(Fade in on camera to Steve Radder sitting on a bench in a gym. There's a white towel wrapped around his neck.)
Radder: It's been a long time coming, Powers. When Merritt approached me a while back and asked how I'd like to get back at you for your betrayal all those years ago ... I thought to myself ... that sounds alright. I'm all for paying the Piper, Powers, you could say I've gained that philosophy over the past couple of years. But that's beside the point. The point is, we've got us a date coming up. You can bet I'll be there on time, ready to have a good time. I mean, it's pretty likely that you won't be having a good time ... unless you're some kind of Codine-esque masochist ... which might be the case. If that's the case, you're gonna have just as much a blast as I will.
Aho, you capitalized the last time we met, congratulations and all that. I lost my smile and you took the belt from me. Yes, even Steve Radder got overwhelmed by all the hangers-on and publicity from being the champ, but that's beside the point now. Now I just want to show who's the better showman ... who's better ... who's #1. It's nothing personal, you're just the guy who's in the way.
(Radder pulls the towel from his shoulders and leans one elbow on one knee.)
Radder: I threw this baby in years ago, boys. This time it's your turn. Now it's Showtime, baby, and Radder's gonna light up the lights.
A familiar figure is walking the streets of New York. For the past two years he's tried to make himself as anonymous as he can, and this, the place where people have some kind of disdainful attitude to others they don't know (and some they do) is just right. The man is Steve Radder. You might know him as the Iceman. He hasn't thought of himself in that way for sometime. Lost in his thoughts, he bumps into a businessman, who, like him, was paying little to no attention to the road ahead.
"Hey, whaddaya, whaddaya?"
Radder mumbles an apology. Two years ago he would have snapped the puny ignoamus like the insignificant ...
He pauses, stopping the thought in mid-sentence, takes a breath, closes his eyes, and smiles. After a moment, he continues walking. He's done a lot of walking lately, because he's been thinking of it again.
It. That rush he used to get. The feeling, the one when the song started, and he brushed aside the curtain. When his blood seemed to cool - that was why he called himself "Iceman". Not, he laughed, because he had an even temper. The feeling of the air rushing out of him after the ref's hand slapped the mat a third time, when he jumped to his feet, and (usually) let the man raise his arm in victory.
He's been told to stay away, but he doesn't think he can. For the first time in years, what seems like eons, he feels like there's a score to settle. A score he wants to settle. A score he will settle, he finally realizes. He's arrived at Times Square ... the Crossroad Of The World ... and he's made his decision. The light changes green, and he crosses the street with the horde of people just getting off work. He's at his crossroads, too, and smiles as a thought occurs to him.
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