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[Fade up on an establishing shot. Exterior. Day time. A parking lot. McDonald’s. That’s right, we’re at everybody’s favorite greasy-spoon-eat-on-the-run burger joint. After focussing on the familiar golden arches for a moment, our shot cuts to inside the restaurant.]
[Our PSW guerrilla camera crew is back in action after an extended and unplanned break, but they haven’t missed a beat in terms of performance. ‘Course, how hard is it to point and shoot? We watch as Scott Cruise stands with his back to us at the counter while a kid in a bad uniform finishes placing his order on a tray. Eventually Scott whips around and faces us.]
Cruise: It’s a bout damn time.
[And with that, he passes by and moves out into the seating area. He continues to talk as he moves.]
And no, I’m not talking about this Tournament finally getting back underway, although heaven knows it’s been far too long coming. But hey, we’re back, so I guess I should just thank God for small miracles and put that to rest. No need to kick ’em while they’re down.
What I *was* talking about was my lunch… [he looks down at the food on his tray] …if you can call it that. Truth told, gang, I’m kinda surprised I can even stomach this crap as often as I do and not bloat up to some outta shape cow. Road life can really sssssuck. But hey, when you’re livin’ on a meager budget and tryin’ to cut corners wherever you can, sometimes the old fast food is the best solution. Still… [he picks up one of the french fries from off the tray and holds it up straight – it then falls forward limply] …it’s not exactly the best thing for an athlete.
[Having found a seat, Scott drops the tray down on a table and slides himself into the hard-backed plastic seat.]
And it only took that simp behind the counter about ten minutes to take my order. So much for the term “fast food”. But what do you expect, right? This place is run by a bunch of snot-nosed high school kids who’re just workin’ enough to put some spendin’ cash in their pockets so they can buy the latest Britney Boob-Job record, and by some loser manager who at age 37 hasn’t got the skills necessary to get a real job. The result?
[By now Scott has already unwrapped his Quarter Pounder w/ Cheese and is holding it up in front of him, preparing to take a bite. The burger is loaded with grease and was obviously put together in a big hurry. The bun is sliding off the top, the bottom bun is soggy… it’s just a mess. Scott looks at it and shakes his head]
See, this is what happens when people don’t give a damn about their job. They half-ass it and do as little as possible to get the job done. It’s why places like this get a reputation for being such a dump. Hell, if it wasn’t for the powers of marketing, places like McDonald’s wouldn’t last. But sadly, there’s something comforting about it when you’re travelling across the country and need a quick bite. Yeah, the food sucks, but at least you know what you’re getting.
Still, that doesn’t excuse ya from doin’ crap work. You took the job, so do it right. And give it your all. I don’t care if that means flippin’ burgers at some dump like this, or gettin’ in the ring and giving the fans their money’s worth.
[*Sluuuuurp*. A sip of Coke. REFRESHING!]
Oh, and in case you haven’t picked up on it yet, that little message goes out to you, Mr. Mitchell. I’d call ya Scott but it messes with my head to refer to somebody else by *my* name, so Mitchell will have to do. It goes out to you because quite frankly, I’m not looking the least bit forward to this match you and I got coming up. Ordinarily I’d be pretty jazzed, especially considering it’s a chance to not only get back on TV, but to stick it to some NWC punk in the process. I got my own little axe to grind with this company now, and you’re just the type of guy I could stand to work some aggressions out on. But right now that feeling just isn’t there. And why? Because I gotta step into a ring with a guy who just came out and admitted that he’s lost his love for this business. That he’s closing up shop on his career. That he’s only riding out the waves of this tournament because he signed on to.
Yeah, he doesn’t want to be a quitter. Apparently he’s got no *problem* being a half-assed piece of garbage when it comes down to it, but a quitter he ain’t. Well bra-freakin’-vo, Mitch. I suppose you think you’re being noble, huh? Doin’ us all a favor by following through on your commitment, even if it means not really giving a crap about it? Spare me.
