Gabby, is that you had the audacity to say I've become dull. Maybe I have, maybe we'll find out pretty soon. Maybe I like it dull. Maybe I like a little bit of rust. Maybe what I've become is mad... I've become sadistic.”

He throws the chair across the room and it slams into the wall with a BANG.

“Maybe I've lost what few marbles I had Gabby. Have you ever thought about that? I think I'm owed something? Maybe I am. Not by SCW though. Certainly not by you. What could you possibly owe me? You don't have anything I want.”

“No... I owe myself. I owe myself to come back to SCW and to stop. To STOP going through the motions! To STOP not caring! I owe it to myself to come back to SCW and be exactly the kind of monster I want to be. I owe it to myself to come back to SCW and be exactly what kind of SINNER I really am!”

“No Gabby... I owe it to myself to come back here and fix all of the little bits of myself that I let you break. I owe it to myself to come back to SCW and take back all of the parts of myself that I let people like you take before. And that's going to be difficult...”

He slumps down to a seated position on the floor as much pulling his hand through his hair as he is running it through.

“It's going to be difficult Gabby because it's not meaningless possessions like you have. It's bits of myself. It's my skin that's been left under fingernails. It's my sweat that has spattered on the mat. It's my blood that has soaked into the canvas. It's all gone and I've come to take it all back.”

He rolls himself up to his knees and moves closer, too close to the camera.

“It's not your title belts Gabby. I don't want those. I want myself back, and I'm starting with bits of you. My blood is gone. My skin is gone, but I'll improvise.”

“You said I'm not the same. I was a surgical scalpel before, in the hands of a talented surgeon. I'm that same scalpel now, but it turns out that talented surgeon is moonlighting as Jack the Ripper.”

“I'm not like you. I'm not like the child. You think you come from a place of superiority, that kid warns... No, threatens will veils. I can see through them though. He's cryptic and because of that people think he's crazy, but it turns out that's just because there's no substance to him. He's a spoiled child. Take away his Pooh Bear and Christopher Robin has no choice but to grow up.”

“When it comes to Gabriel he brags, he threatens, but you're not in a position of power. You're fat and bored. You're a stranger to sin. You don't remember it. You have meaningless possessions. It makes you look silly.”

“The difference between me and every other team you've faced for your titles... They were trying to take them from you. I'm going to take something else and I'm going to do it alone.”

Fade.

 “Since day one in SCW all I've ever wanted was a chance to face and beat the best.”

Fade in on Blade Alexander. He's sitting... somewhere. It's a locker room, but who knows what one or where it is. It's pretty much the same as every other locker room in every other town.

“One rare occasions I've actually had that opportunity. Think back to the very first Climax Control. I was in the main event, and I won that match. But it seems every since then SCW has found a way to bury me and push me aside.”

The room is a dirty off white color, the benches are a light grey and the concrete floor was once orange, but most of that has worn away to the bare floor below.

“Night after night I find myself somewhere floating on the card. I'm just there, in the middle, working my ass off being the best and what do I get for my troubles? Yet another match against whomever is pretty new to SCW and the top brass wants to see if they'll sink or swim. Most of the time they don't. Most of the time they're guys with a bit of buzz going for them or they're the son of whomever and to see if there's anything to them SCW puts them in the ring with me and the inevitable happens and they get beat.”

He's dressed in his wrestling gear. Black trunks, red knee pads, red and white boots.

“Chances are these people are never going to be seen or heard from again.”

“But then there are those guys who are kept away from me at all costs. Surprisingly Nick Jones and I have been in the ring together, though he still owes me a rematch from way back. But there are other guys who run. Take Rage for instance. He took exception to what I was saying and sucker punched me like a bitch and ran so far away he's getting beaten by drama queens. That's life.”

“On the other hand there are guys like Gabriel or that kid... All parts of that same group. They call themselves sinners but the only thing their guilty of is stealing money that could be going to someone who actually deserves to be paid. For some reason people love them, but people are fucking sheep. Put something on the internet and they'll believe it. Say a celebrity does it and it'll be the hottest fad.”

“Some people would blame me. Maybe it's all my fault right. The only reason I've been stuck in the middle of the pack is just because that's where I belong. I certainly don't belong there, but if that's what anyone thinks, maybe it is partly my fault.”

“From day one in SCW we've played a nice little game. We've sat back and played promise. You want opportunity and they promise it to you so you're happy. You want title matches and they promise them to you so you're happy. But then you find out you're in the opening match. Or then you find out you're against some guy in his first match. Well what happened to what I was promised?”

“Oh it's coming, it's coming, just do this one thing for me first.”

“Then you do it, and you find out your shot that you've been waiting for has gone to someone else who bitched on Twitter.”

“I shook my head at stuff like that. I took people at their word. I shook my head, bit my tongue and kept on doing just what they wanted.”

“The only thing I ever ended up getting from biting my tongue was a swollen tongue.”

He sighs and stands up. For a moment he just stands there, but then begins pacing back and forth, looking down at the floor.

“I waited and waited. I wanted my chance, my turn, but after seeing so many chances go by I got pretty dis-heartened. I was living in Las Vegas and you know what you do when you're in Las Vegas and your unhappy? You gamble. You go see strip shows. You gamble more, you drink.”

“You know that saying, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? Well when you're the thing that stays in Vegas then you get pretty fucking tired of whats happening in Vegas.”

“So I went home.”

“I went home and for a bit I stay with my grandfather. A simple old man living in a nice home in the country. I went swimming in the river I swam in as a kid. I explored the woods that were a whole universe to me once. It was a welcomed escape.”

“Then I found a box of old wrestling toys in the basement. They were of my dad and the guys he used to wrestle with.”

