One being, of course, the hero of this adventure and those that are like to follow, the tremendous, tenacious, terribly irresistible Shawn Mother Fuckin’ Christopher. A note to new viewers, ‘Mother Fuckin’ is, as you might have guessed, not his given middle name, but one of many pseudo-clever trademarks and namesakes our hero will use from time to time to distinguish himself from any other possible Shawn Christopher that might spring up.

(There should follow here a long and boring story of nomenclature burglary and mistaken identity, which was quickly resolved with the original, ours, now your, Shawn Christopher trouncing and all-together handing the ass of a would-be Shawn Christopher who’d thought to steal the name for his own personal and professional gains. Note, that while there may be more than one name floating about the world, there is only one man on this fine planet of ours with the prowess, both in and out of the wrestling ring, wherewithal, and otherwise stunning good looks and fascinating charm to be the hero of this story, as well as many other sordid affairs of similar natures. That is, of course, the Shawn Christopher which you will continue to read about hereafter, and not that silly nance of a puss bag that thought to steal a name that didn’t belong. Alas, this is a diatribe which could be continued at another time. After this particular story has concluded, perhaps.)

"So… Shawn, was it? Shawn. You never told me where you were from."

"Me? I’m from a little bit of everywhere. Originally Pennslyvania, by way of Philadelphia. Though I mostly reside in Tokyo nowadays."

"And what would a Philly boy find so interesting about Japan?"

"Asian chicks, of course."

"Of course."

"No. Actually, I own a nightclub in Tokyo."

"Is that so?"

"I note a hint of skepticism in your voice, dear. Surely you wouldn’t doubt a man who bought you such a fine beverage as the one you’re sipping now, would you?"

She smiles, squelching the temptation to laugh. He certainly is attractive, in that rugged, Russell Crowe kind of way. Not that Alice, professional and independent business woman that she is, usually finds herself attracted to those types. Especially when they’re wearing Legend of Zelda t-shirts.

"Normally, no. I have this sneaking suspicion, however, that you ordered the drink just because you wanted to say ‘shaken, not stirred.’ And I happen to be the only woman in the bar at this particular moment."

He laughs. It’s hard not to be caught by that. He does have a wonderful smile.

"You caught me. I had one. Once. Awful shit. Absolutely dreadful. But I always wanna fuckin’ order one, so any time I get the chance...ah hell."

The Fairmont Scottsdale Princess, despite boasting a ridiculous name, is an otherwise beautiful resort hotel with, if one were to reserve just the right room, an amazing view of the McDowell Mountains. Like the majority of attractions in Arizona, the hotel’s design is heavily influenced by old Western American themes, though the decor and architecture have combined with a much more modern, twenty-first century feel to give the Princess an all-together original and unique identity. From his surprisingly comfortable seat at the Cazadores Lobby Bar, Shawn Christopher has afforded himself a very convenient view of the hotel’s main entrance, and all patrons that enter and exit therein.

The most recent entrant being of most interest, a somber figure clad in depressingly dark tones and oppressively hot shades of black, right down to the all too obvious dye job done on his now raven black hair. SC’s eyes, earthy orbs that seem to both take everything and give nothing, follow this shadowed figure as he proceeds to the elevators. Alice, somewhat put off with how easily she was dismissed, turns her glare from the sealed doors of the elevator to her currently otherwise occupied acquaintance.

"You know that guy?"

"Just… someone I work with."

"Oh. I suppose he owns a night club, too."

"Not exactly. Look, I’ve got to… take care of something. Business stuff."

He stands, mind still obviously lingering on the mysterious individual. After placing a hundred dollar bill on the bar, Shawn sweeps his brown leather racing jacket from the back of the chair, smoothly and elegantly sliding it on as he prepares his leave. For the first time since the distraction, Shawn turns his full attention to Alice, an apologetic smile creasing his hardened features.

"No offense. You’re beautiful. Really. But this is… important. Life and death kind of stuff. If you’re not too sore about it, I’m in three oh four. I’ll be there all night."

"That’s… depressing."

His smile widens, growing into that patented grin we’ve come to know so well.

"Yeah, well, I heard there’s a ‘Ninja Warrior’ marathon on G4. Adieu."

