[MBE vs. EUWC] IrishRed and WhiteNoise vs. AOD and Nero

[TH]

One fall to a finish. No time limit.

RP deadline is Wednesday, September 6th, 11:59:59 PM.

 

[AOD]

(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.)

 

[irishred]

The Scene an examination room in the Yankton Medical Clinic in Yankton South Dakota. Irishred paces the room wearing just a pair of blue jeans, his upper torso criss crossed with scarring. He stops and pages through Medical journals, plays with the blood pressure cup, looks at the anatomy posters...he is wasting time.

The door opens up and a young doctor walks in shuffling through a sheaf of papers. He glances up at Irishred and nods towards a chair. Irishred sits and waits for the Doctor to speak.

Dr. Dempsey: Shane you're fine. We've run every test we can think of and you are in top shape. Sure it won't be many years before we're going to have to do something about that shoulder. Your knee will need replacing someday...but you're physically fine.

IR: I know that Doc. I'm not a physician but I could have told you that. It's just...well...never mind. Thanks for everything.

The multi federation wrestler shakes the doctors hand as the professional leaves. Irishred throws on his t-shirt and walks out the door.

We next see Irishred driving through the streets of Yankton in his SUV.

I just can't figure it. Something must be wrong with me. I mean I feel physically fine. Since sobering up I have felt better then I have in years. I've learned to handle the pain through meditation instead of medication. I am in the absolute best physical condition I have been in years. I don't get it.

Irishred stops at a red light and seems to be deep in thought. As the light turns to green the grappler seems to come to a revelation.

I am fine. it's not me. You see I thought just for a moment that something must be wrong with me. I thought to myself that I had a physical problem that my opponents were picking up on in the ring. I thought that there had to be something wrong.

But no...it's just the disrespectful punks I am facing.

Cameron Cruise didn't want to respect me last round of the TEAM tourney and look what happened to him. He got his ass beat. The whole of UCW didn't respect me and I have been their World Champion for the better part of a year. Those Soccer hooligans in MBE didn't respect me and got their asses handed to them.

But the biggest affront...the thing that got me second guessing myself is this whining little ***** Angel of Death. I thought for sure something had to be wrong with me. For God's sake why else would a little prick like this think that he has the stones to talk about me the way he did?

He doesn't know me. He doesn't know what I am capable of. He doesn't know the battles I have been through. he doesn't know the levels of violence I am capable of. He can't even begin to understand the amount of pain he has coming to him this week in the TEAM tournament.

Angel what have you accomplished of note? Has anyone outside of your federation and the high school gyms you wrestle in even heard of you? Have you stood atop the mountain anywhere? Have you been personally invited to participate in the biggest cards and federations in the world? Have you had everything you love torn from you and then had to struggle to get it all back?

You don't know me. You can't imagine who I am. Play your cute little games. Make like a junior high study hall and pull out the files. Lock yourself up in a dark room and watch all the tape you can on me. Ask around. Find out all you can about me.

You still won't be prepared. You will still have no idea what is going to happen to you in the ring until you stand across from me and see the anger wash over me. You won't understand the mess you have gotten yourself into until you feel that first punch. You won't realize that this is way beyond you until the blood is trickling down my face and I draw strength from it. Only then...maybe...will you begin to realize that you have stepped into the big time and it is way beyond you.

The fear will wash over you, the paralyzing reality of the situation will loosen your bowels, the gravity of your surroundings will wash over you and you will beg for mercy.

It's only then that you will understand me.

Irishred pulls into the driveway of a beautiful two story home. He gets out of his truck and walks up to the front door. He pulls his mail from the box and unlocks the front door.

Oh Angel...one last little bit of reality for you. I'm the nice one on my team. Just wait til you get a load of my partner.

Irishred walks into his home pulling the door shut behind him.

 

[AOD]

(Angel of Death stands in front of a generic TEAM backdrop, with a television to his left, the remote for which is firmly in his grasp. On the screen is a still frame from IrishRed's last promo.)

For those of you who are familiar with Mystery Science Theater, this will come as no surprise. Let's go back and review what IrishRed has said in the most recent glimpse into the farce he calls a life.

(He pushes "Play" on the remote, and the recorded promo begins to roll.)