“I always wanted a wrestling figure of myself. I thought was the best thing you could get out of life when I was young, to actually BE an action figure.”

He finally stops pacing and looks at the camera again.

“So I thought it was high time to get back in touch with my old man.”

“I'll spare you all of the personal details because, quite frankly, they're none of your business, but it was pretty emotional.”

“Eventually though we got around to talking about wrestling. We even sat down to watch some of my dad's old stuff again. Not just his stuff, whole shows. I watched guys fight, guys wrestle, and I watched guys talk. Boy did they ever talk. That's when things started coming back together.”

“I told my dad about all the stuff I was being promised and never got, and his response was never trust a fucking promoter. They'll promise you the moon, but wont give you a grain of sand. I told him how I went along with things knowing my time was coming. He said if you keep going along your time is going to pass you by before you even know it gets there.”

“I told him to stop talking like an arm-chair philosopher.”

“He told me to stop filling my head with pipe dreams. He told me to stop living in the fantasy of being a wrestler and start being the best fucking wrestler alive. I told him I already was and he just laughed.”

“What I'm really trying to say here is what I needed most was to step away from it all to see just what it was I was trying to look at.”

“I watched tapes of an era by gone. I watched show after show from times when he was the biggest thing in wrestling. Times when guys like Mark Ward was an up and comer. Times when a guy like Jordan Williams was starting to make a name for himself.”

“You know what I didn't see? Cross dressers, transvestites, wanna be models, B list actors, or anyone else like that climb into the ring and try to become famous through wrestling. What I did see was men and women who LIVED and BREATHED the sport of professional wrestling and would have beaten you clear to death if you ever called them an entertainer. I saw each and every one of them pour out their souls in each and every match just so they could call themselves the BEST. I didn't millionaires carting their fucking brats off to overly-expensive private schools and bitch about how much it cost. NO ONE GAVE A SHIT ABOUT THAT! What I saw was those men and women trying to fucking burn down their opponents houses just to get ahead! Wrestling was all that god-damned mattered. Anything else... being rich, being famous, being a good husband and father was all second to being the greatest.”

“That's what I want. I don't want to be part of some god-aweful Vegas show. I don't want to be part of a carnival or called an entertainer. I'm a PROFESSIONAL FUCKING WRESTLER.”

“The day I came back to this place I started to do it all over again. People were happy to see me, but that was about it. It was all Blade's back, and everyone went about their business. That was entirely my fault. It was just too easy to fall back into the old rut. But fuck ruts. I'm done with that.”

“It wasn't even something SCW did. If it were just them I would have eased back in and went along for the ride again, destined to have an SCW that boasted a great win-loss record but was completely ignore-able in every other way.”

“The shake up came from an innocent email from a friend back home. He sent me this flyer a promoter back in my town had put out. Halloween was coming up and they were having a costume battle royal and everyone was invited. So I tossed my name out there. Sounded like fun.”

“Then fate stepped in, and the card was changed. It wasn't just a battle royal anymore. The prize was an immediate shot at the NWA World Championship.”

“What followed was a phone call from my dad. He didn't even say hi, he just said six words to me: Get the title I never got.”

“That's when everything he ever taught me came flooding back. The old Blade Alexander is dead. The new Blade Alexander is pissed off. He's got something to prove, and his got a big fucking chip on his shoulder.”

He abruptly grabs the camera pulling it in close to him.

“This brings me back to you Jordan. It's fucking you I'm facing this week and it's your blood I have EVERY intention on spilling. You see, I don't want Jordan Williams, father and family man. I don't want Jordan Williams who's been coasting on his reputation, more concerned about his family than about taking take of fucking business in that ring. That's shit. You're become a big pile of shit Jordan and that's no good to me.”

“I need Jordan Williams to care. I need Jordan Williams with something to prove, someone who thinks he's still the greatest. I don't want some fucking chump, 17 years in the business ass-clown who wants tot be the champ because it means more money so he can pay for new uniforms for his son's tee ball team or afford to take a nice healthy choice snack to his daughter's soccer match every second fucking Tuesday of the month.”

“I need the Jordan Williams you have been to show up and want to be a roll model for your family and bring them all along with you. I need the Jordan Williams who wants to be a good wrestler and a great provider to sit his whole family down right there on the other side of the barricade so when I come down to that ring with you standing there watching I can slap your fucking wife so hard that every time you look at her for a whole month you wont be able to think of anything but breaking my back because my hand print is still on that skank's face!”

“I need the Jordan Williams who thinks he's the best, who thinks no one can touch him! I need the Jordan Williams who so good and pissed off he'll push his own kids out of the way to get his hands around my neck. I don't give a shit what it takes, I'm going to get what I want! Beating the 'legend' Jordan Williams means nothing to me. He's just another guy on just another night going through the motions. I need the Jordan Williams who's going to get so invested, so upset when he loses that he wont be able to eat until he gets a rematch. I don't want a Jordan Williams who wants to beat me, I want a Jordan Williams who NEEDS to beat me. I don't need you at your best Jordan, I need you better. Better than you've ever been before. I need a Jordan Williams who means something or my victory over you means nothing, and I'm tired of letting myself mean nothing in SCW.”

“I have an NWA World Title match opportunity coming up soon and you think SCW has anything to do with it? Of course not. I'm sure they didn't even consider me in their rankings for any title. That's what they're best at. Over look good ol' Blade, it's not like he'll mind.”

“I'm the best fucking professional wrestler on the planet and I don't care if I have to show up on every wrestling show for every promotion on the whole planet to prove it. I'm sick and tired of being promised things and walking away empty-handed. This weekend I'm going to paint these hands red. I'm going to drag the broken body of the best damned Jordan Williams that SCW can muster and pull it over to the guard rail and paint hate symbols in Jordan's own blood all over his own family just so I can show you all that pissed off Blade that was a force to be reckoned with back when this company first opened it's doors is still alive, and holy shit is he every pissed off for being buried and silenced so long.”