There’s a salute, of sorts, before he’s off without another word. Alice sighs, swirling a disappointed finger around the rim of her glass. He really was an interesting character…

…who has bounded up the steps of the Scottsdale Princess, squeezing silently through the third floor door. Shawn Christopher quickly and quietly slinks down the hallway, careful not to raise any suspicion from the darkened figure ahead. Just as the door is about to latch on Room 305, SC slides the toe of his military issue into the crevice, pulling the door back open so he may bask in the glorious view afforded from the windows within.

"So, I’m just wondering if the view helps inspire the poetry you’ve been posting on your LJ. That one about how your parents ‘just don’t understand,’ that’s my favorite. It’s just so… fresh. Possibly even jazzy."

William Kennedy lets out an exasperated sigh before turning to the door, a less than enthused expression etched upon his face.

"Shawn."

"Emo."

Will rolls his eyes, taking a cursory glance over his visitor. In spite of his most recent shenanigans, the man still manages to hold some of his more useful faculties, including a keen eye for detail. For instance, the concealed bulge emanating from SC’s left jacket pocket is a particular detail of interest.

"That a gun in your pocket, Shawn, or are you just happy to see me?"

"Little bit of both. Thought maybe we’d finish up that conversation we started up a few weeks back."

"I apologize, but I have no recollection of any supposed conversation."

"We did this dance already, Emo. Let’s just skip to the part where you tell me what I want to hear."

"I don’t know what it is you’re sniffing for, Shawn, but I assure you, it’s not here. Maybe you should head down to the lobby, ask if they have a gym nearby. If your performances in the ring are any indication, it wouldn’t hurt to get a little workout or two in during your free time."

Shawn’s smile is anything but friendly.

"That’s cute."

Before this encounter, with what limited knowledge Kennedy possessed of his uninvited guest, he would surely have lumped Shawn into a similar category as the East West Foundation. "Seen one too many movies," or some such generality. However, with recent developments removing themselves from Shawn’s left jacket pocket, things are slightly different. Now, staring into the blackened burrow of a .45, sunlight glistening off both the polished steel and intricate gold-plating of the custom designed handgun, Kennedy has no qualms at all of lumping the newcomer into that particular category. Perhaps even one step beyond.

"Get that shit out of my face."

"Director."

"Bitch, please. You think it bothers me, that gun in my face? Fuck you. And… such hostilities are not any decent way of facilitating your desired outcome of this situation. Maybe if your inquiries were a bit more cordial, we could.."

"Oh, fuck off."

For a brief second, there is stalemate, the two men at an impasse of wills. Shawn Christopher, weapon of relatively minor destruction clutched in hand, sighs, blowing out the frustration fogging his mind with one long breath. His left arm slacks, the handgun spinning back on his trigger finger, away from Kennedy’s annoyed expression.

"What are you, Wyatt fucking Earp now?"

Shaking his head, Shawn shoves the firearm into the waistband of his jeans, a handful of steps putting him into the kitchen. Or what passes for a kitchen in such limited quarters. There is, however, a fridge. Much more importantly, there is a fridge stocked with beer. Shawn Christopher loves beer.

"I’m not paying for that."

"Yes, you are. It’s your room."

"It’s your beer."

"No. It’s your beer. I’m just drinking it. Now then, I put my gun away. You gave me a beer. That seems pretty cordial to me. Let’s talk about Director."

Kennedy snags an open bottle of water from the coffee table and plops down onto the couch. Shawn watches closely, preferring to keep himself at a distance, leaning against the entryway to the kitchenette.

"I don’t know where he is."

"But you do know who he is. That’s an improvement from five minutes ago."

"What’s in it for me?"

"What do you want?"

Here, the Reject pauses, a contemplative look scowling his face. He even puts his hand beneath his chin and begins to rub, completing the entirely generic facade.

"From you? Nothing. Now go."

"I still have the gun, you know."

"Yes. I know. I also know enough about you to know that you wouldn’t have used it. Which, does conjure one particular query. What was the point?"

"Intimidation, obviously. Lot of guys talk a tough game, but’cha put a gun in their face, and they’re pissin’ down their leg. I didn’t figure that would be the case, but it never hurts to try."

