Harrowing Dreams and Sadistic Nightmares


Date: 23/4/2018
Time: 5:45 pm
Location: Hillside, Illinois, USA
---

We open our scene to the 'Mount Caramel' cemetery (yes, the same cemetery that is best known for being the final resting place of Al Capone); more specifically, we open to a particular 'plot' about fifteen rows deep and seven 'plots' to the right hand side from the front entrance --- a 'plot', that if we're totally honest, looks like the regular style plot one would expect to find in a cemetery like this. 

There's a slate coloured marble headstone with a cross design and a small angel adorning the top of the cross, jutting upwards from the ground, with a wreath of assorted flowers (mainly roses) in front of the cross, alongside a photograph that is resting against the headstone, encapsulated within the confines of a sapphire/gold painted oak picture frame. 

The photo is that of a female (who appears to be either in their late teens or early twenties) and attired in a fuchsia figure-hugging t-shirt (with arctic designs of a dolphin on the belly and a intricate butterfly design above the left breast), midnight coloured leggings and ebony/graphite coloured 'Adidas' sneakers, with a chalk-white sketched outline of a teddy bear on the tongue of the right shoe (a feature that leads us to believe that the shoe had been custom made), sitting cross-legged atop a magenta cushioned, steel bar-stool within an apartment style of setting, with pear plastered walls behind her, adorned with various posters. 

None of which are all that clearly identifiable, although we can make out a masculine figure hoisting something high into the air within the confines of what appears to be a wrestling ring in one of the posters to the right of where she is seated, as well as one of a lion within the confines of a forest; seated atop a rock, which is directly opposite to said picture. 

Panning to the right, there is also a second photograph, this one encapsulated within a scarlet/raven black mahogany frame and of the same female, only this time, wearing parchment white, black tinted sunglasses, a powder white skirt; a obsidian black singlet and the same Adidas sneakers as the other photograph, and laying down upon an oak bench within a yacht, whilst out within the ocean. Just like the picture in the apartment, a smile that radiates ecstasy and overall joy emits itself from her face, as he blonde hair (tied into a ponytail) flows free from her scalp. 

Scanning around, we notice the sound of footsteps coming from the right hand side of the plot, about fifty metres from the headstone; notice a masculine figure, wearing a pitch black hooded jumper, pitch black tracksuit pants and equally pitch black shoelace-less style sneakers (y'know, the ones that look like loafers but are stylistically regular shoes) methodically making his way down the gravel/grass pathway, right into our vantage point.

Or, at least, we're assuming that this is the 'plot' that he is planning to visit --- he might be visiting one that is beyond us, or simply surveying the cemetery --- though, let's be real: who the actual f*ck 'surveys' a cemetery, if they're either A) not a worker/cleaner or B) not interested in finding a particular plot where a friend/relative/other loved one has been laid to rest? Anyway, he stops right in front of our line of sight; swivels his hips and pivots his body forty-five degrees to the right, his eyes fixated on the headstone that we were watching. 

A Headstone, that we now realise has an engraved name at the point where the horizontal and vertical sections of the cross meet, reading 'Joely Michaels: 15.10.88 - 21.7.2012'. A name, that is *very* familiar to us (and a name that those who have followed the career/life of Scotty Adams close enough, or even at all, would know), for she was the girlfriend of Scotty until her untimely demise at the hands of the one known merely as the 'Mistress of Darkness', whilst she was attempting to draw out the manifestation; the demon that lurks deep within the mind of Scotty, known simply as 'Zion'. 

A venture, that she proved successful in achieving --- as Joely's death became the catalyst for the descent into the abyss; the passage of anguish and turmoil that has been Scotty's life. The agony, that has consumed his every waking moment; the torture that has turned his dreams into nothing more than horrific nightmares --- just as they have done to Joely's sister, Chili and only compounded by the fact that he never *truly* acquired *closure* for it. 

He was denied the true opportunity to 'avenge' Joely's death, due to a myriad of factors. Some within his control --- those are the ones that continually eat away at him the most. Those are the ones that linger within the deepest nether regions of his mind; some out of his control, which haunts him just as much, if not more than the ones that were in his control. Slowly raising his right hand to the hood, the figure peels it back to reveal that it is indeed Scotty, that has decided to make the pilgrimage to the headstone --- fresh from 'checking out' of the 'Roxborough Memorial Hospital' in Philadelphia (where he received 9 stitches above his left eye, after his match with Michael Bishop at Kingdom II). 

"I'm sorry ---" the words floating into the crisp; cool air, Scotty feels his mind begin to fill with the imagery of the night; the pictures of Joely's head laying in his arms as she tried to hold on. As she tried to resist the fading light within her eyes. 

"It should have been me who fell --- it should have been *my* demise," the words piercing through the air, he feels his chest begin to tighten; his body slowly freezing as the chilling sounds of her screams fill his mind. The pictures of her slumping back, finally succumbing to the wounds whilst cradled in his arms causing a soft yelp to flow from his lips as he falls atop his left knee. 

His eyes remaining fixated on the headstone. His eyes beginning to glaze over, he envisions a holographic image of the Mistress standing there, bloody knife in hand and Joely at her feet, gargling as she laughs --- deriving pleasure from seeing Joely struggle; knowing that her life is encapsulated within her hands. Almost in a trance-like state, he feels tears beginning to form within his eyes, as a sangria/cobalt flame begins to shimmer within the irises, his mind fixated on the projections playing in front of him. On the blend of laughter and screaming that is radiating throughout his body; filtering its way out into the air, in a sense --- locking him within the prison that was that cold, dark alleyway in the 'heart' of Chicago on that fateful July night, six years ago. 

"I can still hear your whispers --- I can still taste your tender lips brushing against mine, babe," his words calm yet wobbly, he remarks those words through a closed mouth, his throat closing each time the words echo throughout the air, as the imagery flickers, showing a glimpse of Joely snuggled close to him --- laying atop his double bed, and planting a gentle kiss upon his lips. 

The pleasure beginning to run through his body, he feels the flame burn brighter, as his eyes slightly deviate downward, catching a glimpse of the two pictures he left --- the two fondest memories; the two reminders of just how much she meant to him --- no, how much she *still* means to him. 

Allowing a slight smile to curl up upon his lips, he whispers "You gave me the world," as he feels his stomach slowly churn --- his body slightly begin to relax as the holograms fade into nothingness. As his mind, continues to resist the low; potent growls of 'Zion' that rise from the prison which confines it. The chamber, that contains his desires of pain; his lust, to bring the world to its knees. His breathing calm yet fractured, he allows his eyes to meet Joely's, the tears beginning to run across his skin; drop harmlessly to the dirt below as his head slightly bows. 

"And I failed you," continuing his previous statement, his words are full of remorse; of sorrow for how he allowed MoD to 'vanquish' Joely, without inflicting the comeuppance, the repercussions she deserved. His eyes a waterfall, he tilts his head back up, even if only for a fleeting moment so that he can glance at Joely's smile, he feels his jaw slowly contort itself into an expression of pain. A mirror, of the torment that pierces his soul --- that flows, within the darkest chambers of his psyche.  

"I let her win ---" his voice suffocated by his own tears, he leans forward, resting his hands on the dirt so that he is looking directly at the spot where the grave has been buried (it was deemed too mangled; unrecognisable to return home to Australia), before softly digging his fingertips into the dirt. 

"I let her succeed --- I let my own anger; my own despair consume me --- and it cost me what I stood for," Mustering up those words, he feels his eyes slowly begin to close, as the hologram of Joely laying in a pool of her own blood, grovelling at the feet of the Mistress re-appears, only to fade as Scott turns his head to meet it. Letting out a deep exhale, he turns his gaze to the headstone once more, as the fire within his irises turns into a haze; a mirage, designed to attempt to fuel the passion --- the desire he has, to truly acquire the 'redemption', the 'cleansing' he has denied himself. 

That has been waiting to be claimed --- for that is why he came. Thrusting himself back to a vertical base, he feels his legs slightly wobble underneath him, before looking up to the sky; extending his hands in his (now traditional) cross formation and simply allowing everything to immerse him, before whispering "I won't fail you again, babe --- I promise I will make it *right*" Pausing, he slightly gulps before remarking "And it starts right now --- the passage of purity; of finding the peace I crave commences ---", tilting his head; his eyes back down to the headstone as he does so. Pivoting his feet forty-five degrees to the right, he turns back at the headstone, commenting 

"This is for you ---" before reaching into his trouser pocket with his left hand; dropping a small golden dolphin pendant atop the dirt, right at the foot of the cross. "It was your cherished pendant --- I kept it, to try and keep myself together," feeling the emotion pouring through his words, his face mould itself into a sheer depressive state, be allows a small smile peer out. "But now its time to let it be with you again ---".are the last words we hear emit themselves into the air, as he turns around; solemnly walks into the distance, knowing that this act, is the first stanza of the process. Of the path, to finally attaining his closure. Finally healing, the one scar that cuts deepest. 

