My loss against Kyphael made me realize one thing, nothing. He is still the same pathetic man who hides his pain behind wrestling. But he is now the past and I’m looking forward to the future. It is now my goal to become the most villainous heel Sin has ever seen. It all starts with the one man I hate the most in this world, Trenton Pierce. Killing his daughter is nothing compared to what happens next. From here on out, everything will change whether Corey likes it or not. My legacy is about to begin, regardless of what I have to do. If placing three superstars on the injury reserve list is one of those things, then I’ll do. If beating Santa Clause and his reindeer within inches of their lives is another, I’ll do it. Phayze, Luciano, and Turner get ready to have your heads broken. The old Arran Hayden is back to prove to the world that he is everything you wish you could be and more.
Phayze, don't feel honored that I speak your name first. If anything, you should take it as an insult and nothing more. Why? Well, I’m sure you remember our prior get-together. I recall you being taken out of the match by a woman. That part of history may not repeat itself, but I can promise one thing. You will not walk away victorious over me. Fate may have given you a chance to walk away a winner, but it hasn’t taken away the fact that you will walk away beneath me. How? I’ll put you there along with all the others who thought they were better. Okay. I just lied, so sue me. You’re already beneath me. Before I ever stepped foot into Sin, you were beneath me. Now I know you’re thinking you’ll rise above and against me at the PPV, but that’s highly unlikely. Just bring to the ring whatever you feel you need to stop me. You can even bring the Club Money crew. Don’t worry about the gas money for the ambulance. I’ve got it covered.
Luciano, the man I’ve been waiting to break down. The Italian Stallion or so you choose to call yourself. It’s fucking pathetic if you ask me. You take a nickname from one of the greatest fictional characters even made and live nowhere near up to it. You don’t even set your own standards or individualize yourself. You’re just another Italian, who happens to be a bigger prick than the rest of them. I imagine all you do is sit in front of the television and watch reruns of the Sopranos, while throwing down a plate of Spaghetti. Truth aside, take a second and think about what makes you great. Don’t worry, I’ll wait. Once you figure it out, let me know. That brings me to my next point. What makes you an immortal legend? You’ve been in Sin for only three matches and not once have you done anything remotely close to what other legends here have done. From what I gather, all you’ve managed to do is punch an innocent man in the middle of traffic. How legend-like of you. How about saving it for the ring? Your enemies are in Sin, not out there.
Turner, I’m truly sorry kid. I don’t know anything about you, but I’ll be the first to welcome you into the family of sinners. No thank you is needed, because I’m going to assume you're a dog. Chances are you’re wet behind the ears and have no idea on how knee-deep you are in your own shit. Most rookies start out this way. You may have done great things elsewhere, yet I could careless. You get a blank page like everyone else. You have to climb back to the top like the rest of us. It won’t be on my time though. Just make sure you leave the dropkick and the suplex at home. If you do that, you already have Phayze and Luciano beat.
* * *
December 12th, 2006 9:30 AM -- Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Detective Polanski: Let me get this right. Three masked men entered the bank, all of them armed with AK-47’s, and they were polite? Jesus Christ! Andre Stander would be proud of these son-of-a-bitches. These men have hit over more than thirty banks. That’s not counting the ones over in Mexico. They should be rich, but for some odd reason money isn’t what they’re after. It’s always the same; they blindfold everyone and move them to the safety deposit boxes. The only thing different about this time is they chose you to help them. Why?
Underneath the circular light that hung down from the ceiling, sat Arran Hayden and two detectives at opposite ends of a small metal table. One was your everyday rookie. His appearance was clean cut and he looked fresh out of the police academy. The other, Detective Polanski was a grizzled veteran. He was bearded, his eyes were baggy, and he smelled of Philadelphia cheese steak.
Arran Hayden: (shrugs) To hell if I know. I was more worried about the AK-47 being shoved up against my temple, rather than what they were after. They directed me toward a computer terminal and told me to close my eyes. They then told me to enter a string of random numbers.
Both detectives eyed Arran Hayden over. He was dressed in an Armani suit and wore thick-rimmed sunglasses to cover his eyes. They could tell his face was a mess, but they asked him to remove his sunglasses anyway. Arran did so and revealed the damaged Pierce had inflicted upon him at Eternity. Some of the cuts on his face were visible and others were bandaged. Arran frowned and sat his glasses down on the table. He reached for the glass of water across from him and gulped down half of it. He sat the cup back down and sighed. Detective Polanski did the same and continued his questioning.
Detective Polanski: Do you remember any of the numbers at all? Anything would be helpful Mister Hayden.
Arran Hayden: (sarcastically) Besides 666? No.
The rookie burst up from his chair and kicked it into the wall behind him. Polanski didn’t move, he just watched in amazement. Smack! The force of the punch knocked Hayden from his chair and to the hard floor below. Hayden could only laugh, as he spit the blood from the inside of his mouth. Before he could stand back to his feet, the rookie delivered a hard kick to his gut. He rolled over onto his back in pain and began chuckling.
Arran Hayden: 3825968.
Polanski pulled a notepad from his pocket and wrote the numbers down. He scribbled out something and smirked. He slammed the pad down and looked down upon Arran in anger.
Detective Polanski: I think he’s had enough Davis. I can handle the rest from here. You’re dismissed.
Confused at the command, Davis went to leave the room. He picked up the notepad and read what was written on it. Polanski had deciphered “fuck you” from the numbers. Davis went ballistic and smashed his fist into the wall. His knuckles cracked and he gritted his teeth. He screamed an obscenity and slammed the door on his way out.
Detective Polanski: You’re smart kid, but stupid. I won’t beat it out of you, but you will tell me the numbers they made you enter.
Arran Hayden: And if I don’t?
Detective Polanski: We’ll put you away for a long time.
Polanski helped Arran up off the ground and sat him back in the chair. He took the cup of water and poured it onto the floor.
Detective Polanski: I see we’re going to be here for awhile.
Arran Hayden: (shakes his head) I don’t think so.
Davis opened the door and signaled for Polanski to come outside. Arran smirked Polanski walked outside and closed the door behind him. A few words later, Polanski erupted in anger. He punched the window of the door and Arran could hear him yelling about the orders he was given. “Let him go! Bullshit!” Davis managed to calm him down and Polanski came into the room. He snarled at Hayden and told him he was free to go. Hayden exited the police station and found his rented Volvo. He damned Trenton for destroying the windshield of his Porsche. Arran unlocked the passenger’s side door and got in. He closed the door shut and put his head up against the head rest. There was no way in hell those detectives could know the numbers. Arran’s cellular phone rung and he checked the caller ID. Private? He answered it anyway.
Arran Hayden: Hello?
Man: You’re one step closer to having your money back Mister Hayden. Just consider this briefcase as collateral. You’ll get it back after you do what we ask. Do you have a problem with that?
Arran Hayden: No.
Man: Good. Mister Cordova will be in touch.
Arran Hayden: What about the funds in Trenton’s account?
Man: They’re gone for the moment or so that’s what we’ve made it seem. They’ll reappear after the PPV.
Hanging up the phone, Arran smiled. He repeated the numbers in his head over and over again. 8736866-743723 (Trenton Pierce).