[size=30]Kevin Maverick. What a surprise that I'm facing you this soon. [/size]

[size=30]I have known you for a while, not just for your time here in this company but also for your other runs in a few companies a few years ago. I got to say, you had some unsessfull run in those years and companies but you managed to turn around your career when you joined OWA.[/size]

[size=30]You're a champion now.[/size]

[size=30]All your sacrifices have been paid off now. All your hard works and determinations lead you to this moment. Everything that you have worked for makes you a star.[/size]

[size=30]The Cruiserweight Championship is just a beginning for you. You are destined to go for greater things. You are what you are and who you really are is the best.[/size]

[size=30]And now look at me. An Olympic Gold Medalist that won the medal with a broken freakin neck and I'm simply just a joke in this company. All the hypes I had simply fades away in an instant. I mean, people still loves ne. They still cheer me but that's about it. [/size]

[size=30]I don't know what's wrong with me losing a lot of matches. Maybe it's because I still need to learn how to make it in professional wrestling? Maybe because my history with the neck injury helds me back? I'm not sure. What I do know is, my transition from amateur to pro wrestling isn't well translated. [/size]

[size=30]For people to consider me as an American Hero is nice but I don't think I'd consider myself as a hero. I mean, an American should represent his country by making the country proud. I know this isn't Olympic but man, comparing myself to people like you, Aria Jaxon, Tarah Nova, or even Scott Oasis and CM Nas, I'm nothing more than just an insect. People like you are a real American Hero. You are someone which this country can count on. So many failures I've experienced and damn, I'm so ashamed of it.[/size]

[size=30]But then again, I do want to beat you. I have to. But I'm afraid I would just waste your time away. You can see me as a threat. You can see me as a joke, whichever you want. You are free to think. That is all.[/size]

[size=30]Oh it's true! It's damn true![/size]

The Dominick Oparta Story
Match Promo I
V Miltiades
Enter the Colosseum 

["The nightmare has only begun,"]

Enough to send shivers down the spine of anyone who hears it, this is the response given by Michael upon questioning about what Dominick's successful debut against Adelmar Sauer. Just as Michael had told us it would end during our last meeting within the asylum walls. This time, we are not in the asylum - or even within a 'confinement center', as they had officially called it. Rather, we find ourselves within the confines of what appears to be an abandoned factory. Decrepit and run down, due to the city condemning it for destruction six years ago. At least, before a 'mysterious' party bought the factory's tender out; made it into their own 'concrete jungle' style of facility - a party, which we now know was 'Zanity'. 

Or at the very least, a business connected to/under the umbrella of Zanity. The exact relationship being unknown at this time. As such, the factory is barren, save for some non-functioning pieces of machinery - including that of a conveyor belt. Atop of which, lays the body of Dominick, chained to it with a pair of rusted shackles attached to his arms [stretched out above his head] and ankles. The intention being to secure him there, so that they can commit to the 'operation' they wish to perform on him. Well, operation isn't REALLY the right word to use here. 

Rather, injection is the proper verbiage, seeing as they intend on injecting him with his dosage of 'medication', in order to return him to his docile state. To calm him down, after his recent 'outburst', where he left a security guard bloodied and needing immediate medical attention on their way to this very factory. To quell the lust, that had stemmed from his bout with Adelmar. 

Yet Dominick isn't even in the slightest bit perturbed by this at all. In fact, there's even a slight smile peering across his face. Almost as if he took delight in his own aggression. In watching the guard squirm at his mercy. Just as he had when he looked down at the broken. Battered. Defeated body of Sauer after their bout at Kingdom.

["I tried to warn Adelmar that fleeing. That begging; pleading for the match to be called off, was the ONLY thing that he could have done to prevent what was to come. To save himself from having to face his own failure. From having to accept the realisation that as much as he wished it wasn't true. 

As much as he wished that I was just trying to get inside of his head. Deceive him by creating doubt within himself - every word I told him was the truth. That he WAS breakable. That he WOULD be broken, should he proceed with the bout. And guess what happened?" - Michael Camile]

Pausing after he says this, he glances over at the supine Dominick, a slight 'I told you so' style of smile beginning to manifest itself upon his face as he does. And he's right. He HAD told us. He had told Adelmar, that this would be the PRECISE outcome if he followed through. If he went into the bout with Dominick, holding the belief. The hope of victory.within his hands. Helpless to resist, as it was all stripped away from him. No matter what he attempted.

["But that was just the beginning of this tale. An appetizer, so to speak. It was not enough to quench Dominick's thirst. It was not enough for him to unleash his pain. His suffering. His craving for decimation and to watch the life fade from each and every person's eyes. In fact, it didn't even begin to line his craving - which is why we find ourselves here." -Michael Camile]

Sighing, Michael feels a slight tint of regret float within his mind upon stating those words. He should have known that this was a risk. That Dominick would use that lust. The blood rush that he attained from the ring, and continue on his rage. His passage outside of the ring. He'd seen this very tune play out multiple times in the past. Casting another glance over at Dominick, he notices the demonic, chilling smirk upon his face. 

Jutting out from under the mask, as blood softly flows from the wound upon his chest. The 'memoir' that Adelmar managed to leave with his famous knife edge chop in the course of the bout. Yet just as before, this only causes the monster to smile and gently laugh as the blood runs down his skin and onto the top of his denim jeans.

["But what's done is done. isn't it? We'll deal with the security guard and his wishes later - even if he attempts to litigate for damages." - Michael Camile.]

He's done this before. You see, Zanity have a certain 'way' with litigation. No matter WHO it is that litigates, the cases never go to the court. In fact, they are literally expunged from the history books within the day of them even being mentioned. 

How? 

We do not know. But it is why we have NEVER heard any stories of them facing repercussions for their actions, despite multiple investigations. Despite even the ethics department of multiple states attempting to crack through them. To 'bring them to justice' as they say. It is yet to occur.

["Though I should probably discuss the next meal. The next victim that has been cast into the passage of Dominick. A man, who claims to hold a penchant for war. A lust, for gladiatorial style combat - a call back to the days of the Romans and the Colosseum. Even if that means staring right into the cold, dead eyes of a lion who is awaiting his call. Who is lurking, ready to bring about the final screams that pierce throughout the area. 

A lion, that no matter what he tries. No matter what he wishes to occur, he just cannot slay. He just cannot comprehend what makes this lion different to those he has confronted in the past. You see, this lion - is no ordinary lion. This is a lion that has been engineered. Devised with the SOLE intention to tear you apart. Piece by piece." - Michael Camile]

Those words lingering through the air, Michael pivots his feet around, commencing his walk over to the conveyor belt where Dominick is laying. A lone scientist standing over him, a needle [with an unknown serum within] clasped in their right hand, hovering about twelve inches from his neck.

["Keep calm, Dominick. This shouldn't take long." - Scientist]

Glancing over at Michael, the Scientist feels a sense of doubt flow through him. Even though Dominick is tightly restrained - he knows it may not be enough. After all, Oparta has broken free from his shackles before and unleashed relenting assaults on anybody within his line of sight. He had done so only a month ago - in a situation just like this one, where he was due to be 'medicated' and was placed within 'solitary confinement' for three days after. Whilst the medic who he battered is yet to return to his job, nor does he hold any interest in doing so. We don't blame them; neither do any of the other scientists.

["Make sure he's fully subdued before you release him, ok?" - Michael Camile]

The scientist simply nods his head in response, as Michael returns his focus to us. His statements pointed towards Miltiades.

["These are some of the finest scientists and medical personnel you will ever see on this planet. If THEY cannot quell Dominick, what makes YOU, a man who cosplays and likes to pretend he is some ancient Roman gladiator, believe that you can quell him? That you can quench the insatiable thirst Dominick has for your suffering? For your livelihood, your dreams, to be held right in his hands. Your eyes, your body helpless to resist. To prevent. As he crushes them with nothing more than his bare hands." - Michael Camile]

Another cursory glance at Dominick reveals that the behemoth is simply staring a hole through the scientist. A manner akin to daring him to fulfill the request. To inject him and let the serum be what 'subdues' him. Or, what at the very least offers a placebo effect of submission.

["Do it." - Dominick]

His voice mechanical and devoid of emotion, it is enough to cause the scientist to recoil back; Michael to simply raise his left eyebrow. He HAD heard Dominick speak before, but NEVER in this fashion. 

Never in a manner where he was willingly complying with the injection. To him, this is curious. This is new. Yet it is also an acceptance that no matter what, these walls. This climate, has become his routine. His life. His 'curse' whilst Zanity continue to fuel the machine.

["So, I am going to offer you the same advice that I did Adelmar. Beg, plead for OWA to give you vacation time in lieu of this match. Or accept that anything. Any loss of life and limb that might come forth at Dominick's hands, is rested SQUARELY on YOUR shoulders. Nobody else's. They are not liable for what is about to occur - I am not liable for what might be churning within Oparta's head when he looks into your eyes. When he senses the fear that you'll try to hide. All I can say, is good luck. The Colosseum awaits thee." - Michael Camile.]

It is at this time, that we hear the blood-curdling scream. Might like the one that signaled Dominick's 'awakening' at Kingdom. A scream, that signals that the injection has been completed. The time, for the recording to be closed. 

All that is left, is to see how Miltiades wishes to respond. Or IF he elects to talk. To engage, with the behemoth.

That answer, shall be coming soon enough.

Miltiades v Oparta
Kingdom
Be there.

Olympus Promo 2: A Lesson In Street Safety.


The camera opens in motion, panning down a sidewalk past meters, trash cans, newspaper vending machines, and a sheltered bus stop.  As it passes, the Derelict sits up on the bus stop bench.  The camera pans back toward him as he stretches his arms above his head, cracking his shoulders and back with a yawn.  With his eyes barely open, he spots the camera and blows out a huff of frustration.  Scratching his bald scalp, he swings his legs around and adjusts himself

"It seems like I've hit a raw nerve, Bruiser.  It's cute to see such a 'tough guy' willing to dump out his purse on the couch for everyone to rummage through.  'Oh poor me.  My father, my scars, my tough neighborhood!' You're weak.  Maybe not physically, but definitely mentally and emotionally.  You think I'm impressed by some Mick who fought his way out of the suburbs?  Nah.  You're just another broken human whose parents didn't hug him enough, so he blames it on everyone else.  Is that it?  By the by, just to straighten up the record before you try and cost me a job..."


Derelict reaches under the bench and pulls out a paper bag.  He takes a swig from it's concealed content, swishes it around in his mouth a little, before spitting it out into a nearby rain gutter.

"I'm not some tweaker who stumbled out of the gutter and into one of the most prestigious wrestling promotions in the world.  I fought my way across the nation and turned some agent's head.  After I..uh..turned it back for him, he offered me a card and skittered away like the fifteen percent cutting parasite that he is.  Another thing, I'm 6'8'' and in a whole hell of a lot better shape than you physically.  Sure, you've got a little height and reach on me, but three inches isn't going to change your chances...then again..."


Derelict smirks and waggles the paper bag clad bottle of hooch like a Groucho Marx stogie

"...you're probably all too aware of what little a difference three inches makes in the grand scheme of things.  You say I avoid showers? I just took one last week.  The perverts at OWA even followed me into the Y and filmed it.  I do probably reek of piss though...along with other things..and I have slept in truck stops, which also have showers.  Maybe if you ever stepped out of your  cul-de-sac existence you'd know a little about the world.  That's the problem with Bostonians: You tend to think you're the center of the world because some assholes in powdered wigs decided to colonize there 243 years ago.  Guess what? they weren't impressed with Boston either and decided to colonize elsewhere.  As for the claims of me being a 'boogeyman?' Heh heh heh...I suppose in a way I am, seeing as how people like you see what I do in order to just get by and decide to antagonize me and label my actions as amoral or inhumane.  Again, maybe if you left the gentrified sections of town you'd understand what it takes to cut it in the real world a little better, but hey, enough about me.  How's 'bout 'mistah tough guy ovah hea' eh? So you caved a dude's head in with a rock, you were stabbed a few times, got hit by a few cars, and you've even had to dig through the trash to get a few meals?"


The Derelict stands up slowly for dramatic effect and and starts to slowly golf clap his calloused hands together, before leaning into the camera with an indignant sneer.