Ya see, junior, I don’t wanna get in the ring with a guy like that. For multiple reasons, not the least of which is… it ain’t *safe*. Yeah, that’s right. I’ve worked with guys before, guys out on the indies who aren’t really in this business because they love it. And I’m tellin’ ya, those guys are bad news. Because they don’t think, and they don’t put in the work. And when you mix those two elements into a wrestling match, somebody gets hurt. Stupid hurt. Not in the, “get the crap beat outta ya” way, but in the “got dropped wrong on yer neck” way. And, junior, I ain’t down with that.
The other reason I can’t stand workin’ with lazy punks is because frankly, they make me look bad. I’m all about myself, Mitch. I don’t care about you or your problems. All I care about is winning, and looking good doing it. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ll win ugly. As Dez Bradley learned, I hold nothing back in that ring, and I *ain’t* afraid to get down and dirty. If that means a little cheating, so be it. If that means a little timely stalling, hey, I’m cool with it. What I’m *not* cool with is being made to look incompetent. I can handle the rep of being cowardly, of being sneaky, of almost anything the marks out there wanna throw at me. All but bad.
I don’t wanna be bad, Mitch.
Don’t make me look bad.
[With a hefty bite, Scott plunges his teeth into the burger and tears a hunk off, chewing it quickly. A somewhat unsatisfied grimace crosses his face as he eats.]
This match… it’s all but over, really. You’ve already sent up the white flag, so whatever slim chance you may have had to beat me going in is already out the window. It’s my match. I’m gonna win. Case closed, really. But the problem is, what am I gonna have to do between those bells to make sure I walk out of that thing with my reputation in tact? How do I draw a decent match out of a guy who admits he doesn’t give a damn? How can I use your miserable carcass to best suit my own needs?
Now I know I’m probably getting ahead of myself. I’m sure you’re all set to come back and tell me that I’m wrong. That you *do* care. That you’re a “professional, damnit”, and you’re not only going to give it 100% out there, but that you fully plan on going the distance in this thing. You’ll claim you’re gonna do it because if this *is* your last hurrah, you wanna go out with style. Or maybe you’ll try and convince yourself – and us – that if you do well enough in the SMIT, that you might somehow rediscover that love for the business that you lost.
But you know what? I ain’t buyin’ it, junior. All that is is a bill of goods you’re trying to sell yourself on so you can feel good about being a loser.
[Another sip of a soda and a few soggy fries.]
‘Cuz in the end, that’s all you’re gonna be, Mitch. A loser. A guy who decided he couldn’t cut it anymore and took the easy road out. You’ll stumble your way through our match, I’ll pin you like the bitch that you are, and then you’ll become nothing more than a footnote in time. Just like you want.
And me? I’ll continue on. I’ll rip right through the rest of the competition in this thing on my way to immortality, then I’ll pack up my bags and take my skills to somewhere far away from the NWC. A place where they actually *respect* talent. A place where they know how to treat people with a little bit of common decency. A place where no-talent hacks like Scott Mitchell aren’t even given the chance to be a failure. Sounds like a utopia to me. Hell, maybe such a place doesn’t exist. But I’m sure there’s someplace out there that can offer more than this dump.
[Disgusted with the meal in front of him, Scott plops his Quarter Pounder back down on the tray and pushes it forward a bit, as if distancing himself from it.]
I came home looking to find my place in American wrestling history. I’d proved all I needed to prove in the far east and Europe. I’d conquered other worlds, and now it was time to make America my home once again. I *thought* that the NWC was the place to do it. Turns out I was wrong. Despite the fact that my talents are clearly better than about 90% of the riff-raff that shuffles through your regions on a daily basis, the NWC decided to treat me like a chump.
Well I got news for ya, people… that won’t stand.
LCW, you *will* regret botching my arrival. You had the next big thing – a surefire draw – plopped down on your doorstep as a gift, and you blew it. You dropped the ball. Same with you Hawaii. The golden ring was there… but you chose not to grasp it. So sayonara.
The Prodigal Son *has* returned.
But he didn’t like what he saw… so he left again.
And all he had to show for his stay in the mighty NWC was a Tournament Championship…
[He motions with his hands towards the tray.]
…And a bad case of indigestion.
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