The Scene an examination room in the Yankton Medical Clinic in Yankton South Dakota. Irishred paces the room wearing just a pair of blue jeans, his upper torso criss crossed with scarring. He stops and pages through Medical journals, plays with the blood pressure cup, looks at the anatomy posters...he is wasting time.

The door opens up and a young doctor walks in shuffling through a sheaf of papers. He glances up at Irishred and nods towards a chair. Irishred sits and waits for the Doctor to speak.

Dr. Dempsey: Shane you're fine. We've run every test we can think of and you are in top shape. Sure it won't be many years before we're going to have to do something about that shoulder. Your knee will need replacing someday...but you're physically fine.

(The tape is paused.)

Well, I guess we'll just have to see if we can't rush those concerns to the forefront, shall we? Thanks for revealing a few more weaknesses for me to exploit, "rookie."

(We continue with the review.)

IR: I know that Doc. I'm not a physician but I could have told you that. It's just...well...never mind. Thanks for everything.

The multi federation wrestler shakes the doctors hand as the professional leaves. Irishred throws on his t-shirt and walks out the door.

(The tape pauses again.)

Okay, here's the thing. I figured out where you went wrong, Shane ol' pal. You went to a medical hospital, where they treat the body. You need a doctor for your noggin.

(The video resumes once more.)

We next see Irishred driving through the streets of Yankton in his SUV.

IR: I just can't figure it. Something must be wrong with me. I mean I feel physically fine. Since sobering up I have felt better then I have in years. I've learned to handle the pain through meditation instead of medication. I am in the absolute best physical condition I have been in years. I don't get it.

(Another pause.)

Again, big fella. Doctor for the noggin. Aw, hell, I'll knock enough dents into it, you'll have no choice but to visit a shrink. There will be a lot of memories I obliterate, and you're probably going to need hypno-therapy to regain the first few years of your life. That is, unless you want to forget those years. You know, when your mom dropped you on your head, when your dad used to give you swirlies for fun, and when Uncle Smelly Breath used to touch you in the Nanu-nanu region. But I digress ...

(Once more to the footage.)

Irishred stops at a red light and seems to be deep in thought. As the light turns to green the grappler seems to come to a revelation.

I am fine. it's not me. You see I thought just for a moment that something must be wrong with me. I thought to myself that I had a physical problem that my opponents were picking up on in the ring. I thought that there had to be something wrong.

But no...it's just the disrespectful punks I am facing.

(The tape is halted yet again.)

Whoa, whoa, whoa. (AOD makes a "T" with his hands.) Time out Neander-twit. If there was ever any proof of your need for some psychiatric aide, it's that thought process right there. Heavens, no, it couldn't be that you're a blubbering cretin who prefers to blame others for your own shortcomings.

(Back to the tape.)

Cameron Cruise didn't want to respect me last round of the TEAM tourney and look what happened to him. He got his ass beat. The whole of UCW didn't respect me and I have been their World Champion for the better part of a year. Those Soccer hooligans in MBE didn't respect me and got their asses handed to them.

(Another screeching halt to the recap.)

Oooo-kay. Hold on for just one second. You can't seriously believe that trash talking you before a match ensures a defeat. I mean, I'm a cocky son of a *****, but that's beyond mental. I was kidding before about needing a psychologist, but now I'm beginning to believe that you've got some serious self-image issues.

(Once more, dear friends, unto the video.)

But the biggest affront...the thing that got me second guessing myself is this whining little ***** Angel of Death. I thought for sure something had to be wrong with me. For God's sake why else would a little prick like this think that he has the stones to talk about me the way he did?

He doesn't know me. He doesn't know what I am capable of. He doesn't know the battles I have been through. he doesn't know the levels of violence I am capable of. He can't even begin to understand the amount of pain he has coming to him this week in the TEAM tournament.

(AOD shakes his head as he pauses the tape once more.)

Well, besides the flattery that I got under your skin, I want to point out that as much as you say I don't know you, you sure as hell don't know me. This becomes evident with what you say next. Let's review, shall we?

(Like bad John Madden re-runs, we're back to the tape.)

Angel what have you accomplished of note? Has anyone outside of your federation and the high school gyms you wrestle in even heard of you? Have you stood atop the mountain anywhere? Have you been personally invited to participate in the biggest cards and federations in the world? Have you had everything you love torn from you and then had to struggle to get it all back?

