time: monday early morning, four thirty a.m

day: march seventeenth, st. patty's day

place: bailey's bay, bermuda; sand & pebble tavern.

(Behind the bar, I see Warren finishing his thing. I walk over there, and take the camera from him. He tells me he think's he got his match in the bag, and I believe him of course. I take a seat and set my Landshark Lager on the table. I need to get this done quick...we're going to be opening soon. I hit record on the camera, with a new tape, so I don't overwrite Warren's.)

(Go.)
VIRUS: You wanna know my problem, Alex? Of course you do. Who in their right mind has the audacity to tell someone they're acting like a twelve year old emo kid when they're on camera playing a game that twelve year olds play?

My daughter plays that, man, and she's fourteen. No, my wife and I didn't have her when we were sixteen. I adopted her from my brother, our commissioner, about six years ago. We won't get into why and how, and I hope that eats you up inside.

You're just begging for the answers, aren't you? So you can claim I'm the drama queen of the PWA. There's nothing wrong with talking about history, Alex. People do it everyday. And that's all I've been talking about, what has transpired between me and the MoA in the past -- which includes an incident with my wife.

Ask them why they decided to include my personal life and my family into an on-going grudge between Darren Ridel and me five years ago. Ask them. I want you to, because I have no idea. It just happened. It's easy to have the past brought up when somebody does it for you.

Which, fuckhead, doesn't concern you at all. So my question is why do you care so much? Why do you feel the need to sit there and make petty insults about me and my past? Why do you feel the need to secure yourself by calling me a seventeen year old whiny girl? Does that make you feel better? I hope so, because if you think those high school insults actually do anything, then you're sorely mistaken.

You lack the intelligence to compete with me here on the airwaves and in the ring. You're fucked, sir.

You wanna sit there and talk about things that have nothing to do with you to make yourself feel important, fine by me. Don't expect me to buy your bullshit, though.

And trust me, we all know why people are watching your "promos"; you're facing me. Think about that.

(A let loose the truth, along with a grin.)

VIRUS: Let me just say this. People have brought up my past to get my attention. They've pretended to include my family in a grudge. They've beaten me down. They've certainly got my attention, I'll tell you that.

You? You're sitting at home, playing Starcraft, because no one gives a shit about you or your eight fucking wins.

I deserve better? Well, you said it, not me, but if you're waiting for me to disagree, you might wanna have a seat. As far as I can tell from my extensive experience as a wrestler -- which you lack, by the way -- President Sommers is warming us up for something. You're coming off a big loss from Karasu, I'm just a great wrestler in general and don't need to prove myself to anyone, especially you. Put two together, and winner of our match might get a slot in that Elimination Chamber match on April Eighteenth.

You know, the match my brother deemed to be for the World Title? Six spots, dipshit. You've got the champ, and fucking Corey Lazarus, and four more spots to fill. Somebody thinks you need to prove yourself to get into that match, Alex.

Nobody's handing you anything. Why would they? Because you're eight and two? Please.

Having a good record won't get you a World Title shot, I'm sorry. You look at the past champions, and the great ones didn't have great records...or undefeated streaks...they brought something else to the sport. Something you lack. It's that spark, that inner drive that makes you a legend amongst rookies.

I'm already a legend, kid. Hall of Fame. Multiple titles. Been with the best, beaten the best. You need to show me why you belong in the ring with me. And waving your eight and two record in my face isn't cutting it.

And tell me why me only having six matches to your ten even matters? I was winning titles and beating men left and right while you were losing your virginity in high school.

(I take a swig of my beer and look over at Warren at the bar talking with Paulie. I listen in for a moment, then get back to business.)

VIRUS: But you know what, fuck you.

And if that doesn't suit well, fuck you.

You're an idiot.

While I love my sister and brother, they couldn't hold a candle to me. They're both new, rookies in their own right, and have captured their first titles here in the PWA. But hey, apparently to Mr. Wilkie, nothing outside the PWA matters. Why is that? I really want to know. Because I'll tell you right now, and even Darren fucking Ridel himself will attest to this, the talent here compared to where I debuted and fought is shit.

That includes you, fuck-o.

How does that make you feel? And how does this hit you: I've only been pinned once, you've been pinned twice.

Your two losses are a lot more damaging than mine.

And shit, if I had ten matches under my belt in the PWA so far, I'd be seven, two, and one. And when I win on Friday, I would be eight, two, and one, which is better than your eight and three.

Think about it that way. I'm better than you, Alex, and you're going to find out firsthand.

(Warren moves from the bar and goes to the back, looking to help out some more. It's really nice having him around again.)

VIRUS: But who cares, right? Records are just that: records. You can't look at a record and say that person dominated. You had to have been there, to see what that person brought to the ring every night. You had to have seen how he wrestled his opponents, and who they were. Were they just flukes of opponents? Or was it real actual competition?

There's a lot more behind it, Alex, than just stating "Oh I'm eight and two" like it means something. Prove to me you mean something. Bring everything you got, Grade A plus, and prove to me you belong in the ring with me. Prove to me that you should be nine and two and it means something.

I want you to bring it all, Alex, even the kitchen sink. Because when you are on your back for the one, two, three, it's going to be that much sweeter.

I've tasted defeat many times in my career. It's part of wrestling. People screw you, and sometimes you just get beat. Sometimes the lights are in your eyes, and you get caught with a kick that knocks you out. It happens, but I don't plan on losing to you.

That, I can assure you.

And to let you know what exactly is worth my time, like I've told you in the past but you don't seem to get it, destroying Corey Lazarus. Taking on the Masters. Watching my brother and sister blossom into great wrestlers. Playing Texas Hold'em with Sirus Moran. Those things are worth my time.

However...if my instinct is right about our match being a determinant to fill a spot in that chamber match in April, this would be worth my time. I'd gladly take the opportunity to rub it in your face that I'm getting a world title shot and you're not.

I guess that's the "twelve year old emo boy" coming out of me. My bad. I'll try to keep it adult.

(I laugh.)

VIRUS: And who the hell cares about tabloids and newspapers? I wasn't talking about that at all. By people, I meant people in the sports entertainment industry. Namely, people like you, like Ridel, like Lazarus. It's what WE do, and I've done it before as well. It's part of our job to intimidate and exploit our opponents before our match, much like you've been trying to do, but failing...how do you say? Epically?

Yeah, something retarded like that.

Super Saiyan? A pool with McNasty? Oh, so when you lose your money to him, is he going to make you pay him with sexual favors? Is that what you do?

Not that there's anything wrong with that...

Whatever floats your boat.

...

Fag.

So much for keeping it adult.

(I take a swig of my beer. Delicious.)

VIRUS: Get your pool going. That's fine. I'm glad you find it humorous, but it won't be that funny when I'm pummeling you into oblivion.

You might have been winning here first, but I was winning before you stepped into a fucking ring, you shit-for-brains motherfucker.

Friday's not gonna be good for you. You'll take your third loss, with a grain of salt I'm sure, and then I'll go on to get myself a second World Title. You can fight your homosexual life partner for the Intercontinental.

I do not forgive.

I do not forget.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, bitches.

(fade.)