It is now, that we fade into nothingness, the last image, being of Scotty becoming nothing more than a shadow in the distance, as we glance down at the pendant he left. The dolphin, that Joely finds herself with once more, even if it is in 'heaven' above.
---
Date: 25/4/2018
Time: 2:30 pm
Location: Philadelphia, Pennslyvania, USA
---

We re-open to the living room of the medium-sized apartment that Scotty has been calling home ever since arriving in Philadelphia; formalising his contract with the OWA. Why Philly; *not* his usual tradition of staying in the condominium he brought in Chicago, as he usually does when he competes in the United States? 

Two reasons, actually. 1) he stated in an interview with KHZT's Mark Franks upon his arrival to the States three weeks ago that it was "primarily for ease of access. It's easier for me to associate with the community; build the OWA's foundation if I'm here, instead of being a 'fly-by-night' kind of guy, y'know?", as well as stating that he had already had a deal in place for this apartment, due to 'external reasons' anyway, so figured that he would capitalise upon that --- set up 'base' and 2) He also uses the condo in Chicago as the official head quarters for the American branch of 'Adams Enterprises'; has stated that when it comes to residences, he tries to keep his business/personal life and his wrestling career separate, due to not wanting to go down the rabbit hole of people assuming 'conflict of interest' should a situation arise where one *could* occur. 

Either way, the living room itself isn't much different than your standard living room --- the walls are painted in a parakeet green, with at least seven posters adorning the walls at various points of the room. The main ones being a Poster of Scotty standing in front of a cliff face, arms stretched out into his famous 'cross'; attired in an arctic blue 'Nike' shirt; coal black/navy blue basketball shorts whilst being barefoot, from a promotional shoot he took at Lorne beach in September of last year for his documentary 'Ruminations of Perfection' (which he filmed and recorded under the Adams Enterprise banner) that is situated about three feet along the right hand side wall. The other one is a portrait style poster of Bianca, seated cross-legged atop a bench in front of federation square, attired in a hot pink loose-fitting t-shirt, sangria leggings and jet black high-heeled shoes, which he had taken back in October of 2014. 

The rest of the room contains a forty-two inch 'LG' brand LCD television, positioned about two and a half feet from the centre of the room; positioned atop a lime-green painted mahogany cabinet (which currently contains his PlayStation 4); about three feet in front/behind (depending on your perspective) of the television, are three violet leather covered oak sofas (two single seated and one double-seated), the single seated sofas 'flanking' the double-seated one, with each set up in a formation like one would have chairs on a porch. 

There's also a small, sandpaper coloured oak coffee table positioned about twenty centimetres from the double-seated sofa, currently littered with assorted pieces of paper, and a bottle of coca-cola positioned about twelve centimetres to the right, rested just behind a small indigo cup holder. Scanning to the sofas themselves, we see Bianca (attired in a obsidian black figure-hugging t-shirt *with a pink love heart design in between the breasts, denim jeans and barefoot) and Scotty (attired in a forest green/white 'Asic' t-shirt, coal grey trousers and barefoot) with their arms wrapped around each others back in a gentle yet loving embrace.

Bianca: You sure you wanna do it, babe?

"Yeah," Nodding his head, he softly leans in, placing a gentle kiss on her lips as a smirk creeps across her face. "It's what *needs* to be done," he remarks --- although we don't *know* what 'it' is (and may never actually know, due to our own incurious nature when it comes to this sort of thing), we can see that it *could* be something important to either Scotty, or in fact, the both of them.  Softly sighing, Bianca leans her head atop his shoulder.

Bianca: True. I mean, we *could* see if Dan or Adam can do it, but it's probably best if we do.

"Yep," he affirms, his body relaxing as he slightly smiles, before allowing his right hand to slightly manoeuvre itself down Bianca's back, feeling it brush against the fabric of her shirt. Feeling a slight chill run down her back, she shudders before softly giggling and tilting her head up, so that it is meeting Scotty's eyes.

Bianca: You always know how to get me, babe --- without fail, you always make me smile. It's almost like you've got the manual on me or something.

Softly laughing, he continues rubbing, as he grasps her right hand with his left. "Babe, I *wrote* the manual on making you happy," his words flowing freely in a jovial manner, Bianca softly blushes at that response, before allowing herself to be immersed in the sight of her love. Of the one, who saved her --- the one who has *always* been there for her, just as she has for him. 

"Though, I *do* need to start focusing on Kenny Drake," he states to himself, knowing that as much as he *would* rather just stay here and relax with Bianca --- his mind; his energy does need to turn to his match with Kenny this week, lest he wish to reverse the result of his battle with Bishop --- a battle, that the stitches above his left eye shall remind him of for at least the next month or so (along with the deep bruise that has formed around said stitches). Softly squeezing Bianca's hand, he glances into her eyes, seeing the passion; the energy and lust flowing through them, before he whispers "I love you,".

Bianca: I love you too.

Smiling, he leans in, placing another kiss upon her lips, this one more passionate than the last, before leaning back and softly feeling himself relax. "This is one thing I have to 'equalise' the odds --- to mitigate the influence your problems with Tarah might have on our match this week, Kenny," his words involuntarily slipping out, he notices Bianca shoot him an approving nod, before continuing on with: "See, although I *know* you might see it as an 'escape clause'; an 'out' from having to stand toe-to-toe with me, actually y'know --- back those claims up of being a servant of god, it's really *not*," the statement piercing through the stale yet cool air, he allows a soft sigh to leave his lips.

"All it is, is a facade; a method for you to believe that you have some sort of psychological strangle-hold over her --- that she will disguise your cowardice. Your inability to hold yourself accountable," his commentary potent and precise, he accompanies it with a devilish half-grin, as Bianca smirks at him. "That accountability, or lack thereof in your case, is what differentiates us,". 

"See, I *own* up to my flaws --- I own the fact that last week, Bishop straight up beat me. He made me tap; he deserves full kudos for doing so," Pausing, he turns his eyes to face us slightly, allowing himself to 'gather his thoughts, whilst slightly reflecting on the sounds of his hands pounding against the mat in submission --- a sight that has become *extremely* rare to see from him, especially in recent times. In fact, this was his first submission loss in his list twenty-eight matches. An event that he takes pride in preventing the occurrence of; will endeavour to insure it *doesn't* happen again for the foreseeable future. 

"Just like I will give you your *deserved* props if you *somehow* conjure up a way to straight up beat me this week ---" softly smirking to himself, he glances over to Bianca, who has a slight scowl upon her face, upon hearing those words, before softly chucking under her breath. "But, that won't be happening --- will it now?" his verbiage sarcastically delivered, he allows his smirk to turn into a smile, before slightly pulling Bianca (whose own scowl has turned into a matching grin) closer to him. 

"You see --- I've done some soul searching this week --- I've gone back to the *one* scar I never truly redeemed. The *one* moment that was the catalyst for my 'downfall'; my passage into the abyss --- and I embraced it," Pausing, he allows those words to settle into the air, as the images of him at the cemetery re-appear inside of his mind, causing a gentle sigh to leave his lips; his eyes to slightly water as he whispers "Joely ---" to himself, as he gulps and gently slides his right hand down to Bianca's waist. 

"I absorbed it; realised that it was a moment that *needed* to happen --- that it was a deed that needed to be enacted, in order for me to realise just what *truly* matters to me,". Running the back of his left hand against his eyes, he knows that no matter how much it cut deep when he made the visit --- no matter how much it cuts through his heart; his mind right now --- it was the *only* way he could clear his mind. The *only* way he would cleanse himself, subdue the pain that lingers within. 

"It was the *only* way I could find 'peace' with the darkness," his words slightly chilling in nature, he feels a soft fire orange flame appear within the irises of his eyes, as he stares directly into the blackened screen of the television, his expression stoic, yet a surprising calm. "Have you?" the question echoing, Scotty wriggles himself further back into the sofa, his glare unwavering. "Or are you still trapped within the passage? Are you still willing to hide behind the 'smoke and mirrors'; the 'fallacy' that you claim is prophecy?" Each query piercing through the air like a knife, Scotty snorts under his breath, as he slightly tilts his head upwards, retaining the fixated; almost trance-like stare upon the TV. 

"Have you come to the acceptance that this week, you walk the passage of your own demise, or do you *truly* believe that you can manipulate the mastermind of manipulation? Do you truly believe the delusion you have fed yourself, or have you accepted that you are but a number; a helpless soul, to the mire that surrounds your very being?" Demonically smirking he allows those words to fester in the air. To weigh upon Kenny's mind, each and every moment he hears their radiance. Every moment, they emit themselves within his mind. 

Bianca: What about Tarah though? Isn't she the 'wildcard'?

Tilting his head to the right, he admittedly nods his head, before feeling a soft smirk creep across his face. "Yeah, she is," he confesses, softly sighing. "Yet at the same time, *she* knows that her end game is only enhanced, if the 'Drake domino' falls --- if he becomes purged of the plague that riddles his soul; encapsulated within the prison he created. Plus, *you* are my equaliser, babe," stating this with his famed half-smirk, Bianca nods, knowing that if the plan is to fall into place; if Kenny is to be suffocated within his own deception, then she is the one to act as the 'negating' force for any attempt by Tarah to inflict her wrath before it is due. 