(Another abrupt halt.)

Okay, here's where I'm drawing the line in the sand. I could sit here and run down all of the accomplishments in my career, but I won't. I could list the major arenas I've wrestled in over the course of my career, but again, what for? I could talk your ear off about the events I've headlined in some of the biggest venues, for some of the biggest and longest running promotions in this business. But there would be no point. Lastly, you have absolutely no concept of what you're attempting to compare when you talk about having everything you love torn from you, and struggling to get it all back. I am twenty eight years old. In the past eleven years, I have buried two adoptive parents, two biological grandparents, and my long lost mother who died in childbirth. I met my biological father for the first time in my life a little over two weeks ago. And lastly, I was at the funeral of a highly respected colleague, one who not only won over the hearts of the fans, but earned the friendship and respect of his peers. It is for his honor that I compete in the tournament that bears his name.

(He stops long enough to wipe a tear from his eye, his gaze glued forward.)

So don't you dare try to tell me that you've battled harder to build a worthwhile life through various adversities. Because on that point, and on that point alone, Shane, or IrishRed, or whatever the **** you want to be called, on that point you will be horribly and irreparably shamed beyond belief. You want to drone on and on about respect or the lack thereof, that's fine. You want to talk about how you've lost something close to you, and battled back to regain it, then okay. What I've lost, there is not enough fight in the world to get back. So next time, do some homework before you open your mouth.

(The footage begins anew.)

You don't know me. You can't imagine who I am. Play your cute little games. Make like a junior high study hall and pull out the files. Lock yourself up in a dark room and watch all the tape you can on me. Ask around. Find out all you can about me.

You still won't be prepared. You will still have no idea what is going to happen to you in the ring until you stand across from me and see the anger wash over me. You won't understand the mess you have gotten yourself into until you feel that first punch. You won't realize that this is way beyond you until the blood is trickling down my face and I draw strength from it. Only then...maybe...will you begin to realize that you have stepped into the big time and it is way beyond you.

The fear will wash over you, the paralyzing reality of the situation will loosen your bowels, the gravity of your surroundings will wash over you and you will beg for mercy.

It's only then that you will understand me.

Irishred pulls into the driveway of a beautiful two story home. He gets out of his truck and walks up to the front door. He pulls his mail from the box and unlocks the front door.

Oh Angel...one last little bit of reality for you. I'm the nice one on my team. Just wait til you get a load of my partner.

Irishred walks into his home pulling the door shut behind him.

(The tape is stopped at the end.)

You talk about me poking fun at you without knowing you. Remember this. Much of what I said in my first few comments were said, for the most part, with a healthy dash of humor. You attempt to describe what I am likely to experience when I face you in the ring. You can't know that for sure, because like I said earlier, as much as I don't appear to know about you, you certainly don't know about me. Same for our partners. Not a single man going into this match will know much about the other team. Our match will be a learning experience. To be perfectly frank, I wish this was just between you and I. For that, I invite you to visit Blackout. In the meantime, I will channel the anger and hurt that you stirred within me into the trouncing I plan to give both you and your silent partner. Because as much as you are fighting for respect at all times, I have more than my share. For you, this tournament is about acceptance. For me, it's about honor. For Chad, a man who didn't have to fight to earn a man's respect.

(He puts the remote on top of the television and walks off. Fade.)

 

[WhiteNoise]

I Got Id

WhiteNoise sits in an all too familiar looking bar. He is the only one in the establishment as it is far too early in the day for such a place to be open for business. He absentmindely smokes and nurses a beer as he watches Angel of Death's latest promo on a nearby television.

After a few seconds he turns the TV off, realizing how boring and completely devoid of any substance a promo of someone simply watching TV would be. He smiles as he catches the camera and walks over to a stack of folders. A hand written note is on the table next to them. In Irishred's blocky writing are the words: "STUDY UP!"

WhiteNoise rolls his eyes and flips open the first folder. He stifles a yawn as he briefly looks over the profile of AoD that the TEAM people have provided. He closes the cover as he slides the folder off the top of the file and opens the next. The stupidly grinning visage of Nero greets him and he sighs as he turns the page to read a bit about his other opponent for the week. WhiteNoise notices that he has finished his beer and walks over to the bar. He leans over to flip the tap and fill his mug. As he does so the picture of Nero slides out of the folder and lands in the garbage can. WhiteNoise doesn't notice. He coughs a bit and spits a wad of mucous into the can on top of the picture.