"Oh good for you! Aren't you just the special little boy in class? showin' off your boo-boo's and using homoerotic slurs like a grown up dumbass.  Such a toughy! Such a playground Pol Pot! You don't think I've eaten out of a trash can? or been stabbed? You don't think I've had a gun pulled on me a few times? You don't think I have scars!?! HAH! Granted, I was smart enough to dodge cars and subdue or flea men with guns.  After all, I'm not some stupid suburbanite mutt who doesn't know when to move when a car's coming at him.  God you must be dumb, or blind, or some other Hellen Keller ailment if you can't distinguish when a cars baring down on you.  I've walked the streets drunk out of my mind and visited every major metropolitan area in the U.S. of A, and even with beer goggles on I know when I see two blurry run lights that it's time to book it elsewhere."


The Derelict drains the bottle, tapping the bottom for any last liquid morsel of alcoholic bliss, before placing it gently on the bench and standing up with a loud belch.

"You know something though? You're not dumb because you think calling someone gay in the year 2019 is an insult.  You're not dumb because you grew up in Boston, although it does help.  You're not a completely scarred up and hulking ignoramus because you've been abused...stabbed...shot, or hit with a car or two.  No, you're dumb because you think these things made you stronger.  Now I've lived tall tales that no man's ever wanted to hear, and I've experienced pain that most couldn't even muster to dream up, but I've never went out of my way to tell a guy whose about to fight me, much less threatened to carve a rival sports team's logo into my skull, my medical history in extensive detail complete with a loose timeline of when each wound happened.  That, my dear Bruiser, is the single dumbest thing you could have ever done.  Considering your rap sheet of stupidity that I've compiled within the short period of me even knowing you existed on this planet, I'd say that's an accomplishment.  So again..."


Derelict once again gives a one man standing ovation, complete with whistles, fist pumping, and thumbs ups.

"You did it! You've outwitted yourself.  Bravo.  Just make sure to whip off that fat shirt of yours before the fight so I know which scars I'm punching.  Hell, I might even palm your abdomen like a bowling ball, using the bullet scars for finger holes.  When it's all over I'll be done with you, and I'll move on to the next town where a brand new rube tries to act like he has more street experience than a homeless man whose walked Route 66 a handful of times.  Considering my line of work, I probably will again.  See? there's another thing I have on ya.  I'm lithe, wiry, and have a lot of stamina.  I'm sure that belly full of Pabst soaked cheese curds isn't covering up a Ferrari engine.  I can see the dirt sheet headlines after the fight now: "Crass Ass From Mass Passes Out While Crying About the Past".  Huh, not as catchy when I say it aloud. But yeah, meeting you has just been...well, it's just been awful.  I can't wait to end you so that you can go back to being just another needle dick from Mass whose name I'll never have to remember again .  What's funny is that I originally thought you might've stood a chance against me, even if you were just another blowhard masshole who does more drinking than fighting.  I thought you might've been different...just maybe...but thanks for proving me right before we even step into the ring.  Between your loud mouth, your poor health, and your pudgy physique, I know that I can safely underestimate you and not worry about going into this fight with a modicum of sympathy over what I'm going to do to you."


Derelict looks up the road wistfully as the desert wind beats his already sun dried and weathered face.

"The boogeyman...heh...no, no.  I can't say I fancy myself as some incorporeal being who preys on the weak minded in the dead of night...


The Derelict hangs his head for a moment, nodding to himself in thought, before cutting his eyes back up at the camera.

...but I'll definitely be someone that makes you feel like you're living in a nightmare that wont end, you broken down, latchkey, windbag."


Derelict sternly nods and begins walking down the sidewalk as the sun begins to peer over the darkened lights of the dead Las Vegas strip.  He makes his way toward a crosswalk, studies it's button thoughtfully for a moment, before reaching out nonchalantly and pushing it.  He peers up to see the tiny green man flashing across the street.  He looks into the camera and gives a slight shrug, before crossing over toward an abandoned looking convenient store.

"Well wasn't that easy?"

The Dominick Oparta Story
Character Development Piece
Chapter I: Into the Asylum's Core
Act I, Part I-C

Welcome to Youngstown, Ohio.

We are greeted by this sign, as we drive down this deserted, almost country like in the vibe that it is presently giving to us, road. On what is otherwise a normal night for us - well, as 'normal' as we can consider nights over the past few weeks. Due solely to the fact that for the majority of them, we have been 'undercover', so to speak. Attempting to avoid the wrath of those within the 'Zanity' asylum's walls. Those, who hold that banner as their own as we have, well, shall we just call it an 'investigation'? Yeah, I think that's probably the best word to use for it, seeing as it encapsulates what we're doing to a 'T'. 

Right down to the whole 'covert' or 'cloak and dagger' manner of our investigation - much like it was when we found ourselves encountering Dominick, or the one simply known as 'the subject' within his own cell's walls; witnessed for ourselves the circumstances that he finds himself calling 'home'. The reality, that he has been indoctrinated into believing he cannot change. Yet at the same time, we cannot help but wonder whether he has played more of a role in that occurrence than even we wish to believe? 

Whether it is TRULY 'Zanity' that we should be investigating and probing within, or if we should merely be focused. Zeroed in on Dominick himself. What if he really IS the monster they foretell him to be? What if they are correct in the multitude of claims they have made, and yes, we DO know about those journals they wrote. 

The ones they sent to various media outlets; the government themselves two years when the lab was initially called into question by Kentucky governance. More specifically, their 'ethics' department. How couldn't we? The news was plastered everywhere we would look. Right in front of our, along with the rest of the world - well, those who were for all intents and purposes, invested in the inner sanctum of 'asylum welfare'. 

Which, from the research we have done on this subject - the 'due diligence' we took, if you wish to call it that, prior to this investigation indicated there were more people than we had assumed. Though that really shouldn't be all that surprising, we muse to ourselves whilst continuing this lonely drive down the road, casting a slight glance over at the buildings and mortar that make up the composition of this town - one, that is usually a hive for entertainment and nestled relatively comfortably between Cleveland and Pittsburgh, as well as serving as the 'midway' point between New York and Chicago [should one be travelling on the I-80]. Yet, obviously right now, partially due to it being eleven twenty at night; partially due to the fact that we are driving along one of the more naturally quiet, secluded parts of the city, everything is hushed. 

Not a peep of sound can be heard, sans the radio we have softly playing and the sounds of the owls and cicadas that surround us. Hearing the strains of Sweet home Alabama' play, we allow ourselves a soft breath, as I decide now is the time to reveal the TRUE reason we are here, and not in Pikeville as we had been for the two times we had recorded prior. The rationale we had, in making this journey when conventional wisdom. The norm would state that the best route to take is to attempt to 'weasel' our way into the facilities of Zanity ourselves. Just as we had done when we got our words prior to Dominick's OWA debut. The feed, that was sent in order to cast his message. His foretelling to those within the promotion. 

Though, this time - the venture ISN'T entirely about Dominick. 

No. 

It is rather, about a bit of intel we had received. A 'message in a bottle' type of letter, that had been mailed to us by a person who claims to know the truth behind the 'incident' that occurred all those years ago. The one that Zanity wishes to keep submerged - or at least, a portion of it anyway. Enough, to make it so that we would be remiss NOT to give them at least an avenue in which to speak to us. To convey, their story. Their 'truth', as people would call it. For even if it ultimately ends up becoming nothing more than a 'dead end', we at least will have the clarity that we sought. 

The knowledge that we at least ventured; explored the information gathered and managed to expand our research upon this topic. That we at least did our diligence. After all, what sort of research would it be if we DIDN'T elect to dig beyond the surface? If we just sat back, and waited for them to spoon feed us information that could be held against them? As oblivious as they may be to our presence upon their grounds. Within their halls, we know they're not naive. They're not ignorant enough to just leave information laying about. Right there, for prying eyes [like ours] to witness. 

Looking out at the dimly lit road and vast open parkland in front of us, I utter "This is where they said to meet," as a small silhouette of a dilapidated, rusted and worn farmhouse comes into view. Surrounded by nothing but farmland - an abandoned lot. A lot, that from an outside appearance, has been left in its current state of disrepair for at least fifteen years. 

Enough to cause us to feel goosebumps running up and down our body as we pull to a halt in the gravel track, about four feet in front of a barbed wire fence that surrounds the farmhouse. Offering it a slight, if ineffective due to the wire being frayed and cut in half, sense of 'security' to its occupant. Or rather, former occupant. 

As what we DO know, merely from remembering back to what the person stated in their letter - this farmhouse, is indeed, abandoned. Well, 'vacated' was the verbiage they used, but it is essentially the same thing. Opening the door to my car slowly, I feel a pulsating feeling begin to rise within me. One, questioning myself on whether it was correct to come out here, alone. 

"What if it's a trap?" being the thought that is most prominent at this time. "What if they knew all along?" is the other thought that presses within my mind. One, that causes me to slightly 'freeze'; almost pull the door back shut and drive off, even if I knew deep down - it is now too late to do so. 

I've already come this far. Made the journey, that to turn back now, would be too late. Even if it would ensure that I got out of this alive. If even at all. Pushing myself up off my leather cushioned seat, I step out onto the gravel. The sound of the sole of my Adidas sneakers causing me to slightly grimace, though another, cautionary glance around confirmed that nobody had heard my arrival. 

Phew. 

At least I know that if they had heard me, they would have likely come out and either captured me, or at the very least - questioned why I was here. Or who I was. Yet I cannot shake the doubt burning inside of me. I cannot help but ruminate about whether or not even pursuing this asylum. Attempting to unlock the secrets. The skeletons that lurk within their halls. Their 'closets'. At the same time, this is what I know must be done. If not for my sake, then for the sake of those who have found themselves within the system. 

Those, trapped within the rabbit hole devised by people who claim to hold their 'best interests' at heart. Those, who claim to be the ONLY people there for them. Just as Michael stated when talking about Dominick - and the rhetoric that is most common from the scientists when speaking about 'subjects'. No matter WHO the subject in question is. Feeling the grass beneath my feet as I slither myself through the small gap within the barbed wire, making sure to be cautious as not to find myself getting trapped within it, I expel a gentle breath from my mouth as an intrigued yet somewhat scared expression crosses my face. 

The gentle breeze floating within the night sky feeling like water as I glance around, re-affirming to myself that the noises I am hearing are just that of the same owls and cicadas that had accompanied me during the drive; not that of something more sinister. Feeling the panic within me continue to rise, I slowly continue stepping forward, my eyes fixated squarely on the farmhouse. My breathing rising and falling at a rapid rate as I do so, with a soft wince floating into the air as I feel a knot form in my stomach. 

Yet I'm adamant that I have to persevere. Convinced that if they had known I was here, or didn't want me to be here - then they would have captured; dealt with me the moment they saw me open the door to my car and stepped out. Perhaps when I initially pulled up. 

The fact that didn't occur, indicates that they DO want me to be here. That whoever made the call, desires for their story to be heard. Approaching the tin 'front door' of the shack [if you can consider a rusted tin portion carved into the shack's front a 'door], I raise my right hand slightly, feeling it quiver as I form a knuckle; lightly tap upon the door. 

"Who is it?" I hear a gruff voice question from within. Causing a slight knot to form within my throat. Matching the one that had manifested in the pit of my stomach. 

"It's the person you sent the letter to about Zanity," I reply as calmly as I possibly can. Usually I would respond with my name, but in this case - especially due to my already lingering trepidation about being even in this scenario, I figure this is the best response I can give. One, that shouldn't arouse any suspicion. 

"Okay. Come in," is the rejoinder given as I slightly use my hand to push the door open; see that the interior is almost cottage like in its appearance. It feels like somewhere I would live. Well, without the cobwebs which line the walls and the smell of decay that riddles the room, of course. A stench, that causes my nose to virtually recoil into my face and a wince to once more cross my face  

Peering around, I notice a grizzled male figure, wearing a faded charcoal t-shirt, midnight black jeans and equally midnight black polished boots seated atop a decrepit, worn sandstone two seat couch. A weary look upon his face as he notices me. 

"They didn't see it, did they?" he queries, causing me to ponder who he meant for about a second, before realising he meant 'they' as in Zanity. 

"No. They have no idea about this ..." I affirm, causing a slight smile to cross his face, as he raises his right hand up to his jawline. 

Gently stroking it as he sternly comments "Good. Make sure it remains that way,". 

Causing me to be slightly taken back, but merely nod and utter "Uh-huh," in response. Knowing that if this is to be told, then secrecy is a must - at least until the time comes for the report to be compiled. Whenever that may be. Feeling another sigh escape from my lips, I look directly into his eyes, awaiting him to state the first word. To tell the story he has kept hidden since the day of the incident ... and knowing that this is where the recording must stop. 