"*But* if she elects to attempt to impede the fate --- then she becomes the one to feel the hands of fate suffocate everything she stands for," returning to the chilling tone he had taken, he allows a sadistic laughter to flow from his lips. "Whether it be one or two, the purity shall claim its seed," his eyes burning with an intensity that is all-too-common, Scotty pushes himself to a standing position, before hunching down so that he can look us dead in the eye --- well, lens in our case. 

"Kenny, Sunday is seen as the sabbath to those who claim religion --- but to you, Sunday is your 'final supper'. It is the day, you're finally locked within your own personal hell ---". With those words, we fade slowly into darkness, the last image being the look of sadism; the stoic yet chilling expression upon Scotty's face, as those words emit themselves throughout the room. Well, not entirely --- the words See You Sunday, Kenny appear across the screen in crimson, Times new roman font before we are finally able to fade into darkness.

Nate Cage - Introduction and First Proclamation of War


A dimly lit room, housing only an easel containing a map with drawing pins stuck in the United States is shown. As the camera tilts downward, it's revealed this is from the perspective of a person tied to a chair with a camera strapped to their head. A foreboding figure, sporting a Vietnam-era military jacket comes into frame, brandishing a serrated hunting knife. It's the unmistakable menace of one Nate Cage.

An intercontinental ballistic missile is defined as a guided warhead with a minimum range of 3400 miles. It's typically used to deliver payloads of nuclear proportions. Such a weapon could be launched from one side of the Earth and level a city on the other. These weapons are rightfully kept under strict government control, and are only kept as a deterrent.

Well, the 3000 miles between my home nation and the United States is a distance that I can cover. And upon my eventual arrival in the OWA, there are two men who I stand to lay waste to. Here's the catch: no government, no United Nations, no peacekeepers keep me in check. I am free to move wherever I see fit, and I've waged my war at home for a period of time that is about to expire.

So what can I expect when I arrive in the Land of Opportunity? A hero's welcome? A Congressional Medal of Honor? Or two saps who want to make something of their lives? I have a s-s-s-s-stuttering i-i-i-i-mbecile on one side and a degenerate hedonist on the other. Blimey, what a bloody treat!

I have done battle with men who would sooner die than be dishonoured. I have stared into the abyss and didn't blink. There a parts of the human mind inaccessible to higher brain functions, for fear of one's primal side being released. Well, Sigmund and Star, I hope you unlock some sort of animal inside of you come my touchdown on US shores. If you don't, disposing of you will be a matter of choosing who I turn to ash first.

The scorched Earth that your bones will rest in is only the start. But I still have so much more to take with me. Right now, I'm enjoying the time I have left on home soil, because the soil that your Founding Fathers built your great nation on will lack any sort of sufficient use once my doomsday engulfs it. I truly do wish that the art of war is on your side, because once I've run through the stammering stooge and the pelvic pissant, there will be little between myself and the balance of the entire OWA being irreparably shifted.

And if you don't think I'm going to follow through on my promise, pay close attention to what I'm about to do.

Nate approaches the camera, leaning in closely to the helpless victim in the chair. As he brings his knife into frame, a twisted smile adorns his face. A piercing scream that would chill even the strongest constitution is let out by the hostage as the screen cuts to black.

"It's Not The Size of the Dog in the Fight, it's the Size of the Fight in the Dog" - Mark Twain

*As the camera begins to roll, a slightly worn OWA promotional banner hangs sickly in the background, off of a slightly rusted framework. Only the room’s fitted lighting appears to be available, so while you can see clearly the company’s logo and some of its sponsors, anything smaller than that requires considerable squinting. The room itself is covered in dust, not enough to have been abandoned for a long period of time, but long enough to have been forgotten by the custodial staff for at least a few weeks*
 
*Suddenly, an unmistakable nervous energy engulfs the screen. A hand reaches out, and lightly tugs on the banner to ensure its strength. The last thing Stefan wanted was for the banner to fall on him during his official debut as OWA’s newest and least pronounced wrestler. As he ensures that the banner is indeed fine, the Mississippi native finally crosses into the centre of the screen, and picks up the microphone set on a table just out of shot*
 
*As Stefan stares into the microphone with a near sense of dread, his breathing became heavier. So heavy that the microphone started to pick up some of his exhalations even at a distance. He gripped it tight, and cursed the production staff for not being able to assign him a microphone stand, yet alone an interviewer, to help him get through this. Realising the feed continued to roll without him saying a word, Stefan’s eyes began to glow brightly with a fire of staunch recalcitrance, before beginning to struggle through what he intended to say*
 
M-My name is S-S-Steffffan S-Saint S-Sigmund, and I am going to be OWA W-World Champion!
 
I-I understand that that’s a b-big declaration for s-someone like me to m-make, b-b-but I have g-good grounds to m-make it! D-They s-say t-that us c-c-country boys are b-brought up t-tough! W-Well I-I am t-t-t-t-tougher than m-most!
 
L-L-Let’s j-just address the e-elephant in the room first, though. Yes. I d-do s-s-s-s-stutter. Q-quite a lot. I-It is my curse, b-but it is also my st-st-strength! You all heard the J-J-Johnny Cash ssong “The B-Boy Named Sue”? A man is br-br-brought up with an unf-f-ortunate name, and he bec-c-ome st-stronger because of it.
 
I come from a t-t-town called Sssin C-City, in Missi…issi…issi…sip-p-p-p-i! And I will t-t-ell you all, if you get b-beat up for b-being an e-e-easy target…Well, nobody is going to h-h-elp you unless you h-help yourself!
 
T-That’s why I got tough. I got m-mean. I got st-st-strong! When I went to Ole Miss, I won t-t-tropp-pphy after t-t-tropphy as an amateur w-wrestling. I w-was an absolute ace in the m-m-middleweight divisions. I f-f-finished my amat-teur career One Hund-dred and F-F-Fifteen to Thirt-ty t-two, and was a t-two-t-time All-American for my t-troubles. After g-graduation, I al-almost q-q-qualified for the Olympics, b-but that was n-not meant to b-be. S-So inst-stead of m-making excuses for m-myself, I r-realised that I-I needed to d-do something else if I w-w-wanted to achieve g-gr-greatness!
 
S-So why am I here is a wr-wr-wrestling r-r-ring, d-do you ask? W-Well that is simple. B-Because I am a competit-tor! I live to comp-pete and I live to w-w-w-win. I w-want to prove to every m-man, w-woman and child o-out there t-that j-just b-b-because you are d-d-d-different, it doesn’t m-mean you can’t achieve your d-d-d-d-dreams! M-My t-t-tongue and m-m-mouth might have a m-mind of their own, b-but t-that never st-stopped me! It just m-made me st-stronger! It m-made me t-t-t-ougher, and it m-m-ade me m-more st-st-stubborn!
 
To b-begin my journey into the p-pros, I have drawn two very...unique opp-ponents. The m-m-militaristic Nate C-Cage, the…p-p-provocative J-Johnny Star, and the d-defiant st-tu-tutterer St-Stefan St. Sigmund all making their debuts against one another…It sounds like the b-beginning of a b-bad j-joke, d-doesn’t it?
 
Three m-men debuting from t-three very d-d-different b-backgrounds. I-It’s the m-makeup for a p-perfect st-storm, isn’t it? Well, I have weathered enough st-storms in m-my d-day to kn-now that the only w-w-way you g-get through them is p-p-persistance! W-While I am s-s-sure that C-Cage is g-going to be looking for complete d-d-domination of his op-ponents, and St-Star will be l-looking to m-make a n-name of himself, I am fighting for something a lot p-purer, and lot more m-meaningful. S-Something that will p-put me over the edge, and unleash the f-f-full f-f-f-ighting spirit.
 
I am fighting not only for m-myself, n-not just for my s-sense of p-p-pride, b-but I am fighting f-f-for all of you! Yes, OWA Universe. I kn-now h-how it is! T-To be p-put d-down for not being st-str-rong enough! For n-not b-be-being able to say the right thing. F-For n-not b-being what p-p-people w-want you to be! F-for be-being s-seen as a f-fr-freak when you are too st-strong to just g-give up when th-things g-get h-hard! I kn-now h-h-how it is, be-because I have l-lived it my e-e-entire l-life! I-I-I have st-started from the b-bottom, and I have not f-f-forgotten where I have c-come from!
 
My name is S-S-S-S-Stefan St. Sigmund, and this is for you, OWA Universe. I-I don’t care if a-a-nyone in this company believes in me. W-What matters is if YOU all b-believe in me, and I will g-g-guarantee you, that I w-w-w-ill never forsake your b-b-belief! J-J-Johnny! N-n-nick! You b-both b-better w-watch out, b-because it w-won’t j-just be me c-coming at you b-both. It w-will be the h-hearts and souls of every single so-called f-f-freak and r-reject in the audience, and if you can w-w-withstand that…Well, all the b-best to you, b-because as l-long as there is f-fight in m-my b-body…I am n-never going to g-give up!
 