"And what if I had reacted more unfavorably? What if I had taken the threat personally, and extracted retribution as necessary?"

Shawn smiles, jerking a thumb toward the window.

"She would have killed you."

Kennedy’s eyes narrow, following the line indicated by Shawn’s thumb. There, sitting quietly in the windowsill, is a delicate little Japanese woman, black tresses framing the reserved smile she flashes in Kennedy’s direction. The Reject looks from the woman, to Shawn, and back again, obviously taken aback by this sudden appearance.

"How did she… where did she… I, uh…"

"Remember that hot Asian government assassin phase I was talking about a few weeks back? This is her. Name’s Milena. And word has that she could make a pretty penny out of bleeding you here and now."

William Kennedy stares hard at the woman, synapses sparking triple-time in an attempt to figure out just how the hell she did that. In fact, his mind is working so hard on that particular problem, that it takes a few extra seconds for him to process the implication of SC’s last comment. Slowly the realization spreads, and Kennedy’s eyes widen just a hair, though he hides it well. What he can’t hide, however, is the sudden keen interest he has in conversating with Shawn Christopher.

"What do you know about that?"

"About what?"

"You know what."

"And you know Director. Guess all the cards are on the table now, eh? Best we be makin’ our wagers."

"You don’t know anything."

"I know someone, somewhere wants your head on a pike. The specific details are a bit… foggy, however."

"If I tell you how to find Director."

"You’re quick, kid. Ever think about trying out for Jeopardy."

"Can’t stand Alex Trebek. Or his mustache."

"Fair enough."

A silence falls over the room, Shawn and Milena both staring intently at Kennedy. William himself is pretending not to notice, calculating the unexpected factors of this new information. Attempting to determine just how serious, or dangerous, Shawn Christopher could be should he so desire. With a resigned nod, Kennedy breaks the silence.

"He left me a number."

Kennedy’s hand dives into the darkened recesses of his black wardrobe, a momentary search to recover the cell phone.

"You keep it in your cell?"

"Where else would you keep a phone number? What, you want me to write it on a note on the fridge? Besides, it’s coded, so no one would know it’s him. …Ted."

"As in Bill and?"

"He thought Neo would be too obvious."

"I’d have gone with John Utah."

"Johnny Mnemonic?"

"Point Break."

"Damn."

Kennedy rummages for a loose piece of paper and pen, scrawling the number down before wadding up the remnant and tossing it at Shawn.

"There. Now leave."

SC bends to pick up the wad of paper, smiling at that last bit of defiance from Kennedy.

"Gladly. Pleasure doin’ business with ya, kid. And thanks for the beer."

Shawn Christopher begins his exit before Kennedy has a chance to respond. The door to Room 305 clicks open, something about the sound sending a shockwave through The Reject’s mind.

"Hey, bitch, you forgot your…"

The door slams shut, effectively cutting him off. Kennedy turns back to the window, a pleasant breeze billowing the curtains, offering William Kennedy an unobstructed view of the McDowell Mountains.

"…ninja."

*~*~*~*

'A champion...' Shawn says to himself.

"It's been far too long since champion and Shawn Christopher, have been used together in the same sentence. Far.. far.. too long.

Everywhere I've been, I've been a champion. Whether it was by hook, or by crook, I found a way to get some gold around my waist. Now as of late, I'll admit, my focus has been elsewhere. And by elsewhere, I mean Masaharu Tanabashi."

Shawn lets out a slight chuckle.

"I've put all of my time and resources into making sure that bitch never fucks with me again. And the whole time, I've forgotten what I'm truly here for.

I didn't come out of retirement to settle a score with a pain in my ass, who last time I wrestled them, I left them laying in a broken heap.

No!

I came back for one thing, and one thing only...

Glory.

See, I got the money. I got the fame. I want the power.. I want the repsect.. I.. want.. the glory.

And as they say, 'he who has the power, has the gold.. and he who has the gold, has the power. Which means I have to walk that long Road to Glory, and claim what's mine.

I don't care who I have to go through on the way. My final destination is ReVolution. And once there, I will claim my glory by the throat, and not let go.

Pro Wrestling Evolution better be prepared.. my glory awaits. My destiny, begins now.