[End Scene]

Olympus Promo 1: Mushy Peas

The camera opens on a dark diner.  It scans through the remains of the diner's kicked in door, it's closed sign covered in shattered glass and it's push bar bent inward.  Following through on the two tone tile grid floor, tracking a muddy pair of footprints, the camera pans up just in time to see the kitchen door swing closed.  Like a lurching archaic cryptid, the figure of the Derelict striding past the order window appears on the camera's periphery, but when the camera tries to catch a glimpse he's already gone.  Light fills the kitchen momentarily, before it's abruptly extinguished by the familiar thud of a refrigerator door closing.  For a moment there's only darkness and silence, before the Derelict shamelessly walks back into the order window with a bag of frozen peas clasped to his groin.  The dirty and battered hobo giant smiles into the camera wistfully.

"Last week I got what I wanted out of Jake Keeton.  He stood before me a paragon of professionalism, the epitome of what it means to be a wrestler.  I looked him up and down and I found the first appendage to strike pain upon, and that blow landed true with god fearing might.  It wasn't long until he abandoned amateur hour and realized that I wasn't there to grapple: I was there to fight.  Despite me telling him that over and over again, he failed to take me seriously until it was too late to hold onto any honor in that ring and survive.  I killed his ego.  I killed the hollow notion of what he thought made him the man in OWA.  I killed any preconceived impression that I'm a fake tough guy with a big mouth.  I proved that I was everything that I said I was, and more importantly I proved that Jake will become a scared animal with no inhibitions when boxed into a corner that isn't to his liking."

Derelict leans through the window, propping himself up on one elbow while still clenching the peas tight to his manhood with the other.

"You're different though, Brawler.  You're trying to put that tough guy vibe out there that every red necked Masshole has tried to make a cool stereotype since Marky Mark rapped.  You're trying to live in a Dropkick Murphy song, and not even one of the good ones.  It's one of the crappy modern ones that are all about being a prick in Boston.  It's sad when your ska phase was your best era, but I digress.  I'm not going to lie, when there are a lot of you making a racket you do tend to get the job done in a beat down.  But wait, there's only...one of you.  Well, let's just hope you're not another loud mouth with a glass jaw.  Quite frankly, I'd love a good fight without the pretense of someone trying to wrestle me."

Derelict winces and shifts the bag of peas slightly on his groin.


"At least you don't have to worry about being kicked in the boys...Irish Curse and all...I look forward to this fight.  It's  a win-win for me.  If you turn out to be the real deal, we can practice punching one another until one of us falls down.  If you're just another drunken Mick with a tiny prick, then I'll enjoy shutting you up quickly.  I've had plenty of wannabee hooligans from your neck of the woods give me terrible nights in the gutter after sporting events, but never one on one.  I can't wait to bust your mouth on the behalf of the other shamed 49 states surrounding the hell hole you call home...and that's coming from me!  I've slept in porta johns that were classier than Boston.  The more I think about your pathetic hometown, the more I'm psyched to beat the ever loving crap out of you.  I wouldn't harp on it so much, but again, like every other ginger pubed baby dick from Boston, it's your only distinguishing character trait.  All you're kind is known for is drinking yourself so blind you  turn to Catholicism and fighting like thugs who don't know how to throw a punch without breaking their thumb.  That's why you idiots headbutt.  You're too afraid of losing your lousy blue collar job over a love tap gone wrong.  You're more than fine with destroying a few more brain cells though."

Derelict squeezes the bag of frozen peas until his clawed fingers dent the bag.

"Considering how worked up you've gotten me by simply existing as the freckled embodiment of every single ignorant piss ant from Massachusetts, I hope for your sake that you are the tough guy you make yourself out to be.  As disgusting as it feels to think I could be similar to the poster boy for fetal alcohol syndrome, I get the vibe that, like me, you don't care if you walk away winning or losing as long as you get a good fight that ends with the other guy on his back looking less pretty than you. Let's not mince words like we know each other, even though I've known every single example of a loud mouthed lush that lives in an Ivy league setting but could never get accepted to his own state's colleges.  We both want to fight until the other barely breathes.  The difference is that you are a prize fighter, albeit I'm sure it wouldn't take much to push you too far.  I've got nothing at stake here.  I don't want OWA's gold, I just want to see what's inside of every man whose ever looked down on me and thought they were better. I want to sift through the blood, the heart, and the guts and see if there really is something that makes them different in some way.  If I find it, then my goal is to mutilate it into something abominable and perverse.  Then...if I can...I'll destroy it out of mercy.  If there isn't something there, then we've both got blood on our hands for no reason.  That's not the case with you though, 'Boston'.  We're both trash, but you're harbor trash.  You've got that garbage water musk about you.  I can tell without even coming into contact with you.  You've sweat it every day of your life until all pigment's leaked out of your body.  It a permanent sheen that I'm sure you wear proudly as a 'friggin' hard workin' man'.  So what do I have to prove against garbage water? nothing.  What do you have to gain? getting one step closer to the gold and money you crave.  This is troubling, because I can't seem to find any motivation going into this fight.  That's the one advantage you have.  We're built about the same, we both fight without putting up the ruse of being sportsmen, and we'll both do anything to pummel the other into the canvas."


Derelict slaps the nearly thawed bag of peas on the counter and presses his fists into his temples in frustration.  After a moment of gently wrapping his own skull with his knuckles repeatedly, he shrugs.

"Screw it, am I right? I'd just be taking another idiot off of this giant blue marble floating in space.  We'll call it my humanitarian act of the decade.  I suppose I'm due with some contribution to society, other than getting into wrestling instead of randomly attacking people on the streets.  I'll do it for every bum like myself that's ever had to deal with a few intoxicated Red Sox fans who choose to blow off steam by beating down the hungry and downtrodden when their team loses.  I guess you have to beat on someone after the wife takes the eleven hundred bastard kids and leaves you.  That's your people, Brawler.  That's the townie spirit you choose to embody and represent.  You drink crappy beer from Wisconsin and claim it as the best thing in the world because your only measuring stick in your small town experience is akin to watered down rubbing alcohol.  You hit your women because you were too much of a pansy to hit your own old man when he was beating your mother.  You have broods instead of families because you've got to compensate for that ol' whisky dick.  The only drawback is taking you out is like cutting an earthworm in half.  Two new ones will just fall out of some other paddy getting reamed on a dock bordering Mystic River.  You people are a plague, more so than the rest of humanity.  You contribute nothing to society but liver disease, which is ironic since you spawn like you know you're going to need a matching kidney donor."

Derelict slams his fist down on the bag of peas, bursting the bag and sending frozen legumes flying into the dark of the diner in all directions.

"I've found my goal in this fight of ours."


Derelict briefly ducks behind the counter, only to rise up once more with his bindle pressed over his head dramatically, like a b-movie primitive preparing to throw a virgin into a volcano, Derelict slams the hobo stick sack onto the counter, letting the contents of it's handkerchief clank against the wood with a thud.  He greedily digs into the makeshift sack and pulls out his rusty railroad spike.  Without looking up, he begins carving into the frame of the order window.

"We've established that killing you wont do anything other than magically will more Bostonians into existence.  I've also come to the conclusion that I have nothing to learn from ripping your chest cavity open and sorting through your pickled organs.  Conclusion? losing isn't an option because even though I'm a vagabond who hasn't bathed in a week, I still stink less than you do. Also, you pinning me stands to grant you opportunities in this company that I've chosen to affiliate myself with on a professional level.  Even if I'm not interested in holding the gold, being under your ugly mug on a marquee with a belt around your waist would fill me with all kinds of guilt over what I should've done to prevent it from happening. I'm not a man synonymous with the words 'pride' or 'work', but even I have my limits for degradation. If I'm going out with a bang in this match, then it's going to be by doing something that even your brown out alky brain will remember forever.  So how does one shame a statesman that represents a place lacking in the self-awareness necessary to feel shame?  That's simple: you make yourself synonymous with the one entity that's ever gotten their blood alcohol level to rise by carving it into their thick skull so that they can see it every time they catch a glimpse of their reflection in the bottom of a bottle..."

Derelict finishes his handiwork, just in time for red and blue lights to illuminate the diner.  Derelict darts his eyes around in a cagey manner before slowly lowering himself back behind the counter.  As he does so, the camera zooms in on his railroad spike etching of the overlapping initials of New York.  Derelict cackles somewhere in the darkness as the police sirens shut off outside.


"Heh, heh, heh...I'll see you in San Diego, Bruiser."


The camera rushes the order window, only to pan down and find an empty tattered bag of peas where the derelict once stood.  Audibly confounded behind the camera lens, the AV operator looks up at the sound of footfalls on glass just as a police officer in the dilapidated doorway of the diner draws their sidearm.

"FREEZE!"

Camera Man: Oh sh-

The officer rushes in as the camera cuts off abruptly.

Theo King Jr.  You are a man child.  You are delusional illusion is frustratingly cute.  I mean you are so desperate for your old man's approval you actually believe yourself to be better even knowing deep down you are nothing but a privileged piece of arrogant asshole.  

You and your posse may hoot all you want but you know when you stand toe to toe with the Demon Wolf,  you will face your deliverance.  When you face The Real Alpha,  all you would do is fall at the altar of Udy.  

You think I am trying to play you by mentioning your old man.  But trust me MAN,  I mention him because when he met me once way back,  he once said I remind him of his old days more than you ever will.  Best you are a disgrace Theo.  

So let me make it clear.  Come this Kingdom,  his will.  And you will kiss your fate's lip by the way of knee.... I will out you down for good..

May you bring your best kiddo...

The Dominick Oparta Story
Match Promo I
V Adelmar Sauer
Ominous  Verbiage  

We open to the grotesque sight of a cell. Well, calling it a 'cell' would be putting it generously. It's almost like a cage that would be more suited to chickens than humans. About twelve feet by nine feet in diameter and with stains of a crimson substance that we are assuming is blood strewn upon the walls, as well as a small four by three feet window about five feet up the back of the concrete walls. Aside from that, there is a decrepit and rusted king sized bed leaned up against the right hand side wall; seated atop of it, is a man. Wearing a crimson and black mask atop his face, a white wife beater and blue jeans, which surprisingly, considering the surroundings, appear to have been freshly ironed. Yet there almost appears to be a smile upon his face - as if he is content within these confines. As if he WANTS to be here, isolated and kept away from the world. Because of fear. Because THEY have condemned him. 

Yes, we managed to get ourselves into Dominick's cell, and yes, the person seated atop the bed is indeed, Dominick Oparta. How did we get in? How have we evaded security and the scientists? Well, it took us conjuring up a lab coat and getting a 'connection' [who shall remain unnamed for both their and our safety] to manifest an ID from the asylum, but we did it. Especially now, knowing that THIS is the man OWA had spoken about in their article. 

Their posting, about the upcoming Kingdom event, where Dominick shall be making his debut against Adelmar Sauer. A match, that has been billed as the 'meeting of two giants'. The meeting, of two men who orient themselves around power. Around doing whatever it takes to not only hurt their opponent via any means that might be deemed to be necessary in the circumstances. The climate that they find themselves within, but also beyond that. 

After all, the best word and the one that has most commonly been used to describe Dominick by those who have been around him the most, is "Monster". Whilst Adelmar claims to be the 'Grim Knight' and 'Unbreakable', which of course, Michael Canile [or, the one who talked to us prior to enabling our access to this cell] scoffed at, and gave us these cautionary words for him.

["He might SEE himself as being Unbreakable. As being this 'Grim Knight' as he claims, but he knows not of what awaits him. He knows not, of what Dominick will do, right from when he steps between those ropes. From the moment, he allows his thirst. His lust for pain. His lust for Adelmar to look him straight into the eyes and see what lays beyond his mask Let me tell you: I cannot control what happens in the ring. I, and Amile are only there to ensure that it doesn't get TOO out of hand. Yet even WE cannot tell Dominick NOT to hurt you. Not to leave you laying in a pool of your own blood. Wondering whether or not this 'he' you claim of, really holds your best interests at heart."] 

Words that spell out an ominous message. One, of fear. One, of foretelling what is to become, should Adelmar attempt to play Dominick's game. Should he willingly choose, to engage in Dominick's stratagem. Just like the smile that has brought itself upon the otherwise stoic, chilling face of Dominick himself, as he sits here. Statue like and devoid of any human emotion. Just as Michael told us he would be - and enough to want us to escape here in one piece, should he see us as a desirable victim. Though, luckily, Michael HAD told us that he is actually docile when not in a 'violent' circumstance; is unlikely to actually crave us as a victim. Or a 'snack' as Canile so put it. 

The same however, appears to be unable to be said about Sauer - who is on the menu. The first course, set up for Dominick to unleash his agony. His pain. His suffering within these walls upon. Softly laughing, Dominick glances at us, curious as to why we would be here, but also knowing that now isn't the time. Nor the place, for him to fulfill his destructive wrath.