*Breathing heavily, Sigmund’s mouth cracks the biggest smile. As far as he was concerned, the hard part was over. He made his declaration, and while nobody may notice it, he did his best to put OWA on notice. As he walks over to the camera to turn it off, the feed suddenly stops and the screen goes to black*

T H E B L O G #2
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**The following was posted to OWA.com by Scotty Adams, with the timestamp of 11:50am on 19/4/2018**

Make the most of your opportunities

This is a statement that many will tell their children; tell their friends when an opportunity; a chance arises for them to shine --- for them to make an impact on the world. For them to leave an impression on the climate that surrounds them, yet at the same time, they will begrudge those who *do* follow through with that advice; who *do* capitalise on an opportunity that arises itself for them. 

They become jealous and as such, criticise the person, even though all they did --- was exactly what they needed to, in order to y'know, succeed. Just like certain pockets of 'fans' (more like sheeple, but eh, fans is a loose enough term) couldn't comprehend just why I made the most of the opportunity that presented itself against Marsden last week. 

Just *why* I, in their eyes, "cheated" (it's not cheating by the way, so let's get that outta the way first)/went against what they perceive to be "morally correct", all so I could get the win. First of all, do you know how f*cking dumb that sounds? "He won, but he 'broke his morals' so it means nothing," (laughter) I'm sorry you don't understand that's not how it works. See, wrestling is just like real life ---

It's results oriented

The *result* is all that truly matters, in the grand scheme of things. That is what is remembered more than anything else. Not if you were "morally correct" or if you won in a fashion people would call "clean" (by the way: I *did*, if you wanna get technical). No, that's irrelevant to the annuls of time --- it only cares about if you were the victorious, or the vanquished. That is what is etched into stone. The same as it is in any aspect of life --- you are measured by your successes and your failures. *Not* by how well you supposedly 'performed' --- a note that heck, even my next opponent (more on him a little later) could stand to learn as well. 

What, with his crying about how he 'dominated' his match last week --- even though he *lost*, whereas although I didn't 'dominate' to the extent that he did (at least, in his own mind), I was the one to walk away with the dub. I was the one who can say "they did what they needed to, in order to win". As for *how* I won: Ask Trevor why he allowed it to pan out that way? Ask him, why did he allow himself to fall into the rabbit hole? All I did, was manipulate the situation; use it to my advantage. 

And once again, that is what you're *supposed* to do --- that if, if you actually wanna get anywhere. If you actually wanna succeed. But hey, it's a lot easier for some to cry and bemoan the fact that "destiny" and "fate" for some reason decided that they needed to 'conspire' against you for some reason, isn't it? It's easier to play the victim, than to fess up and say "I need to improve"; "I *need* to be better next time around", because that would actually be taking responsibility (and we know how adverse people are to doing that, don't we). Spare your tears; your commentary about "woe is me" to somebody who'll actually f*cking listen, because I don't have the time of day to entertain that sh*t.

No excuses

That's the philosophy I subscribe to --- If I lose, it's because *I* just wasn't good enough on the night. Nothing more and nothing less --- If I win (as I did against Marsden), it's because I was *better* on the night, or (as it so happened to be) I was 'smarter' than the opposition. It'll be the same *this* week, against Michael Bishop. Now, Michael, I respect you --- I have nothing against you outside of the ring; you're right. To an extent, we *are* cut from the same cloth. 

We *both* want what's 'pure' for wrestling --- we both oppose wrestling being sullied in the manner that it has by the BS and gimmickry that has been enabled within this industry. Difference is --- where you merely 'speak' about your acts; how you plan to 'prove people wrong', I *actually* go out there and prove it. I don't need to trump myself up --- I don't *need* to tell you why "I'm the best"; "why I'm better", because I'd much rather show you. I'd rather demonstrate it in person, because verbiage means nothing at the end of the day, *unless* the actions verify it. 

See, I heard your words about your MMA background and how you 'conquered' the industry --- I mean, I had already done my research. I knew about that; I know just how capable you are when it comes to getting down and dirty. How capable you are, when it comes to controlling the tempo --- yet what you seem to *not* realise is: I'm *not* like the rest. I'm not just gonna sit back and let you ascertain control. I'm not somebody who 'wings it', or throws sh*t at a wall; hopes it sticks when it comes time to step into the ring. I already have everything mapped out. I already have everything planned out --- every single step, put into place. 

I'm already 3 steps ahead

Michael, I'm not gonna delude you into thinking I'm some sort of deity --- I'm not gonna hide from the fact that you *need* this win more than I do; we know what they say about those who have nothing to lose ---. Problem is: It is that mentality; that "I wanna prove everyone wrong" frame of mind, that leaves you open; that leaves you as vulnerable as people who attempt those 'easily-countered kicks' do. Just as much as those who see fit to 'pander' to the fans do --- and against *me*: that is merely securing your demise. You'll see just why that is, soon enough, when you become Victim #2 in the crusade --- the second, to fall upon the ashes of the mire. See ya Sunday, Michael.

- Scotty

Hello ladies and gentlemen. Now before I begin blessing you with the gift of a properly educated individuals voice, something you lowly scum know nothing of...I would like some decorum please! SILENCE BEFORE I DELIVER THE GREAT NEWS TO THE WORLD FOR THIS WEEK! And of course by Great News...I only mean for myself and my partner, the multi talented Boujie Alan! Our opponents tonight however...I’VE GOT SOME BAD NEWS FOR YOU! We are going to bring the Bollywood World Order to its knees, as if they were praying to one of their many false gods, and force them into submission...just as sickness and famine has done to their entire nation! And as for all of you pieces of trash in the peanut gallery...I’M AFRAID I’VE GOT SOME BAD NEWS FOR YOU LOT! You’ll have to sit by and witness it all, with the knowledge that I...BAD! NEWS! BART! WILL REMIND YOU CONSTANTLY THAT BOUJIE ALAN AND I HAVE CRUSHED YOUR HOPES AND DREAMS OF ANYONE BEING ABLE TO STOP US! WE ARE THE MOST POWERFUL DUO IN THE ENTIRE WORLD...PERIOD! Thank you very much.

(The Bollywood World Order stands assembled in Bada Dik Baap’s glorious Indian palace somewhere in India)

BDB: The Great Nation of India will put your countries to shame. All of your countries. Wherever Bougie Alan is from will be put to shame . [/b][/size]Wherever Bad News Bart is from will be put to shame . Do you want to be put to shame? Do you understand what shame even means in India? We still stone and behead our women for walking out in the streets! Meanwhile you filthy Americans have women in your main event? And no wonder wrestling is a failing business in the United States. Ha. You do not need to worry, OWA, because I have some very wealthy friends pumping money into your worthless American company. All you need to do in return is… realize the talent of the BADA DIK BAAP and give to me everything in this company I deserve. The million dollar main event contract, the title matches, the first-class flights, limos to and from the airport… I’m going to need that all. Not that I can’t afford it myself with my oil money of course, but spending money you make on the backs of broken bodies dying from the Middle Eastern heat kind of hurts me in the heart you know? That’s why the immoral OWA should foot my expenses, so that those in poverty don’t die for our profits in vain.

Hussein Al Hussein: You fools seem to not understand just how powerful us Saudi Arabians actually are. We could buy your company right now and shut it down any time we want, that’s why we suggest you cooperate with the wishes of our leader Bada Dik Baap. There is a greater mission we have here that extends beyond the reaches of your small American minds. While you stay glued to your televisions watching football we have been pulling the strings behind the scenes, taking control of your country, and now it’s time for us smaller splinter cells to infiltrate American sports industries. We’re injecting the Arabian bloodline into every single aspect of your culture, all of course with the help of our glorious Indian comrades.

BDB: Thank you Hussein Al Hussein. It seems that this week I will have to step into the ring with my heavy, The Mediocre Khaled. Do not let his name confuse you. Mediocre he may be, but little do you know the genetic engineered improvements that the Saudis --

Hussein Al Hussein: Uh, we actually have an NDA on that here. Can’t tell the OWA people about that, something to do with their laws about fair competition. Typical American Bullshit, you know.

BDB: Ah, well in that case, all you need to know about The Mediocre Khaled is that he is not to be taken lightly. I cannot tell you how many people he’s killed in India because some of the warrants for his arrest are still valid. Luckily, a nice donation from my Saudi trust fund to the Indian government resolves that issue and of course, allows my trusted friend Khaled to wrestle alongside me here in this shithole known as OWA.

Khaled: Khaled… kill… Bart… Khaled… kill… Bougie…

BDB: Yes Khaled, that is exactly what you are going to do tomorrow night. When you compare the chinless frog Bougie Alan to the godlike completely natural physique of myself, there isn’t much doubt when it comes to who is superior. I do not care for your filthy American clothing, no matter how expensive or “bougie” you may find it, because your most expensive Gucci item costs as much as one strand of my finest kurta. It is disgusting how you portray 300,000 followers on Twitter as an achievement. First of all, the Saudi Arabians control Twitter so I’m going to have them delete your account this week. Secondly, 300,000 is no comparison to the 1.3 BILLION FOLLOWERS I HAVE IN THE GREAT NATION OF INDIA. You actually are the embodiment of the American dream, Alan - mediocrity masked as success. To sum that up, you are a failure and I will prove as much when you step into the ring against me tomorrow night. And if worst comes to worst, I will defeat you in a rap battle too because that’s how multi-talented us Indians are. Bad News Bart, the only bad news I have for you is that I’m going to take your job after the Bollywood World Order kicks your ass, because then, the bad news for everyone else is that the BWO IS TAKING OVER, BHAISAB.