“Too many times I've seen the spotlight in SCW go to others who weren't have as good just because they complained. There's a reason why the so-called best in this business have been avoiding me at all costs until now. The protection ends. The blade has been drawn from the scabbard. It's time to cut a fucking bloody path and change history.”

Fade.

 Somewhere in Reno, Nevada.

“You'll all have to forgive me if my concentration hasn't been entirely focused on SCW this past week. While apparently everyone has been up in arms over absolutely nothing, I've been off since Violent Conduct, at home again, but instead of sitting doing nothing I've been getting ready for one of those bigger picture kind of moments. When fate steps in and drops a golden opportunity in your lap, then going through the paces kind of takes back seat.”

It's later in the evening and elsewhere neon lights shine through the dark Nevada night, but here there's only a few lights, mostly neglected but still burning away at their jobs in a more overlooked area of the city.

“But onto business at hand. Vaughan Andrews. What kind of name is that anyway? Vaughan... Dutch?”

The SCW mainstay Blade Alexander, dressed in faded jeans and a plain dark grey shirt under a navy blue hoodie leans with one arm outstretched on the fence.

“I looked into his bio, seeing as he's pretty much AWOL from anything else in SCW. Seems he was a part of something called Masters of Apocalypse. It doesn't mean a thing to SCW, sure, but I have to talk about something right?”

“So interesting factoid Vaughan... My dad was part of something called Masters of Apocalypse: The Federation. He signed on with this fed at one point and they didn't use him, didn't use him, didn't use him then as he tells it, had pretty much forgotten about the fed being busy in other places and got a phone call one day saying they needed him to come in for a title match right before a pay per view. Big mistake with my dad. One match in and he was their world champion.”

He smirks.

“I'm sure it had nothing to do with you or that legend/mentor/special friend of yours.”

“What's it with SCW lately throwing me in against these guys who are second generation or supposed to be some sort of prodigies who have to have someone hold them by the hand and tell them what to do every step of the way? For that matter, why did Ric Rude ever need a manager?”

He takes a moment took actually look like he's thinking about his own question, before he shrugs it off.

“So Vaughan, Posterboy? That's supposed to be your nickname? You know it's supposed to be two words right? And who gave you that name, that guy who you apparently can't function without? What's the deal anyway... Anytime he's not around you drink yourself more stupid than you already are, you spend any cash you have of the cheapest of Nevada's hookers and going back to the stupid point... You brag about getting busted for drunk driving in what you think is a really expensive car but is actually a Honda Civic. You know it says the make of the car on the ticket right? Ignoramus.”

“Posterboy... That's a good one. No one's ever going to buy a poster of some curtain jerking loser. Maybe that coach of yours should have told you that you're actually supposed to achieve some level of success before you have the complete breakdown and substance abuse problems. All things considered though, if I had your future to look forward to I'd drink myself into an early grave too.”

“With quality opponents like this it's no wonder my attention has been elsewhere lately. I came back to SCW just a few weeks ago full of rage and intentions and what happens? Everyone who knows better has either gotten well out of the way or plain ran scared. Maybe I'm wrong though and it's just the people who do the deeds that have gotten cold feet or don't want to find out what I'd do to those people they so lovingly clutch onto like safety blankets.”

“Reckoning. It's coming, but... not yet.”

He smirks again.

“First it's just more empty-handed disappointment for one Posterboy. Then I've got bigger things coming. Bigger things in the form of the World's Heavyweight Championship.”

“Do you... Does anyone really think that this company would ever actually consent to giving me their precious shot at the World Champion? Of course not. Not when they can happily string me along with the empty promises of being next in line for the SCW Title. Last time around I believed. I bought in to what they were selling. I sat around like a good little child waiting for my turn that I was sure would be just around the corner. How could it not be just around the corner right? After all they promised it was coming and they wouldn't lie right?”

“Not this time. This time I didn't wait, I sought out opportunity. I'm not going to pass it up or wait for something that's never going to come. I'm going back home, all the way to my real home and coming out NWA World Champion. I'm going to supersede Nick Jones as the best SCW has to offer and I'll finally be able to be free of getting matched up against these pretty-boy glad handers who just come looking to use wrestling for some stepping stone only to get drown in their own mediocrity.”

“Vaughan Andrews, facing people as bad as you so persistently is starting to drag me down.”

He pushes himself off the fence.

“If I don't do something about it soon I'm going to get pulled into being one of you. That's a fate I can't accept. Blood needs to be spilled. Hearts need to beat again and a price needs to be paid. What happened to the days when we fought for every inch in prowrestling and killed to keep it? Sad.”

Fade.

 Somewhere in Japan on a train. Possible Japan's famous bullet train.

The train whips along but you can't really see that, you only get the sense of movement. The train is nearly packed to the brink, but there seems to be one open seat on the train, a seat next to a man you'd recognize as Blade Alexander.

Blade: This shouldn't really surprise you, Not if you've been here before. If you had you'd know the real reason people on this train would rather sand packed together than sit by me. It's not because they're shy around a camera, it's not even because they're intimidated by who I am. Look at them.

The camera pans down the majority of the car. The Japanese people are looking around at each other, the floor, the ceiling even, some even look at the camera but all of them are avoiding looking at Blade.

Blade: They want to act like the love America now and embrace the culture, but look at them... Deep down they'll always be scared. They want to act warm and welcoming, but when it comes down to it they really don't want you to be a part of their every day lives. No matter how hard they try to mask it in the end their xenophobia shines through.