["I heard what Adelmar said about wanting Dominick to prove himself worthy, and it's funny. Why would Dominick feel the need to prove himself. To have somebody like YOU, deem him as worthy? Why would he desire the adulation of people. The validation of others, when it is them that have spurned him? When it is them, that have led him down this road? That have forsaken him? Think about it ... Ponder whether somebody who has no empathy. No emotion. Would want people to respect him? You can hold their hopes in your hands. On your shoulders all you want. Just don't expect them, or 'him' to save you when you look into the eyes of your own demise. When Dominick, reveals to you that despite your claim. 

Despite what they had instilled into you in the UK - you ARE very much breakable. Whether that be psychologically, or physically. And Dominick will be more than happy to be the one to break you. To tear you limb from limb. Relishing in every whimper. Every scream that expels itself from your mouth. I should know - I've seen him when he has torn people. When they has ripped caucuses apart with nothing more than his own, bare hands. 

What makes YOU any different to them, Adelmar? How can you hold even a singular belief that you'll be shown any mercy? If Dominick won't show ME, the man who has been there for him. The ONLY person who has guided him, mercy, what does that mean for you? Sunday will be your FINAL day, unless you realise that running. Begging for this match to be called off; you to be given vacation time in lieu of this bout, is the only way your safety can be ensured. Otherwise, this shall all be on you. And you ALONE." - Michael Canile]

Those words paint a picture. One that we feel blessed not to have to be a part of. One that spells bloodshed and a foreboding message, directed straight into the heart. The soul. The mind of Sauer. Causing him to question whether or not this is what he TRULY craves. Whether or not, this is the passage he wishes to take - for we know that Dominick will be all too happy to leave him battered. Unrecognizable by even his closest family members. From what Michael stated, he's done it before. He won't hesitate to do it again, this week.

The question appears to be now, will Adelmar be able to do anything about it, or will it be too late?

["It's already too late. The seeds have been planted - the grave has been sealed. All that awaits, is the bell to toll for the last time." - Michael Canile]

We'll see whether this truth, is the one that is told on Sunday.

Sauer v Oparta.
Kingdon
Be there.

 
 
You see me, Jeff? You see what’s happened? You got exactly what you wanted. You wanted to see me broken because you took what’s rightfully mine. I convinced myself that my entire purpose was to get away with the title that sits on your shoulder. What the fuck have I got to show for my efforts? Oh, we stole the show? When have I ever given a fuck about that? No, no, that’s not what concerns me. What concerns me is that I let myself down. I failed. You’re right, I wasn’t pinned. Fuck, I dived back in that ring like a man possessed in an attempt to pull you off of Layne. But I was too late, wasn’t I? As that bell rang and I collapsed onto the canvas, I knew that I’d fucked up. That I’d let the one fucking thing happen that I didn’t want to happen: Jeff X won the Spartan Championship before I did.
 
Yeah, I was pretty fucking bitter. That belt feels like Moby Dick at this point. A white whale that I’m constantly chasing but never catching. Just when I think it’s within my grasp, it slips through my fingers. So now here you are, sitting in your little bar, reaping the rewards of being the man. I don’t give a fuck what my sister did. I don’t give a fuck what Aria Jaxon did. That title you’ve got is all that matters to me. It’s all that’s ever mattered. To hold it means that you’re the toughest cunt on the roster, and now I have to sit back and live in a reality where that’s you. You were vindicated on that night. Those fans that I called sheep saw their hero succeed on the big stage. You held it high up in the air and soaked in the moment, while the canvas soaked up the blood that flowed from my forehead.
 
As I made my way backstage, I thought that I was done. I felt something new…doubt. I’ve never doubted myself. I’ve always known that I’m able to do what I want, when I want. And as I thought about everything I’d said and done to you, it meant fuck all. You still got the happy ending, you still walked off into the sunset. And Nate Cage? He skulked off into the shadows, no belt, no victory, nothing. Then Donny and James failed to capture the tag team titles, and that was the last straw. You all saw how mad I was that night. And I was on the brink of kicking everyone to the curb and going away. Staying away. Saying “fuck it” to all of this shit. Just me and my wife, living out in the middle of nowhere, where we don’t have to be around people.
 
This attitude very quickly subsided though. The rage, the bitterness, it took on a new form. I know that to look at me, you’d think I’m at the end of my tether. The truth is that I’ve done nothing these last three weeks other than imagine all the ways in which I can pick you apart, Jeff. I had an epiphany, you see. No matter how much I plan, no matter how much I meticulously construct scenarios in my head, it can still go awry. Layne warned me of that. Though he lost, so I don’t know how well his gameplan went. I’m not coming to you as Nate Cage the manipulator, I’m coming to you as Nate Cage the human being. You’re right, I am smart. I do have an acute awareness of the world around me. You though, you’re something that no level of intelligence can prepare for. You’re so utterly one-dimensional in your motivations that you’re not smart enough to be outsmarted.
 
I’m pissing against the wind plotting against a man who thinks the solution to everything is hitting it. That’s why I wanted a hardcore match. You misunderstand my motivations, Jeff, like you misunderstand most things. I don’t think it gives me some sort of unique advantage, this one’s personal. Right now, I don’t want to beat you for a title shot, I don’t want to embarrass you right as your run as champion is getting started. I want to hurt you. Yes, it is that fucking simple. Wins, titles, prestige, that all comes later. At this very moment in time, my only desire in this life, the only thing that will make me happy…is feeling the fear in your soul as every synapse in your brain fires off to tell you you’re in grave danger.
 
I am willing to do anything now. You’ve made the mistake of granting me freedom, Jeff. The biggest mistake you will ever make. I want to be able to stand in the ring, knowing that I can use anything and everything at my disposal to inflict pain on your person. Donny and James are coming along for the ride because they’ve earned some fun. The hell they went through in that ludicrous Dollhouse structure made me realise just how willing they are to lay it all on the line. They are not brainwashed, they are my friends. You said it yourself, friendship isn’t a concept you’re all too familiar with.
 
I’m well aware that I’ve made my fair share of enemies, and I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out who’s stupid enough to accompany you in our match. Not that it will make a difference. They’re teaming up with you because of…what? They don’t like me? They want a main event spot on the card? Simple, shallow, vacuous motivations. Ground Zero are motivated by a primal drive right now. The urge to feast. You and your drinking buddies are fighting because you have to. Us three are doing it because we want to. The thrill of seeing you be punished for taking away something that was owed to me will remind me why I do this in the first place. You do no deserve to be here. You never have. I am owed. I am entitled to my penance. And if I have to break every bone in your body to prove that, so be it. I will beat you down. I will take your pride, your will, you confidence, your title, everything. I’m now on a mission, a mission to break down your life piece-by-piece. You’ve gone from being A target to THE target. And I’m not the only one gunning for you, Jeff. There is now a whole division that’s going to take their shot. So many men chipping away at your armour. You’re gonna burn, Jeff, and I’m gonna be leading the charge. Every time you’re at the centre of somebody’s wrath, I will enjoy the view and stoke the flames. I have no intention of letting anyone but myself deliver the killing blow, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be letting people have their fun.
 
You’re a marked man, Mr. X. Having me on your back was bad enough, and now it’s got a whole lot worse. I wish you the best of luck in your quest to alienate everyone around you when friends are the one thing you could do with right about now. I’ll be seeing you real soon, I hope you’re ready for a world of hurt. Getting there was the fun part, you’re now taking up residence in a property that is surrounded by invaders. This is only step one in your downfall. The legend of Jeff X will be one of blood and suffering. The legend of Nate Cage will be one of will and triumph.
 

Miltades, its unfortunate that I will be the first to welcome you to Kingdom. Would you like a tour? Someone to guide you? Answer your question and point you in the right direction? Perhaps get you a drink and perhaps show you some ounce of respect that is expected from fellow wrestlers? But I'm afraid you're barking up the wrong tree here.


I'm not going to make some declaration that I'm one of the big dogs in the locker room here. After all, it's not my job to settle problems between others. I don't go out of my way to be a leader for the sake of maintaining order. No, I don't care for the squabble of Ground Zero being fights with everyone, nor do I feel responsible for welcoming those that are coming here from Olympus to here. If I have to offer all but one rule, it's simply do not get in my way, and you are free to co-exist here. I've had the luxury of being one of the few individuals here that people know better than to pick a fight with. Rather I am the one that goes around doing that. And the fortunate news for you, Miltades is that I do not have a single care of who you are and what you hope to accomplish here. But you best not be the first to pick a fight with me and be made of an example, if you catch my drift.


You are still young. You still have time to improve and get better. You have a lot left to offer, and it would be quite a shame if that was cut short, and your time on Kingdom was much shorter than that TV title reign you had. I'm sure there is enough room here on Kingdom that we can both do what we want to do, but should that situation arise where you and I want the same thing, I won't hesitate to end your career. If you ask me, you have been quite lucky and fortunate for your time on Olympus. I'm sure you will look back and think to yourself that it could had gone better and it couldn't be any worse. But I can assure you, it could had always been worse. It always could had me, Moongoose McQueen all over you, hell bent on making your life miserable. This isn't a fresh start like the draft has claimed to be. This, Miltades, is more like a draft for a war, and you, boy, are simply caught in the middle of it all. I'd offer the suggestion that you quickly go ahead and pick a side, and no, I decline whatever it is you have to offer, because I would want no association with you in any form of capacity. Some might think, Miltades vs Moongoose McQueen, this is a dream match. But no, this is a nightmare. Another man that I must waste my talent on, where there is bigger battles, no wars to be won, and I have to forsake resources on the likes of you. But this, the price we pay for having to share around here. We don't have much of a choice.


You must accept your fate here, and I must accept that you are here as well, but understand, that we will not be friends. We will not be family. Hell, we will not even be enemies. You and along with everyone else back here on Kingdom, are not worth my time. The only thing we have in common is that fact you want THAT title. And at some point, so well I, and when that day comes, I've hope you made the most of the time you made here. I hope that this fight between us doesn't escalate further than a simple match. I hope that whatever it is that you do, it won't peak my interest and distract me from my main goal. Please, don't make me do that side quest, “Destroy Miltades.” There is way for us to move along and continue to do as we want. And that, is for me to beat you, and for you to stay down. You take that loss I'm going to hand you like a champ, and there won't be any problems. Cool? Great. Welcome to Kingdom. Enjoy your stay here, but don't get too comfortable. I can assure you. It's going to become very different when I make my big move. Whether you will be a part of it or not, that depends on your next action. Your move.

Natalie is enjoying a meal from Burger King in her office. Messily wolfing down a Double Whopper, washed away with a Coke.
 
Gotta say Jess, I’m a little frustrated with how little you believe in yourself. It’s discouraging, really. You go away on your self-imposed exile, your little excursion, and you come back the same person. I don’t see any change in attitude, it looks like your failings have took a real toll on you, eh? I mean, wrestling’s full of success stories after the fact. Folks who don’t do too hot in the big leagues and go elsewhere to find themselves. Then they kick arse and come back better than ever. But that didn’t even happen with you. You weren’t exactly a needle mover over in LAW, were you? Never became any sort of ace, never got a real spot worth mentioning.
 
So, why are you actually back here? Better pay? Medical? You missed actually rubbing shoulders with people who are relevant? All I heard from you is self-defeat. A scared little girl feeling sorry for herself and making no effort to even pretend to be a threat. That’s the issue here. You. Your attitude. It’s indicative of a problem people have with complacency. Azumi had that doubt and it cost her. Now you’re feeling the same sense of dread. It’s a black cloud, hanging over your head, ain’t it? The knowledge that you’re getting closer and closer to being decimated by the woman who’s took it all for herself.
 
Sure, you could beat me, you could give yourself a great start to Season 2. You could be the talk of the town and set my reign off on a dull note. Then, you’d be next in line for a title shot. You could finally fulfil your destiny and be the top woman that you were always primed to be. Obviously, the key word in all of that is “could”, anyone “could” do those things. I don’t deal in uncertainties. I know what I want and I know how to get it. Right now, what I want is to shut up the shell of a performer who isn’t even taking the opportunity she has before her seriously. You’re about to face the biggest homegrown talent that OWA has ever produced. A woman who won the world championship with less than a year of experience under her belt. You’re in there with the Ace Killer herself, and you seem resigned to simply joining a list of victims.
 