Rick Walton: Ladies and Gentlemen...MY NAME...is Rick Walton! And I am here in the Omega Wrestling Alliance as the representative of...The BEST! WRESTLER! ALIVE! C! M! NAS!

CM Nas: I feel a very strange case of Deja Vu here Rick. It’s almost as if we JUST did this wouldn’t ya say?

Rick Walton: Well Nas, I haven’t the slightest clue what you mean by that...but what I DO know is you’ve got yourself lined up exactly where I am sure you expect to be this week.

CM Nas: The Main Event of the very first Omega Wrestling Alliance show. Yes Indeed Rick. Only a TRUE Star of my caliber belongs in such a position. As  a matter a fact, if I am not a part of every last OWA Main Event from here until the end of time, then there is a crime.

Rick Walton: It would be a travesty Champ!

CM Nas: Who could be such a vile, heartless man as to deprive the good people of the OWA Fanbase the most quality main event matchups they could possibly have. Which of course will always follow this formula. CM Nas going up against Insert Wrestler Here.

Rick Walton: And naturally the result will always be the same no matter who it is that steps up to the plate. CM Nas will triumph over any and all challenges that oppose him because that is what The Best do. The rise to the occasion and overcome all obstacles that stand in their path. 

CM Nas: I could not have said any better myself if I tried Rick. This is why I keep you around, because I’m getting too old to have to do all of this shit for myself. Either way let’s get down to business proper Rick. What stands before The Modern Day Champion of Efeds this time?

Rick Walton: Tres Comas Club’s Chase Vedder.

CM Nas: How cute. A representative of the Knockoff Brand Phantom Troupe gets first crack at me. What a sad and meaningless existence it must be to be a part of that sorry lineup. Forever living in the shadows of The Troupe and all? Talk about being doomed to obscurity without even a shot to get your name out there. Wait a sec...did you say Chase Vedder?

Rick Walton: Why yes I did champ, what of it?

CM Nas: Ain’t this the guy who took an L to my girlfriend and that Piero clown?!

Rick Walton: For the SSW Freebird Tag Team Championships I believe.

CM Nas: What business does this guy have tellin me off in any way, shape, or form? I find it real adorable how Chase is asking all of these irrelevant questions that the world doesn’t even care about just to stroke his own ego and create valid arguments to use against me. And you KNOW he only resorts to these slimey tactics because, well A that’s what they do in Tres Comas Club, and B besides bringing up my facial hair, how cute, he’s got absolutely nothing on me. Kiddo I hope you are paying very close attention because I’m about to take you to class. You can call this one Promos 101 with Mr. Nas. Or Mr. Moore, but ya know some people don’t like it when I use my government name so Mr. Nas will do. Anyways Chase. You can’t talk shit about a man’s facial hair when your face looks like a baby’s ass and you probably are incapable of growing anything on your face other than the premature pedo stache you definitely had in the ninth grade. I don’t wanna hear shit from you on the subject matter. As far as this championship is concerned, I’ll give you the tl;dr version of what I told Masanori Kawada earlier about it. This championship title is my greatest accomplishment and as it rests upon the shoulder of the Best Wrestler Alive, I have made it the single most important championship in all of Professional Wrestling. I’d be a damned fool to throw away what I fought, scratched, and clawed years to achieve. So I took it with me and have made it mean far more than any man who held it prior to me ever has. Trust me, my reputation with my former employers is the very last thing that I give a rats ass about. 

Rick Walton: He could care less what they think of him. Because he knows for a fact most of them do think he is the absolute scum of the earth, public enemy number one. But The Champ personally could not be prouder of his actions.

CM Nas: I had a choice to sit by and accept the fate that was being crafted for me in such a creatively stifling and enthusiasm killing environment...or I coulda stood up and decided I’d take my own career into my own hands and make this fun again for myself. You can clearly see which I chose Chase. Very cute analogy you made though Mr. Vedder. But I think it sums me up quite a bit more than yourself. Who is Chase Vedder to be speaking in such a manner? What has he done? What proof does he have of his ability. What evidence can he display to backup every word the leaves his lips? I rest my case on that little bit.

Rick Walton: CM Nas IS The Modern Day Champion of Efeds! He is the RIGHTFUL Reigning Defending EAW Answers World Champion AND the soon to be inaugural Omega Wrestling Alliance World Champion!

CM Nas: There should not even be a single doubt in anyone’s minds on this. You look up and down at the roster of men who are in line for the big gold of OWA and they just don’t compare. Men like Keelan, Finnegan, and Carson are poor versions of myself. Meanwhile you have men such as Caspian Gray, Miltiades, and yourself who have no claim to anything, nothing to show for how much trash leaves their lips. What say do you have in anything? The simple fact is no one compares to the greatness of The God himself. It’s not even remotely close. Bob Taylor might as well show up on the debut show of Kingdom and hand me the damn title now. It is a complete waste of time for me to have to jump through all of these hoops for a title that I have already essentially captured! Trust me the lost pride you felt from being nut punched twice in the same match will be NOTHING compared to what is in store for you this Sunday. If this is the best you can do junior, qualifying for the Fatal Four Way at Hardcore Havoc is finna be a breeze! 

Rick Walton: But of course only The Best should be headlining the very first OWA event for the very first OWA World Title! It can only end up this way can it not Champ?

CM Nas: But of course Rick. Simply put for you Chase Vedder, prepare to be exposed on Kingdom.

HAKAI!

 Decadence Cometh


Date: 3/4/18
Time: 8:30 am
Location: Glenroy, Victoria, Australia
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We open to the strains of Channel 7's morning program 'Sunrise' blaring out from a 'Sparq' 50 inch Television screen positioned atop an oak table at the back of a smallish bedroom, within the confines of a house known to belong to professional wrestler (well, if we're being totally honest, currently 'retired' professional wrestler that is) Scotty Adams.

The room itself isn't all that different to the vast majority of bedrooms one would see in the standard home --- directly behind the Television is a window with an orange/tan plaid blanket spread across it (for insulation purposes), and to either side of the window is a white painted oak closet that is half peering open, exposing the litany of clothes/attire inside of it (on the right hand side) and a black painted oak shelf, which is currently housing two of Scotty's most famous trophies *those being the 2012 and 2013 Australian wrestler of the year trophies*, as well as a black/gold painted mahogany picture frame, sits a picture of a young Scotty *where he is 5-6 years old* sitting on a slide, with his father crouched down on the tanbark next to him. 

Both beaming with smiles that would be able to light up a nighttime sky, if that were actually humanly possible to do. It's a picture that reminds him of just who he is; of just what he has endured, to find himself in the position that he is today. Not just as a wrestler and businessman, but as a person (on the left hand side of the Television). Panning around the rest of the room, it can be seen that a double bed takes ut the vast majority of space in the room, the black metallic 'base' jutting up at the back (which is positioned gently against the left hand side wall, with a faded grey pillow positioned against it. 

There is also a white doona cover with purple/blue floral designs stitched into it draped across the bed --- which is actually what brings our attention to the fact that Scotty is currently laying in the bed --- the doona covering his body enough so that the only parts exposed are his arms, his face and the top part of his chest (enough to reveal that he is wearing a black/orange/red basketball top with the word "Epitome" stitched into it with white stitching (and a part of the recent merchandise that was released on Adams Enterprise's website two weeks ago) and his eyes almost fixated out into space, lost within the strain of 'Antigravity' by Starset which is blaring through his headphones (the song playing from his Samsung Galaxy s8 edge phone that is positioned about five centimetres to the right from where he is positioned). 

Allowing him to escape from the --- if we're totally honest here, which 99.9% of the time, we are, hell and turmoil that has been the last 9 months of his life. Well, actually, it's been more like 11 months, if we go back to when he found out that his attempt to return to the ring *his 2nd attempt in 2 years* would have to be put on ice once more, courtesy of the fourth tear of his meniscus and the third dislocation of his left kneecap, followed not even a month later by the news of his close friend Amelia Price being ruthlessly assaulted at the 'Jungle' nightclub, an occurrence that led to Chili *his closest friend and confident not named Holly or Bianca* being readmitted to the  'Melton Mental Institute' that she had been released from four months prior; where she has been ever since, due to her instability and drifting in and out of a turmoil based psychosis. 

Softly sighing, Scotty extends his right arm out about twenty-five centimetres, reaching into a black open cigarette box; pulling out one, before pulling it back in and placing it on the doona just above his chest. Yes, we know, smoking isn't the best choice of activity for a professional wrestling, seeing as it does negatively impact your cardio and aerobic capacity *two things that are extremely important to a professional wrestler, or well, any wrestler in general*, but it's the best way he has been able to numb the pain; shut off his mind, even if it only works for small spurts of time before his thoughts continue to consume him. 

Well, smoking and music have been the two ways he has managed to 'cope' when in solitude and left with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. Reaching his hand out again, he grasps the red 'Bic' brand lighter that was also in the box; slowly brings it back to his chest, a small pit beginning to form in his stomach as he does. Picking the cigarette up with his left hand, he brings up it to his lips, gently placing it in his mouth, as he proceeds to flick the lighter.