He looks around and smirks.

Blade: Wrestling in many ways isn't that different. It used to be if you couldn't wrestle, if you didn't love the business then we'd send you out in a cast. But lately it seems things have shifted the other way. Lately I feel like SCW has treated people like me like we're the outsiders, like we're the ones that don't belong.

Blade: Then you get someone like this Gene Baton Jr coming along and it's red carpet all the way. You might think this is sour grapes, but I think it's funny as hell. I know something they don't know... That carpet is only red because I lit it on fire.

Blade: You can roll out the red carpet all you like but it will only get you so far. Just because a guy comes from wrestling greatness doesn't always mean that's where he's headed. The world is full of people with limitless potential who never reach it. Question is, which one is Geno? Potential can get you far, but also hold you back, not unlike xenophobia.

He gestures towards the people on the train.

Blade: These people can tell you I'm the kind of guy who surpasses potential, they've seen it time and time again. I know what it's like to be under the bright lights Gene. I know what it takes to be successful in this business when the pressure is on. Unlike you I'm not untested. This might be my first match back but it's a long way from my first match. Violent Conduct, Gene, there will be blood. Your blood. You get your first test in SCW to see if you've really got all the potential they say you do, but what I've seen so far is nothing. No potential. No success. No future. Only failure.

Blade: When these people look at me what do you figure it is they see? Blonde hair? Big muscles? They just see the color of my skin Gene. They see the white skin and they don't see the maple leaf I was born under, they just see stars and stripes and they remember. They remember pain and hurt and loss. They remember thinks that were taken from them and when I get in the ring they're going to boo me. I'm going to let them boo me. I'm going to make them boo me and they're going to thank me for it. Can you say the same Gene? Huh? Can you say the first time you step into the ring that your daddy taught you everything he knows? Did he teach you how to get a crowd to treat you the way you want them to? Has he taught you how to make people like these, people who will do everything they can to avoid you on the train across town pay money to actually see you? These people are going to do that Gene. These people are going to pay to go to Violent Conduct and see me and boo me, not so they can see you... Someone they don't know at all... Beat me up. They know it wont happen. They're coming to see me. They're coming to hate me because look at them, they'll know it's OK for them to hate me. I'm the bad guy Gene. They'll hate me and feel better about themselves for it. They'll boo me and put their thumbs down at me and after it's all over and they've had their little cathartic moment of hate they're see me outside and bow and thank me and show me respect, and what for? So at the end of the night they don't have to feel guilty when they do the exact same thing on the train ride home.

Blade: You're like them Gene. You're frightened. You wait till the moment you absolutely have to face reality and then you get through it and feel better for your own shortcomings by telling yourself it's OK. It's not like you lost to just anyone Gene. You lost to Blade Alexander. You lost to one of the best. You were beaten by a second generation wrestler with more experience than you. You'll tell yourself that so when you get back to your hotel room you can sleep soundly and catch a plane in the morning so you can do it all over again next week. It's our catharsis Gene, but it's like your potential. It'll never get you anywhere but forgotten by all but the most lonely of wrestling historians who'll use you as a trivia question to impress your friends. Then next time SCW or the NWA comes back to Japan I'll find myself on a train like this with plenty of elbow room even though the train is packed and I'll have something else to say to someone else so these people and I will do this dance all over again.

Blade: You're never going to amount to anything in this business Gene unless you want it. You have to go out there and take it all because no one's about to give you anything. Someone needed to tell you that Gene. Your father obviously never did, maybe he knew you were just going to fail him anyway. Why bother if you're going to lose right? Great attitude Gene, now I know where you got it from. Your dad's like Homer Simpson. Never bothered to teach you anything because he knew you would never get anywhere. Just like a train in Japan if you think about it, Gene. You ride around and around but no matter how far you go you always end up just where you started again. How's that for poetic justice?

Fade.

 There hangs an SCW banner. It's a nice little logo for an indy fed really. The roulette board and poker chip are evocative of the fed's home in Las Vegas. Standing in front of it is a lady the the SCW fans know well, and the world at large, thanks to the NWA are just meeting for the first time. She's more evocative of a teenager's boner than anything else.

Ms Rocky Mountains: “Ladies and gentlemen of the wrestling world, I'm pleased as punch right now to be standing in front of you all to get this opportunity to be a part of SCW and host the NWA pay per view WrestleClassic. I'm just so happy I've been asked here to be a part of this and...”

Blade Alexander: “Why don't you just get the fuck on with it, do your job, and introduce me already.”

The hostess, dressed in her Nevada best, a short black sequin designer black looks on in shock and a bit of humility as she's elbowed aside by by one half of SCW's feature match for the upcoming pay per view in Blade Alexander.

Blade: “Look Tits, you're here to smile and look pretty for the camera and hold the microphone while you pull the top of that dress down a little bit. Pull that skirt hem up too. You're here to look fucking cute and draw in some of those puberty buys for the NWA so they think that SCW can actually get people to pay for it's product. Do your fucking job.”

He slowly slides the large aviator shades of his face and hangs them in the right front pocket of the charcoal vest he's wearing before decides to address the camera.

Blade: “For far too long I've just sat back and gone with the flow, don't be stupid and think that now that I have the opportunity, I'm going to waste it being the good little boy I've played for the last couple months.”

Ms. Mountains: “That was you being good?”

Blade: “You're god-damned right it was. I've bit my tongue while I've watched some of the dumbest shit in wrestling go on, and you'd be every bit as dumb as you fucking look if you thought that now that I had this global platform I'd waste in on a bunch of crap about just beating Nick Jones.”

“Don't worry though, I'll get to Jones in my own good fucking time.”

He smirks and runs his hands through his once again bleached blonde locks.

