(Angel of Death is backstage at an EUWC Blackout house show, reviewing the point standings in the Dupree Cup following the first round. He scans down the list, finally reaching the bottom, and the big fat zero that resides beside the EUWC. He crumples the paper, tossing it into the trash across the room. He takes the next paper from the manila envelope on the bench beside him, and peruses the paper that holds the lineup, finding his next challenge in the tournament. Another tag team match, Nero as his partner again, against ...)
Message Board Entertainment? Since when is a cork board, "a" wrestling, and "b" entertaining? Who's their biggest star? Mr. Memo? His finisher is the Push Pin? Give me a break. Let's see here. Our opponents from MBE are IrishRed and WhiteNoise. Two men who apparently are afraid of leaving spaces between words. Hell, one of them is even named after a bad thriller starring Michael Keaton. We go from the farce that was our matches against A1E, matches we were robbed in, by the way, to facing complete disasters. Let's take a look at these bios.
(He pulls the first bio from the package.)
IrishRed. Thirty-seven years old. Hmm. Nine years older than me. Shaved head, blue eyes, red goatee. Okay then, this guy breaks mirrors with his looks. Gotcha. Must win his matches by turning his opponents to stone when they look at him.
(He glances in the envelope, then pulls out a picture of IrishRed. He shudders.)
Yechk, he's worse than I thought. I mean, I'm no supermodel myself, but this guy goes beyond even using the old "fell out of the ugly tree hitting every branch on the way down" joke. This guy makes those people seem pretty by comparison. What else is here. Blue Denim pants, black cowboy boots, and a Denver Broncos jersey. As if his face wasn't enough to induce vomiting amongst the masses, he appears to be a fashion victim as well. ****, Nero could have a field day with this guy based on looks alone. Heavily taped wrists and fists, horrendously scarred body. Too bad they couldn't have scarred his face up a bit. It might have made him better looking. But, credit where credit is due, the guy cuts an imposing figure in the ring. What's his arsenal look like. Whipping Post sounds familiar. He must have seen a few tapes of my matches and decided to steal the Goodbye. Cold Shot and Double Trouble sound boring, and the Freebird is nothing but a cheap knockoff of the Natural Lock, the beloved finisher of "The Natural" Mike Bell, a man who could definitely put this guy to shame. Not that Nero or I won't, but that's neither here nor there. Wrestling style is similar to mine, especially the use of anything that isn't nailed down. Let's finish this exercise in hilarity off, shall we? Bio.
(He pauses, looking directly at the section labeled "Quote." Shaking his head, he looks again. Satisfied that it isn't going to go away or change at all, he lowers the papers, and gazes off into space.)
You ... will ... respect ... me?
(He pauses again, a slight smirk crossing his face. It wavers there, threatening to become something much, much bigger. Finally, unable to control himself, AOD dissolves into a fit of laughter. As he attempts to compose himself, his wife and manager, Black Widow, enters.)
Everything okay? What's so funny?
(He shows her the picture of IrishRed, then the page containing IrishRed's bio. She takes a quick glance, switching rapidly between the bio and the picture, before smiling herself.)
That is good. You in a singles match this time?
Nah. They've got me teaming with Nero again. This guy shouldn't be a problem. What's the other guy like?
(Black Widow pulls the next biography and picture from the package, leaving it now empty.)
This one? Let's take a look.
(She starts at the top, pausing to look again at the first bio, then the second one.)
There's no ...
... Spaces between the words in their names. Yeah, I noticed that too.
Wait, the promotion they represent is called ...
... Message Board Entertainment, yeah, caught that too.
(She gives her husband a "they can't be serious" look, then continues looking at the second bio.)
WhiteNoise. Typical mute drifter, muscled frame, stubble on face, yadda yadda yadda. Ring clothes. Let's see. Boots, jeans, and sleeveless t-shirt. Nothing surprising yet. Wraps his arms to the elbows. Seems like overkill, but to own his each. Crushed right hand, could come in useful. Won't attempt to guess how he crushed it, that one I'll leave to Nero. Brawler with power moves. Big shock there. He's a two time former champion. For someone as original as this, I'm shocked. Big, silent, powerful loner who usually acts as a bodyguard ...
... Wait, let me try to guess the rest. Seems to follow where the money takes him, no one really knows if he's mute or not because he simply hasn't said anything yet, and remains a mystery to this day. How close am I?
It's got something in here about a warehouse full of electro-gadgets, but other than that, you got it spot on! It's good to know that in a large tournament like this, where the best from each promotion competes for fame, fortune, and hopefully to honor the memory of a fallen comrade, that a generic, cookie cutter pairing like this can find a place to compete.
Frankly, I'm looking forward to meeting the quiet guy. Maybe he can teach Nero, Adam Benjamin, Sanket, Jay Smash, or some of the other ultracrepidarians we've encountered over the years the virtue of keeping your mouth shut. In any event, Nero and I must win this match. We can't come out of week two with yet another big zero to our credit. Besides Jay Smash, that is.
That's one zero we'll never be rid of, I fear.
Too true, my love, too true. Well, we know now what's on our plate for the next few days. Shall we begin the preparations?
Certainly darling!
(They gather up the information package, and head off down a hallway. Fade.)