Maybe he noticed after all.

WhiteNoise walks back to the table where the folders sit and places the Nero profile on top of AoD's. Suddenly his eyes widen and he puts his beer down. He places a hand on his stomach and looks over at the huge bowl on the bar that contains the remnants of the chile he recently polished off. He wipes a bit of sweat from his brow and makes a b-line towards the men's room. As he does so he notices another note on the door: "Sorry, NO TP - Mgmt." WhiteNoise stops for a second. He looks over his shoulder and walks quickly back to the table. He grabs the dossiers with AoD and Nero's profiles and heads to the loo, a look of satisfaction on his face.

As the door closes the camera pans over to a dartboard with a picture of the Grim Reaper pinned in front of it. Three darts reside firmly in the skull of the Angel of Death.

 

[AOD]

Re: I Got Id

(Angel of Death sits down at the patio table in the garden of his beautiful Victorian mansion. In front of him is the luxurious dinner prepared for him and his wife, Black Widow. Black Widow strides in and sits abruptly as he places his napkin across his lap.)

Unbelievable.

Why, thank you. You're looking pretty good yourself.

(She flashes him a sarcastic smile as she too places a napkin over her lap.)

That's not what I meant. Did you get the latest information from the TEAM Dupree Cup tournament?

(sighing) Yes. From what we've seen so far, the MBE tag team competitors this round are a dunderheaded buffoon who natters on about respect or a lack thereof, and a glorified mime who can do no better than half-assedly mimic what others have done, then find out what happens when you combine second-rate chili with low-grade beer. And if you ask me, those darts were placed by hand. Nice of him to insinuate that he threw them there, but since we didn't see him do it, I'll opt for the former.

Didn't you find it interesting that IrishRed talked about loosened bowels in his diatribe, and WhiteNoise suffered from them in his?


Actually, yeah, I did notice that. Ironic, eh?

(Both chuckle as they begin to enjoy the appetizer, a caviar mousse served over canape bread.)

Surprising about Nero though.

(looking up from a mouthful of caviar and canape.) Hmm?

Well normally in his case, I'd be saying that silence is golden. But for this match, it's nearly deafening. I'm really suprised that he's failed to put in his two cents worth. Hell, even the guy who supposedly says nothing has put in his thoughts, or, well, his feelings through, er, what was that, anyway?

Hm. I don't know. Interpretive dance?

Maybe he thinks he's telepathic. Telepath-etic is more like it. I mean, I get the whole "brooding big man" shtick, really. But please. David Boreanaz had the brooding thing way before this guy, and frankly, Boreanaz does it much better. I honestly can't wait for this round to be over, and to get past these guys, because I am seriously getting bored. The first round came right after I faced four men in one night, and this round, frankly, is posing no competition. Hopefully I will be able to convince Pickstock or DDS to book me as a singles competitor for the next round, because having to rely on Nero is becoming tedious.

It's a necessary evil, darling. You know that.

(sighing a resigned sigh) Yeah, I suppose. Well whatever happens, IrishRed and WhiteNoise are in for a shock when we meet. That's something that's never once been questioned. When I get through with them, I'll silence IrishRed by knocking his teeth down his throat, and I'll make WhiteNoise scream in pain when I lock him into the Dark Trick. At that point, then maybe, just maybe, I'll tell IrishRed that I respect him.

(Black Widow looks across the table at her husband, giving him a stern look.)

(smiling) What?

You know I can always tell when you're lying.

(AOD smiles sheepishly as he takes another forkful of the butterfly pork chops that was served as the main course. Fade.)

 

[irishred]

What impresses me most about you Angel of Death is the fact that I honestly believe that you buy into your own hype.

If I sort through the veiled insults, the empty threats and basic bull**** what I am left with is a simpleton that is overly impressed with his own press.

I have personally been threatened by bigger and better. I have been insulted by smarter and wilier. I have been in the presence of stronger and more talented wrestlers. But one thing is for certain. I have never in my life been subjected to a less original or talented man in my life.

How you were chosen to represent EUWC I will never understand. Is your talent pool so watered down that you truly are one of the best and brightest that EUWC has to offer? Are you what is considered a bad man in your fed? Are you what is known as a tough guy? Are you the bully on the block?