Blade: “I've taken it all. I've taken it all in stride. But don't forget who first got SCW noticed. We didn't get asked to be part of the NWA because I sat around like everyone else playing fantasy detective with a god-damned teddy bear. We didn't get the chance to host an NWA pay per view our very first time around because I spent many a long night behind closed doors playing politician or whatever the kids are calling it these days with Mark Ward. We got here because someone had the balls to speak their fucking mind and the talent to walk to the ring every night and back it up.”

“I'm sick and tired of sitting around as part of SCW and eating whatever proverbial shit they were going to try to feed me like a good little employee. That's not how I got hired. I got hired because I speak my mind and I don't care who thinks what about it.”

Ms Mountains: “That's exactly the kind of attitude that could get you in a lot of trouble with a lot of people.”

Blade: “Seriously? Are you actually fucking retarded?”

Ms Mountains: “Now Blade, that's not very PC...”

Blade: “Fuck PC. Being politically correct doesn't get you shit. This is professional fucking wrestling! When the hell did the rest of the world forget that? You don't sit back and act nice. You spit fucking acid, then when someone wants to bitch about it and has a problem with it you go down to the ring and you collapse their skull and ask if anyone else has a problem. You don't drop your title belt at the first sign of trouble and have your manager drive the get away car so you can both skip town.”

Ms Mountains: “Is that some sort of veiled reference to your former WrestleClassic opponent, JT Underwood?”

Blade: “Duh.”

He shakes his head and starts to roll up the sleeves on his finely made white dress shirt while Ms Rocky Mountain's cheeks glow an embarrassed shade of red.

Blade: “There's no veil to it you dumb bitch. It's pretty god-damned clear. Something didn't go Underwood's way so he took his ball and ran the fuck away. If you listen to some people it's because he was scared of them, but they're full of shit. No one gets scared of anyone who gets opportunity handed to them simply by way of being in the right place at the right time. Meanwhile I get the gag order while our little WrestleClassic match, the most important match in the history of SCW, gets juggled around time and time again. It's bullshit. It's instability, and it's fucking weak. I've been here since day one ready to carry SCW on my back but all I get is endless subterfuge thrown in the way to confound me.”

Ms Mountains: “Is it confounding though, or is it just that you can't actually handle carrying the company?”

Showing tremendous amounts of personal restraint, Blade doesn't spit in her face.

Blade: “Fuck. That's how dumb you are. You're so dumb you make everyone and everything around you dumber.”

“Confounding, you moron, because while they claim they're digging up competition for me, they're purposely keeping me from it. A few months ago the Seven Deadly Idiots brought one of their own, Rage, into the fold. He was going to be this big powerhouse who'd take me out. What he actually managed to do was jump me from the crowd, deliver a beat down, and keep me from winning the SCW Title when I should have. How am I rewarded for this little sabotage? Let's see... Did I get option A, a chance to get my hands on Rage by facing him in the ring? No. He ran and hid like a bitch behind Christian Underwood's skirt. The closest I got was in some stupid wild card tag team tournament which his team won, thanks to me being teamed with a guy so fucking strung out from the juice that he forgot the keys to victory were to try to win the match and to do so by leaving your fucking partner alone.”

“So thanks for that. But then there's always option B right? A match for the SCW Championship, which instead went to the esteemed Mr. Chickenshit who would eventually skip town.”

Ms Mountains: “But you're getting that Championship opportunity now...”

Blade: “Not because they wanted to actually give me the shot mind you...”

Ms Mountains: “Oh how can you say that? You've got the shot, they announced it was you getting it.”

Blade: “Drum roll for the big reveal.... I got that shot because I earned it, but not in the way they hoped.”

Ms. Mountains: “Then how did you get this mystery shot?”

Blade: “Think back to October. I'm sure you remember a fiasco that culminated in a Haunted House match. That night I beat JT Underwood and walked out with a briefcase that every other idiot thought was empty. Every other idiot has a hard time remembering that this is pro-fucking-wrestling.”

He reveals the briefcase he's had in his possession since October.

Blade: “In this briefcase there is a certain contract. A contract that claims that I was entitled to a title shot at the title of my choosing pretty much whenever I felt like taking it. Being smarter than everyone else in SCW, I waited. I got screwed the first time around, so I waited. I watched as Gabriel and Underwood bored the cosmos to death twice in a row and I still waited.”

Ms Mountains: “That's a lot of waiting...”

Blade: “Cram it.”

“I waited until Mark Ward and Christian Underwood contacted me about being a part of WrestleClassic and that's when I sprang the contract on them. They had no intention of putting that human bit of driftwood in the ring against me. They certainly never planned to give me was I was long over due, but even before Nick Jones, in all his backroom glory claimed the title of number one contender, I was given a shot when and where I chose.”

“So I picked my spot.”

Ms Mountains: “So it would seem that you have had this all planned out since day one.”

Blade: “From the day SCW announced that we were joining the NWA I had this plan in motion. It was my intention all along to walk into WrestleClassic as the biggest global name on the SCW roster and take the title from whomever held it at that time and put it around the waist that it belonged around. The fact that is was supposed to be JT Underwood was just going to make it that much sweeter, but the fact that he's gone now is nothing but irrelevant.”

Ms Mountains: “But the last few weeks you've been all over the place, like you've been derailed. Come on, last week you even did that whole thing where it was all Clockwork Orange. Speaking in riddles and painting your face and stuff, come on, what was all that? Challenging Bo Dreamwolf to look at who he was? How are you any better?”

Blade just grins a sickly killer smirk.

