The dominance was almost becoming routine. Expected. It was getting harder and harder for Jack to come up with excuses to pretend like he was somehow the “underdog.”
He’d been beating people so badly, so convincingly, there was really nothing left to complain about. No more reasons to feed into his persecution complex. No more cause to resent all the “doubters” and the “haters” and the critics, both in the media and in the crowds. Jack had silenced them all. Taken away every last possible criticism they could throw at him.
Magnum Randell, the champion Jack couldn’t dethrone. The last hump he couldn’t get over.
Beaten. In the middle of the ring.
Jason Jousma, the hot, reenergized former champion, on what seemed to be a predestined path back towards the championship he’d held so convincingly only a year or two earlier…
Stopped. Dead in his tracks. Has nary been heard from since.
Ulfric, the legend of the old guard. The man who many felt should have worn the belt long before now, given one last chance at glory while there was still a little bit of gas swishing around at the bottom of the tank.
Denied. He’s still chugging along at the regional level…but everybody knows the NWA World Title isn’t a tree he’ll be barking up as long as Kraven stands atop the heap.
Terence Harris, a solid enough competitor in his own right. Tasted morsels of NWA gold in the form of lower tier Alliance championships. Got the taste so stuck on his palette that he thought he was ready for the main course. The proverbial turkey dinner that is Jack Kraven’s World Heavyweight Title…
Starved. Not only did Jack slap the taste of NWA gold right out of his mouth…he had Harris’s stomach stapled. Jaw wired shut. And career ended only a few months later.
SeaJay Vas Godspeed, the young bull. The stud. The prodigal son, full of motivation, talent, and all the signs pointing toward a “Clubber Lang” like end to Kraven’s magic carpet ride.
Broken. And it wasn’t really even all that close. The young challenger’s entire organization proceeded to crumble in the aftermath of the Champion exerting his will on the best RMP had to offer.
And then there was Chavez. The Instant Addiction. The past, present, and would-be future legend of the squared circle. Adored by fans, respected by peers, he’d been to the top of the mountain in convincing fashion, and wanted it to be there, at the peak of that mountain where he laid down his life. The classic sentimental favorite, with every bit of the talent needed to bring legitimacy to his quest. SURELY this had to be it for Kraven. SURELY Kurt Chavez with all his momentum, skill, and perseverance guiding him along the way, would be enough to finally tear the belt off the man who was never meant to win the title in the first place – if you’d asked anybody whose opinion was worth a fuck back in 2003 – SURELY the wrestling world would finally be able to see a proper champion’s name plated in gold across the face of the world’s most prestigious title belt, if only even in memoriam…
Close. SO close. So terribly, agonizingly close…but defeated. Damn near killed. Kurt Chavez may yet have a little while longer before he shuffles loose this mortal coil, but it’s not likely he’ll ever have it in him again to challenge The Mountain Man’s supremacy.
So where is there to go from here?
He’s beaten the former champions. Three of them, in fact. He’s beaten the up-and-comers. He’s beaten the old salty dog legends of yesteryear. And he’s beaten them soundly. Each and every one of them.
Now, there’s nowhere to go but down. Now, one has to believe despite all the reason in the world to finally start betting ON Jack Kraven, it’s just as much the reason people will continue betting against him.
Surely he can’t keep this up forever…can he?
Surely he has to lose at SOME point…doesn’t he?
Could Spike Staggs be the one?
Shit, why not? He’s just as big. Just as strong. If you ask anybody in the SCW fanbase, they’d swear to you he’s just as talented. They’d be wrong, but they’d swear to it all the same. Besides-
He has to lose EVENTUALLY…………..
Right?
(We open to the interior of Jack’s London, England hotel room. Jack and his ever-present trainer, Eric Fancourt, are just settling in by the looks of it. Jack tosses his suitcase onto the king-sized bed, while Eric heads through the connecting door between their two rooms. Fancourt disappears into his own suite, as Jack looks around, taking in all there is to see from the beautifully decorated room. Within nanoseconds, he clearly becomes board by this, and instead begins to open up cabinets, searching for some way to be mischievous. Locating the mini-bar, he quickly unscrews the cap to a mini-bottle of Grey Goose, tossing it back equally as quickly. He sets to work unscrewing a second, as Fancourt reenters the room.)
Eric Fancourt: HEY HEY HEY HEY!
(Eric lunges over to the Champion, slapping the bottle out of his hands. Kraven laughs hysterically as his trainer furiously attempts to keep the now spilled mini-bottle from leaking out all over the luxurious carpet. Eric grumbles as he pulls out several fast-food type napkins from his pocket, dropping to his hands and knees.)
Eric Fancourt: What the hell are you thinking? You defend in less than a week!
Jack Kraven: What I’m thinking is London is fucking boring, and Spike Staggs is fucking dead man. Why complicate the issue?
Eric Fancourt: Just once, could we try to get through training for a WORLD TITLE DEFENSE without you trying to sneak in pizza, and liquor, and chicken wings every other chance you get?
Jack Kraven: Why? I love pizza. And liquor. And chicken wings.
Eric Fancourt: Yeah, and they’re bad for you.
Jack Kraven: Which is why you’re here.
Eric Fancourt: To watch you like a Kindergartener? And wipe up your messes?
Jack Kraven: In a sense…yeah. I have the discipline to train myself. I have the discipline to stay away from junk food. But it’s easier to just ignore all that, and let you be my discipline FOR me. Plus it’s much more entertaining trying to sneak these little treats past you.