Flick

Allowing a slight smile to creep across his face, he inhales the nicotine, feeling it fill his mouth as he slightly closes his eyes, his mind and body slightly relaxing as he does so, allowing the music to immerse him --- to free him from his shackles as he blows a plume of smoke into the air (having pulled the cigar from his mouth; dabbed the butt into the ashtray positioned near the cigarette box), before letting out a slight yawn, as he slowly brings his arm and the cigar back to his mouth, taking another puff; feeling the nicotine and cola (that he had also been drinking, also placed on a plate about thirty centimetres in front of the cigar box) to fizzle in his mouth, the acidic taste soft enough to just rest there as the mixture slides down his throat. 

Leaning back, he feels his spine press against the back of the bed, with his head resting against the top, before reaching slightly in front of him and grabbing his phone with his right hand, before once again pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and putting it in the ashtray with his left --- the 'ping' from his phone (informing him that he has received a message) being the event that has captured his attention and focus from what had become a 'mini-meditation' session. Swiping to the right with his finger, he unlocks the phone; allows his eyes to briefly scan over the message, as his expression turns from stoic to calm, his typical half-smile flashing through.. 

Scotty, can you come over? Need to talk to you about something. -Jane

Feeling the small pit that had subsided before return, he instinctively nods his head --- although he knows that there's every chance that this either pertains to Adams Enterprises, or his recently announced comments (via social media *well, specifically twitter*) about the 'flame of desire' returning in regards to wrestling --- even more so considering that he had formally been cleared by doctors to return to the ring, if he so chose to, back on January the Fifth --- he also knows that it could just as much have to do with Chili or Amelia's condition, or even something to do with Bianca (or well, any of his friends being in some sort of perilous situation *whether that be physically of mentally*). 

Softly allowing a sigh to float into the air from his lips, he scans over the message once more, feeling his own anxiety begin to manifest in the form of 'pins and needles' in his right hand, causing him to clasp it into a fist, then extend his fingers out again in order to attempt to muster up enough willpower to type out a response.

Yea. I'll be over in about a hour, okay? Btw: Did the order come in? I meant to ask you the other day, but forgot lol. -Scotty

Pressing 'send', he feels his chest begin to rise and fall, as his breathing begins to steady itself. Slightly chuckling, he glances quickly over at the Television, noting that they are discussing the recent VCW event, where Mark Merrill became a seven time VCW heavyweight champion (thus tying Scotty's own record), causing him to slightly mutter "Knew it," before smirking gently at the screen, in a matter that is much akin to how a child dumbly smiles at an inanimate object, or how someone does the same thing when they're 'zoned out' and not entirely paying attention to what is actually going on in their surroundings. 

Tilting his head back to his phone, he slightly flicks the message off the screen, returning it to his music playlist and just staring down, a slight fire beginning to rise in his eyes. Scrolling further down the screen, he finds the song 'Down' by Cult to follow; pushes play, slightly moving his neck to the left before whipping it back to a central position as the music radiates within his mind. Reaching into his smoke box, he pulls out another cigar, before picking up his lighter (that he had placed atop his chest when he picked up his phone).

Flick

Taking a deep breath, he fills the nicotine slide down his mouth and into his throat as his breathing gently relaxes --- almost as if he is starting to find some sense of 'ease' about everything. Continuing to savour the taste, he glances down at his phone, noticing that Jane had fired back a quick reply to him.

Alright. And yeah, it came through yesterday --- I had it sent to HQ, so that it can be shipped out on Saturday. - Jane

Smiling, he nods his head in delight that the order had indeed, come through and that he could deliver the supplies he promised the Scandinavian branch of 'Adams Enterprises' (based in Sweden) to hand out on their annual 'charity drive' --- an event that Scotty ensures *all* branches host at least twice a year, seeing as he himself, was once in the shoes of those who are disadvantaged or those who for one reason or another, are not able to live with their parents. 

He was in state-care from the ages of 4-16 (when he would move in with Paul Ketters, a wrestling trainer and promoter for the MVW federation where Adams started his professional wrestling career) and everything would go from there, and become what it has for him today ---. 

Thanks . I'll get that done tomorrow. -Scotty

Placing his phone down on the bed, he blows another plume of smoke into the air, gently placing the cigar atop the ashtray and the lighter back into the smokebox, before pulling the blanket off him with his right hand; swinging his legs off the left hand side of the bed (thus revealing that he is wearing black/blue basketball shorts to go with his shirt), after of course, pulling the headphones from his ear. 

Using his hands to acquire a vertical base, Scotty smirks to himself as he walks around to the foot of the bed and slips on a pair of black/blue 'Asic' sneakers with a motion that almost makes them appear like slippers (they're not, but he elects not to tie the laces up unless he is planning on competing) before extending his right arm out; softly placing it atop the cold; faded gold painted steel door handle, turning it clockwise before pulling it; using it as a 'vaulting point' to commence his walk into the hallway. It is here, that we decide to end this particular setting, with the sounds of his feet pivoting right; his footsteps guiding us towards the lounge room being the last thing we hear.
---
Date: 3/4/18
Time: 10:10am
Location: Eltham, Victoria, Australia
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Jane: You interested?

We re-open our setting to the sight of a mahogany coffee table, positioned in-between two violet coloured two-seat couches and atop a crimson red/light blue Moroccan style of rug inside of a luxurious living room. On one of the couches, sits Scotty (wearing the same attire from when we last saw him, although instead of the basketball top, he is wearing a white/red/black plain buttoned t-shirt), his right leg crossed over his left knee and his hands placed gently atop his right thigh, a stoic expression across his face as those words radiate; bounce around inside of his brain. 

On the other couch, sits his personal assistant/liaison director for Adams Enterprises, as well as very close friend Jane Simms, who is attired in a plain white shirt and blue denim jeans, as well as a tan business style pinstripe jacket, with black "Nike" running sneakers that have silver accents on either side. Glancing at Scotty, she softly smiles, knowing that as much as he might deny it to her face, deep down --- he craves the thrill of the ring. The challenge, of 'purging' the industry; taking it back to its 'pure roots'. 

Otherwise, he would not have even entertained her message. Well, he would have, but he would have also added the qualifying statement "If it has anything to do with wrestling, then the answer is *no*". Watching his eyes glance at the letter that rests atop the table, then slightly waver to meet her eyes, she makes a mental note of every facial movement. Every twitch in his eyes; every small fidget of his hands (and especially those movements where he brings his right hand up to stroke his beard), before extending her hand out; grasping a blue coffee mug that she had placed atop the table, almost right on the ledge.

"I don't know," he remarks, feeling his words float into the air as a gentle sigh leaves his lips. 

"I mean, *I* do admittedly miss the feeling of being able to facilitate the purge --- of being able to remind people why it is that I am the pinnacle of what wrestling *should* stand for --- the one who wishes to bring back the purity wrestling yearns, but I just don't know if I *can* be that guy" His voice calm, he softly slides his hand up his thigh, almost as if to indicate that he is learning towards yes, yet at the same time, he just cannot lift his hand. He just cannot commit the act --- finalise the deed and definitely give the answer that has been craved. 

The 'yes' that OWA have been seeking --- the letter itself even references this, when it states that not only would this signing be the chance for Scotty to be the catalyst; to be the 'guy' that OWA lists as their marquee, but it is also a chance for them to make a statement. To let it be known that they're not just another run-of-the-mill promotion that bursts onto the spotlight, then fades into obscurity in a fleeting moment but a brand that is looking to rise up the ranks; become a dominant force in wrestling for eons to come. 

Continuing to switch his focus between the letter and Jane, he feels his body almost driving itself into stress overload, as his breathing slightly begins to quicken, his heart pulsating with each passing microsecond. "Ugh, is it *right*?" he mutters, half wanting re-assurance, half trying to determine just what exactly to allow to continue emitting itself within him; what to shut out.

Jane: Scotty?

Her voice slightly concerned at the fidgeting and breathing, she leans over, placing her left hand on his knee in an attempt to calm him down and remind him that she is always here to support him; ensure that 'Zion' doesn't take a hold of him once more. 

"I don't know --- wrestling has been both a blessing and a curse. It has both been a catalyst for my glory and my pain; my anguish and my ecstasy. Do I *truly* want that?" his words jutting out between sharp, agitated breaths, he slightly swats Jane's hand, before feeling a small shudder run down his spine, his anxiety starting to truly take over. 

"What if it happens again? What if it all falls apart; I'm left with nothing but the nightmare I have tried to evade?" Feeling Jane softly grip his left hand, he glares at her, the agitation and frustration at not knowing the *true* correct answer is evident. After all, he is someone that has based himself off knowing how to manipulate; how to conjure up situations that advantage him, in both a wrestling *and* personal sense, yet here --- he just cannot find a way to do that. No matter how hard he tries, his anxiety and paranoia *always* finds a way to manifest doubt within his mind. Always manages to find a way to cause him to doubt his own intuition. 

Jane: You know I'm always here for you --- Bianca's always here for you --- Holly's always here for you. I know Amelia and Chili would want you to do this as well ---.