Blade: “SCW, you see, isn't the only one capable of subterfuge. They want to mess around with me, they have no idea what they're dealing with. I'm the Cardinal Fucking Sinner! I didn't get that way by playing nice. I didn't get that name by explaining everything to a bunch of idiots. I do whatever it takes to get what the fuck I want. I do whatever it takes to be the best and to win.”

Ms Mountains: “But you take others like Nick Jones to task for doing whatever it takes?”

Blade: “That's pretty fucking bold of you Tits, comparing me and that waste of shit Jones like that. I do what it takes to win. In the ring. I actually fight and beat my opponents. That's what the difference is. I got a title shot by actually beating someone. Someone who would eventually be the champion I was originally supposed to face.”

Ms Mountains: “But so did Nick Jones. He won a number one contender's match.”

Blade: “Ugh.”

“I can't believe you made me say Ugh.”

Ms Mountains pretty features get screwed up in disbelief.

Ms Mountains: “What?”

Blade: “Christ, you're like a child. Nick Jones got into a number one contenders match by being a fucking loser. Before that match who did he ever beat?”

Ms Mountains: “Um, well...”

Blade: “Right, you don't fucking know. No one knows. It was nobody, that's who. Nick Jones did jack shit. You know how he was available to be in that match? He lost. He wasn't successful enough in a tag team to advance to being a part of the tournament at that point for the tag team titles. He was out of the hunt. Why wasn't I in a number one contenders match? Because I fucking won. I was talented enough that I actually carried Casey Williams into the next round of the tag team title tournament, and my reward was to see other people get to be in a match to determine the number one contenders match. Thanks for the hard work Blade, now sit back and watch other people reap the rewards of being lazy, useless pieces of shit.”

“Now we've gotten to the point that people are actually starting to think Nick Jones is a fucking threat! A threat to what? The SCW Title? In their fucking dreams. A threat to my sanity? Possibly. A threat to every suicidal wrestling fan? Certainly.”

Ms Mountains: “Oh now, come on. How is Nick Jones a threat to them?”

Blade: “Because if they, like me, have to put up with any more of Mark Ward shoving that talentless hack down our throats we're all going to cut our wrists en mass so we don't have the indignity of dying from choking to death on a human shit pile. Every time I heard that moron's voice I start to gag a bit.”

“Watching Nick Jones operate is a bit like going back in time.”

Ms Mountains: “Back in time?”

Blade: “I don't fucking stutter. It's like going back to 1987 and watching Lex Lugar with the Four Horsemen.”

Ms Mountains: “Now come on, they were one of the greatest groups of all time.”

Blade: “But he was a loser. Now we're all watching the same thing. Here's this fucking idiot with a million dollar body and no clue how to use it. He should stick to flexing and posing because it's all he's got. He runs his mouth about being the best and gives himself a count out victory over JT Underwood after Underwood already quit and he wants to be handed the title. He's got the ego, I'll give him that, but just like classic Lex Lugar this guy's got himself an entourage to get anything done.”

Ms Mountains: “And what if he brings this entourage to the ring with him?”

Blade: “I hope he does. I'll cripple every last useless one of them, then we wont have to put up with any of his shit again. This guy's got the reputation without ever earning it. What's he ever actually done?”

Ms Mountains: “Well in...”

Blade thrusts a hand in Ms Rocky Mountains face.

Blade: “Don't even try to come at me with that other company bullshit. Do you hear me coming our here and going on and on about being so great in PWR or how I dominated sYn! Wrestling? No, I don't have to. I've been great just by going undefeated against everyone SCW has actually bothered to throw against me.”

Ms Mountains: “Not withstanding Bo Dreamwolf just this past weekend.”

Blade: “And why didn't I beat Dreamwolf? Thanks to Nick Jones. The egoist who's interfered just to have bragging rights going into WrestleClassic.”

Ms Mountains: “Then you wont like that he beat your former tag team partner Casey Williams later that night.”

Blade: “So what, Casey beats himself every night in the locker room. Frequently at that.”

Ms Mountains: “Ew.”

Blade: “There's always the explanation that Nick was trying to soften me up for WrestleClassic. For all the good it did him. He should have brought his whole posse with him, then maybe he'd get somewhere. Maybe between the lot of them one has actually seen a wrestling program before and might actually know a real wrestling hold.”

Ms Mountains: “You know you're speaking of a guy who was on the NWA's list of finalists for Best Technical Wrestler at it's year end awards right?”

Blade: “Oh fucking hell! Let's all just bow down to him now then! So what? He was a finalist because he voted for himself for an award decided by voting for yourself. Good for him. I don't need to vote for myself to win fancy awards. I'm the best fucking technical wrestler in the world. I don't need a trophy to prove it. I prove it myself each and every time I step into a wrestling ring.”

“What's more, I'm fucking ruthless. While Nick awards himself wins, I hunt them down. I break people. I run them out of wrestling. I'm not just in this to capture the SCW title and assuage my own ego like Nick Jones is. I'm in this to win the SCW Title because I'm the best. I'm going to carry the company and everyone knows it, but I'm not looking to stop there.”

“It would be pretty short sighted for me to just look at the SCW and want to be top dog there. That's not how I think. That's not how I was raised. I'm the best. Not just in SCW. Not just in Las Vegas. I'm the best in the world. You can bet you bottom dollar that after I step out of the shadow SCW has been trying to cast over me ever since I first opened my mouth that I'll be watching the NWA World Title match very fucking closely, because that's where I'm headed.”

“I've seen what they've got to offer, and it's so fucking unimpressive. Everywhere I look in wrestling now that's what I see.”