I wrestle in three different federations. I am surrounded every week by all levels of talent every week. I have the opportunity to face legends and rookies. I get to compete against the best and the brightest in the business. So you can imagine my disappointment when I have had to listen to the drivel you consider cutting edge this week.

Seriously...you suck. I don't know how else to say it. You're terrible. Your not original. You're not intimidating. You are nothing more then a loud little man begging for validation and attention.

I'm sure after this is all done you will have an abundance of excuses on why you lost. I'm sure you will place the blame firmly on Nero's shoulders. I am sure you will say the officiating was slanted in our favor. I'm sure you will complain of a quick count or something of that nature.

That's the type of wrestler you are. That's the type of competitor you are. That's the sorry excuse for a man that you are.

I'm done with you...all that remains is the ass whipping that you through your actions have rightfully earned.

 

[Jay_Smash]

:::::it is believed that the following must be another thought provoking promo by the Angel of Death, or a mind altering introduction followed by the words of the amazing Irish Red… but NO! It just so happens to be The Disease himself, spreading onto someone else’s glory… Jay Smash finds himself on camera once again.:::::

Jay Smash: Oh sorry, don’t mean to intrude or anything but I heard someone say sh*t about Angle of Death and had to say something. Afterall, the EUWC is here to stick together no matter what problems we might have at home. We failed to show our outstanding talents in the first round… We’re in this together for the remainder. So AOD, I’ll take this one if you don’t mind, I’ve already b*tched out Spoiler, so mine as well do the same to these f*ck faces. Irish Red and White Noise, the spooks of MBE. Okay, so you did catch AOD in the sh*t that he says, but don’t get confused… he is not the brightest, and he really isn’t the biggest… Hell, he pretty much sucks till you meet him in the ring.

:::::Smash begins to poke his index finger at the camera as the screen shakes from the pressure. He then smiles for a moment, before continuing.:::::

Jay Smash: AOD is quite a character. He will speak to you like the deusch that he is, then enter the ring and beast your crummy ass till there is nothing left. As for the tough guy, the bully, the big man, the monster of EUWC… I think there are a lot of monsters in the EUWC, it just depends on how you define it. Don’t call me a bully, and I’m sure I don’t need to be degraded and called tough, and possibly once in this life I was known as a monster… Now, I’m just a little crazy…. Need my daily dose of blood shedding, and ask those I face to break me in half and spit in my face for the disrespect of it all… It’s a turn on, I know, that sounds weird… but it’s true.

:::::Smash shakes himself, then sends his right hand down his pants as he talks to the camera. He shuts his eyes and raises his head up in the air and proceeds to his next topic:::::

Jay Smash: Nero! Now that’s a guy that sucks major balls. I’m tellin’ ya, Red… White… It’s a known fact that Nero once slept with a goat, but it has nothing to do with his wonderful in ring performance. He is yet another talented superstar in the EUWC, and one major pain in the ass for anyone. Now, please, don’t reply with such things as, it takes another guy to fight there battles, because that’s certainly not true… women can do a better job at that, but to know them, you should hear it from someone that has faced them before. So fudge packers, it’s gonna be a fight, and EUWC isn’t going down this time. No chance in hell we are leaving this tournament without a f*ckin trophy that says we won this thing. This is just the beginning… EUWC is gonna f*ck you guys up, then the next guys… It’s gonna be a cycle and there is nothing you color coated named b*tches can do about it. Good luck Nero… and for god sakes AOD, just prove yourself in the ring and shut up… That goes for you too Irish Red… I don’t wanna hear another word out of you…. Got it!

:::::Jay Smash smiles as he pulls his hand out of his pants and places his palm over the lens of the camera to find only the black of the shadow blocking the view.:::::

 

[AOD]

(The morning sun, just now beginning to break over the treeline around the Victorian mansion that Angel of Death and Black Widow call home, casts long segments of light and shadow across the veranda accessible from the study. Angel of Death, reclining in a comfortable wicker chair, admires the view as his butler arrives with breakfast. Today, it's a cinnamon brioche topped with one egg, cooked over hard, alongside a few rashes of bacon, and some home-fried potatoes.)

Another coffee, sir?

