With each lash, each tinge of pain that resonates through his entire body, Spike feels that much more relieved. Each time the whip slices at his back, he finds solace in the pain as the last lash breaks the skin. As the thin trickle of blood drips down his back, a smile spreads across his face. His eyes remain closed as his hands clutch the top of the “X-Cross” beams. He offers a laugh in response to the next lashing as he turns to face Roxanne. She grits her teeth as she gets him precisely across the cheek. The sting on his face wakes him up from this pain induced euphoria, enough to realize where he is.
The unfinished back room of his basement in the home he shared with Misty had been transformed into quite the dirty little S&M dungeon. And by dirty, I mean leaky pipes and rust-covered walls with cobwebs hanging from them. He takes a deep breath and then mutters back to Roxanne.
Spike: We can lose the clothes now if you like?
Roxanne: You are quite the perv, aren’t you Spikey? The happy, broken Staggs home, complete with an unused bedroom that is practically taped up, a kitchen full of pizza boxes, a game room where the couch has become your new bed, and a mini dungeon next door to where your daughter plays Hannah Montana… Hmmm
Her lips curl into a smile as she traces the whip up and down Spike’s back. He blushes just a bit before retorting.
Spike: My daughter would never touch Hannah Montana. You should see her kill “I’m So Sick” on Rock Band though…
Roxanne: Such values. You sure are a model parent, and the four consecutive “Father of the Year” coffee mugs all make sense now… Tell me, does she sacrifice animals to appease Marilyn Manson, or does she just read the prayers?
She offers him one last chuckle before lashing him across his back again, causing another trickle of blood to appear in an “X” on his back. Spike shudders in an awkward sort of joy before offering his own sarcastic chuckle.
Spike: No, her sacrifices go to appease Lady Gaga, as Marilyn Manson was over nearly a decade ago… Seriously, I really wish I wouldn’t talk back to myself so much. It’s giving me a headache, and I’m losing wood here…
Roxanne: Well, all-knowing one, what is your lesson of the day today? Is it about how to have odd necrophilia fantasies about your dead ex, or is there a reason you’ve cuffed yourself up in this filthy prison? Because I only appear for a reason, and you know it…
Roxanne’s tone ends in an almost sort of sing-song manner as her voice trails off. She smirks before wrapping the whip around his throat, allowing it to dangle freely down his bleeding back. She comes around the front of his confinement and grabs onto his chin, forcing his head to nod up and down. Once she is satisfied, she pats his head and leans down to his level.
Roxanne: You know just as well as I do that you are close to being figured out. The credit card statements are all lined up and waiting to be used against you and as soon as someone gets hurt, it all comes back to bite you on that cute little ass of yours. You need to think about that a little bit harder. Cover up your tracks better from now on.
Spike: Is that all? Because I’m aware of all of that already. That is why nothing has happened lately. At least… I think…
Roxanne shrugs her shoulders and then stands back up. She pulls out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and an eye dropper as she begins to slowly let out single drops down his burning back. As he winces, and tightens up his face, she continues on speaking.
Roxanne: Oh, that’s not your lesson. It’s just a word of friendly advice. Your lesson is that you have become a shell of your former self. In a way, that is a good thing, but back then you weren’t so weak. You weren’t so foolish as to offer trust to anyone without careful consideration. You always watched your own back, but lately you have become an afterthought. No one even remembers what you are capable of… The damage that you can take, and the damage that you can dish out. Those damn sunglasses are about the only thing to you anymore. Who are you, Dwayne Johnson?
Spike: I have style, admit it… I look like a rock star every time I go out there.
Roxanne: Well, if you want to look like a rock star, then form a band and fuck floozies in cheap hotels that have Denny’s attached to them. Don’t go out into a wrestling ring if you want to rely on your style. Toughen up, because you are just a pansy anymore. That is why Misty dumped you, I’m sure. It’s why you couldn’t beat He Who Shall Not Be Named and Mark Ward. It’s why you couldn’t beat Jack Kraven, and it is why you might not be able to ever return to your former glory unless you can let some of your old self back in. I know you are scared of the monster you used to be, but some of that aggression and ruthlessness would do you some good.
Spike nods his head in agreement. As the alcohol makes its way down to the open wounds on Spike’s back, the sting causes him to suck in a deep breath. His eyes clinch as his smile widens. He exhales slowly and almost joyfully.