(Continuing to wipe the carpet.)
Eric Fancourt: I’m glad I can be the cat in your ongoing cat and mouse game, Jack.
Jack Kraven: Bitch all you want. You know you’re well paid. And you know, despite your protests, which are exactly what I pay you for, that a few well timed shots of Goose are exactly what I need to stay loose sometimes. Besides, like I said, London is fucking boring. And for the first time in my life, there’s actually NO DRAMA going on outside the ring heading into a title defense. So yeah, I’m bored. And at this precise moment, thirsty.
(Jack finally elicits a small laugh from Fancourt.)
Jack Kraven: Oh for Christ’s sake, leave that.
(Realizing the stupidity of trying to clean a hotel room’s carpet, Eric finally stands up, dusting off his pant sleeves at the knees.)
Eric Fancourt: You know something, you may actually have a point, in a bizarrely negative way.
Jack Kraven: Oh yeah? And how’s that?
Eric Fancourt: The booze and junk food, that’s one thing. And you’re right, it more or less works for us. Frustrating as hell as it can be at times…but the other thing, what you said about there being no drama, no distractions…you suppose that could actually start working against you?
Jack Kraven: Hmm…
(Jack scratches his head and ponders the notion. We can see by his facial expression that he slowly begins to see where Fancourt is headed with this.)
Eric Fancourt: I mean, before with Mike disappearing, then Amy and the divorce, then everything with the baby, and right after that the psych eval…seems like you’ve always had some fairly heavy shit on your plate. Heavy enough that everybody always assumed there was no way you could appropriately focus on the task at hand, any given week. I know you’re a stubborn son-of-a-bitch…and despite what you ever may try and say, you hear every bit of doubt and criticism that people have to offer. Almost makes me wonder if, now that…to be blunt- you’ve got nothing to bitch about…if you’ll still be able to tap into that same intensity. That same desire to prove everybody wrong, which in and of itself can be just as motivating and beneficial as full focus can be. Sure, you’ve often had your attention divided, but it’s never really seemed to bother you once you got in the ring.
Jack Kraven: You make a very compelling argument.
Eric Fancourt: Think it’ll be an issue?
(Jack reveals from behind his back a third bottle of Grey Goose.)
Jack Kraven: Guess we could always create some drama? Spice things up a bit? Maybe I should become an alcoholic. Go to AA meetings. You know, real human emotion bullshit. Nobody’d bet on an alcoholic world champion.
Eric Fancourt: Yeah but then you run the risk of…like, actually becoming an alcoholic.
Jack Kraven: True.
Eric Fancourt: Could always get married again.
Jack Kraven: Just so I could go through another divorce?
Eric Fancourt: Exactly.
Jack Kraven: Right…right. Creative. I like where your head’s at, Fancourt. But another divorce would be too damn expensive. What about, OOH, what about cancer? Are there any nuclear waste facilities nearby?
Eric Fancourt: Eh, Chavez has kind of already been there, done that.
Jack Kraven: Ewww…yeah, you’re right. I don’t want anybody’s sloppy seconds. Well shit. Alcoholism is out. Marriage is out. Cancer won’t work.
Eric Fancourt: What about-
Jack Kraven: Whoa whoa whoa whoa. Hold up. Why not, now follow me here…why not just beat the living hell out of people?
Eric Fancourt: You mean without any distractions?
Jack Kraven: Well I mean…that’s the situation we’re in. Why not just accept it? Why not just embrace the notion that I’m the baddest man on the planet? Why seek out ways to pretend I’m some sort of victim? I’m not a victim. I’m the reigning World Heavyweight Champion. I’m on a winning streak the likes of which rival the greatest title reigns in the history of the National Wrestling Alliance. I’M fucking Goliath. Maybe it’s time to be at peace with the notion that I’ll never be David again. From here on out, I’m the Yankees. Spike Staggs? His ass is the one that needs to be worried. Not me. I’ve got to be comfortable with that.
Eric Fancourt: Comfortable with what?
Jack Kraven: …The notion that I’m to be feared.
Eric Fancourt: Well then, this conversation got serious awfully fast.
Jack Kraven: You know what? The more I think about it the more I’m starting to like the idea. Ya know? Fuck it. I’m the man. Shitbreads like Spike Staggs are a dime a dozen. There’s plenty of wanna-be’s. I mean hell, there’s a reason they call them wanna-be’s. It’s because there’s somebody they WANNA-BE. And THAT’S ME. I’m the fucking guy, wanna-be’s like Spike Staggs, WANNA BE. And I can tell you one thing for absolute God-damn sure; there’s a big, BIG difference between a wanna-be, and a GONNA-be. And ain’t NO FUCKING WAY, Spike Staggs gonna be walking out of our match with my championship. You know why?
Eric Fancourt: Cause you’re the effing man?
Jack Kraven: Cause I’m the fuc- wait, did you just say effing?
Eric Fancourt: Give it a rest.
Jack Kraven: Christ. I’m getting trained by a walking vagina. Maybe I am doomed after all. Do they have gyms in this tea drinking cesspool?
Eric Fancourt: I’m sure we could wrangle something up. Are you done preaching?
Jack Kraven: As a good friend of mine once said, the time for words is over. It’s time to go to work.
(Jack unscrews the last Grey Goose bottle and pours it down, much to Fancourt’s chagrin. After emptying out the last drop, he tosses it in the general vicinity of the trash can, missing wildly, and storms out of the room. Eric, hopelessly trying to keep up, gives chase. The scene fades to black…)