Her words gentle and done in a way to try and re-assure him that any hesitation about 'failing' them; about his life falling back into ruins if he elects to follow through with the acceptance is merely a figment of his own imagination, yet at the same time, she knows that not even she can definitely tell him that his life *won't* crumble, for nobody can truly answer that until the moment arises. Sighing, he feels himself starting to calm, as he squeezes her hand softly and murmurs "I know --- and I *want* to do this. I just don't know if I *can* --- I just don't know if it's *right*". 

His eyes watering, he bows his head, the thoughts of Chili locked up in the padded cell within the asylum; Amelia moaning and hooked up to breathing apparatus (among other machinery) flashing in front of his eyes, as he begins to feel tears stream down his face. "I don't want it to happen again --- I don't wanna lose someone, because I wasn't here to help ---" he stammers, the tears beginning to overflow as they drip down onto the fabric of his shirt. Jane slides herself forward, making sure to grip his hand tighter, before she leans forward; softly plants a kiss atop his forehead, accompanying it with a soft smile.

Jane: *whispering* You won't lose us --- I promise. 

Feeling his lips curl into a soft smile, he slightly tilts his head up, making eye contact with Jane again, before she raises her left hand; wipes some of the tears from his face.

Jane: But if you don't want to do it just yet --- if you don't wanna give them an answer, that's okay. I just know deep down --- you want this, Scotty. I know how much this means to you; how much you cherish the industry.

"I do ---" he whispers, knowing that no matter how much the seeds within his head might wish to refute it, he *does* cherish wrestling. He *does* truly want to be able to say 'yes' and set foot between the ropes this time --- hopefully for a more elongated duration than his two prior attempts, a wish that is aided by the fact that this time, he knows his body is at 100%. He knows that his knee and back are 'fine' --- or well, as close to 'fine' as they can possibly be. 

"I'll do it," he states, the confidence slowly seeping back into his voice, as he raises his right hand; uses the back to wipe away the remaining tears from his eyes. "I *need* to," softly laughing to himself, he leans back against the backrest of the sofa, releasing Jane's hand from his grasp and softly pecking her on the right side of the cheek, before leaning forward once again to sign the contract that had been put forth by Vernon Tessler. 

Thud

Allowing the pen to drop onto the table, he knows that this is the right call --- that this is merely what *needs* to be done. That wrestling needs him, just as much as he needs to be the one to bring about its 'purge' --- or as he would state it, its 'salvation'. Pushing himself up to a vertical base, he extends his hands in a cross-like formation (something that shall become all-too-familiar if you know his mannerisms) as he mouths the words "OWA, the time is nigh --- shall you stand, or shall you fall into the flames?" as we fade into darkness once more, allowing Jane and Scotty to continue their conversation in peace.
---
T H E B L O G #1
---

***The following has been submitted to OWA.com by Scotty Adams, dated 5/4/18 and timestamped at 11:00am.***

So, it seems that OWA management wish for me to have some sort of 'try out' match --- or as they might wish to call it, a 'tune up' against another debutante named Trevor Marsden --- someone who seems to have this false belief that wrestling is some sort of 'game', and as such --- is designed to be conquered. Well, he's half right, I must admit: wrestling is designed to be conquered, but:

It ain't a game

This isn't somewhere that you can merely button mash and 'pray for the best'; ultimately have any sort of success --- unless you are able to manipulate the system, find some way to continuously access 'cheat codes' --- oh, sorry, those don't exist in this industry, so no, there's really 0% probability of success if you attempt to button mash your way to the top. Isn't that what 'gamers' do anyway? I mean, I have nothing against gamers --- I play games in my spare time myself and they are a good way to alleviate stress, but they do *not* correlate to the real world, or this industry in any way whatsoever. 

You're deluded if you think they do

But enough about that --- because contrary to what you might wish to assume, or want to assume is probably the better verbiage to use here, I *have* done my research on you --- just like I do each and every opponent I step into the ring with. I know that despite your gaming obsession and love of the 8-bit world, you *are* a serious arial threat in the ring; that you have athleticism that many have said is comparable with some of the best to ever set foot in the ring and that you have a surprisingly solid technical base that you can work with as well --- a base that makes you a 'dual-threat' on the ground and in the air. 

Sort of like I was in my younger days --- before I decided to hone in on the technical side of the game, instead of trying to be this crowd-pleasing; dynamic individual who no matter what, 'put on a show'. Well, I mean, I still put on a show, but ---

I do it with actual substance; not solely the style that you seem to wish to feed off

That's the thing: From the tape, you have flash; stylistic points out the wazoo --- like of like a game with good graphics going for it. Enough to draw the fans in, but when they cry for their appetites to be whetted, for you to actually provide them with, you know, actual *value* for their money, you fall short. Just like when a game has the aforementioned spectacular graphics, but lacks severely in the actual storyline or game play element of it. You know, the meat that goes between the bread in a sandwich. It's what we like to call 'over-compensation'.

And one of the biggest issues with the industry today

A lot of wrestlers over-compensate for their lack of any prowess or proficiency when it comes to getting down and dirty by adding 'flair' to their moves and stringing together sequences that are done with the sole purpose to play into the notion that 'fans are sheep' (which, if we're telling the complete truth here, they are), without taking into account just how easily they can be twisted; just how easily they can crash and burn, thus leaving you right on the back foot; helpless as the deluge begins to pour down. As the tide, sweeps you out to the open sea. You drown, the very moment *any* retaliation is carried out and this week, that retaliation shall be your demise. Your own pandering, will be what brings you into the mire; lays you out on the mat, ready for the vultures to pick at your carcass, piece by piece. I *don't* even need to do a single thing --- for you'll do my job for me.

Honestly, you already have

Yet you don't even realise it. You probably don't even suspect a thing --- and that is *exactly* how I want it. I want you to think that this is all just a 'game'l that I am just trying to hide behind 'smoke and mirrors', because to me --- that just makes it all the worthwhile. It's as they say "you never hear the shot, that takes you down" and this week --- that adage shall manifest itself when I commence the 'purge'; submerge you deep inside the mire of your own fate. You shall be victim #1 --- the first minuscule stanza, in the return of purity. Of the doctrine, being fulfilled. See ya Sunday, Trevor.

-Scotty.

KINGDOM: CASPIAN'S GENESIS.

“Empezamos el camino para la gloria en este dia.  Hoy es el mismo dia que el humanidad se caerá a los pies del Rey de Matanza.”

Allow me to introduce myself.  Soy el único hombre que se puede llamar Caspian Gray.  El hombre más rudo que vas a conocer en tu vida. Not a joke or some scare tactic; it’s the truth.  Nací en Honduras y si piensas ese lugar es bien peligroso, yo soy otra cosa, pendejo. My ways of handling things are not like how you white boys like to.  I’m a real man who doesn’t fall in line with petty bullshit like every other talent in this business. I’m not here to be anyone’s friend and to suck off the fans like some approval seeking whore.  I signed with OWA for one thing only: success. The word lose isn’t in my dictionary; it’s either you win or you’re nobody. Back home, you had to hustle to get money, move up in the world and to live.  I wasn’t at McDonald's serving people orders in some comfy room. I’ve been stabbed, beaten and nearly killed, but guess who came out as the sole survivor? I did. I’ve busted my ass throughout my life to be at the top of cartels and pulled the trigger when needed.  Seeing carcasses covered with crimson blood was a daily occurrence to me and honestly, I relished at it. Seeing my enemies fall into a state of death was a rush to me. For some years in my youth, I continued my spree, but I realized something. My efforts to feel that rush again weren’t sufficient and I wasn’t happy with my life anymore.  One day, I saw a wrestling match with some of my compas and I felt pieces of that rush coming back to me. I decided to get in the ring a week later and my first training opponent was left paralyzed after a minute. People came to see my matches and overnight, I became a star. My opponents would leave incapacitated and that gave me the name “King of Carnage”.  After several calls from different promotions, I decided to come to OWA and cement my mark on this business like a real vato does. Bob Taylor saw my lust for glory and he knew that I could lead this place into a time of success and fortune.

I came to OWA with a hell of a lot of work behind me to win and make money.  I’m not gonna apologize to any of these pussies who “believe” that passion will make you feel complete.  That’s a load of garbage and they know it. Does being passionate pay the bills? No. Is pouring your heart out going to give you a promotion?  Of course not. This world works with asserting your dominance and that’s what I intend on doing. It starts this week with Keelan Callihan. Keelan, you’re a guy who’s done it all and has lost everything in the process.  You tried to be passionate about the business but you were thrown into the curb, pleading that OWA would give you a second shot at success. What kind of man does that make you? It makes you into a chump, a nobody. You’ve been erased from wrestling history and you did nothing about it, like a sissy.  You can’t even deny that because it’s true. At least some of the people here can at least say that they fought back, but they bent you over and fucked you ‘til you wouldn’t say a word. I can’t respect someone who allows himself to be dominated by some corporate suits. You’re not even a real man, so I’d recommend you to go into the kitchen and make me a goddamn sandwich.  Kingdom is the real man’s show, so I don’t expect you to be in this title scene for very long, more specifically by the end of this week.

