Las Vegas. City of Sin.
In a city that never sleeps there's an apartment that never rests. Blade Alexander calls that apartment home. It's what you're looking at now.
The bathroom door, an uninteresting white door on it's own cracks open pouring forth steam and the blindingly sanitary white light of the bathroom. In stark contrast to the white of the bathroom steps a curvy shadow. The form is immediately identifiable as unquantifiable feminine sexuality. Her hips swaying as she steps out of the bathroom speak so loudly no words are needed. You know what they're saying. They say, “The beast inside of me is gonna get ya.”
The light begins to adjust. You can see her smile, her sultry brown eyes that draw you in like warm deep pools you could get lost in. You come closer, she grins. Her grin is stunningly coy, sexual. It's draws you in because you are weak, the huntress already has you, her prey. You come willingly, but she's a devil in a beautiful disguise. Her soft velvet lips make promises of heaven, but only deliver a wicked cruelty that would draw you in and tear your throat out for her own amusement. She knows this, just as she knows you can't resist. She smiles.
Mercedes: “Oh, how delightful, visitors. You should have rang, I would have gotten decent.”
The camera drinks her up. Starting with perfect ivory toes spread on the lush carpeting, up the long smooth legs, two perfectly formed pedestals fit for carrying a goddess, we find they only stop once we reach the edge of her towel, a valiant little white thing that tries it's best to cover the promise of womanhood underneath that you'd die to see, and were there a strong breeze you certainly would. But alas, you can only picture in your mind's eye like an adolescent what beauty may be concealed within. Still you look up. The camera's eye is yours, leading you up to the top of the towel where you see it's struggle to contain the ample cleavage you hope would win the battle and burst forth. It doesn't stop there though as you once again gaze up a slender neck that invites you in to the she-wolf's mouth once more.
She rests, one arm slide up the door frame, letting you gaze upon that which you can only dream to touch.
Mercedes: “Getting a good look are you? That's fine. Just ask yourself though, if this is the business end, just imagine what the goods really look like.
And right now you are. You're looking at that towel, wishing it away. Good luck.
Unfortunately for you, on this occasion you wont be getting the chance to see the object of your desire. The camera is force-ably pulled away from the dangerous siren and around to the man that is the more pressing concern for every other member of the SCW roster. Blade Alexander.
Blade: “The city of fucking sin. You got that god-damned right, and it hasn't seen a thing yet.”
The icy blue glaciers that are Blade Alexander's eyes burn a hole through the camera into every heart that sits beyond. His hair is slicked back, and he's dressed in a smart, three button pin stripe vest over a white dress shirt. The sleeves rolled up on his forearms and open collar give a little glimpse at the canvas for the famed tattoo parlors of Las Vegas that his body has become.
Blade: “In case you hadn't noticed over the last 9 months or so, but this is my city. That pen pusher Mark Ward wants to roll into my city and claim it doesn't know me? He's got a serious fucking wake up coming. You think you can just stroll into my city with your muscles from a bottle and east-enders London accent and tell me how things roll in Vegas? Get the fuck with it.
He pushes the camera back, almost sending the cameraman over a chair, but giving everyone at home a look at the dress pants that he (Blade) is wearing, which do match his vest. Fortunately for his bank account the camera man is able to right himself and just sit in the chair instead of dropping the camera.
Blade: “SinCity Wrestling. That's a pretty good joke too isn't it? Something that's claiming to be a wrestling company but is just filled up with a lot of self-absorbed cliches. Therapists, children... It's a big fucking joke on SCW TV. This isn't Second City ladies, this is the fucking Sin City and it's about time each and every one of you get introduced to it.”
“You might all be used to all that prancing around, posturing, pretending to be wrestlers, but wake the fuck up! This is Las-fucking-Vegas! This is where wrestling still lives.”
Getting heated, Blade grabs the camera and jerks it closer to him, pulling the cameraman back to his feet.
Blade: “Gone are the days of dealing with your piss ant personal problems on TV. No one gives a shit about your girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, wives, cousins, sons, daughters or your neighbors dog's favorite bone. If you're not concentrating on what you've got to do in the ring the get the fuck off TV because you're boring the shit out of everyone.”
“Take a look at this...”
He turns and steps over to the window, pulling back the blinds to reveal a sweeping view of Las Vegas at night. Though it's late, the city is alive with activity. Lights of every sort buzzing an electronic siren song luring the wayward into any imaginable sin paint a neon pastiche that Blade gazes out upon.
Blade: “If you think that some pseudo-drama is going to cut it in this city then you've come to the wrong place. You bring your weakness, your self-doubt, your flaws to SCW, to my Sin City then you better be prepared to leave on a stretcher.”
He turns back to face the camera again.