You’re not a killer, you’re supposed to be hunted. In a world of sharks, you’ve always been a little fish who’s made it their purpose to swim from danger. I jump headfirst into danger and take it by the balls, Jess. I don’t give a shit about your little brooding session on top of the rooftops of Chicago, I don’t give a shit about your lack of accolades. I give a shit about proving the point that stepping to the champ with anything less than your A-game is REAL bad for your health. I said my piece, talked my trash, did what I do better than anyone. What the fuck was your response? Read me your woeful resume and then talk about the far-off dream of victory? Where’s the fire? Where’s the reason for me to believe in anything that you say? People who are inspired by you might just belong in a loony bin, because they’re only buying into the falsest of hopes.
 
I mean, the best jab you have is making fun of the team I support. Go off, see if it makes a difference. Last time I checked, City just won the Premier League and are one win away from scoring a domestic treble. Ain’t you a United fan? Bitch, your team didn’t even make the top five this year. You’re not even playing in Europe next season. Fuck, you and your team get about the same amount of big wins these days, eh? My team are champions, just like me. It’s why I got invited to meet the team next week at the Etihad. Because people like me get those major opportunities. I don’t see you being invited to Old Trafford to cheer up your embarrassment of a team. Unless it was through one of their outreach programs.
 
Everything that needs to be said about you has already been said, Jess. I just felt like I had to reiterate the point: I’m fucking better than you and I have every intent of letting the world know that. You should be proud of being a part of my win column, though, because it’s the only realm where you’ll be ranked alongside some genuine world-class performers. The world needs supporting players, if anything just to make the star attractions look good. Ciao for now, bitch.
 
Natalie smirks and takes a bite of her burger, before flipping the bird at the camera.

Short Tributes to Television
Edition: The Maury Povich Show
 
Female Executive voice: We understand that Mr. Maggall thought he was funny earlier this week with little expression of subversion, BUT NO ONE SUBVERTS THEIR OWA CONTRACT! Whether he likes it or not! He will fulfill his contractual obligation as an OWA wrestler! He will do his duty as an OWA Champion! Our TV Champion! So stay tuned for another true edition to the Short Tributes to Television!
 
(Maggall is shown in one of those strange angled Maury show cameras talking in the streets before the show.)
 
Maggall: Ever since I’ve become TV champ people been on my ass! I barely know these women, but all of a sudden, I win a little gold and everyone know Maggall they baby daddy! Fuck outta here! All these women are clout chasers, all these bitches think they can secure the bag on yours truly!
 
(The camera goes to a mock show set with an audience of people, from who cares where. An old man sits with a young woman and her fat baby.)
 
Audience: Jaury! Jaury! Jaury! Jaury!
 

Jaury Dovich: Well as you could see from before the show, he’s a little worked up. What do you have to say about Maggall, Gina?
 
Gina: I’ve known Maggall since we were 12 years old! Ever since then he been trying to hit this! He promised me he’d take me with him to the top, and I stuck by him through the rough times! So why won’t he be here for our baby? It’s time he puts his money in raising our boy Joseph!
 
Jaury: Well let’s ask, come out here Maggall!
 
(Maggall comes out walking towards them to the hate.)
 
Crowd: Boooooooo!
 
Maggall: Shut up, y’all don’t know shit!
 
(Maggall reaches them as Gina gets in his face.)
 
Gina: YOU BARELY KNOW ME MAGGALL!?? HUH BEN?!!! LOOK AT THAT BABY, THAT’S YOURS! Look at that chubby little thing, he eats just like you! He’s a momma’s boy just like you were! He already chasing tail at kindergarten, reminds me of a certain someone in middle school!
 
Maggall: I don’t got time for you right now. A swamp hoe like you the very reason I became a man, I learned never to simp.
 
Crowd: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
 
Jaury: Well we’ll see about that Maggall. Because I have the results of this comprehensive DNA test!
 
(Jaury pulls out the card.)
 
Jaury: In the case of 8 year old Joseph, Maggall…..YOU ARE NOT THE FATHER!
 
(Gina does the typical run away shit from the Maury show while Maggall starts  dancing.)
 
Jaury: Don’t get too excited Maggall, the show has only just begun! There is another mother after some support, here is the mother of 10 year old Tyrese, Clare!
 

(A woman comes out to cheers with her young child.)
 
Crowd: Get him, get him!
 
Maggall: I don’t even know this broad!
 
Clare: If that’s true, how come I met your little niece, Aria?
 
Maggall: You ain’t meet nobody! And she’s not my niece!
 
Clare: Whatever you say Maggall Jaxon. Besides I have proof he’s your son, you and your magnanimous crap like you a hood Shakespeare! He’s a killer at the spelling bee and English class! Hit him with one of them big words Tyrese!
 
Tyrese: Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis!
 
Clare: Open and shut case!
 
Maggall: Oh shit.
 
Jaury: Maggall!
 
(Jaury smiles and pulls out the reveal as Maggall sweats)
 
Jaury: You are not the father!
 
(Maggall flops down on a nearby chair in happiness, but then a redneck voice is heard!)
 


Redneck: It’s time to stop this filthy display, in the name of Amuricah! It’s time to make this black man know the responsibility of raising a child, and that’s exactly what he’ll do for knocking me up when he knew my cousihusband Billy would kick me out if I betrayed my baby second cousins and offspring!
 
Maggall: I thought I told you to get an abortion! Not for me, but cause you already have enough inbred crack babies! I know your whole family put some kids in there!
 
Redneck: That’s not how we do things in Alabama! We finally getting in law too real soon! Now you know you the father of the American Patriot, Birmingham Alabama raised, Jordan Rattler!
 
Jaury: Maggall…..
 
(Jaury looks at Maggall with depression in his eyes as already pulled out the results.)
 
Jaury: When it comes to Jordan Rattler, you are the father!
 
Maggall: Well shit.
 
Jordan, as your father, I’m going to take responsivity after all these years son! First, by beating the Alabama out of your ass on Olympus! I know what ya’ll doing down there! It’s been all over social media this week! Leave them women alone! Most of all, stop forcing dudes to be stuck with these bitches because you know if these kids born someone gonna have to pay child support! For all the fathers that should have never bee, just you wait Alabama, daddies coming!
 
(End, and remember to never put you’ll put up another real promo if your earlier joke was enough.)

Adelmar poured himself a tall glass of bourbon, raising the glass to the beautiful night sky in front of him before lowering it and tapping it against the belt that sat on the table in front of him. The Manchester United belt, one in which he had defended effortlessly in Rebellion Pro, one that he had won after only his first few matches in the promotion. A promotion that he had chosen to undertake to keep his talents honed and his legacy firmly cemented in the UK. And now that his name had been etched into history in Rebellion Pro, it was time to find himself once again. He had shown bits of his skill to the masses in OWA, that was to be sure. But he had yet to find true success. The bourbon kissed his tongue, burning as it slid down his throat and his head shook. Bourbon had a much more forceful kiss, one that he wasn’t used to yet. The pain that shot through his throat though reminded him of something. That burning agony that raged in the back of his skull. He had failed. He...no. He had been failing. A few wins here and there wasn’t how one proved power. A few wins and a few displays of power was not how one executed their vision. And having lost in the fashions that he had...that was undeniable. He had lost a step since arriving in OWA. The bourbon kissed his tongue once more and he leaned forward against the table, picking up the belt and slinging it over his shoulder before looking towards the camera he had set up. He had always preferred to have these recordings done in less formal atmospheres. Save the formality for press conferences and public greetings. When it came time to address his opponent, the mood called for a much more subtle approach.


“Greetings, OWA. It’s been awhile since we last greeted one another. It’s...been awhile since I felt the desire to speak. See, I have lost my path. When I first entered into OWA, I was entrenched in the ideal of the old ways. Of the old ring. I wished to show that my ways were stronger, better, and much more...honorable. But those ways do not warrant anything in this era. If you are stuck in ways that don’t work, you are unable to change and adapt. And loss is all that awaits you. And I experienced a lot of loss. I experienced it in spades, and thus looked out at the world with eyes clouded by those losses. And when one finds themselves at the bottom, they have three options presented to them. Climb out of the hole they have, through grit and force. Wallow in the shadows, and succumb to their losses. Or...dig further down, and come out the other side changed. And I have discovered what my option is.”


With these words, Adelmar drained the glass of bourban, placing it gingerly on the table and twirling the glass as he raised the Manchester belt high into the air, his eyes focusing unflinchingly on the camera. A new light shining inside of them. A new Adelmar.


“Unbesiegbar. Invincible. Unbreakable. That’s what that term means. To the UK, I am Unbesiegbar. I am an unbreakable force, and one that will not be brought down by the losses that I have recieved. I am a much better man than that. I am stronger than that. So, I will not allow myself to bow out of OWA, as a broken and defeated man. I hold gold in Rebellion Pro, I will hold gold here. I am a threat in the UK, I will be looked upon as one here. I am Unbesiegbar. Ich bin unbesiegbar, ich werde von nichts gestoppt und werde mich niemals wieder fallen lassen! And when I dug myself out of that hole I was in, and reached out to the one person who was willing to help me out of that hole...Oh I found my purpose and my desires. HE, let me find that purpose. And I do not intend on letting him down.”


The cryptic nature of his words are not lost on him. He glances towards the table, noting that a message had appeared on the phone he had left there. With a curt nod he reached out, picking it up and flicking on the phone, reading through the information on it before nodding his head and tapping into it to respond.


“I don’t intend on revealing who it was that helped pull me from the darkness. That shall be revealed in time. No, what matters now is what I do to my opponents in the ring from here on out. Starting with this newest and freshest face. You see Dominick, I’m not going to worry any longer about trying to retain the old ways and honor of the ring. You see, those that I faced were right. The old ways are not the proper ways any longer. And to honor the ring, you do not need to have the same level of...respect for it as there used to be. You see, all you need to do, is to fight with all of your power. To prove that you are worthy of being in it. And that is what I intend to do. You can ask anyone that has stepped into the ring with me what my chops are capable of. What it feels like to be drilled through the ring with all the power and anger I can muster. I want you to understand, this isn’t going to be the Adelmar that stepped into the ring and lost so long ago. I have allowed that one to be purged from my mind and body. I have given all of myself to the cause, which means that I am no longer to be distracted by the ways that have let me down so long before. This means that you are not facing the Old World Wrestler. You aren’t fighting Adelmar Sauer. You are facing the Grim Knight. The Unbesiegbar. You are facing a man that has done everything to dominate all that he sees. And this Manchester belt that I wear proudly for Rebellion, I will not disgrace it by sullying it here in OWA. I will flourish here, as I have flourished elsewhere. It’s a shame that this will come at your demise, but that is the nature of things. Dominick, I know little about you, but that matters little. OWA will face the new reality that He shall craft. And I, as the Grim Knight, will carve the path to that new world. Rise, Dominick. Prove to me your worth and glory in the ring, and when you fall...you will accept that path.”

With these final, threatening words, Adelmar reaches forward turning off the camera with a sweep of his hand. As the light flicked out, he allowed a solemn smile to appear on his face as he poured another gl

New Brand, New Faces, New Opportunities.

I found myself at a new place that called Olympus right now. To think that I’m going to face one of the best competitors in this company is truly an honor.

Yes, Bull Connors, I’m talking about you.

We came from a same background, Connors. You are a Two Times NCAA Champions and a Four Times The All-American for The Penn State. That’s an incredible resume, young man. But make no mistake about it, you’re facing an Olympic Gold Medalist this week, Connors. I have more experiences on Amateur Wrestling field as I finished my Amateur Wrestling career in an Olympic Game.

But I have to acknowledge you as a more experience one in this company, this business, and even on The Olympus Brand, Connors. You have done a lot more than I do in every way and you done it all in such a young age. My respect and my admirations to you is unquestionable but the fact and the truth is, I still want to beat you on my Olympus debut.

I hope you bring your best Connors, because if you don’t, I will surely beat you.

Oh It’s True! It’s Damn True!

Roni Ozborn darling, you sounds a lot like my older brother. You have so much code of honor in yourself, Roni and guess what? I honestly appreciate that fact but your honor and pride won’t help you to beat me this time around.

First off, first off, congratulations for winning The Amazon Warfare Battle Royal sweetheart. You deserved it when you threw me to win that trophy but it wasn’t a tough battle contest. Our upcoming encounter in Odyssey will be our real match between the two of us.

You said it yourself that you have changed your wrestling style and that’s good for you because you gained some confidences because of it and I appreciate that. But the thing is you do know that a same tactic won’t work for me don’t you Roni? You pointed out the fact that I threw Liz Idol after she gave me some money and you right, I was smart for it. I’m smart and will always be smart. That’s why you decided to change your wrestling style to go against me.