“The NWA World Champion himself is so self absorbed he wants us all to invest in his life like a 20-something girl with a blog and no boyfriend. He wants us to invest in his life like we care where he lives, what he drives, or what his favorite gaming system is. No one gives a shit. In SCW we have Misty and that whole fucked up family who want to make us care about her kid and her husband and her brother in law. They want to use SCW as a forum for their personal soap opera and it makes me want to blow chunks all over her fat-girl wrestling gear each time I see her. Fuck you, dumb bitch.”

“For the record I haven't even bothered to remember the NWA World Champion's name.”

Ms Mountains: “What? He's like the best wrestler in the world, how can you not know his name?”

Blade: “He can't be the fucking best. He's never even been in the ring with me. I'm at the top of the wrestling food chain and I'm sick and fucking tired of having to act like I'm not. I told each and ever one of you morons that Las Vegas is my city and it's about time I got around to beating that into your ugly skulls. First I take SCW, then I take the world. Captain boring, the NWA Champion can't stop me. That guy who's challenging him, the emo guy, he can't stop me. Nick Jones and all the favors he wants to call in sure can't stop me.”

“Until last week you know Nick Jones wasn't even on my radar.”

Ms Mountains: “At all?”

Blade: “I heard the name, sure. I chuckled when he won the number one contender spot. I didn't know him, he was nothing. He hadn't proved anything other than he could do whatever it was that Mark Ward is getting out of their deal. All the hype didn't impress me. He still hasn't impressed me, and while he acted last week like he didn't even know my name... When he actually got involved in my match, that's when I knew I had him. He had to get involved in my match. Not the other way around. He had to get the advantage over me. Not the other way around. It's not that he fired the first shot or got a leg up on me or got the jump on me or anything like that, it's that he felt the need to.”

He grins that wolfish grin again.

Blade: “It that for all his talk, for all his posturing it's all fake. Just like his talent in the ring, his self-confidence is a fraud. He knows I'm better than him. He knows I can beat him. And now thanks to his antsy gut feeling and the need to take shots at me just so he could feel better about having me possibly compromised coming in to WrestleClassic, it's all backfired.”

“Nick Jones is used to being a big fish in a little pond. He's a tiger shark that can swim around showing all his big scary teeth and all the little chum go scurrying out of the for fear of the promise of death those teeth hold, but now Jones, you've made the fatal flaw that all your type does. You peered into the depths. Trolling the shallows made you over confident. Having some big Beluga clear a path for you made you grow too bold and you went deeper than you ever should have.”

“You've gone down Nick, and WrestleClassic is the big time. You're well out of your depth. You're not the big fish in a little pond. With thousands there to see live and the uncounted millions watching on Pay Per View, you've ventured into the deepest blue and that thing you poked down there, that thing that you stirred is your greatest nightmare. You've woken that creature of mythology Nick. You're a Great White Nick, but how does a shark feel staring into the burning hatred, that eternal evil in the eyes of fucking Godzilla?”

“I'm going to destroy you Nick. It's not because I personally hate you. It's not because you've slighted me some how. I don't give a shit about your personal life. And even if you hadn't condescended to try to have Mark Ward give you the SCW Title outright, I still would have used your frontal lobe to repaint the canvas at WrestleClassic simply because you've had the ambition of thinking you could control your little world when I'm a part of it.”

“You can't control me nick Jones. You can't contain me. You sure as fuck can't BEAT me. I'm already greater than anything you will ever be, and this is only the beginning for you. WrestleClassic, Nick. The best fucking wrestler you will ever have the opportunity to face. I'm going to beat you, I'm going to take the SCW Championship, then I'm going to shake down SCW and turn it from the little Vegas lounge act it's been with your horseshit and turn it into one of those epic fucking life experiences people say stay in Vegas cause it would rip their life apart otherwise.”

“Then I'm coming for the NWA World Championship.”

Fade.

 We open on a pair of very well worn cowboy style wrestling boots. Overall the boots are white and are accentuated with red designs on the toes, heels, around the ankle and tops, and emblazoned with red firebirds.

“Take a good look at these boots.”

One boot slightly droops over on the other. On the red straps on the sides are white lettering. Some of the letters have come off over time, but looking them both over, you can piece together that these boots once said 'ALEXANDER' up the outsides of both.

“These boots have seen a lot of action over the years. In and out of hundreds of rings in thousands of matches. These boots have been in nearly every country on earth. They've been seen by millions around the world, but just look at them... simple looking boots.”

Faded, stained and worn nearly to pieces these simple boots just sit there filling the screen.

“They don't look like much. Thread-bare, stained with sweat and blood, but it's funny how a simple pair of boots can symbolize so much. You idiots out there see that these aren't just your ordinary boots, these are the boots that my father wore throughout his wrestling career. These boots were on his feet for hundreds of matches. These boots walked over the best of the best in the wrestling business for years. These boots made some of the best of the best in the wrestling world for years. These boots have been seen on TV and live in pretty much every major company that's been around in the wrestling business, including right here in the NWA.”

The camera finally pulls back to reveal Blade Alexander sitting in a chair directly behind the boots.

Blade: “It' easy to say that my dad was all about this business. It's what you people saw every week on a number of wrestling programs. There were times when he'd be on four or five nights a week on different programs for different promotions all over the world. Back in those days the most time I got to spend with my dad was the same that all you people did, just tuning in to see him on TV.”

Blade's eyes don't leave his father's boots.

Blade: “The only days off he got were due to injury, and those were usually spent doing rehab, just biding his time to get back into the ring. Wrestling was my dad's life. He was dedicated to being the best in the world, and when he was in that ring, he was.”

“But here's the thing... My dad never made excuses. He didn't make promises he couldn't keep. He'd never say he'd be at my sporting events. He didn't promise he'd make my graduations. He knew from the beginning that they were promises that he probably couldn't keep. Don't get me wrong, when he was around he was a great dad, but usually he wasn't around. I didn't get it then, and for a while I hated him for it. I get it now.”