Roxanne: When you go on to face Gaetan LaValle, he will eat you alive if you go on like this. Everyone in NWA will be watching and laughing at the fool you will appear to be and…
Spike: Hold it right there. I have learned and I have grown since facing Jack Kraven. And I came within an inch of becoming the new World Heavyweight Champion. So to say that I will be laughed out of the building at Parade of Champions seems a little harsh. I’ve got nothing against Gaetan. He was a legendary TV Champion, but I’ve got a score to settle with Kraven, and I refuse to go to the back of the line. If I have to crush his dreams in order to prove that I still got it, then so be it…
Roxanne nods her head in approval as she stops dripping the alcohol down his back. She slides the dropper back into the bottle and then screws the cap back on and sets it down on the ground beside Spike. She smiles and then gets back to his eye level.
Roxanne: Good… That is exactly what I wanted to hear. This Mr. Nice Guy shtick was getting way too old with you. Do you think Gaetan is going to lay down in that ring for you? Do you think he is going to hold back any punches? No, he won’t, because he is leaving his feelings of good faith at the entryway, as he should. So, you can go on praising him and remembering the champion he WAS, or you can go out there and earn your spot as the champion you WILL BE. You have it in you. I know it because you have done it before in GXW.
Spike: So, you are suggesting I play Russian Roulette?
Roxanne’s face twists into confusion as Spike’s eyes flutter in the lingering tinge of pleasured pain. His body shakes as a smile creeps upon his face.
Roxanne: I’m not sure I follow you.
Spike: It wouldn’t be the first time I couldn’t follow my own train of thought I suppose. You see, I spent over five years crafting my own personality to make sure my daughter never had to see the man I was when we were together before your death. If I start letting traces of my old self escape, then I might as well sign her over to Misty right now.
Roxanne: And with hallucinations of dead people and black outs, it just seems that much better, though… It is a tough line to distinguish, but would you rather be the laughing stock of the locker room, or would you rather show that your prime has all but passed? Give it some thought… You have some NWA camera’s coming later tomorrow, or rather today. I would figure it out by then. Let me leave you to it.
Spike clinches his eyes tightly, and once he opens them, he is resting alone in the room, with his unbound hands clutching the top of the bondage cross. He looks around the room, and every single trace of Roxanne’s presence has been wiped clean. The only reminder is the stinging across his back, and the whip gently dangling from his wrist. He sniffs at the air for one last hope of her scent that would let him know he wasn’t going crazy, but he is not afforded the luxury. He simply sighs as the scene fades out.
Friday, May 25th, 2012; 8:37pmEST
Location Undisclosed…The camera fades into a large, abandoned warehouse somewhere in Nevada. The walls are covered in rust, and the windows are caked with so much dust, barely any natural lighting gets inside. A hissing noise can be heard, occasionally trailing off as the camera pans around the hollowed out building. The glow of a black light soon shines on to show off a series of graffiti done in infrared paint all over the bottom ten feet of the vast walls. As the camera pans forward, Spike Staggs is seen at the very end of the full circle turn. He has put the final touches on the last bit before dropping the can to the ground. He takes a few steps back, admiring the New X-Treme’s tag, before turning and walking to the dead center of the room where a single office chair is. As he approaches, the jingling of his chains echoes off of the walls. His leather jacket is soon shed, and a glowing white shirt offers a hint of a gun sticking out of his pants pocket. The tips of his hair, as well as a few markings on his face glow with black light paint, as he removes his sunglasses. He takes a seat in the office chair and gives himself a few quick spins before coming to a stop with a wide smile on his face.
Spike: Welcome all WCCW, NWA, and SCW fans, or whomever has stumbled upon this crazy little tape. I welcome you inside the real mind of the man, the myth, the… No, that’s not right. I welcome you for taking a look inside at the disturbed one’s mind, and I thank you for your time…
Spike’s grin slowly fades from his face as he taps his fingers together, sporting glowing nails. As his eyes slowly close, the paint surrounding his eyes gives off an eerie glow before they shoot back open. Spike offers a laugh before leaning back in his chair. He pulls the gun from out of his pants and he turns it over, looking at every last inch of it.
Spike: You see, ever since I was denied the opportunity to represent the NWA as their World Heavyweight Champion, I have had a lot of thinking to do. Simply taking what I want doesn’t always work out the way I had hoped it would. What else is one to do? Cry about it? Claim unfair treatment? Throw a tantrum like a child?
Spike looks over the gun one last time before clicking off the safety. He opens the revolving cylinder and checks it quickly. He spins it back and then he pulls back the hammer. As it clicks, Spike’s eyes widen.