But then again, while I do believe anyone can do anything, they won’t adapt or properly executed it so soon. In your case Roni, you’re new to this High-Flying style while I have always been a Mat Magician since the moment I started to train as a wrestler, therefore, I know I’ll either make you tap out or pass out.

If you don’t like what I’m saying well then I’m sorry, Roni, but I don’t care about anyone’s feelings. See you around.

Short Tributes to Television
Edition: D&D(Game of Thrones episodes 3-4)

 
Voice of Maggall in the shadows: Ah it was a late night on a May date of 14 on the firth minute, and OWA was awaiting in great anticipation for the great new edition of Maggall’s Short Tributes to Television! Everyone knows that one can expect great dignity and respect for his own body of work from the TV Champion, especially for his first championship defense, so of course he’d have something fitting prepared for this week! Especially when he hyped this very tribute to Television in the OWA locker room!

 
HOWEVER, YOUR EXPECTATIONS HAVE BEEN SUBVERTED!
 
Voice of Maggall in the shadows: Y’all can’t even be serious, you think I’m going take Jordan Rattler serious?! Who am I, Jonetta on Liz Idol? Who the hell is Jordan Rattler?! Fuck outta here!
 
(Generic white voices begin to be heard.)
 
Some voice: So Maggall is going to lose the title on Olympus somehow, we can't have that fat black blob as champion no matter what. How will we report on how this happened? How did Rattler get his posterior?
 
Some other voice: Maggall kind of forgot about being TV Champion, but OWA management didn’t forget about him.
 
Some voice: Perfect! We totally deserve some Emmys!
 
(End)

spoiler alert!:

(COLD OPENING)

???: When people hear the name 'Theo King Sr.', a lot of memories come to mind.

(Scene fades in from black and we are presented with a close-up shot of Theo King Jr., the background blurred as his severe expression is the only thing in focus. He stares down at something out of shot, eyes moving across it. A speech, perhaps?)

Theo King Jr.: My father won his first world title in 1979 after years of fighting to prove his worth. The New York Wrestling Alliance World Championship, representing a company he helped put on the map during the professional wrestling boom. He held that belt for almost two years; a record that still stands today. He travelled all over the country, but his heart was always in New York, with the fans that made him who he was. In 1990, he was forced to retire due to building health complications. He wrestled one last time on June 16th at the NYWA's farewell show for him, receiving a standing ovation.

But his greatest achievement was yet to come.

(A grin spreads across Theo's face as his eyes light up.)

Theo King Jr.: On a cool summer's night, Theo King Sr. united with his wife of twenty-three years to conceive the perfect child you see before you now. Yeah, they did that.

(Theo pauses to fire finger guns and a wink out in front of him...towards nothing, we see, as the bedroom he is standing in is revealed to be empty. He straightens out the paper his speech is written on, continuing.)

Theo King Jr.: They gave birth to Theo King Jr., named after my father because I am just as talented and hold just as much star power in my body as my father did. I was named after him because he knew that out of the three children he would help conceive, I would be his favourite. I was a beautiful baby: blue eyes just like my father's, swinging my arm like he would whenever he executed his stunning lariat...even back then when I wasn't even a year old, I knew in my soul that I was born to be a professional wrestler. My father would be proud if he could see me now, about to make my debut for Omega Wrestling Alliance on a stage bigger than any he had ever competed on. I wish I could see his smile when he would see me with my arm raised.

Then, ya know, he had two other kids. Cyrus...

(Theo Jr. skips over the crossed-out part written down on the paper that says (FUCK CYRUS).)

Theo King Jr.: ...and Katie came after me. But I was the one. I was the King child that would become the star that rivals my father's in terms of brightness – it was set in stone from the moment my name was written on that birth certificate. THEO KING JR. I am the future of the King family. I am the future of professional wrestling as we know it! The strides my father took when he was wrestling way back when? That was just him laying out the stepping stones for my inevitable birth and ascension to greatness! An ascension you'll be able to see happen live every week on OWA Kingdom because that's right! The product of my golden father's prodigious and prestigious seed comes to Sunday Night KINGD-

(The bedroom doors opens and Theo cuts himself off as he scrambles to hide his speech. He stuffs the paper into his pocket as a young woman enters the room. She looks at Theo with narrowed eyes, her facial features similar to his own. So this must be Katie, Theo's hated younger sister.)

Katie King: Are you practising your funeral speech for dad again?

Theo King Jr.: I'm not-

Katie King: He's not even dead, Theo!

Theo King Jr.: THEN WHY WOULD I BE PRACTISING A FUNERAL SPEECH FOR HIM? HUH? Try to make some sense, Jesus.

(Katie rolls her eyes. Her face reads as having enough. This is an argument they've had far too many times and she's not interested in entertaining her brother with it again.)

Katie King: Your friends are here, by the way. Mick across the road is upset because a couple of them pulled up into his drive.

Theo King Jr.: He's always mad about something. I bet they ain't doing anything to him except being friendly.

Katie King: Whatever. Just deal with them before they start ruining dad's lunch.

(She slips out of the room, closing the door harshly behind her.)

(We cut to a confessional, where Theo sits in front of a camera, looking annoyed.)

(GRAPHIC AT THE BOTTOM: THEO KING JR. / Future OWA Champion)

Theo King Jr.: They just don't understand, ya know? My brother and sister have never been supportive of me. They don't get the business like me and Theo Sr. do. Katie and Cyrus, they always called my dream 'impossible'. Not that I'd expect them to understand because, ya know, they're not TALENTED like me. They didn't inherit my dad's skill because they came after me and I sucked all the talent I could outta him. Now look at me! I'm an OWA contracted talent and them? Katie stays at home and Cyrus is a heart surgeon. Yawn.

(Theo and the squad are taking full advantage of the good weather. The large group is gathered outside of the King family home, sat around in lawn chairs drinking Corona and bumping music as loud as possible. A large banner has been placed over the front door which reads 'CONGRATULATIONS THEO JR.!'. Everybody seems to be having a blast, except for Katie and the wheelchair-bound Theo Sr. as they watch on from the house balcony. Theo stands around by the barbeque, shirtless and wearing sunglasses, stealing food as it comes off the grill. He's midway through a cheeseburger when one of his entourage comes over, phone in hand and the voice of The Udy coming from it.)

Entourage Member: Theo, you seen this?

(He holds the phone up in front of Theo, letting the video play. After a few seconds, Theo snorts and drops his cheeseburger, looking more than a little unhappy.)

Theo King Jr.: This boy is ruining my vibe.

(Theo yanks his glasses away from his face and lets out a huff of annoyance. He looks to the camera as some of his entourage gather behind him, ready to hear what he has to say.)

This is meant to be a celebration of me being signed and this guy wants to drag me through the dirt. This is my big moment and I have to deal with someone like 'The Udy' talking shit. Am I heated? Absolutely. This is my first match for OWA and I'm already being treated with disrespect. I haven't even stepped into the ring yet and this guy wants to act like he knows every little thing about me because his furry sense told him so. You clearly know who I am, 'Udy', because you were talking a whole lot about my old man and bringing up my family name. So if you wanna talk about how you respect Theo King Sr. – as you should – then you should be respecting me because I am, by way of birthright, already on his level of talent. I'm his first-born. I was conceived in his prime, I am made up of all his talent. My mom sucked that up like a...like a sponge and gave birth to the reincarnation of my father's success. They named me Theo King Jr. because they knew before I could even walk and talk that I would be running towards greatness in a couple decades time. They were right. They didn't conceive me just so I could be insulted by some guy who identifies as a wolf in my first OWA match.

(Some of Theo's entourage make mocking 'ARF ARF' sounds in the background.)

Ya know what though, you don't know me well at all. Saying I'm disappointed in myself...pft, why would I be? When I look at myself, I can't see because I'm blinded by the sheer brightness of my starpower. I worked hard to look this good and I've put in my hours working under the best this country has to offer to harness my raw in-ring talent. No need to get jealous just because whenever you look at yourself, the mirror breaks, as your vid showed. And no need to get all pissy because the most you can brag about doing is being final three in a battle royal. I get it, it's impressive you lasted that long but come on. This is the big leagues, this is the place where the TITANS wrestle the GODS...and the most you can brag about is outlasting a few people and not even winning the match.

Who am I to say that? I'm what's gonna keep this company going! I'm the lifeblood, the new blood, the new MONEY that's been invested into OWA. I'm a fresh face lightening up this place. I'm the future of the sport. You, 'Udy', are just the old blood. The stale, the boring, the predictable. I'm the big bad wolf and you're Twilight: New Moon.

Now I know I've barely been here for even a hot minute, but the most I've seen of you is on social media...yappin' at people who don't have the time of day for you. You even just did it in your vid for me...talking about Kenny Drake and RDIII before me. I should be insulted! You're a wolf? Nah, you're a dog. Barking at people, crying for attention like a bitch.

Unfortunately for you MANNNN, I'm the centre of attention this week whether you like it or not. I'm gonna be the name on everyone's lips. I'm gonna be the one on your mind once this match is over because I'll be the one walking out with the W. I'm the one you'll be wasting all your time talking about as you sit in your litterbox and wonder how 'The Real Alpha' could lose to someone you think you're so above. It's because you're not above me. You might have more time here, might've won a few titles in the Land of the Rising Sun and the Land of Ikea, but they don't make you better than me. You've never fought me. You've never fought anyone with the lineage I have, the training I have, the birth-given talent I have. NEVER. But you will on Sunday and you are gonna see how unprepared you are for a real star with real goals and real skill.

No way am I below a dogfucker. What do you even fight for? Just to fight? You don't have a direction or an end goal. You got nothing to fight for. But I do. I've spent years of hard work building my staircase of gold to get to this point and I'm not gonna fall at the first hurdle. It's been a long, difficult road, ya know? I've had to deal with oppression and...and doubts and all that. CHALLENGES. I've had to deal with challenges and I've smashed through every single one with ease. You, 'Udy' will be no different.

You're just another barrier put up in front of me. Just another person who wants to see me fail. But I'm a success story! I'm where I belong: in the top company, and soon I'm gonna be on top. I'm gonna be taking my rightful throne here on Sunday Night KINGdom and you, 'Udy', are about to be house-trained.

(Theo's entourage ring out with a chorus of 'OOOOOOHs' as he puts his sunglasses back on and grabs a fresh cheeseburger, not a care in the world.)

(Before the camera begins to start record, we see a highlight reel of the Amazon Warfare Battle Royal as we see the final moments of it. Roni and Novita going at it before Roni hitting the Shining Finger onto Novita and eliminating her in the process. We see Roni in the ring celebrating and overcome with joy.)


(The camera begins rolling and we see Roni on top of the roof of her apartment building Roni isn’t dressed in her normal clothing, but instead is dressed nicely, for once. We then see Roni go off camera for a minute before coming back in focus, but now we see the Amazon Warfare Battle Royal trophy, as well as Roni, squatting beside it.)

When I won The Amazon Warfare Battle Royal and was given this trophy, I was overjoyed and overcame with all kinds of emotions. The fans cheering and everything, I loved every second of it, and that was when I knew I made the right decision to join OWA. I still may not fit in with the rest of the roster, but I connected with the fans, and that is what matters to me the most. All I have left to say is that I am glad I won, and I am glad that in Season 2 of Odyssey I can begin my full journey.

(Roni moves the trophy off to the side before grabbing a chair and moving it into focus )

To begin my journey to the top, I have to face the one person that could have defeated me in the Amazon Warfare Battle Royal, and a worthy opponent, Novita. This was a rematch I was hoping for honestly because as you saw Novita and myself put in work in that match as we were the final two and we had a good...no great match. Now, we have the chance to actually show what we, Novita and I, are made of, but be warned Novita I wasn’t the same person two or so weeks ago. Instead of relaxing or taking some time off, I reinvented myself. I changed my wrestling style, made some new friends, self-reflected on myself, and even gained more confidence in my ability. So that person you faced in the final minutes of that match won’t be the same person you faced before.

(Roni takes in a deep breath)

Novita, what can I say about you that I didn’t say before? Well, I will say in the Amazon Warfare Battle Royal you were one of if not the smartest person in there. I mean, you got paid by Liv to protect her, and then you dumped her and kept the money. That was brilliant and I do praise it. The other thing is I respect is your talent in the ring. No one can deny your ability in the ring. You are easily one of the best mat wrestlers there is in Odyssey, and you were trained, at least I think you were, but one of Omega’s great. There is just one question though we will see if gets answered. That question is a simple one. Can The Mat-Magician ground The Aerial Ace and score a victory? 

