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Bracket Three ='s Bracket Troy


Jan 1, 2000
(CUE UP: "Smooth Operator." CUT TO: Slow-mo shots of Troy Windham walking the aisle, with the ladies on a beach, driving a convertible sports car shirtless, walking outside of a jet-set Eurotrash restaurant as the paparazzi snaps his photos, signing autographs, hitting the SlackKnife on different opponents from different angles, PILOTING a Lear Jet surrounded by slutty flight attendants, bloddied slugging it out with Eli Flair, then finally tearfully holding the CSWA WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP. CUT TO: A shot of Troy Windham, wearing a $5000 tailored Italian suit, no tie, sockless, loafers, as he stands stroking his chin stubble in front of an Italian marble fountain on his South Beach, MIA property.)

TROY: Now, I'm doing something I don't usually do anymore. I'm out here, myself, ADDRESSING you people. Y'see, I've had a stellar career. A Hall of Fame Career. Every goal I've ever set for myself, I've accomplished -- DESPITE all you haters out there over the years, telling me I can't and I won't. Rise up the ranks despite spending my waking hours partying, drinking, drugging and sleeping around? CHECK. Become the most popular, biggest and highest-salaried star in the entire wrestling industry. CHECK. Use my fame to enter the world of Hollywood and become a multi-media superstar? CHECK. F*ck three supermodels in one cognac-laced binge while on vacay in the Caribbean? CHECK. Win the CSWA World Title? CHECK. Use my fame to create FWRESTLING DOT COM and singlehandedly allow the CSWA to become an Internet phenomenon? CHECK.

Yep. I've done it all. And today I stand here with an announcement of my LATEST goal. The LATEST thing *I WILL ACCOMPLISH.* And what I plan on this time... will be my CROWNING ACHIEVEMENT AS THE KING OF ALL WRESTLING.

I... Troy Windham... am going to SAVE THE CSWA. I... Troy Windham... am going to SAVE WRESTLING.

Y'see, I've had my share of wars and battles. I've fought my demons and battled my past. And throughout it all... I've ALWAYS won. But the one thing, the one thing I've never done... I've never carried the ball over the goal line. I've never had the big win. I've had the 12 pounds of gold and diamonds, but I've had it only once. The history books will tell you that men like Hornet, my brother Mark, Eddy Love, GUNS, Eli Flair, Deacon, Mark Vizzach, and Mike Randalls... they've held the title more times and for longer.

Well, anyone knows that I am not just the equal of those illustrious names... but I AM THEIR BETTER. Y'see, the reason I haven't held the title is because I haven't wanted it in several years. I've LET other people hold the gold, because I've had my eyes on other prizes. I'm a master of picking and choosing my spots, of knowing how to play my cards. And all the other names who've come before me... they've done NOTHING but FAILED. They've done nothing but allowed the CSWA to amass a large debt load, a downgraded bond rating from Moody's, a lowered Q-Rating....

And now, now with the sport's Grand Old Lady on its last, dying legs... the leading promotion in a struggling, dying industry... it needs someone to come in and REVIVE the show.

Professional Wrestling NEEDS its Own, Personal Jesus for its redemption. Professional Wrestling and the CSWA NEEDS Troy Windham -- it's greatest star.

And... I'm putting it all on the line. My fractured neck, my surgically repaired wrist. The rehab stints, the suspensions. My vast personal fortune. My millions of dollars, my movie deals, my Cable Ace awards, my Latin Grammy award, my sports cars, my jets, my real estate holdings, my stock options... I'm taking all of it, everything I own... and going all in.

I WANT THE TWELVE POUNDS. I will take that title and make it the greatest in this industry once again... by winning it, defending it... and never losing it.

In my immediate path stand three men. The first is a young kid by the name of Alias. One of the new-jack superstars with 15-pages of backstory and not a clue how to play the game. Someone the new-school fans love, with his intensity, history and depth.

Alias, kid... I'm going to abuse you to show the world a lesson -- the bland exposition of a career you call a mic-spot, that's for folks who don't have what it takes to go toe-to-toe. I'm going to humiliate you, embarrass you and make you wish you never threw your hat in the ring against The Epitome. In this league's prime, son, you couldn't even get a job here as a janitor... let alone a shot at the most prestigious title in the sport.

Shawn Savoy or Hart, whatever he wants to do this week... the newest of the indie legends who've made their name without actually ever doing anything. Brag about yuor accomplishments in the Alphabet Soup leagues. Brag about how you're now the "serious" technician. All of that means NOTHING under the big leagues, Savoy. All you've done, all you've accomplished comes straight from the Troy Windham 1998 playbook -- down to even having your "posse" flat-out biting my Entourage. I haven't cashed a receipt on a poser rip-off artist in a few years. It'll be good, just like the old days. When I beat you, all the illiterates voting you Best Superstar in their end-year polls, all of whom forgotten my name, they'll wake up and realize, once again, that there is only One True King, one Personal Jesus, one person who STARTED ALL OF THIS. You and your kind owe your CAREERS to me. No one remembers the band Grunt Truck, but everyone remembers Kurt Cobain. Guess who I am and guess who you are, Hart.

And that leaves me with only one... (Troy starts cackling.) The Wolf! The Devastating One! Mikey Randalls. Mike, we've done this before, but not like this. Not with it all on the line. I'd come out here and pay you the typical respect line... but no, I'm not feeling that. I'm All In, so I'm going to tell it like how it REALLY is. You see, Mike Randalls, you had your day in the sun. You had the strap, you had the top position in this league... and what you did... is you BORED me. All the reinventions, the man who feels no pain, the smoke tents... all that did, Mikey, is chase the fan base away. Y'see, wrestling is a simple game, really. Guy A hates Guy B, they fight. But you, you tried to reinvent the wheel. Guy A hates Guy B but Guy B has had the spirit lords communicate ancient Asian Wisdom with 10/10 teleportation powers. If I'm responsible for the Shawn Hart's who wish they could be me... you're responsible for the even worse. You're responsible for all the goth, the diary kids, the Wrestlers-with-Live-Journals out there... you're responsible for the horror show that is Eli Flair... all the people who want to be wrestlers, but all the wrestlers who want to be people... and that, Mike Randalls, is why this sport sucks. And that's why this sport, this league which allows all these cretins to not work at Wal-mart, to make a living.

It's simple, Mike. Guy A hates Guy B. Mike, I hate you. You never desereved the gold. You never deserved the top spot. You're boring. And now... now I'm going to show you what I've known since Day 1. I'm better than you and I'm going to finally end your sham of a career.

This sport, this league, this title NEEDS a savior, a man who can redeem us all. That man is me... your Own, Personal Jesus... Troy.... Windham... (FTB)

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