(The butler's inquiry seems to snap Angel of Death out of the haze he appeared to be in, and he adjusts his position in the chair to accept the delicious meal prepared for him. He looks down at his empty coffee mug, then back at the butler, nodding as he hands the vacant vessel to his manservant.)

Yes, thank you Basil.

(Basil takes the empty cup over to a pot of freshly brewed coffee and begins to pour. Black Widow breezes in from the study, the morning's newspaper and a couple of sheets of normal paper in her hand. She leans down and kisses Angel of Death on the head as she passes him.)

Good morning, my love.

(finishing his mouthful of food before greeting her) Good morning my dear.

Did you see the latest from the Dupree Cup tournament?

You mean the fax that came in this morning? No, I haven't had time to look it over.

Excuse me madam. Would you also like some coffee?

That would be excellent, Basil. Thank you.

(She turns her attention back to her husband, handing him the regular papers in her hand.)

You love me.

(smiling) Always. Let's see here.

(He takes the fax from her, and reads over the transcripts of the latest promos concerning the tag team match of which he is a participant. His expression turns from generally neutral, to mildly annoyed, to essentially disappointed. He puts the fax down on the small table beside him, and just shakes his head.)

Interesting. Extremely interesting.

Which one? IrishRed or Jay Smash?

Both, to be completely honest. IrishRed's reaction to my critique of his promo was exactly the reaction I was looking for. It appears as if all of the buttons I intended to push were not only pressed, but jammed right in. In this merry war of words we've been having, his latest words tell me that I won. I reduced him to an uninteresting lump of flesh, who is unable to effectively paint a picture with the English language, opting instead to travel the blunt route. I've taken all of his verbal weapons away, and left him with a simple "you suck" with which to fight. So now all that remains is to do the exact same thing to his body, melding mind and matter together in one spectacular triumph. One more vibrant soul reduced to a quivering lump of human being, another trophy for my shelf. For a man so obsessed with respect, to the point that he childishly demands it, he has so very much to learn. I've been in this business way to long to resort to comparisons of battle scars as a sign of toughness. As you know, like IrishRed, my body is also a road map of pain. Barbed wire, light bulbs, both incandescent and fluorescent, panes of glass, thumbtacks, pizza cutters, cheese graters, plastic explosives, electricity, you name it, I've probably either used it, or had it used against me. Does that mean that I am tough? Certainly not. I have my share of big wins in my career. World Titles adorn my trophy case. Does this mean that I am tough? No, it doesn't. You and I both know, sweet wife of mine, that true toughness is not about how much pain your body can withstand, or how much damage you can inflict with your arms, legs, or weapons.

(He taps his finger to his temple.)

True toughness resides right here. It's not about the physical, true toughness comes from within. From the brain, the will.

(He taps his chest over his heart.)

From right in here. That, and only that is the true measure of a man. Furthermore, respect is not something to be simply handed over. I am a respected competitor not because I walked out to the ring, grabbed a microphone and demanded it from the fans and my peers. No, I earned the respect I have. If IrishRed wants my respect, then he will have to earn it like anyone else. And frankly, with his words and attitude thus far, he's got a lot of work ahead of him.

(He takes another mouthful of coffee.)

What about Jay Smash?

If I told you that I wasn't surprised by what he said, I'd be lying. I truly did not expect to see that he interjected himself into this conflict. Especially if he made his comments after IrishRed had aired his. To hear those words from Jay were surprising at best, but not totally without merit. His comments on our style of promotional segments aside, he spoke from the heart about what both Nero and I can do in that ring. Yes, he's very right. We are here to stick together no matter how we feel about our fellow representatives. What's going on in the EUWC has no bearing on this tournament. We're here to represent the EUWC, as the promotion that Chad Dupree was last involved with before his tragic and untimely death. As always, my presence here is driven purely by a desire to honor the memory of a truly tough competitor who was ripped from us way, way too soon. So everything that's been said so far will be left by the wayside come match day. As soon as I walk that ramp, and climb into the ring, what we've bickered back and forth will mean nothing at all. It's all about Chad. Anything else would be a disgrace to that man's good name.

Well, I guess we'll just have to wait to see what happens come showtime.

(AOD nods in agreement as Basil brings Black Widow her breakfast. The loving couple enjoy the rest of their breakfast in silence, relishing the bright, quiet morning. Fade.)