(Roni looks up at the sky for a bit, taking a deep breath and letting it all out and soon returns to looking at the camera.)

When we face off we shall see the answer of which one will win. Your ground and pound approach with your submitting submission, strong strikes, and your ability to grapple and go into a Suplex or my high flying approach with my stiff strikes, my aerodynamic moves, and my ability to quickly think of a way to avoid your attack. In the end, we will see and whether I win or lose, I think we can both agree on one thing, the match will be good.

(Roni is seen smiling before the camera fades last week as we hear one last thing from Roni.)

See you Mat-Magician...

Olympus Promo 2: Getting My Kicks


The camera opens just inside of the doors of of a YMCA.  The derelict walks in with a ratty, dry rotted, gym bag and approaches the information desk.  He sizes up a busy looking middle aged, middle class, soccer mom behind the counter.  Rolling his eyes at the familiar notion of being ignored by her kind, he drops his bag on the desk, causing the woman to nearly jump out of her skin.  She clutches her chest and smiles nervously

Clerk: Oh, I'm sorry.  How can I help you today sir?


The Derelict: Listen, I uh, was just in here and forgot almost everything in my locker.  It's quite embarrassing.

Clerk: I see...do ya have your membership card?


The Derelict: See, that's the thing.  That card was part of the "everything" I left in there.  I even somehow managed to traipse outta here without any shoes on.


The clerk tries to covertly lean over the counter and see if what the derelict says is true.  At the sight of his sun burnt and mangled feet her jaw drops.

Clerk: Oh you poor dear.  You just go right on back then.


The camera cuts off, and then back on as the hazy naked outline of the derelict appears amidst the fog of a communal shower.


"You think I contradict myself Mr. Keeton, but by no means is that true.  Is this a dream job? Why yes...yes it is, but not for the whimsical and dire reasons that brought you to this sport.  This isn't my lifesaver.  This isn't some sorta needed life event that I'm banking everything on to turn things around for me.  I fell into it like a warn in pair of shoes, and they fit me well.  Now...does one really need to go out of their way to pay the price for a pair of shoes in this day and age? No.  That's what society wants you to think.  You can work hard...break your back...spill your blood, but that doesn't guarantee you're walking home with a fresh new pair of Air Jordans.  Why? because you believe in the selflessness of starting a family.  You believe in procreation, buying a home and a car, taking a bride who'll most likely take half of the things you broke flesh for...oh no, wait, that's right.  That's not happening for you is it? I suppose it cost a pretty penny to put her in the ground though, now didn't it? or did you light her aflame too? You buy into the American Dream wholesale, when I know that the five finger discount version is the real life to lead.  That's truly the difference between you and I when you come right down to it.  You think you've become blue collar, homespun, and disenfranchised with the system...but you haven't. You're still beholden to a higher power.  You still expect to earn your way.  You think that the companies best interest is in you when in fact there are others they'd much rather give title shots. Not because they better, not because they work harder than you, or because they fall in line like you as a nice little insignificant cog, but because of who they know and what throats they were willing to cut in order to get where they are.  Laugh at peoples names all you'd like because they'll be laughing all the way to the main event at your expense. Unlike you I realize that dreams end so that others can start.  I'm not precious about living in the moment because, like a dream, moments are fleeting and disappear in the blink of an eye.. Living in the moment is living in the past, and that's exactly what you're trying to do.  You're dreaming, but you're laying on your back while you do it...Keep doin' that...Keep being a doormat for others to wipe their nasty feet on as they head to the top.  As for me? laugh at my name all you want.  I don't have feelings to hurt on the matter because I didn't chose it, nor did my whore of a mother or drunkard of a father who decided he didn't care if he sired a bastard behind a Chili's dumpster.  The world called me a derelict, so I leaned into it and gave them the self-righteous gratification of doing every single thing they expected of me so that they can go home and feel better about slowly killing themselves doing things the hard way.  You're welcome, Jake."


The derelict turns off the water, grabs a towel, and heads out of the shower.  He's stopped in his tracks by an elderly fellow stretching his hamstring on the locker room bench in the buff.

That Limber Elderly Old Man Whose Nude In Every Locker Room Somehow Simultaneously: Hey there, pardoner.  


The Derelict: How's it hangin' gramps...well, I mean...I see, but what's shakin'?

Old Man: Nothin', nothin'...just stretchin' before I head out for a game of squash.


The Derelict: You playing doubles?

Old Man: No, no..I mean, unless you're interested.


The Derelict: Ah, sorry.  Can't...betcha got some nice gym shoes for it though.

Old Man: Oh now, I don't know about that...


The Derelict: Aw c'mon old timer.  You don't strike me as the type to be modest.

Old Man: Well, to be frank with you I bought my old pair of shit kickers from home that I've had for almost a decade now.  The wife can't stand the sight of'em.  Makes me buy those high end athletic sneakers the kids wear.  To me those are the eyesores...sportin' all kinds of neon colors and made almost completely out of mesh.


The Derelict: Yeah, they don't make'em like they used to.

Old Man: Can't bring myself to wear'em on the court.  They pinch my feet, and God only knows what that old bag would say if I happened to scuffed up some sports sneakers while playing sports.


The Derelict: Yeah, women are funny that way.

Old Man: Anyway, I'm sure you've got work to do.  I'll leave my towel here on the bench for you, and hey...

The old man winks at the derelict knowingly as he begins to suit up for his one man squash clinic.

Old Man: I wont tell management that the help is using the facilities.


The Derelict: D'aw, well aren't you a sweetheart?

Old Man: I'll catch ya out there.


The old man jogs off in his ancient pair of Chuck Taylors.  As the door of the locker room closes, the derelict plops down on the shower bench and unzips his duffle bag.  Almost cartoonishly he pulls out his pole and bindle and unwraps the handkerchief to reveal a rusty railroad spike.  With one swift downward swing with the spike, the locker's padlock pops off.  The derelict greedily starts tearing through the old man's possessions, first going through his wallet and grabbing one solitary item from it, then through his gym bag where he finds an untouched pair of black Prada Cloudbursts mesh trainers.  He inspects them momentarily.


The Derelict: I don't know old man..they don't look that bad...take'em off of your hands for ya though if you hate'em that much.


The derelict's towel drops, followed by a short and discrete jump cut of him suiting up back in his jumpsuit.  He zips his bag up and heads out the door, passing the old man on the way out with a grateful nod.  The old man nods back, catching sight of the derelict's feet just as the locker room door closes in his face.  The derelict turns for the door but almost jumps out of his skin as the faux chipper clerk meets him at the pass.

Clerk: Find everything, hon?


The Derelict: Uh..yes'm.

Clerk: Did'ja happen to find your Y membership?


The derelict pats himself down in a fake panic, before reaching into his pocket and handing over the old man's Y membership.  The clerk glances at it momentarily.  A look of disappointment flashes across her face, before the fake chipper demeanor returns.

Clerk: Oh I knew you'd find it.  It's just a formality, don'tcha know?  Management's a stickler about these things.


The Derelict: I bet....you have a nice day, lady.

Clerk: You too, hon.


As the derelict calmly passes through the sliding doors, he hears the outraged old man burst out of the locker room.  Without even turning back to acknowledge the commotion, the derelict rips open his decrepit gym bag, pulls out his bindle, slings it over his shoulder, and heads down the road whistling to himself without a care in the world.

 

 
 
Natalie exits the ring of her gym after a long day of training. Wiping herself off with a towel and heading to the showers, she checks her phone.
 
Natalie: Jessica? Huh, okay…
 
Cut forward a few hours, Natalie is sitting at her desk, the OWA Women’s World Title set down on top of it, facing the camera. She has a contemplative look on her face.
 
Natalie: Momentum’s an important thing in this business. You have to keep yourself on the right track if you want to get anywhere. That’s why I’ve been so successful. I’ve not let anybody halt my momentum, no matter how hard they try. Look at Kingdom, the biggest episode of the year. Kicking off Season 2 and I’m facing Dulce Torres. Dulce’s the most prolific champion in the history of Odyssey, Dulce was the only blemish on my record that I wanted to expunge. Dulce gave me everything she had…and it wasn’t enough. I took on the Goddesses Champ and took her out. One, two, three. Who else on the Odyssey roster can claim to have had as successful a 2019 as Natalie Cage? Because I’d love to see em. Won the Clash. Won the belt. Beat the biggest threat to my throne.
 
I just keep on winning, I just keep on making history. And now I’m right where I belong: the main event. It’s been a long fucking time coming, but I’m headlining Odyssey as the champ, and I’m bringing someone else along with me: Jessica Rose. Jess, you’ve got a pretty unique statistic to your name, ain’t you? You were in the first ever OWA Women’s World Title match. A steel cage to decide who’d be top dog. The whole world was behind you. The crowd were cheering, it was your moment. You were gonna be the one to lead this division to the promised land.
 
And it never happened. You failed. The biggest match of your life and you let HENDRIX walk away with the belt. Thanks to you, the first ever champ was some cum rag bitch who’s more concerned with getting her holes plugged on camera than actually wrestling. You let everyone down, Jess, it’s that simple. Oh, but you had chances at redemption, didn’t you? You bounced back! You and Savannah Sunshine were gonna become the first ever OWA Tag Team Champions! Oh wait, no, because my own brother put a stop to that. You can say what you like about unfair advantages, but Wolvesden beat the Sugar Girls three fucking times in a row. At that point, there’s no rivalry, just a one-sided beatdown.
 
Then what? What was next for Jessica Rose, Odyssey’s future star? You had your shot at the Queen of the Ring, didn’t you? You faced your best friend in honestly one of the best women’s matches in company history. Still fucking lost though, didn’t you? Noticing a pattern here? You’re a woman who keeps getting these opportunities and lets them slip through her fingers. It’s pathetic. That’s why you ran away. You disappeared from OWA because you knew that nobody took you seriously anymore. What have you done since then? A cameo in the Clash of the Goddesses match? A match that was won by…oh yeah, me. You're not a has been, you're a never was.
 
That’s your legacy, Jess. That’s who you are. You come out and have spectacular matches, you wow the crowd, you get everyone on your side. And you fail. You fail because that’s what you’re good at. In this world, there are two types of people: those who are born for greatness, and those who are born to make others look great. Guess which category you fall into, baby girl? It might sound harsh, but I’m being honest with you. You’re an amazing performer, don’t get me wrong. I believe you’re gonna come at me with everything you have and put on a clinic. Problem is, it’s all just so I can look that much better when I do what lesser women before me have done and put you down.
 
People like you don’t get to defeat the world champion, Jess. You’re incapable of converting your momentum into anything meaningful. What did I do when I saw that the crowds were on my side? How did I react to being as beloved as you once were? I became the face of the brand. You’re not in the main event because of who you are, Jess, you’re in the main event because of who I am. The run I’m on right now is right up there in the annals of OWA history. Everybody who’s been put in front of me has been struck down with exactness and swiftness. I’d like to know just what makes you different. Is it your heart? Your fighting spirit? Azumi Goto thought that that would carry her through at Final Destination, and now look at her. She ran, just like you did. When people get in the ring with me, they’re confronted with a dose of reality that they don’t want to admit is there. There’ confronted with the fact that they cannot topple me. I didn’t climb to the top of the mountain, I am the fucking mountain. I’m the heights that women here try to scale, but die trying. Every woman who’s held this title on my desk didn’t have the mental fortitude to be champion. They’re either gone or they’ve run away to another division. Me? I’m made of sterner stuff. My words aren’t some idle threat, they’re very real.
 
I know that I should be building you up, Jess, but you’ve done nothing as of late to convince me that you’re a problem. I’ll take great pride in defeating you and consider it an accomplishment, as I do all my victories. But I don’t actually need this match. It’s gonna help you to be able to say you shared the ring with the top guy on Odyssey, but that’s where the benefits stop. As you roll out of the ring, defeated, clutching the back of your head after I’ve kicked it off, you’ll come to terms with the fact that you’re nothing more than a good hand. That you exist to prop me up. In another life, in another time, a match between us could be pay-per-view worthy. Two white hot competitors who have everything going for them. The Jessica Rose of one year ago vs. The Natalie Cage of today? Now there is a blockbuster match. But as it stands right now, this is just another main event and another big payday for the man of this business. I hope you spend your bonus well from getting to be in the same ring as me, because I can make you rich and I can make you famous. What I can’t do…is make you a winner.
 
Natalie pulls out a bottle of scotch and pours herself a glass, taking a hearty gulp.
 
Be seeing you.

Olympus Promo 1: The Big Rock Candy Mountain.


