Cloudy forecast
[ Fade in to Beast's private gym, where the EPW superstar is in the middle of a workout. He's covered in sweat, in a ring with a training partner, who is wearing padded gloves. He motions for Beast to strike, and Beast delivers, snapping STIFF kicks into the requested target. ]
TR: Come on! Harder!!
[ Beast continues for several moments, the sounds of skin and bone snapping against leather echoing through the gym. ]
TR: HIT IT! HARDER!!
[ Beast lands a few more shots, snorting his way through as he does, and the partner then quickly taps his padded golves together twice, and Beast seamlessly unloads a brutal four kick combination, before finishing it off with a spinning roundhouse kick that knocks the glove off the training partner and out of the ring. ]
Beast: That hard enough?
[ The trainer simply smirks and chuckles before walking over to the corner and grabbing two large rectangular red pads, which he holds at the side of his body, near his ribs. ]
TR: Show me what you got!
[ Beast shifts his stance slightly, and begins delivering thundering kicks into the pads, booms instead of snaps now filling the gym. ]
TR: You can hit harder than that, you *****!
[ Beast grits his teeth and bears down, hammering the pads with kicks, each one threatening to knock the trainer over, the booms getting louder. ]
TR: Come on! You're never gonna be EPW Champion like this! Sands is going to beat your ass in that cage! Now hit those f*cking pads!
[ Beast steps up the pace, driving kick after kick into the pads, each one rocking the trainer more and more off kilter, then finally Beast hits a jumping spinning back kick that sends the trainer to the canvas. ]
TR: Now that's better!
[ Beast smirks and walks over to the trainer and holds out his hand, and lifts the trainer back to his feet. ]
TR: Alright, let's call it a day.
[ The two men leave the ring, and grab towels before starting to put their gear away. ]
Beast: You know something, it's kinda ironic.
TR: What's that?
Beast: Johnathan Marx, the gentleman, wanting to kick Sands' ass because he thinks I'm more of a gentleman than Sands is.
TR: I thought that was amusing, myself.
Beast: He respects me more. Imagine that. Sands is gonna be pissed.
TR: And why do you say that?
Beast: [ wiggles his fingers like Scott Hall pretending to be scared. ] Because Sands *demands* respect. "You WILL respect the World Champion!!"
TR: I want to puke.
Beast: Join the club.
[ Beast grabs a water bottle and takes a long drink. ]
Beast: Although, I must admit, I'm sorry that I'm going to have to disappoint Mr. Marx this week.
TR: You wouldn't!
Beast: Yup. I'm afraid I'm not going to be much of a gentleman this week. Remind me to call Mr. Walker ahead of time and apologize for the sheer beating he's going to take in the ring at Aggression.
TR: Oh, that doesn't sound good.
Beast: Not for Walker, it doesn't. This is the last match before Unleashed. I've decided that I'm going to leave my mark on this one.
TR: Mark your territory, if you will?
Beast: The ring is my playground. Always has been, and always will be. Everyone knows that. I'm talking about leaving my calling card.
TR: Sounds nasty.
Beast: You don't know the half of it.
[ Fade as Beast takes another shot of water, and finishes packing up his training gear. ]