Spike: No! Would the old Spike do any and all of those? Quite possibly. But that is not the man I am today. I fell off the horse, but this is me getting up, dusting myself off, and jumping right back on. I’m riding into the Von Erich Memorial: Parade of Champions event as the Lone Ranger, but first, I want to explain the gun. I’m sure you are all wondering, unless you are a bright one who has figured it out already… See, I have recently realized that the old Spike had some bad qualities, but he had a lot of damn good ones too. Playing with that balance is like… Russian Roulette. Huh, huh? Make sense now? Here’s a cookie for ya…
Spike’s grin returns, although a bit of a nervous twitch to accompany it, as he raises the gun to his right temple. His hand shakes a little, but his smile doesn’t fade one bit. His finger steadies on the trigger, and his eyes narrow just a bit. He pulls the trigger, only to hear a sharp click. A bit of relief comes over his face as he looks back at the gun carefully.
Spike: I used to be a real bastard… I was a man who would break your hand just to get the last chilled water bottle from the refreshment table. I would lay a chair against the back of your head if you looked at me funny. I would end your career simply because you stood in my way. I was driven, determined, ambitious, obsessed with self loyalty. Some good, and some not so good. I am proud to present myself to you today as the man I have become, rather than the boy I was five years ago.
Spike presses the barrel of the gun to his chin as he cocks his head to the side a bit. His face seems almost sullen now, as the foreboding image of splatter from the infrared paint seems aptly positioned above his head. He closes his eyes as he pulls the trigger once more. After the click, Spike’s eyes flutter open. He looks around for a second before returning his focus to the camera in front of him.
Spike: The man that I have become is one that likes to shake a worthy opponent’s hand before locking up with them in the ring, even if it means getting doused in barbeque sauce. That is a quality I don’t wish to lose, so you see where the real gamble is with integrating personalities. Because I would like to take this moment to wish Gaetan LaValle the best of luck in his journey, and I look forward to putting on a good show with the kid. No matter what Casey Williams has to say about you after he beat him…
Spike looks down as the gun sways back and forth between his hands. He puts it in his left hand, and then he raises it to his left temple Without giving himself too much time to think about it, he pulls the trigger, and the clicking brings relief to Spike, as well as all of the viewers. He brings the barrel down to his lap before allowing the gun to settle in gently.
Spike: You see, you had your first encounter with a member of the New X-Treme’s six months ago, Gaetan. The difference between Casey Williams and myself is this… I might be new to NWA, but I am definitely no rookie with ten years under my belt. Casey has some kinks in his skill set that need to be worked out, but me? I’m a finely oiled machine. I am a fearless leader, and that courage will lead me into this battle with a bit of an advantage, if I survive this little game here…
Spike presses the gun right between his eyes, as they cross to look up at the barrel. He is sweating visibly as he presses the gun hard to his forehead. His hand shakes slightly as he quickly blinks a couple of times. His finger slips from the trigger once, and he immediately replaces it and clicks the trigger. The lone clicking elicits a strange sort of chuckle from Spike as he taps the barrel against his chin curiously.
Spike: Where was I? Oh, of course… Gaetan, you have accomplished a lot here in the NWA, and I commend you for that. Are you truly ready to step it up to the next level? Or had you grown comfortable in the minor leagues? It is a much more violent lake, and I worry that you will get eaten alive. Me? I have been swimming it for a while now. Hell, I sort of feel like a shark right about now. Hmm hmm hmm…
Spike chuckles before he brings the barrel of the gun to his left eye. Without giving so much as a second’s hesitation, he pulls the trigger, letting loose another bit of laughter before switching over to the right eye. He pauses it there as he narrows his left eye, widening his right. He bites his bottom lip before pulling the trigger once again, allowing the empty clicking to pull another single laugh and a wide, almost sadistic grin over his face.
Spike: I feel almost invincible right now, like I could take on the entire world. Can you believe that? The man who went down in flames has risen from the ashes of his own defeat, to feel more confident than ever. Come Parade of Champions, two-thirds of NXT will arise victorious, I can just feel it in my bones. Having only recently lived in the City of Sin, the thrill of sheer luck has not grown dull. With these odds, I would put all chips on NXT. I have a feeling…
Spike puts the barrel in his mouth, almost seeming to savor the taste of the cold steel. His eyes remain steady on the camera. His finger taps on the trigger gently before finally pulling it, allowing the clicking to cue him to pull the barrel from his mouth quickly. He smiles confidently as the sweat has begun to cause the paint to melt from his face.
Spike: I have a feeling that NXT will go out with a…
*BANG*Spike pulls the trigger once last time, and the sound of a bullet ricocheting off of the old walls causes Spike to lower with a surprised look on his face. As he stands up, he motions for the camera to make a 180 degree spin to see the word “BANG” written in big bold letters. Spike drops the gun on the ground and then places his hand slowly over the lens of the camera. As he does, the scene fades… TO BLACK!