The chipper, gentle, guitar plucking of Harry McClintock strike up, followed shortly after by his nasally crooning.


"One evening as the sun went down"


The camera opens ground level on a long stretch of highway as the sun burns so bright it ripples the air with it's heat.  A lumbering shadow takes a big lurching step over the lens.  It's gigantic heel plants on the ground just in front of the camera, only to lift up again and keep walking.


"And the jungle fire was burning,"


As the camera focuses in and adjusts to the red gaze of the sun, the silhouette of the derelict carrying his bindle makes it's way up the turnpike, popping in and out of the shadows beneath overlapping bridge underpasses.


"Down the track came a hobo hiking,"


The camera follows as the derelict makes his way off the highway and onto the Sunset Strip.  He stops for a moment to stare directly into the bright burning star on the horizon, as if seeing it only now for the first time.

Derelict: I've finally found my place in the sun, my truth, my glory land.  I've found the fabled big rock candy mountain that every two-bit freight hopper with whisky on his breath murmurs about in dreams.  I travel sparsely with my only possessions on the end of a stick and my demons playing piggyback.  I suspect the latter is true of you also, Jake Keeton.


"And he said, "Boys, I'm not turning"


The derelict wipes the sweat from his brow and drops his bindle to the ground, letting it drag at his feet as he continues to pull along the kerchief filled with his belongings through the gutters of L.A.

Derelict: You come here to OWA claiming you want to be a sportsman, a wrestler, an athlete...no.  No, I look at you and I see a man looking for repentance.  I see a man who wants to punish himself in order to feel something other than heartache and guilt.  You reek of desperation for direction and salvation, yet you've been paired with a man whose your antithesis and lacks your druthers.  I've never felt lost because I've never been going anywhere in particular.  I've never felt desperate because once you've fallen into enough of the holes in the world that other men have been swallowed up by and forgotten, you tend to lose sight of what's left to despair.  As for salvation? AAACH-Pfft!


"I'm headed for a land that's far away"


The derelict spits on the ground in disgust.  He starts to move his heavy frame once more, until the sound of sizzling hits his ears.  Smiling and tilting his head in amusement, he watches as his spit  fries and evaporates on the scorching hot pavement.

Derelict: I've slept in hell holes with men like you.  They cry over sins...drink to forget...self-medicate for an illness that isn't there.  They know they're sick, but they don't know what ails them, so they don't know how to remedy it. Their only true failure is letting love and compassion live in their hearts.  It only breeds contempt for oneself.  It makes you believe you're responsible for the actions of others when you aren't.  To further philosophize, you're not even responsible for the actions of your past self, because that isn't you anymore.  Poor saps like you let love eat your insides up like a cancer.  Meanwhile you don't recognize or appreciate the blessings that are around you.  Three square meals, clean clothes, a bed to sleep in at night, a roof over your head, a steady paying job.  You take it all for granted because you miss the one and only thing that you've ever lost.


"Besides the crystal fountains"


The derelict snaps out of his weak-minded trance and goes to begin his trek down the Strip once more, only to find he can't move from where he stands upon first attempt of putting one foot in front of the other.  He gives a concentrated tug of his leg, lifting his foot off of the hot sidewalk, only to create a web of melted rubber that stretches up from the sole of his shoe bubbling on the cement.  The derelict grimaces as he rips the shoe clean from it's sole.  Lifting the  tattered boot in the air, he unlaces the high top and tosses the remains.  Without even checking he rips his other foot clean out of it's boot and sets on his path once more as his bare feet audibly singe with every step.

Derelict: What's sad is that I get the impression that you think wrestling's all you've got left.  Never mind financial security, flashy cars, or even the shoes on your feet; wrestling's all that matters.  You've made it your new addiction.  You probably think it's your anti-drug, but judging from your training diligence, lifestyle 'sacrifices',  and outright fanaticism I'd gather it's just where you get your new fix of temporary feel good.  What's dangerous is that it's something that you can spin in your mind as being physically healthy, but underneath it all you're harboring the disconcerting thought that it's something you can master and have control over.  In truth it's just another monkey on your back.  You've trained with the intent being that so long as the other guy in the ring resorts to your grappling tactics, you're the one whose going to win.  You've pushed yourself to the point where it's not a stretch to say you're an excellent wrestler.  I'd go so far as to agree with you on your bold predictions of continued conquest in every straight up wrestling match.  You have your edict, your calling, your dogma, and I choose to warn you that this is something I get to take for granted.  I've spent my life assuring that there's no governing body over me.  To me your respect is just as hollow and meaningless as the food that slides down your greedy gullet and fills your gluttonous belly is to you.  Fighting to survive is just another day in the life of a man like me. I'll do what I have to in order to make the next paycheck, that gets me to the next town, where I beat up the next entitled crybaby in line.  I don't care who I hurt and I don't care what people think of me.  I'm used to people casting their eyes downward or throwing trash at me, so to hell with what the people in attendance think of my actions.  This is what makes me better than you: 

This isn't my lifeline.  If OWA fires me for what I do in that ring,  I'll just move on to the next thing.   That's what I do.  That's what I've always done.  I don't need this company, this sport, some overpaid zebra with a chubby for inane rules to keep me motivated to live because "it's all I have in this world oh boo hoo. Boo hoo.  Woe is me! Someone died and I tried to do something to make myself feel good and now I feel guilty about it.  Whimper, whimper, sob into my custom made ring gear that cost enough to cover someone's light bill for the month.  But no, instead of appreciating and extending my embarrassment of riches to the community, I gotta look professional to set myself apart from savages like the Derelict."  Pathetic....

This isn't my passion.  I didn't choose professional wrestling because I love it.  I chose it because I have clear advantages, both mentally and physically, over my opponents.  Plus it might be fun to put sanctimonious sad sacks like yourself in a nice, cushy, hospital bed for one night.  I don't live or die by what goes on in that ring.  I don't go cry myself to sleep at night because I applied a wrist lock improperly.  The only difference between winning and losing for me is how many zeroes appear at the end of that number on the check at the end of the night, and even then as long as it gets me a plane ticket or enough for a Greyhound I don't care.

This is my dream job.  I do it because I cover all of the bases for what makes a good fighter, and it can make me a lot of cash off of one night's work.  That's what it is to me; a nights work.  I'm not going to bust my ass unnecessarily just to impress some townies who think there's honor in breaking my back over a paycheck because that's what those idiots do every stinking day of their lives.  If I can coast by with a simple heymaker to the jaw I'm going to.


"So come with me, we'll go and see"


Leaving a trail of charred and bloody footprints behind him, the derelict reaches the Staples Arena just as the advertisement for Olympus flashes overhead.  He looks up at the LED screen and smiles knowingly as his eyes grow wide and his pupils dilate.

The Derelict: But for now? I've arrived...


"The Big Rock Candy Mountains"

 
 
Natalie is sitting at an autograph signing, with a huge line to whittle through. A small girl comes up to her with a promo shot from Final Destination.
 
Small Girl: Did you hear what Dulce said?
 
Natalie: Oh, I heard. Want me to knock her head off for you?
 
Small Girl: YES!
 
Cut to a few hours later. Natalie has finished signing her autographs and is enjoying a drink on her tour bus.
 
Natalie: The perks of being a world champ are pretty good, I’ve gotta say. Being able to catch some shuteye on the road really helps rest those throbbing aches. Not that there’s any throbbing ache as irritating as Dulce Torres. I’ve gotta say, Dulce, for someone who claims to have changed, you’re still coming at me with that same white meat bullshit that you did way back when. I get it, you fight for what you believe in and you’re genuinely a good person who’s in it for the competitive nature of the sport. The thing is, I’ve never really vibed with that. You can be as offended as you like that I demeaned your title, offence is taken, not given. Oh, you didn’t like what I said? You thought it was a slap in the face? I’ll give you a lot worse than a slap in the face when we square off again.
 
You’ve gotta come to realise that I’m not paid to be nice. I’m paid to fight, and I’m paid to win. Maybe if you had just a little bit of ruthlessness in you, you’d have had your world title shot by now and we’d be living in a very different reality. But that’s not how it went, was it? You said it yourself, you “thought” that you’d have stepped up to my spot by now. You “thought” that your time with the Goddesses Title was over. This business doesn’t reward thinkers, it rewards doers. What kind of woman walks into a match to reclaim the belt that SHE lost, hoping that the woman who took it off her wins the match? Dulce Torres, apparently. Is that how badly you wanted to be free of that thing? I mean, if you really feel like you’re the very best and that that title is oh so very important to you, why are you so disappointed to have it back? It’s nice to see that your confidence is exactly where it was when we last spoke. You undersell yourself constantly, before claiming to be the one to beat.
 
You can flatter yourself by claiming that you’re my biggest threat if you like, but you don’t get to use rhetoric like that unless you’re world champ. And as we’ve all seen, you’re not getting anywhere near the world title anytime soon. What, you think that I’m not legit until I get a win back from you? You’re proud of being the only blemish on the champ’s record? Where did that win get you? You’ve progressed not a single iota since then. You’ve even proved my point: setbacks make us. You gave me a setback and I knocked it out of the park. You got handed a setback and you’re right back where you started.
 
It’s not that your belt’s not important, I never said that. Every belt is important, otherwise there’d be no point in having them. I would have been honoured to hold that title and defeat you, given the point I was at in my career. Your first title’s always a big deal, and I was so fixated on that that I didn’t realise I may be capable of something greater. I mean, you claim to have grown as a performer since then, but from where I stand, you’ve beat women who simply weren’t good enough for the big time. Spare me the MMA math bullshit, it doesn’t work. Oh, you beat me, so that automatically makes you better than everybody I’ve beat? I like your revisionist history though, talking like you actually did beat me. The lights went out due to sabotage right when I had you dead to rights, and you took advantage to escape with your belt. Not win, escape. I told you the week after that I’d be back to finish what I started. And, as you can see, I’m a woman of my word.
 
You can put as many caveats on yourself as you like. Workhorse this, number of defences that, but to even suggest you’re the very best on Odyssey is a blatant disregard of facts. You’re a good hand, a reliable performer who can have a strong match and keep the middle of the card on lock. It’s cool, everyone has their role and you’re good with yours. The top title isn’t held by the second-best, especially not when the woman holding it won it at the biggest show of the year, while you were busy pinning who? Megan Harper? And what exactly has she done in OWA? At the first sign of stagnation, she ran away to be in movies. That’s all Odyssey is without people like me, a group of bitches who sulk and run away when they don’t get what they want. Roni De Vil split when I beat her. Eris split when I beat her. Azumi became the most recent addition to my list. So tell me, Dulce, what’s your gameplan if you lose? Because all those women thought for sure that they had the better of me. When it never came to fruition, they couldn’t take the embarrassment. They couldn’t show their faces anymore. You’re so determined to convince yourself that beating me gives you some sort of advantage, like the last few months just didn’t happen from your point of view.
 
Keep telling yourself that the only edge you need is a tainted victory over me. Keep telling yourself that because you’ve held the OTHER women’s belt for so long, it somehow makes you worthy of being in the man’s presence. I don’t need to “claim” to be the star of the show, it’s a fact. I’ve got the wins, I’ve got the fans, and I’ve got the gold to prove it. Realistically speaking, you’re about to face a woman who took the best shot Azumi Goto had and kept on going. You’re about to face a woman who survived going to hell and back with her own brother. Who had a screwdriver jammed into her head and got hurled through a plate glass window by Eris. All of that, and I kept on fighting, kept on pushing through because I knew there was nobody with more drive, more will, more fortitude than me.
 
And I know what some people are thinking. They’re thinking that now I’m on top, I’m gonna get complacent. That my only goal was getting the title and I never planned on how I’d keep it. I say those people are fucking idiots. My goal has always been to make Odyssey bigger and better, I couldn’t execute any of that until I had the world’s attention. Like it or not, the roles are reversed this time around, Dulce. This isn’t some nutball rookie challenging the dominant champion. This is a waste of potential trying to claw back some ground by taking on the ruler of the roost. I don’t have any screws loose, babe, I say what I’m gonna do and I do it. Keep holding your win over me, and you’ll soon find out how useless that stat is when I swat you down and even us up. If I’m feeling generous, I might put my belt on the line for the rubber match so I can reassure the world once and for all that you’re not destined to be in my spot.
 
I’m not interested In arguing with you, Dulce. The shit I’ve accomplished will define a generation. You’ll always be remembered as that woman who beat Natalie Cage that one time. And when your most significant achievement is beating someone who went on to have so much more success than you did, then that’s a pretty damning indictment.
 
Natalie puts her headphones on and lies down in her bed.