“My dad wouldn't promise me things he couldn't deliver even when I cried and swore because he was a different kind of man, someone you don't really see too often these days. He was a man of his word. He was also a man that set goals for himself and would stop at nothing and sacrifice anything to accomplish those goals.”

“Dad was rewarded for his hard work and his sacrifices many times over. He held titles and championships all over the world. He's even held some of the NWA titles. He's been everywhere and done everything, and when that happens a man's goals in life begin to change. His focus shifts. My dad once told me that there comes a day when the titles cease to mean what they once did. Gold loses it's luster, and all that's left is a father's love for his children.”

“When that time came for my dad he hung up his boots. He didn't have anything left to prove in the ring, so he came home to catch up on the other side of life that he had missed all those long years on the road.”

Blade finally raises his cold blue eyes from the worn wrestling boots of his father to finally look into the camera.

Blade: “When my dad finally came home he really came home. We all moved out of Arizona and back to the place he was born, back to the place he met my mother, to the place I was born. My dad came home swearing to be a better father to his children and a better husband to his was, and in a manner that would make Charles Dickens proud he lived up to his word. I helped my dad build the house he lives in now and I'm glad I did. Personally it was one of the best things we ever did. It gave us the time to get past our own issues and come to understand each other better...”

He stands, stepping over his father's boots into the foreground.

Blade: “But all of that just makes for some very boring TV time, the likes of which you'd see from Misty or Spike whatever her husband is, or JT Underwood or any of those other nameless talentless idiots SCW has brought in to try and make their little promotion into something more.”

“What makes it relate now is it's a cautionary tale for the latest boring talent acquisition in Steven Kline. Pay heed, Kline. Go back and watch me tell that story over again, but this time, just like an 80's cartoon, listen to the lesson in the end.”

“Being that you're seem like a complete idiot, I'll spell that lesson out for you now. My dad had the good sense to stay retired when he stepped away to focus on other things in his life. When he cared more about his kids than title belts, he stepped away and stayed away.”

“You said let's not make this personal Kline, so let me just give you this one piece of advice from one guy to another: Don't be stupid. You want to get back into the ring to relive whatever former glory you had? You're going to get hurt, and on January 8th, I'm going to be the one to hurt you. It's not personal. It's just a matter of opportunity. You're in the wrong place at the wrong time. You want some successful comeback, chose another path. This one's not for you.”

“You're getting into the ring being fueled by nostalgia. You want to hear the fans chant you name one more time, but here's the thing buddy, these fans don't remember you. They don't care about you, but they know all about me.”

“You're getting back into the ring but you're thinking about your kids piano recitals, little league games, kindergarten finger paintings or whatever they do, but I'm only thinking about kicking your ass. You think you're ready, but then you go think about something else. You want to see your kids do great things, but I'm going to be thinking about doing great things myself.”

“Unlike some of these other guys, I'm glad I'm getting you in your big return match. If you hadn't noticed by now, I've grown up around this business, I know how these things go. You're at your best right now. You're name still has that cache, the older fans that followed you back in the day still know who you are, they still have that spark of interest in you. They know what you did and what you used to be capable of doing. They want to see you come back and do your thing against guys like me. But you're going to fail. That's not egotism. It's not cockiness. It's just harsh reality. This isn't some great Hollywood tale where you come back and it's like you've never left. You're old. You haven't got that desire anymore. You're going to fail.”

He smirks.

Blade: “I don't expect you to take my word it. It's already there in what you say. I heard you drone on like some idiot about fair play and the best man and all that crap. Who really believes all that shit anyway? I know you don't. Look at your own bio. Who are you trying to fool? Look at that thing. Your bio reads like you're some big cocky cock badass, yet you come on camera and spout some horseshit about following the rules and being such a good wrestler and may the best man win. First of all, you couldn't beat me on your best day. Second of all... What the fuck? Fairness and honesty? Shove it up your ass pal. This is professional wrestling. The rules are just lose guidelines set in place for us to overlook for the sake of entertainment. I beat the SCW Champion in a Haunted House match and you want a good clean contest? You know this isn't the Olympics right?”

“If I even think I have the chance to do something to you to get an edge in this match, I'm going to take it.”

“Take a look at this...”

Blade reaches down inside one of his fathers boots and pulls out a stainless steel chain.

Blade: “My dad kept this in his boot in every match he was ever in. Whenever he got or needed to use it, he did. You see Steven, my dad taught me how to be a man and all that, but he also taught me all about this business and how you get to the top. You talk about being the best and doing what's right, but what's right in wrestling, what's right in SCW is whatever it takes to put people like you, the talentless, charisma-less fools in your place to so this business can be pulled out of the downward spiral that you people have put it into. When I came into SCW I made the world a promise that I was going to make the big moves, that I was going to do things that mattered. Over the last few weeks I've been pushed back and allowed it to happen. I've allowed those morons that run SCW into the ground to cast me aside and push me into the roles that they wanted. You're the last straw Steve. You think this is your big comeback, but you're out here lying to everyone, most of all yourself.”

“You see SCW as your opportunity. You see this as the place to comeback, and for the past while it's looked that way. Solid wrestling, but not great. Characters that don't really compel an audience one way or another. This is supposed to be SIN CITY Wrestling. It's supposed to be the cutting edge of professional wrestling, pushing the sport past all boundaries it's ever known. Months ago I made a promise to be that man. January 8th I finally give SCW what was promised to them. Steven Kline, when you're laying in a daze, looking up at the lights wondering what happened, hand unshaken, the wrestling fantasy you thought you were coming back to crumbling around you, just remember it wasn't personal. It was just another bad decision by the people in charge of SCW.”

Fade.