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[Fade in. The interior of a nondescript motel room. Probably a Howard Johnson’s or Motel 6. Nothing too ornate. There’s also a small bedside table with a lamp on it. The lamp is on, and the room is deserted. So it seams. Actually, now that we listen, we can hear the shower running. Hold it – okay, not anymore. There is the sound of the glass shower door opening and wet feet hitting linoleum. As we wait patiently, the camera scans the room a bit.]
[Typical. Bed, dresser, desk, TV, mini-fridge, bathroom. The inhabitant appears to be a light traveler, as there is not much for us to see, except a large duffel bag on the floor by the dresser, a pile of dirty clothes lumped in the chair by the desk, and oh yeah, a big shiny HSW Hardcore Championship belt draped over the top of the dresser. Must be the room of “Majestic” Jesse Falcone. Sure enough, the bathroom door swings open, and there stands the champ, dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his waist and his black hair hanging in soaked strands over his face. He pushes the hair out of his eyes and acknowledges the camera.]
Jesse. Well, here we are again. Another HSW card, another win for me, and another round of interference from our friends in Team Franchise. I must say boys, you’re trying really hard to make enemies, and it’s working. I can’t quite figure it out. Two weeks in a row you’ve helped me to victory, although I neither needed or asked for it. Now, you want me to take you on. Well, as I said last week, anytime, anywhere. I thought I was doing the right thing by stepping aside and letting ManChild have first crack at ya, but apparently he’s not a big enough man to stand up to ya. Fine. He can deal with his own shame.
[He reaches back into the bathroom and grabs another towel, which he then places over his head and begins to scrub vigorously with both hands. He does this for a few moments before removing the towel. His hair is now somewhat dryer, and a whole lot messier. He doesn’t seem to care about his appearance. As he resumes talking, he throws on a complimentary bathrobe and removes the towel, ever so carefully. Remember, this is on TV.]
Jesse. Now we have this little matter of Cut Throat. You put up a decent fight. Without our little friend Mr. Baggs jumping in, who knows how things may have turned out. I suppose if I really wanted to, I could learn to hate ya, and we could draw this whole thing out for a long time. But the truth is, I don’t hate ya. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like ya either. But right now the only people I want to bother wasting any energy on, are Baggs and Blair. So Throat, I’m all for this little tag team match they’ve proposed. Now, I don’t trust you, so if this thing happens, I’m gonna have to watch my own back, because I don’t imagine you’re gonna be too concerned about it. This isn’t about being a team. It’s about getting a shot at those two McMahon wannabe’s. So I say we put whatever little differences that exist between us, off to the side, and take care of these punks once and for all. Choice is yours.
[He pulls a Molsen out of the mini-fridge and cracks it open. Pushing the laundry onto the floor, he sits down in the desk chair and takes a couple of long swigs of the beer. There is a contented look on his face as he savors the taste. He tilts his head back for a moment. The moment ends however, and when he leans forward, we see his expression has changed. Once again, we see the intensity we do not expect from such a young face.]
Jesse. Baggs – you’re a talentless thug. You like to talk about your past, and what you once accomplished – big deal. I ain’t ever heard of ya before I came to this little hole in the middle of nowhere, so as far as I’m concerned, you ain’t nothin’. So bring whomever you want. Because with or without Throat at my side, you’re mine next Breakdown. These fans wanna see justice done, and I’m gonna see that they get what they deserve. You wanna make a mockery out of these fans and this fed? You’re gonna have to stop me first.
And as for the rest of you guys out there, all you would-be champions. Get in the game. Quit hanging around on the sidelines waiting for some belt to plop down in your lap. You signed a contract to wrestle in this fed, not whine about how rough and tough you are. Come on out and prove it. We’re already two weeks into this little experiment, and you guys look like you’re ready to just roll over and die. Blair and Baggs are gonna keep getting away with this crap they call wrestling if you guys don’t get off your asses and do something about it. You want a World’s Title? Earn it. And let’s take this federation over before it dies a quick death in the hands of these two fools and their carnival act.
[He polishes off the beer with another deep gulp, and puts the can down on the fridge-top. He gets up and walks over to the dresser where the Hardcore belt sits. He picks it up, and holds right up to the camera, so that it’s pretty much the only thing visible. Yet we can still hear him talk.]
Jesse. This is the gold, boys. The ONLY gold. This is what gets you into the main event. This is what puts asses in seats. This is what the great fans of the HSW pay their hard earned money to come see. And it’s mine.
[He pulls the belt away from the camera and we see only his face. Damp hair still hanging down into his eyes, his thick moustache/sideburns combination crying out for a trim. His eyes are cold and serious.]
Jesse. You wanna be the superstar, you’ve got make it happen. You’ve got to put up a fight for it. I ain’t laying down for nobody. And after what’s gonna go down in two weeks, I doubt I’ll be getting any more help from Blair and Company, wanted or not.
[He reaches up with his free hand and presses a button on the camera, killing the picture. As the screen goes black, we here the cameraman’s small voice say, “hey, that’s my job”. Then the sound cuts out.]
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