Blade: “I'm talking directly to you JT Underwood. You come into SCW with your sob story, weeping over your mother's grave, sobbing out about how you're going to be a man and prove your worth. Please bitch, stop wasting our time. I can tell you your worth now, and it's nothing. You're a punk bitch and I don't even know you yet. But, I do know that you run from trouble. You're running from Florida because your past is dragging you down. Like that ever fucking helps.”
“I thought about things a bit. I put some extensive thought into how I was going to introduce myself to these muppets posing as wrestlers in SCW. You know what came to mind first Underwoood? I thought of flying down to Florida, visiting that sad little cemetery, smelling those roses you left for your dearly departed old momma... Then tossing that cheap ass supermarket bought shit on your mother's final resting place. Standing there legs apart, whipping out my peacemaker, pissing all over those fake posies, soaking that tombstone in a thick heady stream of my morning piss, then taking some sort of power tool and defacing her epitaph.”
“I thought of it, but you know what? Sometimes even I have a heart. I thought of doing all of that just because I could, but then I thought that it would be a lot like punching some retarded kid in the face. Let's face it JT, you have it hard enough in life don't you. Walking around with your little iPod nano, in your two sizes too small jacket, your silly Affliction shirt... You look like you just won a douche bag of the year award. What did your parents die of anyway? Shame? You failed them as a son, you're failing yourself as a human being, and your less than a week away from failing SCW as a wrestler.”
“And while we're on reasons you should be euthanized, what is with all the belly aching about some other place you worked? I mean fucking really, JT. You want people to applaud the fact that you're a quitter? Or maybe you think you're some kind of folk hero because you ran from a girl. It's pathetic. If I had your track record I'd probably start wearing a mask in the ring to save friends and family the shame of having the world see what an embarrassment to the human race you are.”
“You agreed to the terms of your released.”
He laughs a deep hardy laugh.
Blade: “That's fucking rich! I'll have to remember that one. You fucking ran away because some girl came back and had a match against you. So what if you didn't like it? It's called paying dues and management having respect for your ability. If you were half the man you imagine yourself to be then someone might have the same sort of respect for you. She was a former champion who fought to earn her spot and when she came back management respected that, it's that simple. But no, to you that means something has to be up and there are backstage forces conspiring against you and it's some political backstabbing scheme to remove you as champion. The sad part is, that conspiracy theory actually has some weight to it because the thought of you actually having the skill and ability to be champion of anything is fucking mind boggling.”
“I could easily go on and on about how little chance to be a star in SCW JT Underwood has, but it doesn't stop there...”
“D-Block? Is that it? Don't I know that guy? Haven't I seen him in the CFL before?”
Mercedes: “You've actually seen him play?”
Blade gives her a look that suggests that sanity may be slipping away from her.
Blade: “No body actually watches the CFL! I had a room mate in university that played there for like ten years, and to this day, I've never seen a single play he's been involved in.”
“Come on DJ... You can't make it in football's asshole then you've got no business being in my ring.”
He shakes his head.
Blade: “This is pathetic. One guy looks like a UFC reject, the other guy actually is a CFL reject. Fuck... Come on Ward... You listening to me? Give me some fucking wrestlers. Don't throw this weak ass shit at me and try to make a company. So what if your brother is managing one of them. Tell your brother if he wants to be a successful wrestling manager then he should go out and find someone who actually wants to wrestle. This isn't 1980, the football player failed as a football player. Professional wrestling isn't going to be some fall back safe career for some grid iron wash out. That overblown steroid junkie is going to get cast off right along side your brother's boy.”
“I played Mr. Niceguy this week and you're welcome for that, but by the time Climax Control rolls around? All bets are off.”
“Oh and JT, I know you're trying to get under my skin with that whole daddy's approval thing, and I know because you don't have a dad and all that you don't understand, but my dad was more than happy that I went to university and got a degree. For him everything else is just icing on the cake. So talk all you want, but you're just a sad little boy trying to overcompensate for your own short comings, using your manage as a surrogate father figure. You're sad, pathetic, and a loser. Do yourself a fucking favor. Go back to Florida, get your life sorted and deal with your shit.”
“After Climax Control when you find yourself laying in the gutter that is your life once again, looking up at the lights, seeing my hand raised in victory, for once in your pathetic life just ask yourself if maybe there isn't really some backstage political scheme conspiring against you, and if maybe instead it's just you. It's your own lack of talent, your own lack of ability that keeps serving you up the losing end of life.”
“And as for the rest of you...”
He grabs the camera and forces it to take a shot out of the window once again.
Blade: “This is Las Vegas. This is my city. SCW is my promotion, and what happens in Vegas is going to be known everywhere.”
Fade.