We are in an unconquered territory.  The losers and winners of yesterday are on even standing now.  Every single man and woman on this roster wants to make their mark in this first week.  The crowns of this Kingdom have not been taken quite yet. However, I’ll say this to not only Keelan but every guy here: I’m not bowing down to any of you.  I’m not even allowing myself to think about that absurd idea because I know how this story’s gonna go. I’m not gonna hold your hand and guide you along for a competitive match; I’m gonna rip you to shreds.  You’ll be lucky to get a hit against me after that ring bells. Your small and fragile head of yours will be under a lot of pressure after getting rocked again and again by the arms of a real man. You’ve never beaten several men into comas porque no eres varonil como yo.  Yes, get your dictionary out, son. Spanish is a real man’s language, so you better get ready to learn it once I win this Fatal Four Way for the OWA Title. That’s what it’s all about right? Quiero ser el campeón de OWA y todos mis obstáculos van a sentir mi furia. Keelan won’t be my biggest threat and none of these pansies will be either.  We got a bunch of quitters and idiots here, so it should be incredibly easy to say I’m the man at the top. OWA made the smart choice when they found a guy like me, piling up wins at every promotion he went to. They saw how decorated I was as a man and how many people I’ve taken out in one night. OWA knows that I’m the man who’s going to put asses into seats, whether this whole roster likes it or not.  These men see my value and are ready for Caspian’s Kingdom. Mi gente from Honduras will see that I’m that cabron who killed Keelan Callihan. And no, I’m not exaggerating. I’m going to make an impact on this first show and send a message to all my possible opponents at the same time. I’m not the traditional wrestler looking to be a stuntman. I’m all about aggression and seeing the carnage.

Do you feel goosebumps going accross your body?  Yeah, that's what I like the call the poacher's call.  Keelan the Killer will become Keelan the Killed.

The scene opens with Chase Vedder playing golf with a group of young men that appear to be around his age. He’s wearing a freshly ironed pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt tucked into a pair of cream slacks with a white baseball cap sat firmly on his head. He takes position in front of the golf ball in front of him. He takes his swing.

“Fore!” Vedder shouts at the top of his lung as the ball flies through the air, into the sunlight and out of view as it lands in the green ahead.

“Nice shot, Chase! How far do you think you got it? I can’t even see where it landed.” One of his friends calls out from the nearby golf cart.

“It wasn’t as far as I got with your mother, that’s for sure!” Another friend chimes in, elbowing his buddy in the ribs. The other two guys in the cart laugh as the caddy stands by Chase looking increasingly uncomfortable. Chase gives his wood club back to him as they walk back towards the cart.

“Those sort of jokes aren’t funny, Brent. You should be embarrassed for not being able to come up with something at least mildly creative and so should the two of you for laughing.” Chase points towards the two giggling to themselves and they both gulp cartoonishly.

“I’m sorry, Chase--”

“You’re sorry? You’re SORRY?! Wow, I call you out for saying stupid shit and all of a sudden you’re cowering like a schoolgirl who’s just been told she has detention. Why the hell are you sorry? You have nothing to apologize for.” Chase assures him, patting his friend on the shoulder and giving him an insincere smile.

“Get out of the golf cart. Now.” He says in a stern voice.

“W-What?” Brent stutters in response.

“Are you deaf as well as stupid? I said: GET. OUT. OF. THE. GOLF. CART.” Exclaims Chase, annunciating every world carefully, treating Brent as though he’s hard of hearing. Brent is on his way out of the cart when Chase shoves him down to the trimmed grass and steps takes his place inside the golf cart. The caddy has already packed placed the bag of clubs in the rear of the vehicle and he begins driving towards the next ball.

“Don’t you think that was kind of uncalled for back there?” One of Chase’s other friends speaks up. The young man is hispanic with thick, black hair and is wearing a blue polo shirt buttoned all the way up with tan shorts.

“No, Pedro, I don’t think it was uncalled for. Have you actually spoken to that guy for more than a minute at a time? He has to be the most annoying, toxic beta male I’ve ever met in my life and he’s not welcome with us anymore.” The tone of Chase’s voice is one clearly of aggravation but he does his best to remain reserved.

“This isn’t about Brent, is it?” Pedro asks “This is about your match in OWA.”

“The OWA match isn’t an issue. It’s their first show and naturally I was placed in the main event which is exactly where I should be. And the guy that I’m meant to be facing? Give me a break.” He scoffs.

“I don’t know… CM Nas seems pretty legit from what I’ve seen. The guy is a World Champion, after all.” The other friend speaks up. He has dirty blonde hair and green eyes and is wearing a brown vest over a white shirt with matching brown slacks.

“Legit? The guy doesn’t even look like he knows how to shave. Mutton chops are meant to be food, not pubic hair glued to your face. Not only that but what the fuck does his World Title even mean? ‘Answers World Champion’? It’s leaving me with more questions than anything, like: Who the hell thought that was a good name for a prestigious championship? I may not know how he managed to get that title around his waist but the one thing I do know is that he’s been bragging about ‘walking out’ with the title. You know, if you went online and looked for synonyms for someone walking out, one of the first results would be RUNNING AWAY. As far as anyone should be concerned, that’s what CM Nas did; he ran away. Is that what people are considering to be a threat these days? Guys who run away from the competition so they’ll still have something to hold onto and brag about? That’s so fucking pathetic.” He laughs to himself but Chase can’t help but still look disgruntled as he does so.

The two friends in the back look to each other with unsure expressions. They seem to be somewhat convinced by what the leader of their group has just said but are still cautious with their questions.

“What do you think CM stands for?” The friend sat next to Chase asks earnestly.

“I don’t think even he knows the answer to that. I’m sure he just uses it to sound cool-- wait, wasn’t there another guy that used to use CM in his name before Nas did? From that same place?” Chase asks in response.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. Maybe it’s a tribute to him.” He says.

“Well this guy does seem like the thieving type. If he’s still carrying that championship around then he stole that too, after all. People like that are scum. Stealing is one thing but if he’s supposedly worked hard to get to where he was at and THEN stole it that’s on a whole different level. You completely undermine all the effort you’ve put in and ruin your reputation all because you got too selfish and impatient… and impatience is the sort of thing to cost you a match, especially when that match is against me. At the end of the day, I’m smarter than him, tougher than him, faster than him and just downright better than him, I can say that about almost any athlete because it’ll be just as true and that’s what frustrates those who have to face me. I’m just so incredibly gifted --and I say that with as much humility as I can-- and people lose their focus. They get impatient. They try to rush things. I’m like that one boss battle in the arcade that you just can’t be so you getting angrier and angrier, wasting more and more money dying over and over and over and over again until eventually you just have to quit. You can’t do it anymore! You’re out of lives and it’s time to go home!” Chase is now shouting out loud for everyone to hear.

The caddy pulls up by Chase’s ball and the group of friends all step out.

“...but I’m not going to pretend like I don’t know who CM Nas is. The two of us are both also competing for Strong Style Wrestling which I’m sure makes my point about his impatience that much more valid. Let’s go back to last week. It was CM Nas vs Aria Jaxon vs Jaydayne Pendragon for the SSW Puroresu Heavyweight Championship. This was a tough fought battle from Jaydayne, fighting both members of the Phantom Troupe off despite their numbers advantage but he couldn’t withstand the entire faction coming out to aid Aria Jaxon to victory. By that point, Nas here was already gone. He’d burned himself out earlier in the match and was nowhere to be seen when Jaxon took advantage and pinned Pendragon for the championship. CM Nas got impatient and, due to his lack of endurance that night, soon became CM Nap. What’s to make me believe that our match here in OWA should be any different?” Chase asks as he’s handed his new club.

“Didn’t you lose your match in SSW too?” Pedro inquires as the other two friends cringe, fearing Pedro may be about to get chewed out.

“Shut the f--” Chase catches himself. “That was different. We-- I was cheated out of a victory. I had that match won when that five foot nothing midget Racer Smiles couldn’t even keep Piero at bay to stop him from kicking me in the balls… TWICE. Yet he blames me. I’m the one at fault. I’m the one that was carried despite the fact that I did all of the heavy lifting that the self proclaimed strongest man in SSW was meant to be doing. I’m a winner and despite his shortcomings I still treated him with respect only to have him spit in my face and blame me. That right there is the first red flag for a narcissist. He can’t take blame and I’m sure plenty others here in OWA can’t as well.”  Chase hands the club back to the caddy and he tells him to switch it for a new one. This annoys the young man but he walks off with the bag to fetch new clubs.

“At the end of the day, this is much more serious and gives me a much better opportunity to reach my goal of having gold around my waist. I don’t have anyone weighing me down in this match against CM Nas. I get to go in there solo and not just beat someone who’s seen as a credible threat and a main event player but I qualify for an opportunity at the OWA World Championship. I don’t even need Andre Virgo in my corner come fight night because this Nas guy doesn’t stand a chance either way. I’m the best here and the best there and it’s my time to shine.” Chase tells his friends, now facing the three of them.

“Okay, let’s leave,” he says, getting back into the golf cart, “the caddy is gone and this is way less fun than I expected.”

The camera fades out as the group of friends get back into the golf cart and drive off.